by Jay Allan
“I’m afraid you are right, Mr. Girard.” Duncan Campbell was sitting off to the side, in a large chair. His eyes had been on the large screen, watching the coverage of the imminent executions, but now he turned toward the others. “We must look to support him…and guide him. Roderick Vance is a good man, and that is a rare thing. But though he must lead through this crisis and command all authority himself, I believe we also have an obligation in this. We must support him, and as General Astor did in this circumstance, guide and advise him. We must not allow him to carry the load by himself. I fear it is more than any man can bear.”
“Agreed,” Melander said, nodding his head as he did. “The four of us will work together. We are promised to Roderick’s service already, but we will go beyond normal duty. We will add our strength to his, do whatever is necessary to ensure that the Confederation survives this crisis. Because I believe with all my heart that when Mars is again safe, Roderick Vance will lay down his power as promised and reconstitute the ruling council.” He paused, and then he extended a hand. “Are we agreed?”
Girard was the first to respond. The old spy leapt from his seat and leaned forward, placing his hand on top of Melander’s. Duncan Campbell followed suit, placing his own palm atop Girard’s.
Archibald Astor watched with a smile for a few seconds. Then he stood up and walked over. “I am proud of you all…and I am with you. Whatever it takes. Whatever we must do to prevail in this.”
On the screen behind them, a man stood before a firing squad, his hands shackled to the wall above his head. The sound on the display was muted, but it was obvious he was shouting, begging for clemency. He stood there for a few seconds, no more than ten, struggling with his shackles, his face covered with tears. Then his body tensed and slumped forward, held up only by the chains bolted to the wall.
The four men turned and their eyes were fixed on the flickering screen as two soldiers unlocked the shackles and carried the body away. They all stood silently and watched, unmoving as the scene was replayed over and over…thirty-five more times.
* * * * *
Vance looked down the length of the table. “Good morning, gentlemen. We have much to plan, and little time. Let us begin, shall we?”
Vance’s voice was coolly professional, with no hint of emotion or guilt. Everyone present knew that didn’t mean Mars’ dictator didn’t feel those emotions, but it was clear he had put them in their place. Vance had spent the previous night alone in his residence, and he’d given himself few hours to work out the self-pity and remorse. He had never been much of a drinker, aside from his well-known weakness for fine wines, but he’d gone well beyond a bottle of pre-Blight Bordeaux or an Arcadian Pinot Noir, engaging in what was commonly called, an all-out drunk. But one night was all the time he had to numb the pain, and he’d greeted the morning with a frigid shower and a renewed determination to do what had to be done.
The four men at the table nodded their assent. They had a variety of expressions on their faces, with varying degrees of surprise at Vance’s demeanor. Girard was the only one with a deadpan expression, as if he was seeing in Vance exactly what he had expected, the resolution and strength he had come to expect from his friend.
“Very well…first, let us look to military readiness. We do not know what we face, but the base on Eris was strong and well-defended. The Black Eagles were able to take it, but they had a considerable fight on their hands, and that tells me we’d best be prepared for war. As prepared as we can possibly make ourselves.” He looked over at Astor. “Arch, I want you to call up all the reserves, anyone who has had any service with the army or Marines.”
Astor nodded. “Yes, sir.” There was something in his voice, a thread of concern.
“What is it, Arch?”
“It’s the arsenals, sir. The post-Fall budgets have been tight, and worse since the Second Incursion. We can supply the standing forces well enough, but if we have to arm all the reserves, we’re going to be on thin ice as far as logistics goes. If we get to the point of launching any off-word expeditions, we’re going to have supply problems almost from day one.”
“I understand. And I expect the naval situation is no better.” He glanced down the table to see both Melander and Campbell shaking their heads, acknowledging the truth of his statement.
