by Jay Allan
A Marine could do delicate work in a suit, but that didn’t lessen the feeling of power Cameron felt. He was scared, and he didn’t really believe any of his people would survive what they were about to begin…but, those feelings drifted to the side of his mind as he felt the massive strength of his armored form and began to check off the weapons systems built in to the killing machine he wore.
“Alright, Marines…you’ve got two minutes, so don’t waste it. Check your power and weapons systems. If you don’t, and your suit malfunctions once we’re down there, don’t come crying to me.” It all sounded good, but it was bullshit, too, a scheme to keep his Marines focused. There wasn’t a damned thing he could do if one of his people found a malfunction, anyway…not now.
And, besides, Brigadier General Devon Cameron would never abandon one of his own…however much the stupid fool got himself into trouble.
Cameron took his own advice, and he ran a quick check of his own gear.
Everything checked out. He was ready. As ready as anyone could be for a mission like this one.
He listened to the next warning from the ship’s captain…at thirty seconds. Then, he gritted his teeth, waiting for the hard jerk he knew would accompany the lander’s release into the open atmosphere.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Cutter Research Compound (Home of the Mules)
Ten Kilometers West of Victory City, Earth Two
Earth Two Date 02.17.43
“Every Plague patient brought here has responded brilliantly to the treatment. It is, of course, too early to pronounce that all genetic lines will recover equally well, but the signs are extremely encouraging.”
Achilles stood and listened as Themistocles reported on the progress of the program. The effective leader of the Mules had just donated his own blood, along with Callisto and half a dozen others whom Achilles had trusted enough to include. He didn’t like hiding anything from the rest of the Mules, but he was determined to be careful. Max Harmon had agreed to his request—and sworn his own secrecy—and, as far as Achilles was concerned, relying on the president was as much risk as he was willing to take, at least until he had acceptable security precautions in place.
“You have exceeded even your own lofty standards, my friend. The Plague has been a scourge on the Tanks, and now, future classes of quickenings will be free of the fear of painful death casting a shadow over them.
And, as long as we keep things quiet, we will be okay…at least for a while.
Achilles wasn’t worried about sick Tanks or their loved ones storming the compound, crazed for precious Mule blood. The treatment required to save the life of a Plague victim took only a small amount of the serum created from the samples. Achilles knew the Mules were more than willing to provide what was needed on a voluntary basis.
No, that wasn’t the real problem. But, the cellular regeneration procedure had other applications, ones Themistocles had barely begun to explore. Treatments for brain-damaged patients and coma victims, to begin with, but the truly dangerous area was in general cell enhancements. Achilles wasn’t primarily a medical researcher, as Themistocles was, but he didn’t have any trouble seeing the potential for increasing lifespans…possibly substantially.
Possibly indefinitely.
Immortality wasn’t something new to the Mules’ thought process. They’d long wondered how long their own lifespans might extend, and to date, no signs of any age-related degradation had ever been detected, though the first group of Hybrids was now in their forties. Themistocles had probably come closest to gathering some kind of hard data several years before, and he and Achilles had agreed they would keep the findings to themselves for the near future, at least. It wasn’t going to do anything to help quell the Normals’ fear of the Mules by telling them the Hybrids might well live for a millennium, or even longer.
Max Harmon had agreed completely with Achilles concerns. The president had his hands full already dealing with terrorist incidents and civil disturbances. The last thing he needed to see now was a series of riots calling for immortality treatments that didn’t even exist yet beyond theories and tentative formulas.
Achilles knew Harmon could crush any resistance from the fringe groups. He had the Marines firmly on his side, at least for the time being, and he had the Mules as well. Certainly, with regard to keeping control over groups promoting Natural Borns over the various clones that now made up more than half of Earth Two’s population, he had enough allies. But, Harmon had always been hesitant to use naked force…at least he had until the most recent attack.
Achilles didn’t question Harmon’s increased use of sanctions, but he wondered if it would help or hurt the general situation. To the extent Earth Two’s president appeared to be beholden to the Mules, it would only serve to aid the cause of the various NB groups. The Tank genetic lines had been honed over the years, and there was little argument to be made that even the clones quickened from one hundred percent human DNA now outperformed their naturally-born counterparts by considerable margins. The Tanks dominated the Marine Corps, including now, many of the moderate-high rank levels that had eluded them in the early years…and the clones were represented roughly equally with the NBs in the navy.
None of that even took into account the fear of the Mules, also clones of a sort, of course. The Hybrids were responsible for perhaps ninety percent of the scientific breakthroughs of the past twenty years or more. Achilles had seen some shows of gratitude from the population for what his people had done to keep Earth Two safe, but far more displays of fear and resentment. He didn’t think most Natural Borns supported terrorist attacks, certainly not when almost half of the victims had been NBs themselves, but he suspected Harmon would see some blowback from appearing to be on the “side” of the clones.
