by Jay Allan
“Admiral Campbell!” The Marine snapped to attention. “Admiral Melander is waiting for you, sir.”
Campbell nodded as the guard stepped aside, pressing the button to open the door. The steel hatch slipped open, and Campbell stepped inside.
“Duncan!” Xavier Melander was slightly disheveled, his tangled hair hastily combed and his off-duty uniform a bit rumpled. He was a tall man, and slender. He stood a good five centimeters over Campbell’s own considerable height, but the Scot outweighed his taller friend by ten kilos. Most of that was his large build…and a bit the slight paunch that had been a side effect of retirement.
“How are you, old friend?” Campbell stepped forward and extended his hand. “It’s been a long time.”
“Far too long.” Melander paused, his smile morphing into a concerned expression. “But I don’t think this is a social call.” He ran his eyes up and down over Campbell’s uniform. “Dress reds? At least you still fit in them.” He stared at his old comrade for a few seconds. “Barely,” he added, with the sort of slightly mocking humor common between old friends.
Campbell knew he wore his tension on his face, but he couldn’t stifle a small laugh at Melander’s friendly jab. “Yes, I had to wiggle around a bit to get into the pants, but you know these damned things are uncomfortable no matter what.”
“That I do…that I do.” Melander paused. “I’d offer you a Scotch if it wasn’t so indecently early.”
“Maybe you’d better…” Campbell’s voice was tight. It was time to tell his friend what was going on…and see what the commander of the Confederation’s navy did about it.
“So it’s that kind of visit, is it?” Melander took a few steps over toward a small counter, reaching up and pulling two small glasses out of a small rack. He leaned over, and a few seconds later he pulled out a bottle, about half full. “From Earth…my last, I’m afraid.”
The Fall had effectively destroyed all Earth industry, leaving little behind but radioactive debris and tiny villages of survivors scratching out sustenance-level existences on a terribly wounded planet. There had been an active market for Earth products, wines and liquors and various foodstuffs, but that had long ago petered out. Thirty-four years later there was little left, save the odd bottle stashed somewhere…and generally not for sale at any price.
Campbell felt a twinge of guilt. Melander was a good friend…and he was about to put him on the spot in an incredibly difficult way. Still, he needed a drink first. “You are too generous, old friend. My own stash is long gone.” He walked toward the small bar as Melander poured two drinks, and offered him one. He took it gratefully and held it up. “To friends,” he said softly.
“To friends,” Melander repeated.
Campbell gulped the Scotch, savoring the smoky liquid as it slid down his throat. He nodded and set the glass on the bar. Melander followed suit. Then he looked right at his friend, his eyes wide. “So tell me why you’re here, Duncan. The thought of something having you so nervous is unnerving.”
Campbell nodded and took a deep breath. “You are familiar with the episode with the slave ring on Earth and their base on Eris, aren’t you?”
Melander nodded. “Of course. Bad business all around. There was a lot of grumbling about it. Some people in the fleet didn’t like the Black Eagles coming in and cleaning up what should have been our mess to deal with. There was even talk about chasing them out of the system if they come back.”
“Well, you’d be well advised to quash that kind of nonsense. The Eagles are better than us, Xavier. The last thing Mars needs is a conflict with them.”
Melander was silent for a few seconds. Campbell knew his friend didn’t like being told the Martian forces were anything less than the best in Occupied Space. Campbell wasn’t any happier about it than Melander. But he was too old an officer to ignore fact. And the fact was, Darius Cain’s warriors were the toughest outfit that currently existed, possibly that had ever existed.
“I know you’re right.” Melander’s voice was soft, with the slightest hint of defeat for having to acknowledge the Black Eagles’ superiority. “But it still hurts to admit it.”
“Well, fortunately the Eagles are more likely to be on our side than lined up against us.” He looked right at Melander. It was time to get to the point. “But the Eagles had to do it, Xavier…because we couldn’t. Because the council wouldn’t let us. Roderick Vance tried his best, but they are dead set on worrying about Mars and Mars only…as if what happens in the rest of Occupied Space—and even the solar system—doesn’t affect us.”
