Year of the Child

by R L Dean

  "The new spleen is still growing," Cooley yet went on. "The arm has healed and can come out of the cast, but the vertebra in your neck needs to be realigned again ..."

  "Thank you, doctor," Alexandria interrupted. "Let's get the cast off. My day is just starting."

  * * *

  Her aid trailed along through the corridor behind her, as did Greg's men. They were unobtrusive, capable ... and none of them Greg himself. For the first time in her life Alexandria was beginning to feel his absence, as much, if not more, than Adam and Jason. Even standing silent he had a certain presence that she felt missing from her life, and looking back over the trip to Ganymede she realized it had become a sort of hole ... a hollow. From the moment Edgar told her she had to go to Ganymede she had wanted him with her, but needed him to remain behind.

  You think about Greg more than your own husband, she heard a small voice say from the back of her mind. When are you going to tell Adam about your injuries?

  Alexandria huffed and rubbed her arm, it itched. "When am I going to do that?" She asked herself, low, chiding.

  The Apex administrative offices were the only, truly complete permafab structures inside the dome. Hurst had kept construction going at a steady pace and buildings for housing and businesses were going up ahead of schedule, but his stupidity in sending actual video footage of the alien wreck to Edgar had ruined any positive thoughts she might have had about his management here.

  Leaving the white corridors and carpeted floors of the Apex Employees' Services building, she stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked up at the glow of the dome's ceiling, and realized it was a mistake as a wave of nausea swept through her stomach and up her throat. It was bad enough that her injuries and lack of low g experience made it impossible to walk with dignity, she didn't want to vomit there on the sidewalk. That had happened twice inside her helmet at the crater.

  Swallowing the rising bile and leveling her head straight she walked on.

  The executive quarters resembled just another office building on the outside, white permafab and terraces of black, shiny windows. On the inside it reminded Alexandria of a hotel. Hurst's set of suites had been on the top floor, of course, but now that he had cleared out Alexandria and her staff occupied it. Four stories seemed like a long ride in the elevator.

  Cooley had been right when she said that Alexandria should go to bed, her body ached and the stims were no longer a help, but a hindrance. As much as she wanted to be at the crater, looking into the rooms of the wreck and directing the work of removing what they found, she would have to leave Kirkendorf and his men to it— at least for a few hours.

  The bedroom walls were bare. Hurst apparently put art up, but had taken it with him when she fired him. At least the furniture and desk system belonged to Apex. She sat down on the bed for a moment, blinking. Maybe she needed another shower.

  When she woke, she was under the blankets in her nightshirt with no immediate recollection of getting undressed or lying down. After a few moments of staring at the ceiling she stretched long, then picked up her handcomm from the nightstand and checked the time. Ten hours ... she had gone to Cooley's office ten hours ago. There were a dozen messages in her queue and she sat up against the pillows, and by habit began a cursory scan. Flagging a few of the messages she set the handcomm aside, got up, washed her face, dressed, and went the kitchen.

  The cook was as competent as Maria, but was not Maria.

  Taking her bowl of 'Doctor Cooley approved' broth and sweet roll back to the bedroom she sat down at the desk and began pouring over her messages in earnest. An hour later, as she sat back in the chair and lightly felt the back of her neck, thinking that the vac-suit collar was going to make it worse, an emergency notification flashed on the desk and buzzed, overriding the DND settings. A U.N. logo appeared beside the notice.

  There it was. It had been slow in coming, she thought. Maybe they hadn't believed what their spies had found flowing through Apex's communication systems, so they had taken time to analyze it ... was it a hoax ... a clip of a drama vid ... or, was it real? They had come to that final conclusion.

  She tapped the notice, more to stop the buzzing than to hear the message. Deputy Secretary-General Saddler's face appeared. He was looking directly into the camera, his expression serious, if not outright angry.

