by Daniel Gibbs
Kiel opened the door and walked into the garage. He perused the room, stopping when he spotted the wide-open entrance into the maintenance shop.
A technician was already in there, running a sensor over every surface.
“What have you found?”
“Traces of melted metals and plastics,” the woman said, “concentrated by the lockers.”
“He came in here after destroying…” Kiel stopped. He smiled then pointed up.
The overhead vent was ever-so-slightly crooked.
Ferenc snorted. “I’ll go examine the exterior hatches.”
“They’re long gone,” Kiel said. “But security didn’t report any data breaches after the outage, did they? So, I suspect this was a hasty exit. Still, though—no trace of the person on either cameras or scans, only intermittent registration of movement.”
“Plus the molecular debris, possibly from microbots.”
Microbots, stunned guards, malfunctioning monitor drones on the roof, a stealth entrance near undetectable—and would have been entirely so if not for the recently upgraded generator switching online when it did—all resulting in the destruction of the one thing no one would ever think to find in a consulate’s garage.
“Ferenc,” Kiel said. “We have spies on our hands.”
“Terran operatives, sir? Like you surmised.”
“Yes. Which makes it all the more imperative we step up our efforts. Get Corriveau on the comms. I want the ship launched as soon as possible.”
“Not all the sensors are—”
“We’ll make do. We have to.” Kiel sneered. “These are not local police, Ferenc. These are highly trained, well-equipped CIS assets. Finding cockroaches would be a less fruitless task. Our best chance at success is to simply outrun them.”
President Justin Spencer rubbed the bridge of his nose. If he read another report, he was certain his eyes would fall out. He was in the White House’s rear courtyard, sheltered from public view among trees imported from a dozen member worlds. Bees buzzed around flowers, the petals shifting color from reds to pinks as the insects took the pollen offered. He would much rather review the latest from Aphendrika in relative serenity than be surrounded by his office, especially on such a gorgeous, warm-weather day.
Nature’s beauty helped soften the blow. Dozens were dead, and riots were ongoing. Crime spiked, as it appeared two drug cartels were warring for dominance.
Spencer frowned. What he didn’t like was the role his people played in it.
Colonel Sinclair’s coded memo was clear. Unit 171 was responsible for sparking the violence between the cartels. On the upside, they’d managed to bring the spread of Orbita to a halt, both in the drug dealers’ storage facilities and—he had to give credit where credit was due—inside the very walls of the local League consulate.
The methods rankle me, Spencer realized. But I’d have a hard time passing judgment on the outcomes.
The problem, of course, was that Coalition citizens had died, beyond the TCFE officers who’d been caught in the riots, people caught in the crossfire of warring factions. How many were victims of League violence? If the League hadn’t interfered in a Coalition planet, would they have died? Spencer shook his head. He had a lot to sort out, a lot to keep him up at night.
“Justin?” Ed Fuentes approached from the back entrance of the White House.
Marine sentries shadowed him.
“There you are. This should have been my first place to look for you. Do you have a second?”
“Of course.” Spencer gestured to the sentries, who maintained a discreet distance as he and Fuentes strolled deeper into the courtyard. “You’ve seen the latest?”
“From the Cypriot Crisis? Yes. I know you don’t approve of the moniker, Justin, but whatever the name, I think it’s risen to the level to designate it as such. It sounds as though your team of operatives has had success. At least they’ve crippled the Orbita supply on the planet.”
“Thank God. I’m glad it didn’t take longer to annihilate that scourge.” Spencer indicated his tablet. “But the refugee situation itself hasn’t stabilized. TCFE has managed to interdict a few smugglers here and there, however, they’re stretched thin.”
“Yes. The neighboring systems are seeing the influx spill over, though not as badly as at Aphendrika.”
“Any luck from your conversations with the aid groups?”
“Compassionate Stars was willing to take the risk, however, a surprise inspection by Border uncovered Orbita among the aid supplies.”
