He switched on com. “Everybody strapped in in there?”
“Yeah,” Prock’s voice crackled in his ear, “but we still haven’t figured any way to set off the detonator. Come up with any bright ideas yourself? We’re cutting it close on time.”
Emerson smiled to himself. What’s the matter, boys? Starting to think this might work? “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I have. Hang on. I’ll be right in and show you.”
“Leave it to the boy scout,” grumbled Williams.
Emerson sighed and thumbed a remote he had brought with him. He looked down at the detonator. The thing had been designed to be armed by a signal in the ship’s firing sequence, but no signal would detonate it. That had been their problem in using it. It required impact.
“What’s going on out there?” ‘Williams called. “The forward cannon just cycled over. What are you doing?”
“Nothing much, Williams. Just my job. You guys sit back and relax. I’ll be right in.” He raised a wrench over the detonator. “Williams? I . . . never mind.”
They blacked out from G-force as the blast sent them hurtling back up the gravity well to an orbit somewhere near Europa.
THE OCCUPATION of Panama in 1993 by the United States began a twenty-year era of Yankee domination of that small country. The occupation began as a reaction to the rise of right-wing death squads after the assassination of President Argenta. When these quasi-military units began intimidating and then killing United States citizens, the RDF was dispatched to occupy Panama City. The landing of the 82nd Airborne along the coastal plains meant the virtual destruction of the local “defense force.” In a matter of weeks the U.S. had completely overwhelmed the country, and radicalized all of the other Central American nations in the process. The Panamanian occupation and the annexation of Northern Mexico were two of the greatest factors that brought about the formation of the Confederation.
Once the United States had occupied Panama, it was left with the problem of what to do with the country. The current administration had to run on the Free Enterprise ticket. As a result the entire country was leased to the Tirner Corporation. It was the ultimate step in corporate government, the leasing of a conquered nation to a private corporation.
In order to administrate Panama thousands of administrators were imported from the States. Soon the corporate headquarters of the Tirner Corporation was moved to Panama City, bringing a further influx of almost ten thousand former residents of Atlanta. The reaction of the Panamanians was to be expected. A war of liberation, complete with arms supplied by their neighbors, gained momentum. The response was also as expected, a growing sense of alienation and a concurrent increase in violent repression.
After over a decade, the managers formed a separate society within that of Panama. Dwelling in separate enclaves, the Tirner managers and their families had virtually no contact with the residents of the country they controlled. Soon they developed their own culture, consciously modeled upon that of the antebellum South. Soon hundreds of persons whose parents had never been within thousands of miles of the Old South were enjoying mint juleps.
In 2008 the election of the People’s Party resulted in the revocation of the occupation contract, Not surprisingly, the executives of the Tirner Corporation refused to relinquish control. Unwilling to repeat its earlier assault, the United States placed an embargo on the country and refused to negotiate with their former citizens. This increasing isolation enhanced the cultural shift by the managers, until they had nearly succeeded in recreating most of the forms of the antebellum South, substituting economic for legal slavery. Considering the similarity of the situations, their system proved quite successful.
When the Confederation finally achieved enough strength to mandate an end to the situation, the Panamanian managers had been in place for a generation. Further, their skills and expertise were too valuable to be simply destroyed. Equally important was the fact that massive wealth was still controlled by the Tirner managers. Still, the Confederation could not allow a continuation of the situation. Nor could the members of the unpopular culture of the Tirner executives safely remain once they had lost their control of the population.
The Confederation’s solution was both inspired and amazingly effective. The former Tirner executives, as a group were assisted in a mass immigration to Ganymede. The result was a complete success. The Tirner “Southerners” were able to transplant and maintain their already isolated culture into an area where their expertise and initiative would be of the most benefit. The Confederation turned a problem into an asset. When war with the United Nations became inevitable, there was no question as to where the transported Southerners’ loyalties would lie. Their pilots formed some of the most highly decorated units in the Confederation Interstellar Aviation Corps.
