by Rick Partlow
“They’re coming down separately,” Jason explained, mouth screwing up in distaste, “on the lander.” He jerked his head toward Valerie O’Keefe, engaged in conversation with the RHN reporter. “She didn’t want to have them around for the press to see—thought it would make her look paranoid.”
“Hell, I wish I was on the lander,” Jock Gregory grumbled from the seat behind him. “These pus…” he hesitated, glancing around self-consciously, “wussy Fleet shuttles make me want to puke.”
“So, sir,” Vinnie asked, surreptitiously elbowing his friend in the ribs, “what’s the agenda? Did she move the meeting back?”
McKay nodded, obviously unimpressed by her half-hearted cooperation. “By a whole hour. So, after we meet with Governor Sigurdsen, we’ll have to bust ass over to the hall ahead of her and give it a good looking-over. You two’ve done security scans before, so you’ll be in charge.”
“My favorite job,” Gregory muttered.
“What about me, Lieutenant?” Crossman asked, somehow managing to look more at ease than everyone else, even in zero gravity. “Do I get to do strip searches on the local senoritas?”
“You…” Jason bit back his initial response, doubting it would seem very professional. “You’ll draw a weapon and patrol the perimeter. If as much as a cow comes too close to the building, I want you to restrain it and hold it for questioning. You got that, Mister?”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Tom’s mouth twisted into his crooked grin. “Arrest all suspicious farm animals—got it, sir.”
“MacArthur shuttle SL-103,” the pilot’s voice came over the PA system, “preparing for launch. All passengers fasten your safety restraints, and have a pleasant flight.”
“Goddamned commercial pleasure cruise,” Vincent Mahoney whispered to Gregory, who grunted agreement. McKay had to laugh: those two would always be Marines.
The metallic clunks of releasing locking rings vibrated through the aerospace vehicle as it began to float through the open docking bay doors. Muffled bangs signalled the momentary ignition of the maneuvering thrusters that carried them out of the bay and into the shadow of the massive nickel-iron obelisk that was the RFS MacArthur. For a few seconds, the black metal of the hull was all they could see, punctuated by the regular bumps of sensor pods and antimissile defense turrets; but then they emerged into the harsh brightness of Aphrodite, a brown, green and blue hemisphere that stretched before them in the compartment’s holographic viewscreen.
“It looks a lot like Earth,” Shannon observed.
“Looks can be deceiving,” Jason told her. “About a third of the surface is as barren as the Mojave desert.”
“Have you been here before?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah.” He laughed humorlessly, settling back in his seat and closing his eyes. “I have been here before.”
* * *
Jason tried to keep from sweating as he watched the rocky ground pass by beneath them, but all he could imagine was a heat-seeking missile rising from some sheltered outcropping below to wipe them out in a methane explosion. God knew, it wouldn’t take much more than a rifle bullet to bring down the bulbous, ungainly, ducted-fan hovercraft that was the only transport available from the spaceport. The damned thing was a genuine antique, surely older than him, and ran on methane, for God’s sake. Why the hell didn’t they just strap on a bomb and hang a sign on their door that said, “Please shoot me?”
At least the ride was blissfully short—the port was only about sixty klicks from Kennedy, the capital. Why they’d built the planet’s capital so close to the nearly uninhabitable northern desert, McKay wasn’t sure. Maybe it had something to do with proving a political point that the planetary government represented the immigrant farmers of the north just as much as the wealthier colonists of the south. Or maybe it gave the wealthy colonists of the south a convenient center to find failed farmers they could hire for next to nothing as servants and workers.
Either way, Kennedy did have the distinction of being the second largest city in the star colonies, with a population of nearly 500,000. They could see the outskirts of the city a couple dozen klicks before they came anywhere near the governor’s mansion: not much, just scattered housing and a few small shops. Not that the city itself was that impressive. It was barely four or five kilometers on a side, with uneven rows of low, sprawling buildings constructed of native wood and rock interspersed with the taller, more modern structures built by the multicorps; but it was more than McKay had seen on any of the other colonies he’d visited during his hitch with the Marines.
