by Daniel Gibbs
“Nice rides.” Jackson patted the seat of the nearest skimmer, a model with white flames festooning a black fuselage. “I’m surprised there are no takers.”
“Yeah, well, ain’t many of those takers when these circuits-for-brains miss an unwired transtator on the intake valves.” Salvatore glowered at the men behind him, who studiously ignored his glare and buried themselves in their repairs. “But if you got the money, I’ll knock fifteen percent off asking price to get it the hell off my lot.”
“I’ve got something better—skills.”
Salvatore squinted. “You’re the kid, the one who sent me a long list of why he’s so much better at the job I’m already paying seven people to do.”
“Make it an even eight, and you can get full price for this ride.” Jackson crouched and pointed at the undercarriage, right behind the forward hover nodule. “Once I crack open a set of tools so I can replace the faulty connector. Here.”
Salvatore wheezed as he bent over. He rolled his eyes and muttered a string of obscenities Jackson cataloged as local, glad his wrist comm was passively recording so he could check them for etymological significance.
“I’ll be damned. That’s another good catch, kid. What was your name again?”
“Jack Avery. Off New Washington.” Jackson mimicked the eyeroll. “Not willingly.”
“Hey, who is out here willingly? Salvatore Benson.” They shook hands. “Listen, I ain’t the kind of boss who asks all those dumb questions.”
“What kind of boss are you? I want the kind who pays me what I’m worth. On time.”
Salvatore scratched at his mustache. “And I need someone who don’t ask dumb questions but who’s smart enough to catch the kind of money-costing mistake you just did.”
Jackson grinned. “Then I’m the guy you’re looking for.”
9
Oval Office, the White House
Canaan—Terran Coalition
17 July 2464
President Spencer wished he was watching the news on a flat-screen instead of a multi-view holographic display. It would have been much more satisfying to throw something at it. As it were, he consoled himself with glaring at the three talking heads who seemed to be taking great delight in recounting the “tragedies developing” in the Cypriot Crisis.
“This situation will continue to get out of control unless I can get Fleet elements on station, Mr. President.” MacIntosh paced behind the holos, his body distorted by the imagery. “Letting shuttles slip down to the surface… they might as well rename it Frontier Not Enforced.”
“Let’s not heap blame on our officers quite yet, General.” Ed Fuentes frowned as he watched the reports replay scenes of the shooting, the ensuing riot, and TCFE’s efforts to tamp it down. “The people in the camp weren’t rising up in mass revolt. Look at those images. It’s clear we’re dealing with a small subset of the population.”
“We don’t know that, sir.”
Spencer detected strain behind MacIntosh’s use of the honorific, a small wonder, given Spencer and Fuentes had been political enemies for much longer than they’d been partners in the Coalition’s government. MacIntosh remained loyal to his wartime president.
“We’re getting whispers that those refugees are nothing more than political dissidents freed from reeducation facilities or full-fledged convicts dumped out of League prisons,” MacIntosh pointed out.
Fuentes snorted. “With children? You see them there, don’t you? Did murderers have their little boys and girls with them while serving life sentences?”
His sharp rejoinder stopped MacIntosh. It was even odds he was surprised by Fuentes’s fire or irritated by the argument. “Refugees with families aren’t hiding weapons or spreading Orbita. If we get half the scum out of that camp—”
“There shouldn’t be a camp.” Spencer pitched his voice calmly but with enough of a stern edge to shut down their debate before it got up to full power. “There shouldn’t be a single refugee or freed criminal or whoever we’re dealing with standing on one scrap of Coalition soil without orderly processing and procedures. Instead, we have thousands packed onto a civilian airfield, and the people who are supposed to know best can’t give me any answers as to how this foul-up happened.”
Secretary Snow had remained silent during the brief tussle between Fuentes and MacIntosh, reviewing her latest notes, but she interjected, “Mr. President, Covert Unit 171 has only just arrived at Aphendrika. Colonel Sinclair assures us they’re monitoring the situation. Captain Adams’s team has taken their positions. It may be some time before they can ferret out the truth.”
