by Chris Hechtl
<>V<>
Charlie built his SAR teams around the half of the team leaders in Mars orbit. He was fully aware that they would be a day late and a dollar short by the time they arrived in Earth orbit, but he had to put something in motion. They had to do something, not just sit there.
The Neochimp assigned a dozen techs to keep track of the events on Earth or in the space around it while he continued to plan. Another half dozen were tagged with checking the status of every Lagroose asset in the star system for status, then every other known platform.
While they set that up, he put out an alert to the company's SWAT and black ops teams. Most were unfortunately around Earth, however. He sent out requests to find out their status, as well as the status of the security members left there.
A second request went out to find out what had happened to the company O'Neill colonies at L-5. It would be horrifying to thousands of employees to find their families were dead. What was happening on Earth was bad enough. He was peripherally aware that Jack and Athena's hourly updates were a mixed blessing as far as morale was concerned.
He started to get feedback from the other stations immediately, and it wasn't good. There were no signs of infection. Athena's warning had gone out in time, but that didn't mean they were out of the woods. Some of the platforms were not willing to speak with them, especially if they were not Lagroose property. Some believed that Lagroose had instigated the war and were suspicious of any contact. He passed those off to Barbie to deal with. He had other important things to deal with.
Charlie had realized Lagroose would need to form a military some time ago, but the idea had been nixed by both Jack and Roman for publicity reasons. He was fairly certain Barbie had argued against it, which was why she wasn't one of his favorite people.
The security force was already split into subdepartments, one doing day-to-day police and investigative work, another counter ops, another cyber work, and the last as a SWAT action force. He and Elliot had experience in all four branches. He was still uncertain if Roman had been grooming the two of them to eventually replace him or not. Quite possibly. It was also quite possible he had other protégés as well.
What they would need were officers and enlisted, the Neochimp mused as he made a soft puttering sound with his large lips. A clear chain of command but formed along military lines with ranks. He was fairly certain Roman would buck the idea at first, but others would see the logic. He just wasn't comfortable to where it would lead. He was okay with setting stuff up like this, but the idea of becoming a senior officer, a colonel or something … leading troops? Do or die? That was for younger people. Dumbed-down idiots who assumed invulnerability of youth.
A second thought occurred to him. They would need to integrate their force with others. Liaison work at least, but would Jack be willing to open the company up to others? To give up some measure of control? He frowned, tugging on his right ear lobe. Such was not something he should have to think about … but he was anyway. He'd need to game it out, be prepared for either response.
Most likely Elliot and Roman would vote for joint ops. Compartmentalized? His frown intensified for a moment. Good in theory, it would protect some of their people and assets, but it would be hell for mutual support and coordination. He shook his head. A plan could fall apart if things weren't coordinated perfectly.
Which reminded him. He needed to check in with Trevor, get an update on the damn virus. And find out what hardware they should leave behind … could they make radios that could only send and receive audio? He scowled. Mankind had done it once; they could do it again.
“Are your teams ready, Charlie?” Roman demanded, opening the phone line with his controls.
“We're working on it,” Charlie replied, checking the status. He'd handed it off to the supervisors. A fast movement was in their nature but no one had ever even remotely considered something like this situation. Oh, working to respond to a major disaster … but Earth? Shattering everything? He shook his head mentally.
“Well, get on it. I've got the freighter lined up but the window to move is tight and getting tighter by the minute.”
“Which freighter?” Charlie demanded instantly. “That's something we need to know if we're going to load and board you know,” he reminded his boss.
“Damn it. I didn't …,” Roman scrubbed his face then shook it in anger. “Okay, no, I didn't. And apparently Athena didn't pass it along as well. Okay, it's Gamma four niner. She's a bulk freighter. We've got a liner prepping too. After that we'll have to wait a couple of days for the next ship to come online or hire a freelance. If anyone's willing to go to Earth now, which I seriously doubt.”
“Oh, I don't know. If the credits are right, people are willing to do almost anything—especially fish in troubled waters, boss,” Charlie replied. He tapped out a message to the supervisors to alert them on what berths to send their people and gear to. “Am I going on this run?”
Roman shook his head. “I need you here.”
“Boss, I should go with them. I need to coordinate; we need to plan. We need to train in sims based on the latest intel.”
“SAR is looking increasingly unlikely by the time we get there. We may not need the whole troop,” Roman replied bleakly. “It looks like a lot of people will be out of atmo long before you, let alone Elliot, arrive. What we've got in the inner system is it.”
“Frack. Then what are we doing?”
“We're going to try anyway. But make sure you've got some engineers and techs along. People who can whip stuff up on the fly. And make sure the hardware is disconnected. I've already got crews disabling our communications links. It's a bitch though.”
“Got it,” Charlie replied, making a note. “Techs and engineers for what?”
“Repairs mainly. I think more though. We'll probably need them to figure something out.”
“What about Earth?” Charlie asked.
Roman shook his head, eyes dark. “Roman, people are dying down there.”
