It would take equipment significantly more sophisticated than anyone would expect to find on a former colony like Lacaille to defeat the camouflage, even at the outside of the intel estimates. Lacaille, while nominally independent, was still a Bannerman dependency and the Bannermans had no sensors good enough to detect him or his people under current conditions.
But with Mankho being ‘suspected’ of working for the Dominion of Halith—and no one took the Archon’s weasel words seriously, not even the Archon—it was possible he’d managed to cadge better technology out of them. That would change the situation considerably, so the plan assumed the worst-case assessment that they faced a Halith sensor suite.
The drawback to this assessment was that it made their operational timelines very tight and denied him much flexibility—flexibility he could really use right now. Critically, his people had to start moving when the convoy was thirty klicks out, which would give them up to thirteen minutes to get into position. That was plenty, but then the convoy had to arrive at the compound and Mankho’s people had to open the security enclosure and start their checks within the next seven minutes, and Gomez was becoming seriously concerned that would prove to be unrealistic.
But if he couldn’t expect his team to remain undetected that close to the walls in the growing light for much longer than that—if indeed Mankho had Halith sensors—he also could not wait to start them and still hit the opening. Worse, he realized that his callout that they were Buster—only five minutes from now—had been premature.
Buster was based on either the enclosure not being kept open or the EMP grenades not making it onto the convoy at all. Now he was looking at neither case and if he executed Buster, he ran the risk of the convoy arriving in the middle of his operation, between the compound and his team’s extraction point, armed with a lot of sophisticated grenades.
That their whole plan was far too dependent on a single worst-case assumption was a nice, useless insight, coming this late, but his only other option was to call Zulu, and scrub the entire thing. That meant not just the failure of a very elaborate operation, six months in the making, but it would also compromise the valuable assets that had identified Mankho on Lacaille in the first place, and most especially the agent in Kapustin Yar who had arranged the whole thing.
Four minutes—still no word from Bravo. Dammit. The only way forward was to break out of the timeline and hope they either didn’t have state-of-the-art sensors or weren’t paying attention. He checked his dragonflies for any sign of new activity in the compound. The little airborne sensors—some almost the size of the Terran insect they were named for but most much smaller—orbiting about the compound reported no unexpected movement, no comms activity, no sudden power draws.
He slid out from under the overhang of rock, crawled through the waist-high native vegetation with its tough, flexible, ribbed stalks and long, fine, tubular leaves that grew thickly around the base of the outcropping to an opening where he could sweep the compound with his scope. That itself risked his being detected if a scan picked up a boresight flash off the scope, but the geometry would have to so precise it wasn’t much of a risk, especially compared to what he was contemplating.
The sweep showed him nothing new either: just the sentries he’d seen before, making their rounds when they weren’t stopping to smoke, chat, wander into the buildings to grab a bite or take a piss. Sloppy—certainly no sense of urgency there. He rolled back behind the cover of the rock. Maybe a bit too sloppy? His sight-line wasn’t the best: there was a good third of the compound he couldn’t see. Sergeant Howarth was at least fifty meters higher up—not much at this range, but maybe enough. He clicked on his icon to activate a secure circuit. “Aries, this is Six. You all up?”
“I’m up, Six.” Howarth’s voice with its distinctive accent was thin and distorted, but still recognizable over the ultra-wideband burst link.
“Are you seeing anything new at all downtown?”
“Besides those two fat guys down there lookin’ through a third-floor window, nothin’.”
Spying on the Boss in the middle of the night? The hi-def orbital scans indicated Mankho’s living quarters were on the third floor of the residence. There were windows all around with two-centimeter armor-glass in them. The first two floors extended out into the compound and there were ladders up from the second-floor roof to the top of the third-floor where two sentries were posted. From a ladder you might get a peek inside, but surely Mankho wouldn’t tolerate that? “They’re not on the roof?”
“Nope. Keep going from second floor up the west ladder. They sure seem to find it fascinatin’.”
