Invasion- Proxima

by James David Victor

  “Why do you say that?” the ambassador said.

  “NeuroTech is supplying the Chosen of Mars and tried to supply even the Marine Corps with its cyborg weapons. It just wants to make money, and it will turn on Proxima just as soon as it’s offered a better price…” Solomon reasoned.

  “How can you be so sure?” Ochrie shook her head. Solomon knew that what he was asking was too much to hope for in their position—to drive a wedge between Imprimatur Rhossily and the company that had offered her protection.

  Solomon shrugged. “Because I used to be very good at bargaining with people in much stronger positions than me,” he said, remembering all the years he had traded secrets and stolen artifacts from one group of criminal mobsters to another, and sometimes stealing them back and selling them back again in another direction…

  “Rhossily will never outright agree to capitulate to Confederate dominance,” Solomon stated, “but if we can make her see that NeuroTech—our mission here, after all—are going to ruin her dreams of Proximian independence, then she might act for us anyway.”

  “Your mission, Lieutenant Cready. You came here to hound NeuroTech for war crimes, I know that. I came here to try and stop the war spreading to Proxima,” Ochrie said, sitting down with a loud groan into one of the very comfortable-looking antique chairs.

  “We can do both.” Solomon smiled. He had taken off his helmet to speak to her more privately, and now he reached over to tap his helmet on the side of the temple.

  “Rhossily forwarded the list of invited guests to our channel,” Solomon was saying, “and on it is the name of none other than Augustus Tavin, the CEO of NeuroTech.” Solomon grinned. He remembered Tavin well, the thin, acetic sort of a man who had wanted Solomon and Karamov tortured in front of Brigadier General Asquew when they had been captured by the Chosen of Mars at the start of the war.

  “Me and my Outcasts will be able to apprehend him tonight, and when we do, we’ll force NeuroTech to hand over all cyborg technology, and Rhossily will have to comply with us when she sees that it’s Tavin that we want, and not Proxima at all.”

  It is also a way that I will be able to fulfill my mission and not put my Outcasts in any more danger, Solomon thought proudly. He knew that if it had come to running through the streets and trying to infiltrate NeuroTech’s headquarters, then more good people of his would die—like all those Ganymede surface that he’d seen die.

  Like Matty Sozer died, he remembered. And it had been his fault. His doing.

  Now that Solomon Cready was a full Marine and a first lieutenant, he intended to bring all of his people out alive from every mission he went into. And he had found a way to do it, without anyone spilling any blood.

  Or at least, that was the plan, anyway…

  “You’re seriously expecting to waltz up to this Augustus Tavin and simply place him under arrest, and that will be the end of it? The end of the civil war?” Ochrie said wearily, rubbing her temples.

  “If it might work, Ambassador, then I am honor-bound to attempt it…” Solomon said seriously.

  Ambassador Ochrie, clearly did not feel the same level of confidence that Solomon felt. “Well, it sounds to me, Lieutenant Cready, that you are the one with utopian dreams here…”

  15

  Command Override

  The imprimatur’s dinner was, indeed, formal.

  “If I had known it would be this bad, I would have asked the warden for a dress uniform,” Solomon joked to Jezzy, who stood beside him in the entrance foyer.

  It was early dusk, which on Proxima meant the high burn of soft pink clouds, racing towards a purpling sunset. The palace had been transformed from an already impressive and spacious Mediterranean villa into what could be best described as a fairy grotto.

  Discrete but bright, clear white lights sparkled charmingly from their occulted positions underneath the many trees and scented bushes of the grounds. Strings of more lights raced up the columns and along the balconies—not in a gaudy, festive way, but one that allowed the gathering dark to settle here and there in comfortable, intimate corners where you would imagine small and private talks taking place.

  The inside of the palace was awash with a softer sort of light—from actual candles, Solomon saw, hanging in sconces and atop vast crystal candelabra that had been lowered from their places in the ceilings. Every room was bedecked with cut flowers, filling the large hallways, lobbies, dining rooms, and greeting rooms with a light fragrance, and from one alcove, a trio of Proximian musicians played perfectly-tuned and soothing string instruments.