A few minutes after they’d passed by the city limits, the ducted-fan flitter banked east and ran along the edge of the town until they came to one of the few paved roads that led out of the city proper. It ran for nearly a kilometer along a tree-lined path, through painfully-green, mechanically-irrigated fields of genetically-engineered grass to a huge, stark-white palace of a building that could only be described as something out of Scarlett O’Hara’s worst nightmare. It was meant to be an authentic imitation of an antebellum southern plantation house, but something had obviously gone wrong along the way; it had wound up as a kind of hodgepodge of protruding wings and terraces that more resembled a Dali painting than an official residence.
“That’s the governor’s mansion?” Shannon Stark asked McKay in obvious disbelief.
“It looked better last time I saw it.” Jason nodded glumly. “It was on fire.”
“You were here for the Arm of Allah riots,” she surmised. Behind her and across the aisle, Valerie O’Keefe’s ears pricked up at the mention of the riots.
“We dropped in the middle of the second week,” he told her. “The Guard was falling back on their armory, the city was nearly destroyed, and the Arabs were advancing on the governor’s mansion. When we got to the place, they’d set it on fire and Governor Sigurdsen was hiding under a truck. After we got things under control, he wanted to give my L-T a commendation, but Lieutenant Chan told him to go to hell.”
“Do you think he’ll hold that against you?” she wondered.
“He won’t know me from Adam.” Jason shook his head. “I was just another faceless corporal.” He chuckled quietly. “At least the Arm of Allah won’t be causing any more trouble—after the riots, they shipped all the Arab colonists to Loki out at Epsilon Eridani. Nothing but mountains and blizzards—great place for a bunch of camel jockeys, huh?”
“And did those ‘camel jockeys’ have any say in where they were to be relocated, Lieutenant?” Valerie O’Keefe asked him, disapproval strong in her voice.
“Yeah,” McKay shot back. “They said, ‘Brrr.’”
Shannon turned her head to stifle a laugh, and Val opened her mouth, poised to make a retort, but then the flitter lurched downward, jolting them forward. For a moment, Jason thought they were going to crash, but then he realized that their home-study-course pilot was just bringing them in for a landing. McKay thought he saw a look of distaste pass across Nathan Tanaka’s face, possibly professional disapproval of the flight crew, as they settled down with a teeth-rattling bump on the hard concrete of the mansion’s landing pad.
“Vinnie,” Jason ordered before anyone could move to disembark, “take Jock and go check out the area before Ms. O’Keefe gets off.”
“Aye, sir.” Mahoney didn’t salute—McKay had told them not to as long as they were in mufti—but you could tell it took a concerted effort not to. He and Gregory scrambled out of the flitter’s slowly-opening hatchway, Tanaka stepping out behind them, as Val fixed McKay with an annoyed glare.
“Is that really necessary, Lieutenant?” she wanted to know. “I’m sure Governor Sigurdsen has his own security.”
“I know he does,” Jason assured her. “I helped carry away their bodies last time I was here.” He frowned in mock confusion. “I’m sorry, Ms. O’Keefe, but I could have sworn you told me to talk about security measures with your bodyguard. Would you rather I dealt directly with you from now on?”
“You probab
ly don’t want to know what I’d rather you do, Lieutenant McKay,” she said, anger evident behind her eyes.
“I’ll tell you what you need to do, McKay,” Glen interjected, finally becoming too furious to hold it in any longer. “You can…”
“All clear outside,” Vinnie announced, returning through the side hatch. “The governor’s waiting for us.”
“Can’t keep his Honor waiting.” Jason shot Glen a challenging grin, then moved down the aisle toward the exit. Perhaps, he thought, this job could be fun after all.
* * *
“Ms. O’Keefe!” Governor Roland Sigurdsen swept the Senator’s daughter into a crushing hug, lifting her off the ground, level with his massive, two-meter frame. “So wonderful to see you once again!”
