Outcast Marines Boxed Set

by James David Victor

  Luna 1 was the first, oldest, and largest of the Luna habitats, with Luna 2, 3, 4 and up to 6 scattered around the near face of the Moon. Like Mars, Luna was primarily an industrial colony, with the smaller habitat bubbles given over to giant processing factories, where everyone who lived there would also work at their local plant.

  Even though Luna shared much of the hard-working conditions and general poverty the Martians did, they had not developed the same puritanical frenzy as the Chosen of Mars/First Martian groups on the Red Planet. Perhaps it was due to the Moon’s proximity to Earth and Confederate control, Solomon wondered. What little he knew of this place was that they had plenty of trade unions and trade councils, and that a lot of mega-corporations also located their offices there to avoid vigorous Confederate taxes.

  Even Taranis? Solomon wondered sourly. He wondered what was left of his mission now. To find out where Taranis Industries had copied the original Message. To find out who had helped both Taranis and NeuroTech to start a war between the Confederacy and the colonies.

  To find out whether they were in league with the Ru’at…

  “Attention Orbital Shuttle Xge-4, this is Luna 1 Main Station. You are cleared to land at Port 12.”

  “Thanks, Luna,” Solomon said. “Who’s the senior Marine commander you have on base?”

  “That would be Major General Hausman, Luna liaison and director of the Near-Earth Fleet, Lieutenant,” the human voice on the other end of the line said.

  “Good. We’re going to need to see them. Immediately.”

  “I’ll send a priority message, but, Lieutenant, sir…” the voice sounded worried. “You know that Earth, New York, it’s…”

  “We know, Luna 1, believe me, we know…” Solomon said grimly, pulling the shuttle into a wobbling, arcing flight towards the smaller bubble with a giant ‘12’ stenciled on its top.

  “Ambassador! Lieutenant!” a loud voice greeted them as soon as Solomon, Ochrie, and Rhossily had left the re-pressurization airlock and were walking down the ramp into Bubble 12.

  WAO! WAO! “Alert all citizens! Non-essential travel is prohibited. All people with security experience to present themselves to the nearest Marine Corps office, immediately.”

  Blaring alarms and flashing orange lights were everywhere, and Solomon and his companions seemed to have walked into a station preparing itself for war. Solomon saw the port staff running back and forth in their gray service suits as they tried to do several things at once. Others were calling for supervisors or managers to attend to this and that important decision, now!

  The important decision that Solomon had to make right now, however, was whether or not to trust the man and his team of Marines in full power armor signaling to them.

  “Major General Hausman.” Solomon stopped and threw as perfect a salute as he could manage. It seemed to pass muster, as no one screamed at him for the attempt.

  The general of the Near-Earth Fleet was a man in his sixties, Solomon guessed. He was a tall and stocky man, and one who Solomon guessed must have been a giant in his younger days, but now whose physique had apparently been given over to padding rather than muscle. He wore the pristine white and purple uniform of his position, but without any of the armor that the General Asquew routinely wore.

  Hausman had short-cropped hair that might have once been blonde but was thinning and giving itself over to gray. He had clear, steel-blue eyes over a square, all-American jawline.

  “Lieutenant Cready of the Outcasts, Rapid Response Fleet, sir.” Cready nodded.

  “You’re a long way from your post, Lieutenant Cready,” Hausman said. “The Rapid Response Fleet is deployed at Mars…”

  “And the Outcast Company is deployed at Pluto, sir,” Solomon said heavily, studying the man’s face for any sign of a reaction. There was none.

  He doesn’t know. Solomon’s heart plummeted. He doesn’t know about Proxima, and the Ru’at. And the fact that they were coming here, to Earth system, any hour…

  “So…” Hausman looked perturbed.

  “Excuse me, General.” Ambassador Ochrie stepped forward, inclining her head to the senior military officer. “But we have critical information that has to be seen by the Confederate Council, right now. Lieutenant Cready is acting on orders from General Asquew to deliver this information, and me, to the right ears,” she said.

