Into the Maelstrom

by Loren L. Coleman

  Gardens and light forests were maintained only where soil brought up from Earth supplanted the natural gray dirt, and large terrasim systems were installed to simulate a continuous Terran environment. Such areas were clustered about the Union’s various crater colonies, and were a feat the Neo-Soviets could not hope to match. The empire was lucky simply to maintain the atmospheric processors they had captured twenty years before.

  Savoign had seen those vids, the waves of rad soldiers, mutants, and armored vehicles that the Neo-Soviets had spent to claim their share of a Union-held moon. Having won their ground, they shipped up what few space specialists they possessed and worked to hold it. His gaze found Mount Remnant on the horizon, actually a massive refuse heap covered with a light coating of the moon’s grayish soil. One of several mammoth piles of junked satellites and old solid-fuel boosters and even low-grade tailings from when the Union had pulled asteroids to Luna to mine them for precious metals. Though a Union dump, one of many dotting Luna, it still seemed more appropriate to the Neo-Soviets.

  “Scavengers,” he said softly.

  “You say something?”

  Savoign never had the chance to repeat himself. Suddenly the observation tower swayed and trembled as if under heavy assault.

  “Movement!” Amanda Baker shouted, spinning for the secure commlink back to Tranquillity Crater. Being a comms specialist, her first thought was to call in the attack. As a weapons specialist, Savoign ranked that second. He placed his highest priority elsewhere.

  He dived for his assault rifle.

  It was an MD-11 Rottweiler, often called the Mad Dog for its military designation. Phillipe Savoign referred to it as The Rott. Modified for a low-gravity environment, like most other Union weapons on Luna, it had special outside ports to vent the gases in such a way as to cancel most of the recoil. Savoign pulled it from the rack. Sure that the Neo-Sovs would be carrying unmodified Kalashnikovs, he crabbed low beneath the open window and popped up near the tower’s corner support for what little cover it might offer.

  As it turned out, he had more time than he’d first thought. The Neo-Soviet tower was still in a slow state of collapse as one-sixth standard gravity pulled it down. Both enemy sentries had jumped for distance, and were just now falling behind some boulders dragged into place for such an emergency. The boulders seemed to tremble as well, and Savoign realized that, as unlikely as it seemed, the moon was experiencing an earthquake. His first thought was to wonder what the Neo-Sovs had done to cause it. Caught without a procedure to follow, he burned several precious seconds in hesitation.

  Then one of the Neo-Soviet sentries cut loose on full automatic, walking his line of fire up the tower and into the building’s side. A few armor-piercing rounds picked small holes into the side of the tower building, and other shots whistled by as they found the open windows. That Savoign knew how to deal with.

  Trusting his Kevlar-lined vest to stop all but the luckiest Neo-Soviet round, Savoign struck a classic infantry stance. Though the Rottweiler lacked the Kalashnikov’s rate of fire, it loaded eleven-millimeter high-explosive rounds that hit with enough centimeter-gram force to throw a man back ten meters in lunar gravity. He didn’t bother with the single-fire selector switch, sighting in on Neo-Sovs and boulders both and holding down the trigger. The tower filled with heavy staccato reports, and a hundred meters downrange a shower of stone chips and splinters burst skyward in an impressive geyser. Moonrock crumbled and split under the assault. No Kevlar armor could stop such raw firepower, and both sentries flew back with chests and limbs shredded.

  Savoign eased off the trigger and spat at the acrid taste left from breathing the Rott’s discharge. The moon’s trembling stopped a few seconds later.

  “I’m through to Tranquillity,” Baker said in the sudden silence. “They’re reporting a planetoidwide quake.” Covering the transmitter, she mumbled, “What are the Neos up to now?”

  Guessing from the reaction he’d witnessed, Savoign figured the sentries had asked themselves the same thing about the Union. Their first mistake had been to shoot without thinking. Their second was to stack Kalashnikovs up against a Rott. The empire might have won its foothold on the moon through manpower, but with even numbers Union technology too often made the difference.

  “You’d think they’d learn,” he muttered.

  Baker glanced at him sharply. “Say something?”

  “I said I don’t think this was a Neo-Sov event. They didn’t seem to expect it either.” He shrugged. It made little difference to him one way or the other.

  Baker held the link away from her head. “What? You think the empire sentries are asking the same questions about us right now?”

  Savoign retrieved a pair of field glasses and gazed over the open ground at the two dark-suited figures sprawled in the moon’s grayish dirt. He shrugged again, and smiled grimly. “Not anymore they aren’t.”

  * * *

  Inside the Union’s Tycho Crater Moonbase, Major Randall Williams continued to work among the science consoles as he avoided Captain Paul Drake. As a scientist, arguing with the M.I. mentality of a combat-rated officer placed high on his list of things to be avoided. Right behind a court-martial and just slightly in front of live combat duty.