Melander nodded. “So we get to the heart of it. Roderick Vance is planning something…so why don’t you tell me what it is? I know General Astor has been moving troops around, positioning his most loyal units around the Metroplex. So tell me…is this a power play, some kind of bear hug to influence the council?” He paused, staring straight into Campbell’s eyes. “Or is it a full-blown coup?”
“How do you know all this?” Campbell stood there with a stunned look on his face.
“You didn’t think you left the fleet in the hands of a fool, did you Duncan? A large base on Eris? Slaving parties on Earth, right under our nose? The council may be full of fools, my old friend, but I knew Roderick Vance would do something.” A pause. “Though if it is a coup, I must say, I am surprised he chose such an audacious path. And you’re here to secure my participation…are you not?”
“I am impressed, Xavier. And yes, that is why I am here.” Campbell felt his stomach twist into knots. He’d imagined dozens of times how he was going to break the news to Melander, but he’d never imagined an exchange like this.”
“Is there no other way?” Melander’s voice was deadly serious.
“No. Roderick has tried repeatedly to sway the council. They’d rather bury their heads than deal with the fact that we likely face a new threat.”
Melander stood unmoving, taking a deep breath…then another. Finally, he said, “I wouldn’t do this, Duncan, not for anyone but Roderick Vance. He’s the only one I’d trust, myself included, not to abuse the power he seizes.”
Campbell felt a wave of relief. “You know, all the way up here I was imagining myself getting dragged off to the brig…”
“You underestimated me, my friend. But I will forgive you.”
“No. I’d never underestimate you. But you are a patriot…and I had a difficult time with this myself. We live our lives, and we rarely imagine moments like this, where we must look past what we believe in, take actions we might have condemned in normal circumstances.”
“Duncan…I’ve never told you much about my past, before we became friends.” Melander’s voice was soft, a heavy sadness clinging to his words. “I was a young officer when the bombs fell…I was with you when we fought the Shadow fleet. On Ranger.
“I know.” Campbell’s voice was sympathetic. Ranger had lost over 60% of its crew in that fateful battle…and she returned when the rest of the fleet limped back to find Mars’ great cities destroyed, their magnificent domes shattered.
“But you don’t know I was married then…”
Campbell’s eyes widened. He hadn’t known. Few naval officers married, especially back then, before the Fall. It was just too difficult to balance family and a career that took one away for years at a time. And he’d never known Xavier Melander to have a wife…
“Yes,” Melander continued. “Julia. And a daughter…Maria.” He paused, taking a quick breath and fighting back emotions that still clearly plagued him even after so many years. “Whatever you say about Roderick Vance and whether he should have been able to prevent the attack, he did a remarkable job of evacuating the people that day. To save ninety-seven percent of the population in such circumstances was extraordinary.”
Campbell felt his stomach tense up again. He knew where this was going…
“But three percent was still a lot of people, Duncan. About six hundred thousand.” He was looking right at Campbell, but his friend knew he was se
eing something else. “They died, Duncan. They died in that rubble, both of them. I know billions were killed on Earth during the Fall, and my pain is no different than anyone else’s. But they were my family.”
Campbell took a step toward Melander, and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come, so he just stood there.
“That’s why you can count me in, Duncan. I don’t know whether Roderick Vance made a mistake back then, if Stark tricked him, if he could have prevented the bombing if he’d done something different. But that doesn’t matter. If we are facing another enemy, something like the Shadow Legions, there is no one else I’d rather have in charge than Vance…no one I am sure will be more ready to stand against whatever is out there, to do what has to be done.” He looked up at his old mentor. “And that’s what matters, Duncan. All that matters…”
Chapter 8
Epsilon-14 System
Approximately Four Lighthours from Atlantia Warp Gate
Earthdate: 2319 AD (34 Years After the Fall)
He could see her, a shimmering image in front of him, just as she had been that day so long ago. Her dress of Arcadian silk, her hair twisted into a series of looped braids, held in place with half a dozen jeweled clasps. Ingrid, his wife. Not as she was now, years older with that sadness in her eyes, but young and happy at their wedding, looking toward the future with no thought of the loneliness and disappointment that lay ahead.