“The truth is what we need as soon as possible, Celinda. It’s what we owe our people.” Spencer held up a hand. “I’m not looking for another argument. I’m telling you what’s on my mind. So, where are we when it comes to finding out the truth about these refugees?”
“Border has reported alleged bribery among several transport captains,” MacIntosh said. “Getting them to herd people onto barges was the simple part. Colonel Sinclair’s group is looking closely at those payments. The more difficult part to figure out is how they got to the surface.”
“I’m assuming Border’s interdiction leaves something to be desired.”
MacIntosh grimaced. “About as useful as an open airlock. They may have gaps in their net, sir, but the issue is we have several patrol boat skippers who claim they received orders to stand down as the barges and shuttles entered the atmosphere.”
Fuentes sucked air between his teeth. “Falsified orders? Can anyone verify?”
“I can only tell you what Border’s commander on the scene relayed to us, and he’s adamant no one was authorized to grant leeway. Everyone out there is briefed on our official position, Mr. President, so unless someone’s playing politics and deciding to stay mum—”
“Or the League’s operatives are hijacking our communications.” Spencer’s insides went cold.
MacIntosh didn’t have a reply. He looked equally sick.
“What we can confirm is that the signals came through proper channels,” Snow said. “At first glance, all appeared to be in order. But clearly, the command code from which they originated is fictitious. It’s yet another aspect Sinclair’s crew is working to crack.”
“They’re going to an awful lot of effort to meddle with people no one seems to want,” Fuentes mused. “If their goal is destabilization of an already tense situation, they’ve a fine knack for it. What about the people in the camp?”
“Mr. Vice President, could you elaborate?” Snow seemed puzzled by the question.
Fuentes glanced among the gathered group. “Very well. The president has made it clear they shouldn’t be on the planet. I’m respecting his decision and backing him up on it despite our disagreement. What sort of plan can we come up with to return them to their ships?”
“Sorry, sir, but that genie’s out of the proverbial bottle.” MacIntosh finally sat in a chair.
Good. Spencer had been about to order the man to hold still.
“The only way to get them off the surface is to bring more shuttles and barges down. TCFE would have a collective aneurysm. And I doubt the transport captains will want to stick their necks out again, not with us parsing their financials and comms logs to track down League influence.”
“Andrew’s right, as much as I hate to admit it.” Spencer leaned on his desk. “The media are watching the situation even more closely after the outbreak of violence. Our best approach is to maintain the status quo until we can get answers. Attempting to move people out of the landing field will result in another riot. However it happened, those refugees have been given their first taste of life on a new world. It’s not pretty, but it’s not under the League’s thumb, and I’ll wager they’re well aware.”
“Understandable, Justin, but dozens of aid organizations are already in place,” Fuentes said. “We could appeal to them to provide flights to orbit. Surely we could set out guidelines for an orderly withdrawal. Even one done in incremental step
s will ease pressure on both the refugees and TCFE.”
“We can consider all options once we get clearer answers as to the extent of League action.” Spencer tapped a control on his desk. The holo news displays winked out. “I’ve had all of that I can stomach for the day. How are we looking for our presentation to the Assembly?”
Snow checked her comms device. “Thirty minutes until the hearing, Mr. President.”
“All right. Talking points, everyone.” Spencer ticked them off on his fingers. “Yes, we’re aware of the violent outbreaks in the camp. Yes, Orbita is suspected to play a role. Yes, the League has a hand in this. I don’t want to get into the weeds on every question. It’ll be bad enough when the Jessica Rhodes diehards sink their teeth into this issue.”
“Very true,” Fuentes noted. “I’ve heard rumblings that we’re not doing enough fast enough to bring the refugees deeper into the Coalition, finding them permanent homes.”
