by Rick Partlow
He owed it to Shannon.
He was so absorbed with his thoughts that he almost didn't notice when the starship captains returned, nearly arm-in-arm. They paused in the doorway, looking at him and then briefly at each other before they came back to the table. Minishimi took her seat while Patel stood at the head of them all.
"We find ourselves in an awkward and perhaps unprecedented position," he said. "Our decisions will affect all humanity, yet we have no appointed leader. Either Captain Minishimi or myself is the obvious choice, but we share a rank and nearly the same time in grade." He grimaced painfully. "What we also share is a complete lack of practical experience in fighting this particular enemy. As a matter of fact, the only person here of appropriate rank with that kind of experience," he said, his gaze settling on Jason, "is you, Captain McKay."
"Me?" Jason felt a strange, disturbing tingle in his stomach.
"And," Patel went on, ignoring the interruption, "since the last orders I have are to provide you with all the support necessary to aid in the effort against the Invaders..." He glanced at Minishimi, who nodded wordlessly. "Captain McKay, I'm loath to dump this kind of responsibility on someone else's shoulders---we both are.” He gestured to his fellow starship commander. "But regulations and military procedure won't do us any good if we lose this fight. I can't order you to be our commanding officer, but we'd both appreciate it if you'd accept."
Jason stared at him in disbelief, filled with a sudden and overwhelming sense of resentment. How could they do this to him after what he'd told them? How could they put him in this kind of position?
And how could he possibly say no?
He stood slowly, trying his best to bore a hole through Patel's skull with his glare. Around him, he could hear the muttering from the starships' staff officers, could feel their stares, sense the shaking of their heads. This wasn't going to work. No one would follow him---they'd know he wasn't qualified. They wouldn't trust him, wouldn't believe in his decisions---and why should they?
He wasn't sure if he believed in them himself.
But from somewhere in a dark corner of his soul loomed an image of Colonel Mellanby, eyes as cold as death, smiling savagely.
I'm counting on you to keep on accomplishing the mission, the specter whispered. And if you don't, I'll rip your liver out with my bare hands and eat it raw.
"Captain Patel," Jason said, "I'm going to need to interrogate Podbyrin again. And I need to figure out a safe way to send a wide-band message to Earth."
Chapter Nineteen
"Life is a grindstone. Whether it grinds you down or polishes you up depends on what you're made of."---Anon.
The viewscreen flickered, its picture grainy and unfocussed from the poor quality of the helmet cam, but gradually the image formed of an old, one-story block building surrounded by an electrified fence.
"That's the armory outside Cleveland 'plex," Lieutenant Leon---"Call me Kristy"---Kristopolis told Shannon, standing behind her, half-leaning on her chair. "We'd already cleaned out by then, but I left an observation team to gather what intelligence we could."
Shannon nodded, only half-listening to the man. He'd arrived earlier in the day, brought by Corporal Lee's friend Rhajiv Vingh along with the rest of the Service Corps platoon. She'd been worried that he'd be the stereotypical Janitor Corps officer---fat, sloppy and obsessed with paperwork---but so far he'd proved surprisingly intelligent, if somewhat garrulous. He reminded her of her college economics professor, and was near the same age. Promotions came slowly in the RSC.
On the screen, a group of Protectorate biomechs came into view, emerging from a tracked personnel carrier. A squad of them spread out around the vehicle for security while the rest poured through the main gate, left gaping open by the fleeing RSC troopers.
"There," Kristy said, jabbing a finger at the rotating dish antenna mounted on the vehicle. "That's what I was talking about. It's putting out a constant signal on a narrow band. We tried to listen in and all we got was this." He put a tape into a slot on the control board and hit the play button, and was rewarded with an ululating computer squeal.
"Probably a control signal," Shannon guessed, stopping the tape. "They have to maintain some kind of local coordination to keep the things organized. Otherwise, they return to basic programming: kill anything in sight."
"So they're sort of like Marines," Kristy muttered.
