by Terry Mixon
Those bands displayed no information that they could see, even now that they could read, but were somehow keyed to each of them, and only to them. Switching them only made them stop working, and Keeper had severely punished those who had tried to fool her.
Thankfully, it hadn’t been her that time.
Not the ultimate punishment—expulsion from the crèche—but something more than harsh enough to make sure that no one ever tried that kind of trick again.
One Twenty-Four thought that since their genetic code was identical, it had to be keyed to their brain waves or some other factor she was unaware of. Perhaps she’d find out what method was used at some point, but such speculation was best reserved for another time.
Right now, Keeper was angry, and it behooved One Twenty-Four to give this situation her undivided attention, because she absolutely didn’t want to suffer the consequences of disobedience. She’d been an idiot to let her thoughts stray.
“Your conduct has grown less acceptable with every passing day for the last several months, and it will no longer be tolerated, One Twenty-Four. Do you see your line sibs behaving in such a fashion? I demand conformity, and you will either give it to me, or you will be expelled from the crèche.”
Even at only eleven years of age, One Twenty-Four knew that was the ultimate threat: death.
Individual behavior might be tolerated when she was older, but One Twenty-Four knew that the Line demanded compliance during training. She must learn how the Line worked and how she was expected to behave inside it, or she would be purged.
While she might one day be a member of the ruling class of the Singularity, that day was not today. She was only halfway to maturity and, based on what she’d seen, perhaps as few as a third of her current crèche mates would live to see that day. When it came to the ruling caste, the Singularity believed in quality over quantity.
If she wanted to be among the survivors, she needed to focus on the here and now.
One Twenty-Four bowed her head. “I regret my lack of attention, Keeper. It will not happen again.”
The stern woman scowled down at her. “I don’t believe that, One Twenty-Four. At this point, I’m beginning to despair that you will achieve conformity.
“Such willfulness will not be tolerated in a child of the Andrea Line. Corrective measures will be instituted, but should they prove insufficient, sterner measures will be required. Measures that you will deeply regret, if only briefly.”
Keeper turned her head to take in the rest of the crèche. “You will all reach your twelfth year in two days. That’s when you’ll receive your caste tattoos and become a true part of the Andrea Line. I would be severely disappointed if any of you were to fail before then and be ejected from the crèche.
“I rely upon you to show One Twenty-Four whatever correction you feel appropriate, within the bounds of acceptable crèche behavior. Do not shirk this opportunity to bring your line sib back into compliance.”
With her lecture to One Twenty-Four complete, Keeper returned to the front of the classroom as if nothing had happened.
One Twenty-Four felt humiliated, of course. She wanted to sag lower in her seat, but displaying such weakness to her line sibs would encourage them to even greater efforts. She already had a beating to look forward to. Best not to do anything that would make it worse.
Her crèche mates would be certain to leave no marks that could be seen, but One Twenty-Four knew firsthand that the other girls could cause a lot of pain without crossing the boundary beyond which Keeper would be forced to take notice.
After all, she’d done her part with other corrective punishments in the past, even though they had made her feel sick. The Line expected the crèche to regulate itself in ways large and small. Keeper was almost a referee in the ongoing conflict.
With that glum thought, One Twenty-Four forced herself to focus on the electronic board that Keeper was writing on. Today’s lesson was in basic calculus, a subject that she still didn’t understand the need for.
Others existed to perform calculations, and a leader only guided them to the solution that was optimal for the Singularity. Why would the leader need to do the work that another could do?
Still, her ignorance of Keeper’s reasoning was irrelevant. All tasks must be mastered.
She’d rather have been learning about the Singularity and its history. About how it had torn itself away from the Terran Empire, where the heretics now implanted machinery into their bodies to try and compensate for the inadequacy of their genetics.
Why they didn’t embrace the glories of genetic engineering was a mystery to her. One she doubted she’d ever truly understand.
What were they like? Why did they do the horrible things they did? How could they possibly put mechanical things inside their bodies?
Such questions would likely remain a mystery to her for many years to come. And if One Twenty-Four didn’t focus her attention on the task at hand, she’d never have the opportunity to ask them even if she did survive the crèche.
2
Grace had just finished cleaning her armor and weapons, turned them over to the company armorer, and gotten into her duty uniform when her implants pinged with an incoming message. She accessed it grimly, expecting it to be from Delta Company’s CO, summoning her to the after-action briefing.
Instead, she found herself reading a summons to the battalion commander’s office at her earliest convenience. In marine speak, that meant right damn now.
“That’s not good,” she muttered to herself. Had she screwed up that badly?
Sergeant Na, who’d been standing beside her and observing the platoon as they cleaned their weapons and armor, turned to face her and raised an eyebrow.
“Problem?”
“Battalion wants to see me.”
The Asiatic woman gave her a skeptical look. “This exercise certainly didn’t turn out the way we would’ve hoped, but being called onto the carpet at battalion seems a little extreme. Perhaps this is something else.”
