by Paul Grover
“It’s fine Miss Sinclair. I can watch from one of the big screens.”
It was how Flynt had planned it. Barnes would be their eyes and ears in the city.
“Admiral… Mira, you are at the foot of the stage, six rows back in the officer’s section.” She handed her a pass; it was blue and carried the Federal crest, her name printed with a single star above it. The star denoted her rank as a Junior Admiral, referred to in the ranks as a Commander with a hat.
“Zoe,” Mira said. “I have a friend attending… Senator Meyer. Could you tell me where she is seated?”
Zoe tapped her datapad.
“Section D, Row 98. It is a long way from your seat.” Zoe showed her a map on the screen. Mira tried to commit it to memory. Meyer was behind her, closer to the stands than the stage.
Mira thanked her.
“Ensign Gallagher.” Zoe turned to Tish. Mira faked a cough to disguise a laugh. Tish had been given an alias to qualify for Mizarman citizenship. Gallagher was Damien Lightfoot’s maternal grandmother’s name.
“Unfortunately the ceremony is not open to ranks below Lieutenant, but Admiral Flynt requested I take care of you, so I reserved a seat for you next to me in the diplomatic section. I’ll ensure you are reunited with the Admiral after the ceremony. You are both invited to the reception at the Governor’s residence this afternoon.”
“That sounds like it could be a lot of fun, don’t you think Admiral?”
Mira smirked.
Zoe awkwardly returned her gaze to the window.
An Admiral taking advantage of a young Ensign… how scandalous…
Then again Monica Garret always said if you had rank it was irresponsible not to abuse it.
Mira nudged Tish.
“Stop it,” she whispered.
The air car touched down on a reserved pad. Two local security officers checked their credentials. Mira waited nervously as they conducted a retinal scan, a positive match confirmed her to be who she thought she was. Her nerves did not abate until Tish passed the test. Jon Flynt must have pulled some strings to make that happen.
Barnes gave her a com-link.
“Tish already has hers. It is keyed to a secure point-to-point frequency. If anything goes down do you know how to find Meyer?” he said.
“Yeah, my memory is better these days.” She tapped her temple.
Her plan was already in her mind, break for the central isle and run to Meyer’s position.
They were working on the basis of a distraction attack; rebel forces would stage a disturbance in the city while an attack was carried out in the stadium. Flynt’s strategy team had run several scenarios and agreed it was the most likely event. It made sense; when the security forces were occupied guarding the great and good of the Federation, their presence elsewhere in the city would be thin.
Mira gave the big man a hug. She had missed him more than she could ever say.
“Stay safe,” he whispered.
She assured him she would.
Zoe took her arm and directed her to an entry lane designated Senior Fleet Personnel.
“If you don’t mind me saying Mira… you are a somewhat unconventional officer. It’s been a pleasure to escort you today. I mean that,” Zoe said.
Mira thanked her with a smile and a wink.
Zoe bid her farewell and led Tish away. Tish turned and waved.
Why don’t you tell her how you feel?
What if she does not feel the same? You’re scared Thorn, just like you always were.
She climbed the steps to the stadium. The eyepatch was interfering with her vision; she could not understand how she had tolerated it for so long. The area was crowded. Navy uniforms and sharp suits mingled and crossed in front of her. She pushed her shoulders back and held her head high. She looked the part, even if she didn’t feel it.
“Admiral!” a voice cried. She continued to walk. “Admiral Thorn.” She turned at her name. A reporter with a holo-drone camera beckoned to her. She was young, her skin bronze. She wore a low-cut top exposing a deep cleavage. Even from a distance, Mira could smell the nano-web spray holding the girl’s sculpted pink hair in place.
“What’s your view on the commemoration, Admiral?”
“I’m sorry I have nothing to say,” she said, turning away. The drone tracked her; she brushed it away. It moved to a safer distance and continued to record.
“You must have a view, you are one of the most decorated officers to come out of the conflict.”
“I told you, I have nothing to say,” Mira replied, doing her best to keep her tone in check.
The girl followed, persisting with her questions. The reporter was pushing her into a corner, bullying her into giving her something.
She stopped and turned to the girl. The holo-drone dropped to eye level.
“It’s bullshit. It won’t bring back the dead will it? It won’t fix the lives it changed. It was a waste, like every war is a waste. Humanity needs to learn our lesson and stop tearing lumps out of each other. Put that on your fucking UniNet broadcast and leave me alone.”
As she stormed off, her eye was drawn to a banner hanging from the top of the stadium’s walls.
She stared at an image of her own wrecked face; it had formed the back drop to the whole interview. Her stomach churned as she realised, she would be network news tonight. The reporter was not as ditzy as she appeared. When the rest of the news crews filed their reports they would be similar, VIPs and naval officers glad handing and repeating prepared statements. The girl had footage of a war hero condemning the war.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
Shaking her head, Mira entered the dark, cool tunnel leading to the stadium floor. She passed through a metal detector then a pat down search from a nervous looking security officer. Two D37 operators stood overseeing the searches with their weapons slung; their eyes followed her as she passed.
