by Bruce Bethke
Lacus Mortis
21 November 2069
Rest, the little man in the back of Yuji's head whispered. Lloyd Thompson will hold the shuttle for you. This looks like a good place to sit down. Rest.
"No." Yuji fought off the weakness invading his legs, picked up the railgun, and staggered on. "Keep moving."
Then drop the gun, the voice suggested. It's too heavy. You'll go faster without it.
"No." Yuji wrapped both hands arms around the gun, just in case one of them decided to rebel, and clutched it to his chest. The railgun went through standard blue UN battlesuits like a hot fork through tofu—there were the skeletal remains of six or eight men back there somewhere to prove it—and Yuji was not about to give it up.
Trouble was, the railgun was also more than a match for his armor, too, and two Blacksuits back there had almost succeeded in proving that. Trying to slug it out with them was capital-D dumb, Yuji, that annoying little voice said. It was starting to sound like his father. He had finally beaten the Germans, yes, but he'd drained his shields almost flat in the process. Then, when he'd run into that Blacksuit with the heavy armor and the rocket launcher—
Another stab of white-hot pain surged out from the jagged shell fragment buried in his left thigh. Yuji sagged against the corridor wall and bit his tongue to keep from crying out.
My stupid, stupid little samurai, the voice whispered, mocking. Your head is full of stories, and look where they've gotten you.
"Father," Yuji gasped, when the wave of pain let up, "there's one thing I've always wanted to say to you: Shut up. Just shut up." He fumbled for the medipack on his left bicep, and punched in the code for more endorphins.
Ha, the voice said, weak fool. A real samurai would not submit to pain.
"Eat my shorts," Yuji answered. Slowly, much too slowly, a flow of cool relief flooded through his veins, and the inner voice fell silent.
"Yuji? Come back at me, little buddy." It took him a minute to realize the new voice was not another hallucination, but Lloyd Thompson. Yuji activated his mike.
"I'm still here, Lloyd. So are you, obviously. Why?"
Thompson ignored the question. "How's the leg?"
Yuji peered at the wound, then prodded it. The endorphins were starting to work. "Bleeding's almost stopped. That fragment must have been so red-hot that it cauterized the hole."
"Good. Now, how bad's your suit? Will it hold air?"
Yuji fingered the torn fabric. "Nothing a little duct tape won't fix. Why?"
"Never mind. Just... You're sure you're in L corridor?"
Yuji called up his computer map of the Lacus Mortis installation. "Corridor L, Section Twenty-three, Frame D-Two." He looked around. "Just across from the power conduit, about fifty meters from you—but with two solid walls and three platoons of Blacksuits between us."
"You leave those walls to us. Are you feeling up for a little exercise?"
The endorphins had finally taken full effect. Yuji poked his wounded leg firmly and didn't feel a thing. "As ready as I'll ever be."
"Good. If there's any cover, you might want to take it. But be ready to move out when I give the signal."
Yuji worked himself back into a narrow gap between two sections of wall. "Got it. What's the signal, Lloyd?"
"Fire in the hole!"
An instant later, twenty meters down the hall, a section of wall erupted in a massive explosion that took out half the ceiling as well. The flaming debris was still flying when white-clad LDF troopers poured through the gap and into the corridor. "Move it, Yuji!" Thompson screamed. Nakagawa popped out of his hole and dashed for the Whitesuits, dropping the railgun as he ran. As soon as he reached the men they fell back through the jagged hole in the plazmetal wall.
The next room was supposed to be warehouse space, but it was an insane red-green hell of blasting lasers and clattering railguns. Almost the full remaining force of Alpha Company was in there, trading heavy fire with a squad of Blacksuits. The last trooper through the hole slapped Yuji hard on the back and pointed him at a black-scorched hole in the far wall about twenty meters away. Yuji understood instantly and took off at a run. Something hard swatted him in the legs and lower back, and knocked him flying headfirst through the hole. He felt a little dizzy....
Thompson was leaning over him, shaking him gently. "Yuji? Little buddy? Can you hear me?"
"Yes, gaijin." Yuji tried to sit up. For some reason, his legs wouldn't move. "What's going on?" In the distance he could hear firing.