THE SHIPS were coming in too fast, too many at a time. Fleet Captain Callista Nakashima leaned forward in her command chair, knuckles white on the armrests, eyes on the forward screen as she spat out orders, oblivious to the blood running down from her temple to pool in the collar of her tunic. Maneuvering a starcruiser this huge was slow at best; with one engine out they had almost no chance of surviving, but she’d blow herself out the aft airlock before she’d surrender. “Hard port! Fire the retros! Tac-scan, status now!”
Another explosion rocked the bridge, nearly throwing her out of the chair. The last hit had wrecked the command console-her auto ’straints were shot. She had no choice but to try to hold on.
“Incoming message, sir, TacCom.”
“Let’s hope it’s reinforcements, troops. Nakashima here, TacCom. What’s the word?”
“The word, you little meep, is that if you’re not home in less than one nanosecond, the Colonel’s gonna kill you.”
Callie checked the little skimmer’s chrono and swore. “Sorry, I’m on my way.” This was the third time in a week that she’d been late coming home from class because she’d detoured through the Zone, skimming over the cold blast craters, weaving among the twisted wreckage and half-buried debris of the crashed fighters. The war had passed this moon, exacting its toll of death and sorrow, taking lives and homes and fortunes and moving on. Callie had been too young to care when the war had started, and her father often said that it would still be raging when she died.
Not that it made any difference to Callie—the closest she’d ever gotten to combat was the Deserted Zone, site of one of the first dogfights over Ganymede. Callie’s mother hated for her to detour through this place, but she’d understood, and hadn’t told the Colonel, her father. He’d find out though, if she was late and he scanned for her beacon.
As if reading her thoughts, the directional scanner—DircScan in Callie’s private tech-talk—came on in a twinkling rash of green lights spreading across the panel. Her heart seemed to stutter, but the signal beeped twice, telling Callie that it was her mother’s home beacon that had spotted her. She switched to auto, annoyed as well as relieved. Callie knew she flew the skimmer well enough to be able to guide it into the docking bay, but her mother still wouldn’t let her try.
Her oldest brother, Taylor, piloted the skimmer by remote while she sat and fumed. He and her other three brothers had all been allowed to dock by themselves since they were younger than she was now, and it just wasn’t fair.
The little skimmer slid easily through the rocky tunnel that led to the bay and into the house. Since the war almost everybody lived underground. There hadn’t been more than a handful of bombings in the last five years, but people were still scared. All of the grownups, including Callie’s parents, who had lived through that first raid were paranoid about its happening again. The newer settlers called them “moles” and built their own dwellings defiantly above ground in domed clusters like the one that held Callie’s school.
The skimmer bumped gently against the strip of rubber padding that ran around the bay wall at bumper height, and settled to the ground, the hiss of d
epressurization echoing through the small cave. The guide lights reflected off of the dull silver finish of the skimmer, highlighting the Southern Federation Air Force insignia that Taylor and Hal had added at her last birthday, just under the civilian reg numbers near the tail fins, on the nose, and on both smooth sides above the fuel tanks.
Callie waited until the small airlock tube was in place, locked to the ring around the skimmer’s canopy in a tight mechanical kiss, then tabbed open the skimmer’s crawl-through and pulled off her helmet. Taylor was waiting for her on the other side of the tube, a wet facecloth, towel, dress, and shoes in his hands and a lopsided grin on his face. Taylor was a full ten years older than Callie, but they were best friends. He looked so handsome in his dress uniform! Next year he’d be up for a Special Forces commission, piloting one of the fast little prototype one-man fighters they called SkyBabies. Callie was almost as proud of him as she was jealous.
