Jupiter's Halo: Unbroken

by A P Heath

  It was the same situation as always; every person in the solar system needed water and there were only a finite number of places it could be found.

  The Jupiter’s Halo station, also known as the God’s Belt, had been founded on the supposition that the oceans of Europa and Ganymede would supply the populations’ water supply for generations.

  The reality however, had fallen short of the Ministry’s hopes. There had been water beneath Europa’s crust for sure, but not nearly as much of it as first thought.

  There was water on Europa, but the majority of the liquid beneath its surface had turned out to be made up from hydrogen peroxide and sulfuric acid.

  The volume of useable water available was the tiniest fraction of the original estimates.

  The moon spanning ocean of Ganymede was a different story.

  There was an abundance of water for certain. More so than all the oceans and seas of Earth combined, but it held something even more precious; life.

  The ocean of Ganymede was alive with bacteria, microbes, even simple multi-celled organisms. To plunder the ocean and drain its life sustaining waters would destroy the first sings of alien life the human race had ever encountered.

  The Ministry, still acting from Earth at this time, had swiftly declared the Jovian moon off limits to any and all efforts to mine water or ice. The opportunity to study these lifeforms was too important to lose.

  The half completed station had found itself in need of a new source of hydration. There had of course, been the option of abandoning the station, leaving it uncompleted and uninhabited, but the pressures of population meant to do so would see millions of would-be settlers left to die on the inhospitable moons around the gas giant, where they had built temporary settlements.

  As it turned out there were still millions of those settlers still clinging to life on the rocks and stations that surrounded the giant planet like so many flies around fresh dung, as well as the near sixteen billion now inhabiting the massive station complex.

  That was no concern of Arto Dilempian’s though. His concern was water; the mining and selling of and the strength their monopoly over such gave the Deorum.

  When Europa had been found to offer nothing more than acid and poison and Ganymede mankind’s first discovery of extra-terrestrial life, the Deorum had offered to supply water to the Ministry from their ice mining within the asteroid belt.

  A grateful Ministry had been all too eager to accept the terms they were offered at the time, but ever since they’d sought to change the deal in their favour.

  The Ministry of Colonies was the central seat of governance in

  the solar system, having taken over from Earth when the Plague first took hold in 330MI, or 2745 by the old Earth calendar that Dilempian still kept.

  With the station and colonies combined the Ministry had a population twice the size of the Deorum and Mars together. They had the largest fleet among the stars, as well as the largest standing army, but they were toothless.

  Technically they could simply order the Deorum to cease its mining operations and take over themselves, but to do so could insight a war and despite their overwhelming advantages the officers of the Ministry would never risk such a thing.

  Dilempian had travelled to Jupiter’s Halo with orders to renegotiate the water supply further in the Deorum’s favour.

  The station was pleading a shortage of water that they said threatened the lives of all aboard as well as the populations of the colonies on Europa and Callisto.

  Dilempian was loath to believe the story, but had been dispatched to treat with the under-secretary and agree new terms for an increase in supply. His belief in the so-called shortages had been further diminished when his initial appointment with Harten had been delayed, leaving him stranded aboard the mighty station with nothing to do but spend his credit in the bars and gambling houses of the nearest social quarter.

  Arto Dilempian had suffered the indignity of three further delays before he’d finally been brought to the administration decks to meet with the under-secretary. And after all that, after days of waiting and repeated messages that ‘he was an important and honoured guest and would be seen as soon as the under-secretary was able’, after all of that the man had the gall to launch into this age old sob story and ask for the impossible with the official introductions barley over.

  Dilempian had been furious. He sat and stewed, the anger building until he couldn’t hold it in check any longer and he’d shouted Harten down.

  He knew his behaviour would earn him a stern admonishment from the Ambassador, but right here, in the

  hot close confines of this plant filled office he felt justified. He had no doubt Her Excellency would feel differently, but that was a problem for another day.

  Here and now he had a job to do and he’d be damned if he was going to let this petulant pen-pusher keep him from his duty.

  “Well,” Harten continued, more composed now, “As you’re not willing to discuss the opportunity I had wished to table, I suspect you have your own agenda to pursue.”

  He steepled his fingers over his desk and Dilempian couldn’t help but notice how he had to angle his arms up to reach.

  He can’t even reach his own desk and he speaks to me like that. ‘Opportunity’ eh? Yes, the opportunity for you and yours to strip the Deorum of all it’s worth.

  Out loud he said, “You are correct Under-secretary, I have been dispatched from Luna-”

  “Earth’s moon.” Harten interjected.

  Dilempian had to swallow the rage that bubbled up at the under-secretary’s disrespect for his home.

  “-from Luna,” He continued, trying not to growl the words, “To discuss adjustments to the Aqua Accord, to take into account the increasing needs of the Ministry and its colonies.”

  “Adjustments?” Harten enquired, raising his eyebrows as if he were surprised to hear the word.

  “Indeed.” Dilempian could feel his temper fraying at the under-secretary’s feigned ignorance. Of course there would need to be adjustments.

  The Ministry had demanded a vast increase in supply and they were bloody fools if they thought it would not come at a price.