"We're in a hell of fix, pardner. Dirts tried to do an end run around us; they sent a rocket squad outside the dome. We got 'em, but not before they blew the hangar door."
"Yes. So?" Yuji tried to sit up and failed again. Most aggravating.
"It's now hard vacuum in the hangar. Nobody without an intact suit is gonna make it."
"What about my wounded?"
"Most of them were already on board the shuttle. The rest are dead. But we got one more wounded man we can't move."
Yuji started to suspect where this was leading. "Help me sit up!" he demanded. Gently the Texan slipped his arms under Yuji's shoulders and eased him up to a sitting position. Yuji willed himself to look.
From the rib cage down, he was a bloody, punctured, shredded mess.
He could still turn his head, though. He looked at Thompson. "Just how many boosters did you give me?"
"All of 'em. And all the icers and blood pressure stabilizers, too."
"Why?"
Thompson stood up, looked away, then turned back to Yuji. "We got one more problem, little buddy. We had to improvise some on the demolition charges. Can't detonate 'em by remote."
Yuji threw his head back and laughed. "So you need a kamikaze—"
Thompson wheeled on him. "Christ, no! You could pass out or chicken out or—" Abruptly Thompson realized who he was talking to. "No, we'll use timers. But we figure we need three minutes to start the clock and get clear, and we need someone to stay behind and make sure those black-suited devils don't disarm the charges."
Yuji made his best attempt at looking Thompson in the eye, then glanced around the room and spotted a captured railgun standing in a corner. "Give me that damn thing," he said. "Then prop me up someplace where I'll have a good field of fire." Thompson did, and they gave the remaining LDF troopers the order to fall back through the airlock, start the timers, and board the shuttle.
The Blacksuits wasted almost a minute after the firing stopped—probably wondering if it was a ruse—and didn't start moving forward until a deep rumble through the floor indicated the shuttle's engines were coming to life.
Yuji waited until he had a few Blacksuits in clear view,
then squeezed off a burst and made them all dive for cover. A change in the tenor of the rumble told him the shuttle had lifted off and was safely away.
Thompson's voice crackled softly through the remains of Yuji's suit radio. "Tenno heika, banzai, little buddy."
"Remember the goddam Alamo, pardner."
Off to the right he caught the furtive movement of a pair of Blacksuits trying a flanking maneuver, and sprayed a burst of fire at them. Then he checked his watch. Less than two minutes left. I wonder if the explosion will rupture the airlock.
He never found out.
Lacus Mortis, Postmortem
One of the historian's favorite games is What If? For example, what if the Savoy cavalry had reinforced Marlborough's right at Blenheim? What if the Luftwaffe had left the bomb racks off the Me-262, and used it as the air-superiority fighter it was clearly meant to be? What if the United Nations, in its earliest notable military action, had permitted the Americans to complete the destruction of the Iraqi army in Kuwait?
Along with these intriguing but ultimately unanswerable questions, one may as well ask this: what if the lunar rebels had forgone the raid on Lacus Mortis? The coalition that made up ATFOR was already in its death spiral. The Danish Duma had voted to pull its troops out. The fourth week of the conflict saw
two minor mutinies among the Ivory Coast troops, both of which were repressed brutally. And now, with the covert insertion of New German Unity troops into the situation — a development that appalled many permanent members of the Security Council — it was only a matter of time until the war ended and the negotiations began. Victory — as measured by survival, and the achievement of at least some of the LDF's demands — was there for the plucking. Why didn't the rebels wait?
The answer lies with Pieter von Hayek and Josef von Hayek and, most of all, with General Consensus. The general was not, as SAS intelligence had theorized, a dishonorably discharged ex-American officer with the battle skills of Erwin Rommel and a sociopathic streak a kilometer wide. Rather, General Consensus was the Port Aldrin Central Computer chess program as adapted by Pieter and Josef to accept input from the Council of Lunar Governors and to output strategic decisions.
Few in the Lunar Defense Force knew the true nature of their commanding general. Also, considering the amount of time and money the United Nations put into trying to locate and capture "General Consensus," and given the fact that a warrant for his arrest remained open well into twenty-second century, it's apparent that the Security Council never got the joke either.