He reached out, longing to touch her again, to feel her warmth, even on his palm for just a moment. But she was just beyond his reach, and his arm moved through the empty air. Then she was gone, and he saw only the solid gray metal of the hull. He was alone again.
Jackson Marne lay on the cold hard deck of the escape pod, weak, barely moving. The pod was a nightmare, a foul refuge reeking of weeks of sweat and shit and vomit. And dried blood. Carlyle’s captain lay in the middle of all of it, too weak now to stand or even to do much more than futilely reach out an arm, trying to touch an image that existed only in his hallucinating mind.
It had been weeks now since his improbable escape from Carlyle, and now he lay once again, out of supplies and waiting for death. Had he managed to survive his ship’s destruction only to live for a few more weeks, trapped alone in an escape pod? Could the unlikely streak of luck that had led him to his lifeboat have been for nothing, only to see him die now instead of then?
He’d been sure he was finished when he had overridden Carlyle’s control systems and opened the cargo hold to space. He’d disengaged the magnetic cradles too, and when the atmosphere of the pressurized hull rushed out into the vacuum, an emperor’s treasure in STUs went with it, cast out into the blackness. Carlyle had been carrying not refined ingots of the precious metal that could be gathered up, even in space, but vats of ores in need of processing. The granular material was blasted out of the hold and hopelessly scattered in seconds, denying the pirates who had attacked Marne’s ship the booty they had sought.
He’d known he would be blasted into space along with Carlyle’s cargo, but even slowly suffocating as his suit exhausted its scant oxygen supply was a merciful end compared to what the pirates would have done to a captain who’d inflicted heavy casualties and denied them a priceless treasure. But Marne’s naval training—and a huge amount of luck—had saved him.
He’d jettisoned Carlyle’s escape pods as well as her cargo, and by pure chance, one of them had drifted close to where he was floating in space. Then the old lessons kicked in, the emergency survival training he’d never had to use during his naval service. He maintained his calm, pushed back against the fear, and he focused on the nearby pod. He pulled his small oxygen canister from his back, sucking in one last deep breath before yanking the hose out and sliding his finger over the valve. He stared at the pod, his eyes fixed on it as he moved his gloved finger aside and allowed a burst of precious oxygen to blast out.
The escaping gas altered his vector, bringing him closer to a collision course with the pod. Closer, but not on target. His chest ached, his lungs screamed for more air. But the die was cast, he’d torn the suit’s hose from the canister. He would either reach the pod, or he would die in the next two minutes. He kept his eyes locked on the pod and angled the oxygen bottle, moving his finger, allowing more gas to escape. His vector changed again, but he was still off. It was going to be close, but he was going to sail by. And he wouldn’t have enough time to bring himself about for another run. Not before he suffocated.
This was always a longshot. You only had fifteen more minutes anyway. It was worth it…better to die trying to survive than to sit and wait…
His lungs felt like they were about to explode, and he could feel his consciousness beginning to slip away. Thoughts of his wife and his daughters drifted into his mind, the realization that he’d never see them again. But the navy training was still there, pushing everything aside, demanding he keep trying. He stared right at the pod, blurry as his vision beginning to fail, and he moved the air bottle. He knew it was his last chance. Part of him was already resigned to death, but there was still a spark, a last bit of strength that wouldn’t yield. He slipped his finger to the side, letting out a short burst of air.
He couldn’t see what his last effort had done. He closed his eyes, ready at last to let go. Then he slammed hard into something. The pod.
A flood of adrenalin gave him a last burst of clarity, and he reached out and grabbed onto one of the handholds. His momentum almost caused him to bounce off and sail past, but he held on firmly. He reached over, hitting the outside controls. He punched at the keys once, twice…finally, on the third try the control shifted to the side, and the outside hatch slid open.
