Merchants in Freedom
Richard Tongue
Merchants in Freedom
Doomsday War: Book 3
Copyright © 2019 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved
First Kindle Edition: September 2019
Cover by Keith Draws
With thanks to Ellen Clarke
All characters and events portrayed within this eBook are fictitious; any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Prologue
It was called Guardian. Though it never truly knew its name. Its long-dead designers hadn’t considered it important enough to add to its memory banks. And yet, somehow, through some quirk of programming, it understood its purpose, its mission. To defend the people of its homeland from attack by providing the ultimate deterrent, the threat of total annihilation should war begin. For countless years, it had worked perfectly, facing every potential malfunction, every potential problem considered by its designers.
That the nation who created it no longer existed was irrelevant. Another piece of data not important enough for the memory banks. Guardian had been built to fight a war that had been over for generations, a conflict that only historians remembered now, debated and argued endlessly in lecture rooms and seminars. It had faded into history, and Guardian along with it, its servants growing fewer and older by the year, those servants themselves becoming more robotic than organic as the generations progressed. Had themselves become more and more a part of the machine they served.
The programmers had designed for that. They’d designed for decades, perhaps centuries, with fail-safe devices that had considered any conceivable malfunction, any conceivable error whether organic or mechanical, back-up systems and overrides that had weathered every crisis thus far.
Every conceivable error.
Somewhere, buried in the programming, deep in a forgotten subroutine, lost in the depths of the decades-old database, one of the creators, a young man now old, had perhaps been a little careless, had perhaps had too little sleep, had too much else on his mind. He’d typed a ‘1’ instead of a ‘0’.
Of such mistakes is Armageddon born.
And a thousand years later, nobody will know or care how it happened.
Only that it did.
Chapter 1
Commander Jack Winter, leader of what remained of Earth’s once proud space fleet, looked at the strategic display, trying to keep his emotions from showing on his face, not wanting to dismay the other officers on the bridge. The situation was dire. They’d beaten the Tyrants twice, both decisive victories, but the cost had been far higher than he would have liked, and the unfortunate truth was that he had very few cards left in his hand.
Earth had more ships. More than had been deployed thus far, but the Tyrants had infiltrated so successfully that he couldn’t trust either their commanders or their crews. That had been proven very well in the recent fighting. With casualties and battle damage, he barely had a task force worthy of the name with which to prosecute the war.
Every hour, on the hour, he received a new message from home, ordering him back to discuss the strategic situation with his superiors. He didn’t dare even reply, still less accept the order. Some of them might be loyal. Perhaps most of them. It only took one to doom Earth forever. He simply couldn’t take the risk.
“Commander,” his executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Bianchi, said, looking down at her datapad. “Doctor Zhang has a proposal.”
“You’ve got my blessing,” Winter quipped, forcing a thin smile from his subordinate, and a few others from the rest of the officers on the bridge.
“Not what I meant, sir. It regards Commander Duval. She’s showing no signs of responding to normal treatment, but in collaboration with some of the other medical personnel we have available to us, he believes there is a chance of reviving her through more invasive means.”
Tapping a control, Winter said, “Bridge to Sickbay.”
A soft, almost defeated voice replied, “I was expecting your call, Commander. I presume you have been briefed?”
“Minimally, Doctor. I’d rather hear this from you.” He paused, then said, “The information locked in Commander Duval’s brain is vitally needed, and urgently. If you think we can access it…”
“There is a grave risk, Commander. Risk enough that I almost didn’t bring it up.” He paused, then added, “In theory, we have a combination of drugs and other treatments that ought to bring her around. In theory. Doctor Saunders and I are willing to make the attempt, but neither of us are specialists, and we’ve had very little training on this procedure.”
“Just what is the risk, Doctor?” Winter asked.
“The patient could become truly brain-dead, or could die on the table. In which case, she has a living will that would require her life-support systems to be immediately terminated.”
