“You said you wanted to make a difference, Jack.” The shower splashed as she turned in the stall to wash off the soap. “The results of this mission may be terrible, but consider the alternative. Years of war to come, millions more dead in every system as we fight ourselves to exhaustion and sacrifice an entire generation of humanity.”
Maybe having this conversation while she was in the shower wasn’t the best idea. He forced himself to focus on the argument.
“But couldn’t we just blow up one of their uninhabited planets? That would send a pretty strong message.”
She shut off the shower and reached for the glass door. He forced himself to retreat across her bedroom again.
“Maybe,” she called as he heard her step out and grab a towel. “But maybe not. You saw how many micro-torpedoes the rebels have—enough to wipe out the entire Fleet. What if our leaders know something we don’t? What if they’ve learned that Centauria is developing a similar Dark Bomb weapon? What if this attack is the only way to stop the enemy from hitting us first? We just don’t know, Jack.”
She emerged into the bedroom, towel cloaked loosely over her petite form. Blonde hair dark with water clung to her neck and powerful shoulders, and his eyes were drawn to the smooth lines of her arms as she absently rubbed at the towel to dry her skin beneath. It preserved her modesty, but it wasn’t wrapped all the way around her. Pausing in the center of the room, she looked up at him with genuine interest in her eyes.
“Why do you feel betrayed?” she asked.
“When Brigadier Korolev approached me about joining Special Forces, he said that he had a mission especially for me. He said that I could help to end the war quickly, and save millions of lives.” He knew he should say more, but he was having trouble keeping his thoughts straight with so much of her skin showing.
“Is he wrong?”
“What?”
“Is what he said to you wrong?”
“No, but…” His voice trailed off as she lifted one end of the towel to dry her hair. Her thighs were revealed by the movement, decency just barely preserved. He really had to think to remember the point of his argument. “But he didn’t tell me that to do so I’d destroy Second Earth.”
She studied him, brushing stray hair from her face. He tried to figure out what could possibly be going on in her mind. Why could she not see the obvious clarity of his argument? And since when did she carry on conversations in nothing but a towel?
“When I was recruited into Special Forces,” she said finally, “Korolev made quite a different promise. He told me that by becoming a servant of the State I would be exempted from any responsibility for my actions, as they weren’t really mine but rather an extension of the State’s will.”
He stared at her. At the peaceful expression that was settling over her features.
“That’s why you’re always saying that,” he said. “Always talking about us being servants of the State.”
“Yes.” She stepped closer, hands holding the towel across her body. “And it’s true. We will never be called out for our actions. We are forgiven all, and we are free from guilt.”
His insides were churning. Her body was so close, her dark eyes staring at him with a clear intent he’d never seen before. His stomach was like ice even as he felt himself rising to the occasion. She took another step closer, eyes locked to his.
“Are you even human?” he whispered, unable to look away.
“Oh, yes.” She reached out one tiny hand to rest across his shoulder, and one side of the towel fell away. “Very much still human.” He could feel the heat of her naked body pressing against him, felt her other hand let go of the towel and reach down to press against him.
“One of the beauties of being an operative,” she purred, “is that we’re free to do whatever we want. No judgements, no consequences.”
He shuddered as her hands roamed over his body, nudging his own hands onto her bare hips. She reached up to kiss his neck, and began to slide off his pants. He gasped, savoring the heat of her breath against him. It was like that woman, Angela, at the lake at SFHQ—who’d appeared out of nowhere and given him the most amazing night of his life.
And now, it was Katja Emmes on offer.
He stepped back, banging sharply into the doorframe. She moved into him, lips pressing against his. No judgements, no consequences. But he moved his hands from her hips to her stomach—her smooth, sweet skin and taut muscles beneath—
And shoved her away.
She staggered back a couple of steps, and stared at him in surprise. It was the first time he’d ever seen her naked, but any lust was washed away by his sudden realization of what was actually happening.
“No,” he gasped. “Not like this. I’m not going to pretend like nothing matters. Or that this”—he gestured between them—“wouldn’t matter. I thought my night with Angela mattered, until I figured out that she’s just a Special Forces prostitute. I’m not going to do the same here.”
“But, Jack,” she said, stepping forward again, “that’s the beauty of it. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does.”
“It would matter to me,” he said, seeing through the spell of seduction and recognizing Katja’s clinical advances for what they were. “Just like those people who died in the market—they matter. Just like every crew member I’ve ever lost matters. Just like this mission matters.”
She stared up at him, hands still resting on him. Then, suddenly, she stepped back, collecting her towel and tying it around her again. Her knuckles whitened as they gripped the material. Her muscles tensed visibly. For a moment, watching the expression on her face as she stared downward at the floor, he was terrified. She could kill him in seconds if she really wanted to—of that he had no illusions.
But when she truly looked at him again, he saw only fatigue.
“We can’t change what we are now, Jack, whatever you choose to think. And we will carry out our orders, or die.”
He shook his head, rubbing it where he’d slammed into the doorframe.
“I told you that I’ll do this mission—you don’t have to worry about killing me. But after this one, I’m done.”