But when seen in this light, the decision to attack Lacus Mortis does make a sort of sense. In a chess game, the raid would have been a brilliant gamble, a master stroke that could have ended the game in one move.
In the sticky world of human emotions, however, it was an unmitigated disaster. Not only did the rebels suffer a costly defeat, but they also gave certain factions within the Security Council a new and grim resolve and figuratively drove the generals of ATFOR and the New German Unity into each other's arms. For General Consensus, brilliant tactician though he may have been, was completely unable to understand hate and the dangerous decisions and alliances it could cause humans to make.
After Lacus Mortis, the Security Council declared a unilateral cease-fire. Few in the colonial leadership deceived themselves, however: they knew the United Nations was only buying time to prepare for the final assault. And when that assault came it would be led not by the blue uniforms and indifferent conscripts of ATFOR but by the pitiless Blacksuits of the NDE. The only questions were when, and where.
— Chaim Noguchi, A History of the Lunar Revolution
Chapter 19
Port Aldrin, Luna
Office of Colonel Josef von Hayek
24 November 2069
11:30 GMT
Captain Eileen "Devil Bunny" Mahoney squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and repeated herself. "You heard me correctly, sir. I want to defect."
Josef von Hayek leaned back in his chair, stroked his chin, and considered this novel turn of events. "Are you out of your mind, Captain?"
"No, sir!"
Josef arched an eyebrow and looked at Jeff. "Private Mahoney, do you think Captain Mahoney is sincere?"
Young Jeff Mahoney gulped, took a step forward, and nodded. "Yes, sir. I think Bunny, er, Captain Mahoney is serious about tossing in with us, sir."
"I see." Josef swiveled in his chair and looked at Britt. "Sergeant Godfrey? You've had the pleasure of the captain's company for four days now. What do you think?"
Britt scowled and considered the two Mahoneys. "I think, sir, they're going to drive me barmy if they don't stop bickerin'. First she says something, then 'e contradicts 'er, then she snaps back, and pretty soon there's a bleedin' row going on."
"I do not contradict her," Jeff blurted out. "Yes, you do," Bunny retorted.
"Just stay out of this, Aunt Bunny. I was handling it just fine."
"You're just like your father!"
"Knock it off!"Josef ordered. Both Mahoneys fell still and looked a little embarrassed. Josef swiveled in his chair and looked at Dalton. "Starkiller? What's your take?"
"Sergeant Godfrey's got it nailed, sir. If those two weren't related, they'd be married."
Bunny lifted her chin. "Sir? I'm sorry, but it's just that Private Mahoney here is a dead ringer for my brother Sean."
"Dead is right," Jeff snorted. "That's not—"
"Stop it!" Colonel von Hayek counted slowly to ten, then turned to Britt again. "Sergeant Godfrey, have you had a chance to get them DNA-scanned?"
"Yes, sir. It's not as accurate as matching parent and child, but they are related. First cousins or closer."
"Very good." Von Hayek nodded. "Now, Captain Mahoney," he waggled a finger at Jeff, "and I'm speaking only to Captain Mahoney. Why is it, exactly, that you want to turn traitor and join the LDF?"
Bunny shuddered at the word "traitor" and pursed her lips slightly. "Because—" she began in a hoarse voice. She stopped, swallowed hard, and tried again. "I am a loyal officer in the American army, sir. I am proud to be an American. And to tell the truth, if the LDF were fighting the American army, I don't think I could do this." She blinked. Her eyes were starting to look a little moist.
She stole a glance at Jeff. "But blood is thicker than words, sir. And Jeffrey's all the family I have left. I thought he was dead ten years ago. I'm his godmother, you see, sir, and I promised Sean I'd look out for him."
"You're kinda late, Aunt Bunny," young Mahoney grumbled.
"Private?" Josef said, in a low and menacing growl.
Bunny took a deep breath and blinked away her remembrances. "Besides, Colonel, you need me. I've fought the NDE before, during the Vienna Airlift in 2065."
Von Hayek perked up sharply. "NDE? Who said anything about the NDE?"
"C'mon, Colonel, the scuttlebutt's all over. Your guys didn't hit ATFOR at Lacus Mortis; they ran into Sturmwehr. I don't know how the Germans got there or what the Security Council is trying to pull, but you're going to need all the help you can get to beat those blacksuited bastards."
