by Jay Allan
She was watching him, listening intently, and when he paused she said, “Yes. I’ve been thinking the same thing, of course. And wondering what you would do.” She hesitated, trying to decide how much to say. “I have a pretty good idea that you’re not going to start dropping nukes on civilians, even if Augustus Garret orders you to do it.”
“I’ve known Augustus since the Academy. He’s even less likely than me to bomb civilians.” He looked up at her and she could see in his eyes how deeply troubled he was. “Garret’s in some kind of trouble. I don’t know what it is, but I have a feeling it’s bad.” His voice was getting darker, grimmer. “Really bad.”
She sat quietly, listening. He was upset and confused, that much was obvious. Admiral Terrance Compton had no idea what to do, probably for the first time in his life. She was going to say something, but decided to wait and see what else he said.
“I verified the original order. It was Priority One, and the DNA encoding checked out. I don’t know how it could have been faked.” He slid his hand back through his black and gray hair as he spoke. “Then I found something – actually Joker did – in a batch of orders and directives.”
“Found something?”
“Yes. There was a file hidden in a routine report.” His hands moved to the touchscreen on his desk. “It took Joker almost a full day to decrypt it.” His fingers moved over the ‘pad, activating the large viewscreen on the wall, displaying a copy of the report they were discussing. “It was sent by Garret’s AI.”
“By his AI?” Elizabeth looked up, a startled expression on her face. She’d been wondering what Compton had to tell her from the instant he called, but this was certainly not what she expected. “You mean it sent a message independently? On its own?”
“Yes, it appears that Nelson – that’s Garret’s AI – sent the message himself. Listen.” He punched a key on his desk.
“Admiral Compton, this is Nelson, Admiral Garret’s virtual assistant.” The voice was Joker’s – Nelson hadn’t wasted storage space sending its voice patterns along with the file. “As I send this message I am under assault from a malicious program designed to erase my systems and backups. It is a highly sophisticated virus, and I have determined I will be unable to prevent it from completing its operation.”
Elizabeth looked up, the expression on her face pained, poignant. It was like reading the last journal entry of a doomed man. Nelson was just code and programmed routines, but the quasi-sentient AIs were more than that too. Not human, but not entirely non-human either.
“Given the limited amount of time I have to act, I have determined that the course of action with the highest probability of success is to send you a hidden message, a warning.” It was odd listening to Joker’s voice speaking unemotionally, relaying what were, in effect, Nelson’s last words.
“I was in the process of reviewing Admiral Garret’s orders and directives sent out over the past year, and I have determined that a significant percentage of those dispatched within the last 60 days were altered after the admiral approved them. I do not know how many were tampered with in total nor how the modifications were made. Unfortunately, I was not able to complete the analysis. Indeed, I assign an 88% probability that it was my review that triggered the attack on me.
“Clearly, Admiral Garret is in extreme jeopardy, though I have insufficient data to develop a meaningful hypothesis regarding specifics. Any of his orders, particularly those sent within the last 60 Earth days, must be considered suspect, and appropriate caution and judgment must be applied when executing these commands…or choosing not to obey them.”
Choosing not to obey, Compton thought grimly. If only it were that simple.
“There is also a high probability that Admiral Garret is in physical danger, either of abduction or assassination. Please undertake all possible efforts to secure his person and advise him of the contents of this message.” A brief pause, then: “Please give Admiral Garret my respects and a fond farewell.”
Elizabeth just stared at Compton in shock, her mind reeling, trying to grasp the implications. Finally, she said, “A plot against Admiral Garret? Who? The CAC? The Caliphate?”
Compton sat motionless, staring back at her. “I don’t know. But if the CAC or Caliphate have that kind of access to our secure military systems, we are in big trouble.” His face grew darker, even more somber. “And what about Augustus? How do we help him? If I take any overt action, if I even report this, whoever is behind it could find out. I can’t even begin to consider the implications of that. It could make things worse; it could get him killed.” He paused, a pall falling over his face. “If he’s not dead already.”