“I guess I’ll find out soon enough,” Grace said with a sigh. “Make sure everybody gets squared away, but have them hang close to the barracks for now.”
With the platoon’s immediate needs mapped out, Grace set out across the wide parade ground and made her way to the battalion commander’s outer office. She was glad they weren’t in the arctic circle anymore and just enjoyed the heat. Seward’s sun was a shade more to the red than Terra’s, so it cast an almost pale orange light.
Once she arrived at the headquarters’ building, she marched into the lion’s den and smiled at the colonel’s adjutant and all-around dogsbody, Senior Lieutenant Pedro van Buren.
As usual, the man’s desk reflected his fastidious nature and was as uncluttered as a scoundrel’s conscience. Hailing from Terra, the man’s complexion and facial features were a mix of South American Latino from his mother and a Nordic profile from his father, just like his name implied.
A handsome man by any standard, Pedro was usually extremely cheerful. Today, his expression was solemn, and that set off additional alarm bells in her mind.
“What’s up, Pedro?” she asked in a low tone, planting her hip on the corner of his desk. “Any idea what the Old Man wants me for?”
Considering the efficacy of medical nanites, Lieutenant Colonel Jackson Grimsby looked as if he was in his early forties, though he was undoubtedly twice that age. Still, the name was a tradition as old as the Imperial Marine Corps itself.
Pedro shook his head. “I heard about the exercise, Grace. Ouch. All I can say is good luck.”
Perfect.
She nodded, having already known it wouldn’t be that easy. “Shall I park it or go on in?”
He gestured toward the door. “He said to send you right in. Good luck.”
Having gotten the go-ahead, she rapped twice on the door and waited for permission to enter.
“Come in,” the colonel called out in a smooth baritone.
She opened the door and
stepped into Lieutenant Colonel Jackson Grimsby’s office and braced herself at attention in front of his battered desk. “Lieutenant Grace Tolliver, reporting as ordered, sir.”
The man sat behind his battered desk, its surface covered with scattered papers that he seemed to be in the process of examining. That interfered with the built-in computer interface, but the colonel was one of those old-school types that preferred the use of paper.
He gestured for her to close the door. There was a single chair in front of the desk, and he motioned for her to take it, giving her a chance to take in his mood and appearance.
The man’s dark skin contrasted well with the pale-grey marine duty uniform he wore. Not the field version like she’d been happy to get out of an hour ago but the noncombat version they all wore on base. His tight curls of black hair were shot through with grey.
Grimsby claimed it was from his marines prematurely aging him, but all in all, he still cut a dashing figure. Not one she’d ever had any interest in because of the chain of command and his exalted rank, but she had eyes, didn’t she?
Once she’d settled herself into the less-than-comfortable office chair, he leaned back and regarded her over steepled fingers. “I hear things didn’t go so well for Third Platoon at the Crag. Tell me about it.”
She mentally sighed but obediently began going through the day’s exercise from the very beginning. She didn’t try to conceal the blunder that she’d made and had taken responsibility for the lapse.
He didn’t say anything for a little bit, only nodding. “I’d imagine that Lieutenant Bashir was pleased that he’d been able to pull this off right under your proverbial and literal noses, wasn’t he?”
“He did express some pleasure at having tactically outmaneuvered me, yes, sir.” She managed to keep from gritting her teeth at the admission but was pleased to see that her tone had remained professional.
“Want to hear an embarrassing story about Lieutenant Bashir?”
Grace blinked. Of all the things the man could have possibly said, that had never been on her scanners.
“Sir?”
Grimsby gave her a sly smile. “Back when I was a major and served as the XO in this battalion, Lieutenant Bashir was in pretty much the same position you were today. In fact, somebody else pulled the exact same stunt on him, and he fell for it even harder than you did.
“At least you realized right before the end what might be happening. Bashir got caught with his shorts down around his ankles.”
“In a few years, when you’re a senior lieutenant in charge of a company, you’re going to find somebody else that you can pull the same trick on. That’s what experience does, Lieutenant. It gives you the tricks of the trade so you can make somebody else’s day just as unpleasant as yours is now.”
She had no idea why the colonel was telling her this. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. Gossiping about other officers was not something that the Imperial Marine Corps encouraged.
“Before we get off on the wrong foot, this meeting is not about today’s exercise,” Colonel Grimsby said briskly. “You did as well as anybody else I’ve ever seen that’s had this trick pulled on them, and better than most. Learn from what happened, and you’ll save lives in the future.
“This meeting isn’t even about that. I’ve decided that since Third Platoon is one of the shining lights in the battalion, you and your people deserve an early Christmas present. I’m tagging you to lead an unofficial strike team across the Singularity border.”
She’d come expecting an ass-chewing, but this was completely different and totally unexpected.
The Singularity and the Terran Empire weren’t technically at war, but they’d had border incidents ever since the people that had formed that polity had left the Empire back when the Terran Republic had come crashing down ten thousand years ago.
