by Rick Partlow
He sighed, trying to shake off the negative emotions. Glancing at the foot of the platform, he nodded to Charlie Klesko, the agent in charge of his security detail. The solid, shaven-headed man had been with him since his election, and the sight of him parked there in his unfashionably plain suit had become something of a comfort. But looming behind him were the huge, bronze double-doors of the main entrance, inlaid with the seal of the Republic, reminding him of why he was here.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Senate,” Jameson began, trying to collect his thoughts. “I thank you for inviting me here again to address you on the occasion of the Senate’s annual recess. I’ve given this speech many times before, so many that it’s become rather automatic. But I feel this time is different. This may be the most important speech I’ll ever give… and the most important one you’ll ever hear.
“Those of you who sit on the Security and Space committees have already been briefed about the ship disappearances, and the rest of you have probably heard the rumors about the events on Aphrodite. Today, I’m here to tell you that these rumors are true. About nine months ago, the Aphrodite colony was invaded by unknown forces.” He paused, waiting for the rumbling aftershocks to travel through the audience. Many of them had heard the news already, he was sure, but even those tried to act surprised since it had officially been top-secret.
“Due to the bravery and resourcefulness of certain members of our armed forces, whom you will be meeting in a few months, the invasion force withdrew, leaving us valuable clues that are even now being analyzed by investigative teams. We are certain of only one thing at this point: there is a non-human enemy out there capable of star-travel and perfectly willing to use force to take what they want.”
“So what makes them any different than your regime?” Glen muttered to himself, seated beside Valerie and Senator O’Keefe near the back of the auditorium. The Senator usually stayed near the head of the pack for speeches such as this, but Valerie was a bit sensitive about her pregnancy—it had taken an hour’s worth of cajoling for her father to get her to agree to attend with him, and the conditions had been that they would sit near the back and leave immediately afterward.
Valerie, hearing Glen’s comment, fixed him with a hard stare.
“Maybe someday,” she said, “you’ll stop thinking like an ideologue, Glen, and start thinking like a statesman.”
He bit back his initial response and shut up. Things had been tense since they’d returned and she’d told him about the pregnancy—as if she blamed him for what happened. He still didn’t buy her story about the g-sleep cancelling out his sterilization treatments; he had his own idea of what happened. She’d been raped by Huerta or one of his goons, and made McKay promise not to tell anyone about it—that’s what he thought.
He was willing to cut her a little slack if it would help her deal with it, but if she got any worse, he was going to have to insist she go to counselling. The one thing he couldn’t figure out was why she was so determined to keep the baby. She’d told him that by the time she’d found out, it was too late to abort it legally—fine, but why not have it transferred to a surrogate and put up for adoption? Especially if he was right, and she had been raped?
He shook his head and tried to listen to the rest of Jameson’s speech.
“I don’t intend,” the President was saying, “to use this turn of events as a political tool. In times such as these, we must work together and put our past differences behind us. We have defenses in place around all of our colony worlds, but we have no way of knowing if these will prove adequate to the task. The Department of Defense is already in the process of mobilizing every possible asset for shipment out to the colonies to augment the ships and troops already in place. What we will need, however, and sooner rather than later, is more starships. I am putting in a request, which I will forward to the Senate immediately after the recess, that all Corporate cargo ships be refitted with weapons and defensive systems, restaffed with military crews, and used to patrol the colonies. I’ve already talked to the heads of the transportation multicorps, and I’ve been assured they will cooperate completely. What I ask of you, upon your return, is to move up the construction of the three cruisers already authorized by the Defense Spending Act—we’ll need them, both to replace the MacArthur, which was destroyed during the attack on Aphrodite, and to prepare for any further such attacks.”
His eyes scanned back and forth across the auditorium, wondering how these men and women would react to the news. Would they do the right thing, unite against a common foe, or continue their petty squabbling until the wolf was knocking at the door?
