"Sir!"
"And fucking failure, with a capital fuckin' F, is one thing that I WILL NOT accept from my nuggets! Do you two hotshots under-fucking-stand me?"
"Yes, sir!" Dee made the mistake of letting her eyes glance at her father standing in the background, but only for a fraction of a second. But that was a fraction of a second too long.
"Cadet Moore! Do you think just because your daddy is Alexander Moore, one of the most decorated marines in the history of the universe, and also happens to have gotten himself elected president of these here United States of America three times in a row, that you are gonna get some sort of preferential treatment? Huh?"
"No, sir!" Dee's eyes fixed, and glowered, at Fink. Alexander watched his daughter's body stiffen, and he could tell that Fink had hit her main nerve. He seemed to be enjoying himself a little too much. But Moore wouldn't do anything. If Dee wanted to be a real marine, she would have to make it on her own from here on out with no preferential treatment. He absolutely hated his little girl having to go through this. But, God, he was proud of her.
"Then why don't you turn around and crawl your asses back into those simulator boxes, and let's do this mission goddamned right this . . ." Fink continued to yell at the two nuggets for a few minutes as they were loaded back into the simulators by the techs standing by. The two pilot trainees were physically exhausted, but that was all part of the job. A good marine marches when told and trains harder than everybody else no matter how tired he or she is.
"Well." Alexander turned to his bodyguards. "This is gonna take some time, so why don't we go find the First Lady and grab some breakfast and shake some hands and kiss some babies."
"Yes, sir." Thomas nodded at the president and then to the other agents. He sent a DTM order to Dee's bodyguard that they would see them at the departure platform in a couple of hours.
"No, I didn't really get to talk to her at all." Alexander smiled across the table at his wife. It amazed him how much Dee looked like her mother and frightened him how much Sehera looked like her mother. The three women could be confused as triplets if Dee let her hair grow back out and if Sehera and her mother timed rejuves appropriately with a family photo. But one thing that both Alexander and Sehera knew for sure was that they never wanted their daughter close enough to Sehera's mother to ever have such a photo take place. After all, Sehera's mother, the famous one hundred eleventh president, Sienna Madira, a.k.a. Separatist terrorist General Elle Ahmi, was, in their minds, the craziest and most evil human being in the history of mankind, though Ahmi would argue that she had done what she had with the future of mankind and the United States of America at the heart of it all. But the Moores thought differently.
"Alexander, what is it?" Sehera asked. Moore had given up trying to hold out on his wife years prior. He must've been giving something away with his expression.
"Nothing really, I just . . . hate thinking of her in a fighter in some horrific space battle somewhere. It . . . kills . . . me."
"Ha. The big tough marine," Sehera said. Alexander had stared enemy mecha down and practically beaten them with his bare hands, and once he had killed over ninety of the meanest Separatist thugs all by himself, but his one weak spot was Dee. "She's your daughter, all right."
"You're kidding. She's more and more like you every day." Moore fiddled with the blood-red steak tips on his plate and pushed at the scrambled eggs with his knife and fork. He took a brief moment to glance out across the moonscape from the window at the Armored E-suit Marine training grounds and staging area in the distance. He knew that place all too well. The reflection of the holoview in the window also caught his attention. The Earth News Network (ENN) ticker-tape at the bottom of the reflection was about his tariff plans for the colonies and how the governor of Ross 128 was complaining of unfair taxation. The window of the restaurant held views to the things that had engulfed his life for a very long time. Moore tried to ignore the view and focus on his wife. She was a much more breathtaking vision anyway.
"Well, then she should be fine, shouldn't she?" Sehera goaded him again as she reorganized a strand of her long black straight hair out of her face and tucked it back behind her ear where it belonged. "What time is her flight again?"
"We've got time. It's in an hour. She jaunts from here to the QMT facility at Mars orbit, from there she rides the Sienna Madira to the Oort gate, and then she'll teleport to the Ross 128 system on a passenger transport. The competition isn't until next Tuesday. We should be able to make it with no problem. I need to spend some face time with the governor there, anyway."
