by Jay Allan
Samovich walked slowly, solemnly toward the lectern. His demeanor was perfect, his expression carefully deliberate, sadness, yet strength too…intended to empathize with the people, but to reassure them as well. The perfect message. Their leader was human, emotional…but he was strong too, ready to protect them from the danger. He was a master at what he did, but deep inside he still couldn’t quite believe how gullible people were, how easy to lead and deceive.
He listened to the news reports as they were broadcast, nodding his head slowly in approval as he watched the footage, the video of the perfectly staged disaster sites. The ‘facts’ of the terrorist attacks were perfect, and he’d made sure his teams had provided plenty of footage of very normal looking people being carried out of the rubble. By the time his teams had finished with it, the footage looked extremely authentic. The incidents had taken him completely by surprise—and he swore someone was going to pay for that fact—but he’d responded quickly, always a believer that no crisis was to be wasted and that with enough lies anything could be turned to an advantage.
And so it had, so far at least. The rebels might have weapons and explosives, but UNGov controlled the information nets…and with that, Samovich could make the people believe anything he wanted. The Resistance groups had exercised great care in their timing and choice of targets, clearly attempting to minimize casualties. For all the physical damage they had caused, fewer than 800 people had been killed, the 41,000 figure the newscasters were reporting being purely the creation of Samovich’s propagandists…as was most of the footage of charred bodies being removed from the smoking ruins.
The bit about the children was his favorite part, probably because it had been his idea, a way to inflame opinion even further and to generate greater support for the government’s efforts to bring the culprits to justice. It hadn’t even been that difficult to come up with the required bodies. There were always orphans from those who were liquidated in the reeducation camps. They were usually raised on government orphanage farms and typically put to work in the fields at around ten years of age—and frequently drafted into the planetary armies when they reached adulthood. But a few dozen had just served a far greater purpose…even if they’d been killed and half-incinerated to do it.
Samovich turned when he got to the podium, and he looked out for a moment. He stood, as if he was marshaling the strength to address the terrible events of the last day, to put aside his heartbreak and lead his people through this tragedy. Then he cleared his throat and began.
“My fellow citizens of United Earth, it is with a heavy heart that I have come to speak to you this day. We have faced challenges together, struggles the generations who preceded us could hardly have imagined. First contact with an alien race, a historical milestone gone horribly wrong…and a forty-year war for survival against a savage and technologically advanced enemy, a desperate struggle that has absorbed resources and caused widespread suffering and shortages.” There was no harm in reminding the population of the Tegeri threat, and to reinforce their thinking that UNGov was the shield protecting them from bloodthirsty aliens. To focus their blame for the squalor and conditions many of them endured.
“But today we are reminded that human beings, men and women just like us, are also capable of almost unspeakable evil. We see it here, in the images of these destroyed buildings, in the bodies pulled from the wreckage…” He paused an instant, as if emotion was overwhelming him. “…in the children, massacred while they attended school.”
He stared into the camera, silent for a moment, giving his global audience a chance to absorb his carefully chosen words.
“Nothing I can say will take away the pain we all feel, the outrage at such a dastardly series of terrorist attacks. There are no words, no explanations that can make decent people understand what inspires such hideous evil in some. All we can do is see to those injured…and aid the loved ones of the lost in any way possible. And to that end we have dispatched counselors and crisis management teams to each of the stricken areas.”
His face hardened, and his voice deepened as he gradually fed anger into his meticulously constructed demeanor. “And we shall find and apprehend those responsible. Have no doubt, my fellow citizens, that your government will spare no effort or expense, leave no stone unturned in our relentless effort to bring those who perpetrated this heinous act to justice. And all who aided or abetted them. There will be no place to hide, no dark hole deep enough for the villains to hide. We will destroy them utterly and without remorse, whatever the cost. And we will take whatever steps are necessary to ensure that nothing like this can ever happen again. This, I promise each and every one of you.”
With my sincere thanks to these rebels for giving me an excuse to tighten security worldwide…and for the support I will gain when you are found and brought to the scaffold. Or, if you prove too elusive, when some other convict stands there in your place.
“And now, let us have a moment of silence, a tribute to those we lost this day, and a display for all to see of our solidarity as a people, and our never ending quest for justice and peace.” He bowed his head, staring at the top of the lectern while a single thought went through his mind.
My God, a minute can feel like a long time…
* * *
“Secretary-General, sir…” Pete Rogers’ voice was shaky, and he struggled to return Samovich’s gaze.” The aide had served the Secretary-General for years, long before Samovich had secured the top job, and he knew how to handle his sometimes unpredictable and volatile boss. But he was nervous this time, clearly worried about how Samovich would react to what he had to report.
“Yes, yes, what is it? I haven’t got all day, man.” Samovich’s tone was edgy, impatient. He wasn’t in the mood to waste time. He had enough to worry about already.
“Sir, several days ago the administrative center at Salekhard sent in a signal they had received. It was…well, sir…it was very garbled, mostly static, and they weren’t even sure if it was artificial or some kind of natural phenomenon. So…it ended up in a low-priority queue…” The aide paused, his eyes carefully probing the Secretary-General’s expression.