In point of fact, their departure hadn’t exactly been by choice. Their manipulation of the various political groups inside the Terran Republic had led to what amounted to a civil war. When Admiral Andrew Bandar had finally subdued the various factions, he’d recognized who’d been behind everything, and he’d taken decisive action.
After the fighting, he’d brought his fleet back to Terra and overthrown the corrupt government. The rulers for life that had run the damned thing had perverted the election process so severely that it had been impossible to remove them from power via the ballot box, so he’d trashed the Republic itself.
From its wreckage, he’d created the Terran Empire and founded the dynasty that ruled to this day. His first act as the new emperor had been to send his military to find the people behind the machinations.
Those people had believed that cloning was the way for humanity to improve itself and that any kind of equipment implanted inside the body was blasphemous. Their beliefs weren’t precisely religious, per se, but that was splitting hairs.
No matter the reason, that was why their members had worked so diligently to pit one portion of the Terran Republic against another. They’d hoped that at the end of the day, they would end up holding the reins of power.
Needless to say, many of them had realized what was coming after their plans had come crashing down, and rather than be arrested, they’d fled in everything from freighters to small warships that had become “lost” during the fighting.
No one could say with any certainty how many people fled beyond the borders of the Empire after the fighting was over, but the number had to have been in the millions. Probably even the tens of millions.
Emperor Andrew the First had eventually sent every member of their sect that his people could catch packing right after them. He hadn’t wanted any of that cancer left inside the newly formed Terran Empire.
By the time the Empire’s border had once again pushed up against what had become the Singularity, they’d had military forces of their own, and the choice facing the empress who reigned then was whether to wage war to the knife or deal with low-level brushfires along the border every few years.
She’d chosen the latter, so now the Empire engaged in an unofficial rough-and-tumble every few years. And that brought her back to the mission at hand.
“Thank you, sir. We won’t let you down.”
The older man leaned back in his chair. “I’m sure you won’t, Lieutenant. Or more properly, Grace, since as of this moment, you’re officially released from Imperial service.”
She blinked at her superior officer. First, she couldn’t remember a single time that the man had ever used her given name. In the military—particularly in the marines—it was commonplace to use someone’s last name when referencing them, even to their faces.
It was all very regimented, their behavior strictly controlled by precedent that had existed for millennia.
The release from Imperial service shocked her but came as no surprise once she had a moment to think about it. The Empire needed plausible deniability.
Grace had heard stories about previous sorties, of course. Missions like this were legendary. The problem was sorting myth from reality.
“Tell me more, Jackson,” she said, a bit worried at how the colonel would take that familiarity.
To her relief, her words made him grin. “I’m glad to see that you’ve picked up on the nature of our discussion. This mission—and even this conversation—is completely off the record. You and your people will be operating as private citizens, and what you do next has no connection to the Imperial Marines or the Terran Empire.”
The Old Man leaned forward, resting his hands on his desk. “You won’t breathe a word of this to anyone except your platoon, and only once you’re safely on board the ship waiting for you in orbit.
“This is, in all likelihood, going to be a relatively straightforward raid, much like many of the others that we’ve carried out over the last century, but as always, complete deniability is paramount.
“If you are captured or killed, the Terran Empire and the Imperial Marines will disavow you and your ac
tions. Any losses that you suffer will not be registered on the Imperial rolls, and no prisoners will be exchanged. You’ll likely be executed as pirates if they get their hands on you, just like the Empire does to their raiders.”
That matched what she’d heard about other operations against the Singularity. Those had been whispered about over beer, late in the evenings, in dark corners of bars, almost like ghost stories.
Everyone knew the fig leaf that covered the Empire when this type of operation was conducted. The emperor could claim the fighters were renegades turned pirate while knowing that the Singularity didn’t believe that for one single second. The Singularity did the same when it sent its troops to attack the Empire.
Both sides knew exactly what the other was doing. That still didn’t reduce the danger of doing this kind of mission. Or the reward.
Still, it was best to make sure that the rumors and tall tales that she’d heard were correct. Assumptions were bad at the best of times. In the worst, they could get you or your people killed.
“Now that I know the penalties of failure, what are the rewards if we achieve the mission objectives?” she asked.
His smile widened. “Anything that you destroy, a portion of its value will be paid to each of you directly from the black ops side of the Imperial purse. Anything captured by the group as a whole that is of value will be similarly exchanged via a prize court.
“Once you return from your… vacation, you can ‘reenlist’ and go back to your normal activities, just as if you’d never left, should you wish. You’d get a secret commendation and promotion, as well as your choice of assignments. Pretty much carte blanche.
“The other choice is a quiet retirement, with your service years being bumped up to the minimum required for retirement, still with an associated promotion to a rank matching your extended service date.
“For you, that would likely be major. Or, if you do particularly well, perhaps even my rank. I wouldn’t count on me having to salute you, but that’s all up to the emperor. One never knows.”