by Marko Kloos
No network, I think. I’ve never been in this part of the solar system—in visual range of Earth—without a good and solid MilNet link. It’s the communications lifeline of everyone in uniform. If MilNet doesn’t even work in Earth orbit, our comms infrastructure is profoundly screwed up.
The holotable plot updates with every minute we get closer to Independence. There are ships in orbit, but not nearly as many as usual. Several NAC and SRA fleet units are patrolling the space between Luna and Earth, but they’re tiny little task groups—pairs of frigates, lone destroyers, a gaggle of orbital-patrol craft. I don’t see any capital ships at all—no cruisers, no carriers, nothing bigger than the Blue-class destroyer that’s still shadowing us to our starboard. If this is what’s left to defend Earth, we’re not just scraping the bottom of the barrel. We’ve turned the barrel over and shaken out all the old crap inside.
Luna isn’t quite close enough for me to see the structures on the nearly airless surface, but I could shine the laser designator of my M-66C carbine and bounce the beam off the retroreflectors they planted on the surface when the old United States first stepped onto the surface a hundred and fifty years ago.
So close, I think. So damn close.
“All those empty docking berths,” Major Renner says. We’re in the approach pattern to our assigned berth, coasting parallel with Independence Station. “I’ve never seen it this bare.”
“Wonder if it’s the same over at Gateway,” I say. “There’s not much military traffic in orbit.”
“Not much, but some,” Colonel Campbell says. “But go ahead and find me any civilian traffic at all on the plot right now.”
I check the plot again and realize that Colonel Campbell is absolutely correct. Every ship in our scanner range right now is broadcasting a military ID. Most of the ships are NAC or SRA fleet units, but I also see a few EU ships, two or three African Commonwealth units, and a corvette from the SAU. I don’t see any civilian traffic at all—no corporate transports or refinery ships shuttling ore and personnel back and forth between Earth and the colonies, no research ships heading out for deep-space exploration, not even low-orbit passenger flights.
“Indianapolis, you are cleared for docking at Foxtrot Three-Niner. Be advised that quarantine protocol is in effect. Your personnel are not authorized to depart Indianapolis upon arrival. Execute docking procedure and stand by for further instructions.”
“Independence, copy clearance for docking Foxtrot Three-Niner under quarantine protocol,” Major Renner replies.
I’ve docked at Independence Station a few times on military ships. Independence is the civilian station, and the military only uses it on occasion. The last time I docked here was when I returned from the disastrous Sirius Ad drop. The Lankies interrupted a battle between our NAC task force and the SRA garrison, and we lost half a dozen ships and ten thousand troopers and sailors in just a few hours of laughably one-sided battle. I got a ride home on the frigate Nassau, one of the very few survivors of that battle. We docked at Independence when we got back to Earth, and then we spent the next several days in what seemed like an endless chain of debriefings.
“Foxtrot Three-Niner,” Colonel Campbell says as he checks the approach plates for Independence on the holotable. “If this station had an ass end, F39 would be the docking port closest to it.”
Above and slightly behind us, the destroyer Murphy creeps along the rows of empty docking berths on this side of Independence with us, less than a kilometer off our starboard side.
“Are they going to follow us all the way into the docking clamps?” Major Renner grumbles.
For the next few minutes, we coast down the Foxtrot extension of Independence, passing berth after berth, our position lights reflecting off the titanium-white outer skin of the station.
“There’s the beam,” the helmsman says. “Engaging autodock sequence. On the beam for Foxtrot Three-Niner.”
The navigation computer takes over Indy’s conning and rotates the ship with the fine-tuned control of a silicon brain. Indy’s bulk turns and slows as the thrusters fire in sequence to get us into the docking berth at the prescribed approach speed. The berth is spacious enough for a destroyer or a cruiser; Indy looks almost lost in the large U-shaped berthing spot.
The arrestor clamps latch onto Indy from the port side and pull the ship into mooring position. Then the service and maintenance hoses attach themselves to our side, and finally the docking collar slides into position over Indy’s external airlock and latches into place.