  "I'm going to cut the crap, Alexandria. You found something on Ganymede that could be dangerous. A global threat ... a threat to everyone ... and you didn't report it. I think you knew it was there, and lobbied the Council for a mining charter to get to it. I'm ordering you to shut down operations in the system, now. Stay away from that crater, don't take anything from it. You'll turn over control of the base to a UN marshal that will arrive in four weeks. If that's too plain for you, the legal documents are attached."

  His face froze.

  Modi must be furious to have tasked Saddler with the job of messaging her, instead of some nameless second-tier bureaucrat or UNSEC captain. Oh, he wanted his hands on what her father had found ... what was hers. Modi liked to take things. She hadn't known how she was going to reply when the inevitable message came, but she had her own legal documents.

  She fixed her hair, made her face, redressed in an expensive suit and sat down to record her response.

  "Deputy Secretary-General Saddler ... Richard, I'll cut the crap. The UN has no legal authority here, beyond peacekeeping, and you couldn't spare the manpower for that. The base, the crater, everything here is the property of Apex Mining! We will continue operations in this system." In a softer voice she added, "If that's not plain enough for you, I've attached the charter the Council gave me."

  Alexandria sent the message and stared at the blinking notification on her desk. For the most part it was false bravado. It might give the UN's sprawling legal department some pause, but, legal or not, Modi was going to lock down Ganymede and take the discovery, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. She might even be in jail in a couple of months.

  Well, incentive to move faster, she supposed and sent a message to Efron. It was time to get back to the crater. As she stood a message from Edgar came in.

  "A UNSEC team is here ... and at the Toronto branch. They're tearing both places up. They took everything out of your office and have techs pulling our comm servers now. They'll come to Ganymede. Don't give them anything, we have to hang on to whatever you find! I've got Rawlinson on it, and I'm moving the money around."

  It was the snowball effect. Modi was moving fast, the timestamp on Edgar's message was perhaps twenty minutes behind Saddler's.

  Greg's and Adam's messages arrived just seconds a part. Greg was in his office, UNSEC soldiers in riot gear were moving behind him. They were pulling his comm servers and a UN legal official was with them requesting that he come in for questioning, over a matter of global security. She didn't worry about him, and his voice was calm. But, Adam ... well, it was a surprise to have local police inside the house, pilfering through every room. They cleaned her office out there, as well. He had to go to the station with them to answer some questions. At least Jason was at school when the came barging in ... but they wanted to question him too.

  Heat rose in Alexandria's face. Police rummaging through her home, frightening her family. Modi was going to pay for this. But, on the shuttle with Jupiter watching her through the window, she didn't feel quite as smug as she had been that first trip to the crater. Everything was happening too fast.

  28 - Compton

  "The UN Special Security Team is requesting that citizens access the Harmony Security Bulletin to report any information that they may have on Ludwick Chaserman, the former Apex plant employee, and more recently union rep, believed to be responsible for the destruction of ..."

  Compton muted the newsfeed and continued to flip through the daily activity reports. A series of break-ins in Saint George's business district, burrow PD believed it to be related to Free Mars Now because of slogans painted on the buildings, but he felt that it was unlike
ly as the businesses were Martian owned. His one man public relations department had received five new messages from family members of the bodies recovered at Cydonia Depot. Would it ever end? They were still processing the fact that their own children or cousins could be terrorists ... that they had been so thoroughly duped. John, Haru, Sara, insert name, was hotheaded— had been to a couple college campus protests— had suspicious gaps of unaccounted for time in their normal day to day schedules— but no, they were not terrorists. There had to be some other reason why they were wearing stolen UNSEC assault armor and carrying assault rifles and military grade explosives.

  In some way they were going through the stages of grief. Their own had been killed, and in unusual, if not unbelievable, circumstances. But, it was beginning to wear on him. Had been wearing on him, for weeks. He thought it would be over with by now, the complaints and demands and threats would have stopped. He was weary, and if he thought he could get away with it he would submit his intent to retire at the end of his current service term. It had been sitting in his desk files for months now, he just hadn't made up his mind to send it, and then he came up with the brilliant plan to trap the FMN. Now, it would be the last thing that General Hague would want to see. He wasn't going to escape the Tribunal's review of his actions by retiring ... he wasn't going to escape Mars.