“I realize,” he continued, “that we have many unsolved problems: the issue of the forced emigrants, the political unrest in Eastern Europe and South America, the independence movements on Mars and the Jovian colonies, and the continuing debate over the ethics of our plan to terraform Venus. But these must take a back seat, for the moment, to the immediate threat. I implore all of you, no matter what your political orientation, to join together with me and the whole of the human race in this time of danger. I continue to hope that there may be some way we can contact whoever was responsible for the attack and perhaps bring all this to some kind of peaceful conclusion, but the brutal and unprovoked nature of their actions makes this less than likely.
“We don’t have a clue as to where they may strike next, but I promise you that we will be prepared for them, and no more of our citizens abroad will fall victim to their predations.”
A jackhammer echo from the auditorium’s front hallway made Jameson glance around in mid-sentence. At the foot of the podium, Charlie Klesko’s head snapped up, one hand going to his earpiece transmitter and the other slipping under his jacket to the machine pistol holstered beneath his left arm.
Jameson tried to compose himself and continue with his speech, but another, closer burst of the sharp, hammer-blow noises interrupted him again.
“Sir!” Klesko started up the stairs to the platform, eyes filled with uncharacteristic fear. “You’ve got to get out of here!”
Klesko was only halfway up the stairs when two of the security agents standing closest to the main entrance vanished in a fireball that stretched from floor to ceiling. Jameson watched in horror as time seemed to slip into a slower, nightmarish pace. He could see the tide of flame wash out of the blast centimeter by centimeter, slowly passing over the seats closest to the entrance as half a dozen people ignited from its heat, dying before they could scream as the superheated gas burned through their lungs. The edge of the blast crept forward, tossing Klesko off the step, limbs flailing, even as Jameson felt it slam into him like a giant fist, knocking him off his feet.
As his back touched the platform, time rushed back into fast motion with a thunderclap of sound and a wave of heat that stole the breath from his chest. The reverberation of the blast faded, the void it left filled by the panicked screams of the audience as they rushed for the exits—and straight into the flashing muzzles of Invader autorifles.
Invader biomechs, faceless behind their helmet visors, poured in through the side exits, laying down a withering swathe of rifle-fire. Senators and their families fell like dominoes, those in the front ranks dying under the impact of the high-caliber slugs, those further back trampling each other underfoot as they retreated from the deadly hail.
Gasping helplessly, lolling on his side on the platform, Jameson could only watch the carnage unfold before him. He let his head sag, trying to look away from the slaughter, and saw a long shadow stretching down the main hallway. It was humanoid in shape, but moved with an unnatural, halting gait entirely unlike the fluid movements of the armored troopers. His stunned, barely-coherent mind envisioned some kind of monstrous ogre tramping through the hallways, a horrific, computer-generated beast from the fantasy movies of his youth.
What actually emerged from the corridor was more plausible, if no less threatening. Lurching into view came the dull-grey bulk of a massive suit of powered armo
r, over three meters tall, one of its arms terminating in the gaping maw of an autoloading cannon, a dish-shaped transmission antenna mounted on one shoulder. Behind it, like remoras clinging to a great white, swarmed a handful of dark-uniformed figures, faces covered by visored helmets, hands filled with the same autorifles the biomechs carried.
They spread out along the platform, surrounding Jameson as the bulky armored battlesuit lumbered into a defensive position facing the main entrance. In the background, Jameson could hear the Invader troops firing into the crowd, methodically executing them, but his attention was frozen on the black-clad humanoids that surrounded him. The one closest to him was talking into a helmet comlink, voice muffled by the mirrored visor, but there was something eerily familiar about the cadence of his words—something not at all alien.
The figure abruptly turned toward him, the muzzle of the autorifle swinging around to point directly at Jameson’s forehead. The President gritted his teeth in anticipation of the shot he expected would end his life, but instead the muzzle of the rifle swung upward and the black-uniformed figure casually slapped back his visor, sliding it up over the crown of his helmet.
“Jesus Christ,” Jameson gasped.