Justin grimaced. “Has it—”
“Oh, I’m afraid so.” Fuentes produced his own tablet, opening to a news headline, “Orbita Found in Compassionate Aid.” “Social media already has commentary to the effect that this administration planted it there in an effort to destabilize the camp and force the removal of the refugees.”
“Dammit!” Spencer glowered as he read the article. “They didn’t even bother asking us for a statement?”
“I’m sure the call is coming any minute,” Fuentes said dryly.
“And we have the proof of League involvement sitting right in the basement of their consulate.”
“Images which would benefit us to release.”
“Yes, Ed, but if we reveal the destruction of the Orbita stash and where it was, the public will know we sanctioned a mission violating the League’s diplomatic sovereignty, which to my mind, they deserved.” Spencer shook his head. “It was all done quietly. A fire, at least, would have brought the local department running and opened up their consulate to public scrutiny.”
“I understand the team has been in a similar situation, when they found evidence of trafficking.”
“Correct. A private citizen wound up sharing a tip with police and was killed for it.”
“I just came from talking with Celinda. She’s about to go over the fence and join General MacIntosh.”
“All right. They’re not going to twist my arm very far, with things going as they have. Clearly TCFE can’t handle the situation, and with at least one stealth-capable enemy vessel out there, even Oxford and Tuscon are hard-pressed to track it down. Sorry, Ed, but it’s three to one on this decision.”
Fuentes held up a hand. “Not at all. I’ve never had an issue with the rationale. My preference was always to keep military involvement as minimal as possible, which is a stance I believe the Coalition should take as we dive into this postwar era. Overreliance on saber-rattling won’t serve us well as we face new challenges.”
“Some people won’t respond to anything but that rattle, which is why we have to be ready to use the saber when other methods fail.”
“I don’t agree, but in this situation, I believe our backs are up against the proverbial wall. Peace Union is sniffing around for votes to pass a resolution.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Sending Fleet elements now will forestall such a show of no confidence in your administration.” Fuentes smiled. “Our administration. I’ve placated them with hints of action and let slip a few rumors about increased aid but made no promises.”
“Sounds like a positive step to me. Who does MacIntosh have in mind for this foray?”
“Brigadier General Travis Milliken.”
Milliken, commanding officer of the Fifteenth Space Action Group—fourteen vessels, mostly frigates, centered around the new CSV Marcus Aurelius, one of the impressive antimatter reactor cruisers.
“He’s had good reports. He was responsible for keeping pirate incursions down during the war, from what I recall.”
“He was. Our neutral friends can’t stop singing his praises, according to General MacIntosh, though Celinda has reservations about the same experiences.”
“What kind of reservations?”
“He’s apparently made public comments to the effect of ‘the only good Leaguer is a dead Leaguer,’ though they were made during the last few years of the war. His command reviews have all been stellar, to date.”
Spencer
brought up the image of General Milliken on the tablet. No nonsense about him, if the photo was any indication. “Thanks. I’ll review his background and get word to Celinda for approval. Where is the Fifteenth Group now?”
“At New Washington, for leave and resupply. They’re due to depart next week.”
“We may have to cut that short. The sooner we can back up TCFE, the better.” Spencer exhaled. “I’ll have Andrew send word to Colonel Sinclair. We’ll have to read General Milliken in on the major aspects of the operation.”
Fuentes nodded. He seemed out of sorts, though, as he watched the bees.
“Is there a problem, Ed?”
“I’m trying to tell myself we haven’t failed,” Fuentes explained. “Sending the Fleet to handle this crisis escalates matters. It also tells the public we can’t fix problems without the military.”
“No, what it tells our people is we value their security, and just like during the war years, we will defend them against encroachment. Don’t worry. I’m not casting the refugees as enemies, but the best way we can calm the public—and as you’ve said, the inflammatory rhetoric circulating anonymously—is to project our strength into a fragile situation.”
