No time to wrap it. Siraj leveled the barrel of his gun and snapped his aim at any movement. The Confed troops turned and fled, but Siraj had no qualms about putting rounds into their backs. He downed two more before his clip ran dry. The gunfire ceased. The corridor quieted. Bodies littered its aisle, draining blood onto its concrete floor.
Only in the newfound silence did Siraj detect the subtle beeping in his ear, indicating a connection request from their advisor. He tried to block out the pain in his shoulder and tapped the button on his earpiece.
“It’s Siraj.”
“Why have you stopped moving?” came the foreign voice’s reply.
“Security drones,” Siraj managed to push out as he reached for the bandage roll in his thigh pocket. “They’re ripping us apart.”
“They’re everywhere,” the advisor said. “More the closer you get to the Old City.”
Siraj huffed before biting the tip of the bandage roll and pulling it out enough to begin wrapping the wound.
“I’m sending a rocket team with seekers to your position,” the advisor continued. “Take out the drones and keep moving.”
“They’re aren’t easy to take out,” Siraj objected.
“If you wanted easy, you should’ve found a different city to conquer.”
One of Siraj’s team members slid across the aisle to help bandage his shoulder.
“How many districts have we captured?” Siraj asked, pinching the bridge of his nose and cringing from the pain.
“Eleven,” the advisor replied.
“Out of twenty-eight,” Siraj added. “We should’ve gotten more by now.”
“Relax. Blitzkrieg can only get you so far when your enemy rules the air. We must remain methodical. Deal with each obstacle as it arises.”
Siraj shook his head. “That wasn’t what we planned.”
“Then it’s time we make our own way, my friend,” the deep-voiced advisor declared through Siraj’s earpiece. “Trust me. I’ve prevailed against stronger foes than these.”
“They’ll send reinforcements,” Siraj said, panic mixing with pain. “Probably on their way in now. We should go back in the shadows. Regroup.”
“Regrouping only gives them a chance to regroup also. No, we stay vigilant. Stay methodical. We’ll wear them down.”
“But our numbers won’t last—” Siraj tried to object, but a subtle click in his ear stopped him. Their mysterious advisor had disconnected.
Siraj waited for his teammate to finish the wrapping, then shoved a tack-sized anesthetic syrette into his arm below the wound and hauled himself up to one knee. Six others were left in his team, two of them lightly wounded. The survivors lowered their scarves and glanced around at each other. These were some of the toughest and most pure-hearted men Siraj knew. His best fighters, hand-picked.
The Confed drones’ guns still blared, but further away now. Not in range to turn and fire on them.
“We have to keep moving,” Siraj said, his own voice muffled in his ears from the roar of an enclosed gunfight. “Those drones are out of sight, and we’ll move through buildings and alleys so no others will spot us. We’re only a few kilometers out from the Old City. We can do some damage before backup arrives.” He paused, caught his breath, listened to the crackle of gunfire in the distance all around them. “Defenders are still fighting out there. Dying. The faster we take the Old City, the faster the bloodshed stops.”
At first, his teammates turned their eyes away reluctantly, saying nothing. Then one man nodded, and another, then the other four, giving their tacit agreement. Siraj nodded back to seal the deal.
Then hardened himself. “To the Old City.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Carina Arm, on the planet Baha’runa . . .
Ten days to the war resolution vote . . .
Riahn muted the mike on his one-ear headset to take a sip of iced holly. In a chair beside him on the Upper House balcony, Aisha sat cross-legged quietly munching on his chopped vegetable salad. It baffled Riahn that the young lad remained so pure, so unshakably committed to wholesomeness in mind and body, even this long into his career in the realm of politics. Good for him. That was partly why Riahn liked having him around. The boy served as a reminder of the simplicity and quaintness of life out in the polity.
