Prisoners of Tomorrow

by James P. Hogan

  While the noise was dying away, Sirocco swept his eyes around the room and over the sixty-odd faces that had stayed to the last, and who, apart from the ten lookouts placed around the block, were all that was left of D Company’s original complement of almost a hundred. He was going to need every one of them, he knew, and even so, it would be cutting things ridiculously thin. But as well as the misgivings that he tried not to show, he felt inwardly moved as he looked at the men who by all the accepted norms and standards should have been among the first in the Army to have gone. But apart from the SD units, D Company’s record was second to none. It was a tribute to him personally, expressed in the only common language that meant anything to the mixture of oddballs and misfits that fate had consigned to his charge. But Sirocco had always seen them not as misfits but as individuals, many of them talented in their own peculiar and in some cases bizarre ways, and had accepted them for what they were, which was all they had ever really wanted. But the term misfit was a relative one, he had come to realize. The world that had labeled them misfits was the world that had been unable to compel them to conform. Chiron was a world full of individualists who could never be compelled to conform and who asked only to be accepted for what they were or to be left alone. Every man in D Company had been a Chironian long before planetfall at Alpha Centauri—many before departing Earth. The highest form of currency that a Chironian could offer was respect, and these Chironians were paying it to him now, just by being there. Their respect meant more than medals, citations, or promotions, and Sirocco permitted himself a brief moment of pride. For he knew full well that, whatever the outcome of the operation ahead of them all, it would be the last time they would formally be assembled as D Company.

  “Very well,” he said. “Stanislau has had his encore. Now let’s get back to business.

  “First, let’s recap the main points. The primary object is to get into the Communications Center and secure it while the transmission goes out; and after that to hold it and hope that enough of the Army reacts quickly enough to take the pressure off. Okay?” There were no questions, so Sirocco continued. “The big risk is that SD reinforcements will be brought up from the surface. If that happens, they’ll have to dock at the Vandenberg bays, and that’s why we’ve got Armley’s section there to stop them. What do you do if you can’t hold them, Mike?” Sirocco asked, looking down at the front row.

  “Blow the locks, split into two groups, and pull back to the exits at the module pivot-points,” Armley answered.

  “Right. The other—yes, question?”

  “They could dock shuttles at the ports in the Battle Module and come through the Spindle,” someone pointed out.

  “Yes, I was about to come to that,” Sirocco replied. He lifted his head a fraction to address the whole room again. “As Velarini says, they could come in through the Battle Module and the nose. The Battle Module is the main problem. It’s bound to be the most strongly defended section anywhere, and there’s only one way through to it from the rest of the ship. Therefore we assault it directly only if all else fails. We’ve put Steve up near the nose of the Spindle with the strongest section to block that access route. Steve’s task is to stop any SDs getting out and, more important, to stop Sterm and his people from getting in if things go well and they realize they can’t hold the rest of the ship. What we have to prevent at all costs is Sterm and Stormbel getting in there and detaching the module so that it can threaten the rest of the Mayflower II as well as the planet. Yes, Simmonds?”

  “It could still detach, even without Sterm.”

  “That’s a gamble we’ll have to take,” Sirocco said. “Sterm will hardly order them to fire on the rest of the ship if he’s in it.”

  “Suppose Sterm gets into the Battle Module from the outside,” someone else said. “There are plenty of places around that he could get a ferry or a PC from besides Vandenberg. He’s only got to hop across a couple of miles. It wouldn’t need a surface shuttle.”

  Sirocco hesitated for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. “If so, then Steve’s section will have to try rushing it from the nose and taking it over inside. But that’s only as a last resort, as I said.” He looked across at Colman, who returned a heavy nod.

  “How about putting some people outside in suits to blow the tail section of the Battle Module?” Carson suggested from the second row back.

  “We’re looking into that. It will depend on how many people Steve can spare. Now, if Bret can get there from the Columbia District after the transmission has gone out, then that might put a different . . .” Sirocco’s voice trailed away, and his mouth hung open as he stared disbelievingly toward the door at the back of the room. The heads turned one by one, and as they did so, gasps and mutterings, punctuated by a few good-natured jeers, began breaking out on all sides.

  Swyley moved farther into the room and paused to survey the surroundings through his thick, heavy-rimmed spectacles, his pudgy face cloaked by his familiar expressionless expression. Driscoll was with him, and more were marching in behind them. Sirocco blinked and swallowed hard as they dispersed among the empty seats at the back and began sitting down. Harding, Baker, Faustzman, Vanderheim . . . Simpson, Westley, Johnson—all of them. They were all back. “We heard you could use some help, chief,” Driscoll announced. “Couldn’t leave it all to the amateurs.” Ribald comments and hoots of derision greeted the remark.

