March of War

by Bennett R. Coles

  Thomas pursed his lips together, biting down his reply.

  “Stay focused, gentlemen,” Hu said.

  “It might have been a regular torpedo which failed to activate properly,” Perry offered.

  “I don’t think so, sir,” Thomas said. “For one, the target is too precise—that singularity was placed directly in the center of Toronto’s bridge. For two, if a regular torpedo had misfired, we’d have found some evidence of the rest of the crew. Either they would have taken to the lifeboats, or they would have been killed in the attack. Each of those scenarios would have provided us clear evidence which just isn’t there.”

  “The same thing goes for your mini-torpedo, Kane,” Perry snapped. “Where are the survivors? Or did your magic weapon suck up all the crew and leave the rest of the ship intact?”

  That was a good point, Thomas conceded silently with a nod.

  “Perhaps, then,” Perry suggested, “it was some kind of singularity bomb planted before the ship left port.”

  Hu turned at that, expression newly thoughtful.

  “Why not just blow the entire Astral Base, then, XO?”

  “Perhaps they wanted to test it small scale, away from any large gravity wells.”

  “The Centauris are nothing if not patient,” Hu mused. None of the other rebellious colonies really mattered in this war. Centauria was the leader—both technologically and politically— and it was their culture which Terrans needed to understand best.

  “XO, sweep our ship for any gravimetric anomalies,” Hu ordered suddenly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any other recommendations?”

  “Maintain our augmented ASW status,” Perry replied immediately. “While I may not agree with Mr. Kane’s assessment of the attack, there may be a higher stealth threat in this sector than Intelligence suggests.”

  “Mr. Kane, your recommendation?”

  Thomas started. He was being asked to give a command recommendation. Perry’s face darkened, he noticed, but the XO remained silent.

  “Inform Astral Command of the incident, sir, and recommend that all future patrols consist of at least two ships. Toronto may have been vulnerable because she was alone. Others might be, as well.”

  6

  Out in deep space, far from any of the planets, the only way to guess where in the solar system you were was to look at the sun. If it was big, relatively speaking, you were among the rocky inner worlds. If it was small, you were in the realm of the gas giants.

  This single reference point always told Katja that Astral Special Forces Headquarters was somewhere in the inner solar system, but otherwise she had no idea of its coordinates—and that suited her fine. As an operative she was at highest risk of capture by the enemy, and the less she knew about her own organization, the better.

  Simplicity of knowledge was her new best friend, in fact. Although she was a member of the most sophisticated intelligence organization in Terran history, and could herself tap into the Cloud at any time, she’d found that the less she kept tabs on the worlds—the less she thought—the easier her job became.

  She was an amoral instrument of the State, and the State told her everything she needed to know to do her job effectively.

  Since her last mission she’d had more than a week of downtime. As she slipped on her boots she absently glanced around her quarters, making certain everything was in its place. Her eye caught a rogue plate on a side table next to the couch, the remnants of a snack the previous evening. She collected it up and placed it in the washer. SFHQ would have provided someone to do her cleaning, but she preferred to be responsible for her own quarters.

  These five rooms were her own private empire, her sanctuary. She maintained complete control over them. It was a coping mechanism to counter the madness of an operative’s life, but it worked and she was happy.

  Her front door slid open and she stepped out onto a wide, stone terrace, breathing deeply, taking in the soft cool scents of the trees, the water, and even the stone itself. She strolled forward to the wide railing and gazed down at the park below. Many hectares of well-tended grass stretched away, dotted by natural clusters of trees and broken by meandering paths and gardens blooming in vibrant colors. A stream bisected the entire park, widening into a pool bordered on one side by sand and on the other by a wooden gazebo.

  A brilliant panel of white light shone down from the dark ceiling of the cavern, its angle indicating mid-morning as it cast its shadows across the landscape. There were people scattered throughout the park, some enjoying the landscape while others worked quietly at maintenance.

  Katja took a moment each day just to take in this vista, thankful again to the State for taking such good care of her. Then she turned and strode along the stone walkway, past doors which fronted the quarters of other operatives, toward the lift which would take her to the briefing rooms. It was time to start working again.

  On the terrace she saw only one other person, a fellow operative named Shin Mun-Hee, and beyond a smile and a nod there was no need for further communication.

  At least, until Shin decided to speak.

  “Hi, Katja. Still on vacation?”

  “Actually,” she said, glancing down at her military issue coveralls, “I’m just heading back to work today.”

  “I heard about the Centauri spy—nicely done sniffing him out.” Shin was quite a bit taller than Katja, but the way she looked down always suggested more than just a difference in height. Even her compliments sounded ever-so-slightly superior.

  “Thanks. One less spy for us all to worry about.”

  “Shame you couldn’t take him alive—I’d love to have deconstructed his mind.”

  “He was a legitimate target,” Katja said, feeling a familiar anger start to rise. “My orders were clear.”

  “Yes, of course, and you’re very good at what you do.”

  The subtleties of wordplay had never been Katja’s strength, and not even all her augmentations had made her feel any better equipped for this sort of combat.

