by Jay Allan
“Yes, General.” The corporal snapped off a salute and turned to leave, clearly unhappy with Sarah’s order.
“So, how can I help you, Mister…?” she asked, her eyes moving slowly, taking stock of her visitor.
“Hallis, General Cain. Jan Hallis.” The man paused for a few seconds before reaching down into a small bag at his side. “I was hired to bring this to you, General.” He pulled out a small box and set it down on the desk.
Sarah looked down, but she made no move to take the package. “What is that?”
“I don’t know. The box was given to me as is. As I said, I was simply hired to deliver it to you.”
“Hired? By Whom?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say, General Cain. I was instructed to bring this to you, but to provide no further information.” He paused for a moment, and added, “Which is not to say I know anything further. I do not.”
Sarah stared at the visitor for a few seconds, trying to analyze what was going on. Something didn’t feel quite right, but she couldn’t place it.
But the package has been scanned already…several times, I’d bet, knowing how my Marines think.
She picked up the box and slowly opened it and looked inside. For an instant, she wasn’t sure what it was, but then she pulled back a small bit of packing material and gasped. It was a ring…a Marine Corps Academy ring. The numbers 2260 were stamped into the platinum on each side. She stared at it for a few seconds…2260, that was the year Erik had graduated. Then she flipped it around and looked inside…and her heart fluttered when she saw the inscription. ‘Captain Erik Daniel Cain.’
She felt a pang of sadness, but an instant later that was swept aside by a wave of fiery rage. “What is this?” she yelled, leaping up from her desk. “Some sick joke? Where did you get this?”
The man shied away. He was ten centimeters taller, but there was something about her, the anger, almost a primal rage, that intimidated him. Sarah Cain was a doctor, a mother…she was a lot of things. But standing in her office at that moment, she was all Marine. And one look at her face suggested her visitor would be lucky to leave the room alive.
Then she saw it, out of the corner of her eye…the scratch. It was small, almost unnoticeable, but it was right where it was supposed to be. She remembered when Erik had done it, one year when he’d gotten a bug to have a vegetable garden. He’d forgotten to take the ring off before he went out to tend the plants, and he scraped it along one of the metal rods he’d set to hold his tomatoes.
She felt her stomach doing flips. How? How was this possible? “What is the meaning of this?” she asked, her tone one of menace itself, leaving no question about what she would do to this man if he was perpetrating some kind of trick.
“General, I was just hired to deliver it to you. I really don’t know anything else.” His voice was one of utter surprise. He was either a superb actor, or he’d had no warning that the package might provoke a hostile reaction.
She glared at him and then looked back at the ring.
Who could have known about that scratch, about exactly where it was? But if this isn’t a fake…
“Where did you get this?” Her words were like a hammer on an anvil. “Where?” she repeated, her tone one of naked intimidation.
The man stood in front of her, clearly shaken. “I was hired to bring it to you, General Cain,” he repeated, his voice tentative. “That is all I know.”
“Who hired you?” Her tone was like ice.
“Just a man. He didn’t give me a name. He told me it had been taken from a prisoner…and that I should bring it here and give it to General Cain.”
“Where?” she asked, her voice like death itself. Her eyes were on fire, locked on the man standing in front of her. She was one of the most noted surgeons in Occupied Space, but she had been a Marine even longer than a doctor, and she knew a hundred ways to hurt a man. If this visitor didn’t tell her what she wanted to know, she was going to start at number one and work her way through them all.
“I wasn’t supposed to say,” he stammered out pathetically. “I was warned not to say…”
“I wouldn’t worry about what you were warned about if I was you. Because, if you don’t tell me right now, you will never leave this room.” She stood up and stared across the desk at him. “And it will neither pleasant, nor quick…I assure you of that.” Her hand reached under her desk, and she pressed a small button. And instant later, the Marine corporal came rushing back into the room, weapon drawn this time.
“So what will it be, Mr. Hallis?”
The man squirmed miserably, as if caught between two threats, two people who scared him to his core. Finally, he took a breath and tried, only partially successfully, to return Sarah’s stare.
“Eldaron,” he said. It was on Eldaron.”
Chapter 7
Vance Estate
Beneath the Ruins of the Ares Metroplex
Planet Mars, Sol IV
Earthdate: 2319 AD (34 Years After the Fall)
Roderick Vance sat behind his desk, eyes closed, head resting in his hands. He’d been planning the operation almost nonstop for two weeks, and finally the preparations were in place. Now it was time. Time to make history…as the first man to attempt to seize control of the Martian Confederation. Whatever happened, he realized, future generations would learn about this moment, discuss the justifications, or lack thereof. Would he be regarded as a hero? Or the basest traitor in Martian history? Only time would tell.
He tried to clear his head, to focus on the present. There were concerns far more pressing than history’s judgment. In a few hours he would be the absolute dictator of the Martian Confederation. Or he’d be dead, killed in his failed coup. Or sitting in a cell, awaiting disgrace and execution.
He’d gotten up this morning—from a sleepless and uncomfortable night—and he’d walked into his bathroom. Then he retched and emptied the contents of his stomach. His thoughts were a toxic brew of tension and uncertainty. But he controlled it all. He’d considered things from every possible angle before he decided he had no choice. He was doing what had to be done, and nothing more.