  Sirocco watched for a second longer, and then pulled himself together quickly. “Enjoy your vacation, Swyley?” he inquired with a note of forced sarcasm in his voice. “Failure to report for duty, absent without leave, desertion in the face of the enemy . . . the whole book, in fact. Well, consider yourselves reprimanded, and sit down. There’s a lot to go over, and we’re all going to need some rest today. The situation is that—” Sirocco stopped speaking and looked curiously at the figure that he hadn’t noticed before—an unfamiliar face by the side of Swyley, who was still standing. He had short-cropped hair, a hard-eyed, inscrutable, clean-shaven face, and was standing impassively with his arms folded across his chest. “Who’s this?” Sirocco said. “He’s not from D Company.”

  “Ex-sergeant Malloy of the SDs,” Swyley said. “He decided he’d had enough and quit over a month ago. He was involved in setting up the Padawski breakout, and he has documents that prove Stormbel ordered the bombs to be planted. He wants to go public.” Swyley shrugged. “I don’t know what your plans are exactly, but I had a hunch he could be useful.”

  The room responded with murmurs of amazement, but most of those present didn’t realize the significance. Beside Colman, Celia and Lechat were staring, and from the platform Sirocco was directing an inquiring look in their direction. Celia turned her head to look at Colman. “I don’t believe this,” she whispered. “Who is that corporal?”

  “D Company’s resident miracle worker,” Colman answered, but his voice was distant as he fitted the new pieces into the picture in his head. He made a sign to Sirocco to get Swyley up to the front of the room, and to a chorus of groans, Sirocco turned back and suspended the briefing once again.

  Five minutes later Swyley and Malloy had gone into conference in a corner with Celia and Lechat, and Colman stood apart with Sirocco and Hanlon, discussing tactical details. “We might have enough now to put a demolition squad outside to take out the Battle Module drive section like Carson suggested,” Hanlon said. “Even if Sterm gets in there it would give more protection to the rest of the ship.”

  “I’ll have to keep that option open until we see how things shape up,” Colman said. “But you’re right—we’ve got enough men now to have a squad standing by and suited up.”

  “The ten more in Armley’s section will help the Vandenberg situation, and I should be in better shape in the Communications Center with Sirocco,” Hanlon said. “So where does that leave us?”

  “All set, except for springing Borftein and Wellesley,” Colman said. “Now that we’ve got Malloy, those two would make the whole thing cast-iron.” He t
urned his head to Sirocco, who was half listening but looking away across the room with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Had any more thoughts about that?” Colman asked.

  “Mmm? . . .” Sirocco responded distantly.

  “Borftein and Wellesley.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that . . .” Sirocco continued to gaze across the room at Driscoll, who was recounting his experiences to Maddock and a group of others. “He’s pretty good, isn’t he,” Sirocco said, still half to himself.

  It took a second for Colman to realize what Sirocco was talking about. “Yes . . . Why? What are you—”

  “Come over for a second. I want to ask him something.” Sirocco led Colman, and Hanlon followed. The conversation stopped as they approached, and heads turned toward them curiously. “Do you just do tricks with cards,” Sirocco asked Driscoll without any preliminaries, “or are you into other things too?”

  Driscoll looked at him in surprise. “Well, it depends on what you mean,” he said cautiously. Then after a second he nodded. “But, yes—I can do other things too, a pretty diversified act, you might say.”

  Sirocco turned his head towards Hanlon. “Get a couple of pistol belts and sidearms from the Armory, Bret,” he said. “Let’s find out just how good this character really is. I think he might be able to help us solve our problem.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  General Kazimiera Stormbel did not make mistakes, and he was not accustomed to being held responsible for the mistakes of others; people under him tended to find out early on that they did not make mistakes. Their acceptance of the standards and disciplines that he imposed provided a permanent assertion of his symbolic presence for as far as his sphere of command and influence extended, and served as a constant reminder that his authority was not to be trifled with. Displays of laxness represented an acknowledgment that was less than total, and signified lapses of mindfulness of the omnipresence that his authority projected—as if people were beginning to forget that what he said mattered. Stormbel didn’t like that. He didn’t like people acting as if he didn’t matter.

  The bureaucrats who had mismanaged the sprawling politico-military machine that had come to dominate the North American continent had been unable or unwilling to recognize his worth and dedication while they heaped honors and favors on sons of spineless sycophants and generals’ blue-eyed protégés groomed to the movie image at West Point, and he felt no compassion for them now as the laser link from Earth brought news of nuclear devastation across the length and breadth of Africa, and of titanic clashes between armies in Central Asia. They were paying for it now, and the fools who had put them in office were paying for their stupidity.

  Wellesley and the Congress had tried to perpetuate the same injustices by eclipsing him with Borftein because he hadn’t graduated from the right places or possessed the right family credentials. They had tried to fob him off with the command of what they had seen as a proficient but small and unimportant corps of specialists. They had all paid too. Now they all knew who he was and where they stood. He had no regrets about Ramisson’s death; it underlined the lesson more forcefully than any words could have done. He was only sorry he hadn’t made a cleaner sweep by shooting them all.

  Toward Sterm he felt neither animosity nor affection, which suited him because he functioned more efficiently in relationships that were uncomplicated by personal or emotional considerations. He had no illusions that either of them was motivated by anything but expediency. Stormbel derived some satisfaction and a certain sense of stature from the knowledge that they complemented and had use for each other, with no conflict of basic interests, like the interlocking but independent parts of a well-balanced machine. Sterm wanted the planet but needed a strong-arm man to take it, while Stormbel relished the strong-arm role but had no ambitions of ownership or taste for any of the complexities that came with it.