  “You requested a one-hundred and ten percent increase in supply for Jupiter’s Halo and a further sixty percent increase for the colony moons. Such an increase comes with costs and you cannot expect the Deorum to bear them without remuneration.”

  Harten leaned back in his chair, pulling his arms from the desk to rest against his small thin chest.

  “These costs are not the Ministry’s concern,” He said calmly, “The Aqua Accord requires the Deorum to meet the needs of

  the Ministry and its colonies. There is nothing in it about costs. Changing the Accord is not something which we at the Ministry consider is open to negotiation.”

  He is trying to goad me. Dilempian thought. You’re all too keen to throw the entire Accord away when it suits you, but when we ask for a perfectly reasonable change to protect our investment, suddenly the damned thing is as holy and untouchable as your bloody Saints of Terra.

  “So if I’m understanding you clearly,” Dilempian persisted, “You want the Deorum to practically double its output,” He leaned forward again, staring hard to accentuate his point, “While receiving absolutely nothing in return?” The under-secretary leaned forward, mirroring the body language of his guest. His whole demeanour had changed, there was no hint of fear or unease in him and Dilempian began to suspect the way he’d acted before was all just an act to put him off his guard.

  “The Deorum receives preferential trade tariffs from the Ministry, protected routes for travel between Earth’s moon and the Jovian system for all citizens and a substantial levy in the way of credits. I would hardly call that nothing.” He leaned back again, clearly comfortable in his own smugness.

  “We have given you blessing to break the Delphi Pact and mine for ice in the systems of Neptune and Uranus.” Harten said. His tone was placating, but Dilempian could
see in his eyes that the under-secretary was playing with him. Playing him for a fool and enjoying it immensely.

  “The Deorum made the pact with the Delphi while the Ministry was still playing at governing from the pleasure gardens of Mars.” Dilempian threw back. “Unlike your oily self-serving Ministry, we choose to act with honour. We do not break the bonds we forge.”

  “And yet you want to renege on the Aqua Accord for the sake of a few more credits.”

  The statement was delivered with a mocking calmness. Dilempian was lost for words.

  He wanted to shout into that smug face. He wanted to reach out, drag the under-secretary across the desk and beat him to a bloody mess with his fists.

  Prior to his current role, Dilempian had served a decade in the army of the Deorum. He’d fought with gun and knife and even his bare hands for the people he called his own and he didn’t doubt for a moment that he could murder this weak little bureaucrat without breaking a sweat.

  That would only lead to trouble though.

  “I can see this is not the conversation you were expecting.” Harten said, “And I’m disappointed to hear you hold our dear Ministry in such low regard.” He shook his head, sadly.

  “No doubt I will need to take this matter up with Her Excellency directly. It would appear the role she has assigned is not one to which you are naturally suited.”

  Harten lifted some paper sheets from his desk and shuffled them distractedly, as if gathering his thoughts. Dilempian could see the gleam still in the under-secretary’s eye and it was all he could do to keep his anger in check.

  This sham of a meeting was over and he had gained nothing but a deeper distaste for the bureaucrats he was forced to engage with.

  It was an appalling admission to think that Harten might be right. Maybe this was not the role for him after all. He’d prided himself on his ability to negotiate, harangue and otherwise roll over his opponents to reach success in all the tasks Her Excellency had set him, but now he was faced with this irritating squirt of a man who had somehow tied him in knots and was sending him away defeated and deflated.

  “If you’ll excuse me then, Under-secretary?” He said, getting up from his chair and turning to the door. Harten barely nodded his agreement, so seemingly intent was he on the papers he now held.

  Dilempian closed the door behind him as he stepped into the corridor outside and stopped to take in a deep, long breath.

  The Ambassador would not be pleased with this outcome. She would not be pleased at all.

  Dilempian briefly considered another trip to the social quarter to drown his self- loathing and put off the inevitable fury Her Excellency would no doubt direct at him.

  He sighed, “No point in putting it off.” He muttered to himself. Dilempian took another breath, lifting his shoulders and straightening his back. If he was going to be stripped of his position he would face the prospect like a citizen of the Deorum should; with strength and honour.

  FOUR

  Captain Lelo Timonny surveyed the briefing room with an impatient stare from behind the speakers’ lectern.

  The Lieutenants, Sergeants and marines of Second Company were settling before him. It was not happening quickly enough for his liking.

  The briefing hall was attached to the Second Company barracks and Timonny knew for a fact it was only two-thirds the size of that used by First Company, despite both having the same number of marines.

  Including his lieutenants and their sergeants, Timonny had command over ninety-nine of the finest warriors the Deorum had to offer.

  The marines of the Six Companies were trained rigorously at the Academy to be the absolute best. For every class of one-hundred only a handful, five to ten at best, would be successful.

  The training started in childhood and lasted three long years, by the Martian calendar. The drop outs would go back to civilian life or into the Deorum Army or Navy.

  Those that lived at least. The training regime for marines was brutal. It left no room for the weak and broke those that weren’t strong enough.

  In Timonny’s class, all those years ago, they’d lost nine boys and seven girls before the end of the first year. Most had dropped out through injury or simply because they couldn’t take the pace, but three had died.