“That’s not a surprise,” Vance said softly. The destruction of the surface cities had dealt a harsh blow to Martian economic prosperity, and the need to relocate to the old underground metropolises—and expand them considerably—had prevented production from recovering to old levels. More than thirty years later, Martian GNP was still twenty-five percent below pre-Fall levels, and the decision to keep the terraforming reactors operating at full power caused a massive drain on the Confederation’s reduced resources.
“Nevertheless, as a first priority, we must call up the reserves and bring all inactive naval vessels to full readiness.” Vance knew both forces were pale shadows of what they had been thirty years before, even with every second line unit recalled to the colors. But he had what he had, and wishing otherwise wouldn’t change that. “I will authorize whatever diversions of available supplies or funds you require.”
“For starters, we’ll need every millimeter of docking space…not just in the naval shipyards, but anywhere we can get a maintenance staff. Some of these old ships have been in mothballs since the Second Incursion.” Melander looked over at Campbell, who nodded his agreement.
“We’re going to have to stretch the crews pretty thin too,” Campbell added. “We just don’t have enough trained reservists.”
“Do what you have to do, Xavier. Just let me know what you need from me.” Vance turned toward Astor. “That goes for you too, Arch. Whatever you need to get your reserves combat ready…just come right to me. If it’s anywhere on this planet, you’ll have it.”
Astor nodded. “Thank you, sir. I’ll see it done.”
Vance turned slowly, looking at each of them in turn. “And for the love of God, can we stop with the ‘sir’ stuff?”
“You are the supreme commander…sir. It is important that everyone address you as such. Informality can spread like a virus, and it could begin to undermine your authority. There hasn’t been a peep since…” Campbell’s voice tapered off.
“Since the executions?” Vance finished the statement without wavering in the slightest.
“Yes,” Campbell said softly. “Since the executions.”
“Well that is why we did it, isn’t it?” Vance said. “At least we’re getting what we paid for.” He paused, but he didn’t show any signs of his emotionality from the previous day. “And I understand the need for certain conduct for public consumption…but when the five of us are alone, call me Roderick. And if this makes it easier for you all, that’s an order.”
“Yes, s…Roderick.” Astor turned each way, looking for a second at each of his cohorts. “I would say the next most important thing is to address our logistical problems. You’re going to need to nationalize the factories, at least for the duration of the crisis. We need every industrial facility that can be converted to producing ammunition and military supplies switched over at once. We’ll need enforced overtime schedules for trained workers so the plants can run around the clock.”
Vance sighed. He’d known that was coming…and he realized he didn’t have a choice. But it wasn’t going to be well-received. The Confederation had a profoundly capitalistic system…indeed, most of the incredible development of the first century of colonization had been the result of the great founding families, who’d considered reinvesting their profits to be a civic duty. That system had created a massive amount of wealth for those elite clans, not least among them, the Vances. But it had also produced a century-long economic boom, and turned a few scattered colonial settlements into a Superpower that had rivaled those on Earth in economic activity if not in population.
“There’s going to be trouble over that…and you all know it.”
Though perhap
s less than there might be. The heads of the biggest concerns are prisoners right now, unlikely to complain too loudly about anything…
“Call it temporary,” Astor said, “and give them government bonds in compensation. They’re not in a position to say no. They’ll take that and be glad to have something in return.”
“What about the polar reactors?” None of them had wanted to address that, but Melander had finally done it.
Vance sighed. The reactors had been running for a century without more than a few brief pauses for maintenance and refueling. The very spirit of every Martian was bound up in the notion that one day, their children or grandchildren would be able to step out onto the surface, with no breathers or pressure suits, no cold weather gear. The reactors consumed over twenty percent of Martian output, a constant, crippling drain. But shutting them down would have a disastrous effect on morale.
“We’ll keep them running for now. If we take away the people’s hope for the future as well as their current freedom, we’re going to have a hell of a morale problem.” He turned toward Girard. “But Andre, I’d like you to get me an idea of just what is involved in shutting those units down…and restarting them again. Quietly, of course. We don’t need rumors flying around. Just a contingency plan if we end up needing it.”
