by Jay Allan
His people were faced off against the enemy position. The firefight was intense, but both sides had some cover, and the losses, while not exactly light, weren’t immediately crippling. Storm felt that same cold feeling inside, the insidious fear of an enemy that felt no anxiety or pain or doubt. He was controlling it…it got easier with time…but he was worried about his Marines. Most of them were veterans, but only a few had faced the First Imperium before. He’d seen even hardened Marine veterans break and run from the bots, something he’d never experienced before.
“Hold your positions and keep up that fire.” This was as far as they could go. The ground between his people and the enemy position was dead flat and totally open. If his people came out of the gully, there wouldn’t be any of them left in 30 seconds. It would be suicide. If they were going to break through here, the tanks were going to have to do it…though it looked pretty suicidal for them too. At least it did to Storm.
“Sergeant Storm…Lieutenant Weld here.” The comlink crackled a little. The army units didn’t link perfectly with the Marine equipment. Weld sounded grim, his voice uneven, tenuous. “My orders are to attack and break through that trench line. Be ready to follow us once we’re up there.” Weld didn’t sound all that convinced.
“Understood, lieutenant.” Storm shook his head, but he felt a growing respect for Weld and his troopers, far more than he did for most of the army personnel. If that kid goes in, he thought, he’s going to get his ass handed to him…but if he makes it back, I’ll never call him an army puke again.
“Issue the recall.” Cain’s voice was cool, unemotional. “There’s not sufficient additional gain to justify more losses.” He’d just sent 4,000 tank crew and 1,800 Marines to attack on a hellish battlefield, surrounded by nuclear bombardment. Less than 2/3 of them were coming back, but they’d inflicted heavy casualties on the enemy and utterly disordered the right flank of the landing zone. It was a success, but one paid for with buckets of blood, and the mood in 1st Army HQ was a somber one. They’d all expected a tough battle, but they were beginning to understand the hellish death struggle Cain was planning to fight.
“Yes, general.” Captain Carter felt a chill listening to Cain’s passionless tone. To an impartial observer, it didn’t seem like the general was at all concerned with how many men and women he lost. Carter knew better…anyone familiar with Cain knew better…but it was still hard to reconcile with the cold, analytical voice issuing from the commander in chief.
Cain had been there before. When the battle was on, the icy calculus of war prevailed for him. There was always time later for the guilt and recriminations, but they had no place on the field. While this fight was on, Erik Cain cared about one thing and one thing only. Victory.
Chapter 12
Western Alliance Intelligence Directorate HQ
Wash-Balt Metroplex, Earth
“I am hopeful things will proceed perfectly for us. If Admiral Garret and the forces of the Grand Pact are able to defeat the enemy forces along the Line, conditions will be ripe for Plan C.” He smiled nervously; for all his planning and scheming, Stark was worried about the war. “The Powers will be in utter disarray…that will be our time.” He paused, and the smile slipped off his face. “However…” He spoke slowly, tenuously. “…it may be prudent to prepare a contingency plan in the event the military is unable to withstand the assault of the First Imperium.” Stark’s plans would be of little account if humanity was destroyed or enslaved by the enemy.
Rafael Samuels sat at the polished wood table across from Stark. What they were discussing was classified at the highest levels, kept secret from even the rest of the Directorate. Stark’s plan was beyond ambitious…it was the most audacious thing Samuels had ever imagined. And, he thought, Stark might just pull it off. If the Line held, that is. If the First Imperium broke through the military’s defenses, all bets were off. Stark would have to launch the plan early, and use it against the invaders instead of his intended targets. Ironically, Stark was depending on his arch-enemies to clear the way for his plans.