Gomez resisted the urge to shake his head. Who knew? Maybe he liked being watched. “Aries, I’m going to ping Bravo. Get hot. We’re either Buster or Zulu if no-joy on the package.”
“Roger, Six. Buster or Zulu if package is no-joy.”
“Roger. Six out.” Gomez cut the link but before he could configure a dragonfly for OTH relay, his command circuit alerted: Bravo’s call-sign. He clicked it. “What the hell, Bravo?”
“This is Fife, Six. We got ‘em in sight.”
“You read the package?”
“Five by five. Package is still wrapped.”
Deep in his gut, a huge knot of tension unwound. “Affirm package okay. What range?”
“Got ‘em at fifty-two klicks. Making one-forty.”
“Roger, Bravo. Get hot—I’m calling in. Wait for clearance.”
“Roger, Six. Waiting for clearance. Bravo out.”
Gomez acknowledged, checked the corvette’s ephemeris, got code-lock and activated his uplink. “Hermes, this is Alpha Six.”
“Go ahead, Alpha Six.”
“Package in sight. Request clearance.”
“Wait one . . .”
Wait one? What the hell for? “Hermes, we’re at minus forty-two. Half-light in twenty-nine.”
“Acknowledge, Alpha Six. We’ve got unexplained activity down in Kap-Yar.”
Unexplained activity? Kapustin Yar was four-hundred-eighty klicks south—close enough to be a big problem if someone was on the way. “Hermes, clarify what you mean by activity.”
“We picked up some energy spikes. Trying to get a read now.”
Energy spikes? That was all? “Hermes, do we have clear air?”
“We read nothing in the air, Alpha Six.”
Goddammit! Were they clear or not? He needed to move now—one way or another. “Hermes, I mean to execute now. Do you order Zulu?”
A pause on the line. Gomez waited, fuming, tapping his gloved fingers on the rifle’s stock.
“Negative on Zulu, Alpha Six. You are cleared hot.”
“Roger, Hermes—we are cleared hot. Executing now. Alpha Six out.”
The corvette acknowledged and he killed the uplink and pinged Bravo. “Bravo, this is Six. What is range to package?”
“Package at thirty-four—closing at nominal.”
“Affirm package at thirty-four, Bravo. Nominal closure.” Lieutenant Gomez opened the burst link to his team. “All Alpha units, this is Alpha Six. Package is in range. Execute prime. Repeat: execute prime. Angels, move in one. We’re going downtown.”
Part I: New Beginnings
Court: Brother John Bates, is not that the morning which breaks yonder?
Bates: I think it be: but we have no great cause to desire the approach of day.
Williams: We see yonder the beginning of the day, but I think we shall never see the end of it . . .
Shakespeare, Henry V: Act 4, Scene 1
Chapter One
Aeolis Station
in Mars orbit, Sol
Through this Portal shall pass the Future Guardians of Mankind’s Freedom . . .
Loralynn Kennakris stood looking at that sign engraved over the departure portal of Aeolis Station, wondering about the meaning of that message to a colonial like herself, and listening to a welcoming committee of one: a sergeant major of the Nereidian League’s Colonial Expeditiona
ry Forces Marine Corps. He was of slightly less than average height, about twice average girth, and had a face to be carved in basalt and set outside a temple to scare off demons. The hash marks on his sleeve ran from wrist to elbow and the Anson’s Deep Star glittered on the breast of his immaculate uniform. His name was Fyodor Mikhailovich Tal Yu, and he was holding aloft a bronze box.
“This is where it ends, boys and girls. For those who want to know, it’s about twenty-two centimeters long, fifteen wide and maybe ten high. Mass about six kilos. And if you think that being an officer in the CEF is just a ticket to a nice pension—to voting rights, medical privileges and settlement prerogatives—take a good, hard look. This here is the culmination of your career. Fail in your duty and you go home in one of these. Let down your mates and you go home in one of these. Disobey your orders and you go home in one of these. Don’t listen to me and you go home in one of these.” He paused to let that last comment sink in. Then: “Win a glorious victory . . . and you can go home in one of these, too.”