  The Outcasts stood in two lines as before, on either side of the lobby door that led into the grand dining room, having been given ‘spaces of honor,’ as the imprimatur had declared—taking up obvious guard positions in place of their own cyborg guards.

  It was a gesture of Proximian trust, Solomon considered, but he was also very aware that every door and archway that led out of the palace was staffed by a team of four silent cyborgs, and that the imprimatur had insisted that the Confederate Marines not carry any weapons at any time during the dinner.

  “Yeah, she wants to show that she trusts us, but that she’s also able to have us surrounded by actual armed cyborgs at all times…” Solomon muttered over their Gold channel, earning a dark harrumph of disgust from Arlo opposite.

  Arlo Menier… Solomon let his eyes slide to the large Frenchman. He wondered how long their truce would last, and whether Menier was indeed the changed man that he now presented himself to be. There had been a time when Arlo Menier had promised to kill him, before the Battle of Ganymede.

  Can one man really change so much? Solomon wondered. He hoped so. The heavens knew that he hoped that he had changed.

  I am not the same young man responsible for the death of his best friend, he thought. He wished. Matty Sozer had trusted him. Kind of.

  He had also betrayed me. Solomon felt an echo of all of that old anger, hurt, and resentment rise in him, and it tasted bitter in the back of his throat. Solomon had thought that maybe he was beyond these feelings of guilt and shame now—that he had become someone else.

  But maybe we never change, he considered, his eyes lowering to the floor.

  “Lieutenant!” Jezzy hissed, alerting him to the fact that the guests for the dinner had started to arrive.

  Solomon stood up a little straighter and concentrated, searching for the man who had tried to have him killed.

  “Imprimatur, such a pleasure!” The pleased ripples of conversation were entirely boring to Solomon as he watched couple after couple of trade ministers and finance directors and agricultural overseers and city mayors and who knows what else arrive and greet both Imprimatur Mariad Rhossily on one side, and Confederate Ambassador Ochrie on the other.

  “God help me,” Solomon heard Arlo opposite him groan, and, although he maintained his same wide-footed stance of attention, he saw the large man shrug a little as he mimicked falling asleep.

  “Menier,” Solomon breathed over the Gold channel, but he didn’t know if his rebuke went down well or was listened to as his concentration was broken by a sudden, gargled hiss of outrage on the other side of Sergeant Wen.

  It was Karamov, and he had half-stepped out of line, the power armor suit visibly shaking with pent-up emotion.

  “Corporal Karamov!” Solomon hissed over their secure channel, as the commotion had caused a few of the comfortable, smiling Proximian heads to turn. Solomon followed Karamov’s intense posture to see, there at the other end of the lobby and walking leisurely forward flanked by two heavyset cyborg guards, was Augustus Tavin, CEO of NeuroTech Industries.

  “Corporal, keep it together! Batten that frack down!” Solomon clicked off his suit’s external microphones to be able to shout a little more forcefully at Karamov, who, grudgingly, was stepping back into line next to Jezzy but who was still visibly shaking with fury.

  As well he might, Solomon thought as his own fists clenched. That man there had preened and gloated in front of
himself and Karamov as he had threatened to have them tortured and killed on a live transmission to the General Asquew, back on Mars.

  And what had been worse, the CEO had had no intention of using them as a bargaining chip like the Chosen of Mars had, Solomon remembered bitterly. The Chosen had wanted to display their ‘captive Confederate infiltrators’ to the Marine Corps in the hope that they would release Father Ultor and Imprimatur Valance in a prisoner exchange.

  However, Augustus Tavin had been there to start a fight, both Solomon and Karamov knew. He had demanded impossible things that the General Asquew couldn’t possibly hope to offer, before insulting the Marine Corps and promising to kill Solomon and Karamov.

  All because Tavin wanted the war, so he could keep on supplying his arms to the seditionists, and now, the Proximians… Solomon took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Orders, sir?” murmured Menier opposite him, now no longer goofing about but standing up straighter. “I have weapons on me… Do you want me to seize Tavin when he walks past?”

  “What?” Solomon asked. “You have weapons? How did you get them past the imprimatur’s inspection?”