“Agree to disagree, I suppose,” Fuentes said. “My worry is strength will result in breakage when dealing with fragility. By the same token, calling the League out publicly will only serve to strain already tense diplomatic bonds.”
“Trust me, I’ve considered the same thing.” Spencer raised a finger. “But sending the Fifteenth will send a message to the League as well—that we’re still ready, willing, and able to defend ourselves. We can’t show them weakness. Lord knows they’re more than happy to strike the moment we do.”
Fuentes nodded. “I see your point. I have an appointment with a few Peace Union legislators. Lunch later?”
“Sounds good. Thanks again.”
Ed’s departure left Spencer alone, with his own guards scattered throughout the courtyard. Spencer sat on a stone bench, the tablet’s reports still glowing. He tapped them away, prepared to block out the overwhelming information for a while, but instead he called up a search bar linked to Coalition astrographic surveys.
When all was said and done, the refugees would have to go somewhere, Spencer knew. Are the choices limited to sending them back into the League’s iron grasp or flooding the Terran worlds with people they can’t support? Because if we let this group in, tens of millions will follow in weeks, as long as the League keeps throwing them out.
He keyed in new terms, searching for a better solution.
Brant blew out a breath. Waiting for results was the worst part. He could feed in all the data he wanted, but it was up to the computer to give answers when it was ready. No amount of complaining would hurry the process.
Running facial-scan comparisons took longer than most tasks, so he busied himself parsing the relevant social media posts about the Cypriot Crisis. He’d constructed an algorithm to collect ones of similar tone. To be thorough, he’d modified it to catch political stripes of all kinds.
The strident tones of Peace Union supporters demanding all refugees be brought in and supported didn’t surprise him. What did were the equally vehement opposers who wanted every person shipped back across to League space—or just plain dumped into space—because their posts shared structural parallels. So much so that the algorithm was convinced of a seventy percent chance the same person or program wrote them.
The computer beeped. Facial comparison complete. Brant scowled. None of the faces—including especially the man with the cybernetic eye—matched known League assets.
He gave the social media a second look. “So if you’re running this operation and writing this junk,” he muttered, “let’s see if we can’t find out where you are.”
19
Private Landing Field, Near Kolossi
Aphendrika—Terran Coalition
29 July 2464
Arvid shook his head as he walked around the battered scow that was Lucy Lee. “I heard you were good at the helm, Carlos, but I didn’t know you were this good.”
Carlos DeSilva grinned. “I can’t take all the credit. Leave it to the Border guys being too busy with hordes of refugees to worry about one tramp freighter loaded with junk.”
He leaned back against Lucy Lee’s hull, next to Jackson, who shifted his weight from the left leg to the right.
Jackson tried not to favor the left—it still throbbed after overuse. He knew he looked just as battered and bruised as the smuggler ship. Makes for a great cover, Jackson thought. Too bad it’s authentic.
“And you.” Arvid cocked his head. “I’m surprised you’re still alive, given what I’ve heard about Salvatore’s.”
I’m sure you did hear about it. “Hey, I’m just lucky I was out on my break. Others weren’t.”
“Like Salvatore. Recovering. I hope someone brought him flowers.”
“I’ll make sure he gets some, if I see him.” Actually, he’d already been to Salvatore’s recovery room.
The poor man—well, as much as Jackson could feel sorrow for a small-time criminal involved in drug dealing and human trafficking—wouldn’t be walking for months. He’d barely responded to Jackson’s quiet inquiries, which the latter had couched as subtle but insistent requests for new job possibilities. What Salvatore had managed to whisper, between ragged breaths, was Arvid’s name. Confirmation for Jackson that he was on the right path bringing Carlos in, thus giving him access to Demir via Haakon, the twin brother.
Arvid glanced at Jackson, likely puzzling over his tone when referring to Salvatore, which Jackson had meant to keep snide.
“What? I’m not gonna shed tears. Salvatore skimmed way more off our pay than was reasonable. Barely knew the guy. So, if there’s a better deal now, I’m ready for it.”