“I agree, Gavin. I am not at all confident that Admiral Garret and his cabal will be able to withstand the attacks now underway.” Samuels was fidgeting in his chair. He was uncomfortable with his position, and regretful about the choices he’d made. Though he’d never consciously chosen to betray the Corps, he’d set himself on that course years before, and now he was stuck with the results. He’d slid gradually into treachery, trying first only to secure the Commandant’s rank he felt was his due. But he’d long since gone too far to turn back. He’d become the Corps’ greatest traitor, and he was reviled by every Marine. He was bitter about how things had played out, and he knew Stark had lured him into what he had done. But however Samuels felt, the head of Alliance Intelligence was his last ally. His die was cast…he’d thrown in with Stark for good, and now he had to live with it. His only other option was to sacrifice himself and accept the punishment the Corps would impose...and he lacked the moral courage to go down that road.
“It will mean an early activation. We will not have the same force concentration we will have if we stay on the original schedule.” Stark looked frustrated and angry. “And it will greatly imperil the ultimate success of the original plan.” He’d been working on Plan C for years, and he hated the idea of sacrificing it. He wouldn’t do it just to save Marines and support the forces in the field, but if the enemy broke through the Line, he knew he’d have no choice. If humanity fell, he’d die with everyone else, and his plans would be moot. “Begin working on a contingency plan to activate if our hand is forced. We should be ready, just in case.” His voice was grudging, angry.
“I will begin work immediately, Gavin.” Samuels spoke as passionlessly as he could manage, but inside he felt a spark of excitement. If Stark was forced to activate Plan C, Samuels would probably lead the forces against the enemy. It would likely mean the end of Stark’s bid for power, but Samuels was beginning to think it would be an opportunity for himself. Perhaps it was his road to redemption. If he came to the rescue after Garret’s forces and the Marines failed to stop the enemy...maybe, just maybe his treachery would be forgotten. He would rally the shattered remnants of the Corps, and Holm and Cain and the rest of his enemies would be disgraced…or, better yet, killed on the field.
Stark nodded but didn’t say anything. Samuels had become familiar enough with Stark to know he’d been dismissed. “If you’ll excuse me, Gavin, I’ll see to that contingency plan.” Samuels rose slowly from the chair, breathing heavily by the time he’d gotten his great bulk fully vertical.
My God, Stark thought…he looks like he’s about to drop dead. Samuels had always been a large man, so strong his boot camp class had called him the Bull. But now he was grossly overweight and out of shape. That could be useful, Stark mused…when Samuels had finally outlived his usefulness. No one would question a sudden heart attack…
“Maximum security on this, Rafael.” Stark’s voice deepened. “I’m serious. No leaks. None.” Every warm blooded creature felt an unnatural chill when Gavin Stark used that tone. “If I decide we need to activate early, we’ll deal with the specifics then. For now, I just want a plan drawn up.” Stark had risen, and he walked around the table. He held his hand out to Samuels.
“Of course, Gavin.” Samuels smiled at the Alliance’s top spy. Maybe, he thought, defeating the First Imperium will give me a chance to get rid of Stark once and for all…then my life will be mine again. He extended his own hand, grasping Stark’s firmly. “You can count on me.”
Li An sat quietly on a nearly priceless silk couch, a glass of bourbon lying untouched on the table in front of her. She normally enjoyed quiet time in her office, long after business hours had passed. There was always activity at C1 headquarters, of course, but her people knew better than to disturb her at this hour unless it was urgent.
Lately, though, the peace she had customarily enjoyed during her meditative periods had eluded her. She was concerned about
the war, of course, though the role of the intelligence agencies against the First Imperium was extremely limited. She was keeping an eye on the other Powers, watching for signs of treachery, but everyone seemed committed to the Grand Pact. It’s amazing, she thought, what fear could accomplish. That was something she already knew, of course, something she’d used herself many times…but she’d never seen it on this scale. Even the Central Committee was on the verge of panic, a bunch of old men who suddenly realized that their privileged lifestyle and jealously guarded power – not to mention their precious hides - would be wiped away in a wave of blood and fire if the First Imperium reached Earth. Li An had sat quietly at Committee meetings, listening with disgust as they dithered pointlessly.
