Eric Vinicoff tells of another war, and another newscaster. One wonders what would have been the effect had something similar happened in 1968. Might history have been different if a major network anchor person had become a serious, dedicated, informed patriot?
’CASTER
by Eric Vinicoff
The circular control deck of FSS Jutland—9,000 tons, registry NX2275, class heavy battle cruiser, designation squadron flagship—was totally enwrapped in the process of final approach. Captain Disad and his senior officers manned the stations lining the low wall, quietly snapping out orders and reports. Displays played colorfully, in weirdly offset shades, in the red illumination. Equipment hums, whirs and clicks cut through the almost forgotten background throb of the ion thrusters.
The two guests sat in observation chairs in the center. They could whisper to each other without disturbing the activity.
Jim Buser was there by virtue of the Federation-wide clout of GalNews. In his late twenties, tall and thin, he sported a blond mustache and the latest shoulder-length hair style. His jumpsuit was a Cardin original. “Do I detect a tang of grimness in the air?” he inquired lightly of his companion.
Admiral Jarold Young frowned. He was an older, greyer than the other, yet still a massively powerful man. “They’re a bit tense.”
“Because of you?”
“In part, perhaps. Not that I would interfere with the Captain in SOP, but to have me staring over his shoulder—”
“Then it’s the mission,” Jim broke in, smiling.
Damn him! The twerp never stopped digging. “The crew has a mission to perform, and is performing it,” he replied tightly.
“But none too happily?”
Captain Disad swiveled toward them, saving the Admiral the necessity of further evasion. “Greenport on the horizon, sir. Permission to land?”
“Permission granted. Carry on, Captain.”
The captain thumbed his com. “All hands, secure for landing. Code yellow. Fire Control, stand by for possible SAM and/or ground action. Out.”
Jim watched in the big overhead holotank. Far below wispy cirrus clouds danced across the dark blue ocean. Ahead lay the green and brown of the northern continent. He took a deep breath. It was a sight he had seen once before, and had at the time planned never to see again. “Who’s likely to be shooting at us?”
The admiral smiled. “Shikaran terrorists. Society of Man. Take your choice.” Even the Provisional Government might be in the mood to take a pot shot or two.
“Quite a tank of sorliks you’ve walked into.”
The admiral saw that one, too: ‘Disgruntled Commander Blasts Council Decision.’ A one-way ticket to the ordinance testing station on Pluto. “Fortunately we have you to unravel the situation and present a picture of brilliant clarity to the worlds.”
“You flatter me.”
The admiral didn’t reply.
The clouds and ocean were rushing by more closely now. Their odd angle in the tank, arguing against the solid stability of the shipboard pseudograv, confused Jim’s stomach.
Admiral Young gave the younger man a searching look. “You have any real idea what it’s going to be like for you here?”
“I should. I was born here, remember?”
“I mean now. And in the near future.”
“You mean when the Hive takes over?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t.” Something crept in behind Jim’s light manner. “I’ll get along just fine. The Treaty of Eridani guarantees the rights of mediamen. The Federation and the Hive are good friends now—as long as we throw them an occasional bone.”
The admiral turned to watch the landing in the tank. He couldn’t trust himself to speak.
The cruiser flipflopped and began its stern descent. A patch of coastline expanded into the scarred concrete plain of a spaceport on the northern edge of a substantial city.
A horn whooped three times. “Touchdown dex five,” the captain chanted. “Four… three… two… one… down!”
The tank went black, then filled with a side view of the spaceport field. The throb died. “Ground stations all,” Captain Disad rapped into his mike field. “Sensors and screens out full. Fire Control, stay sharp. Marines, stand by for special operations. Quartermaster, square away to receive our personnel complement. Out.” He swiveled to face Admiral Young. “Orders, sir?”
“Ready a flitter and pilot for me. And call Major Sung—we’ll pull out as soon as I get back.”
Captain Disad relayed the first order to the Operations Officer, then added, “Calling won’t be necessary, sir. Look.”