“And her current condition?”
Zhang paused, then said, “She’s stable, sir, but she’s not going to recover through conventional means. If we could get her to a proper facility, one with a trained neurological team, then she would certainly have far more of a chance, but with the delay…”
“There’s no prospect of our being able to transfer her to such a facility, Doctor. As it stands, she’s essentially locked in this coma forever, and this procedure, as risky as it might be, represents her only chance.”
“Commander,” Bianchi asked, “do we have the moral right to make this sort of a decision?”
“We’re in a state of war, and Commander Duval swore the same oath that you and I did when we first put on the uniform. This is no different than if I was forced to send her on a high-risk mission to gather intelligence. In one sense, that is exactly what we’re doing. More to the point, she’s effectively dead if we don’t, because I sure as hell have no intention of turning her over to the theoretical tender mercies of the Tyrants!”
“I’m afraid that I must reluctantly concur,” Zhang added. “I don’t like this, sir, I don’t like it at all, and I suspect that you feel the same way, but the longer she remains in her coma, the less chance she has of recovering, and she’s the only one who might be able to help us hunt down the Tyrants. They wanted her dead for a reason, and she was out there for a reason.”
“Unless,” Lieutenant-Major Morgan mused from the tactical station, “this is all a Tyrant trap, and we’re going precisely what they want us to do. After all, this is very much in line with their usual mode of operation. We can’t necessarily trust anything we uncover, no matter what the source.”
“I get what you’re saying, Major,” Winter said, “but if we take that to its logical conclusion then we’re going to lose the war through sheer inaction, and I have no intention of sitting around and waiting to see what happens next. Doctor, how long before you can proceed?”
“Fifteen minutes, sir. We’ve got everything ready down here, and will just be a question of completing the final stages of preparing the patient. No further life support will be needed other than that she is already linked to.” Zhang paused, and added, “Frankly, sir, I’d feel happier getting this over with, rather than waiting around any longer.”
“Get started, Doctor,” Winter replied, after a brief hesitation. “I’m on my way down. Don’t start until I get there, and arrange for full decontamination for two persons. Bridge out.” Turning to Morgan, he asked, “Are you feeling squeamish today, Joe?”
“Not a word in the Marine vocabulary, skipper,” Morgan replied.
“Commander Bianchi, you have the deck,” Winter said, sliding out of his command chair. She flashed him a frown, and he quietly added, “I know that you are opposed to this, Commander, and I don’t see the need to put you through something like this under th
ose circumstances.”
“Aye, sir,” she said, too softly for anyone else to here. “I…”
Shaking his head, Winter replied, “No need to apologize, Commander. Keep hold of those principles. Keep them held good and tight. They’re what makes the difference between us and the Tyrants.” Turning to Morgan, he said, “Coming, Joe?”
“Sure,” Morgan replied, following him into the elevator. As the doors slid shut, he said, “You’re grasping at straws, Jack.”
“Is it that obvious?” Winter asked.
“Only to someone who knows you as well as I do. I doubt anyone else picked up on it. Maybe Bianchi.” The elevator lurched into life, sending them hurtling down through the decks, and he added, “You’re going to have to make some sort of decision soon. I’m surprised Earth hasn’t sent someone to come and take a look at us, and they’ve got plenty of surplus Admirals lying around.”
“That would put me into an embarrassing position, but I’ve already made my decision, and I know that the fleet would support me.”
“Grab the star-shouldered zombie and subject him to the most thorough cranial examination in history.”
“Spot on,” Winter replied. “And pray for a miracle. I don’t actually want this job, Joe. You should know that much.” He sighed, and said, “Five ships total, and half our critical personnel people we were hunting down as terrorists a few months ago.”
“Not exactly ideal, but I trust them a hell of a lot better than I trust the brass back home. That was a damn dirty business before then.” He paused, then said, “You figure the Tyrants have been stirring this up for a while?”