  Timonny still remembered the first; a boy called Lance, slim and blonde with high cheek bones and long legs.

  He had been the one they all wanted to beat. The fastest runner, the most accurate shot, the quickest to learn the basics of their unarmed combat training.

  They’d been sparring, their drill sergeant pitting one after another against Lance in hand-to-hand combat.

  The young blonde had dispatched each opponent quickly and savagely; a girl knocked to her knees with a fierce backhand

  swipe, then kicked hard to roll off the practice mat with blood filling her mouth.

  A boy, shorter than Lance, but stockier in build tried to place a kick to his gut, only to have his foot caught and twisted with a terrible crack as his ankle snapped.

  Timonny had watched the fighting, awaiting his turn and fighting to keep his fear in check.

  “Marines of the Deorum do not fear the enemy! Do you want to be a marine of the Deorum?” The drill sergeant, Sergeant Bantan would bellow as each new opponent stepped up to face Lance.

  Timonny knew he was afraid of the boy. He was afraid of losing, of looking foolish, of the pain the other boy would inflict upon him. He couldn’t let it show though.

  Doing so would mark him as a coward and he knew their sergeant would single him out, would hound him every night and day until he gave up and dropped out of the programme.

  Another boy hit the mat, his eyes closed before his body even reached the floor.

  There was only one more cadet before Timonny and she was just a little girl. Her name was Luna, named after the rock beneath their feet as so many girls were. She was small for her age, thin and sickly looking with watery eyes and a pale complexion.

  Timonny had marked her as a drop out the first time he saw her and Bantan had done the same. He’d made her the focus of his attention for weeks, with nightly runs, latrine duty, physical and verbal abuse.

  As yet none of it had pushed dear little Luna over the edge, but Timonny guessed it wouldn’t be long before her resolve crumbled and those watery eyes filled with tears.

  He’d watched her step forward, toward that savage smile Lance reserved for opponents he was going to have fun with.

  Timonny almost didn’t want to watch. It was a ridiculous sight; this tiny girl standing so small and still.

  Lance was going to beat her slowly, hurt her and humiliate her. Timonny knew the sergeant would have told him to do

  exactly that, but he could see how much Lance was relishing the prospect.

  Lance stepped forward, raising his right leg in a feint to bring Luna’s arms up as he adjusted his balance and brought his left fist down onto the top of her tiny head. At least, that was his plan.

  Luna hadn’t gone to block the false kick but instead stepped forward herself, her reduced height letting her slip right under Lance’s guard. Her arm shot directly up and Timonny heard a wet crunch as it connected. Lance stumbled back, his eyes wide, his hands reaching for his throat where a dark red mark showed clear. He was gasping, fighting for air. Timonny could see the confusion in his eyes and the fear.

  Suddenly Lance was no longer a fearsome and terrible opponent, but just a boy. A terrified boy trying to breathe through pipes that had been smashed by Luna’s little fist. His face turned red, his lips blue as he dropped to his knees.

  He reached out a hand, pleading with his eyes for aid. No one moved. Lance’s eyes were bloodshot, his face darkening to purple.

  As Timonny watched his eyes glazed and his arms fell limp to his sides. Lance collapsed face down on to the training mat. Just two minutes ago the boy had been smiling, dancing on the spot ready to crush another of his fellow cadets and now he lay motionless upon the floor.

&n
bsp; Luna had lowered her fist, but otherwise had not moved. The training hall was silent, not a single cadet moving or speaking after the shock of Lances’ death at the hands of this weak looking little girl. Sergeant Bantan stepped onto the training mat beside Luna, facing the recruits.

  “Today you have learned an important lesson.” He was speaking instead of shouting, something he did only rarely when around the cadets.

  “Your pride will kill you as surely as any enemy. The day you underestimate a foe is the day you die.” His gaze swept the line of children in the hall and settled on Timonny.

  “Cadet, take the body to the infirmary for disposal.”

  That had been the first death, but not the last in Timonny’s class. Luna was not one of them though. That small, quiet girl with watery eyes had grown into a fearsome marine. She was an admiral now, commanding the fourth Battlegroup of the Deorum Fleet. And here he was just a Captain.

  Timonny turned his attention back to the marines of Second Company. They were waiting for him to brief them on the forthcoming mission, but the intelligence he had been given to share with them was poor.

  A few grainy images from drone cameras and a schematic dug up from the archives and likely decades out of date. He hated feeling less than fully prepared and appraised for a combat mission and he hated the thought of the men and women of Second Company thinking he was ill informed.

  Timonny was none too pleased with the role Second Company were to play in the mission arena either. They were going in as support for First Company, but not all of them, just his first squad. The others, 2C2 and 2C3 would be left as the on board reserve, sat in drop ships on the embarkation deck of the Pride, while the support squads weren’t even being called out of their barracks.

  It irked him to think of his marines being side-lined so, and worse he’d be taking orders from Captain Lanad of the First for the entirety of the operation. Lanad was another one like Lance; effortlessly better than Timonny at so many things and smug with it. He was taller than Timonny, broader in the shoulders and despite being older he’d aged better than Timonny.