by Jay Allan
The developing nations of the world, while they had enjoyed rapidly-growing economies built largely on cheap labor, proved to be somewhat of an illusion of prosperity. Government interference, fraudulent reporting, out-of-control corruption, and a lack of economic flexibility caused the growth to falter, and when the world economy started to crumble, one by one they fell into turmoil and revolution.
There was unrest in Asia, in Latin America, even in Europe. But the Wars started in the Mideast. The Middle East, which had risen to power and wealth by exploiting massive reserves of fossil fuels, was thrown into chaos by the development, in 2048, of commercially feasible fusion power. Within a decade, demand for petroleum had declined 75%, and the price of a barrel of oil dropped from a high of $500 to less than $30.
An astonishingly small portion of a century’s oil riches had been invested in anything productive, and within a few years there was mass starvation, rioting, and rebellion throughout the region. Unrest led to riots, which in turn gave way to open revolt. Warfare erupted in a dozen places at once as despotic regimes clung desperately to power while their starving citizens stormed the barricades.
The nations of the west, no longer wealthy enough to provide substantive financial aid nor powerful enough to impose their will worldwide, were unable to stem the flow of global unrest, and revolt spread across the globe. Terrorism became a worldwide scourge, culminating in several nuclear incidents that killed millions.
Teetering governments facing rebellion responded with brutal force; those of more stable nations resorted to ever stricter internal security measures until they controlled virtually every aspect of their citizens’ lives. Democracy, such that it once was, disappeared from the face of the Earth. The forms were still followed, yes, but the substance of republican government was freely surrendered in the end by scared populations willing to trade any freedom for increasingly unreliable promises of security.
In 2062 the First Unification War erupted not far from the Mesopotamian basin where civilization began, and for the next three-quarters of a century combat raged in every corner of the globe. By the time the wars were over almost 80 years later, 75% of the world’s population had perished, and there were only eight nations left on Earth. The Superpowers.
They were bankrupt, exhausted, and devastated. Their economies were ravaged, their armies depleted. Finally, when there were no resources remaining to sustain world war, the Treaty of Paris ended the fighting. On Earth.
Barred from terrestrial warfare by a treaty they were too afraid to violate, the exhausted Superpowers took their rivalries into space. Earth was prostrate, drained of resources, scarred by nuclear exchanges, and in desperate need of the wealth that could be exploited from distant worlds and asteroids now that the discovery of the warp gate had opened the universe to exploration.
Space is limitless, so at first the Powers explored peacefully, assuming there was plenty of room for everyone. But the warp gates that allowed speedy interstellar travel were not infinite, and it soon became apparent that some systems were of great strategic value because of their locations or where their gates led. Choke points developed, and before long the Powers were at war again, this time in space.
The Treaty of Paris has been scrupulously obeyed, as all of the governments realize the next war on Earth will likely be the last. Armies in space, though staggeringly expensive, are small in scale compared to the massive legions mobilized during the Earthbound world wars. Our battles are every bit as violent, bloody, and deadly as any ever fought, but the lands we waste are sparsely populated frontier worlds and not cities with populations in the tens of millions.
We were fighting the Third Frontier War, and all of human-occupied space was on fire. The periods between named, declared wars also saw their share of raids and battles, but these were generally intermittent and fought at a much lower intensity level. The Second Frontier War had lasted almost 15 years, and though not entirely conclusive it had been a marginal victory for the Alliance and its allies. The interwar skirmishes occurring afterward had swung a bit the other way, and our position had weakened, a trend that accelerated during the first few years of declared war.
Depending on the current status of its ongoing struggle with the Caliphate, the Western Alliance had either the largest or the second largest empire of colony worlds. The Central Asian Combine was a close third, and the Pacific Rim Coalition a distant fourth.
Since the Caliphate and the CAC were usually allied against us, we had our hands full, and we were constantly wooing one or more of the other Powers to side with us. Even when we were allied with the PRC we were still outnumbered, and our network of warp gate pathways was exposed and vulnerable to interdiction.
The other Powers were less of a factor in space, though all of them had some network of colonies, and the alliances between them shifted as goals and expediencies changed. The Russian-Indian Confederation was weak in space, but usually allied with us. The Central European League and Europa Federalis were mostly concerned with fighting each other, and would ally with the stronger powers as it suited their purposes. Since an alliance with one usually meant war with the other, it was more or less a zero sum game.
The South American Empire had a tiny group of colonies, but they were clustered together and highly defensible, making them difficult targets for potential enemies. The Empire rarely aligned with anyone in the major wars, preferring an opportunistic neutrality. Their forces frequently served as mercenaries for the other Powers, and they would often fight on both sides at different times in a conflict—sometimes even at the same time.
Though there were only eight superpowers on Earth, there were nine in space. The Martian Confederation had declared its independence during the later stages of the Unification Wars and banded together to form a loose union. The various national colonies all quickly joined the fledgling Power, severing ties with their terrestrial parent nations. The Confederation soon controlled not only Mars, but the largest group of developed colonies in Earth’s solar system and a small collection of interstellar settlements as well. While it had only a fraction the size of the population of the other Powers, the Confederation had the most advanced technology of any nation, and its forces, while small, were well-trained and equipped. Mars tended toward neutrality, but when the opportunity presented itself to gain their aid, they were a welcome ally to any of the other Powers.