  Hausman frowned deeply. “I am afraid that is out of the question.”

  “Excuse me?” Ochrie looked sternly at the man. Solomon wondered who outranked who in this situation. Hausman was one of only three people who could be said to be in charge of the entire Confederate Marine Corps—Asquew being another one—while the ambassador was a representative of the Confederate Council itself.

  “Most of the Confederate Council were in New York,” Hausman said heavily. “Although we are trying to locate the remaining members of the council outside of the American Confederacy, we have no idea of how many survived New York.”

  No. Solomon felt a tremor of shock run through his knees and cursed himself for his weakness. A part of him had known, ever since seeing the bubble of light engulf the space elevator, that this was coming. But he guessed that his battle training hadn’t let him consider it fully.

  New York was one of Earth’s major cities. A site for a space elevator, a major hub for the nations of the world, and the Confederate Council was made up of world leaders of the various ‘fragments’ of the Confederacy, such as the Premier of the Asia-Pacific Partnership and his top aides, or the President of the Russian Alliance.

  The Confederacy was supposed to be a system, of world-wide collaborative government. A way for humanity, as a whole, to ascend to the stars.

  In truth, it was a haggling, bickering, intimidating, and bribing network of different powers and old nation-states who managed to pretend to work with each other for the benefits that off-world resources and opportunities afforded them. The fact that all the different parts of the Confederacy had even managed to agree to creating the Marine Corps between them was a miracle.

  And now what’s going to happen? Solomon thought in horror.

  “Until all partners of the Confederacy have managed to put forward their representatives, the council cannot convene.” Hausman continued, and Solomon nodded to himself. At least that much made sense. Each part of the Confederacy who lost their leader, president, prime minister or chief would have to emergency swear-in the next highest-ranking civic official. Until then, the Confederacy itself was rudderless.

  “According to Confederate guidelines, Ambassador, during such situations, the authority passes to the most senior ranking military officer, which would be myself.” Hausman nodded severely. “And I have called for immediate martial law to be in place across the Confederacy until we can respond to this…disaster.”

  “This attack, General.” Ochrie’s voice wavered. “That was an attack against the Confederate Council. It had to be.”

  “My analysts are collecting all the information they can, Madam Ambassador,” Hausman said. “But until we have more intelligence, I cannot let rumors like that be spoken freely.”

  “Rumors!?” Ochrie burst out. “We saw it, General. We saw the blast!”

  “Madam Ambassador.” Hausman’s tone became clipped and stern, and Solomon saw the two Marines stand up a little straighter beside him. “Now is not the time for histrionics. I have a planetary disaster to see to. Now, you said that you and the lieutenant, and…” He threw a look at Mariad Rhossily, who merely stood demurely behind the ambassador beside Ochrie’s personal assistant. Solomon noted that the Imprimatur of Proxima kept her head down as if she was just another staff member.

  “That you were here to deliver critical information. As I am the acting commander-in-chief, you may present that information to me.” Hausman nodded.

  Ochrie shared a look with Solomon that spoke volumes. Can we trust him? Will he believe us?

  “Not here, General,” she settled for. “It is too sensitive, worse even than ru
mors.” She added the final part in what Solomon thought was a slight barb, but Hausman ignored it.

  “Fine. Marine Offices, Luna 1. Get yourselves there and I will be there as soon as I can.” Hausman nodded to the exit.

  The Ru’at are already in Earth’s solar system! Solomon screamed inwardly. “Sir, please, this is of the utmost critical importance, sir!”

  “Lieutenant Cready!” Hausman barked suddenly, his face turning from the stern patrician figure to that of a red-tinged, furious bull in an instant. “You are no doubt aware of how I like the chain of command to run here in the Near-Earth Fleet! General Asquew is a noble and courageous leader, but now, while you are here on my soil, you are under my command. Understood, Marine?”

  Solomon blinked several times. Hausman was almost as bad as Warden Coates. He hadn’t expected that level of outrage from the man.

  “Sir. Understood, sir!” Solomon threw another salute, a better one this time, and Hausman dismissed them both with a nod.

