Minister of Defense Wesley Taal did indeed look rather grumpy, standing off to the side of the central mingling space and speaking quietly to a man in uniform. It was a colonel from the Corps, and Breeze quickly assured herself that she hadn’t crossed paths with this officer before. Confident that she was free from recognition, she promptly ignored the officer and turned her full gaze upon Minister Taal.
Taal’s eyes met hers with a degree of curiosity, then sudden recognition. A politician’s smile split his features and he willingly grasped her outstretched hand to kiss it.
“Mrs. Shah, how nice to finally meet you.”
“Minister Taal, how good of you to come. It’s so important that senior members of Parliament show their support for the revitalization of this region.”
“Yes,” he said, not quite hiding a sigh. “Especially with all the other matters to attend to.”
“Sir,” the colonel growled, “I’ll get the team working on those numbers for you.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
The colonel slipped away.
“And how are you enjoying these events, Mrs. Shah?”
“I enjoy supporting my husband, and the good work he does for the State.”
A chuckle. “About as much as I do, then.”
“Perhaps not quite as much,” she offered with a smirk.
“Vijay has been an excellent member of the party for years, but since the attacks last year he’s really shown his true form. You have a good man, Mrs. Shah.”
“We’ve been together since not long after those attacks—he wasn’t even minister yet when we first met. I’m very proud of how all of Parliament has rebounded from the attack”—she smiled—“but Vijay has been truly exceptional. Thank you for supporting him.”
Taal was the senior member of the Progressive Party in Parliament and in a sense Vijay’s boss. The Progressives were the largest group in the five-party coalition that formed the current government, but alliances sometimes shifted and few positions in Parliament were secure. With all the newbie members elected after the attacks, Vijay’s promotion to minister had been as much due to his relative seniority as it had his competence. Breeze’s job in the political world was to ensure that her husband remained in everyone’s good graces.
“I understand you served in the Astral Force,” Taal said. “So did I, although years ago.”
“I served in my own, small way,” she said carefully. “Nothing as important as what you did.”
“We all do our parts, and every veteran is important. Thank you for your service.”
“Thank you, Minister, for yours.”
He laughed, eyes scanning the room.
“We’re both veterans—can we cut the political formalities?”
“Gladly.”
“I’m Wes. May I call you Charity?”
“Of course. You can call me Breeze, if you want—it was my nickname when I served.”
“They called me Skip—you don’t want to know why.”
She laughed, surprised at how relaxing it was to speak to a fellow veteran. It wasn’t company she’d ever sought, but the military had been a big part of her life for years, and she couldn’t deny the bond created by service. For a remarkably long time she stood at the edge of the factory floor swapping war stories with Wes and genuinely enjoying his company.
Their chatter was interrupted by an announcement that the President was about to begin his address. An obligatory hush fell over the room and all eyes moved to the dais where De Chao Peterson, the President of Terra, was taking his position.
Peterson had been vice-president at the time of the attacks, thankfully away on holiday when the President had been killed in her State residence. Always a hawkish influence on government, Peterson had used the Centauri attacks as justification for doubling the budgets of the police and the Ministry of Internal Security, cracking down on any suspected dissidents with ruthless speed.
Breeze still gave thanks to whatever god existed that her own court-martial had taken place right after the attacks, and been overshadowed by the political jockeying that had consumed all government energies in the vacuum of power. By the time Peterson had consolidated his position and started his putsch, Breeze’s lawyers had worn out the State prosecutors, who fell under pressure to go after higher-profile targets.
She’d slipped through the net, and now she stood in the very presence of power as an invited guest.
Peterson’s public persona hardly matched his actions over the past year. Of middling height with the stocky, powerful build of a scrapper, he looked out over the assembled crowd with a kindly expression. His hair was cut very short—a testament to his years in the Army—but it was a glittering silver that somehow softened his square features. His suit was modest and his manner was gentle. To the people of Terra he gave the impression of a favorite uncle—humble and fair, but firm when necessary. From her distant vantage point Breeze could barely see the man himself, but a screen broadcast his speech, larger than life. The screens outside were also broadcasting to the people in the streets.
His speech was typical. Praising the hard work of the Munich people, he declared the opening of this new factory as a triumph, and lauded the continuing technological advances of Terran industry. New weapons were coming on line, which would stop the rebels in their tracks.
“You should see some of the new tricks we’ve developed,” Taal said. “Technology we didn’t even know could exist a year ago.”
If he was talking about the Dark Bomb, Breeze was only too familiar with it—but drawing attention to that fact was never a good idea. If he was talking about anything else, she didn’t really care.
No speech from the President was complete without a combative statement toward the rebels.
“It is with great satisfaction,” Peterson boomed, “that I can report another victory in the war against terror. A recent assassination attempt by the rebels was thwarted by our brave security forces. One rebel was captured, and he has admitted to his treason. Justice will now be served.” The screen overhead suddenly shifted to the familiar scene of an execution chamber. An interested murmur rippled through the crowd.