  “We all have our strengths, Mun-Hee,” she said, and she started walking again, quickly reaching the lift. When it arrived, she found herself sharing it with a maintenance tech she’d seen before. He was about her age, and quite handsome in an intelligent way. SFHQ staffed their facility with the very best of Terran citizens, and Katja was reasonably certain that intelligence and skillset weren’t the only requirements for his employment.

  However, the lift arrived at her floor before she could figure out how to engage the tech in casual conversation. Still, she tucked the idea away for future exploration.

  The operational level was hard and metallic, with square corridors and soft artificial light which cast no shadows. Uniformed personnel strode by purposefully, nodding politely to her and staying clear of her path. Katja felt her entire mindset shift, as dormant parts of her brain activated, and she sifted through the gentle waves of information on Terra and the colonies.

  The door to Briefing Room Three loomed on the right. She mentally transmitted a clearance request and the door hissed open in response. Inside, seated at the large conference table, was her frequent mission partner, Suleiman Chang.

  He nodded to her in greeting, deep-set eyes giving only a glint of comradeship in his otherwise stoic expression. His broad features were plain, his skin the common, deep brown of so many humans. It was his size that made him stand out in a crowd, and even seated his vast bulk dominated the space. They had led a strike team and a platoon together at the outbreak of the war, and had forged the kind of fellowship considered necessary for an operative team.

  “Good morning, Katty,” he rumbled.

  “Morning, Sules. How long have you been back?”

  “Ten days. It’s been nice. I finally tried out the climbing wall.”

  “We exercise enough by decree—why would you choose to do more?”

  “Would you rather hear me sing?”

  Katja’s main form of recreation was to polish h
er skill as a coloratura soprano. She eyed him up and shrugged.

  “You might have a wicked bass hiding in that barrel chest of yours.” His features shifted marginally into what she’d come to recognize as amusement. Other than a slight dip of his eyelids, he offered no further comment.

  The door hissed open again, revealing Brigadier Alexander Korolev, the head of Special Forces. Katja instinctively rose to her feet and heard Chang doing the same.

  “Relax,” Korolev said, waving them back to their chairs. He sat across from them, glancing at each of them with his usual, mild expression. “Are you ready to receive?”

  “Yes,” Katja said, and Chang echoed her reply.

  She withdrew those parts of her mind which had been surveying the information flow, and focused her attention on the commander. He began with high-level data, framing a scenario, then drilled down deeper into specifics. Katja queried when necessary, asking multiple questions along different paths and listening to Chang’s questions while still receiving the main feed.

  Korolev seemed to partition as he addressed multiple questions simultaneously, drawing connections between dispersed facts and revealing the patterns of the situation. It was enough to require a three-hour briefing, yet in real time it took about ten seconds.

  Katja sat back, feeling sudden tension.

  Centauri spies were still active in Terra—no surprise there, since espionage was their most effective weapon—but a changing pattern was emerging. They were becoming more aggressive against Terran soft targets, focusing on key figures who supported the war behind the scenes. Two wealthy businessmen with large government contracts had recently died under mysterious circumstances, and an accident had befallen a senior advisor to the Minister of Defense.

  Any bureaucracy was vulnerable to inertia and incompetence, if not properly led and directed by key individuals. Now the Centauris seemed to be trying to cripple the Terran government by removing those who kept it functioning effectively.

  Disparate sources suggested where the latest Centauri cell was operating, and another attack was expected soon, this time against a senior advisor to the smallest Parliamentary party in the government coalition. A lucky intercept of Centauri data had given an exact time and place. At least two agents were involved, although how they planned to carry out their assault remained a mystery.

  Katja and Chang were assigned to protect that advisor, a middle-aged woman named Sarah Goldberg, and capture or kill the Centauri spies.

  7

  Mars loomed large in the cockpit screens as Katja strolled forward from the main cabin. The pilot was engaged in routine chatter with orbital control, identifying them as a courier ship from one of the major Jovian delivery companies. She stood behind his seat and cast her mind out, getting used to the style and flow of the Martian infosphere.

  People spoke faster on Mars than they did on Earth, using words much more efficiently and wasting little on pleasantries. They weren’t abrasive or rude, like the majority of Mercurians, but they spoke and wrote as if they were constantly in a rush. Life moved fast on Mars, and the society prized efficiency. Born of the first colonists to survive on this once-hostile world, their dedication to precision and conservation had built the undisputed industrial powerhouse of Terra.

  Off to both sides of the shuttle, thousands of lights moved within and through the orbital control zone. The distant bulk of Astral Base Two was visible near the edge of Mars’ ruddy horizon, the security zone around it noticeably clear of traffic. Military sensors reached out from the base, linking into a ghostly web that included the discreet satellites orbiting around the entire planet.

  No less than seven Fleet warships were active in planetary protection, and even at this altitude she could hear the routine transmissions from atmospheric sentries guarding against surface incursions.