The official debate between the “Yes” and “No” sides of the war resolution proceeded on the house floor platform. Ulrich Morvan stood behind the “Yes” lectern, delivering the argument for the necessity of war with his typical eloquence. But behind the “No” lectern, looking on with hands folded in unexcitable repose, posed Jayeson Skance, rising star of the Unificationist Party. The handsome forty-something—youthful in politician years—seemed the kind of being an assortment of political strategists would create in the lab as the perfect party spokesman. He waited patiently for his turn to speak, striking a convincing expression of interest in the other side’s concerns.
“We admit the situation in Orion is complicated,” Morvan said, approaching the end of his remarks. “At the moment, we cannot claim the Confed as a friend. No friend of ours intrudes on the internal affairs of other galactic powers to cause more bloodshed and chaos. But we cannot deny they are a strategic ally either. As we speak, the Confed is theonly force standing between our holy sites and a group of maniacal terrorists. They are the only force holding back a vindictive and unpredictable cadre of Sagittarian lords.”
He loosened his features and swept his passionate, twinkling gaze across the packed audience, taking on the look of a prophet crying out in the wilderness. “The galaxy needs strong, principled leadership. It needs good men to step up and say, ‘We will not let injustice win. We will not let evil prevail.’ Ladies and gentlemen, if we have the ability to help, we have theobligation to help. To whom much is given, much is required. I move that we pass this resolution so that we can restore order and sanity to the galaxy.”
About half the audience applauded and nodded their heads. Some proffered a light, hesitant clap. Others—Unificationists and Reformists—whispered among themselves.
Aisha set down his salad bowl and leaned toward Riahn. “Think people will buy it? Condemning the Confed from one side of his mouth and defending it from the other?”
Riahn eyed his curate, taken aback by the incisive question. “We’d better hope so.”
He didn’t seem satisfied, but Riahn didn’t have any better answers.
The floor went to Skance, who spread his hands defensively. “Minister Morvan’s argument is incomprehensible to me. He says the Confed cannot be trusted, with which I agree, but then he also says we must rush to their aid and continue to prop them up. How can both be true?”
Applause rose on the floor from those who’d held back at the end of Morvan’s speech. Morvan frowned and shook his head as he made a note on his tablet.
Skance raised the volume of his voice to take command of the audience again. “In the face ofoverwhelmingevidence the Confed meddled in a Sagittarian civil war unprovoked, it’s difficult not to believe they are now reaping what they’ve sown.” Another patter of applause began, but Skance continued over it. “Besides, our meddlesome ‘allies’ on Earthhave not asked for our help! They don’t want Carinian ships in their space any more than we should.”
He paused to glance down at his notes. “Now, let me address the Defenders of Glory. Minister Morvan calls them ‘maniacal terrorists,’ and indeed, some of their actions have been despicable. Indefensible. We rebuke terrorism from any and every source. But their objection is not to Carina; it’s theConfed they find objectionable. They are anti-Confed, not anti-Carina. They want independence. They want to control their own land. How can we blame them for such a desire? How can we in good conscience stamp them out when any freedom-loving people would want the same thing they want in their circumstances?” He paused to allow the applause this time. “I contend that Carina has no ally in this fight, that we cannot defend the indefensible or walk in step with the wicked, and fi
nally that we will be able to work with whomever controls the holy sites. Therefore, I move to reject this brash and aggressive resolution.”
A sweeping applause filled the chamber.
Riahn shifted anxiously in his seat, unmuted his headset, and pressed the earpiece further into his ear canal. “Bring up the captive Carinians in Jerusalem.”
Not a second passed before Morvan cocked his head to rejoin in a combative voice: “What about the tens of thousands of Carinians being held captive by the Defenders of Glory in Jerusalem? What about the hundreds of thousands of civilians who are caught in the crossfire of their uprising? The women and children they hide behind as they snipe at Confed soldiers?”
Riahn smiled. He’d heard no such reports of Defenders using human shields, but it would cast the perfect, deliciously repugnant image into people’s minds.