"That all sounds fine. I'm sure she'll enjoy her ride on the supercarrier."
"Oh, yes, she'll be fine. Several ships of the fleet are engaged in war games there, and she'll get to see them loading up the mecha afterwards before jaunting out to the Oort. Nothing to worry about. Besides, Clay will be with her all the way. And she's in good hands with Colonel Fink."
"You're right," she said. Sehera sipped at her coffee slowly and then had an afterthought. "You do recall that you have a meeting with the ambassador from Ross 128 over lunch in the Rose Garden, right?"
How could I forget, he thought. But Moore was amazed at how his wife kept up with him—and without an internal AIC to boot. She had an AIC in an earring but wouldn't allow an implant or DTM connection with the AIC. Her earring used a subaudible signal projected to her eardrum to transfer information. It was slow but safe. Alexander knew that Sehera had a built-in fear of internal AICs and DTMs after watching her mother use them to terrorize the minds of her captives during the Martian Desert Campaigns. Perhaps she would get over it someday. In fact, Sehera had told him that she would get over it when she had to. And to date, she hadn't had to.
ABIGAIL? he asked his AIC.
Yes, sir. Air Force One is standing by, and we have everything going according to schedule for today.
Right then, he thought.
"Don't worry. Abigail will keep me on track. The ambassador will be QMTing from Ross 128 to the Oort and then from there to Mars. The John Tyler will bring him in from there and QMT him directly to the White House." He pushed his plate away from him. He didn't want the eggs anyway. "If you're finished, we've got just enough time to walk around the city a bit."
"Suits me."
"Approval ratings for President Alexander Moore today are the lowest they have been in the history of his three terms as President of the United States," stated Walt Mortimer, one of the so-called expert panel members for the Round Table of News and lead White House columnist for the Washington Post, almost too enthusiastically. But then again, the media icon had made his political position quite clear over the course of his illustrious career, and the news of the latest polling data fit right in with his agenda. Mortimer had long been considered one of the "graybeards" of reporters on Washington, D.C. and systemwide politics helping the populace, but it was quite clear that he was just another of the Beltway Bandits making a living by feeding shit to the American public. But it was a good living. Or at least it had been until Moore came along.
"His campaign promises following the attack on Mons City and the Martian Separatist Exodus led him to a whirlwind landslide election, and his policies following the attack on Disney World and Luna City led to high approval ratings systemwide, which in turn led him to reelection," Mortimer continued. "But heavy spending on defense against potential terrorist attack from outside the solar system at the expense of systemwide economic growth, not to mention protectionist policies against intersystem competition of market goods and commerce due to cheaper products from the colonies seems to have turned the American voters lukewarm on the president." Mortimer leaned back in his chair and scribbled some notes on a pad in front of him. He maintained a smug look of triumph on his face.
"The latest polls do suggest that is how the American people feel about it, anyway," replied Britt Howard, the show's host and anchor for ENN at the New York City anchor desk. "It would appear that the 'defend the system at all
costs' policy is beginning to wear thin. Especially since the manufacturing base has yet to fully recover since the Separatist Exodus almost twelve years ago. It turns out that the 'Buy American' policy of the previous Democratic administration of President Alberts has been adopted by this Republican administration, but for a different reason. Indeed, the president has lobbied extremely hard to increase the tariffs on all imports from the four extrasolar colonies, same as his predecessor. However, where President Alberts used Sol System economic stimulus as the reason, President Moore is using the cost of defending the three heritage colonies and the two new start-ups from the rogue Tau Ceti Separatist system as his reasoning. This policy once seemed to be broadly accepted by the American public, but the latest polls show that the public is overwhelmingly for reducing the burden on the extrasolar colonies in order to increase the number of colony-manufactured goods available within the Sol System. Prices have gone up and availability has gone down," Britt Howard summarized and then nodded across the round table at the only female on the panel.