Achilles extended his arm, angling his head in a gesture for Themistocles to follow him. He walked off to a small alcove on the side of the room. “Were you able to begin treatments on Admiral Frette?” Achilles had always liked the wounded naval officer, and he genuinely wanted to help her. He also knew Frette was one of Harmon’s closest friends, and keeping the president on their side was always a good idea.
“I completed a comprehensive analysis of all damage to her spine and cerebral cortex. There is considerable cellular degradation. It is no wonder none of the conventional treatments have been effective. I administered the first series of treatments, two days ago, and I am optimistic. There was marked improvement within just the first few hours. It is too early to make any significant pronouncements, but things are going as well as we could have hoped.”
“That is very good news, my friend.” Achilles was glad for Frette, hopeful that the admiral would indeed recover, at least partially, from her long ordeal…but that didn’t stop the nagging at the back of his mind. Success in repairing damage of the type Frette had sustained would almost certainly indicate that Themistocles’ treatment could indeed reverse the effects of aging.
That would be a wonder…and a terrible danger as well.
* * *
“Second platoon…forward!”
“Fourth platoon in position, sir.”
“We’re going in now.”
Frasier listened to the comm chatter between the platoons in the field. He had over three hundred Marines active in Victory City at that moment, the cream of the Corps still left on Earth Two after Cameron’s strike force had departed. His strike teams were hitting six different locations simultaneously, everywhere he’d uncovered any signs of suspicious activity.
He’d been reluctant to move forward so aggressively, but President Harmon’s orders had been clear…act immediately, even on unconfirmed suspicions. Frasier was uncomfortable, and he knew the likelihood was, some innocents would be gathered up along with the guilty parties, that some might even be killed. He’d explained that to Harmon, though he’d realized the president had been as aware of that as he had. The orders were unchanged. Move on everything. At once.
Frasier had expected t
rouble, but so far there had been no resistance of note. His Marines weren’t subtle investigators, and he had to believe those he was after knew he was coming. He’d just started to rethink his pessimistic expectations when he heard gunfire over the comm.
His impulse was to demand reports, at once. But, he was a combat veteran, and he knew the last thing the Marines onsite needed was being distracted by calls for updates from brass well up the line. He’d briefed his officers and non-coms, and they all knew what to do. Now, he had to let them do it.
Besides, he had his own job to do.
“Alright…first squad, take position out here. Second…down the hallway. I want you covering the back exit in thirty seconds.” He paused and watched as the Marines turned and followed his orders, moving with perfect precision. Then he turned. “Third squad…we’re going in.”
Frasier was about to give the command override, and order the sector AI to open the hatch, but the lieutenant at the head of the squad stepped forward, followed by the first two Marines in the column. “Please, General…let us go in first.”
Frasier felt a tinge of resentment, and he almost snapped an order for the junior officer to step back. But, he realized the lieutenant was right. He had no place being the first one in, not when he was in command of the entire Corps, not to mention the other half dozen operations now underway.
He nodded to the lieutenant and then, after confirming the Marines were ready, he issued the order…and the hatch swung open.
The Marines charged inside, shouting for the occupants of the large room to stay still. Frasier’s gut was twisted tight, waiting for the sound of shooting, not on the tinny speaker of his comm unit, but from just beyond the door, from a place where two dozen people—as far as he knew, all but one of them innocent—worked. But there was nothing.
He ducked through the door himself, right on the heels of the last Marine.
There were loud shrieks, and perhaps half of those present ducked down under their desks, while the others froze where they were.
All save for one.
A man at the far side of the forward bank of workstations leapt up from his chair, running for the back entrance. He was quick, and the Marines were reluctant to open fire with so many innocent civilians in the room. He had just about reached the door when it opened, revealing the huge bulk of an armored Marine in the doorway.
The fleeing man scrambled to a halt and turned frantically, looking for any other way to escape. The room was large, but with Marines pouring through both entrances, there was nowhere else to go. He ran, getting four or five steps before the lead Marine behind him caught up and swung an armored fist, knocking the fugitive from his feet and sending him careening into the front side of the row of workstations. He landed with a sickening crash that left little doubt he had broken more than one bone.
“Everybody, just stay where you are. You will all be fine. We are here to arrest a terrorist, and if the rest of you remain calm, we can do what we came for and leave.” It wasn’t that simple, of course. He had reserve columns waiting outside, and the rest of those present faced a considerable round of questioning before they would be allowed to leave.
Frasier had been a Marine his entire life, and he was accustomed to displays of force. Still, he had to imagine the current display was an upsetting one to civilians who spent all day supervising security cameras and compiling mostly routine reports. He tried to keep his voice as calm and reassuring as he could, though he realized that was a lot to expect from a tone when the room was filled with combat-equipped Marines bristling with enough weapons to level most of Victory City.