He pulled himself inside, slapping at the inner lever as he did. His first effort hit this time, and the outside door snapped shut. His chest was in agony, his mind screaming for air. He could see the display next to the controls, the blue light of the bar moving slowly to the right as the airlock pressurized and filled with oxygen. He was almost gone, the last shreds of his consciousness slipping away. He had one last thought, to pop his helmet, and his hand pawed weakly at the latch.
He heard something, a loud click, just before the blackness took him. Then he awoke with a start. He was still on his back in the middle of the airlock, but each breath filled his lungs with cool, oxygen-rich air. His clarity returned, and he lay there for a few minutes, gathering his strength. He’d done it…somehow, he’d actually done it. He’d managed to get into the pod.
Don’t get excited. The pirates will be blowing you away any second.
Even if this group of raiders was less bloodthirsty than most, they weren’t likely to be merciful after the losses they had suffered. Still, he was grateful for the air, and he breathed deeply.
He slid over to the side, putting his hand out to help himself up. But he pushed too hard in the weightlessness of the pod, and he slammed into the ceiling. He felt a wave of pain. His chest on fire, and now he remembered how hard he had hit the hull. Movement in space was a strange experience, and he hadn’t exactly had pinpoint control with the oxygen bottle. He figured he’d broken some ribs, three at least, maybe four or five. But that didn’t matter. Pain or not, he knew he had to get inside the main cabin. The pirates would probably destroy the pod any minute, but until then he knew he couldn’t give up. He gritted his teeth and reached out, grabbing the handhold next to the inner door. He pulled himself up and punched at the control. The door slid aside, and he manhandled his way into the main cabin.
The pod was small, designed to hold two people. But it had three days of food and supplies…and an air recycler that could keep him breathing almost indefinitely. Marne made his way across the tiny deck, pulling himself down to the floor, reaching his arm into the loop of one of the harnesses. He lay there, waiting for the pirates to blow his tiny sanctuary to bits. He felt the seconds go by, then the minutes. Then he fell asleep.
When he woke up and glanced at the ch
ronometer, he realized that hours had gone by. And he was still there. Had the pirates missed him somehow? Had luck intervened on his behalf again?
He moved slowly, and every millimeter of it hurt. His ribs were definitely broken, and the rest of his body was banged up as well. But he forced himself upright, toward the pod’s tiny control panel. There was a sensor display, but the screen was full of interference. As far as he could see, Carlyle was gone. So was the pirate vessel. But he couldn’t get a good reading. There was interference all around the pod.
Of course. The STUs. He remembered from his navy days. Transuranic elements wreaked havoc on scanning systems. Did that save me? Did it hide me from the pirates?
He’d spent the first few days waiting for the raiders to return, but nothing appeared on his scanner. Eventually, the pod drifted clear of the greatest concentrations of granular ore, but even then the scope was clear. There were some trace elements, some residual energy readings…enough to suggest that Carlyle had been blasted to atoms. He couldn’t be sure, but it made sense. The raiders had lost their booty, but they wouldn’t have left any evidence behind of their attack.
He’d eaten half rations, extending the three day, two person food supply to twelve days…and then he went hungry. He did what he could to treat his injuries, but that proved to be very little, and every day, the pain became worse. He knew he had internal bleeding, but there was nothing he could do about it. By the twenty-third day, he’d become too weak to move, to even drag himself to the water recycler for a drink.
It seemed odd to him, a strange sequence of events that had saved him only to let him die lying on the deck of the pod. His ship was gone, his crew dead. He was ready to face his end, save for one thing. His family. He longed to have on last chance, just to speak to them, to tell Ingrid how much he’d loved her, how sorry he was for the endless hours she’d spent alone. And his girls…adults now, though he still thought of them as the young children who had always been excited at his return…even after Ingrid had slipped into melancholy. He knew they had grown angry with them as they’d aged, and as they’d seen what his absences had done to their mother. And to them as well…the brief, passing moments he’d given his girls, a poor substitute for a life with their father.