“This is unbelievable.” She got up and walked around his desk. “What are you going to do, Terrance?” She reached out, putting her hand on his arm in a manner she hoped was brotherly but knew wasn’t. “And what can I do?”
He looked up, his eyes narrow, mouth tense. “I don’t know yet, but we’re going to do something. Augustus Garret is our commander and our comrade.” His voice became harsher, angrier. “And he’s my friend, dammit. We’re going to help him no matter what it takes.”
Chapter 12
Stillwater Village
Outskirts of Weston City
Columbia - Eta Cassiopeiae II
The villages surrounding Weston were mostly quiet clusters of homes built around compact shopping districts, throwbacks to the small towns that had once dotted the landscapes of the Alliance nations on Earth. The houses themselves were modern, pleasantly landscaped dwellings, neatly tended and dotting the countryside around each village’s mag-train station.
Now these formerly peaceful communities were hotbeds of rebellion. Weston itself was firmly held by federal forces, but the surrounding areas were no man’s land - too close in for rebel units to stay for long, but too exposed for the Feds, unless they came in force. And right now, their strength was spread thin.
Once the spark was lit, the flames of revolt spread across the planet. Columbia’s population was heavily clustered in the polar regions, mostly the northern ones, but there were pockets of habitation near the south pole as well. Much of the planet was very warm, and the large expanse from the equator to the outer reaches of the polar zones was sparsely inhabited by a tough breed of semi-nomadic prospectors, traveling around on all-terrain land-sea vehicles, searching for the priceless resources found in and alongside Columbia’s warm equatorial seas. Virtually all of these adventurous souls supported the rebellion, and despite their small numbers, they controlled the entire planet outside the polar regions.
Federal authority was restricted to Weston and a few other key locations. They had a garrison in Hampton, which, since the destruction of Calumet, was the second largest city on the planet. Hampton was about 500 kilometers southeast of Weston, centered in the main mining district. It was the one other area the Feds considered essential – the flow of raw materials back to Earth was absolutely vital to the economy of the Alliance.
John Marek was lying flat on his stomach, hidden in the scrubby woods just north of Stillwater. It was a chilly morning, and the front of his shirt was wet and cold from the damp ground. The westernmost of Weston’s peripheral villages, Stillwater was named for the tranquil lake on whose shores it rested. It was a quiet place, almost sleepy - a home for those who sought a relaxed lifestyle while still enjoying a ten minute mag-train ride to downtown Weston.
But the usual quiet had been shattered by the sounds of heavy construction vehicles. Stillwater, more than any of the other Weston-area enclaves, had backed revolution, and many of its inhabitants had marched away to fight with the rebel forces. Now the community was feeling the backlash. Hundreds of federal troops had poured into the village before sunrise, rounding up the inhabitants and marching them toward Weston in the pre-dawn gloom. The incursion had been a harsh one, and any who resisted were shot. There were considerable atrocities too - assaults, rapes, murders – carried out against the stunned villagers. Arlen Cooper wa
nted to send a message, and his troops, furious at the losses they had suffered and tired of being penned in Weston, were only too happy to oblige.
Marek arrived too late to stop any of that; he came as soon as word reached him, but the townspeople were gone by then. Now he watched the heavy dozers demolishing the houses and other buildings. He was close, as close as he dared get, and through his ‘scope he could see everything – the guards, the shattered buildings…the bodies of the murdered townspeople, still laying where they had fallen.
He felt the anger building inside him, an inner heat making his hands and face flush. He wanted to lunge forward, firing, killing all of the Feds in the village. But he only had half a dozen troops with him, and there were at least a hundred federal police in Stillwater. Even with surprise, an attack would be suicide, especially since the Feds had backup closer than he did.