  “I’m a big man in an even bigger suit,” Menier said.

  “Uh, Lieutenant, sir…” This came from Willoughby over their shared Gold channel. “I’ve got a service pistol down my boot.”

  “Well…” This came from Jezzy beside him, in the verbal equivalent of a guilty shrug. “Throwing knives. All over me.”

  Solomon groaned. He wasn’t sure whether to be proud or annoyed with his squad who had disobeyed orders to not bring weapons to their unarmed guard duty. Well, at least they were disobeying Proximian orders, and not mine… he considered. “Anyone else? Ratko? Karamov? Am I the only one without any sort of weapon on me?”

  “Guilty as charged,” the smaller Ratko standing beside Menier said.

  “I’ve got a spare service pistol behind my back plate you can use, Lieutenant,” Karamov said.

  Wow. Thanks for making me look like a total idiot! Solomon thought. But anyway, no time for this. Tavin was already turning to enter the lobby to the dining hall, and they were sure to need every weapon they had concealed if they couldn’t overpower those two cyborg guards immediately…

  “Uh…” Tavin rocked to a sudden standstill when he saw the Confederate Marine honor guard. Solomon narrowed his eyes and glared at him, knowing that Karamov would be doing the same, and he felt Tavin’s eyes glide across them.

  He doesn’t recognize me, Solomon thought, before remembering that he was behind his helmet. Dear old Augustus would have to get a lot closer to be able to see past the anti-glare sheen of his faceplate.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Tavin?” the imprimatur was saying, stepping forward to block Solomon’s view before he could get a chance to make a move.

  “Dammit! Stand down!” Solomon hissed to the others, trying not to betray any movement to Tavin, the cyborgs, or the other guests. “We cannot afford to hurt Proxima’s leader!”

  “Oh, no problem, Mariad,” Augustus Tavin was saying, although his pale and austere face with its slicked-back dark hair did indeed look like there was a problem, and quite a severe one at that. “I just wasn’t aware that the ambassador had brought a squad of Marines with her…” he murmured. Solomon twitched his fingers inside their mesh gloves, activating the control pads that instructed the various controls of his suit.

  External Microphones: 100%

  The sounds of the party jumped in volume, and Solomon slowly angled his body a little so that his suit was directed toward the muttered conversation halfway down the lobby…

  “Times are dark, and the Confederacy is a little twitchy about security,” he heard Mariad Rhossily say with a sigh. “But have no fear, they are only an honor guard, nothing more—not an invasion fleet!”

  “Hm, well…” Tavin gave a thin, snake’s smile as he changed the subject.

  He probably would have loved it if we were the start of another war here, Solomon thought. That way he can make all the more money off the backs of dying people!

  “Have you seen the new X-line?” Tavin was saying, stepping aside to wave his long-fingered hands at the two heavyset cyborgs that flanked him.

  Solomon’s eyes narrowed as he tried to see what made them so special. Their human parts—the upper chest, lower jaws—were just as pallid and cadaverous as before, but the metal of their shoulders, arms, legs, and half-a-head seemed much sleeker and better manufactured than before.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Tavin, but I am not free to talk about trade at tonight’s dinner,” the imprimatur stated, touching the man briefly on the arm and gesturing towards the dining hall, past the double lines of Confederate Marines. “Please, take a seat with the others…”

  That’s it, walk right past me… Solomon tensed, imagining how it had to go down. He could seize Tavin as the other Outcasts attacked the two cyborgs. Before anyone died, he might be able to put a gun to Tavin’s head and tell him to call off the counter-attack.

  But I will have to get that gun from Karamov first, Solomon was thinking, as CEO Augustus Tavin appeared to want to argue.