Callie struggled out of her shipsuit, skinning it down over her legs as Taylor threw the dress over her head. Once her arms were in the long, puffy sleeves, Taylor rubbed the wet cloth over her face and hands, then bent and yanked her boots and socks off. She struggled her feet into her dress pumps as she fastened the tiny pearl buttons that ran diagonally across her small chest. At fifteen Callie was still flat chested, and she was glad. Her shipsuit was tight already, and fuel for the skimmer took all of her allowance. If she grew too much too soon, she’d be grounded by lack of funds. Taylor pulled the elastic out of her long braid, unraveled it, and dragged a comb through Callie’s hair as she struggled with the last three buttons. She’d wanted a military cut like Taylor’s, but her mother refused even to consider it. Southern ladies don’t cut their hair, period.
Callie had pointed out that Southern ladies don’t generally live in caves either, and had her allowance denied her for two excruciatingly long weeks.
Dressed and combed, Callie smoothed her long skirt down over her thighs and took Taylor’s arm just as the inner door opened to reveal Hal, the butler, coming to bring them to table. His name was really Carl Halliburton, but Taylor had started calling him “Hal” after seeing an old videodisc with a malevolent computer by that name. Hal had seen it too, and when the children were younger he had played his role with deadpan sincerity, scaring and delighting them at the same time. “Lieutenant Nakashima, Miss Callista. Dinner is served.” He took Calle’s shipsuit, the cloth and towels, and her backpack full of books and stood aside to let Callie and her brother pass, resisting the urge to steady her as she teetered by in her hated dress pumps.
A butler isn’t the most valuable member of a moon colony if all he does is announce meals. Even though Callie’s father was rich enough to afford to bring (and support) a pure butler on settlement, Hal was much more. He helped run Colonel Nakashima’s mining empire while serving as the household computer expert. He was an excellent bodyguard, a skilled (if unlicensed) med-tech, and had been well enough educated to occasionally tutor one or another of the children when needed. He was Callie’s second-best friend, and her childish determination to marry him had mellowed out to a gentle crush, slowly growing, just beyond her notice.
The Colonel and Callie’s three brothers all stood as she and Taylor entered the room-nowhere were Southern manners so appreciated as at Colonel Nakashima’s.
Brett, Dale, and Alexander—twenty-three, eighteen, and thirteen years old respectively—were smaller copies of Taylor in their gray-blue uniforms. Alexander had just started pre-flight school; ail of the Nakashima men were outstanding pilots. All of the Nakashima children, Callie thought bitterly, but Southern ladies don’t go to war. Southern women do—Callie’s classmate Lydia was going to military school next term, but her parents did what they liked, bound only by those traditions they agreed with, ignoring the rest.
Of course, even if Callie got around her mother’s magnolia strength, there was the Colonel to worry about, with all of his own centuries of tradition. Southern women don’t fight, and neither do female Nihonjin.
Taylor held her chair for her and Callie sat carefully—twice last month she’d balanced wrong on her medievally uncomfortable high heels and had fallen, once missing the chair completely and once taking the entire tablecloth with her. She understood how birds must feel—the only time Callie felt graceful or beautiful or whole was when she was flying.
As soon as she was seated, Hal poured water into her wine glass and added a bit of Burgundy—another Nakashima family tradition. Taylor, Brett, and Dale no longer had theirs watered, one more point of jealousy for Callie—her mother’s wine was nearly as diluted as her own.
Sarah Nakashima smiled as her eldest son removed her napkin from its silver ring and laid it gently in her lap. Looking at her perfect peaches-and-cream skin, blond hair upswept, slim shoulders straight and soft, it was easy to see why the Colonel had broken hundreds of years of custom to marry her; a gajin in Nippon Ganymede, an artist, privately funded by a family fortune beyond counting—not that the Colonel had accepted her dowry. He hadn’t needed to, already being one of the richest men on Luna. Marrying Sarah was the first, last, and only time he had ever flaunted tradition, either his people’s or his wife’s.
“Are you packed yet, Taylor?” Sarah’s voice was soft and cultured, the accent pure Terran Georgia—magnolia blossoms and mint juleps, hoop skirts and velvet-clad iron strength, passed from mother to daughter through centuries of time and the darkness of space. How had they kept the softness of those rounded syllables alive in the cramped, sharp cold of the colony ships?