Checking the tank, he understood. The low wooden Ranger barracks lined one edge of the field. Doors swung open, and the Sixth Ranger Battalion, the last of the Federation presence on Greenworld, marched out. Their dress whites glistened with silver braid under the afternoon sun. They were putting on a show, but their laser rifles were at the ready and their backpack power units fully charged.
“Grounding lock open,” the Captain ordered. “Ramp down. Marine detachment deploy in honor-guard for-mation.”
“No Provisionals about,” the Operations Officer noted.
“You could hardly expect them to celebrate the occasion,” Jim said.
“I imagine they have other matters to concern them,” Admiral Young replied, ignoring Jim.
Twelve combat-suited marines trotted down the ramp and formed a double row. The long marching column would cross the field in about ten minutes. From the direction of the port facilities, though, a groundcar sped toward the cruiser at a reckless velocity. It skidded to a stop in front of the ramp.
The Com Officer whispered briefly to Captain Disad, who turned to Jim. “The car is for you, Mister Buser. Are you ready to offload?” His expression was one Admiral Young found disturbing—even his senior officers saw only the celebrity status.
“You bet. Thanks for your hospitality, folks. Be sure to catch my ‘casts.’”
“Your luggage will meet you in the lock.” A round of handshakes, then Jim turned and entered the bounce tube. Admiral Young watched him closely as he dropped from sight in a hum of stator rings. And wondered.
The front passenger door of the groundcar was open. Jim slid in beside the driver. In the back seat a second man sat with a shivergun in his lap. They wore dark combat suits sans insignia.
“You with the Provisional Government?” Jim asked.
“Naw,” the gunner drawled. “GalNews signs our chits. We’re to get you to the station whole.”
The groundcar lifted on its air cushion and hurried toward the port’s main gate, twin turbines whining. Jim and his bags tumbled around a bit.
Mercs, he realized. Like carrion gathering at a kill. Mostly vets from the War looking for a situation to exploit.
A scream slanted down from the sky. “Boppers!” the driver shouted, and swerved almost at a right angle. Jim hit the door hard, and a red frame formed around reality.
He peered out the rear window. The cruiser stood stolidly, a tapered white cylinder with spidery landing legs. But tiny figures were hitting the deck near the ramp which was rising back into the hull.
Then the scene disappeared as the groundcar sped through the gate into a wide empty boulevard and headed into the city.
A sharp crack was followed almost immediately by a wind that twisted the groundcar around.
“We’ve got to go back—” he began.
“The hell you say!” the driver snarled. “They don’t pay me to butt into someone else’s action.”
“That’s news back there!”
“Yeah, and we’re gonna live to read about it in the papers!”
Jim gave up and slumped back in his seat. He knew the mere mentality. Maybe the station would have a good line on it when he got there. Some action footage for his first ‘cast would be great.
He wondered if anyone had been killed.
They were entering the downtown area. Few
vehicles were about, and those drove quickly. In the shopping districts few people walked the sidewalks—they too hurried. Each block had at least one bombed out building, and many more were boarded up.
The city was under siege, choked by the insensate viciousness of the highly developed political tool called terrorism. The aesgi business districts, naturally, were the worst. He had seen it before. In Northern Ireland. Jewish Palestine. Wolf’s World. Industan. But this was Greenworld, his world, or at least it once had been.
He saw troops of the new Provisional Government patrolling the streets in armored PC’s and squads on foot. The warm blue sky hung a peaceful facade over the city.
The GalNews building was reassuringly unchanged. He remembered the years of working up through that unfeeling structure, the desperate effort, the learning and the mindfuck games that were de rigueur.
The groundcar slid into a garage entrance which opened at its approach. Pulling over to the lift entrances, the air cushion sighed away and the driver opened Jim’s door. “One body, delivered as per.”