“I hope so.”
Raising an eyebrow, Morgan asked, “What does that mean?”
“It means that I hope they were that concerned about our strength and fighting potential that they made a serious effort to neutralize it. If they did, that means they think we can beat them.”
“A somewhat reassuring thought, I guess,” Morgan replied, frowning. “Nevertheless, the implications of all of this scare the hell out of me. How long have we been dancing to their tune?”
“Months, years, decades? Who knows? And for the record, it scares the hell out of me every bit as much as it does you. I don’t want someone out there playing puppet master.” The doors slid open, and the two men walked onto the deck, a crewman standing to attention as they left the elevator. Winter paused, looked at him, and said, “McGuire, right?”
“Yes, sir. Transferred over from the station.” He paused, then asked, “Is there something wrong, sir?”
Shaking his head, Winter replied, “Not a thing, Spaceman, not a damned thing. Carry on. And thank you.”
“My pleasure, sir,” the confused technician replied, returning to his work as Winter and Morgan walked on towards Sickbay.
“Just for the benefit of those of us who lack telepathic powers, skipper, what was that all about?”
“You’re familiar with McGuire’s record?”
“Vaguely. Former rebel.”
“Former serviceman, with a record that suggests that we trained him up to serve in the colonial rebellion. I served with him on Nearchus, a few years back, when he was in my department. It’s nice to see him back in uniform, but I wonder just how many others like that there were out there.” Shaking his head, he said, “Half the fleet working for the Tyrants, the other half working for the rebels. I’m beginning to feel as though I was unwanted.”
With a faint chuckle, Morgan replied, “Heck, it wasn’t just you, boss. I was right there with you.” Shaking his head, he said, “I think I understand what you’re getting at. At least we know now that all of us are on the same side.”
“We’ve cleaned the uniform, at least out here,” Winter said, nodding. “That’s the greatest advantage we’ve got. For the first time, we don’t have to worry about someone shoving a knife in our backs. That’s not going to last forever. We’ve got to finish them off now, right now, while we have a chance.”
“Five ships,” Morgan said, frowning. “Five undermanned ships. We suffered a hell of a lot of casualties, boss.”
“I know, but if we get this right, it won’t be a long mission.” He paused at the entrance to Sickbay, and added, “Doctor Zhang was right. I don’t like this. That we’ve been driven to this is appalling, horrifying. If there was any other way to get the information we need…”
“If it was me,” Morgan said, “I’d tell you to get on with it.”
“The whole point, Major,” Winter said, “is that she can’t.” He tapped for admittance, stepping into the cramped anteroom, a frowning Zhang waiting for him, already gloved. “All systems go, Doctor?”
“We’re as ready as we’ll ever be, Commander,” he replied, gesturing them into the surgical bay. Ultraviolet beams swept over the trio as they walked into the room, a grey-haired woman already waiting inside, standing at a medical monitor.
“Doctor Saunders?” Winter asked.
The woman nodded, and said, “For the record, both Doctor Zhang and I have to note that this procedure will cause undue hazard to the patient, and that in our medical opinions it does not represent the optimal treatment plan.”
“Your objections are formally noted, Doctor,” Winter replied. “Are you ready to proceed?”
“We are,” Saunders said. “All of our monitors are running. Anything that happens in this room will be recorded, and I have resuscitation equipment warmed up and ready to go.”
“Let’s hope we don’t need it,” Zhang said, reaching for a hypodermic and holding it over the patient’s neck. “Almost an anticlimax.” He pressed the button to release the drug into Duval’s vein, and almost at once, the medical monitors began to respond, the indicators rising, Duval’s breath growing stronger, stronger with each second. Her eyes started to flicker, and Winter leaned over, a smile spreading across his face.
“Come back, Commander,” he said. “Come back.”
“Wait one,” Saunders said. “Blood pressure’s on the rise. Fast.”
