by Jay Allan
WAS Boyer
High Orbit
Columbia, Eta Cassiopeiae II
Sarah Linden was staring at her workstation trying to focus. She was close to solving the problem, and she knew it. There was something missing, some last piece of the puzzle that had eluded her. She was determined to figure it out, but she was having trouble concentrating. Her thoughts kept drifting down to the surface, to the overloaded field hospitals she knew she should be commanding. It felt wrong to be sitting in her nice, sterile lab while Marines were fighting and dying in the mud and filth of the battlefield. For 20 years she had been there, just behind the lines, waiting to do whatever was necessary to save those men and women. Her field hospitals had been in abandoned buildings, tents, even caves, but everywhere she had gone, Marines who would have died survived their wounds. She understood all the logic and the rationale for why she’d stayed behind, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept.
It was one more distraction, adding to the anguish and pain already tearing at her insides as she tried to unravel the mysteries of Anderson-45’s conditioning. She knew success might render battles like the one going on now obsolete. The Shadow Legions followed their orders because they were conditioned to do so, not out of any real loyalty to Gavin Stark. If she could break that hold, give the thousands of clones access to the free will she knew existed somewhere within each of them, she could end the war and destroy Stark’s bid for power in one stroke.
Her hand slipped into her pocket, her fingers closing gently around something small and cold. Erik Cain had left his Marine ring behind on her table when he left Armstrong in search of Gavin Stark. Some might suggest he hadn’t taken it with him for the same reason he’d left his general’s stars behind, but Sarah knew him better than anyone, and she understood perfectly. For the first time in all his wars and his desperate battles, Erik didn’t expect to come back. He’d left the ring so she would have something of him if he died on his quest.
A military life filled with almost ceaseless combat had left Cain with few personal possessions, and he’d left her the thing he’d had that was most precious to him. She’d known as soon as she came in and saw it laying there. She’d burst into tears then, but now she’d resolved to keep the thing with her at all times, not as a remembrance of a lover she would never see again, but as a sign of her belief he would return to her, as he always had before. She refused to give up, even to consider the possibility that Erik would lose his battle with Stark, that he would die far away from her, on some distant planet or ship. No, she’d sworn to herself. Not after all they’d been through together. It just couldn’t end that way.
“Colonel Linden?” It was Alicia Wing, her lab assistant. She was at the doorway, peering cautiously inside. She’d become accustomed to Sarah’s frequent moments of introspection, and she tried to respect her privacy. Wing had only met Cain twice, but the general was famous…and besides, everyone in the Corps knew the story of Erik Cain and Sarah Linden.
“Yes, Alicia?” Sarah’s voice was strained at first, but she quickly got control of herself. “What is it?”
Wing cleared her throat. She realized from Sarah’s expression she’d come at a bad time, but the news she had just couldn’t wait. “Colonel, we have the new brainscan results back from Anderson-45.”
Linden had been testing a variety of cures on Anderson-45, but she’d been unable to break the conditioning that compelled the clone-soldier to follow orders from his commanders without question. She’d broken the code to issue commands, and she could activate the programming and give him her own orders. But nothing she tried would make him ignore properly-issued commands. Despite all her efforts, she was still stuck.
She’d ruled out any form of surgery or other physical changes made to Anderson-45’s brain, but she kept coming back to that. She’d exhausted every purely behavioral option. There had to be something physical. There was no other answer.
“Did we find anything?” The last scan had been by far the most comprehensive, and it had taken Boyer’s AI almost two days to crunch the data.
“Yes!” The excitement in Wing’s voice was unmistakable. “I think we may be on the road to solving this.”
Sarah stood up abruptly. She pushed aside the worries and sadness and guilt, focusing entirely what Wing had told her. “Let’s get it up on the screen.” She walked over to the main AI control panel. “Display Anderson-45 brainscan A-11.”