Josef von Hayek leaned back in his chair and went back to stroking his chin. "So you're just going to keep an eye on Private Mahoney, then?"
Bunny swallowed nervously. "Well, I've also seen those news reports about what happened at Volodya. I... I just can't feel any loyalty to the murderers who did that. I never swore allegiance to an army that would kill noncombatants. If you and the LDF don't stop the UN, who will?"
Colonel Von Hayek reached a decision. "Okay. Private Mahoney, escort our guest outside and wait in the hall with her. Godfrey, Starkiller, you stay here." He waited until the door had closed behind the Mahoneys, then turned to Britt. "Well?"
The sergeant shrugged. "Well, 'er reasons check out. And she was a capture, not a walk-in. I don't think she's a plant."
"I see. Starkiller?"
Dalton smiled coldly. It was not a nice sight. "It wouldn't be hard to jimmy the shields on her suit. We use a phase inverter and give it to her watchdog. If we get into a situation and she tries to turn on us, splat! Her shields will invert, and we'll clean her up with a mop and bucket. Jeff'll think it was an accident."
Von Hayek nodded thoughtfully. "Who'll control the inverter?"
Britt glanced at Dalton, then answered. "Dalt. I'm gettin' a wee bit soft on the chickadee, and I might hesitate. But 'e's still lookin' to get even for that Dara of 'is. Oh, 'e'd pull the trigger on 'er all right. No sweat."
Von Hayek took in Dalton's impassive demeanor. He nodded. "Okay, that sounds workable. Do that thing with her shields, then put her in your squad. If nothing else, we'll learn something about the way the ATFOR troops are trained." He stood up and opened the hall door. "Captain, in here, please. No, Private Mahoney, you stay put."
When Bunny had reentered the office, Josef sat down. "Okay, Captain, here's the story. Your offer is accepted, but you're on probation. You'll be issued a uniform and allowed to train with one of our units, but you will not be issued a weapon. And if we so much as suspect you're an intelligence plant, you will die. Is that clear?"
Bunny nodded crisply. "I expected nothing more, sir. Will I be in the same unit as my nephew?"
"Yes."
"Then I am satisfied, sir."
"Very good
. Sergeant Godfrey and Specialist Starkiller here will see to getting you your equipment, and then they'll get you checked out on MANTA."
There was a slight but noticeable reaction out of Bunny, which was exactly what Josef was seeking. She clearly recognized the word, but didn't want to admit to it. "MANTA, sir?"
Von Hayek considered how to play this. If she was a mole ... "Surely you must have heard of it. It's our teleport system. That's how we beat you at Grimaldi. It's no secret anymore; your people at Lacus Mortis must have recovered at least five MANTA receivers—not that they're of any use without transmitters."
Bunny shrugged. "Don't tell me any more, sir. I'm not a tech, and I wouldn't understand anyway."
Well, that was an unexpected response. Josef considered her a moment longer, then nodded. "Right. Dismissed." Bunny wheeled around and marched toward the door.
"Oh, and, Bunny?" Josef added, as if as an afterthought.
She stopped and turned around. "Yes, sir?"
"Sorry, but you're being temporarily demoted to lieutenant. Right now we need good platoon commanders more than we need captains."
"Understood, sir." If she was disappointed, she didn't show it. She left, and Dalton and Britt followed her.
Endgame
The rebels' last-ditch defense strategy was simple to describe but complex to execute. Since the question of when and where the New German Unity would attack was completely open, and as fortifying every known vulnerable point was quite impossible, the von Hayeks, junior and senior, adopted a doctrine of rapid response, which involved using the MANTA teleportation system to move LDF and militia units instantly where needed. For as everyone realized, even as they continued the pretense of negotiations with the Security Council, the forthcoming battle was one that would be won or lost in the colonial dome airlocks and the corridors immediately adjacent thereto.
The implementation of this plan called for a considerable amount of training. Not that there was much to learn in order to use the MANTA system — one simply stepped onto a transporter pad and reappeared microseconds later on a receiver pad — but because humans have an innate resistance to being dematerialized. The smooth operation of the rapid-response concept required, more than anything else,