“Consider it done, Roderick.”
“So that brings us to one last item for now. Allies.”
“Allies?” Melander sounded confused. “We’ve been isolationist for three decades, Roderick. We don’t have any allies.”
“You’re right, Xavier. And it’s time we did something about that. Can you handle the fleet mobilization yourself?”
Melander looked back confused. “Ah…yes, I’m sure I can. But Admiral Campbell…”
“If you can take care of the fleet, I was planning on asking Admiral Campbell to take a bit of a trip for me.” He turned toward the retired naval commander. “I’d like you to go to Armstrong, Duncan. You did that once before for me…do you remember?”
“It would be hard to forget. Forty-five gees all the way? And a crash landing at the end. If Sarah Lin…Cain hadn’t been the surgeon she is, I doubt I’d have made it back.”
“Well, we’re in a rush, but perhaps not quite the same as last time. I still want you to take one of the Torches, but you don’t need to push it so close to the edge this time. But you know Sarah Cain...and she will trust you. The Marines are our natural ally in this. Sarah was at Eris. She knows we’re facing something none of us can fight alone.”
“The Alliance Marines were an amazing force,” Astor said, “but there’s very little left of the Corps. Are they the place to start in the hunt for allies?”
“Don’t underestimate the Marines, Arch…even in their twilight. Yes, I think they’re a good place to start. And don’t forget, Sarah is also Darius Cain’s mother. And we’re going to need the Black Eagles in this.”
Vance saw a general round of nods around the table. They all agree. Or at least they don’t disagree enough to argue.
“Anything else?” Girard asked.
“As you mention it, Andre…yes. There is one more thing, but only if you feel up to it.”
Girard glared back, his eyes fiery with defiance. “After all we’ve been through—and what we just started—don’t tell me you’re going to start treating me like an old man now.”
Vance smiled. It was brief, and it gave way quickly to the seriousness of the matters at hand, but it was genuine…and far from the first grin Andre Girard had inspired over the years.
“Well, I had to ask you, old friend.” He smiled, again for only a few seconds. Then he said, “I’d like you to go to Arcadia and talk to William Sanders and his mother Kara.” Arcadia was a republic, one where the citizens were engaged and had a real say in their governance…a relative anomaly in Occupied Space, and one Vance knew existed only due to the continued efforts of Kara and her son.
“William’s father was the leader of Arcadia’s rebellion after the Third Frontier War, and the Sanders are the oldest and richest family on that prosperous world. If you can convince the two of them that we face something that will endanger all of human space, you might bring them over. And Arcadia is one of the strongest of the former colonies. They will be a crucial ally in any war that may come.”
Girard nodded. “Of course, Roderick. Eighty years as a spy crawling around in the shadows alone, trying to remain unseen, to avoid making an impression. So why not make me a diplomat now?”
Chapter 17
APS Zephyr
Zed-4 System
1,200,000 Meters from Gamma-Hydra Warp Gate
Earthdate: 2319 AD (34 Years After the Fall)
Spinning…out of control. Blackness. Jamie Wheaton’s hands had slipped off her chair, but the heavy restraints held her in place…painfully. She could feel her shoulder jerk hard, the wave of agony that followed. It was dislocated at least, and maybe worse. But it was the darkness that seized her attention. The lights were out, the screens, everything. It went on for what seemed like an eternity, but which some part of her realized was only a second or two. Then the emergency lights came on.
“Damage to main power couplings, Commander. The reactor deactivated at once to prevent containment loss.” The voice was odd, almost serene. The ship’s AI.
She heard the words, and they slammed into her like a sledgehammer. The reactor was down. That meant Zephyr was dead.
Wheaton’s head snapped around. Megan Berry was still at her station, pounding away at the keys, trying to generate some kind of response. And an instant later she got it. The main workstations came back on, the light of their displays dimmer than usual.