She was continually repulsed at the base cowardice of those who casually ruled the masses. They could demand sacrifice and herculean feats of courage from their minions and soldiers and impose draconian punishments on those who disobeyed, but when they were threatened themselves they descended into a pit of fear. She was just as ready to send people to their deaths and rule with an iron fist, but no one had ever called Li An a coward.
C1’s ancient head was the only one of them who had kept her wits. She knew the combined forces might fail, that the vastly superior legions of the First Imperium might indeed overrun the Line and continue their march of destruction…that even her beloved Hong Kong could lie in ashes, a silent graveyard for all time. But there was nothing she could do to influence this war, and she wasn’t one to wallow in pointless fear if there was nothing to be gained. If extinction was mankind’s fate, then so be it…if not, she would be ready for what followed this conflict.
Li An was able to coolly and logically analyze a situation, and make decisions based on the facts. Indeed, she’d exerted considerable pressure to insure that Admiral Garret was appointed supreme commander of the Grand Pact. There had been a lot of nationalistic bullshit flying around, each Power arguing to place its own officers in the highest positions. But Li An was no fool, and there was no question that Augustus Garret was the most ingenious naval commander alive…perhaps the finest who had ever lived. And Generals Holm and Cain were the dominant tacticians of ground combat. She knew that only too well, from bitter experience. The Alliance’s team of brilliant commanders had ruined all her carefully laid plans…and cost the CAC the Third Frontier War, turning imminent victory into ignominious defeat. It had been almost ten years, but it still stung. She was glad to have Garret on her side, at least for now. If and when the First Imperium was defeated, the Powers would return to their old disputes…of that she had no doubt. Then her problem would once again be countering – or eliminating - the Alliance’s brilliant military leaders.
But it wasn’t the war or the First Imperium that was causing her anxiety. It was Gavin Stark. He was up to something…something big. She was sure of it. But she’d been confounded in her every effort to discover what he was planning. He’d clamped down an iron wall of security around his activities, and the intensity of his secrecy only increased her concern. Whatever he was doing, it was serious.
She tried to attack the problem herself, but she knew almost nothing. Stark was spending a lot of time in the western region of the North American section of the Alliance. He’d purchased some type of horse farm under the preposterous cover that he’d taken to riding for relaxation. Li An had tangled with Gavin Stark for years, and she had a pretty good idea of his likes and dislikes. The notion that he’d choose to spend his leisure hours out in the middle of nowhere riding horses was absurd. Stark was a creature of Washbalt, and his every waking hour was spent chasing power. She’d never known the man to relax in any conventional sense…other than a few hours here and there in the company of his many mistresses.
She detested Stark, but she wouldn’t let herself underestimate him. The Alliance spymaster was occasionally undone by his outsized ambition, but there was no doubt he was a genius, capable of almost anything. Only a fool would disregard Stark’s ambitions or his competence. Li An was many things, but certainly not a fool.
She’d spent her evenings recently considering the problem…and largely coming up blank. But now she had an idea. It was a longshot, she knew that, but it was the best thing she could devise. She reached over and flipped the switch on the comlink. “Jung, I need you to access the special archives.” Kan Jung was her junior assistant, usually the one on duty at this hour. “Get me everything we have on General Rafael Samuels.”
Roderick Vance looked out over the red sands and enjoyed the quiet. He knew it wouldn’t last. It never did. Many people thought the Martian landscape was ugly...forbidding and harsh. But to him it was uniquely beautiful, a strangely alien landscape that men had converted into a new home, indeed, one they were still adapting. When Vance’s grandfather arrived on Mars, the surface was deadly, the sparse atmospheric pressure, low temperatures, and massive cosmic radiation offering a fatal trio to anyone foolish enough to go outside without adequate protection.