“Confirm hard seal on the collar,” Major Renner says. “Cut all propulsion and switch the reactor to standby power.”
“Not exactly a warm welcome home,” I say.
Colonel Campbell rubs his chin with the palm of his hand.
“No, it isn’t,” he says. “Let’s not take off our boots and get comfortable just yet. I don’t like this quarantine business one bit.”
I don’t have any pressing business by the ship’s main airlock, but I am curious, so I go down there anyway. Sergeant Philbrick and Corporal DeLuca are shipside security on our side of the docking collar. The collar is a thirty-meter length of flexible lamellar steel that connects the station to our ship.
“This is some bullshit,” Staff Sergeant Philbrick says to me when I walk up to the open hatch, Dmitry in tow.
“What’s that, Philbrick?”
“Nobody’s allowed off the ship. They won’t let anyone through the collar.”
On the far side, over on Independence, four armed guards control access to the only way onto or off Indy. They’re not SI troopers, but civilian security police wearing night-blue uniforms and white body armor. Philbrick and Corporal DeLuca are in armor, too, and they look a lot more menacing in their full SI hardshell than those cops in theirs. The SI troopers are carrying M-66 carbines, sidearms, and a full combat load of magazines on their harnesses. Complete battle rattle is usually overkill for guard duty on friendly installations, but the way my stomach has been twisting for the last few hours, I’m kind of glad for the excessive show of force.
“That is bullshit,” I agree. A month on this little tub, and we don’t even get to stretch our legs. And I really don’t care to be treated like a goddamn POW.
“Look at those assholes.” Philbrick nods over at the other side of the docking collar. “Blocking the airlock with that clown show over there. I could crack that fruity eggshell armor of theirs with my dog tags. That’s almost worse than leaving the hatch unguarded.”
“Is not military armor,” Dmitry says. “Too light. Is not for fighting, just for—how do you say? Show?”
“They’re civilian police,” I explain. “Independence isn’t a military station.”
“Civilian police,” Dmitry repeats with a smirk, like he’s somehow insulted that the Commonwealth is trying to keep him on this ship with just a handful of lightly armed noncombatants.
“Anyone come over from their side yet?” I ask Staff Sergeant Philbrick.
“Yeah. Hour and a half ago. Three civvies, a handful of medics, two staff officers. A major and a light colonel.” Staff Sergeant Philbrick shifts the weight of his carbine in his arms. The polymer shell of the weapon makes a soft rasping sound against the laminate of his battle armor.
“What branch?”
“Fleet,” Corporal DeLuca answers. “But no unit patches. Kinda weird. Didn’t say shit to us, either. Barely returned our salutes.”
I look over to the far side of the docking collar again. The civilian SPs are standing in pairs, two on either side of the hatch, PDWs slung across their chests. Beyond them, behind the station airlock, there are rec and medical facilities, mess halls with fresh food, and MilNet terminals for access by military personnel. If we had permission to leave Indy, I could grab some chow and a long shower and then call Halley, to tell her that I kept my promise and made it back to Earth in one piece and in time for our wedding. Being this close to her without a way to contact her is worse than the anxiety I feel be
fore a combat drop. I’ve made it past Lankies and across thirty light-years of space, and now the only thing between me and a way to talk to her is this group of lightly armed SPs. Part of me wants to go below, put on combat armor, get my carbine from the armory, and see if they have the guts to do something about me walking right through them. The combined refugee force waiting for our return at New Svalbard is running lower on supplies every day, and we are playing protocol games with whoever is left in charge here.
“Staff Sergeant Grayson, report to the NCO mess. Staff Sergeant Grayson, report to the NCO mess.”
I feel a little jolt of anxiety when I hear my name over the shipboard announcement system. I pull my PDP out of the leg pocket of my fatigues and check the screen again. This close to Independence, I should have unrestricted access to MilNet at full network speed, but the synchronization still hangs up with an error message. I’ve had my PDP locked out of MilNet on purpose before, but this is different. It’s like the network is overloaded.