He looked around the room, anxious about keeping the occupants quiet and under control. His Marines were hitting targets all over the city, rounding up suspected terrorist cells. Many of those operations had turned into outright firefights, and he was determined to keep that from happening in the main security office. It was embarrassing enough to President Harmon that a member of a fringe group had managed to get a position monitoring a surveillance station. The last thing he wanted to do was add a few innocent victims to the already sorry situation. He’d been clear to his Marines about that, but he was still edgy. There could be another infiltrator he didn’t know about…or the soon to be prisoner could pull out a weapon and start shooting.
That, at least he could prevent.
“Restrain him…now. Search for any weapons or communications devices…on him or somewhere else in the room.”
He felt a little more relaxed once the prisoner was firmly held in two sets of armor-clad arms. It would have taken the strength of an industrial press to wriggle free, or even to grab a hidden weapon.
“Again, everyone…I am sorry for this upsetting interruption. Just remain in your seats for a few more minutes, and we will be finished and out of here. We’ll just need you all to remain and answer a few questions now…”
He turned and gestured for the Marines to drag the prisoner toward the rear door. The he waved to the rest of his armored warriors, and they filed out into the hall, followed, finally, by Frasier himself, who stopped and watched the interrogation teams begin to file in.
* * *
“I’m just not sure…” Max Harmon was indecisive, uncharacteristically so. He’d fought desperate battles, done what he’d had to do, even seized power when he felt there had been no alternative. And, he’d ordered the Marines out into the streets, to find those guilty of the recent attacks, and to drag them to the harsh justice he had promised. But, he found actually ordering the executions of several dozen Earth Two civilians to be extremely difficult.
“I understand it is unpleasant, sir…but there is no doubt. These prisoners are all responsible, in varying degrees, for what happened. They have the blood of truly innocent civilians on their hands. They must pay the price.” For all his Marine toughness, Connor Frasier had never seemed brutal or bloodthirsty, but now, there wasn’t a doubt evident in his words. Few of Harmon’s insiders had seen the victims of the attacks more closely than Frasier.
“Varying degrees, Connor. I am not saying those who conceived of the plan, those who perpetrated it, are not guilty…that they do not deserve to die. But, what about those who were on the fringes, people driven to meetings by misguided, but genuine, fears of unlimited numbers of clones? My God, Connor, three of the prisoners are sixteen years old! Yes, they were foolish. Their judgment was exceedingly poor. But, do they deserve to die for that?”
“Did the people in the promenade deserve to die? The children who were killed? I was there, Mr. President. I saw the bodies.”
“But without trials? Can I just issue an order and have them dragged up against a wall?”
“Of course, sir. That was the point of the coup twelve years ago, wasn’t it? Your word is law. I appreciate that you have not abused that over the years, but this is a time for firm leadership.”
“For brutality, you mean?”
Frasier shook his head, but he didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “Sir…in a different situation, if we were at peace, if civil disturbances were our only danger, perhaps then it would make sense to dissect the involvement of each of the prisoners, conduct long investigations and endless trials. But, you are well aware what is happening out there. For all we know, the entire fleet could already be lost. The enemy could find us almost any time. We don’t have the resources and the time to waste on pointless internal conflicts. You have to stop it now.”
“Crush the resistance, you mean. Instill fear in those who oppose me?”
“Yes…crush them.” Mariko Fujin had been sitting quietly, but now she spoke, and her voice was as cold as granite. “Line every one of them up against a wall, and shoot them. You can waste your pity on the young terrorists, wonder if they are as guilty as the others…but mine is reserved for the parents of those dead children, for all our civilians who were killed not in war, not fighting the First Imperium, but out in the city shopping or going to get something to eat. Terrorists are vial scum in any
circumstances…to do this when our fleet is away on a desperate mission, probably fighting against overwhelming odds even as we speak, it demands a harsh response. And an immediate one.”
“So, you want me to abandon efforts to reason with people who disagree? You want me to rule with fear?”
Fujin didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. She just looked right at her husband and replied with a single word.
“Yes.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Landing Zone Red Fist
Planet G48-II
Earth Two Date 02.17.43
Cameron had read about hell. He’d even studied some of the old religious texts, intrigued in many ways by the belief structures that had shaped human history. But, he’d never imagined anything as utterly horrific as the vista that stretched out before him.
The planet had been a nightmare to begin with, the heat, just above the boiling point of water, far down on the list of items that would kill unprotected humans. Normal radiation levels were at least twice lethal readings, and the atmosphere was a thick and toxic brew of sulfuric acid mixed with other noxious chemicals. It was almost as though some storyteller had created it, designed it to evoke the worst nightmares imaginable.
And, that had been the planet before Rivers’s ships obliterated the surface with thousands of gigatons of the heavy nuclear warheads…and increased the radiation levels a hundredfold in some spots.
The terrain was torn open, massive kilometers-wide craters scarring the surface where the great warheads had detonated. The toxic clouds were laden now with particles of radioactive dust, blown up into the heavy clouds by the titanic explosions. Rivers of still-molten lava flowed into the low spots, filling the great gouges in the ground with eerie glowing pools, slowly-solidifying back into dark gray rock.