  “Oh frack,” Ochrie whispered under her breath as soon as the general and his bodyguards were out of earshot.

  “You’re telling me,” Solomon murmured back.

  “You think he will listen to us?” Ochrie asked.

  Solomon Cready didn’t know.

  8

  Bridgehead

  “They need to be gone, now!” Jezzy watched as Colonel Faraday barked an angry order at the administrator of Pluto’s only station, the Last Call.

  Pluto wasn’t technically a colony, it had no flag or colors or insignia of its own, and all of the people who lived there only did so on the back of the transport and the service industry around the tiny planetoid. As far as Jezzy was aware, Pluto had never pressed for independence, and it had no way of sustaining itself anyway—no fertile land, no bio-habitats big enough to support a growing population, no large-scale energy-harvesting technologies.

  But still, as Jezebel Wen looked at the woman who in charge of the Last Call on the behalf of the Confederacy, she was sure that she could see that same spark of defiance coming from her eyes as she had seen on Mars, and on Proxima.

  Administrator Fatima Ahmadi was a woman in her early fifties, perhaps, thin, with long dark hair that she allowed to fall freely over the sturdy leathers and meshes of her encounter suit. The woman was on the other end of a data-screen—presumably on the station itself, Jezzy reckoned—and looked about ready to turn her end of the connection off.

  She didn’t look like a Confederate administrator, as Jezzy saw them. She didn’t have any of the finery or seals of high office that other officials in the Confederacy enjoyed. If anything, she looked like she had just rolled out of a shift at the mechanical bays and had sat down to answer some video-messages.

  So no, Pluto wasn’t a colony, but Jezzy was starting to think that this woman here might want it to be one.

  “Do you know how much money we’ll lose if we cancel all of those fancy tourist visas?” Ahmadi inspected her nails and proceeded to bite at one of them.

  “This is a military matter, Administrator Ahmadi, and as such, I have to ask you to comply now,” Faraday demanded.

  Jezzy stood with the other bridge staff on the Oregon, a few steps behind the colonel and wearing her full power armor. She tried to maintain absolute stillness and poise, knowing that it would add to the message.

  “Am I going to have to ask about jurisdiction, Colonel?” Ahmadi was infuriating, and, Jezzy thought, absolutely unafraid of anyone. She was starting to like her.

  “You can ask, Administrator, but I don’t have to remind you that military orders trump civilian regulations. If you want, I can get General Asquew on the line right now and you can hear my orders from her…”

  “And by ‘on the line,’ you mean sending a sub-frequency message which will take hours to get to Mars—where I hear your General is busy bombing people—and then hours to get the answer back here?” Ahmadi raised an eyebrow.

  We don’t have time for this… Jezzy thought.

  “I’m afraid we don’t have hours, Administrator.” Faraday’s tone was serious. Deadly serious. “You don’t have hours.”

  From behind her helmet, Jezzy saw Ahmadi’s eyes narrow as she tried to work out whether that was a threat or an attempt to intimidate her, but the look on Faraday’s face was too severe and too blunt. “Fine,” Ahmadi said. “But I will be raising this with the Confederate Council, and we’ll be sure to bill the Marine Corps for lost earnings to my station, you know.”

  “Feel free. And lost earnings is infinitely preferable to lost lives, Administrator.” Faraday nodded gratefully.

  “You don’t live out here then, do you?” Ahmadi shot back, but she was already complying, as she said. “I’ll dispatch the order, but it’s going to take time to round all the tour parties up, and to provision the cruise ships and get them jumped out…” she was saying.

  No time! No time! Jezzy’s heartrate increased a notch.

  “As soon as you can, please,” Faraday said, before the message clicked off. When he turned back to Jezzy, he looked worried. “The Ru’at will be here by then,” he murmured.

  “We don’t know that, Colonel,” Jezzy said, wishing that she believed it. She looked up at the two holographic displays over the viewing window—out of sight of the screen which the administrator had recently talked to them on—and saw the projected countdowns to the Ru’at’s arrival.