Better to take the risk of being branded traitor than to be the man who stood by and did nothing while disaster unfolded…
He looked over at the chronometer. It read five past five. If things were going according to plan, Astor’s troops were on the move. Vance had made it clear to the soldiers…they were to use delay force only if they were assaulted. He wanted no casualties. The coup was to be bloodless, perfectly executed, and completed before anyone could put up meaningful resistance. By the time most Martians awoke, they would have a new government.
But that was wishful thinking, and Vance knew it. It was almost impossible to carry out an operation so large and complex with no screw-ups. There was a long list of arrests, mostly powerful people with their own household staffs. All it would take was one dedicated retainer trying to interfere with his master’s arrest, and there would be violence. And once it started, it would spread easily. Word that there were soldiers arresting people would quickly turn to cries that they were shooting civilians. It wouldn’t matter if the shots were fired in self-defense…a coup Vance hoped to complete in a few hours would turn into a bloody rebellion, and any hope of his rallying public support would be lost. He’d still be able to rule, but he’d have to do it with guns and stun rods.
Vance sighed. There was nothing to be done now except wait. He’d intended to join the soldiers out in the underground pavilions, to speak directly to the people, but Astor had convinced him to remain in his quarters, protected by a company of soldiers. If he went out, a single shot could end the coup in its tracks…and Astor and the others who had sworn loyalty to him would be in a very dangerous position. Vance, at least, was already a member of the civilian government. If Astor or Admiral Campbell stepped into the shoes of a dead Roderick Vance, it would become a military takeover. That was something almost certain to cause increased resistance, giving
the new would-be dictator a choice between massive escalation and defeat and execution for treason.
Vance was restless, but he was accustomed to acting behind the scenes. He tried to imagine some of his old friends—Erik Cain, Elias Holm, Augustus Garret—sitting quietly in their quarters while a battle they had planned raged. But those men had been warriors, and Vance’s service had always been behind the scenes, in shadowy halls and secret meetings. He’d always been the spy the soldier’s trusted, the one who’d had their backs. But he’d never been one of them, not really.
Still, he’d always gotten along with the military. He respected them, understood the things that were important to them in ways most government functionaries didn’t. And now, he found many of them were willing to stand with him. General Astor, for one…and all the officers he’d brought onboard. And Duncan Campbell, the retired former commander of Mars’ fleet. He hadn’t even found it difficult to convince them. None of them were comfortable with the plan, but they all understood the threat, and they were old enough to remember the bombings and the Fall…and they realized something like that could easily happen again. And to a man, they trusted his motives, and they were willing to believe his assurances that when the crisis had passed, he would restore the council.
He was scheduled to address the people at 9AM, and his operatives had already secured the broadcast center. With any luck everything else would be nailed down by then. It would be far better to announce a fait accompli than to tell his Martian countrymen there was an active revolution going on outside their doors. But he’d have to wait and see. He’d done all he could, read and reread every detail of the plan. It was as perfect as he could make it. Now he would find out if fortune was with him…or if it would make a mess of his carefully planned grab for power.
* * * * *
The girl’s shriek ripped through the air, awakening Boris Vallen from a sound sleep. There was a shaft of light cutting through the darkness, illuminating the large and plush bed. He turned instinctively toward her, but she was already moving, shadowy arms grabbing her, pulling her off the bed. He could see the sheets slip off, as the gloved hands pulled her roughly to the side. She stood next to the bed, naked, crying, and behind her, Vallen could see the soldiers, five of them, all clad in body armor and armed with assault rifles.
“Mr. Vallen,” one of the soldiers said, “you are under arrest. Please get dressed, sir. You will be coming with us.” The man stood slightly in front of the others, and he wore a captain’s insignia on his collar.
Vallen felt a surge of rage, an intense desire to spring off the bed, attack these impudent creatures. Didn’t they know who he was? A member of the council. Head of the Valen family. His mind raced with images of what he would do, how he would see these fools punished. But he didn’t move. Fear was a far stronger motivation for Boris Vallen, and one look at the soldiers with their guns at the ready was enough to dissuade any real resistance.
“What is this about? I demand to know.” He still hadn’t moved.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Vallen. You are under arrest. That is all I can say at this time.”
The soldier behind the captain pulled a blanket from the bed and draped it over the girl’s shoulders. She was shaking, clearly terrified, but she was beginning to calm down a bit. She slipped a hand out from under the covering, wiping tears from her face.
“This is an outrage!” Vallen roared, his anger momentarily overcoming his fear. “I am a member of the council. You have no right to arrest me, not under any circumstances!”
The captain maintained his composure, showing not the slightest emotion. “As I said, Mr. Vallen, you are under arrest. I am sorry for the abrupt nature of our visit, and I can assure you that we have no desire to cause you injury. But you are coming with us.” His voice changed on the last six words, the ominous timbre of a veteran combat commander overshadowing the polite, almost apologetic tone he’d been using.
The officer took a step toward the bed. “Now, we must go, Mr. Vallen. These two gentlemen will accompany you while you get dressed.”