She was directed to her place by a junior officer in dress uniform. Her seat was on the end of an aisle; she was sitting amongst the most senior officers in the fleet, some she recognised, most she did not.
As she took her seat there was a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see General Jonus M’Beki, her former commanding officer.
“Glad to see you made it to the club, Thorn. I always knew you had it in you,” he said with a broad smile. He had aged with dignity. His once black wiry hair was now grey and stood in sharp contrast to his ebony skin.
“Junior grade and just a reservist,” Mira replied. “You look well, sir.”
“As do you Thorn. I’m glad you came. I feared you would not, especially after the Berlin.”
“It’s been an… emotional journey, sir.”
He winked.
“I know. I saw your GNN segment.” He pointed to one of the giant screens. “You said what we all think. I’m proud of you, Mouse. Others may not be but… how would you say it… fuck ‘em all.” His broad shoulders shook as he laughed. A second officer interrupted him and he turned away.
Mira turned to face the stage. A man in a D37 uniform was staring at her, his bulky frame ill fitted into the black armour. His colleague spoke in his ear and his gaze lingered as he moved away.
Something in the man’s eyes made Mira shiver; it took her back to the dark city on Arethon.
Senator Vanessa Meyer took her seat at the back of the central block of chairs. Her aide Ben Jones tucked his leather satchel under his chair and sat next to her. Meyer could sense the eyes on her and sometimes the camera lenses seemed to linger. She accepted the extra attention and did her best to ignore it. Meyer was one of the few Earth politicians who supported the Martian Independence Movement. At no point had she condoned the terror attacks staged by Martian Dawn or the war that followed; it did not prevent a hostile press labelling her a terrorist sympathiser. She had supported neither Earth nor Mars during the war. It made her a target for extremists on both sides.
“How long is the charade going to last, Ben?” she asked.
&nbs
p; “Two hours. There is a reception for the President, his staff and selected members of the Senate at the Governor’s residence after the ceremony.”
“I assume we are not invited?”
“Well, Senator…”
She stared at him; he laughed.
“No, but I nearly had you there,” he said. Meyer nudged him in the ribs.
Today was about playing the game. Meyer knew David Conway and the other factional leaders suspected her presence in the Mizarma system before what they were calling The Incident. All the evidence against her was circumstantial. The only hard proof was the logs on her DipCorps Mercury; she had insisted the flight crew flush them on their return to the home system.
She sat with Ben, watching the great and good arriving, shaking hands and conversing. It struck Meyer that for what was supposed to be a sombre event there were a lot of jolly faces, made jollier by the plentiful supplies of alcohol.
“Excuse me Senator.” A voice roused her from her thoughts and dragged her away from people watching. A woman in a light grey suit was standing waiting to pass. She was tall, in her mid-forties. Her designer suit clung to the athletic curves of a body in perfect physical condition, and her face radiated a warm smile.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said standing. The woman thanked her and squeezed past. She took the next seat. The newcomer was familiar, but Meyer could not put a name to her face.
“Shannon Wade,” the woman said. Her accent American, West Coast. She extended a hand. Meyer shook it. The name had a familiar ring.
“Vanessa Meyer, this is Ben Jones.” She glanced at Ben who appeared transfixed with the new arrival.
“It’s my pleasure to meet you Senator,” she said. “I’m the sports and cultural adviser to EarthGov, Southern Hemisphere; I was at the Senate when you passed the amendment to the Navy bill.”
Meyer recognised the name.
“You do excellent work Ms Wade. Why have they sat you back here with riff-raff like me?”
“I didn’t want to be near the front. My role means I have to stay apolitical. I don’t want to give the current administration anything they could spin into an endorsement.”
Meyer decided she liked Shannon Wade.
Ben coughed. “Ms Wade won six consecutive JetSuit Championships, nine in total. She’s the most successful J1 pilot in history.”
“Please, I’m Shannon. I never did titles and as for my JetSuit days, that was another life. Records only last until someone beats them. These days I’m more concerned with helping young people realise their potential, be it with jets, balls or paintbrushes…”
She was interrupted by the opening strains of the Anthem of the Federation.
Ben helped Meyer to her feet. She would have brushed him off, but in recent weeks she had been feeling every one of her 76 years. I have been clocking up too many light-years, she thought.
After an eternity the last notes of the dire tune died away and once the noise of 10,000 guests sitting down had rippled around the stadium, a hush fell.
The giant screens around the stadium flickered into life, showing images of the conflict, overlaid by the music of Elgar. The Governor of Mars, Francis Turner, walked to the lectern at the centre of the rotating stage. He opened proceedings with a poem commissioned for the event. Meyer stared ahead of her, a neutral expression on her face. After a round of subdued applause the Governor introduced each member of his cabinet and finally Dieter Schmitt.
The President made his way to centre stage, shook the Governors hand and rested his hands on the lectern.
“Good Morning.” He paused, his eyes darting around the stadium. “We gather today not as politicians, admirals or generals, nor as soldiers or civilians. We come here as humans.
“Eight years ago, close to where we are standing the first shots were fired in what we now refer to as the Martian Uprising. At the time it appeared to be little more than an armed disturbance, yet in four years would claim 53,000 lives and change countless more. We have moved on, today we take the first steps on a journey of reconciliation, a journey on which truth will be our guide.