Jim climbed out, leaving his bags for the processes that dealt with such things. He stepped into an open lift. The Shikaran, incongruous in his specially cut human business suit, touched a button and they started up. “Misterrr Buserrr?” he rumbled.
“You would be Astawa of Oth? The manager?”
“Yes. You brrring completeness to ourrr minorrr hive. You arrre welcome.”
“Likewise.” Jim stared. It had been six long years. Everywhere else Shikarans—purples—were implacable enemies of humanity. Astawa towered a half meter over him, while the impossibly thin body swayed back and forth. Long arms ended in six opposable claws. The visible skin was closer to violet than purple, and turned almost blue around the close-set eyes and tiny nose in the literally hatchet face. Rimming the hole of a mouth, dozens of tiny chelae were weaving. Something that would pass for bushy black hair covered the narrow ridge of scalp.
“You arrre surrrprrrised to find a Shikarrran in my position?”
“The way things are going around here, I’m surprised you’re not mounted in someone’s trophy room.”
The chelae clicked laughter. “You enjoy harrrd trrruth. Of courrrse the Goverrrnment watches me, but my company watches the Government. I’m doing too good a job to rrremove, and they trrrust me somewhat.”
“Are you a subversive?”
“Not in any of the senses you mean the worrrd.” The lift opened, and Astawa led him down a busy corridor to an office. In the plush inner sanctum Astawa settled behind his desk/console while Jim took a facing seat. GalNews’ trust in the purple told him even more than the Government’s.
“Someone shelled the Jutland as I was leaving. Get anything on it?”
“On the disk. A minorrr incident—no injurrries. We’ve set everrrything up in an editing rrroom so you can assemble what you want forrr yourrr firrrst ‘cast. Scheduled 2000 WDS.”
“Thought I’d start with some kind of chronology of the mess here.”
“We have chrrronology forrr you to sift thrrrough. Tons of chrrronology.”
“Good. I’ve got a lot of news to catch up on.”
“Storrries lingerrr in this building about you from the time beforrre you left this worrrld. About yourrr ability— and yourrr desire to be gone.”
“GalNews thinks I’ll have a special slant on this story. I left because this mudball is about as far from real civilization as you can get. My temporary assignment here doesn’t change a thing.”
“Yet you arrre herrre. And everrry moment is change.” The Shikaran rose. “Let me show you to yourrr suite. You’ll want rrrest and rrrefrrreshment beforrre you go to worrrk.”
Jim followed him down the corridor, wondering. This purple exec would definitely be a rush. Hardly the typical farmer or shopowner, immersed in hive culture, remote and simple in human affairs. Astawa was of a rare but growing type, the product of osmosis between dominant and minority cultures. He could deal with Jim on almost equal terms, while Jim knew as little as any non-expert about Shikarans. The edge was his, and Jim didn’t like it.
“Bopper coming in!” the Scanner Officer shouted.
Captain Disad slapped the EV alarm, and watched the Marines and those Rangers still boarding dive to hug hard surface. “Calculate back to the launch point. Lay it in Fire Control’s board. Fire Control, blow that point to hellangone.”
“Proton batteries, sir?”
“And take out every building in the way? They lob, we lob.”
“Laid in, sir.”
“Launching two intercepts, sir.”
Twin tiny darts shot away from the hull, arching high and north, then diving out of sight.
The shell hit near the base of the cruiser, about twenty meters from the nearest prone figure. The explosion shook the control deck, and grey smoke rolled with the wind. The scattered soldiers were briefly lost from sight.
“Intercepts on course,” the Fire Control reported. A column of smoke climbed in the north.
The admiral rose from his chair. “Good work, Captain. Carry on.”
“Sir, won’t you please take an escort?”
“Can’t. Bad form—we’re officially on good terms with the Provisional Government. But stay tight on my command frequency just in case.” He ducked into the bounce tube.
Five minutes later a vehicle bay in the cruiser’s flank opened, and out flew the flattened cigar shape of a flitter.