Alice St. John of the System Review, the more radical voice on the panel, said, "Well, I have to say that I think this will cause the wedge to be driven even deeper between the actual states here in Sol System and the colonists at Proxima Centauri, Ross 128, Lalande 21185, and the start-ups at Gliese 581c and Gliese 876d." Alice never showed any restraint when calling one of the "elder reporters" on something that she thought was utter bullshit, and she particularly agreed with President Moore on most things. Originally, and fortunately, for Alice, she was smart and pretty, and therefore she appealed to what little bit of radical viewership the Earth News Network had and so was able to keep her job secure. That was until Moore was elected and the Republican viewership of ENN more than quadrupled overnight. Between her and the primetime anchor Gail Fehrer, who was also bent toward Moore, ENN had found a new niche to cater news to and thus improve their ratings.
"The colonies have shown little interest in getting involved with the military buildup that President Moore has called for, especially since, on the surface at least, they appear to be purely Sol System defense oriented according to the governor of Ross 128," she continued.
"I agree, Alice," Britt said. "That does seem to be the present view of the colonists as well as the Dems in both houses of Congress. The colonists' argument is that they are of no threat and therefore no interest to the Separatists and therefore are being taxed, without representation, unduly. An ambassador from Ross 128 is coming here today to speak to the president and to Congress about waiving the tariff on them, as it is pushing them into a recession."
"In fact, Britt, the president is talking out of both sides of his mouth on this issue. Though he will not waive the tariff on the colonies, he is asking Congress to approve an economic-stimulus package for them. I'm not certain I can see the logic in that," Walt interjected with a raised eyebrow.
Britt laughed. "That sounds like an oxymoron at first glance."
"Well, it isn't, though," Alice replied. "The president's economic advisors all seem to agree that the downturn in the colonial economies is a temporary effect of the increased tariffs that should be well overcompensated for in the future once they pick up the manufacturing pace and fill the void left by the Exodus and the secession of Tau Ceti. The stimulus should enable them to play catch-up."
"Ha, ha. Alice, sounds good on paper. But I wouldn't hold my breath waiting on Congress to approve his package. All of the scuttlebutt on the Hill is that President Moore's stimulus package is dead on arrival, and there are not enough loyal Republican seats in the House to sway that." Mortimer nodded his head approvingly as he responded.
"Well, be that as it may," Britt interjected with an attempt to maintain an even tone, "the main issue for today is that the Separatists took away a major manufacturing source for the country. The citizens in the remaining colonies do seem to have little desire to support this administration or its policies. In fact, the governors of all three of the remaining original colonies have issued statements that their executive branch and judicial branch lawyers believe that President Alberts' and then President Moore's tariff packages to the Congress were and are in violation of the Inter-System Free Trade Agreement and that they have been seeking appeals of the policies through the Supreme Court."
"Well, I think that is the right course of action, or perhaps the only real course of action, that could be taken from a colonial standpoint," Walt Mortimer said.
"And one would hope that the remaining colonists don't take a play from the Separatists' playbook here," Alice added. "After all, they are just territories without representation in the House or Senate."
"Oh, come now, Alice. You really think in worst-case scenarios, don't you?" Mortimer said.
"I'm just saying that I hope the colonists don't feel the same way the original Thirteen Colonies felt when King George upped the tariffs on them to protect them from France. You know what happened then. . . ."
Chapter 2
July 1, 2394 AD
Mars Orbit, Sol System
Friday, 7:40 AM, Earth Eastern Standard Time
"Admiral on the bridge!" Navigation Officer Commander Penny Swain snapped to as USMC Brigadier General Larry "EndRun" Chekov saluted without slowing his full Marine marching pace by the nav to the executive officer's (XO) station of the USS Sienna Madira, the flagship of the U.S. Naval Fleet. The rear admiral of the Outer Fleet followed behind his XO.