  Only once had the rebels attempted a surface attack on Mars. They had breached several points in the outer walls of the city of New Longreach, and the resulting depressurization had done more damage than any weapon. Those Centauri war machines which survived the blasts had run loose for weeks before they were all hunted down. The civilian death toll had been tremendous—so much so that Special Forces concluded that another rebel attack on Mars would be unlikely.

  The Centauris, more so than any other colony, abhorred civilian deaths. No, Katja thought as she returned to the main cabin and took her seat for landing, the military aspects of war had moved back into space—the surface was now the battleground for spies.

  Chang glanced up at her. He wore nondescript, slightly shabby civilian clothes, looking the part of a laborer who couldn’t afford to care about his appearance. She’d colored her hair brown and cut it back to an efficient length that didn’t quite reach her shoulders. She wore an inexpensive pant suit typical of any mid-level shopping concourse, with high heels and a large bag. Her role was to be a middle manager who dreamed of one day being a senior manager.

  The descent through the thin Martian atmosphere was always smoother than on an Earth-like world. A few subtle bumps gave encouraging hints to the slowly increasing air density that centuries of terraforming had achieved, but no human could survive outside the pressure domes for long.

  The shuttle passed through one of the airlocks and settled down within a large commercial hangar. As the cargo door opened and a Special Forces team carried on their charade of delivering courier packages, Katja grabbed her bag and headed for the passenger door on the side of the vessel.

  “See you at the RV,” she said quietly to Chang. He nodded, staying in his seat as planned to allow for a clear separation of their departures from the ship.

  Katja stepped down to the hard floor of the vast hangar, breathing in the faint chalkiness of the air unique to Mars. All of the oxygen in the human settlements was produced artificially, but enough of the actual planetary atmosphere got mixed in to give Martian air its distinctiveness.

  Listening with her ears to the bustle of a civilian port, she discreetly searched for any surveillance devices. There were the obvious ones installed by the port authority, of course, but a passive EM sweep looked for anything else that might be actively investigating her brisk stroll toward the security gates. Nothing was focused on her, but she did notice an unusual scanner on one of the freighters to her left. Glancing casually toward it, she noted that its corporate markings suggested an origin on Triton, and captured an image. Turning her eyes forward again, she packaged the image with her sensor data and stored it for later.

  The security lines to enter the city of Ares were as long as usual, and she passed the time first by scanning all the personal IDs of the people around her, then by hacking into the Martian border security system to look for any signs of unusual activity lately. Centauri spies were very good at covering their tracks, but Katja had learned to search for a specific structure in data packets.

  The Centauri Cloud technology was much more sophisticated than standard Terran, and very occasionally she would find something which had an architecture far too complex to be legitimate. The enemy was incapable, it seemed, of dumbing down its own technology entirely.

  There.

  Three days ago, a woman had entered Mars through the main passenger terminal at Olympus Mons on a seven-day tourist itinerary. Katja traced the name, Paula McGee, back to her home on Ganymede and searched her record. It was clean, unremarkable, and entirely believable. That she had no spouse, children, or siblings gave the first indication of a false ID, and when Katja looked underneath the data itself, she saw the tell-tale sophistication of Centauri insertion.

  She’d found an enemy spy. No telling yet if it was the person she was after, but further analysis should determine that. She glanced up with her eyes, noting that she’d almost reached the security counter, and retracted her links. She’d need to play the innocent State functionary for the next few minutes.

  Then it would be a long ride on public transit to her reserved quarters. She was confident she’d have found her target b
y the time she met Chang at the RV.

  * * *

  The pink sun shone through the translucent upper walls and ceilings of most of the city, augmented by artificial white light that faded to orange as the orb dropped toward the dusty horizon. Centuries of human existence on Mars had created an interior environment which produced a tremendous likeness to nature, but it was still just a likeness.

  Chang’s utility bag rustled behind her as he shouldered it and followed her across the plaza. The tram had carried them through one of the close-in connecting tunnels, but the dome enclosing this cluster of buildings soared above them now. It was far from the largest dome in Ares, only stretching far enough to contain the frontages of the buildings. Each of those extended out into the Martian landscape. There were small commuter shops clustered near the tram stop, but otherwise the artificial floor was interrupted only by the carefully spaced trees in their individual pots. Katja spotted the modest entrance to the Ministry of Industry building and motioned for Chang to follow.

  The guards outside the building watched them with vague interest as they approached. Only the time of day made their arrival unusual—few civil servants actually worked at this hour. So Katja pursed her features into a frown and offered a State-issue tablet with a message displayed brightly on the screen.

  “Data Manager Watkins,” she snapped in a typical Martian accent. “There’s a series of faults causing intermittent link breakage within the unclass system. We need to watch it when the network’s quiet, so”—she jerked a thumb back at Chang— ”we’re going to start this evening.”

  Choosing the unclassified system meant no additional security checks would be required, and data management maintenance was generally considered just about the unsexiest thing in the world, unlikely even to be remembered the next day.

  One of the guards looked at her tablet, then checked his own forearm display. His eyes lit up when the corresponding confirmation appeared.