The man reminded Jason of nothing so much as a Dark-Age Viking, with his long, flame-red hair tied in a pony tail, his bushy beard flowing down over the lapels of his casual suit and wild, fearsome blue eyes that seemed to protrude from his face when he spoke. He weighed upwards of a hundred and fifty kilos, and not much of it was fat, making him one of the most imposing figures McKay had ever seen. It was too bad the man was such an incredible moron.
“Hello, Governor.” Val shook his hand once he set her back down. “It’s good to see you, too.” She smoothed at her clothes, and McKay could detect a hint of hidden distaste in the motion. “This is Glen Mulrooney, my fiancé and my father’s chief advisor.”
“Nice to meet you, young man.” Sigurdsen pumped Glen’s hand fervently, beaming like a proud father. “You’re a lucky fellow to have found so worthy a mate.”
“Uh, thank you, sir,” Mulrooney said with a nod. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, son,” the big man assured him. His accent was Southern US, despite his name, but McKay wasn’t sure if it was genuine or an affectation. The Governor waved at a whisper-thin, two meters-tall male standing behind him, dressed in a business suit. “This is Felix Ortiz, the Lieutenant Governor.” The tall man bowed his head slightly, a thin smile on his thin face. “And this is Captain Shan Loa-Deng.” The Colonial Guard officer just stood her ground to the big man’s left, her chubby face expressionless. McKay guessed she probably had heard Val’s views and didn’t much care for them, or for her.
“Nice to meet you both,” Val said diplomatically.
Seeing she wasn’t about to introduce him, McKay stepped forward to introduce himself—and, hopefully, to annoy her.
“Governor,” he said, sticking out a hand, “I’m Lieutenant Jason McKay, Fleet Intelligence, and this is my second-in-command, Lieutenant Stark. We’ll be in charge of Ms. O’Keefe’s security during her visit.”
“Well, you’re most welcome, Lieutenant.” The big man pumped his hand, his grip strong and dry. “Though I hope your services won’t be needed.”
“You and me both, sir,” Jason agreed, painting on a cheerful expression. “If you could tell us where we’re to stay, my people have to prepare for the meeting with the Farmer’s Council.”
“Surely, surely,” Sigurdsen blustered. “Filipe,” he called sharply to one of the half-dozen servants standing between them and the front entrance to the house. The man hurried over, smoothing down the front of his white uniform jacket. Jason was surprised the Governor didn’t have the man respond with “Yassah, Massah.” “Show these ladies and gentlemen to their rooms. The rest of you,” he snapped at the others, “get their luggage.” Turning back to O’Keefe, he smiled hugely. “I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay here. If there’s anything you need, just ask. I’m totally at your disposal.”
Disposal of the Governor, Jason thought ruefully to himself as he watched the immigrant servants scramble to retrieve their luggage, seemed like a very good idea.
* * *
“…and so,” Valerie concluded, “I believe that this tour, and the finding I report to the Senate, will achieve real change within the next few years. If you will continue to have faith in yourselves,” she smiled modestly, “and a little in me, things are going to get better. Thank you for your time.”
Thunderous applause filled the old warehouse as she stepped down from the hand-made wooden podium, and, somehow, she found it even more satisfying than the ovation she’d received in the Senate. Looking out at the hundreds of small farmers, some dressed in little more than rags, with their faces beaming with the hope she represented, she was almost moved to tears. A sight like that made all the travel and sacrifice worthwhile.
“How come it’s gotten so fucking cold all of a sudden?” Glen muttered, shivering in his thin, Italian suit, glancing out the open freight doors at the faint glint of the setting primary star.
“This is the desert, Glen,” she reminded him quietly, closing the upper fasteners of her light jacket. Together, shadowed by the ever-wary form of Tanaka, they stepped down from the speaking platform, and immediately were met by Miguel Huerta, the chairman of the Independent Farmer’s Council. He was a stocky, greying man in his early fifties, face cracked and weathered by more than three decades in the desert—he’d been one of the first of the forced immigrants, brought there only months after the policies were enacted.