“Today is not a day for politics or posturing; today we remember…” His words were drowned by a squeal of feedback. The President looked either side of him, tapping the microphone.
“Technical hitches, typical of this administration.” Meyer snorted.
“Senator, now is not the time...” Ben whispered.
More feedback.
The screens flickered into life.
Mars Will No Longer Stand For Earth Oppression
Today We Claim What Is Ours.
Our Birthright
Our Planet
Our Future
MARTIAN DAWN
Everyone in the stadium drew their breath. Bombs exploded in a timed sequence; a choreographed dance of shrapnel, fire and death. The shock wave knocked Meyer from her seat as the stage disappeared in a column of flame and dust.
Vanessa Meyer opened her eyes. She was laying on the ground, her ears ringing; everything seemed distant and muffled. She coughed. Dust burned her throat. Someone was shaking her.
“Senator Meyer!” Ben Jones was repeating.
She focused. People were screaming. Another sound mingled with the voices and the sirens; gunfire echoed around the stadium.
“Senator, wake up. There was an explosion, a bomb. We have to get out of here.”
Ben’s face was covered in white dust. A cut on his forehead wept blood.
“Senator Meyer, are you hurt?” another voice… Shannon Wade.
“I’m fine,” she replied. She was shaking but her composure soon fell into place.
“We have to go, they are shooting people,” Shannon said, her words drowned out by the sound of a weapon discharging. It was close.
Meyer clambered to her feet, helped by Ben. The stage was in flames; bodies littered the pitch; people trampled over them making for the exits. If the scene were not horrific enough, Meyer’s outrage grew as a figure in a D37 uniform fired into the fleeing crowd.
“They’re unarmed!” Her fear gave way to anger.
“I don’t think they are our people,” Shannon Wade said. “Rebels in fake uniforms. I saw one shooting people already on the ground. We need to go; it’s only a matter of time before they come this way.”
Meyer let Ben lead her toward the stands, making for a stairwell through terraces and into the hub of the stadium. The tide of people pushed them forward.
Gunfire intensified. Meyer assumed it was the genuine security forces getting into the fight. A dull thud echoed around the stands as a grenade exploded. The crowd surged, pushing her forward. Meyer tried to hold on to Ben’s hand, but one by one his fingers slipped from her grasp.
There was another ear obliterating explosion at the far end of the stadium. Smoke and fire spread through the lower stands. People were running. Some of them were burning.
“Senator!” Ben cried as she was swept away on the tide of fleeing humanity.
The surge continued forward. Shannon moved behind her and shielded her from the weight of people pressing forward. The world went dark. It took a second for her eyes to adjust as they passed under the stands and through a tunnel. Meyer realised they had made it as far as the concourse. The bars and food concessions were deserted. The tide of people fanned out and the crush relented. Shannon led Meyer to a sheltered area behind one of the catering stands; the smell of hot oil and cooking mingled with the stench of dust and smoke. Emergency lighting came on as the power cut out.
Meyer caught her breath.
“Where is Ben?” she asked, her voice hoarse from shouting over the noise.
“He was pulled in the other direction, toward entrance 4B. Many people went that way. He should be okay.”
“We need to get out of here,” Meyer said, but even assuming they got out of the stadium where would they go?
Meyer was certain of one thing: the attack had been well planned and cleverly executed. A plan designed to make a st
atement. It bore all the hallmarks of Max Von Hagen.
The crowd had thinned but sporadic gunfire echoed from every direction. The atmosphere was tense, filled with fear. A squad of Mars Police Officers appeared from the left. They were directing people to the exit.
“Keep moving,” one shouted. “An assembly point has been set up in the yellow parking zone; please head for the Yellow Zone,” his voice was amplified by his helmet speaker.
One officer spotted Meyer and Shannon and broke off from the main group. He approached with his weapon slung. He pulled up his helmet. He was young, mid-twenties; he looked tired and stressed.
It’s true what they say, Meyer thought, when the policemen look like college kids, maybe it’s time you retired.
“Ma’am?” the officer asked. “Do you need help? Are you hurt?”
“No, just some scrapes and bruises.”
“If you follow me, we can get you to safety,” he replied.
“How can we trust you?” Shannon asked, placing herself between Meyer and the Officer.
“Ma’am, please we are the good guys. Martian Dawn are wearing D37 uniforms. Command has broken down. We are operating independently right now.” His eyes darted from left to right, barely disguising his fear. “Please, if you want to live, come with me.”
The officer appeared as scared as Meyer. She stood.
He pulled his helmet back on and led them to a stairwell, crammed with terrified civilians. A senior officer approached them.
“May I see your ID Ma’am?” Meyer gave him her card.
“Senator Meyer. We have a priority exit for members of the government. Please follow me.”
“No!”
“Ma’am?”
“What about these people? Are they not important enough?”
The officer looked confused.
“Senator Meyer; you are a member of the Senate, these people are not. It may suit your political career to be seen as one of the people, but your presence here endangers everyone.” His face reddened as he spoke. “You are a high-profile target, so I will ask you again, will you please follow me?”
