by Paul Grover
A rattle of gunfire went off in the distance, followed by another, closer.
“I don’t work for Conway. We’re all just cogs in a machine. As for you Max, it’s up to you. You order your people to stand down and emerge with some honour or people choke. It’s your choice.”
Von Hagen stood in the middle of the room. His eyes roved the opulence surrounding him. A cold sweat broke out on his face.
He thought of his family, his granddaughter, three this year. His mind conjured a vision of her dying a blue death, choking on dirty air, clawing at her tiny throat in fear and panic.
Manson was right; he could die a martyr, or live on as the nearly man of Martian Independence. One thing he was certain of, dead men didn’t get second chances.
“Okay,” he said.
He unclipped his weapon and let it fall to the floor.
Von Hagen walked to the communication console and gave the order; across the planet Martian Dawn’s forces stood down; some would be captured, others killed. Others would melt away into the anonymity of the Martian underworld.
The revolution was over. For today.
Anders Richter heard the gunfire over the noise of the toilet flushing. It was the third flush. Even the Governor’s high-end sanitary equipment could not cope with one of Richter’s three-day steamers.
He froze and gasped a breath of fetid air; he gave a nervous laugh as adrenaline flooded his system.
Richter cracked the door open and peered out. He was on the upper floor landing, above the control room. He could hear raised voices from below.
The thick blue carpet of the hallway masked Richter’s footfalls as he crept forward and stole a glance over the balcony. Von Hagen stood with his hands on his head. Karl Manson pointed a weapon at him and pushed him to his knees. Richter’s eyes widened and his breathing quickened as he caught sight of his comrades lying on the floor in pools of blood.
Richter had committed the buildings layout to memory. There was an entry to the air circulation system in a service cupboard on the floor below.
The voices below were muffled. Every so often Manson would laugh. He stole another glance over the lip of the balcony. Von Hagen knelt while armed Frontier troops surrounded him. Manson was showboating, singing his own praises to anyone who would listen; those who did were the minority.
Insurance policy…
Richter felt his breast pocket. It bulged with the packet Von Hagen had given him; this possibility must have been in his mind. Richter silently cursed, wishing he had uploaded the data to a UniNet dropbox.
He had to get to the service room; the data in the right hands might just be his ticket out of this mess. He was under no illusion; his options were limited. If he could get to the Frontier he might buy his freedom.
The route to the service closet was straightforward. All he would need to do was get down the stairs and across the control room; easy enough if it were not for Manson and the Frontier troops. He needed a distraction.
Richter fumbled for his pocket datapad. He opened a console and hacked into the building’s control server. He searched for the fire containment system. His hands trembled as he thumbed through the various sub menus. He took a breath and calmed himself.
He activated the fire alarm. A high-pitched siren rang out at an ear destroying volume. Next he activated the sprinklers. Cold water rained down on him. He gritted his teeth as it soaked through his clothes.
It had the desired effect. The troops cleared the lobby, taking a handcuffed Von Hagen with them. Richter waited, watched and shivered. Manson was the last to leave, staring contemptuously around the control room.
Richter sprang to his feet and ran for the service closet. He bypassed the lock and opened a hatch in the floor.
He dropped in and crawled through the narrow space; his breathing came in laboured gasps. The sound of the alarm diminished as he moved through the air vent. A grate ahead of him led to the outside. He could see the murky haze of the dome.
He kicked the grate out and dropped onto a gantry. He ran, his footfalls echoing off the steel flooring.
When he reached the end, he opened his datapad and checked his position; he was close to the perimeter of the compound. So far he had seen few Frontier troops, but he knew that would change. He had to get as far from here as possible.
Richter swung over the railing and dropped to the ground below. He landed awkwardly and pain flared in his knee; he ignored it and stood. Checking he was clear, he ran along the edge of the building. In the distance he could hear the sounds of violence, a riot. Civil disturbance had been part of the plan, now it offered the chance of escape. A chain-link fence separated Richter from the street beyond. A gate was unwatched in the centre of the fence. He ran to it and used a spider key to pop the mechanism. He was still in a security controlled zone and no doubt watched by every camera installed in the residence; for some miraculous reason no one had thought to act on his presence. He figured the security forces were in such disarray they did not have the resources to intercept him.
He broke free of the alley and found himself in the middle of the riot. Protestors and security patrols clashed in a sea of improvised weapons, riot shields, tear gas and baton rounds. People pushed against him, dragging him along with them. Security teams and figures in black body armour pushed forward. The riot was being kettled, held in and contained pending de-escalation. When crowd calmed and condensed to a solid mass, the security forces would send in snatch squads to remove the ringleaders, the catalysts of chaos. Richter looked again at the armoured figures. Their matte black armour bore the word FRONCO in white and the crest of the Frontier Company on the breast plate.
Shock Troops? They are using Frontier Company goons to restore order? Where are the Feds?
Richter pushed his way through the crowd and found himself above a sealed service duct. He used his spider key to override the lock and dropped through. The hatch slid closed above him and he sat shivering in the cold dark space until the riot had passed.