"At ease, folks." USN Rear Admiral Upper Half (RADM) Wallace Jefferson paced a little more slowly to the captain's chair to give Captain Wiggington time to get up and go to her usual seat at the air-boss station. Wallace nodded to her and had a seat. "Thanks, XO. Get me a status on the ground troops." The two-star admiral wiggled into his seat and made himself comfortable while giving his bridge crew an approving nod. They were good sailors, all of them—even the groundpounders. Wallace took a brief instant to look out the viewscreen as well as the battle-scenario DTMs going on in his head.
By now our tankheads and fighters ought to be wearing down the John Tyler, he thought to Captain Timmy Uniform November Kilo Lima Three Seven Seven, a.k.a. Uncle Timmy, who was both the commander of the AICs and ship's captain's AIC. Wallace and Uncle Timmy had been together for over four decades and made such a good AIC-human team that they could predict each other's responses and thoughts in most situations.
Roger that, Admiral. The clock is at four hours and seventeen minutes. The Warlords, the Utopian Saviors, and Ramy's Robots have pushed through the Martian National Guard units and the support from the John Tyler and the Abraham Lincoln. And the Gods of War have pretty much cleared the upper ball of enemy fighters, Uncle Timmy replied DTM.
DeathRay is giving them hell, huh?
Aye, sir. He and Fish already have a confirmed seven kills apiece. The Gods of War far outmatched both fighter groups from the Tyler and Lincoln.
Damn.
"Air Boss!" Chekov shouted.
"Aye, XO?" Captain Michelle Wiggington responded as she settled into her seat at the commander of the Air Wing station.
"Status of the support wings?"
"Utopian Saviors and Demon Dawgs are on the bounce dirtside, and the Gods of War have cleared the ball and are crawling the hull, sir!"
"Good. Ground Boss, status!" The XO turned to the station adjacent to Captain Wiggington.
"Yes, sir!" U.S. Army Brigadier General James Brantley replied. "Warboys' Warlords are on the move and have surrounded the target. Colonel Roberts reports his Robots are with them."
"Good, Roberts and his marines will get the job done. ETA to target, Larry?" the RADM asked his longtime XO and friend.
"Hold on, Admiral." Wallace could see his XO stare blankly into space for a brief moment. Clearly, he was getting a datafeed DTM from somewhere or was having a discussion with Uncle Timmy. Wallace often had a similar stare, and it was so commonplace the crew never paid it any attention. Hell, most of them were doing the same. "Aye, sir. Robots look like they will be
in the end zone in seventy-three seconds."
"Roger that, Larry." Well, there was nothing really to do but sit back and enjoy the rest of the show in his DTM. His crew had done their jobs, and the rapid-deployment exercise was going well. It had taken just a bit more than four hours for the blue team to deploy and attack. In less than two minutes the end result of those four hours would be that the Madira would have full control over a useless patch of Martian desert that had been designated as a target coordinate. But what Wallace and his XO (and of course their AICs) knew that the rest of his crew did not was that the USS Anthony Blair was about to drop out of hyperspace on top of them and QMT teleport an entire contingent of AEMs, hovertanks, and fighters right into the mix of his tiring soldiers. Those fighters would be a fresh attacking red force. And they would be ready for some payback, since the Madira had beaten them hands down in a previous war-gaming engagement.
"COB, how's my boat?" Wallace asked his Chief of the Boat (COB) Command Master Chief Charlie Green. Charlie had been Wallace's COB for more than a decade, and the rear admiral was certain that even bad Navy coffee wouldn't get the man to retire, ever. Wallace looked around the bridge and realized that he had the most senior bridge crew in history and wondered if any of them would ever retire. At least the COB was looking spry and youthful since his recent body rejuv procedure.
"Well, Admiral, she's in top form. Top form."
"Roger that, COB." Wallace took the coffee cup from Charlie and halfheartedly toasted him. The COB nodded and raised his cup and then took a long draw from it. The COB was famous for his Navy stories and his blacker-than-black, stronger-than-strong Navy coffee, and Wallace could tell from the bite of his cup that CMC Green was still making the meanest cup'a joe in the fleet. He tried not to grimace at the taste or at the fact that the COB was about to start up one of his stories.
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