“Seems you’ve found the better deal already.” Arvid indicated the scow.
“Yeah. Carlos and me, we go back a ways.” Jackson nudged Carlos. “The Venturi run? Three years ago? Great way for me to make easy money.”
“It was. Except we got caught.” Carlos snorted and rolled his eyes.
He’d really been caught on the Venturi, but of course Jackson had been nowhere near it. All part of the new additions to his backstory. “You got caught. I skipped out. See, this one time—”
“Shut up,” Arvid said. “All right. Haakon says you’re good to go? Then we need to get these parts delivered. Load up.”
They’d made it to the bridge when the proximity sensors wailed their alarms over the ship’s speakers. Haakon, Arvid’s twin, was hunched over Navigation. “Bror! Patrol shuttle! It’s coming up over the horizon, low to the ground. They’ve active scanned us.”
“Dammit,” Arvid snapped. “You. Carlos. Get us airborne.”
“I’m working on it. Jack, get on weapons. There’s not much but point defense. Maybe we can scare ’em off.” Carlos ran Lucy through a preflight so fast, Jackson’s rear had just touched the cushions when the scow lurched off the tarmac.
“Closing fast,” Haakon muttered. “Hold—there is a signal coming through.”
Arvid took the vacant captain’s seat.
Carlos glared sidelong at him before returning his attention to the helm. “Let us hear it.”
“—Scow Lucy Lee, this is TCFE overflight. You are a wanted vessel and charged with breaching the blockade of Aphendrika. Land immediately, and power down. Prepare to receive boarders.”
“Bastards.” Arvid’s fingers bent the flimsy arms of the chair. “Go faster.”
“Working on it.” Carlos checked the altimeter. “Stand by for main drives… now.”
The sudden thrust shoved them all back into their seats before the ship’s gravity could compensate. Jackson chuckled at his own burst of adrenaline, even though the acceleration made his injuries ache. He checked the laser turrets—powered, ready, good mostly for intercepting projectile weapons or incoming missiles. “Target locked,” Jackson called out. “Ready to fire if
we have to.” And we will have to.
“Welp, there we go, LT.” Dwyer shut off the shuttle’s alert. “Lucy’s painted us. Can’t say I relish the thought of gettin’ this bird cooked with lasers, even if she is a borrowed ride.”
“All part of the plan, Echo Three,” Brant said. “We need to put on a good show. Besides, you get to put a warning shot across her bow.”
“If I can catch her,” Dwyer muttered.
“Then get moving before she boosts too far, because you won’t be able to.”
“Your last warning. Reduce speed, land immediately, and prepare to be boarded, or you will be fired upon.”
Jackson had to hand it to Dwyer—he could smooth over his accent until it was imperceptible when needed. “Hey, didn’t anybody hear me? I’ve got the shuttle targeted.”
“We will not engage TCFE unless we have to,” Arvid said. “We won’t make the same mistake as the others.”
“Yeah, but if we—”
“I said no! Not unless we have to.”
There. That wasn’t just anger—that was fear. Arvid didn’t want to fire because the real person calling the shots didn’t want him to. Jackson held up his hands and acted surprised. “Okay! Sorry, man.”
“Stand by to warn them—”
The tactical console blatted. “Better do it now!” Jackson shouted. “Incoming fire!”
The shuttle’s shots skipped off the scow’s blunt nose but didn’t do any damage other than gouging the hull plating. Carlos slid Lucy Lee onto a new vector, adding to their velocity with one of the auxiliary boosters mounted alongside the main engines.
“Fire!” Arvid snapped.
Jackson touched the control and, on impulse, prayed. He wasn’t much for religion, not the public worship kind, anyway. Hanging around Brant for years, though, gave him an appreciation for the divine, particularly the God of Abraham. So, he figured it couldn’t hurt to ask. Brant would back him up, as always.