Marek had been working for months to forge his ragtag force into a real army, one that could face the more numerous and better-equipped federals. His veterans had returned to form quickly, but it had been a struggle with the others. They were farmers and fisherman and shopkeepers. Leaving their families and marching out to war, seeing friends and neighbors horribly wounded and killed – it was hard for them to adapt. Some panicked the first time they were fired upon, others froze. But most of them had drawn the inner strength to do what had to be done. They learned to fight, to operate as a team. He’d had his doubts, many times in fact, but he was proud of what they had achieved.
The rebel forces around Weston had coalesced into a single army, and John Marek had been tapped to command it. His initial forces – the militia battalion and additional recruits – had been the most active and successful of the rebel units, conducting attacks and raids throughout the area. His bold move in seizing the militia weapons made his troops the best-armed of the resistance fighters. By the time the different rebel commanders met to organize themselves, Marek was the obvious choice for the top command.
He not only trained his forces, he managed their anger as well. The war had grown nastier, more bitter. Arlen Cooper had proven himself to be a soulless butcher, and his troops, angry at their losses and resentful of their inability to vanquish the poorly-equipped rebels, had become brutal and undisciplined. Marek’s men and women in turn, enraged at each new atrocity, howled for vengeance. He’d mostly kept their urges under control, forcing them to behave like soldiers, largely through his own force of will. But he was losing that control…of them…and of himself. He ached to kill all the Feds standing guard in the ruins of Stillwater. If I am being honest with myself, he thought grimly, I would wipe them out here and now if I had the force to do it, and I wouldn’t take any prisoners.
But information was more important now than revenge. Something else was in process at Stillwater, not just demolition. He could see construction going on as well, on the far side of town. Barricades - no, sections of fencing - going up. What’s going on, he thought; what are they up to?
He was tempted to sneak closer, to work his way around to the other side of the village and get a better look. “No,” he muttered under his breath. “That would be stupid. You’ll just get yourself killed.” He turned and signaled to the troops standing around him, motioning for them to withdraw. He could see a hitch in their movement – obviously they felt the same way he did – but they obeyed. Slowly, quietly, his little band slipped away, heading for the coast and the hidden submersible that would take them back to Carlisle.
The fences were formidable, built from modular sections of clear ‘plast slid into place between plasti-steel posts. Almost ten meters high and topped with razor sharp barbs, they stood strong and defied the efforts of anyone imprisoned within to escape. Positioned around the fences were watchtowers, manned day and night, and atop each was an auto-gun, pointing inward, covering the prisoners. Around the towers were bunkers, heavy plasti-crete emplacements, strongly armed and facing outward, daring any from outside to attack this gloomy complex.
Inside the daunting perimeter, surrounded by the towering walls, there were multitudes milling about in a confused mass. They’d been coming all morning, marched from trains arriving at what had been, until a week before, the Stillwater Magline Station. Now it was a nightmarish debarkation point, where a human cargo was offloaded and led to an uncertain fate within the gates of the camp.
Arlen Cooper had been watching all morning, sitting behind his desk, a satisfied smile on his face. There were cameras everywhere at the camp, and he switched between them, watching the columns of stunned prisoners marching through the gates. It was his idea, the camp…a way to strike back at these rebel brigands who had so roughly handled his troops. They had frustrated him and made him look foolish, and Carlisle Island was so heavily fortified he didn’t have nearly enough troops and equipment to attack it directly.
It was only a matter of time before Alliance Gov would tire of his grim reports of defeat and his constant requests for reinforcements. They would demand results, and if he failed to deliver he’d find himself back on Earth, disgraced. Or just as likely, dumped in a hole somewhere. He had to find a way to break these traitors, and he was hopeful this would be it.