“Don't think I don't know that, damn it,” Roman snarled, fists clenched. Charlie's brown eyes flared wide briefly. “I know,” Roman repeated. “And I know there is nothing we can do for them now. We can't even get down there; we can't see through the clouds. I'm not sending our people into a radiation storm and certain death. No matter how badly they want to help, it's not worth wasting their lives.”
“Gotcha,” Charlie replied softly. “You know they'll want to go anyway, come hell or high water. And we've got SAR teams on the ground helping with the climate damage.”
“Some are hopefully alive. For how long I don't know. And we can't receive their calls for help. Not without exposing us to the virus,” Roman growled.
“Well, hopefully someone somewhere is working on that.”
“Hopefully,” Roman replied. “I doubt it though. Trevor's still divided on checking on Athena, the other A.I. she mentioned, and helping to defend against this virus. Whatever it is. It's a bitch working in the dark.”
“Understood. We'll get you more intel.”
“Right. Get the ships launched.” Roman paused then sighed. “Fine, you can go,” he said grudgingly.
“Right on. I'll do what I can.”
“See that you do. Work with Elliot and anyone else willing to help.”
“Of course.”
“I'm going to talk to Jack about that some more. We obviously can't be a one-man show. Everyone is needed; we just don't have the manpower with the robots—a big question mark. Hell, even with them,” Roman replied. “I've spent a lot of my day shutting the damn things down across the board here.”
“Gotcha,” Charlie replied with a nod. “We're leaving them out. It's playing merry hell with the planning though.”
“Adapt and improvise. Get it done, Charlie.”
“Roger that, boss,” Charlie replied. On impulse his right hand came up in a salute. Roman blinked, then frowned. Before he could say anything, Charlie cut the circuit.
“What the hell
am I getting myself into?” Charlie murmured as he pulled up the menu for the SAR volunteers.
“All right, people, we've got ships and we've got a tight-ass window. We need to leave any automated equipment behind. But the boss man just relayed new orders. We're going to need to do what we can to fill the order with the time we've got left while also getting everything in motion and loaded. So, here goes …”
<>V<>
The news wasn't good General Murtough thought as he took stock of the damage. The weapons had been indiscriminant in their attack on military and civilian assets in orbit. Those that had survived had to fight in order to do so, desperately patching hulls and solar panels.
The orbital stations around Earth had little defense, but the L-5 colonies had lasers as well as thick armor as meteor defenses. Some of the stations had been damaged or destroyed. Lagroose 9 had been destroyed with all hands when a series of satellites had been reprogrammed to ram it.
After two days of attempting to coordinate the evacuation and SAR efforts with a hastily cobbled together laser voice communicator, the general was finally feeling like there was an end in sight.
The end was him though; he was only scratching the surface with the mission. The orbital stuff was getting together; the L-5 colonies had reluctantly dispatched some volunteer assets to help out with the rescue and towing efforts but not a whole hell of a lot.
He was exhausted but still working. He looked at Major Johnson who was also on his feet or at least floating in the room.
“Is it just me or does it stink in here?” the general asked.
“It's the warm bodies and fear,” the major admitted. “Sir, we can find you a place. I don't know where; I can talk to Elsa, the manager on duty …”
“I'm fine here. I'm not on my feet, which is a blessing. I love micro gravity,” the general said. “But someone's got to see this through.” He indicated his tablet, improvised boards, and the whisker laser. A tech manning the communications looked up to them, then back to her duty when she realized they weren't trying to get her attention. One hand was cupped to the right side of her earphones. Her expression was a study of agony and concentration.
“You've got to sleep sometime, sir.”
“I'll sleep when I'm dead. Until then, I'll do what I can. I owe people that.”
“People being the living, sir?”
“The living and the dead.”
“Can I talk you into letting me spell you for a couple hours, sir?” Major Johnson asked. When he recognized the set expression on the old man's face as stubborn intransigence, he exhaled loudly. “Fine. Then can I at least get you to eat?” he asked, holding out a water bottle and a prepackaged meal.
The general was going to say no, but he heard his stomach growl. His mouth was also parched and a bit hoarse from talking over the radio for so long. “Fine, mommy,” the general said, taking the food and drink with shaking hands. The major noted it but didn't bring it up.
When a call came in, the general opened his mouth to reply but the Major slid in and took it smoothly. He eyed the major with suspicion as he continued to peck at his meal. Occasionally, his eyes turned to the tablet he kept adrift near him.
Eventually, with the fresh fluids and food incoming, the general's bladder woke up and had to be emptied. He went about his business, then returned. The full stomach was doing what reason couldn't, lull him into a sleepy haze. There were dozens of people around them; many had gotten to sleep, if albeit fitful rest. He had to admit, part of his problem was a fear of the nightmares that were waiting for him the moment his eyes closed.
The stations were patched; some were making for orbit with what they had available. Selfish recognition that survival was on the line was starting to rear its ugly head. Hoarding was starting to crop up as stations with excess resources balked at releasing them to those who needed them. There were rumors of craft being turned away from some of the stations. He knew of two that were true. One of the hotel stations had been overloaded. Her life support had failed briefly, putting a scare into her crew, enough to get them to cut off any more support. Full occupancy flashed on the leader board.