“Granting blanket asylum for millions of people we know nothing about would be a national security disaster,” MacIntosh grumbled. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll keep saying it.”
“We can postpone the debate for now, General,” Fuentes said. “I’m satisfied with presenting a united front, which I think we can do on the following—we want to keep everyone involved in this situation safe and avoid further violence.”
Spencer nodded. “That’s as fine a point as any. Why don’t you and Celinda reach out quietly to any of these aid providers you trust about utilizing their craft? I’m still not convinced we wouldn’t have a mob on our hands if we started moving people out, like I said, but there’s no harm in putting out feelers. Let me emphasize one word, trust. Word leaks out to the press, and there will be hell to pay.”
“Very good,” Snow agreed.
“That’s all for now.” Spencer reached for his tablet. “I’ll catch up with you in a moment.”
Fuentes, Snow, and MacIntosh gathered their materials. They left with a brief, “Mr. President,” passing the guards on the way out.
Only when the door had shut did Spencer lean back in his chair and let out a sigh. What had I been saying about the ease of fighting a war? He had targets then—simple, black-and-white action. This, though, was layered with so many pitfalls he felt like he had to tiptoe toward every decision.
He ground his teeth at the thought of not only the League working to undermine his nation, barely pausing since their ignominious defeat, but also the idea of the media and elements in the Coalition’s government wanting his administration to fail. It didn’t matter at what. And he was willing to bet most didn’t give two damns about any refugees.
Steady, Justin. He forced himself to see the other side, past his own anger. Quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger. Getting upset would not bring forth the righteousness of God.
Instead he focused on Fuentes’s arguments. His vice president was a good man, far more honorable than Spencer had first recognized when they were rivals. Their team up had revealed a person who held deep convictions and would not back away from them, even when they were in direct contrast to Spencer’s. It made him a valuable partner in running the Coalition and earned him Spencer’s respect.
Fuentes saw people on the run from tyranny who needed help. Spencer didn’t disagree. But how much help should the government provide, and how much should be left up to the individuals to decide?
MacIntosh wasn’t wrong either. No matter all the good intentions in the galaxy, they had no idea yet how many criminals, spies, or other malcontents the League had sent out with the refugees. Before they could help anyone, they had to determine who was in need—and who was a threat.
Spencer prayed for Adams, Sinclair, and the rest to have swift success because, more and more, it looked like lives depended upon them.
The fourteenth weapons shipment was lost.
Kiel slapped his hand against his office wall. It felt good to release his tightly wound tension, to feel the stinging in his palm, the ache in his wrist. I suppose it could be worse. It could have been the thirteenth shipment. My handler would never admit his weakness to anyone, but everyone knew the old fool clung to superstition like a pilot to his ejection seat.
Ferenc waited inside the door. He didn’t betray any emotion. While Kiel valued a steady, consistent second, it would have been nice to be able to scare the man every once in a while. “The smuggler ran into TCFE fifty light-years away. He couldn’t disguise what he was carrying. He had to make a run for it.”
“I suppose he did.” Kiel shook his head. “And the destruct protocol worked well, I take it?”
“Nothing left but free-floating particles, sir. Corriveau assures me it’ll scan like a reactor failure.”
“Good. As good as can be expected from an unfortunate delay, that is. Get me a full inventory of everything we were expecting on the transport. I’ll have to make new arrangements to replace what was lost.”
“It’s in your messages, sir.”
Indeed? Kiel checked. A copy of the manifest had been forwarded not five minutes ago—which would have been right before Ferenc walked into his office. “I don’t see why I need any computerized systems, Ferenc, when you could run the entire thing yourself.”
His second nodded in blank acknowledgement of the praise.
“Well, carry on. I’ll be out in a moment to inspect the handiwork thus far. Go fetch Corriveau so he can impart the technical details. I’m sure he has them ready.”
The ghost of a smile twitched Ferenc’s lips. Both knew full well Corriveau would be caught with his metaphorical pants down, if only for a few seconds, but so far, the only vice Kiel could discover to break Ferenc’s composure was sadistic pleasure at seeing the tech chief in a panic.