“Displaying primary results on main screen, Doctor Linden.” Medical AIs all seemed to speak with variations of the same female voice. It was designed to be pleasant and calm, but it also got annoying after hearing too many subtly different versions.
Sarah stared at the screen as a graphic of Anderson-45’s DNA moved slowly across. She watched as section after section went by. “What is that?” She paused the display, zooming in on a small area. “This genomic sequence doesn’t match the original Anderson DNA.” She punched at the keyboard, bringing up a similar graphic on the screen. She zoomed in, staring hard at the two side by side.
She turned toward Wing. “They modified the original Anderson’s DNA.” It had taken a monumental effort, but Sarah’s people had found the records of the original Anderson, a retired Marine Stark’s people had kidnapped so they could use his DNA for his series of officer clones. “We need to identify this sequence immediately.”
“The AI is already working on it, Colonel. It looks related to brain function.” It was clear Wing was sure they’d found what they’d been looking for.
“That would explain why we’ve been unsuccessful so far.” She was intrigued, but not entirely convinced yet. “If they managed to create some kind of genetic susceptibility to the conditioning, it might defeat any purely psychological effort to deprogram.”
Wing nodded. “The AI agrees.” The excitement drained from her voice. “But it hasn’t developed any proposed method for dealing with the situation.”
Sarah stared at the two segments of DNA. “That’s the problem. It’s one thing to identify the alleles that give someone brown eyes instead of blue ones and quite another to do anything about the fact that a subject has brown eyes.” She felt the frustration building inside her, and she cursed Gavin Stark’s thoroughness. “They’re hardwired to accept their conditioning.” She was talking to herself as much as to Wing. “So how do we get around that?”
Augustus Garret sat quietly in his quarters, reviewing reports from the surface. He was following the action on the ground, but more out of curiosity than anything else. The land battle was Gilson’s turf, and she was more than capable of directing her Marines. If she wanted support from the fleet, she would let him know. And even if she did, he’d still have nothing to do. He’d already ordered his task force commanders to honor any request from General Gilson or one of her deputies.
In truth, Garret was bored. He’d escorted Gilson’s transports to Columbia and remained in orbit to protect the Marines on the ground, but he knew they didn’t need anything from him. They faced a brutal fight, but it was one Garret could do little to aid.
Garret was sure Stark wasn’t going to risk his fleet at Columbia, but he also knew he couldn’t take the chance. If he pulled out now and Stark’s ships did show up, the Marines on the ground would be in deep shit. They’d lose all support and satellite com, and they’d be under the guns of the enemy fleet. And Garret knew Stark would be a hell of a lot less cautious about bombarding an Alliance planet than he had been.
No, he was stuck where he was, with nothing to do but wonder what was going on elsewhere…and listen to the ghosts that tormented his lonely hours. He knew people wondered at his stamina and the relentlessness with which he fought his battles, but the truth would have shocked them all. His hours of tireless effort and the grating tension of command were his most contented ones. At least his thoughts were occupied, diverted from the sorrow and remembrance that plagued his idle time.
Garret wondered what he would do if his people managed to defeat Stark a
nd win the war. Would there really be a lasting peace? And if there was, could he survive it?
Augustus Garret was the perfect warrior, a legend throughout occupied space, but all that success in battle had come at a horrendous cost. He knew he had survived too long, given too many eulogies for lost friends, and the shadows of those who had died around him loomed large during his hours of solitude.
The AI interrupted his brooding with its gentle chime. “Admiral Mondragon is here.”
“Open the door.” Garret straightened himself up, brushing his wrinkled uniform into some semblance of neatness. “Francisco, thank you for coming so quickly.”
“Of course, sir.” The heavyset officer walked into the room, snapping to attention and saluting.
“Have a seat, Francisco.” Garret gestured to one of the other chairs around the small table. “Let’s keep this an informal chat, shall we?”