All of the Earth governments were authoritarian to some extent or another; only the Martian Confederation was anything close to a real republic. The Alliance national bodies—the U.S., the U.K., Oceania, and Greater Canada—outwardly retained republican forms, but they were really oligarchies run by entrenched political classes. Office holders had to be graduates of the Political Academies, and the politicians controlled who was admitted, creating an almost hereditary class system. The occasional outsider could work his way into the upper classes, but such an individual would require the sponsorship and patronage of someone already powerful.
The middle classes, mostly educated professionals of one sort or another, lived a fairly spartan, but moderately comfortable, existence much like my parents had. Few made any trouble. They were terrified of losing their position and falling into the underclass, again as my parents had. It was a system that worked, at least after a fashion and, if innovation, creativity, and freedom were not what they once had been, at least civilization survived. It almost hadn’t.
For most people, a tiny apartment in an area protected from the worst crime, an adequate supply of rations, and a steady stream of cheap entertainment was enough. For those who wanted more there was space. The colonies, at least those of the Alliance and its allies, enticed those who craved more freedom, those who were driven to create and build. The new worlds attracted many of Earth’s best and brightest, and these fledgling societies, so much smaller than the terrestrial nations that spawned them, tended to be significantly more democratic than the home governments. They were each a part of their respective Superpower of c
ourse, and they relied upon the parent to provide protection and support. But as long as the stream of vital resources flowed back to Earth, the colonial governments were pretty much allowed to do as they pleased.
Most of us in the military were castoffs from Earth society in one way or another. The Corps looked for recruits with strong independent streaks, something that was not conducive to success in the mainstream world. We weren’t the mindless conscripts in serried ranks who’d fought in the later stages of the Unification Wars after the original professional armies were wiped out. A modern soldier, operating 20 meters from his closest comrade and 20 light years from the chain of command, had to be innovative and ready to take the initiative.
So the traits and behavioral patterns that made for good, well-behaved citizens on Earth tended to produce poor soldiers in space. Most of my comrades were plucked from the gutter or saved from the executioner just as I was. The system was a bit odd, but it worked. It removed people from Earth who were likely to be a problem for the established order and, conveniently, these same individuals made excellent soldiers and, later, good colonists.
In the streets, when I was terrorizing the Cogs as a gang member, I thought of the government as the enemy. They hunted the gangs and executed any members they caught. It wasn’t until I got to the Academy that I learned the government basically ran the gangs.
It all made sense. The gangs served a definite social purpose within the system, keeping the underclass so beaten down there was little chance of rebellion from below. The urban hell they created outside the protected cities also kept the educated workers in line lest they be cast out themselves. The government could have provided a better life for the Cogs, but that would have been counterproductive. Keeping them down, focused on the very basics of survival in their hellish neighborhoods—that kept any crazy ideas from their heads.
In retrospect it was obvious. The government could have eradicated the gangs any time it wanted to. Just about everyone, including the Cogs and gang members, had the same GPS spinal implants the rest of the population did, so tracking was no problem. And while the gangs were well armed to prey on helpless workers, a company of powered infantry could have swept the Bronx clean without losing a man.
Which brings us to the questions posed in my military psychology class. Why would the Corps provide us such an honest view of how rotten and corrupt the system was? And the follow up question—knowing the truth about what we are fighting for, why do it? Why climb into that lander to risk our lives for such a monstrosity?
We bounced around a bunch of answers for most of the semester, but in the end I think I understood. They were honest with us for a few reasons. We were all misfits in Earth culture anyway, but what I hadn’t known was that every recruit inducted into the Corps was also in the top quintile of intelligence in the population. So, defiant enough not to believe the statist propaganda and smart enough to understand how rotten the system was, we weren’t going to buy into the system anyway. If we’re going to figure it out anyway, or at least partially figure it out, why not just tell us?
But it was deeper than that. The reason they taught us all of this was so we could truly figure out the answer to the second question, “Why do we fight?” Sure, you could go with the argument they’d make back on Earth, that whatever faults our system had, it had saved humanity from extinction. That was good enough for engineers and administrators willing to tow the line to hold onto their marginally comfortable lifestyle. But most of us had suffered on the underside of that system, often in conditions that left us relatively unafraid of extinction. I knew what it was like to wander the streets hungry, to lose everything and everyone you cared about. I wasn’t about to become a docile citizen for a ration card and a tiny apartment.
So why do we fight? We all thought we had the answer to that from the first time we blasted out of a ship and put our lives in the hands of the men and women strapped in beside us. We fight for each other. That’s definitely part of the answer, but it isn’t the whole thing. Certainly, having decided to fight, we do so for our comrades in arms, those who share the mud, blood, and hardship with us. If my brother and sisters are going in, I’m going in. No questions … no ifs, ands, or buts.