Ferenc left him to his thoughts. It would take days to get replacement shipments scheduled and paid for. The smuggler had, of course, only been paid a fraction up front, so Kiel wasn’t out as much money as he could have been. He consulted his wrist unit again. Sales from trafficking continued steadily, but the stock was depleted. They would need another raid soon, which was problematic, given the increased TCFE presence.
Kiel mulled this over. Orbita sales, however, were going very well. He could lean on the cartel but not too hard, lest they look to local trafficking. The Coalition would slap down hard on any suspected crime of that sort against its citizens. Plenty of refugee traitors to acquire before we resort to that risk.
He picked up a mug of tea from his desk. Ach. It had gone lukewarm. No matter. The flavor was still there. Kiel headed out of his office, into the work bay.
The tumult of construction hammered on his senses. Metal clanged against metal. Bots stomped in perfect rhythm, moving materials from one end of the bay to the other. The hiss of plasma torches provided a steady undercurrent as constant as the flow of air itself. Kiel craned his neck as he passed underneath one of the many catwalks protruding from the rock walls.
The interior of Asteroid APH-122704 had been laser carved more than a century ago, when prospectors fanned out across the star system in search of valuable metals. They’d taken all the rock had to offer then abandoned its hulk inside of a decade, leaving only a hollowed core and twisted gantries abandoned to the vacuum of space. It had lain fallow for well over ninety years before ESS probes arrived, scouting for Kiel’s base of operations.
It had done nicely. The main cavern was big enough to accommodate the eighty-meter frame of a Bulwark-class corvette. The sleek vessel had been ripped open, its guts exposed to the atmosphere for the first time in twenty-four years. Kiel could make out figures drifting near its dorsal spine, where workers welded new hull panels into place. Magnetic cannons jutted from their emplacements, open for inspection as men and bots finished wiring them into the primary power systems.
“Vasiliy!” Armand Corriveau leapt down from a third-story catwalk onto the second then slid down a ladder to land in front of Kiel. The diminutive technician, his hair an unruly mop and his beard a bedraggled tangle, p
icked at one of the six pockets covering the front of his coveralls. “I thought you were still on the planet.”
“Does my presence here prove a problem, Corriveau?”
“No! No, not at all.” Corriveau tried a smile, which faltered. His eyes couldn’t stay focused on Kiel, or anything else, for more than a couple of seconds. “You’re wanting an update.”
Kiel folded his arms and waited.
“Yes, very good.” Corriveau gestured at the ship under reconstruction. “The refit is progressing nicely. Another few days, and we should be ready to bring the reactor online. Don’t worry—the shielding I’ve devised will be adequate to disguise its signature from any sensors that may come near to our hidey-hole. Then, with the rest of the weapons en route—”
“The shipment was lost.”
Corriveau blinked. Then he laughed. “No, no. That isn’t funny.”
“Do you know me to be prone to jokes?”
“Quelle malchance! That puts us behind schedule.”
“There’s no need to state the obvious, Corriveau. Continue your assessment.”
“Ah… yes. Very good.” Corriveau motioned for Kiel to follow as he walked the railing separating them from the null-gravity section of the cavern, where the corvette floated. “Once we’re finished, she’ll have double the armament of a standard Bulwark-class. Computer upgrades should have all systems synced to a current TCFE version, so if anyone interrogates her command network remotely, they’ll see what they’re expecting—one of their own. I have, however, installed automated controls, which should reduce the crew to two dozen.”
Kiel nodded. “That certainly simplifies staffing for me. What about exterior markings?”
“I’ve narrowed down possible designations to six, drawing from vessels lost during the war. Patrol corvettes are only alpha-numeric designated, so we don’t have to worry about name recognition.” Corriveau frowned. “There is still the matter of impersonating an officer in charge. Do you have a captain selected?”