“Get to the point,” Samovich said, his voice growing thick with menace. “Unless you want a transfer to the Antarctic research station, where slow, stammering bullshit might be tolerated more than it is here in my office.”
“Yes, sir.” Rogers tried to get control over his nerves, with very limited success. He was used to Samovich’s impatience, and he’d survived it before. But he knew things were different now. The boss was already upset, worried about the rebel army on the Portal worlds…and angry that his security staff had been caught flatfooted by the Resistance’s massive strike. And the news he had to give Samovich was even worse.
“When the message was finally analyzed,” he continued, “it was determined that it was likely an artificial transmission…a probability greater than eighty percent. There are no known expeditions in the range of areas where the signal originated, so the file was upgraded to…”
Samovich stared at the aide with a withering gaze. “Skip to the end of this…now.”
Rogers’ eyes were wide with fear, but he swallowed hard and continued. “Sir, we dispatched a flyer to investigate the projected origin of the transmission. It is deep within the Siberian Wilderness Zone, outside of normal satellite surveillance arcs. And…”
“And?” Samovich was out of patience.
“And it disappeared, sir. The flyer. We lost contact with it. Communications reports that they had picked up something that could have been jamming before they lost all trace of the ship…but they can’t be sure it…”
“Send an entire wing to scout the area,” Samovich snapped, “and a second wing in support two hundred kilometers behind…with full scanners engaged. And order all satellites in position to be retasked immediately for a full sweep of those coordinates.”
“Yes, Secretary-General, immediately sir.” The aide look surprised, stunned
even at the precision of Samovich’s response. He bowed his head slightly and turned to go and relay the orders.
“And Rogers…”
The aide stopped and turned back toward Samovich. “Sir?”
“Tell them I’ll be down to Communications in ten minutes…and somebody down there better have a damned good answer as to why it took them several days to analyze this transmission.” There was a coldness in Samovich’s voice that left little doubt how seriously he took the matter. “Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Samovich paused, only for an instant. Then he said, “And place all UNGov installations on full alert. I want Blue and Green divisions to mobilize immediately and prepare to ship out to Siberia in six hours. And all other AOE units are to be ready to go on a day’s notice.” Samovich had named his nascent defense force the Army of Earth. It wasn’t terribly imaginative, perhaps, but it was something, an identity that would pull his soldiers together, make them feel like part of a greater whole, the army tasked with no less sacred a task than defending mother Earth against a mob of bloodthirsty traitors.
“Yes, Secretary-General.” It was clear from the sound of his voice the aide didn’t understand.
But Anton Samovich had no such doubts. He wouldn’t know for sure of course, not until the flyers and satellite scans confirmed it, but there wasn’t really any question in his mind. He had never been more certain of anything.
Taylor’s people were back on Earth.
Chapter 10
Communications Clip Captured in New York City:
Raven this is Viper. Raven this is Viper. We are pinned down, south of Canal, with UNGov forces in close pursuit. I am taking the chance to send this to warn you…there are Inquisitor teams all over New York, and all first level refuges appear to be blown. Multiple Resistance teams have been eliminated or captured. Repeat, multiple Inquisitor teams, backed up with regular security forces…with extensive intelligence about our organization. We have lost half our personnel, at least two captured. We’re going to risk making a run for it in a few…wait, what is…No! Go! Get…(transmission ends)
“Come on, Captain…we have to get to one of the backup safe houses. We’ve had too many people captured already…we’ve got to assume some of them have broken by now, and all our other locations are compromised.” Jones knew his people all had suicide doses, but he also knew it was one thing to plan to kill yourself in the event of capture and quite another to swallow that clear liquid, knowing that single brief action would end your life in a matter of seconds. Even the knowledge of almost certain torture if captured was sometimes inadequate to override the human urge for survival. Besides, the Inquisitor teams were using heavy stun cannons, clearly attempting to take prisoners for interrogation.
Wickes simply nodded. He was calm, a touch of sadness in his eyes perhaps, mourning for those lost in the fighting, but otherwise totally in control. Jones, so strong, so anxious just a few days earlier to strike a blow, was clearly shaken. The younger man was experiencing a baptism of fire that Wickes had gone through decades before. The New York team had lost at least a dozen of their group, friends, comrades, familiar faces now gone. Jones was having trouble dealing with it all, but Wickes was a veteran, and he knew well the cost of war.
“Yes, Carson,” the old Marine said. “It is time for us to go. We must consider any second level refuge compromised as well if anyone aware of its location has been captured or is missing.” Unlike his friend, Stan Wickes had seen battle before, though when he’d been in the line with his fellow Marines almost half a century before they’d been as well armed and equipped as their enemies. Now, Wickes was a rebel, running, hunted, waiting for the opportunity to leap out of the shadows and strike again.