  With a loud sigh Compton slapped both hands down on the desk and turned his chair to face the back wall of his office. The screens showed the front of the building. It was burrow night, but the fountain that sat in the middle of the concourse sparkled and glowed with lights just under its shallow surface. A shadowy figure sat on one edge of the fountain, hands in lap, head titled down, as though looking at the concrete. Compton didn't have to see Judy Osteen's face to know it was her. Her square plastic sign demanding answers lay against the fountain beside her.

  He stared at her unmoving form. Of all the parents and relatives that had lost their children and loved ones at Cydonia Depot he thought she suffered the most. Camping out in front of his command was her attempt at coping. She had lost her job as a janitor at the burrow's elementary school because she missed so much work. She wasn't married, he knew, and now had nowhere to be and with her son's death no one to take care of. The fact that she chose to stay at the fountain made perfect sense to him.

  In a sudden flash he realized that in another life, or in other circumstances, that could be Marietta sitting out there.

  For reasons he couldn't fully explain he stood up, walked out of his office and into the lobby. There, he got two cups of black coffee from a vending machine, then walked out the front doors. He nodded faintly to MacNair and Alamillo, who were pulling door duty and saluted as he stepped outside onto the concourse.

  Far overhead the burrow's lighting was spread out and dimmed, someone's idea of stars. Compton took a heavy breath and walked across the concourse, and finally reaching Miss Osteen he handed out a cup of coffee. She didn't take it immediately, instead her head turned slightly to look at his shoes— she may have thought he was just another soldier that was going to haul her off the property— but her head slowly raised to look at him. Her face, pale in the faint light, registered surprise, but then she simply turned to look back down at the concrete.

  What am I doing? He asked himself.

  When he was about to set the coffee down on the fountain's edge she looked up again and took it from his hand. He stepped to the side and sat down beside her. After a moment he blew on his coffee, then took a tentative sip. As the seconds stretched out he began to feel strange. Osteen's grief was palpable, like an aura. She hadn't bathed, her hair was pulled back in a short tail, but not combed, her shoulders were hunched ... she seemed small. Alone, he corrected himself, immediately. Judy Osteen was alone now, and she radiated that feeling.

  Compton had spoken to the parents and family of soldiers that had died under his command, but that was a lifetime ago, and this was not the same. Osteen's son, Robert, had been a terrorist, not a soldier, and the reasons behind his death were, at least in part, speculation. He found no words to say to her, there was nothing in his experience that he could offer her. When a soldier died there was always a sense of duty and honor associated with it ... but that was not true in Robert Osteen's case.

  "Miss Osteen," be began, hearing the weariness in his own voice. "Why are you here?"

  She seemed to let out a breath, then she was crying softly. "I just want to know why he was there," Her voice was low, painful, lost.

  That, Compton couldn't answer. She wasn't asking for details of an after action report or footage from helmet cams, she wanted to know why her son chose to be at Cydonia Depot, and ... really ... why he joined the Free Mars Now movement. His arm, of its own accord, went out and around her shoulders, and for a brief few moments she collapsed against his side and cried.

  "I won't be back," she said, pulling away and standing. Quietly, she picked up the sign.

  He sat on the edge of the fountain, watching her hurry off. She left the concourse, and then turned onto the sidewalk, her outline turning dark, and then she was out of sight behind a row of hedges that were a black wall in the burrow's night. For another ten minutes he sat there, sipping his coffee and staring at the front of the building. It was quiet. At the entrance MacNair and Alamillo stood more rigid in his gaze than they might have otherwise if he hadn't been within sight. Lights were on in several office windows and a shadow moved across one set the blinds. Someone in Accounting was putting in a late night.