The face beneath that visor wasn’t the blue-skinned visage of a manufactured biomech—it was unmistakably human.
“Get up,” the man told him in English.
Jameson stared at him in disbelief. The face was young, with dark eyes and a crooked nose, and Jameson thought he’d heard a hint of Eastern European in his accent.
“I said, get up!” The man impatiently grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet. Jameson was too stunned to resist as the man pushed him down the platform stairs and toward the main entrance, past the imposing bulk of the battlesuit.
“Who are you?” Jameson finally found his voice as the man guided him down the corridor, over the smoldering remains of the entrance doors.
“Shut up,” his captor growled. “Move.”
Jameson briefly considered trying to jump the man, making a break for it—but he knew that would be suicide, and the old soldier in him wouldn’t let him give up that easy. Still, as he heard the screams of the dying slowly ebb behind him, he couldn’t help but wonder if they hadn’t been the lucky ones.
Chapter Sixteen
“He that dies pays all debts.”
—Shakespeare, “The Tempest”
“What’s that sound?” Senator Daniel O’Keefe wondered, cocking his head toward the jackhammer echo that filtered in from somewhere outside the auditorium.
“Sounds almost like…” Valerie’s voice trailed off, a haunted look coming into her eyes. “Daddy, I want to leave.”
“Honey,” he protested, “the speech isn’t over yet.”
“I want to go now!” she insisted. “Glen?” she looked pleadingly at her fiancé’, clutching at his wrist.
“Maybe we’d better go, sir,” Glen sighed, pushing himself to his feet.
“All right, all right.” O’Keefe stood, beginning to lead them out one of the side exits, hoping to remain unobtrusive.
They’d only gone a few steps when a second blast of noise, closer this time, sounded through the auditorium, and Glen could see behind him some kind of activity toward the front of the building, near where the President was speaking. The security personnel manning the side doors began jogging quickly to the front.
“Just what the hell is going on out there, anyway?” he wondered, following Val and her father.
They’d almost made it to the nearest exit door when the explosion blew in the main entrance, a ball of fire that flash-roasted the onlookers nearest the blast and seared scores more, their agonized shrieks nearly inaudible in the reverberation of the thunderclap. A wave of sound and hot wind slammed into the three of them in mid-step, sending them tumbling into the wall and throwing Glen through the exit door for which they’d been aiming as it unexpectedly opened outward before him.
Glen landed hard on his left elbow, but a cry of pain died stillborn on his lips as he found himself face to face with the dead eyes and expressionless blue visage of an Invader biomech. Mulrooney sprang to his feet with a shout of alarm, but then frowned in confusion as he realized that the creature was dead, the back of its skull blown off along with its helmet.
“Where is Ms. O’Keefe?” A viselike grip on Glen’s shoulder spun him around into the mask of intensity that was Nathan Tanaka. Glen blinked, staring past the man in disbelief at the sight of Shannon Stark guarding their backs with an Invader autorifle, a half-dozen dead biomechs stacked like cordwood in the narrow alleyway between the main auditorium and the Senate office building.
“In there.” Glen jerked a thumb back through the door.
Tanaka pushed past him, unslinging his appropriated rifle and ducking through the partially-open exit into the cacophonous slaughterhouse which the auditorium had become. Valerie O’Keefe and her father lay huddled together against the wall just inside the door, frozen with shock and fright while the Invader troops advanced across the breadth of the chamber, killing anything human in their path.
Nathan grabbed a handful of Senator O’Keefe’s lapel and tossed him bodily through the doorway, then leaned over to yank Valerie to her feet. He was pushing her toward the exit when something—maybe it was the way she stiffened in his grasp, maybe it was pure instinct—spun him around on his heel. Keeping his left hand on her arm, he brought up his Invader carbine with the other and chopped a long burst into the face of an oncoming biomech trooper, sending it jerking backwards nervelessly. Shoving Valerie toward the exit, Tanaka sprayed the rest of his magazine at a clot of advancing Invaders, then dove through the door just ahead of a fusillade of answering fire.