He did not know how much time had elapsed, but the sounds of pounding feet and muffled shouts diminished. His legs were cramped. He massaged them to restore feeling. He opened the hatch and blinked as the weak dome daylight assaulted his retinas. Everything was clear. He pulled himself back to street level and ran toward a narrow alley leading west, toward the edge of Dome Four.
He had made provision; he had cash and fake IDs stashed in three locations on the outskirts. Once he had retrieved them, it would be a case of lying low until order was restored and then book passage off world.
Richter knew the information he carried had value; the question was how much and what deal could be struck? In ordinary times he would tout it to the news networks and sell to the highest bidder. These were not ordinary times. He had colluded in a massacre of the Federation’s legislative base. He had not fired a weapon or triggered a bomb but he had made it possible. Richter knew he would not be bargaining for wealth it would be his freedom, maybe even his life.
He needed someone who valued the data as much as he valued breathing; someone with no connection to Conway or the MegaCorps.
Damien Lightfoot might offer him a slim chance and a slim chance was better than none.
He slipped into a low rent basement apartment; it was grubby and smelt of mould. The single room had a stove, a soiled mattress and little else. A bare LED bulb swung from the ceiling; it cast a tepid off-white glow that never quite reached the corners of the room.
Richter found a bottle of water and a bag of protein chips in a cupboard. He sat on the mattress, pulled his datapad out of his pocket and began planning.
Two hours later he had booked passage to the Frontier. The members of the resistance he had contacted numbered less than a dozen. The FRONCO troops had been ruthless in their suppression of the uprising. From what little he knew the raids had been targeted and based on solid intelligence.
Von Hagen and been played. The dream was dead.
Richter leant back on
the mattress, closed his eyes and cursed Karl Manson all the way to hell.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE Olympic was Phobos Orbiter’s premium hotel. Although rated five stars by the station’s standards, the Olympic would barely scrape two on the Frontier. Vanessa Meyer did not mind. The shuttle had evacuated her from the stadium and deposited her and Shannon on the dock. A local security unit had booked them into the hotel, apparently while EarthGov coordinated the rescue.
They were not alone in the hotel. A mix of civilians and business people occupied the other rooms; most had been at the ceremony. Neighbours were audible through the paper-thin walls, yet few had left their rooms. Fear was thick in the air and when she encountered other guests they responded to her greeting with distant, traumatised stares. She had yet to hear of other members of the Senate arriving at the hotel or the station. Meyer was not surprised; the rebels had been grimly efficient in their slaughter.
She dozed on one of the velour couches in the suite's master bedroom, snapping awake to the chime of her personal datapad. It blinked red in the darkness, showing an urgent incoming call. She flicked on a table lamp and opened the link.
Otto Hofner appeared on the screen. His face was ashen, his normally immaculate sandy hair in disarray. His eyes were ringed with purple and a cut on his forehead was covered by an improvised dressing.
“Vanessa!” he said. “I am so glad you made it out.” His words fell over themselves as he spoke. “Conway has captured Von Hagen and Frontier troops are moving against the remaining pockets of resistance. Mars will be back under EarthGov control within hours. He has shut the Navy down too. I don’t know…”
“Calm yourself Otto,” Meyer said. “Again, slowly…”
Hofner repeated himself, adding detail where needed, clarifying the main points. When he had finished his normal, cool and affable personality asserted itself.
“What about the Senate?” Meyer asked
“He is blaming us, the factions he views as opposition. You are at the top of his list, along with Admiral Foster.”
“Otto, where are you? Who else made it out? I have so little information.”
“I know of five Senators who escaped. I expect there will be more. I will try to round them up. There is something rotten in EarthGov right now. Conway is working to build his power base. He has already moved against the Navy. Senior Admirals are disappearing and ships have been ordered to return to port. I fear it is only a matter of time before Frontier Troops come after the rest of us.”
It took a few seconds for Hofner’s words to sink in. Otto Hofner was one of the most popular and well-connected members of the Senate; he had friends on every side of the political divide. If he was acting off information, it was likely correct. He sounded rattled. Hofner had flown fighters during his time in the military. He had been a senior instructor at the Academy and returned to the front line during the Martian Conflict. He normally maintained an air of cool, controlled aloofness.
“Do you think Conway is behind this, Otto?”
“I am certain. Frontier had a lot of Shock Troops in Mariner. They would only do that if they were complicit. Conway is using Article 43 to remove his opposition.”
Meyer suspected Conway coveted the Presidency but thought he would wait until the elections.
“I’m on the Phobos Orbital Platform, the Olympic, Room 245,” Meyer said. “The local police brought us here. No one officially knows where I am. Can you and the others get here? It will buy us some time until I can work out how to get us out of this mess.”
Hofner nodded and closed the link.
Meyer stood, stretching stiffness from her bones, wincing slightly at a sudden pain in her back. She was too old for this but there was no way she would let Conway destroy a system she had served for so long.
She straightened her clothing and walked into the lounge.
Shannon Wade lay dozing on the couch. A screen on the wall showed Max Von Hagen being led away from the Governor’s residence by a pair of Frontier Shock Troops. The scene cut to a mug shot of Anders Richter, followed by security camera footage of his escape.