  What am I doing here? He asked himself, and then realized it was no less a philosophical question than what Miss Osteen had been asking about her son. Looking back he didn't know if he had the answer for that, either. It was difficult to remember a time when he wasn't wearing a uniform. As he stood, trying to shake off the growing melancholy, his handcomm sounded with an emergency message. It echoed a screech across the concourse, making his heart hammer. Snapping back into focus he yanked the handcomm from his pants pocket.

  It was a priority, encrypted message from General Hague. He couldn't take it here, it had to be at his desk.

  As he made his way back into the building he wondered what Hague's message could be about. Surely, the Tribunal's findings, or another list of questions and reviews of his answers, wouldn't warrant this type of security. The General might disregard the difference in time, but he wouldn't set such a high priority on what had become routine communication between them.

  Or, was this it? Had they reached a decision about a court-martial? That wouldn't be a routine message.

  In his office what 'might be' ended, and he paused only to shut and lock the door before sitting down heavily at his desk and calling up his message queue. When he was prompted he entered his security code and the General's message opened. It wasn't text, it was video. Hague's blue eyes stared back at him from a craggy face with a neat, sandy colored beard.

  "Wil, we have an issue on Ganymede. Alexandria Reinhardt has found something in a crater out there. Something that the Secretary-General believes could be dangerous. We think it may be of extraterrestrial origin ... some sort of technology. I know a million questions just jumped into your mind, and I can't address any of them now. The important part of this is that Reinhardt has offered this technology to the Martians, and we know that Governor Shultz is moving fast to get a team of scientists out there. A UN marshal is on the way with an interdiction fleet, but they won't arrive for another four weeks. It's possible the Martians will beat them."

  Compton stared at Hague's face as he spoke. Extraterrestrial origin ... was he serious? Little green men?

  "We can't stop Shultz from sending scientists out to investigate whatever it is that Reinhardt has found, the pursuit of scientific research is guaranteed in the colony's charter. It's opened ended enough to raise some legal questions. However, we can request the presence of an official UN observer, someone to go with the team. It's well within reason, and if pressed we could find the legal grounds. I'm betting, though,
Shultz will agree because of the press for time. He'll want to reach Reinhardt before the marshal arrives. Those are your orders, get someone embedded with Shultz's science team. For now, their orders are to watch and pass information back up the chain. Keep me informed."

  When the message ended Compton remained frozen in place, eyes a little wide, for a moment, then the gears started clicking and he leapt into action, stabbing at the comms on his desk.

  "Capital Burrow Operations Control, Air Traffic Division, this is Corporal Jacobson. How can I help you?" Jacobson sounded like he was reading from a manual.

  "Corporal," Compton said. "Is there anything scheduled for departure tonight?"

  Silence, then, "Uhh, Lieutenant Colonel, sir?"

  "Yes."

  Jacobson uhhed again, then said, "Nothing schedule outbound sir ... but ..."

  "Spit it out," he said.

  "I think the Governor might be going somewhere, I saw a fuel truck and a tech team heading to the hanger where he keeps his courier."

  Compton cursed, then shouted at Jacobson, "Do not let that ship go anywhere! Lock down the airfield, now!"

  In the silence that followed he realized what he had just done. What did he expect a corporal to do? Suit up and run across the airfield to the hanger and hold the tech team hostage? What if the Governor himself was there?

  In a more reasonable tone he said, "Corporal, have some sort of malfunction, a maintenance issue, be creative, delay them. I'll get someone down there to help you."

  He disconnected and stood, pulling up a mental list of NCOs while he grabbed his coat. Who to call ... Staff Sergeant Garret, no he was stationed in Bonestell Tunnel ... think Wil, think! His handcomm buzzed with an incoming call. Fighting his coat arm, and turning red faced in the process, he jerked his coat on and answered it.

  "What!" He yelled, taking long steps to the door.

  "Sir ..."

  He glanced at the handcomm's screen as he walked out of the office. It was JJ.