The terrified captives huddled miserably together, without shelter in the cold, stinging rain. They were there for many reasons. Some had been suspected of aiding the rebels; others had gotten into altercations with his troops. But many had done nothing themselves; they were families of those suspected of serving with the rebel armies. Cooper had never been one to allow concerns about collateral damage to interfere with his plans, and he wasn’t going to start now. Let these rebels out there pretending to be soldiers think about their families paying the price for their treason.
“Well, governor, are you satisfied with the results?” Cooper had been focused on his screens, and he hadn’t noticed Colonel Karn come in. Karn was the senior Federal Police officer and Cooper’s commander in the field.
“Ah…Colonel.” Cooper looked up, smiling. “Yes, indeed. I am very satisfied, and I must commend you on holding to a very tight schedule.” His smile faded somewhat, worry creeping into his expression. “The rebels will probably attempt to liberate the occupants of the camp. Are you adequately prepared?”
Karn looked right at Cooper, a businesslike expression on his face. “If the rebels attack the camp they will walk into a death zone. They do not have enough heavy weapons to assault our bunkers, and they will be seriously constrained by the need to avoid causing casualties in the camp…a mission priority I trust does not bind us as it does them.”
Cooper grinned but didn’t answer. He didn’t need to answer – Karn knew that everyone in the camp was expendable as long as the rebellion was crushed. “I also have a report from Colonel Wren in Hampton. The camp there will be complete in four days.”
“Excellent. It is essential that we secure total control of the mining district. We have an export schedule to maintain, and those resources are vital to the Alliance economy.” And if exports slow any further, he thought, I’m going to be in someone’s crosshairs.
The Hampton area was sparsely populated, mostly just miners and their families. The rebels there were fewer in number than those near Weston and organized more as a guerilla force than an army – Cooper called them terrorists. Their efforts were more limited, mostly aimed at disrupting operations. Almost all of the miners had taken up arms, but Alliance Gov had sent replacement personnel to keep things functioning. Now it was a contest between the Feds trying to protect the mines and the rebels attempting to interdict production. It had been a stalemate, with the rebels slowing shipments but failing to shut down the mines entirely.
Karn cleared his throat and continued his report. “Major Simmons has orders to commence construction of a camp at Southpoint.” Southpoint was the largest community in the southern polar region, the hub of a smaller, but still valuable mining sector. “He has less heavy equipment available, so I anticipate it will require two weeks, possibly a few days more to comple
te construction.”
Cooper leaned back in his chair and nodded. “That will be all, Colonel. You may get back to your preparations. We want to be ready if our rebel friends make a move against the camp.” He paused for a few seconds then added, “I think we should move an additional regiment to support your forces near Stillwater.” He sucked in a deep breath. “I want a rebel attack not only defeated, but destroyed. Utterly crushed. You may transfer whatever forces you need to achieve this, but do not fail.” He looked up, glaring at Karn. “Understood, Colonel?”
“Yes, Governor.” Karn was a little unnerved by Cooper’s increasingly manic demeanor, but he didn’t let it show. “Understood.”
“You know it’s a trap.” Anton was not usually the voice of caution, but he was worried about this attack.
“Yes.” Marek’s voice was calm, deadpan. “Of course it’s a trap.”
“And you still want to do it?” Anton trusted Marek with his life, but he couldn’t figure out what his friend had in mind.
Marek looked over, his eyes focused on Anton’s. “How can we not do it?” He took a short breath, exhaling loudly. “Lucius, the people in that camp are ours. They are the families of our troops, their friends and neighbors.” His face wore the usual impassive mask, but Anton could see the stress hidden behind. “How can we not try? How can we ask them to fight someplace else while we let their loved ones rot in that godforsaken camp?”
Anton didn’t answer - he didn’t know what to say. Marek was right; morale would plummet if it looked as if he didn’t care about the captives in the camp.
“Look, Lucius, I’ve thought about it from every angle. There’s just no way around it.” Marek’s voice was tired, resigned. “I just need to make sure we can withdraw. It’ll be a bloody day, but if we let our retreat get cut off it could be the last day.”