“Who was the attack against?” Breeze whispered.
“Sheridan,” Taal replied. “In his hotel room after a fund-raiser. Thankfully we had Special Forces operatives embedded. Otherwise I think we’d be looking for a new leader of the Opposition.”
Breeze shivered. No one was safe these days.
The execution chamber was a clinical steel and plastic, with the chair located in the center. The prisoner was led in from the left. Breeze had seen enough public executions over the years, but something about this one captured her interest. Who was this terrorist? What kind of person could infiltrate Terran security, and come so close to killing one of their leaders?
The prisoner was a man, tall and clearly fit under his orange coveralls. His hands and feet were shackled, forcing him to shuffle toward the chair. He did so on his own, though, angrily shrugging off any attempt at guidance from the guards. He sat down in the chair, head high and face pointed defiantly at the camera. His lips moved as he said something, but the State never transmitted audio from the execution chamber. The prisoner was clamped into the chair.
“For crimes against the State,” an off-screen voice boomed, “this rebel, John Ford of Centauria, is sentenced to death.”
Blades shot from the sides of the chair, sliding into his torso, followed immediately by a deadly surge of electricity through the metal. The prisoner’s defiant expression collapsed in overwhelming pain before sagging in death. His body continued to jerk as the last of the electrical charge shot through him.
“Justice is served,” the off-screen voice declared.
A round of applause erupted from the gathered crowd in the factory. Breeze instinctively joined in, but her eyes searched for her husband. Vijay was next to Sheridan—the assassin’s target—and neither man displayed any sense of satisfaction as they dutifully clapped. Even from her dist
ance, she saw Sheridan cringe slightly as someone patted him on the back.
“Sheridan’s a good man,” Taal commented. “I’m glad we didn’t lose him, even if he is the biggest threat to our ruling coalition.”
“Is he?” Breeze heard herself ask.
“Of course he is.”
She looked up at the Minister of Defense.
“He’s a good man,” he repeated. “Like your husband.”
Breeze suddenly wanted very much to be back next to Vijay, political tactics be damned. This was a cold, dangerous world, and she felt the need for some warmth.
17
The singing studio was nothing more than a hollowed-out, dressed and pressurized chamber in an asteroid, but to Katja, it was pure release.
The thunderous opening strains of the recorded orchestra washed over her in the darkness. It was a particular aria from Mozart’s The Magic Flute—the aria she’d always dreamed would be the jewel in the crown of her graduation performance with a Fine Arts degree. Her first notes were low and powerful, the melody of German words flowing from her lips with the ease of years’ practice.
Her pitch rose as required, and she felt her throat and lungs come alive as they released their power. Oh, it was glorious to be able to truly sing again! She knew what was coming—the famous staccato refrain—but the passion was in her and she felt no fear. The music countered her voice, she paused… and let the heavenly notes fly. The darkness in the room was banished by the full power of a restored coloratura soprano at the height of her ability.
She paused the recording. Silence fell in the studio as she brought the lights up again. There was more to the aria, she knew, but having finally conquered the staccato she knew the rest would be anticlimactic. She’d sing the whole piece another day. There were no demanding professors or senior classmates sneering at her now.
Queen of the Night this, she thought smugly.
She’d fought to regain her true singing voice for months in her time off at SFHQ, and the sheer pleasure of exploring her old repertoire had been exhilarating, but now she’d done something she’d never mastered in her training, and she’d done it on her own. It was a good feeling. It helped her to forget about the real world.
She sighed. But the real world never left her alone for long.
She’d been promised a break. After the penetrating debrief of the last mission had left her mentally exhausted, she’d been assured that she’d done her job as well as could have been expected, and been granted some time off. This time, she really needed it.
Shutting down the studio, she walked out into the wide boulevard of the hobby wing. Tall trees lined both sides of the main path, and beyond them the street was lined with boutique “shops” designed to cater to any interest or fancy an operative might express. The studio had been built especially for Katja as soon as she’d arrived last year, but if ever she wanted to try her hand at something else, the options seemed limitless. Pottery, archery, and even snorkeling had all been welcome distractions at various times, but the singing was her own private obsession.
The climbing wall loomed high behind one of the boutiques, and a sudden twinge of sadness struck her. That had been Chang’s latest interest, she knew, before that Centauri bitch dumped him, exposed, into the Bulk. Sorrow morphed into anger, as it so often did, and Katja quickened her pace. If Korolev wanted to interrupt her private time, he’d better have a damn good reason.
Operatives were never permanently paired up, and she’d done half a dozen missions either alone or with another operative. But Chang had been her rock, always there to listen as she unloaded after each mission. He’d never been anything but honest with her, and never anything but supportive. Just like when he’d been her sergeant back in the Corps. He would bail her out of a scrape, and then let her take all the glory. He’d been a constant in her life, the constant in her life, and now he was gone.