Shannon glanced back at him, laughing in spite of herself. It seemed the RSC had the same low opinion of the Marines that the jarheads had of the janitors.
"Sort of. Anyway, if we can destroy the control antenna, we can disorganize the troopers."
"You're the expert, ma'am," the slim Greek officer said, shaking his head. "I didn't know these things existed until yesterday. We're a bit lightly armed for any action, though." Kristopolis sighed, switching off the video replay. "All we've got are twenty flechette guns and a couple sidearms." He grinned in self-deprecation. "They don't exactly let us Janitors play with the fun toys."
"I talked about that with Agent Klesko last night, before you and your platoon arrived." Shannon spun her chair around to face him. "They didn't store any weapons at this facility, but he knows of an emergency cache nearby---older stuff, but still useful."
"Hell, I'm game, ma'am. Let's go grab it."
"I'm afraid it won't be that simple, Lieutenant. First, we have to convince the Senator to approve."
Her head snapped around at the attention tone from the communications board and Kristopolis leaned forward, checking the readout.
"It's a wide-band message," he told Shannon, activating the viewer. "Maybe more announcements from that loud Russian fellow."
As the screen flashed to life, Shannon had to stifle a gasp. The face in the flickering image wasn't Antonov, it was Jason.
"This is Captain McKay, Fleet Intelligence," Jason intoned solemnly, "acting commander of the surviving Republic military forces."
"I'll be damned," Shannon hissed, shaking her head. That lucky son of a bitch had been promoted again.
"You know this guy?" Kristopolis regarded her curiously.
"You could say that."
"I'm speaking both to our citizenry and to the representatives of the Protectorate," Jason continued, "and any of my comrades who are listening should remember this." Shannon's ears pricked up and her brows knit as she quickly scanned the commo board for a frequency monitor. "We of the Republic military understand the threats that have been made by General Antonov should we take any action against his forces. We wish him to be assured that we are not in the planning stages of any such attempt. Our primary concern is the safety of the President and of innocent civilians. However, we choose not to surrender at this time, as we are not assured of our safety and also do not wish to allow our ships to fall into the hands of the Protectorate.
"We advise the forces of the Protectorate not to bother tracing the origin of this signal, as we will not be remaining at these coordinates for more than another thirty hours. For our comrades in arms on Earth, we leave you with the message that we are one in thought, one in courage...and one in action. This may not be a time for flagships and space battles, but it is the time for brave men and women to step forward and unite."
The screen degenerated into a snowy, patternless collage and Kristopolis shut it off.
"Yes!" Shannon beat her fist against the console triumphantly, earning a curious stare from Kristopolis.
"Am I missing something?" he asked her. "I mean, it was a stirring speech, but..."
"Get the Senator," she told him. "And Agent Klesko. Bring them back here now!"
"Yes, ma'am." He sketched a salute and sprinted out of the room, leaving Shannon staring at the screen, shaking her head.
"Jason McKay," she whispered, grinning from ear to ear like a child on Christmas morning, "you're a Goddamned genius."
"I don't understand." Senator O'Keefe shook his head as Jason's image faded and the recording ended. "I mean, I'm gratified that Captain Mc
Kay is all right, but what's the urgency?"
"Listen to the beginning again," Shannon told him, keying the read-write disc.
"I am speaking both to our citizenry and to the representatives of the Protectorate," McKay's image repeated, "and any of my comrades who are listening should remember this." Shannon paused the replay and turned to O'Keefe.
"That's a code-phrase," she told him. "The mention of speaking both to us and the Protectorate means he's trying to deliver a message but can't speak plainly."
"It's POW code," Charlie Klesko confirmed, leaning on Valerie O'Keefe and Glen Mulrooney, who'd helped to bring him from his room. His wounds had been treated with medical supplies stored in the shelter, but the metal fragment had cracked his right hip and he should, Val kept reminding him, have been in bed. "Standard for almost a hundred years---if the enemy's listening, find a way to let the good guys know. A pretty good job of it, too." He groaned softly as Val and Glen gently lowered him into a seat on the sofa.