He knew his comrades were all in shock to a certain extent. They’d known, of course, that UNGov would strike back, but Wickes realized that awareness had not prepared them for the true reality of what they had begun. An image passed through his mind, a kid, barely in his twenties, crawling through a burning city somewhere in Asia, throngs of terrified civilians streaming by as he and his unit pushed forward. Wickes had gone through Marine training, but even that grueling routine had left him ill-prepared for the realities of combat. The memories were old now, but still strong, and he could remember exactly how scared he was, how it felt, every second a struggle not to throw down his weapons and run…a test of will he won each time by the barest of margins, only to face it again an instant later. He knew his fellow rebels were feeling now their own version of what he himself had endured in those first days in the field so long ago. And he knew it was a battle they had to face on their own, that there was little he could do to help.
“The Bronx location,” Jones said. “It’s one of the newest. Only a few of us know about it…and no one who’s been captured, at least not yet.”
“Good call,” Wickes snapped back, nodding. “We can probably get there underground…” He paused. His instinct told him the old subway tunnels were a better way to go than through the streets. UNGov troops were everywhere above ground. With martial law in effect, street traffic had been outlawed save for those going to and from work…and with the documents to prove it. It would be hard to avoid the checkpoints and patrols to get far enough north without being caught…and more difficult still crossing one of the bridges to the Bronx. But he had doubts about his chosen route as well. The security forces weren’t stupid…they would know about the old train tunnels, and they’d have at least some presence down there. And a subway tube was a closed in place, a hard spot to escape from if they ran into a UNGov force down there.
He walked over an old wooden chest sitting against the wall and opened it, pulling out an assault rifle. He stared at it for a second and then handed it to Jones. “We’ll have to fight anyone we find down there…there won’t be any place to run. And it will be nasty, fast. If we run into UNGov troops down there, you just start shooting…and you don’t stop until they’re all down. Got it?” He looked over at the others, gesturing with his head for them to come over and take the weapons he was pulling out of the case.
Once everyone was armed, he started pulling out sacks of extra cartridges, tossing one to each of the rebels standing in a rough line behind him. He could see the hints of surprise in some of their eyes. They all knew him as ‘the captain,” the ex-Marine who was the leader of their cell. But most of them also knew him as the quiet old man, the one prone to sit off to the side, only occasionally offering an opinion. But now that things had hit the fan, he seemed a different person. His energy level had soared, and the years had seemed to drain away from his careworn face. Stan Wickes was a Marine, and as grimly realistic as he was about his peoples’ chances, he still preferred an almost hopeless fight to sitting around hiding, skulking in the darkness.
He took two more rifles from the chest, strapping one around his shoulder and gripping the other tightly as he pulled out a pack of extra clips, and threw it around his other shoulder. His eyes dropped down. There were half a dozen rifles left, and he felt a wave of regret at abandoning them…especially after they’d been so difficult to get. But he already had one spare slung across his back, and he didn’t want to load down the others. They would have enough to handle, controlling their fear, staying focused when it came to a fight.
He took a last fleeting look at the precious rifles, and then he closed the chest gently. Maybe they’ll still be here, he thought, not believing that for an instant. He knew the UNGov forces would find this spot, as they would those across the river. Indeed, they could find it any moment—it was time to go.
Wickes turned to face the other six men in the room. “I want everybody’s eyes wide open down in those tubes. If we run into a security patrol, it’s a fight to the death, understood? There’s no way to run down there, no place to escape…so don’t even try. And don’t waste an instant. If you give the other guy a second, he’s going to use it to blow your brains out, understood?” He knew he was repeating himself, but he
wanted to burn it into their heads.
Wickes could see Jones out of the corner of his eye, nodding. It took the others a few seconds more to process what he had said, but they too signaled their understanding. “Okay, let’s go.” Wickes moved to the door, opening it slowly and peering out of the building. He looked both ways. The dark street seemed quiet, abandoned. There were no visible patrols, but he knew there were surveillance devices everywhere…and also UNGov security forces hiding in key spots, watching and waiting to catch rebel groups on the move. He looked up, half expecting to see the sky full of airships, flying back and forth and scanning the roads. But there was nothing.
Don’t forget the regular people, he thought grimly, his eyes pausing briefly on the windows of buildings lining the avenue. He knew his compatriots assumed the population was all on their side, cheering in their homes for the brave resistance fighters, but Wickes knew better. Downtrodden people lost their will to resist, and their thoughts went instead to survival, to living their lives quietly and avoiding the attention of their masters. It was always a small group that led rebellion…and most people only followed when they saw success, a chance of victory. The population would stream out of their homes, shouting and throwing flowers at the victory parade, but unless that day came, most of them would view the Resistance as little more than a group of dangerous lunatics.
Right now, the citizens of New York were as likely to blame the revolutionaries for bringing the UNGov forces down upon them as they were to root for the rebels. The government troops had been far from gentle, and Wickes could only guess how many hundreds of innocent civilians had been killed in the strife, and how many thousands rounded up for interrogation. No, the rebels couldn’t count on anyone but themselves. And there were a lot fewer of them than there had been a week before.