“Damn it, I was afraid of this,” Zhang said, scrambling for another injection, anything to save the life of the woman on the table. Her breathing was growing rapid now, out of control, and her limbs here starting to spasm, warning alarms sounding as every one of her monitors flagged imminent danger of death.
Winter glanced up at the monitors, then felt an iron hand grab his wrist, Duval’s eyes flickering open as she struggled to focus upon him, determined and desperate to spend her last breaths well. Saunders killed the fruitless alarms as she and Zheng continued to work, to labor to save her life, a proposition growing more unlikely by the second.
She struggled closer to him, her limbs still writhing in agony, and whispered, “Xibalba,” before collapsing back, her eyes sliding shut, the monitors issuing a doleful tone that indicated the worst possible report, her life functions failing. Saunders dragged the resuscitation trolley into position, starting the final, desperate struggle to save her life, but Zhang looked up at the brain monitor, shook his head, and reached over to pull the other medic’s hands away from their patient.
“It’s no good, Maggie,” he said, with a resigned sigh. “She’s gone.”
“Damn it,” Saunders said, tossing the paddles away. “Damn it.” She looked up at Winter, and added, “I hope you got what you wanted out of her, because you aren’t going to get anything else. Nobody is.” She sighed, then said, “Time of death oh-five-five-niner. Autopsy to be undertaken in thirty minutes.”
“We’ll let you know the results, Commander,” Zheng said.
“Thank you,” Winter replied. “Both of you. And remember that this was my decision, not yours. I’ve got to live with it. You don’t.”
“I made the recommendation, Commander,” Zheng said, shaking his head. “I have my share of the blame for this.”
“It’s not a question of blame,” Winter said. “We did what had to be done. I suspect that if she’d had a choice, Commander Duval would have agreed to the attempt.”
“That’s the point, though,” Saunders said. “She didn’t.” The two doctors turned back to the body of Duval, and Morgan retreated to the corridor, followed a moment later by Winter, a few paces behind.
“Xibalba?” Morgan asked.
“I think I know what she was talking about,” Winter replied. “That’s the key we’ve been looking for. At least I hope so, given the price tag.” He took a deep breath, then said, “Assemble the senior staff on the double, and tell Bianchi that I want the fleet prepared to depart in ninety minutes. We’ve wasted enough time here. We need to get moving. Fast.”
Chapter 2
Technical Officer Veronica Mendoza still felt out of place in the uniform, even though she had been wearing it for months. She’d spent most of her adult life fighting against the tyranny of Earth, and the concept that she was now attempting to save it, was putting herself on the line for the defense of a government that had effectively abandoned her and everyone she held dear was hard to get used to.
Nevertheless, here she was, walking into a briefing room along with the senior officers of what remained of the fleet. Bianchi and Morgan, and Moore as well, the ship’s engineering officer, representing Xenophon. Dixon, Galloway, Chandra and Zubin, the commanders of the other four ships in their formation, two of them former rebels like her, thrown into the firing line.
There wasn’t a choice. Either they fought together, or they lost the war, and the story of humanity as a free civilization came to an abrupt end, forever. There could be no return from defeat this time, no retrenchment and plans to fight another day. Either they won, or the Tyrants won. The victory would be final. That was all there was to it.
She took her seat at the table, almost the last to arrive, only a grim-faced Doctor Zhang behind her, dropping into position in a corner of the room and slumping back, as though attempting to stay out of sight, the look on his face nothing less than shame.
“Good morning, everyone,” Winter began, rising to his feet. “I’m going to make this short, as we’ve all got a lot of work to do over the course of the next few hours, but I thought it vital that you all be briefed to the best of our ability before we depart on what, I hope, will be the final mission of the war.” He paused, smiled, and added, “It has to be, frankly. We’re out of ships, out of crews, and out of options. We don’t have any ability to determine who we can trust back home, and as far as we know, Earth has already fallen to the Tyrants, at least effectively.”
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