  Even the best Marine Corps scientists didn’t know how long the journey would take, Jezzy thought. All bets were off with faster-than-light travel, but she had been present at the debrief, when he had explained that these two estimates were the best that their scientists could come up with.

  One display read: 2 hours: 43 mins: 13 seconds.

  The other read: 38 mins: 24 seconds.

  Jezzy sure hoped that whoever had come up with the first time was a lot smarter than the one who had figured out the second one.

  9

  An Officer Abroad

  Solomon, Ochrie, and Rhossily made their way through the terrified and panicked Luna Station 1 to find the resident offices of the Marine Corps.

  It felt strange to Solomon. Even though he had been to a few off-Earth worlds now as a part of his almost two years with the Marine Corps, he had never spent time in one that wasn’t currently under attack.

  Although, that might all change at any moment… Solomon thought miserably.

  There was an element of Mars to the sights and sounds that he saw—in the way that everyone in the wide metal corridor walkways seemed to be a notch poorer than the average Earth-based Confederate citizen, and also in the way that most of them wore trade suits, dull ochres, browns, grays or gunmetal blues with insignia patches for various corporations or smelting works.

  Luna is an industrial town, Solomon thought, as the main connecting avenue from habitat-bubble twelve to the main, much larger bubble of Luna 1 ended in a set of airlock doors. Solomon and his two companions waited for the lights to cycle to their green ‘okay’ position and for the doors to open.

  “This feels wrong…” Rhossily muttered at their side as Solomon led the way.

  “What do you mean?” Solomon asked, although he knew that he couldn’t see much that was right with their position at that moment.

  Inside the airlock, they emerged into a wide concourse that must have run around the inside of Luna 1’s circumference. In the distance, Solomon could see more airlocks on their side of the wall hissing open, taking in or disgorging people on their hurried way to their next work shift in the smaller outlier bubbles, no doubt.

  The opposing wall was given over to narrower corridors that led deeper into the station, as well as lines and lines of boutiques, cafes, and restaurants—all of which were being shutting down or had already been shut down by teams of burly Marines.

  “Martial law! Immediate curfew!” Solomon watched as one Marine in a bronze sort of suit barked at a pair of surly, blue-clad Luna workers, with short caps on their heads. The two worker
s slowly stood up, making a point of draining their coffee mugs slowly, before sauntering off deeper into the station.

  “Well, that for a start,” Rhossily answered Solomon darkly.

  “We have to get this information to the council,” Ochrie repeated in an urgent whisper. “They will take the appropriate steps to safeguard Earth, and the Confederacy, and of course to retake Proxima.” She inclined her head at Rhossily.

  “You believe so, Ambassador?” the Imprimatur of Proxima asked candidly.

  Solomon stopped the two Marine guards and before they could bark at him, he asked them where their main offices were.

  “Inner Hub, Level 4, Lieutenant, sir.” One of the Marines saluted him, making Solomon pause for a moment. His own squad had saluted him on occasion—he was their commanding officer who had fought alongside them, of course—but usually they were a little sloppy, perhaps a little sarcastic.

  It was strange to be afforded the respect of his new officer rank right here and now, in front of other Marines.

  “As you were, Marine,” Solomon remembered to say, turning in the direction indicated. “Ladies?” He gestured.

  “Lieutenant, what’s your opinion?” Mariad asked pointedly as they walked quickly down one of the wide white corridors, past doors and ladders that went up to the terraces and balconies and residential flats apartment. “Of whether coming to Luna—or even Earth—is a good idea?”

  “They are my orders, ma’am,” Solomon said. Taranis Industries. The Confederate conspiracy. General Asquew had asked him to get to the bottom of them. Him. Solomon Cready.

  “The Confederate Council is in a shambles, and there is now martial law across Earth,” Rhossily stated, regaining some of her old poise and composure as her voice strengthened. “The Confederate Marines are soon to be fighting a war on two fronts, with the Near-Earth Fleet apparently not getting involved in either.” She continued ticking off reasons for despair as if counting ships at a space dock.