Admiral Young was alone in the rear seat, isolated from the pilot by a glassite pane. “ETA twelve minutes, sir,” the pilot said over the com. “We’re cleared for entry.”
The admiral watched through a port as they flew low southeast, over wooded foothills. Valleys cradled farms abundant with wheat, corn and fruit trees. Cow herds grazed on rich grass, and streams flowed down from the mountain range they were approaching.
So unlike Earth. So much hope for the future. Only it had become a piece in a game whose players cared little about such things.
The mountain pass was thick with purple-leaved trees like the great conifers of the Pacific Northwest. But they quickly dwindled as the flitter descended into high desert. It slanted toward a bright jewel in the bare brown land. The jewel grew into a smaller version of the spaceport they had just left. It was new, raw and half-completed. The rim G/A intercept batteries marked it as a military base, the home of the Provisional Government’s tiny space command.
The grey field was conspicuously empty. Every converted freighter and shuttle was on patrol, awaiting the expected Hive fleet. And he knew where Marsailles and Antares, their only interstellar ships, were.
The pilot received final clearance, and landed. A VIP groundcar picked the admiral up and drove him to the Admin Building. Minutes later, far below the surface level, he was ushered into a small meeting room. Five men and two women looked up at him with unfriendly expressions.
He understood. The messenger was once more to be blamed for the message.
“Have a seat, Admiral,” one of the men said.
“Thank you, Mister President.” He took the only empty seat around the long table.
The Greenworlders were tanned dark, and carried the physiques of strenuous youths into middle age. They had been successful farmers, ranchers, industrialists and merchants; successful because they had built up their businesses. Now they were the planetary Council, amateur statesmen and warriors.
“Let’s make this short,” the President said. “Name’s Hugh Marlowe, as you seem to know. You’re Admiral Young. You have a message for us?”
“Yes.”
“We have a lot of work leaning on us, Admiral.”
The admiral laid a large envelope on the table and slid it over to the President. “From the Federation Executive, sir.”
President Marlowe opened it and quickly scanned the enclosed sheet. Some of the ruddiness drained from his face. “To see it in cold print, friends, somehow makes it worse.”
“It’s what we expected,” one of t
he women said rather than asked.
He nodded. “No treaty or mutual defense pact will be considered. Nor will the Federation guarantee our loans to buy space defense arms.”
Another man slammed a meaty fist on the table. “It’s a damned trade: us for a few more years of peace!”
“It’s genocide!” a third added.
“The Executive’s relocation offer still stands,” Admiral Young said, tight-lipped.
“Thanks a whole hell of a lot!” snapped the President. “Ship two million of us to some War burn-off like Legrange or New China inside your new borders? Can we farm slag? Can we drink acid? This is our home. We plan to keep it.”
“How? Your defenses are no match for a Hive invasion force. And we know about your efforts to buy arms on the free worlds—your two freighters are sitting on Eridani right now. But no one will extend you the credit you need—you won’t last long enough to repay the loans.”
The atmosphere around the table turned glacial.
“A relocation fleet—”
“You’ve delivered your message, Admiral,” the President cut in. “I suggest you get the last of your yellowbacks off-planet. Could be some fighting here soon, and we wouldn’t want to upset your delicate constitutions.”
Admiral Young bit off a reply, rose and walked out.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of the worlds. This is Jim Buser with a special on-the-scene report from Tau Ceti HI, notorious Greenworld, in the disputed interface between the Federation and the Shikaran Hive.
“This paradise of blue sky, pure air, sparkling seas and lush vegetation has been the cause of conflict since 2111, when a coalition of dissident groups from Earth colonized it. Shikaran colonists began arriving on the South Continent at the same time.
“Then came the War, and its stalemate ending as both sides recoiled in horror from the scale of destruction they had wrought. Greenworld became de facto Federation territory.
“But the Hive concept of completeness drives it to incorporate Greenworld’s Shikarans more strongly than we humans can understand. While we recover our strength and courage very slowly…”
There Will Be War Volume II Page 11