“Yes, Admiral.” Mondragon pulled the chair out and slowly sat down. “What can I do for you, sir?” Mondragon hadn’t started his career in the Alliance navy. He’d emigrated from the Europan fleet near the end of the First Imperium War. His service as part of Garret’s combined fleet had opened his eyes to the Alliance navy’s professionalism and skill, in stark contrast to the Europan fleet, clogged with rampant cronyism and institutionalized corruption. His Basque heritage gave him no particular love for Europa Federalis, which was more an occupier of his homeland than a government representative of its people and their wishes. With Garret’s approval, he’d resigned his commission and joined the Alliance navy.
“As you know, Francisco, we are out of communication with the Sol system, most likely because Stark’s forces have interdicted the Commnet network somewhere between here and there.”
Mondragon nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m inclined to agree with that assessment.”
“I doubt Stark will make a naval move against Columbia, not with the whole fleet here. However, I cannot take the risk of leaving the Marine foothold unprotected just in case. Stark could have a ship powered down in the outer system, waiting to warn him in the event the fleet departs.” He paused for an instant and added, “Indeed, he almost certainly has pickets out beyond our detection range.” He looked across the table at Mondragon.
“Yes, sir. I understand.” A short pause. “And agree.”
I considered splitting the fleet, leaving part here to cover Columbia and sending the rest to Sol, but I decided against that as well. Without better intelligence on the extent of Stark’s fleet, we might be inviting disaster by allowing him to attack a portion of our total force and defeating it in detail.” Like the rest of his comrades, Garret had become somewhat paranoid about Stark and what he might do. None of them had ever faced an adversary so brilliant and capable, and it had them all second-guessing every move.
Mondragon nodded, though he thought Garret was being overly conservative. He didn’t think Stark could defeat the Alliance’s great admiral even if he had only half his ships. And a commander like Camille Harmon or Mike Jacobs could give any attacking force a hell of a fight too.
“But we need to know what is going on back on Earth and in the rest of the Sol system.” He paused, his eyes finding Mondragon’s. “I’d like to put together a small task group, all fast ships culled from the rest of the fleet units. I want to send it to Sol to see what is going on there, and to take whatever action may be necessary.” He took a deep breath. “I want you to command that task group, Francisco, and I’d like you to leave as soon as possible.”
Mondragon stared back, a stunned look on his face. “I’d be honored, Admiral.”
Garret sighed softly. “Don’t be so honored, Francisco. This isn’t running an errand. I’m talking about a very dangerous mission. Stark’s fleet is out there, but so are the remnants of the other Powers’ navies. And we have no idea what they are doing, or even whose orders they are under.” His tone was grim. It was clear he didn’t like sending any of his people out in a small, vulnerable group. “Anyone you encounter may be an enemy…and probably will be. If you’re attacked, you won’t have any battleline, just a few light cruisers and fast attack ships.”
“I understand, sir.” Mondragon knew everything Garret said was true, but he couldn’t help but feel a rush of pride that the great admiral was trusting him with a mission of this sort. “Have you designated a roster of ships for the mission?”
Garret nodded. He picked up a small ‘pad from the table and ran his finger across. “Here. Twelve light cruisers and 24 attack ships. They’re all newer vessels, completely undamaged. They’re the fastest ships we’ve got.”
Mondragon nodded. “Thank you again, Admiral Garret. I cannot properly express how much your confidence means to me.”
Garret nodded and forced a smile. “Then you best go get ready. I’d like you to leave in 12 hours.”
Mondragon stood up abruptly. “Yes, sir!”
Garret rose as well and extended his hand. “Good luck, Francisco. I will have orders out to the ships within the hour, and they will be assembled for you by 2200 fleet time.”
“Thank you, sir.” He shook Garret’s hand and walked quickly through the door.
Garret watched him leave, the false smile fading from his lips. He knew Mondragon would face all kinds of dangers on the way to Sol, if he made it at all. But Garret had to try to make contact with someone - the high command on Earth, Roderick Vance, anyone. He had to know what was going on.