Mulrooney stood leaning against the far wall, haunting the room like a ghost. He'd wandered the shelter like a lost soul since last night. Shannon wasn't sure if he'd slept. Val sat on the room's sofa next to Klesko, as if she lacked purpose without him around to tend.
"But what's he trying to tell us?" the Senator wanted to know.
"He says they're 'not in the planning stages' of any attack on the Protectorate," Shannon reminded him, "but since he's let us know that he's talking for the benefit of the enemy, I'd say that means they are planning something, and he tells us exactly what their objectives are."
"The President," Klesko said. "He wants someone down here to try and free the President."
"And probably take the control center for the orbital defense satellites at the same time," Shannon agreed.
"Even if anyone had the capability for that," Lieutenant Kristopolis protested, "the Protectorate ships would just destroy the control center with a missile."
"That has to be the other part of the plan," Shannon deduced. "He said 'This may not be the time for flagships and space battles, but it is the time for brave men and women to step forward and unite.' The Protectorate's flagship---he'd have to be setting up some kind of attack to take it out."
"He stressed unity several times," Klesko pointed out. "He wants to coordinate the attacks so the Protectorate won't have time to react."
"I don't know," Daniel O'Keefe sighed, running a hand across his face. "That's assuming an awful lot."
"I know Jason," Shannon insisted---and couldn't help but notice the sharp glance that earned from Valerie. "He wouldn't waste time on a message like that unless it meant something more. There was a carrier wave tucked into the message---it's a standard navigational code. He's giving us the coordinates to transmit a reply."
"And a time frame," Klesko reminded her. "Thirty hours."
"It'll have to be a tight-beam transmission." Shannon bit her lip thoughtfully, pacing around the room, hugging her arms to her. It was chilly in the shelter at night, and she wasn't dressed for it. "We don't have that kind of equipment here."
"What would you need?" Kristopolis wondered.
"Access to one of the orbital comsats would be best," Agent Klesko told him. "But we could probably get away with a high-powered, ground-based laser."
"Access to a comsat," the RSC Lieutenant mused, rubbing at his chin. "You mean like a Republic Holonet broadcast station?"
Shannon's head snapped around and Klesko struggled to sit up straighter.
"I mean exactly like an RHN station." Klesko grabbed the man's arm. "Tell me there's one near here."
"In Cleveland 'plex," Kristy confirmed. "I pass it every day on the way to work."
"The Russians'll have it secured," Shannon warned.
"But not tightly," Klesko argued. "They can't have that many troops onplanet yet. We can do it."
"We're still going to need those weapons," Kristopolis said. "If you try something like this, it'll make it harder to get them."
"What weapons?" Senator O'Keefe asked, looking at each of them as if they'd lost their minds. "What are you talking about?"
"We could do the ops at the same time," Klesko suggested, continuing as if he hadn't heard the man's question. "It won't take that many troops to pull off the transmission---actually, I wouldn't take more than ten people."
"That's true." Shannon leaned back on the commo console, her eyes glazed in thought for a moment. "But we'd be stretching our resources pretty thin."
"I might be able to find us some more help," Kristopolis told her. "I know a few of the local cops---they could provide some warm bodies."
"Just hold it one Goddamned minute!" Senator O'Keefe slammed a fist down on the commo console.
Everyone's head swivelled around, staring at him wide-eyed. O'Keefe's face was red and he was huffing like a steam engine.
"I seem to recall," he strained the words out through clenched teeth, "someone telling me I was the de facto leader of the Republic. If I'm not mistaken, the three of you," he eyed Shannon, Klesko and Kristopolis, "work for me. So why don't you try running this brilliant plan of yours by me before we send out the troops?"
"Sorry, sir." Shannon winced contritely. "You see, Agent Klesko knows of an emergency cache of weaponry nearby---we'll need them if we're going to carry out any actions against the Protectorate forces."