She absently touched the spot in her chest where the quantum entanglement had screamed his death. It was as if the very fabric of the universe had captured that agony, and then lodged it in her heart.
Somebody was going to pay for that.
Hopefully Korolev had a new target for her.
It was strange to enter the operational section of SFHQ in her civilian clothes, but Katja didn’t feel intimidated by the uniforms around her. She was an operative, and her actions were beyond question. She was unhindered in her approach to control room two, and inside she found Korolev alone, his eyes watching the large screen on a console before him. He looked up.
“My apologies for disturbing you,” he said.
“I assume you have a good reason.”
“Always.”
“Word on Moretti?”
“No,” he replied. “She’s gone underground, and isn’t moving, but she’s still on Earth somewhere. Our exposure campaign will either keep her buried—and ineffective—or get her spotted. We have assets in position to move the moment we see her.”
“Are you sending me back in, then?” She heard the relish in her own voice.
“No, this hunt requires patience.”
“So what do you want me for?”
He gestured toward the screen in front of him. “We’ve been training a new operative, and I want to pair him with you for your next mission.”
Curious, Katja walked over to see. Until now she’d always been paired with operatives who were senior to her. It was quite a compliment to be trusted with a new recruit.
The screen before her was a feed from one of the physical training rooms, and the karate sensei was drilling a white belt. Obviously not a recruit from the Corps, then—troopers trained in karate, then judo, then aikido from basic training up into the senior ranks. Katja herself had possessed a black belt in the first two disciplines, even before she joined Special Forces, and her progress in aikido had accelerated over the past year.
“Someone from the Fleet?” she asked.
“A pilot. I think you know him.”
Her stomach tightened. Katja didn’t make a habit of getting to know pilots. She looked closer, and recognized the shaggy brown hair dripping in sweat as the recruit worked through his drills.
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“You don’t approve?”
She bit down her instinctive response, forcing herself to see the issue from all sides. Jack Mallory wasn’t a trooper, but not every operative lived at the pointy end like she did. He was crazy smart, true, and young enough to be malleable. But still…
“I don’t know.”
“I think you two will be paired well together,” Korolev said evenly. “You have complementary skills, and an existing rapport. There is a critical mission I want you both to conduct.”
Katja stiffened, aware that the brigadier was watching her in that all-seeing way of his.
“Sir… I’ve never shied away from duty before, but it’s only been a few weeks since the last mission, and that one took its toll.”
“I’m not asking you to deploy this afternoon,” he said. “Jack still needs more training, and the time for your mission isn’t here yet, but I want you to get reacquainted with him now so that he can get used to the idea that you’re still alive, and that you’ll be working together.”
“You haven’t told him about me yet?”
“He’s had a lot to take in these past few weeks. If I’d told him about you before now, he’d just have been distracted, and most likely he would have wanted to see you.”
“So you want me to just wander down to the dojo and say hi.”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“I’m not sure I approve of your method.”
“Well, I thought with me being commander of Special Forces, and all…”
He was right, and she knew it. Who was she to question him? So she pushed down her objections, and l
ooked back at the monitor. Jack was desperately trying to block the sensei’s careful strikes.
“How’s he adapting to the implants?”
“His ability to maneuver in the Cloud is unprecedented. It’s as if his mind was always wired to exist in a wider space. He’s been poring through the depths of Terran knowledge like a fish in water.” Korolev sighed. “I’ve been tempted on occasion to implement some sort of parental controls on his access—do you know how many porn sites are out there?—but he’s a young man and I wanted to let him explore uninhibited.”
Katja smiled. Jack was still Jack.
“I’ll arrange a pretty playdate for him,” she said. “Someone sultry.”
“You’re welcome to do the job yourself.”
“Oh, please.” Katja frowned. “It’d be like fucking my kid brother. Besides, if we’re going to be partners, I want to keep things at a certain distance. I don’t sleep within the chain of command.” It was an automatic statement, and she knew it wasn’t universally true. Korolev knew it too. She glared at him. “Shut up.”
His expression was maddeningly noncommittal.
“I guess I should go and reintroduce myself,” she said.
“There’s plenty of time to get reacquainted. You’ll be taking over the majority of his training from now on.”
She paused. So much for off-time—but she could always make Jack listen to her sing. That might be fun. And, she realized as she left the control room, it was actually kind of exciting to see an old friend. Her pace quickened as she approached the dojo.
The lesson was just ending, and Katja slipped off her shoes at the edge of the mats as Jack bowed to the sensei. She stepped onto the padded surface, watching him closely as he grabbed a towel and mopped his face and hair. The flush of blood in his features highlighted the faint scars of his reconstructive surgery, but otherwise he looked much the same as she remembered him. He noticed her approach without recognition.
Her hair was still black from the last op, she realized, and he’d rarely seen her in casual civilian clothes. She stepped closer, toying with the idea of actually pretending to be someone else. But, she decided, if he was an operative now, he’d better be able to handle shocks.
March of War Page 16