Garret wondered if Mondragon would have been so excited if he knew his beloved admiral didn’t think he had more than a 50% chance of reaching Sol and coming back alive. For the thousandth time, Augustus Garret sighed, wondering if any of his ambitious officers realized that the top command was nothing but a curse. The glory was false, a glittering prize that turned to dust in one’s hands, and the burden of supreme leadership sapped the soul of anyone who wielded it, leaving nothing but the dried out husk of a man and a uniform covered in pointless medals.
Chapter 17
Cargo Hold
MCS Sand Devil
Just Off Asteroid 175405
Sol System
“I want everyone to be extremely careful. No mistakes.” Cain stood on the edge of Sand Devil’s depressurized cargo hold, gripping a handhold and looking though the open hatch into space. “This is dangerous, and none of us have been trained for it.”
He was about to lead his small force out of the Martian vessel, through 500 meters of open space to the asteroid’s surface. It was a bold plan. Some would call it crazy, but Cain’s companions were the cream of the elite, and they would have jumped into the sun if he’d ordered it.
Cain had fought once before on an asteroid, though it had been substantially larger than the one looming beneath him now, and he’d gotten there through far more conventional means. He’d been a private then, and he’d only had to follow orders. Now, he was in charge.
“When you push off, you’ve got to pay attention. If your direction is bad, you’re screwed. There’s no way we can get to you if you’re off-target. You’ll end up in deep space.” Cain stared out at the looming bulk of the asteroid. “And don’t push off too hard. This thing’s got minimal gravity to worry about, but you can give yourself a hell of a velocity off the ship with the macros in your legs.” He pointed out the hatch toward the asteroid. “And that thing’s almost solid iron.”
The ten Marines with him were the best of the Corps, veterans of dozens of landings and battles. But it was still carelessness that got Marines killed, even experienced ones. Cain didn’t really expect any of them to come back from this mission, but if they were going to expend their lives, he wanted it to be chasing down Gavin Stark, not smashing into an asteroid or launching themselves on a slow tour of the solar system.
“All this takes is true aim and a gentle push off.” Cain had never operated in space himself, though he’d commanded a Seal team once, and he’d watched them maneuver around the outside of a space station. But Seals had specialized training and suits des
igned for work in space. The Marine armor could sustain life in the frigid vacuum, but it lacked the positioning jets of the Seal equipment.
Captain Jennings had brought Sand Devil around the opposite side of the asteroid from Stark’s base. The small transport ship didn’t have the armament to blast the better-base, and Cain had directed him to approach without coming near the facility. He suspected Stark had enough scanners deployed to pick them up, but he was betting the base itself was lightly armed, with no weapons deployed on the opposite end of the asteroid. It wouldn’t take much to destroy the fragile Torch, and Cain wasn’t about to chance a direct move on the base itself.
“I’ll go first.” Cain’s voice was clear, emotionless. “I want one of you to follow every 30 seconds.” He looked around at the cluster of armored Marines standing in the bay, holding on to whatever they could. “I mean 30 full seconds. One of you at a time. Stay calm, and think through everything before you make a move. Understood?”
He got a series of acknowledgements over the com. He nodded once and turned away from his people, looking back out into space. He leaned forward, positioning his feet on the edge of the cargo bay hatch and took a last look ahead, toward the looming bulk of asteroid 175405. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears and the sweat pouring down his neck and covering his hands.
Cain had a reputation for fearlessness, but that was all nonsense. He knew fear very well, and that was just what he was feeling. There was something about space, the endless emptiness waiting to swallow something as small and insignificant as a man. He tried to focus, but images filled his mind, him floating helplessly in the endless blackness, without hope of rescue, arguing with Hector, trying to convince the AI to administer a suicide dose of tranquilizers. He gritted his teeth and forced everything out of his mind. Everything but the task at hand.