“That’s what you don’t understand,” she said, new intensity firing her features. “We’re never done. Operatives don’t retire, Jack. We know too much, and we’re too damaged to be cut loose in civil society. All those implants in your brain—do you think they can be removed?”
“Can’t they?”
“Our brains have adapted to them, come to rely on them. I’ve seen footage of one operative who had her implants removed, years ago. She’s a vegetable, and there’s nothing anyone can do.” She shrugged. “Besides, the State will never let any of us go—we’re too much of a security risk. If we try to leave they’ll hunt us down and kill us.”
Jack slumped back, feeling the strength flow from his body. He thought of all the things he’d wanted to do with his life—cozy images, lofty dreams, the visions of a youth with many decades of adventure ahead of him. Then he tried to process the horror Katja had just shown him. An operative for the rest of his life?
“Nobody told me that.”
“Welcome to the State,” she said. “Our lives are no longer our own, but we are freed from any consequences.”
He raised his eyes to look at her. She stared back defiantly, but as he continued to study her he saw tiny cracks in her resolve.
“We may be free of consequences,” he said, “but we can never abandon our conscience. If we do, we’re not human anymore—and that’s one sacrifice too many for me.”
“You better start examining the new reality, before you go insane.”
“I think you should start looking at the old reality. If you can’t, then you’ve already gone insane.”
She stared back at him, unable to speak. Then she shoved him aside and slammed the bedroom door.
31
“Commander Kane is here, sir,” the steward announced.
“About damn time.” Thomas he
ard the response from the CO’s cabin of Singapore. As the steward moved aside, Thomas floated into the space.
Commander Sean Duncan pushed his way over, grasping Thomas in a handshake that came very close to a hug. In zero-g, it made for awkward positioning, but Thomas took it with good humor.
“And,” Duncan said, grinning, “you just had to get a bigger ship than me, didn’t you?”
“We’re always just compensating,” Thomas said with a smile, then he noticed Admiral Chandler hooked into a seat at the forward end of the room. “A pleasure, Admiral.”
“If you two boys are finished your love-in,” Chandler growled with good humor, “I have a mission to discuss.”
Thomas glided over to the settee and pulled himself down, while Duncan returned to his own chair. Through the portal, the contour lights of Admiral Moore could be glimpsed, faint illuminations designed to stop the warships from actually bumping each other at such close quarters. She was a beautiful vessel, he was proud to admit—and yes, she was bigger than Duncan’s Singapore.
Any more good-natured banter remained absent, though, and Thomas saw gravity in the expressions of Chandler and Duncan. It matched his own. Singapore had jumped to Centauria earlier that day, with the admiral aboard and a very special cargo primed for launch. H-hour was less than three watches away.
“So you both know the goal,” Chandler began without preamble. “All of us have seen Abeona’s orbital defenses before, and while they haven’t rebuilt their orbital platforms, don’t for a second think they’ve lessened their vigilance. Terran assets on the planet have been trying for months to ascertain what kind of surface weapons they have, but it’s been impossible to secure the full picture.
“Thomas,” he continued, “your role in this operation, I’m afraid to say, is to draw Centauri fire. A cruiser like Moore can take a hell of a pounding and give back twice as hard, and I have every faith in her captain’s ability to fight her well.”
Thomas nodded his thanks to the praise. It hadn’t always been so.
“Sean,” Chandler continued, “your role is simple—get within range and deliver the Dark Bomb. We have to get within ten thousand kilometers of the surface if the weapon is going to penetrate all the way to Abeona’s core.”
“What sort of danger zone do we expect upon detonation?”
“Worst case,” Chandler replied, “is thirty thousand kilometers, so as soon as you launch we have to turn tail and scramble.”
Duncan nodded.
“We have assets on the surface who will disrupt the Centauri defensive network,” Chandler added, “so ideally we’ll have a clear window to get in and get out before they can mount a coordinated defense. But… we just don’t know how many backups they have, or how effective our assets’ efforts will be.”
“Is Singapore going to try and sneak in with Moore distracting at a distance?” Thomas asked. “Or am I providing close escort?”
Chandler gave him the expectant look he remembered well from their days long ago, aboard Victoria.
“What do you suggest, Mr. Kane?” XO Lieutenant Chandler had never just given his subbies the answer without forcing them to take a stab at it themselves.
“I recommend close support, sir,” Thomas replied immediately. “Moore’s fate is ultimately irrelevant, but if Singapore doesn’t make it to the launch point, this whole mission is for nothing. If I’m half a world away, and one sharp Centauri operator spots Singapore, I’ll be in no position to assist. If I’m nearby causing a ruckus, you can still sneak in like a hole in space, but then run for cover if required.”
“I agree, sir,” Duncan said. “With all the orbital noise, we can stay very stealthy even if Moore is nearby drawing attention. But if things go to shit, they’ll do so very quickly, and our chances of making the launch point are greatly improved if there’s a big cruiser nearby.”
Chandler nodded thoughtfully, a sparkle in his eye as he glanced between the two men.
“Very well—close support. And allow an old man a moment of pride. I’m very glad to have both of you here with me. This mission is our century’s Hiroshima, and it’s hard, but we are servants of Terra and what we do is for the good of all humankind.”