  “But, Imprimatur, this is pleasure, not business!” Tavin simpered. “Our new X-line comes with the particle-beam hand as standard across all models, but we’ve upgraded their strength, toughness, jumping ability, and we now have weapons ports on the left shoulder! These two, for instance, have installed…”

  “Mr. Tavin, if you please. It is considered impolite to discuss business at mealtimes,” the imprimatur said more forcefully. “When you have stayed a few more years on Proxima, I hope that you will also come to understand our seemingly quaint traditions…”

  Dammit! Solomon had wanted to know just what weapons systems these two super-hardened, super-strong cyborgs were carrying. But at least he had learned something else: that Augustus Tavin wasn’t a Proximian native, and that his relationship with the imprimatur was an uneasy one, meaning that she might be more likely to let him go without conflict when Solomon and his men did what they had come here to do…

  “Lieutenant, sir?” Jezzy breathed.

  “Wait for my move,” Solomon said over their channel. “If you have to fire, single shot only…” he said quickly as the CEO and two cyborgs started their approach towards them.

  “Single shot! We could only smuggle in pistols, sir!” Ratko sniggered, just before Tavin and his two guards started walking down the middle of their two lines.

  Solomon waited the three steps it took for Tavin to be firmly in the middle of the lines of three Marines, before stepping out and turning to block Tavin’s exit.

  “Augustus Tavin, I am placing you under arrest for the deaths of thirty-nine brave men and women on the moon of Ganymede, Sol System,” Solomon said, raising a gloved and gauntleted hand…

  “Gah!” Tavin took a sudden step back, shock and horror written across his face.

  “Lieutenant! What are you—” shouted Imprimatur Rhossily, as—

  Arlo Menier calmly took a step forward, moving a hand from where it had been held behind his back, and discharged his smuggled Marine service pistol directly into the back of the nearest cyborg’s head.

  “FZTTT!” There was a grunt and a shower of sparks as the cyborg went down in a second.

  “Woah!” Solomon shouted, as the guests around them started to scream. What was Arlo thinking? Solomon’s mind raced. That bullet could have missed or could have gone clean through the cyborg into Tavin, or me! Luckily, however, Menier’s bullet hadn’t left the dead cyborg’s skull, and it had neatly severed the thing’s brain stem, as well, ing the only certain way to kill it.

  But the other was still very much alive, and Tavin was already starting to run.

  “Lieutenant! Ambassador!” Rhossily was screaming in fury.

  “Ugh!” Karamov hadn’t been as reckless as Menier had been, but he was every bit as decisive as he stepped forward behind the other cyborg, throwing an arm around the thing’s neck and
jumping backwards, drawing it away from protecting Tavin—

  —who was scrambling to his feet and pushing past Ratko in a frantic attempt to get out of the lobby.

  “Wait right there, sir…” Willoughby slammed the butt of her pistol into the man’s face.

  “Ach! My nose!” Tavin fell to his knees as blood erupted from his face. Solomon had to admit that, after seeing the terror of the collapsed Ganymede Training Facility, and after seeing the crimson and white rising horror of an atom bomb exploded on Martian soil because of this man, Solomon was quite pleased that he was in pain.

  “Ach!” But Karamov was having trouble with the cyborg guard, who was easily stronger than him. The cyborg had backhanded Karamov in a metal-handed blow that had sent him crashing across the room, turning back to the other Marines.

  BRAP! BRAP-BRAP! Arlo, Ratko, and Willoughby fired at the thing, hitting the cyborg’s chest and making it stagger backwards, crashing through a giant potted yucca plant. But Tavin’s bodyguard was already pushing itself back up again from the wreckage, his bare chest dripping a mixture of machine oil and blood.

  “Call it off or I’ll slit your throat!” Jezzy had stepped forward to place one of her thin-bladed but glitteringly sharp throwing blades under the CEO’s chin.

  “Cease! Cease and desist!” Tavin shouted in terror, and the singular cyborg guard slowed his ascent to very calmly and smoothly resume a silently watching, standing position.

  “How long will that last?” Solomon snarled at Tavin, reaching into his belt harness for the only thing that he had been able to freely bring, the climbing metal rope, which he started to spool from its deployment module to tie the CEO’s hands and attach the man to his own suit. It beat handcuffs and chains, he had to think.

  “It’s keyed to my voice. It’s totally deactivated. It won’t threaten you again, I promise…” Tavin was sobbing in the middle of the circle of Confederate Marines, as all around them, the visiting Proximian dignitaries were demanding to know what was going on.