Vallen paused for a few seconds, but he didn’t have the courage to push the captain any further. He moved to the side of the bed and stood up, wrapping a sheet around himself as he did.
“What about me?”
It was the girl. Vallen stared over at her with a blistering expression on his face. He was too scared to challenge the Marines standing in his room, but he had no such hesitation in dealing with his recent bedmate. She was the daughter of one of his retainers, sharing his bed half out of awe at snaring Vallen’s interest and half out of intimidation, about the fear of what a refusal would have meant to her family’s position.
“Shut up,” Vallen snapped at her, his voice dripping with venom. He’d enjoyed the lopsided nature of their relationship. Boris Vallen was a bully at heart, and now that he was standing here and submitting to these Marines, his anger had to come out somewhere.
“That is not necessary, Mr. Vallen,” the Captain said sharply. He turned toward the girl. “You will be released as soon as we leave. You are to return to your quarters and remain there until you receive other instructions.” His tone was softer, not quite soothing, but close enough for a Marine in full combat gear.
He turned and stared at Vallen, momentarily allowing his true feelings to slip onto his face. “Hardesty, Jamis…please help Mr. Vallen get to his feet and assist him in getting dressed. We are on a timetable.” He stood there and watched as the two burly Marines grabbed Vallen’s shoulders and half-walked, half-pushed the whimpering man toward the closet.
“You can go,” he said softly to the still-sobbing girl. “Go home…and stay there for the rest of the day.”
* * * * *
“Admiral Campbell, sir…” The sentry was clearly surprised when Campbell emerged from the shuttle’s hatch, but he quickly snapped to attention. “It is quite a surprise to see you, sir.” Duncan Campbell was a legend in the Martian navy, but he had been retired for several years, and now he was standing in John Carter’s shuttle bay, clad in his full dress uniform.
Duncan Campbell nodded and smiled. “As you were, crewman. I’m just here to pay a visit with Admiral Melander.”
“Yes, sir…welcome aboard. I will advise Admiral Melander that you have arrived.”
Campbell nodded, struggling to keep his face from betraying the tension he felt. He knew Xavier Melander well. Indeed the top Martian admiral had been his protégé, and his self-chosen replacement when he’d finally stepped down from the top job. But friendship only went so far, and Campbell wasn’t sure how Melander would react to what he had to say.
“That will be fine, crewman.”
Tell him his old friend is here to lure him into a treasonous plot…
The sentry turned toward the com unit and announced Campbell’s arrival. A few seconds later he turned toward the admiral and said, “Admiral Melander will see you immediately, sir. I will arrange an escort for...”
“I think I remember my way to the admiral’s quarters well enough, crewman.” Those rooms had been Duncan Campbell’s home for many years.
“Very well, sir. As you wish.” The sentry seemed uncomfortable letting so august a personality as the Confederation’s legendary fighting admiral walk alone through the corridors, but he simply stepped out of the way and stood at attention. Arguing with flag officers wasn’t in his job description.
Campbell walked down the corridor toward the central lifts. He knew he could take one of the intraship cars, but he preferred to walk. To procrastinate. You’re in no rush to see if your friend of thirty years has you clapped in irons.
The corridor was long. It was almost half a kilometer from Carter’s shuttle bay to the main lift. The Martian behemoth, and her sister ship Sword of Ares were the largest and most powerful vessels ever built by man, eclipsing even the Alliance’s vaunted Yorktown class battlewagons. But the Yorktowns were all gone, the last of them during the Second Incursion, along with Sword of Ares. J
ohn Carter was a vestige of a lost time, before the Fall, when mankind’s industry and military might was vastly superior to what it had become. Carter was a symbol, a statement to any who looked upon her awesome presence that the Martian Confederation alone retained the power to field such a ship. It was an image that required one to forget the vessel was a fortunate remnant, a freak survivor, forty years old and patched together with a hodgepodge of different systems. Still, even in her weakened state, she was the strongest thing in space. By far.
Campbell slipped into one of the lift cars. “Deck ten,” he said softly, feeling the acid in his stomach as he got closer to his old friend.
“Deck ten,” the AI said as the doors opened.
Campbell stepped out into familiar territory. Deck ten, officers’ country. He walked down the hall, back toward the ship’s outer hull. John Carter’s flag bridge was deep within the center of her two million tons, as protected as a space could be. But the ship’s designers, no doubt assuming the admiral would be at his station on the bridge in battle, had put the fleet commander’s quarters right up against the ship’s hull, allowing them to provide such an august personage with a panoramic view of the majesty of space through a pair of expansive hyper-polycarbonate windows.
Campbell had scoffed at the idea the day he’d moved in so many years ago, wondering why anyone would worry about such things on a warship. But he’d come to truly appreciate that view, the relief from staring at cold metal walls…especially on long voyages. He knew Xavier Melander well enough to suspect he felt the same.
He walked down to the end of the hall, stopping at a door with a Marine guard standing in front of it. It was tradition to post a sentry outside the admiral’s quarters, one Campbell had always thought unnecessary. But now he wondered if this Marine would be the one who’d end up arresting him when Melander heard what he had to say.