Callie looked up, dropping her napkin ring. “Packed fo’ ah-what, Tay-lah?” Callie had gotten so skillful at her mother’s accent that only Taylor knew she was mocking Sarah. Not out of meanness or dislike—like her brothers’ freedom, Sarah’s beauty, refinement, and poise were also out of Callie’s reach and always would be.
Colonel Nakashima answered, the soft light from the gas candles reflecting from the rows of medals over his heart. “We’re expecting trouble near Europa, my dear.”
And you needn’t trouble your pretty little head about it. Never said, but always implied.
From his place near the kitchen door, a few feet behind Callie, Hal saw her shoulders tighten, the sharp bones like tiny wings visible where the formal dress left her bare. He too had heard the unsaid condescension, and he smiled. The colonel and his lady had their hands full with that one, and it would get worse as time went on. Exactly twice Callie’s age, Hal was becoming aware that his feelings for her went beyond those of his station. He was content for her to make the first move, though, as he knew she eventually would. They had plenty of time.
The com unit attached to his belt beeped discreetly and Hal slipped into the kitchen to answer it.
Callie looked over her shoulder as Hal left the room, and frowned. Looking back at Taylor, she saw his fist tighten on the stem of his wine glass. “Is this it?” Callie asked, excited.
Brett answered, breaking a corner from his flour biscuit, buttering it carefully. “It’s probably a problem at Zephyr Mine. The night foreman’s sick, and his replacement is hooked on crys—”
“Now Brett, I am certain that Callista is not interested in mining. I’m sure she’d rather hear about young Ashley Beauregard?”
Callie sighed. Sarah was determined to have her betrothed at sixteen, and every time one of her brothers produced a friend who had even heard of Georgia, Sarah started drawing wedding invitations on her MacManners Plus. Ashley Beauregard was born on Ganymede, and his parents were Terran French-Canadian, but that was, apparently, close enough.
Callie half-listened to Brett go on about his newest eligible friend, making discreet faces at Alexander, who choked on his jambalaya.
A sudden silence fell, and Callie turned to see that Hal had stepped quietly into the room. Taylor’s knuckles were white where he held his glass, but his face gave away nothing.
Hal avoided the family’s ey
es as he bent to murmur in the Colonel’s ear. The Colonel nodded, and replaced his glass on the table, spilling a little of the dark red wine onto the snowy linen. Callie watched in fascination as the stain spread. “It’s time to go, son. Europa’s under siege, and you’ve been called.”
He made it sound holy; Taylor had been called. Callie wanted more than anything to be able to go in his place, but she didn’t get to voice her thought because at that moment Taylor’s wine glass snapped at the stem, the fine crystal shattering as it hit Taylor’s silver finger bowl, red wine mixing with lemon-scented water, staining the tablecloth and dripping into his lap, slow pink tears raining onto the floor.
* * *
Four days later, once again at dinner, Hal’s belt com beeped. This time, he beckoned the Colonel into the kitchen, and there was the sound of breaking glass, the crash of antique copper pots.
Colonel Nakashima made his way to the head of the table and looked at Callie, unable to face his wife or his other sons. “Taylor will not be coming home,” he said.
There was no need to say more.
* * *
Callie paced her room, unable to stop the tears that had been falling for hours. Her mother had fainted, and the boys were tending to her while the Colonel and Hal tried to find out exactly what had happened. To Callie, the details didn’t matter. The UN bastards had killed her brother, her best friend, and she wanted blood back.
She stumbled on the hem of her formal dress and cursed, pulling off her pumps and hurling them at the wall. She had to duck as one bounced back at her, so Callie picked it up and threw it again, as hard as she could, wrenching the muscles in her back and shoulder. The hard heel-tip bounced off of her mirror, leaving a small star that radiated cracks, fragmenting her reflection into a hundred tiny points of light.
The Jupiter War Page 6