But that’s a private’s answer. Yes, I’m going if my comrades go, but why do any of us do it? Not so the politicians can maintain their power and privilege, certainly. Sure, you can make an argument that the system back home, deeply flawed though it may be, was superior to some anarchic, post-apocalyptic horror, but that isn’t the answer either. Not for us. For many of us that nightmare had already been home.
We fight for these colonists. Because they are brave and daring and deserve to be protected. Because they are the future. Because the societies they create, small and struggling though they may be, are far superior to the clusterfuck back on Earth, and they are the one thing that gives us hope for a future, for a better system … for one truly worth fighting for.
The colonists are also us, it turns out. Ninety-seven percent of retiring military personnel choose to settle on a colony world. In fact, less than one in three ever return to Earth, even for a visit. The colonial militias of most of the worlds are leavened with retired combat veterans who settled there. This was by government design in the early days, when a system of military settlers was crucial to defending colony worlds, and it simply continued because it worked for all parties.
So here I was, a man who’d seen his family destroyed by the government; who’d crawled through the rubble-strewn streets as a child, eating rats to survive; who hated and despised the political leaders back home. Here it was, in Military Psychology and Motivational Studies class that I realized I actually did have a country, and one worth fighting for too.
Not that mess I left, but the promising and vulnerable infant that had sprung from the dying body of Earth. Those miners on Carson’s World, where I made my first assault and marveled at the courage of the colonists who stood up to armored infantry and held them at bay until we arrived. The inhabitants of Columbia, who dug trenches and built defenses and finally grabbed whatever weapons they had and fought alongside us to save their world. The inhabitants who were now trying to rebuild their once-pleasant community around the radioactive dead zones and other scars of war.
The training at the Academy was definitely not what I expected. I was surprised by all the soul-searching philosophy. In the end, though, I think I understood the reasoning behind it all. As a private I had no responsibility other than to do my duty and fight like hell. A corporal or sergeant does command others who may live or die as a result of his orders, but typically he is with them and shares their fate closely.
An officer, on the other hand, commands a larger number of troops deployed over a greater distance. Where a sergeant might follow orders and lead a squad in a suicidal attack, an officer may have to command a squad to make that charge, knowing he is sending them to their deaths while he remains at a safe distance.
A good officer has to love and care about his troops, while also being ready and willing to commit them to whatever is necessary, even if most of them won’t come back. Even if none of them will come back. And having done so, the officer must stay focused on the rest of the battle without losing any intensity or concentration. Reflection, guilt, and self-loathing had to wait until everyone was safely back aboard ship. The officer needed a clearer picture of why we fight so he could reconcile sending those troops into a hopeless place.
There was also a lot of training on strategy and tactics of course, and there was military history. Lots of military history. We studied the tactics of every conflict from the Punic Wars on. We reviewed everything from the campaigns of Napoleon to close order squad deployments in the Second Frontier War. I’ve wondered at the probabilities that took me from gutter rat in the badlands of the Bronx to an expert in Gustavus Aldolphus’ volley fire techniques.
I did well with all of the classroom training, and I aced the exams. But the coursework was only part of
the program. There was physical development as well, and if I’d thought the basic training regimen was tough it’s just because I had no idea how badly they tortured cadets. We ran and climbed and swam. We did survival marches and pushed ourselves to the limits of endurance, braving heat, cold, hunger, and exhaustion. Officers in the Corps did what they commanded their troops to do, and they led by example.
The Academy was located on a breathtakingly beautiful world called Arcadia, the third planet in the Wolf 359 system. Half a dozen small island continents were dotted across two main oceans. The temperate zones were covered in massive forests of what appeared to be close relatives of Earth pines, though the Arcadian versions were 100 meters high. The windswept, rocky coastlines were dotted with settlements that seemed perfectly blended into the terrain.
The campus itself was situated on a small peninsula along the western ocean, about 100 kilometers from the capital city, also called Arcadia. The buildings were modern and well-equipped, but they were designed to resemble older structures. The exteriors were mostly covered in the gray native fieldstone, and the buildings were connected by stone pathways winding through neatly tended gardens and clumps of woods.
The western edge of the campus ran along a rocky cliff about 20 meters above the crashing surf, and the commandant’s office and a number of other buildings were situated along the edge of the cliff with breathtaking ocean views.
We spent plenty of time on the idyllic grounds of the campus, but we also saw our fair share of the planet as well, especially its least accessible, most inhospitable corners. We did training exercises in the arctic northern wastes, conducting war games across the glaciers, without scanners, in blizzards that reduced visibility to two meters or less. We baked in the hot equatorial sun building a makeshift fort to prove we’d been paying attention in combat engineering class.
We did endless computer war game simulations, but we also got out into the field and moved real troops around, mostly local militia pretending to be regulars. As a veteran of both Achilles and Columbia, I had more experience commanding troops in the field than most of the other cadets. Those two campaigns carried the dubious distinction of the highest casualty rates of any in the war so far. I’d seen a lot of my commanding officers taken out, moving me up the chain of command too quickly for comfort.