Battery power, Wheaton thought grimly. Enough for some lights, some computers…but nothing close to enough to fire the lasers.
And that means we’re finished…
She sucked in a deep breath and exhaled hard. After fifteen years of service, and half a dozen battles against the First Imperium, this was not how Jamie Wheaton had imagined she would die.
Wait…
She felt a flush of energy…not hope perhaps, but not despair either.
“What is the status of the reactor?” she snapped back to the AI. Then she looked around the bridge, her mind deep in thought, estimating the elapsed time since the last enemy shot. Forty-five seconds to recharge…and another fifteen to reconfigure for our attitude change, maybe thirty. The force from the blown compartments had sent Zephyr into its nasty roll, and that had been enough to trash the enemy’s firing solution. At least without a hurried update.
“Reactor appears to be undamaged, however, a full diagnostic will require thirty-seven point five minutes to complete.”
“That’s thirty-seven minutes longer than we’ve got,” she snapped back. “Flash start the reactor. Now.”
“Commander, a flash start under current conditions is ill-advised. I estimate a twenty-two percent chance of critical failure if…”
“Just do it,” she barked. “That’s an order.” She gripped her armrests again, more of an instinctive action that one that served any purpose. She tried to ignore the wild gyrations of her ship, and her years of experience as a spacer came through for her. She couldn’t say the same thing for the other two officers on the bridge. There were chunks of vomit floating around and plastered to the walls. Her eyes darted over to her tactical officer’s station. She’d never seen a human being’s skin as sickly white as Megan Berry’s.
A few seconds later she heard a strange sound, one that went through her like a banshee’s howl. Her mind raced, wondering what chilling death cry her vessel was making, but another few seconds later it stopped. An instant after, the lights went on, and the nonessential displays came back to life.
“Emergency restart completed, Commander. The reactor appears to be functioning within acceptable parameters.”
“We didn’t blow up,” she said softly to herself. “I’ll take that.”
She glanced down at the screen on her
workstation. “I want 2g thrust along current facing.” She had no idea what vector changes would result. Zephyr was spinning out of control, which meant her engine facing was constantly changing. She didn’t know where her ship would go, but she didn’t care. She just knew she didn’t want to be where the pirate had aimed his lasers at what he’d thought was a helpless target.
“Enemy vessel has fired, Commander. The laser blasts were approximately 800 meters from our port hull.”
She let out a long breath. That was too close. But now we’ve got another minute.
“Charge the lasers. And stabilize the ship. Maximum efficiency without regard to crew comfort.”
“Yes, Commander,” the AI replied smoothly.
A second later the ship pitched hard…and again as the thrust vector moved. Then there was a series of smaller nudges, the compressed gas positioning jets, methodically canceling out the momentum causing Zephyr’s spin.
Wheaton sighed softly as the wild roll slowed, and her ship returned to its normal bearing. “One gee forward thrust,” she snapped. The forward movement might throw a curve to the enemy’s targeting, but mostly, she just knew some Earth normal gravity would help her people maintain whatever efficiency they had left to offer.
Her eyes dropped down to the status bar. A little over half charged, she thought. Sixty-one percent. She was squinting to see the small number next to the illuminated bar. Not enough…
“Hold thrust now,” she yelled suddenly. Bypass safety regulator…open the conduits to the laser turrets to one hundred percent.”
Two can play this game…
And two can blow their ships to bits trying it…
“Commander, I advise stron…”
“Do it!” she roared. “Now!”
We have to fire first. Or blow ourselves to bits trying…
* * * * *
“I need you to pay fucking attention!” Yulich was in a rage, and it was clear to everyone else aboard Black Viper. “You can’t miss in this kind of battle, you imbeciles. Every shot we take at this power level could be our last. And that ship is perfectly capable of blowing us into dust.” He paused, staring down at the com unit, fists clenched in frustration. “You miss again, we die. You understand me?”