“Shannon?” Meyer whispered.
The woman stirred and sat up.
“We need to prepare for visitors. I need you to stock up on water, food and blankets.”
Meyer gave her a summary of her conversation with Hofner.
“Okay, the hotel staff are sympathetic; I will talk to them.”
Meyer flicked on the holo-screen to GNN. She watched a re-run of Conway’s speech, anger churned in her gut. She threw the remote across the room. It bounced off the wall and landed on the tired carpet. Meyer glared at the screen as the “impartial” news networks peddled lies and reinforced the myth.
There was a subdued knock on the door. Vanessa Meyer started and drew her tired eyes from her mini datapad. She had been trying to contact other members of the Senate using a secure communications app. It had been a fruitless task; no one was answering.
Shannon stood and moved to the door.
Meyer checked her watch; four hours had passed since she last spoke to Hofner.
“Who is there?” Shannon asked. Meyer heard a nervous hesitation in her voice.
“Hofner, I have Benson with me.”
Meyer was certain it was Hofner’s voice.
Shannon opened the door and ushered the senators through. Hofner was a thin man who sported a cybernetic arm. Andrew Benson was older, not far behind Meyer in years; his hair jet black, shot through with grey. It was common knowledge that Benson wore a weave and not a convincing one either.
“What about the others?” Meyer asked.
“They did not show. They said they were trying to make their way up from the surface; I fear they did not make it. Conway has Mars locked down tighter than the treasury,” Hofner said.
From what she had seen on the local news network security was tightening. She feared that the next knock on the door would be Frontier Shock Troops.
“We should move, Vanessa,” Hofner said.
“Not until we need to, Otto. I am trying to contact friends on the Frontier to see if they can help. It will take time and we are relatively safe here.”
Hofner grunted. His eyes darted around the room. “So just the four of us then?”
“So far; others must have escaped. The death toll is high but there will be survivors.”
“I could do with a drink,” Benson said.
Meyer pointed to the far side of the room. Both men helped themselves; Hofner poured, his hand steady. Benson struggled to keep his glass still.
Meyer offered Andy Benson a seat. He sat awkwardly, crossing his legs and trying to calm his obvious nerves.
“How Otto got out of the stadium is anyone’s guess,” Benson said. “He was close to the front. I was running late; the stewards held me in the stands.”
“The local police have been so good to us. I worry what fate will befall them in Conway’s New Galactic Order,” Hofner added, dropping ice into a tumbler overflowing with white rum.
Meyer agreed. She thought of the unit who had arranged for her extraction and the young officer she met in the stadium.
The bedroom door opened, and Shannon returned to the lounge; even she was looking tired. Meyer did not understand how the woman kept going with so little sleep. Perhaps pro-athletes really were a different species to the rest of humanity.
“Senator Meyer,” she said. “I received word from the surface. It appears Admiral Flynt has acted pre-emptively. He has a ship in system. The pilot’s name is Mira Thorn.”
“God, help us,” Hofner said. “She was one of my cadets; no respect for authority or rank. I grounded her four times for high speed airspace violations; I hope age has mellowed her.”
Meyer was familiar with Thorn’s more recent exploits. Her son had spoken highly of her skill and bravery.
“She sounds like someone I will like, Otto,” Meyer said with a smile.
The Phobos Orbiter started life as an i
ndustrial platform; it occupied a geosynchronous orbit above the small, irregular moon. The station had long ceased operating as a production facility and now served as a low cost accommodation centre for migrant workers and intra-solar travellers on a budget.
For all the light-years she had travelled Mira had never visited the Orbiter. She had heard many stories of the outpost, none of them good. The station was larger than she expected at over five kilometres square and almost twice as high at its tallest point. It was divided into four districts, ruled by gangs and policed by an under-funded, under-manned security force.
During the war the industrial conglomerates operating in Jupiter’s orbit and the Belt moved from the high tax, high regulation home system to the Frontier. A workforce of three million people were dumped on welfare in less than a year. Many made their way to Mars, rallying to the banner of Martian Dawn and the chance to strike back at those responsible for their lost livelihoods. Most of them passed through the Orbiter and when the shooting was over many had stayed. They soon discovered they could grow rich exploiting the transient population.
Mira brought the ship alongside a docking pier and latched onto the stanchion. They were a long way from the hub in a deserted, lifeless section of the docks.
It had taken nearly eight hours to arrive. Their departure was delayed due to outbound traffic congestion and the orbital controllers had held them in a parking orbit for five hours. Ben had provided a dropbox address for Meyer, and Tish had managed to send a message through clogged comms servers that help was inbound.
They had both cleaned up and changed into light blue flight suits, Mira had not spoken of her miraculous recovery from the leg wound. A faint echo of the damage remained, but even that was fading fast.
Rich Barnes had retreated to a cabin to nurse his wound.
Mira knew he was hurting from more than the fracture. He was uncomfortable with Mira heading into the Orbiter alone. No matter how much she reassured him, his mood deepened. Barnes was a proud man, a man to whom duty mattered; it was a pain that could not be banished with a stab of a needle or swallow of a pill. Barnes needed time. Mira understood.