His small, black, old, searching eyes swept the little group. There were fifty-six of them standing there waiting to enter the CEF Academy as Class 1861. They came from all over the League and they’d all graduated in the top ten percent of their university class, after which they survived a battery of tests: mental, physical, and political too, for no one was admitted without a state sponsor, usually a senator for Homeworlders, or for colonials, the territorial governor. But there were exceptions—she was one.
The members of Class 1861 were exceptional in another way. The Academy organized its incoming classes by service branch: Navy, Marines, and the Strike and Reconnaissance Forces, or as they were commonly known, the Fighters. Only the top five percent of those accepted could apply for the SRF flight-officer program, the most grueling track at the Academy and the one which, in the Academy’s wholly unofficial pecking order, constituted the institution’s elite. Class 1861 represented twenty percent of that incoming elite.
None of this impressed Sergeant Major Yu. The Academy admitted almost seventy-two hundred new hopefuls every year, each one every bit as well qualified, every bit as confident, and every year, Yu, as one of the Academy’s senior drill instructors, watched more half of them wash out before the end of the first six-month term; wanna-be pilots first. He held the bronze box out at arm’s length.
“At the Battle of Anson’s Deep, thirty-eight thousand four hundred and eighty-eight of you bought one of these in an action that lasted thirteen hours and twenty-two minutes. Engaged were six hundred ninety-two ships, eight hundred sixty-four corvettes and attack craft—fighters and small craft beyond your ability to count. And a new bronze box every one-point-two-five-zero seconds.”
Kris noted that at that rate, they would all be wiped out in almost exactly seventy seconds. Then Yu dropped the box. Six kilos of bronze falling a meter and a half to a metal deck under a full gee makes a resounding crash. The group jumped in spite of itself, and Sergeant Major Yu smiled.
“Look out there,” he commanded, pointing out a view port at Deimos, a potato-shaped lump that was an unhealthy, mottled pinkish gray in the light of Sol. “There’s a rock over there. Damndest rock you ever saw. Semi-major axis of seven-point-five kilometers, semi-minor axis of six-point-one kilometers, ten-point-four klicks through. Mass of—well, who gives a fuck. That rock—which isn’t worth a shit on a good day—is what they died for and what you are signing up to die for. Not that planet down there”—he waved at Mars far below them—“that you aren’t good enough to set foot on yet, or the world back there”—he pointed over their heads towards distant Earth, now in opposition and just a bright star beyond the bulkheads—“which you aren’t even good enough to look at. We have Home Fleet to take care of those. The likes of you are only fit to look after that rock. And all the other rocks just like it. So,” he said with great satisfaction, “you’re gonna learn to love rocks.”
A bark of laughter sounded from the back of the group and Yu focused directly on the young man who made it. His sternly carved face relaxed as he called the young man forward. “Good afternoon, Son,” he said mildly.
“How you doing, Sarge?” He was big, this young candidate, and there were pale patches on his tanned skin where tattoos had recently been removed. He smiled openly at the sergeant major, quite sure of himself. A colonial, Kris thought, and lucky to be accepted. He clearly didn’t think it was luck, though.
The sergeant major continued to smile affably. “Where’re you from, Son?”
“Me? I’m from Reunion, Sarge.”
Yu nodded. “I’m from Lodestone Station myself.” The young man grinned. The sergeant major was just another colonial from the Inner Trifid, same as him. “Glad you’re enjoying the presentation.” The grin widened. “In fact, I think you should stay up here so we can all benefit from your valuable remarks.” The grin faded. “So why don’t you stand there behind me?”
“Behind you, Sarge?”
“That’s right, Son. Right here.” Yu pointed to a spot on the deck about a meter back. “You just stand there while I finish so you can make sure things don’t get boring. Can you do that, son? Or are you just another worthless Reunion puke I’ll have to chuck out of this program?”
Face darkening, the young man stood where he was told.