“Gotta go,” I say to Staff Sergeant Philbrick. “Don’t get complacent. There’s some weird shit going on right now.”
“Oh, I have the same feeling,” Philbrick replies. “We’ve had the squad comms running since we docked. You be careful, too.”
“Come on, Dmitry,” I say. “I gotta drop you off at your berth before I go down there.”
Dmitry shrugs and turns to follow me.
We leave the SI troopers behind and walk down the passageway toward the elevator. For a moment, I feel like turning back and asking Staff Sergeant Philbrick for his sidearm. I’m exhausted and anxious, and I’ve never felt less prepared for trouble than I do right now.
CHAPTER 10
When I step through the hatch of the NCO mess, the room is largely empty except for the two strangers that are sitting at the table closest to the food counter. One of them is a civilian, a slightly round-faced man with a balding head and old-fashioned eyeglasses. Everything about him screams “bureaucrat.” He’s wearing blue overalls like the civilian yard apes do, but his look like they just came out of the bag at the issue station. Underneath, he’s wearing a dark red high-collared suit, the kind fashionable among Earthside government functionaries and newscasters.
The man next to him is a military officer, and he looks nothing like a bureaucrat. He’s in standard fleet-issue CDU fatigues, the new blue-and-gray camouflage pattern they started issuing only last year. He’s wearing the shoulder boards of a major, a silver oak wreath with one four-sided star in it, and a name tape that identifies him as “CARTER.” He studies me with hard gray eyes as I step into the room, and I take an instant dislike to him. I stop in front of the table where the two are sitting and render a cursory salute just barely on the right side of insubordination. These people are intruders on this ship. They don’t belong to the crew with whom I’ve risked my life for the last month, and I don’t like seeing them holding court in the one spot on the ship where the noncoms can relax and socialize occasionally.
“Staff Sergeant Grayson reporting as ordered,” I say to the major, ignoring the civilian entirely. The major nods to an empty chair in front of the table.
“Sit, Staff Sergeant.”
I sit down and study the major’s uniform as the civilian next to him starts to tap away on a data pad in his hands. The uniform is correct, technically speaking—clean CDUs, proper rank sleeves, a midnight-blue fleet beret tucked underneath the left shoulder board, everything crisp and sharp and according to dress regs. But there’s only a name tape on his chest above the right breast pocket. There’s no specialty badge, no combat drop wings, nothing at all that lets me deduce the major’s service branch within the fleet. The spots on the upper arms where the unit and organizational patches ought to be are just blank stickythread squares. The major sitting in front of me is as generic a fleet staff officer as it gets.
“This meeting is classified,” the civilian says without preamble or introduction. “You are not authorized to share any details of this conversation with anyone not in the room at present. Please place your PDP on the table before we proceed.”
“May I ask who you are?” I ask the civilian. “I don’t see any ID or rank sleeves on you.”
“Place your PDP on the table as requested,” the major says. “You see my rank sleeves, don’t you?”
“I do,” I confirm. “And I don’t know who you are, either, sir. What fleet branch are you? I see no unit patch.”
The major looks at me and then flashes a curt and humorless smile.
“Logistics,” he says. “But it’s not me you need to play nice with. It’s this gentleman over here.”
The civilian takes a credentials folder out of his overalls without looking away from his data pad screen. He flips it open and flashes a holographic badge and ID card at me.
“I am Special Agent Green. I’m with the Commonwealth Security Service. Please comply with my requests without delay, or things are going to get unfriendly.”
I look at his credentials. I’ve never seen a CSS badge before, so for all I know he could be showing me a merchandise voucher for the government commissary in Halifax, but it looks authentic enough.
“CSS is civilian. This is a military ship. You have no jurisdiction here. You got a beef with me, I should be talking to the master-at-arms or Fleet Investigative Service.”
Special Agent Green exchanges a look with Major Carter and smiles thinly. “Oh, boy,” he says. “Another latrine lawyer.” He nods over to the nearest bulkhead. “You are docked at Independence Station. Independence is a civilian facility. I can assure you that we have jurisdiction on civilian facilities. But I didn’t call you down here to debate the coarse points of Commonwealth law with an E-6.”