"The site's pretty well camouflaged," Klesko put in. "There probably won't be any resistance---we'll just have to be careful on the way back. What Lieutenant Kristopolis was pointing out was that it would be more risky if we attempted to access the weapons after we made the transmission, since the Protectorate forces would be on alert."
"You really think we can accomplish anything," the Senator asked him, "with just a handful of Service Corps troops?"
"They're damned good troops, sir." There was an edge to Kristopolis' tone.
"I'm not sure this is a good idea." O'Keefe shook his head, pacing across the room, hands shoved in his pants pockets. "You heard what Antonov said. If we oppose them, there may be reprisals against civilians."
"And if we don't oppose them, sir," Shannon countered, "do you think those civilians will thank us for sparing them to live a life of servitude to the Protectorate?"
"What if you lead them back here?" he asked, eyes on Val.
Shannon hissed out a frustrated breath. She recalled Governor Sigurdsen asking a similar question back on Aphrodite, but she couldn't give the acting head of the Republic government the same flip answer she'd given him.
"Sir, you're the leader of the entire human race, not just the part of it in this shelter." She didn't take the point any further, but she could see in his eyes that he'd understood.
"Lieutenant Stark." Glen Mulrooney pushed off from the wall, stepping into the midst of them. "You're going to need some help loading the weapons. I'd like to go with you."
Shannon blinked at him in surprise: that was the last thing she expected to hear and for a moment she couldn't think what to say.
"No offense, Mr. Mulrooney," she finally stuttered, "but you're not exactly qualified for this kind of work."
"Maybe," he said, grinning crookedly, "it's time I got qualified." His expression sobered. "Before this is all over, I think we're all going to have to learn."
She was about to turn him down again, but suddenly reconsidered. The mission, as they'd planned it, wouldn't involve undue risk, and their objective was to avoid contact with the enemy. Besides, this was nearly the first time she'd seen Mulrooney doing anything but bitch, and she was of a mind to encourage the change.
"All right," she agreed, "as long as you agree to follow my orders and those of Lieutenant Kristopolis immediately and without question."
"No problem," he assured her, smiling. "Thank you."
"Glen?" Valerie's voice came from behind him and he turned to face her. In her eyes, Shannon could see the same disbelief she'd felt. "Why? Why do you want to go?"
"It's got to be done," he told her quietl
y, "and no one else will do it."
"Well," Senator O'Keefe sighed, shoulders sagging in resignation, "I guess that's as good a reason as any."
* * *
Glen Mulrooney huddled under the uniform jacket he'd borrowed, hands sheltered in his armpits. He tried to steady his shotgun between his knees so he wouldn't have to touch the chilled plastic, but the bed of the truck bucked and he had to grab the weapon to keep it from falling. The RSC troops on either side of him looked nearly as miserable, shivering fitfully, swaying with the movements of the old cargo truck, its bed uncovered and open to the predations of the chilling night.
Misery loves company, Glen comforted himself. He just wished he had an excuse to be up in the heated cab with Corporal Lee and Private Vingh, but they were the only ones who'd been trusted with the location of the weapons cache. What a kick in the ass, being ranked lower than a damned corporal.
He still couldn't believe he was here; he certainly wouldn't have been able to imagine himself volunteering for something like this only a few days ago. But so much had changed for him---for all of them--in the last few months. He wasn't sure if things could ever go back to the way they had been before all this, or if he even wanted them to. He felt as if he'd been wearing blinders for the last ten years and they'd just been lifted.
He'd been so concerned with the machinations and intrigue of politics that he'd forgotten the "why" of it all. Every law he'd helped the Senator pass, every appropriations bill they'd hammered out was more than just a petty political victory: it had real, substantial effects on real people. What if they lost this war because he'd denied the Fleet one cruiser or one more refueling center? Would the billions of people living under the thumb of the Protectorate be grateful to him for saving them a few dollars more per month?
There was no way to go back and undo what had been done, but he had to do what he could. Maybe he could become the kind of man that Valerie could respect again, someone who didn't always think of himself first: someone like Lieutenant Stark or Captain McKay...