“Oh, and one more thing, Boy,” Yu added. “Any time you feel things are lagging here, go ahead and kick my ass.” There was no reply and Yu swiveled his round head to squint at him. “I can count on you, can’t I, Boy? That’s what you’re here for, isn’t? Kick ass and take names? I mean, what the fuck good are you if you can’t even kick an old man’s ass?”
The young man still said nothing but the rebellious look settled deeper on his features.
Yu turned back to the group. “So, boys and girls. That rock down there is going to be your home for the next year—if you don’t wash out after three weeks. If you can learn to love it. If you can learn to love lousy food, bad air, and a lack of recreational opportunities—not that you’ll have time for that anyway. But most of all”—the sergeant major paused, sweeping the group with his oddly reptilian gaze—“if you can learn to be a team. The Service lives, eats, sleeps, fights, shits as a team. If you are lucky enough to get liberty, you’ll get drunk and raise hell as a team. Your team will be your family, closer to you than your mother who cried when you decided to come here. You’ll live for your team and when the time comes, you’ll die for it too.”
Yu hooked his thumbs in his belt. The young man behind him was affecting a bored look and she wondered how long it would be before he broke out. Not more than a minute, she guessed.
“Those of you who understand that and make it through the first year—less than half, I expect—will get to move on to the glorious paradise of Cape York, downside on Mars, for your final year. So when you walk under that”—he jerked his thumb at the words over the portal—“you leave your ego on this side, children. Not like that kid back there.”
She noticed the kid shifting his weight. She guessed he’d had some training. She saw his eyes narrow, his mouth tighten.
“Kids like that don’t believe in teams—they believe in bossing teams. They think they’re special and they piss out in a week—” All at once the kid moved, right foot lashing out like a spring snapping. What happened next was a confused blur of movement her eye did not follow nor her mind comprehend.
If what Sergeant Major Yu had actually done wasn’t clear, the result was most emphatically so, for there the young man was, lying on the deck, contorting and gasping, his face gray and his lips almost white. Yu did not spare him a glance, but in the hush that was filled by futile, croaking noises, he waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t worry about him. The kid’ll be fine. Once they rebuild his diaphragm, anyway.”
The portal opened behind him, revealing the transport shuttle waiting to take them down to Deimos. Yu pointed to it. “Come on, people. Move it. You ain’t gonna get another invitation.”
&nb
sp; They started filing out in a ragged line, hesitantly at first, some steering wide of the weakly twitching, gasping ruin. A couple of corpsmen came out of the bay, picked him up and carried him unceremoniously away.
As she took her place at the back of the line, Yu came forward and stopped her. His black eyes appraised her briefly. “What’s your name?”
“Loralynn Kennakris, sir.”
Yu nodded. “They call you Kris, don’t they?”
“Mostly, sir.”
“Well, thank you, Kris, for warning me about that kid. Can’t be too careful with these kids. Sometimes they get lucky.”
Sure they do, she thought, realizing he’d been reading her the whole time—her face, the tension in her muscles, the size of her pupils, something—to tell what that kid was going to do. And she also realized that out of the fifty-five other people standing there, he’d picked her to focus on.
Why me?
Kris looked into Yu’s black eyes for several seconds but they gave nothing away. “Yes, sir.” Glancing after the others, boarding the shuttle through the rear hatch, she ventured, “There’s nothing really wrong with that guy’s diaphragm—he’d be dead. You just knocked the wind out of him. Isn’t that right, sir?”
Yu smiled, just showing the edges of his teeth. “Good girl, Kris. Go get on board.”
Chapter Two
Lakskya Compound
Lacaille, Praesepe Cluster
Lieutenant Gomez, lying in a shallow depression a hundred meters from the north wall of Mankho’s compound, and six hundred nine light-years away from Mars, watched as his explosion lit up the sky like a sheet of lightning. The entire compound before him instantly went dark and silent.
Loralynn Kennakris 2: The Morning Which Breaks Page 2