“Do those sound like the actions of a rational and levelheaded group?” Morvan asked to applause. “Someone we can negotiate with?”
Skance scoffed. “Even if those things happened—and I don’t know that they have—does that forgive the Confed’s oppressive rule in the Levant? Do the atrocities of one man permit his enemy to commit atrocities in return?”
The other half of the floor applauded.
“With all due respect to your idealism, Representative Skance,” Morvan replied. “We do not live in a world of black and white, sinners and saints. No man or nation is perfect. Everyone has made mistakes. Wemust notandcannot make the perfect the enemy of the good.”
Morvan’s supporters applauded louder and more vociferously than before. But Skance remained steely-faced.
“I’m glad you brought up that saying, Minister Morvan, because we’ve all heard it recited when the right thing to do seems too inconvenient, too impractical.” He turned to Morvan and locked eyes with him. “I’ll remind you of the words of holy scripture—words that have guided our great nation. ‘Do not content yourselves merely with relative distinction and excellence. Rather, fix your gaze upon nobler heights.’ We should not be lulled by Faustian bargains, by questionable estimations of the ‘lesser of two evils.’ We must strive to do theright thingineverything.”
Half the floor erupted in applause and cheering, an enthusiastic, standing ovation. Morvan shook his head as he made notes on his tablet. Riahn swallowed and exchanged a sober glance with Aisha.
The debate was not going the way they’d foreseen it.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Tension was thick as fog in the Minister of Unity’s suite, the quiet so complete Aisha heard nothing but the ticking of Minister Riahn’s antique-style grandfather clock.
Riahn silently tapped at his touchscreen desk, researching some representative or another’s past voting record and taking occasional sips of iced holly. Meanwhile, Minister Morvan paced around the room with arms crossed and jaw hinged unsettlingly tight. Aisha continued flipping through Upper House rep profiles in the holodisplay. For the past few hours, they’d gone through each representative and marked them as “Definite No,” “Likely No,” “Persuadable,” “Likely Yes,” or “Definite Yes.” The numbers didn’t look good. The “Definite No’s” outweighed the “Definite Yes’s” almost two to one, and the “Likely’s” stood roughly even. The “Yes” campaign would have to take the vast majority of the “Persuadables” to win, but that didn’t seem probable or even plausible. Many of them would want something for the promise of their vote, and the “Yes” campaign wouldn’t be able to outbid the “No” campaign every time.
The situation looked dire, at least for the “Yes” leaders. Aisha felt a sense of relief at the likely outcome of the vote. Despite his boss’s leanings, he found Representative Skance’s arguments convincing. He frankly didn’t understand how any Unificationist could disagree with them. But he also didn’t want to find out what would happen if he voiced that opinion to his current company.
“Aisha, move Rube Honnas to ‘Persuadable,’” Riahn said without looking up from his desk.
Aisha brought up Rube Honnas’s profile in the holodisplay. She was a Dominionist, currently marked as “Likely Yes.” That didn’t bode well. They were bleeding their firewall.
“Did she release a statement?” Aisha asked as he changed her marking in their database.
“She’s . . .” Riahn shook his head, considering how to answer. He tended to be more measured with his words in the presence of Minister Morvan. “She retracted her previous support. Says she needs to rethink both sides’ arguments with clear eyes.”
Morvan paused, let out a long, slow sigh, and planted his hands on his hips. His lips were pursed and his eyes staring down thoughtfully.
Riahn slouched back in his plush desk chair and looked at Minister Morvan, fleshy forearms draped across the cushioned chair sides. “We won’t be able to whip the votes in time, Ulrich.” A moment of heavy silence passed by. “I’m sorry to sound so defeatist, but we have to face the facts. Our narrative about the Confed doesn’t stick. It’s too confusing. If we wanted people to come to the conclusion that Carina should step in and take control of Earth, we should’ve just come right out and said it.” He paused again but got no response. “People need it spelled out for them. Even Upper House reps. It sounds harsh, but it’s true.”