  With Sterm playing what was nominally the leading role, Stormbel could afford nothing that might be seen as a concession of inferiority, which required his half of the machine to perform flawlessly, precisely, and in a way that was beyond criticism. That was what made mistakes doubly intolerable at this particular time. But what made the whole thing completely baffling and all the more galling was that the escorts and their charge had not only checked in on time, but had actually boarded the return shuttle—having passed safely through all the riskier parts of the agenda—before vanishing without a trace. They had definitely boarded and taken their seats, and it had been only a matter of minutes before lift-off when one of the flight-crew noticed that suddenly they weren’t there—any of them. The SD guards at the boarding gate had all known what Celia Kalens looked like, and they had been under special instructions to watch for her, but none of them had seen her when the escorts came out of the shuttle after somehow losing her; and shortly after that, the escorts had disappeared into the base and were never seen again. Nobody remembered seeing them around the base later; nobody had seen them at the perimeter; nobody had flown them out; and an intensive search carried on all through the night had failed to locate them anywhere. It was impossible, but it had happened.

  Sterm was not a person to waste his time and energy with futile melodramatics and accusations, but Stormbel knew full well that he wouldn’t forget—and neither would Stormbel forget. The Chironians were behind it, he was certain, just as they had been behind the subversion of the Army and even of some of Stormbel’s own troopers. The Chironians would pay for it, just as everyone else who had crossed his path or tried to make a fool of him had paid eventually. They would pay the moment someone offered resistance when his troops moved into Franklin. His orders were quite explicit.

  “The build-up at Canaveral is proceeding on schedule and will be completed before midnight,” he informed Sterm at a midday staff meeting in the Columbia District’s Government Center. “The greater part of Phoenix is being abandoned as we assumed would be unavoidable, but the key points are secure and the wastage among the regular units has been checked. Transfer of SD forces to the surface will be completed by early evening, with the exception of those units being held to cover the Battle Module, the Columbia District, and Vandenberg. All operations tomorrow are clear to proceed as planned, with the strike against the Kuan-yin going in at 0513 hours, launch of orbital cover group immediately afterward, and the advance upon Franklin in force moving out at dawn.”

  Sterm nodded slowly as he ticked off the points one by one in his mind, looking at Stormbel coolly, then turned to Gaulitz, one of the senior scientists, who was sitting with some advisers to one side of the room. “Let us be certain about the Kuan-yin,” he said. “The success of the entire operation is at stake. You are quite sure?”

  Gaulitz nodded emphatically. “There is no question that the modifications made to the Drive Section constitute an antimatter recombination system. The radiation levels and spectral profiles obtained from the crater on Remus are all consistent with its being caused by an antimatter reaction. The evidence of gamma-induced transmutations, the distribution of neutron-activated isotopes, the pattern of residual—”

  Sterm held up a hand. “Yes, yes, we have been through all that.”

  Gaulitz nodded hastily and touched a control to bring a view of the Kuan-yin onto the room’s main display screen. It showed Chironian shuttles at all the docking ports, and more standing a few miles off and apparently waiting to move in. “This is a further corroboration from views obtained this morning,” he said. “All indications are that the Chironians have evacuated the vessel, which supports the contention of its being cleared for action.”

  Sterm studied the view in silence. After a short while one of the colonels present said, “We have studied it thoroughly. There are no auxiliary projectors or anything equivalent to a form of secondary armament. The only direction that it can fire in is sternward from the tail-dish. With eight missiles the odds of at least one getting through would be better than ninety-eight percent. With sixteen the chances of failure are abou
t as near zero as you can get.”

  The Kuan-yin’s lower orbit put it out of synchronism with the Mayflower II and resulted in the two vessels being shielded from each other by Chiron’s mass for a period of thirty-two minutes every three-and-a-quarter hours. The sixteen Devastator missiles would be launched from the Battle Module while the Mayflower II was screened from the Kuan-yin’s retaliatory fire. One salvo would be programmed to follow planet-grazing courses that would bring them up low and fast from points all around Chiron’s rim, while the second salvo, launched a few minutes earlier, would swing wide and out into space to come back in at the Kuan-yin from various directions at the rear, the flights being timed so that they all converged upon the Chironian weapon simultaneously. A mass the size of the Kuan-yin could not maneuver rapidly, and the worst-case simulations run on the computers had shown an overwhelming margin in favor of the attack, whatever defensive tactics might be employed.

  “The calculations and simulations have been verified?” Sterm said, looking at Gaulitz.

  “Thoroughly and repeatedly. There is no risk that the Mayflower II might be exposed at any time,” Gaulitz answered.

  There were no more major points to discuss. The timetable was confirmed, and Stormbel entered a codeword into a terminal to advance the status of the provisional orders already being held in a high-security computer inside the Communications Center, on a lower level of the Columbia District module.