Glen Mulrooney kicked the door closed as the bodyguard emerged, and then they were sprinting down the alleyway with Shannon in the lead, Nathan struggling to reload his rifle as he brought up the rear. Shannon held up a closed fist to halt them as she came to the mouth of the passage, where the Capital Center opened up into Reagan Plaza. Tanaka came up beside her, jacking a round into battery from a fresh clip of ammunition.
“Did you see the President?” she asked, sparing him a glance.
“There were too many of them,” he said. “If he’s alive, the Invaders have him.”
“That makes it even more important we get you to safety, Senator,” Shannon told O’Keefe. “You might be all that’s left of our elected government.”
“Oh, my God,” Daniel O’Keefe hissed, leaning heavily against the alley wall.
“They’re all dead,” Valerie whispered, looking back the way they’d come, toward the Senate chamber. “Oh, Lord, they’re all dead.”
“And it’s still not too late for us to join them,” Shannon snapped. “There.” She suddenly pointed out across the plaza, past the ruined shells of a score of Invader drop pods. Tanaka followed her gaze to a far corner of the square, eyes drawn by the strobe of flashing lights.
A Capital Police flitter rested almost unnoticed next to a sidewalk cafe, its doors thrown open. Not ten meters from the ducted-fan hovercraft, the bodies of two uniformed police officers lay sprawled on the pavement, riddled with Invader slugs. None of the biomechs were in sight at the moment—she guessed they had moved on to the Capital Center.
“We need to get to that flitter,” Shannon announced. “It doesn’t look damaged—it could take us out of the city.”
“To where?” Valerie demanded shrilly, pulling away from Glen and standing in the middle of the alleyway, arms wrapped around herself. “Where can we go? They followed us all the way from Aphrodite—where can we run to that they won’t follow? Oh, God…” She began sobbing uncontrollably, shoulders shaking.
“Ms. O’Keefe.” Nathan gently took her arm. She looked into his eyes, her face streaked with tears, looking very much like the little girl who’d just seen her mother die.
“Nathan?” she stammered, as if she’d just noticed him.
“Ms. O’Keefe, you must s
tay with us,” he told her firmly but softly. “I swear to you, I will keep you safe.”
“All right, Nathan,” she said, wiping at her eyes.
“Nathan,” Shannon said. “Keep them here—I’m going to try to get across and get that thing started. If anything happens…”
“I will do what is necessary,” he told her. “Take care, Shannon.”
Shannon took one last careful look around, then headed out across the plaza in a zigzag route, running from cover to cover.
“How can she just run out there like that?” Glen wondered, shaking his head.
“She sees what must be done,” Tanaka explained, fixing the man with an unreadable gaze, “and she knows no one else will do it. That is called courage.”
Glen didn’t answer, but the look on his face was thoughtful—and ashamed.
Nathan turned back to following Shannon’s progress, feeling a surge of optimism as he saw that she was more than halfway to the aircraft, taking cover for a moment behind the shell of one of the Invader drop pods. Nathan was so wrapped up in observing Shannon that he nearly missed the faint scraping sound behind them as the door to the auditorium slowly pushed open.
“Nathan!” Valerie O’Keefe’s cry brought him around, the borrowed rifle coming up to his shoulder as he fell into a crouch.
Tanaka’s finger was tightening on the trigger when the door swung outward and a man in a dark dress suit fell through, slumping on the alley floor, barely conscious.
“Jesus,” Senator O’Keefe exclaimed, running up to the man, ignoring Tanaka’s yell that he should stay back.
Glen rushed to help him and, together, they hauled the big man by the armpits, bringing him back to the mouth of the alley where Tanaka and Val waited.
“Who is he?” Valerie asked, staring at the man. He was solidly-built, perhaps in his forties, with hair shaven close to the scalp and the face of a Marine drill sergeant. As Valerie spoke, his eyes fluttered and opened with a flash of thundercloud-grey.