Yet, after all the hardships and mind-numbing labor, he’d not only prospered, but he’d kept a positive, cheerful disposition: she couldn’t remember a time she’d met with him when he wasn’t laughing and smiling.
“Thank you so much for coming to see us again, Senorita O’Keefe.” He embraced her warmly, beaming through his salt-and-pepper beard. “You leave us, as last time, with a new sense of hope.”
“It’s people like you who are the true source of hope, Miguel,” she told him, squeezing his arm fondly. “You give me hope for the future.”
Glen glanced over to make sure the RHN reporter was picking all this up on the little holocam resting on his shoulder mount—this was good stuff.
“Ms. O’Keefe,” Jason McKay said, stepping up to them, “your flitter is warming up outside.” Val regarded him coolly. She still burned a bit from his insistence on running all the attendees through a weapons scan before allowing them inside.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she told him dismissively. “I’ll be along shortly.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, trying to be patient. “Please try to hurry, though—there’s quite a crowd outside, and it’s getting difficult for my people to keep them away from the vehicle.”
“That’s your problem, McKay,” Glen snapped. “We’ll be out when we’re damn good and ready.”
“Mr. Mulrooney, I’m curious,” Jason asked him, showing his teeth in something less than a grin, “did your parents have any children that lived?”
“Listen, you…” Glen flared, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Jock Gregory, who ran up to McKay with a concerned look on his face.
“Sir,” he announced, slinging his grenade launcher, “there’s a couple of CeeGee troop carrier pulling up outside—looks like a platoon of ’em.”
“What do they want?” Jason asked him.
“Don’t know,” Gregory told him. “Lieutenant Stark’s going to talk to them now.” He shook his head. “Things are getting out of hand out there, sir.”
“Jock, you get back out there and back her up,” he ordered. He pulled a small comlink out of his pocket, hitting the send control. “Crossman, get in here and cover the entrance—don’t let anyone in but one of us.” He didn’t wait for the reply, just tucked the radio away and turned to find Tanaka, who was standing on one of the steps up to the speaker’s platform, surveying the crowd carefully. “Tanaka, you keep Ms. O’Keefe in here till we find out what’s going on out there—don’t let her or Mr. Mulrooney out of here until you hear from me or one of my people.”
Not waiting to hear the bodyguard’s reply, McKay drew the 10mm service pistol from the shoulder holster beneath his field jacket and headed out the door. Outside, he saw immediately that things did not look good. There had to be at least four or five hundred people gathered outside the fron
t entrance, hoping to get a glimpse of Valerie, and they were getting a bit restless—pockets were chanting political slogans and some had begun to shout angrily at the Colonial Guard troops slowly clambering out of their armored personnel carriers. They all were in full combat armor, rocket rifles carried at the ready, except for Captain Shan Loa-Deng—she still wore her dress uniform, with the cosmetic addition of a small sidearm.
As Jason approached, squinting at the harsh brightness of the APC’s floodlights, he could see Shannon engaged in a heated conversation with the CeeGee Captain, their words almost lost in the roar of the crowd. One of the forward lights from the nearest armored car backlit the pair, sending an elongated, ominous shadow stretching out on the rocky ground before them.
“Look, Captain,” Stark was saying as Jason walked up, “we have things under control here—I think it might be unwise to provoke this crowd.”
“I have no interest in what you think, Lieutenant.” Deng waved a hand dismissively. “I have been stationed here for an intolerable two years, and I know this immigrant trash. They cannot be allowed to get out of hand or they will start their riots again.”
Yeah, Jason, sighed to himself. What she was saying made sense, until you considered that the Guard troops were arraying themselves in a semicircle on the far side of the crowd, not separating the crowd from the building, but trapping them against it.
“What’s the problem here?” Jason asked, looking from Stark to Deng, letting his pistol hang casually at his side. This, he realized, had the potential to get incredibly ugly.