Aisha softly cleared his throat. “But weren’t we worried that message would’ve come across as too belligerent?”
Riahn trained a patronizing gaze on his curate. “People can handle a little belligerence when they’re afraid, my boy.”
Aisha wanted to respond but decided against it. Best not to get a big head.
“You’re right,” Minister Morvan said, ending his silence. He bore a newfound and inexplicable determination. “When they’re afraid . . .” He thought a little longer, then broke out of his trance and headed for the door. “I need to make some calls.”
Riahn swiveled in his desk chair, following Minister Morvan. “Calls? What kind of calls?”
Minister Morvan paused with his hand on the door handle. “It always pays to have a plan B.” He flashed a cryptic smile and exited.
Aisha and his boss looked at each other. Apparently, the Minister of Unity was just as confused as him.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Somewhere in the Milky Way . . .
Alarm klaxons wailed throughout the ship, accompanied by a fast-flashing, red light directly above Sierra’s plastic medical cube that jolted her out of a semi-conscious trance. Confused, she glanced around at the equipment and idle robotic arms—the same as before. It took her a second to remember waking up in her bedroom, being stuffed into the preserve bag, the horrible, wrenching crash, hitting her hip and knees and elbows against the wall, passing out at some point after.
More memories surfaced—not fast like the breaching of a whale. Slow, like oxygen bubbles trickling up. She remembered the people in surgical scrubs hovering over her, talking in strange accents. The Owl symbol on their shoulders.
Owl . . .
Figures flew toward her medical cube outside the plastic partition. Sierra panicked and pulled up the single blanket covering her body—an instinctive reaction. Men in mesh armor accented by brown and silver threw back the plastic flaps and rushed in. Sierra flinched as two of them quickly disconnected her IV and monitor sensors. The leader, sporting a scar from his Adam’s apple to the bottom of his earlobe, looked none too happy, repeatedly glancing over his shoulder and checking his forearm data screen.
“Hurry up,” he barked at his men through a heavy accent.
When Sierra had been disconnected completely, the two soldiers peeled away the blanket acting as her last remaining protection and grabbed her by the arms.
“Time to go, Lady Sierra,” the leader grumbled.
Sierra felt weak and helpless to resist as they hauled her away from the bed, across a room crowded with other plastic cubes, and into a corridor spanning the length of the ship—probably thirty or forty meters. Lockers lined all four walls of the weightless corridor, where a sc
attering of people removed pieces of armor and attached them to their bodies or shoved magazines into combat rifles. Officers bawled echoing orders down the corridor.
A voice crackled through speakers in the scarred-neck man’s suit: “Get the girl to an escape pod! They’re about to breach!”
“On it!” The scarred man half-turned to glance at his men and growled, “Let’s move!”
They kicked off from the wall, holding Sierra between them. The three soared through the open air of the cylindrical space disconcertingly fast. Soldiers with the Owl symbol on their arms zipped in front of them and all around, narrowly missing. The scarred leader shouted for everyone to clear a path.
Suddenly, a hard crash against the ship sent everyone falling into one wall’s lockers. One of the soldiers lost grip on Sierra’s arm, but the other pulled her into a bear hug and buffered her from a hard landing. The lights flickered but stabilized.
“Prepare for breach!” an accented voice exclaimed from the shipwide speaker system.
A loud searing sound hissed from down the corridor, sending vibrations through the walls. Shouting bounced through the enclosed space from that direction, then—
CLINK.
“Starboard breach! Starboard breach!”
As armored bodies struggled to recover from the setback, Sierra heard a burst of gunfire from some compartment down the corridor. Then a few bursts. Then, seconds later, a resounding flurry of shots coalescing into one continuous shriek. She saw a soldier drifting backwards out of an opening, shielding himself from a stream of lightning-quick bullets behind a concave, metal panel extended out from a cuff on his forearm.
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