Unfortunately, there were too many other stations that had the same problem. And there was no place to put the remaining people.
“We need support from the L-5 colonies. The freighters or ferries showing up right about now would be nice,” the general said.
“Yes, sir. I can work on that while you get some downtime.”
“Really on me to sleep, aren't you? Bucking for a promotion or a court?”
“Neither, sir. I don't want you to keel over and leave this mess in my hands,” Major Johnson replied with a hearty snort. And with all due respect, you look like hell warmed over, sir. We need you. Badly.”
“Got it,” the general grumbled. “I'm still not ready to sleep.”
“Do what you can with what you've got, sir. It's all we can do. I'll make the calls. If you could give your voice a rest, it would be nice.”
“Right,” the general said, eying the major as he went to work. He was surprised and gratified when he pulled up the security feed and noted two of the other officers were also helping where they could.
It was all they could do now. They couldn't communicate with anyone on Earth. There was too much of a risk. Doing something for those in orbit was about all they could do to assuage their bleak feelings of grief and helplessness.
It wasn't enough. He knew it, but keeping busy, especially helping the pathetic few survivors they did find, it was something. That was all he knew, that he had to keep trying. Had to … had to do something. His hands wrung in impotent rage. He wanted to strangle the bastard or bastards who'd got them this tight in a crack. Not that it would do them or him any good now. Most likely they were dead. At least he hoped so. Hopefully they'd gotten a nice lethal dose of radiation, just enough to die in agony. A nice slow, lingering death he thought nastily.
“We're tying the pods together in a daisy chain,” the major reported, breaking through his woolgathering to get his attention once more. “We hit on the idea yesterday, I don't know who thought of it. I just wish they'd thought of it sooner. The life support on each isn't up for much, but with adequate power we can power them indefinitely. That means we just have to worry about the consumables.”
“Right. And overloading them,” an exhausted manager stated. “But the extra room is a blessing. I just wish it didn't come with so many bodies. We're overloaded. And the more mass we add, the slower we go. The harder it is to break orbit with the ion thrusters.”
“Everyone we've got is a blessing, ma'am,” the major replied softly. The woman gulped and then blushed. Finally she nodded.
“Right. But power we've got now that the solar farms have been reoriented. We've got too much power really,” the major stated. The manager blinked in confusion. The major smiled. “All that power was supposed to go to the ground. Now that they can't punch through the dense clouds, we're it.”
The manager nodded. “Ah. I see.”
Isaac listened to them with half an ear as he crossed his arms. He wasn't cold, far from it. With all the warm bodies in the compartment, it was actually warm to the point of stuffy. Claustrophobic too, but something told him he'd rather be with company than alone now. Though the occasional person with a nightmare or breakdown didn't help him anyway.
He tried to focus on the tablet in his hand but eye strain made him close his eyes for a moment. He forced the traitorous eyelids open by force of will, but it was a losing battle. After a few minutes, his mind drifted, and he fell into a doze.
The major noted the general snoozing and smiled. He nodded to the manager, then to the general. The manager eyed him and then the general. “Shouldn't we wake him?”
“Not on your life. Let him rest; he needs it. We need him. Let's see what we can do while he's catching a nap.”
The woman nodded slowly. “As you wish, Major.”
<>V<>
The Shinobi clans had
mostly relocated to space over the past century and a half. Forty percent were scattered in the stations around Earth and on the moon. Most of them were families. Another third were on Mars; again, most of them were families. Less than 10 percent remained on Earth, within the Tsuchikage clan led by Ishikawa. Most of them had been in Nihon, the home islands, or on assignment in various places worldwide. All were out of contact; most were considered dead or dying by the survivors in space.
The remaining 17 percent of the clans were involved in various projects throughout the solar system and beyond. A tiny few had managed to make it onto the Drake.
The shinobi on the ground and in space took losses, however; it was inevitable. Kakashi, Master Jariha, Sai, and other well-known and respected shinobi were known to have been killed in transit or on the ground. Many others were also lost or considered dead. That was okay; the clan had their DNA on file. There would be a new Kakashi in a following generation, the same for each of the others. The clan's geneticists would improve them slightly, moving ever closer to the perfection of the manga, while the clan leaders did their best to learn and adapt to their loss.
Sakura Haruno had bucked tradition and family planning by marrying Toshi Nakumora instead of her intended mate. Only the blessing of the sage had allowed the union to go forth and blossom. Both of them had been hired on as consultants when the baboons had been picked up by Lagroose Industries. But when Sakura had decided to start a family, Toshi had learned to give in gracefully to his wife's steely whims.
Sakura was gravid with their latest brood, a pair of twins. She was known to complain and hit things with her mood swings. Her husband's gentle banter and his occasional kiss on her abdomen tended to sooth her—that and her favorite snack.