“I’m glad to have you at my side as well, sir,” Duncan said, with none of his usual bravado. “I’m not going to lie to either of you. When I learned what this mission is for, I felt my heart tear in half.”
Thomas sharply exhaled the breath he suddenly realized he’d been holding. So he wasn’t the only one struggling with the moral quandary. He glanced at Chandler, hoping to see empathy for Duncan’s admission. He was disappointed.
“I hear you,” Chandler said, face stoic. “War is a terrible business, and whether this mission happens or not, we three will all suffer nightmares for what we’ve done in the service of the State. But war is our terrible business, and it is our duty to obey.”
“I understand, sir,” Duncan said, “and we will. I just wish, in this case, there was another option.”
“So do I, but if we want to end the war quickly—before Terran forces are exhausted and our economy is ruined—we need to act boldly, and now.”
Duncan’s resolve was strengthened, Thomas could see. His old friend hated what he was about to do, but he was going to do it anyway.
“Sir,” Thomas said slowly, “I feel that it is my duty to ask—is there any other way? Is there another, less populated target which we could hit?”
“Why do you feel it’s your duty to ask that?” Chandler demanded, eyes suddenly hardening. “Your duty is to obey.”
“Yes, sir, and I always have. I will suffer those nightmares you speak of for the rest of my life—and I accept that. As officers, however, there’s one instance when we are not only permitted but required to question our orders, and that’s when we are given an immoral order. As an officer—of whatever rank I may be—it is my duty to question an immoral order.”
“This is not an immoral order, Mr. Kane. Horrific, yes, but not immoral.” Chandler’s jaw tightened. “Abeona is the headquarters of the entire rebel movement. It is the factory of war machines and the nest of spying vipers which so assault us. If there was an obvious, isolated surface target for us to hit, we’d do it—but there isn’t. The Centauris scatter their bases across the planet, hiding beneath civilian populations because they think we won’t strike there. That entire planet is the brain and brawn of our enemy, and it became a legitimate target the day the Centauris opened jump gates on Earth’s surface and started laying waste to our greatest cities.
“If you want to talk about immorality, Mr. Kane, I suggest you consider the actions of our enemies. Terra is the victim in this war, and we have done nothing but defend ourselves. This mission, this single, decisive act, will decapitate the rebels and demoralize their scattered network of resisters. This act we are about to perform may be horrific, but it is for the good of all humanity. It will bring peace.”
“The good of the State is the good of all,” Thomas quoted easily from his school days. He’d heard that phrase every day growing up. He’d enforced it as a young platoon commander when his troops questioned their actions against irregular Sirian fighters. He’d believed it in his heart for as long as he could remember. Until now.
“Exactly,” Chandler said. “The good of the State is the good of all.”
Thomas looked over at his friend Sean Duncan, but saw only a resignation to following orders. He looked back at his mentor Eric Chandler, and saw the fire of righteous justice burning bright. He thought of his wife, Soma Kane, and her blissful acceptance of whatever the State told her.
Then he thought of Katja Emmes, and remembered the hardness in her eyes as she accepted this mission without question. But she’d given her soul to the State, he knew, and as much as he knew he loved her he couldn’t follow her there. She was lost, both to him and to her own humanity.
Jack Mallory, at least, had gone kicking and screaming. But Thomas knew that Jack was too afraid of Katja t
o defy her. He’d hate himself forever, but he’d do his job. Of all the people involved in this genocide—for there was no other word for it—Thomas actually found himself most impressed with Breeze. She had clung to the Dark Bomb right from the beginning, and now she’d landed herself the position of Deputy Minister of Defense.
She was ultimately responsible for this mission. He didn’t believe for a second that she thought it would bring peace, or that she believed she was serving humanity. She was out for herself, and the death of seven hundred million people was just a means to an end. She’d publicly deny that to her grave, but at least she’d be honest with herself about it.
That took real strength, and Thomas had been humbled enough over the past year to realize that it had been a trait sadly lacking in him for far too long. What did that say about Terran society if its most admirable representative was Charity Brisebois?
Thomas finally decided to be honest with himself, but as he looked back at his mentor and his oldest friend, he took another page from Breeze’s playbook.
“I’m sorry for making this an issue,” he lied with perfect sincerity, “and for threatening to place doubt in all our minds. Thank you for clarifying it for me, sir. This mission is essential to the safety of Terra and the welfare of all humanity. I know that we three will all do our duty.”
“Duty is the great business of an officer,” Duncan said with a hint of relief. He was quoting the brilliant Admiral Horatio Nelson. “All other private considerations must give way, no matter how painful it is.”
“Struggle is the father of all things,” Chandler echoed, quoting the martyr Adolph Hitler. “It is not by the principles of humanity that man lives, but solely by means of the most brutal struggle.”
Words upon which the Terran State had been built, Thomas knew. Words he’d been taught at the earliest age. The struggle was never against one’s fellow citizen, but against anyone who threatened society as a whole. For centuries this had been the struggle against the environment of hostile worlds, and for recent generations on Earth it had been the struggle against the MAS virus, which had killed billions before finally being contained and subdued.
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