A century of terraforming had changed all of that. The Martians, as the transplanted Terrans proudly called themselves, still lived in sealed domes and underground cities, but now they could venture to the surface with a simple breather and a heavy coat. The atmosphere still wasn’t dense enough to sustain life, but it was far thicker than it had been, and the temperatures had risen dramatically. Mars was still as cold as Earth’s polar regions, but that was a considerable improvement from what the initial settlers had faced. The developing atmosphere and the induced magnetic field had already cut the radiation at the surface to tolerable levels. Prolonged exposure still wasn’t healthy, not really, but it was easily controllable with proper treatment.
Vance had no children, and he was far from sure he ever would, but he had half a dozen nieces and nephews. They would probably live to see a Mars where people walked freely on the surface, on a planet with new seas and rain and temperatures above freezing. If they survived. That was what this war was about.
Vance was a true patriot, proud of the Martian Confederation and all it had achieved. It was a government that actually worked, presiding over a society that was, on the whole, happy and prosperous. The Confederation had, admittedly, enjoyed considerable advantages over the Superpowers on Earth. Where the older Powers had ancient ghettoes and crumbling infrastructure, the cities of Mars were new and modern, purpose-built for the needs of a modern society. Earth’s ancient social problems and racial and nationalistic hatreds were largely absent, as well, and the Confederation took great pains to insure these problems were not imported.
The original settlers had come to Mars at a time when the nations of Earth were gripped in the throes of total war. Hundreds of millions of people were bombed into oblivion, and billions more died in the aftermath of battle…from starvation, exposure, disease. The Martian colonists – refugees, really - resolved to form a new society, a new type of government, one that safeguarded a society that looked forward, to advancement, to the future. And they had done it.
Vance knew there was an ugly side to the Confederation’s government too. It was an exclusionary society, allowing only the best and brightest to immigrate. The original settlers had been scientists, engineers, scholars. They were ambitious, energetic, and driven to build something better than the squalor and corruption endemic on Earth. Mars didn’t want the seething masses of terrestrial poor, so long downtrodden and uneducated. The Confederation sought only those who could make it stronger, wealthier, more prosperous. Immigrants had to prove they could contribute to the society or they were turned away.
The Martian government adopted the trappings of democracy, just as the Alliance did on Earth, but it was really an oligarchy, predominantly ruled by the descendants of the original families. Without the legacy problems of the nations of Earth – poverty, pollution, economic chaos – the Confederation grew rapidly in wealth and power. The culture of Mars was focused on improvement, advancement, success. Insuring greater prosperity for each new generation was almost a re
ligion, deeply ingrained in the mindset of the people and relentlessly promoted by the government through education and the media.
The Confederation celebrated the ideals of personal freedom too, but there as well, the reality differed somewhat from the image. The Martians enjoyed unrestricted speech and the right to live their lives largely as they pleased. Taxation was low and opportunities abundant, and most Martians considered themselves extremely fortunate to be citizens of the Confederation. But much of the freedom was illusory, superficial, and the government managed the lives of its citizens…not as overtly as the Powers on Earth did, certainly, but significantly, nevertheless.
Genetics were controlled, with approval required for any prospective pairing. There were no restrictions or meaningful discrimination based on living arrangements or sexual practices, but reproduction was subject to considerable regulation. The next generation of Martians was considered a national asset, one that had to be protected, and unsuitable genetic matches were forbidden. The government lacked the will to enforce these dictates with harsh punishments, but nevertheless, most of the people voluntarily complied. The mantra of improving the Confederation, even the race, was nearly universal. The Martians had only to look at the seething, sweltering cities of nearby Earth to appreciate what they had.
Vance wondered, sometimes, if the Confederation could withstand the pressures of time. What would happen in five generations? Ten? Would an underclass develop, sowing the seeds of poverty and decay? Would future citizens rebel against being told who they could and could not choose as reproductive partners? Would the ruling families lose the spirit of the founders, becoming, in time, as dissolute and drunk on power as the upper classes on Earth? Vance didn’t know, and in his more contemplative moments, he pondered his deep concerns and doubts for the future.