He looks at his data pad again and flicks through a few screens with his finger. “When Indianapolis did its slingshot burn around Mars, were you in armor, Sergeant Grayson?”
“Well, let’s think about this,” I say. “Periapsis approach to a Lanky-held world, right past several Lanky seed ships. Of course I was wearing armor. Everyone was in a vacsuit.”
“Yes or no would be sufficient, Staff Sergeant Grayson.” Special Agent Green looks up from his data pad again and gives me a thin-lipped smile. “Go ahead and assume that you don’t need to impress me with your cleverness or your toughness.”
“I don’t feel the need to impress you,” I say. “I’m just a lowly E-6. You said it yourself. Why are you talking to me right now? We just ran the blockade past Mars. There’s a hundred shipwrecks floating out there. Did the skipper tell you we have thirty thousand people waiting for us to get back to Fomalhaut and show them a way back home?”
“Fomalhaut,” Agent Green says. “Yeah, I read the logs. That’s why you’re sitting here.”
He consults his data pad again. I suppress the sudden urge to rip it out of his hands and cram it down his throat. A hundred of our ships gone, millions dead on Mars, tens of thousands waiting for news on New Svalbard. Why are we wasting time with this right now?
“You took part in a bona fide mutiny on New Svalbard. You disobeyed direct orders from the task force commander and shot it out with fellow troops. I’m still sifting through the details, but from where I’m sitting, I’ve already tallied up twenty-five years in Leavenworth, Staff Sergeant Grayson.”
“They were illegal orders,” I say.
“Not your call to make. You’re an E-6. You’re a combat grunt, not a JAG officer.”
“That was my call to make,” I say. “First thing you learn in NCO school is to never give an order that you know won’t be followed. Second thing you learn is that you have the right to refuse illegal orders. The task force commander had no right to use us to claim civilian assets by force.”
“Be sure to bring that up at your court-martial,” Major Carter says.
“I will,” I say. “And I’ll also bring up how you people exiled two battalions of Earthside grunts on a colony with almost no resources, and then turned off the FTL network.”
>
Agent Green gives me his brief, thin-lipped smile again. “Two battalions,” he says, aping my tone of voice. “Five thousand troops.”
“And the colonists.”
“And the colonists,” he replies. “How many people live on that frozen ball of shit again?”
“Ten, fifteen thousand,” Major Carter supplies. “It’s a pretty new colony. Ten years tops.”
“Twenty thousand people at the most, then.” Agent Green sighs. “A quarter of them insubordinate rabble-rousers who thought their oath of service was more of a loose suggestion.”
“And three-quarters of them civilians.”
Agent Green sighs again and puts his data pad onto the table in front of him. “Do you know how many civilians have died on Lanky-invaded colonies, Sergeant?”
“I have a rough idea,” I say. “I’ve done four years of combat drops. Seen an awful lot of dead bodies.”
“Eight hundred fifty thousand,” Agent Green says. “Give or take a few ten thousand. And that count was from two months ago. Mars blew it all to hell. Call it twenty, twenty-one million now. But you know what? That number is a weak piss in a lake compared to the number of people that are going to die when the Lankies show up in Earth orbit.”
I look at the Earth bureaucrat with his neat suit underneath the borrowed overalls, with that badge in his pocket and the data pad in front of him, acting like any of this still matters.
“We have a few weeks,” I say. “Maybe a few months. There are a dozen Lanky ships patrolling between Mars and the asteroid belt. When they’re done settling Mars, they’re going to head this way. Way things stand, I don’t think Leavenworth is going to be a problem for me.”
“Well, aren’t you just the toughest guy on the block,” Agent Green says. “I am, of course, duly awed. Where is your berth, Staff Sergeant?”
“I can’t seem to recall just now. Maybe I’ll remember by the time you get me some JAG counsel in here. I don’t think I should be saying anything else right now.”