  Though the M.I. initials were known to stand for Military Issue, Williams often thought of them as representing marginal intelligence. It was an old slur even when he’d first begun to rise through the ranks of the military’s Research and Development branch, but it rarely failed to amuse him—or annoy his younger brother, who had enlisted in the regular military just last year. An added bonus, he decided with a private grin.

  The joke was slightly unfair to Drake, though. Williams knew that no one came into space without impressive skills and a certain amount of natural talent. Even now Drake held a corner of the room near the main door, standing at abbreviated parade rest and looking ready to repel boarders at any instant. He exuded that kind of military competence.

  Williams knew what Drake wanted to talk about, but as far as he was concerned the discussion would be nonproductive and tiresome and so to be avoided for as long as possible. Avoided, but not ignored. He remained acutely aware of each restless shift and not-so-subtle throat-clearing. There was a limit to Drake’s patience. Sooner or later the confrontation would be forced. Williams would rather it come later.

  Fortunately or unfortunately—depending on one’s view—there was plenty to occupy his attention besides Captain Drake’s growing displeasure. Especially as a new tremor shook itself through Luna.

  Major Williams spoke out quickly to keep his people calm. “Hold your places, everyone. Let it run out.”

  Along with others of the staff in Tycho Control and Direction, Williams hunkered down to wait out the quake balanced on hands and the balls of his feet. Those who sat clung tight to their chairs. Over most of Luna such a tremor would hardly rate as a problem, but the Union kept its military bases at Earth-standard gravity inside buildings and three-quarters standard outside. So they rode it out with care except for a few combat Marines simply too tough to take precautions. One of them lost his equilibrium and collapsed roughly onto the floor. Captain Drake remained rock-steady as any bulkhead or console, staring daggers back at Randall Williams.

  Williams turned away and peered instead through the thin plex wall. The Earth hung full in the gray-blue sky, its form blurred slightly by Luna’s atmosphere. Tycho Crater’s terrasim environment currently simulated an Earth morning, dimming the Earth’s reflection even more. Lost were the days of a crystal-clear image of mankind’s birthworld. An easy trade, in Williams’s opinion, when considering the moon’s livable surface. Trees reached upward, growing taller and more slender than they would under full gravity. Around the base of the trees the life sciences department had cultivated a thornless wild rose of which Williams was particularly fond. Further testament to mind over environment.

  The tremors subsided, and Williams rose smoothly back to his feet. Fastidious about his
uniform, he straightened it with a quick tug at the jacket hem. Paul Drake stepped forward, obviously intent on using the interruption to open his case. Williams preempted him with a quick nod of recognition and stepped over to geology.

  “Origin and cause?” he asked, doubting there would be any change. This tremor was merely the most recent in a series of planetoidwide quakes differing in severity. The fact that no one in the military sciences division had been able to formulate an explanation for them galled Williams’s sense of order.

  The lieutenant shook his head and gestured to the console screen as if that explained it all. “A nonlocalized phenomenon.”

  Which simply meant that the computers could not get a fix on a point or particular direction. “Nothing is shaking the entire moon at once, John. Keep on it.” He turned toward the front of TC&D.

  Captain Drake stepped forward to partially block Williams’s path. Though a few centimeters shy of Williams’s height, Drake outmassed him by several kilograms, mostly muscle. “Major Williams, I’d like a word with you please.” His voice was a deep baritone, powerful yet controlled.

  “I realize that, Captain Drake, but we’re a little busy at the moment.” Williams stared at the narrow gap left for him to squeeze by, and then back at the Marine. “Excuse me.” Drake withdrew a step, and almost hid the exasperation he felt. Williams moved past him, then stopped short of completely brushing off the space specialist one more time.

  “Tag along, why don’t you, Captain,” he said. Perhaps if Drake saw some of what Union forces on the moon were facing right now, he would appreciate the situation more fully.

  “You’re . . .” He paused, deciding to avoid using the word upset. “You’re concerned about the postponement of your launch.”

  “Yes, sir. Brigadier General Hayes referred me to Colonel Allister here at Tycho, and the colonel pointed me in your direction. They both refused to overrule your decision to indefinitely delay the Icarus’s launch.”

  “Awfully kind of them,” Williams remarked dryly, deciding not to get sidetracked by Drake’s efforts to have his decision countermanded. He paused at a weapons console, turning his attention away from the Marine.

  “Did you finish the targeting solution for Battle Station Freedom, Erin?” he asked of the weapons specialist. Williams preferred first names, believing that his people responded better when he set aside military protocol.

  She nodded, sitting up straighter under his recognition. “Beat Tranquillity Base by twenty seconds with a point-zero-nine percent improvement over their efficiency.” Sergeant Erin Montgomery grimaced. “But we lost a full minute in transfer of the data and verification, so Tranquillity went with their own numbers. If I’d had Corporal Savoign here, we’d have come in well under the wire, but he’s rotated out to the fence line today.”

  Williams smiled at the spirited competition. He also was disturbed that Phillipe Savoign had been pulled today of all days, but Union military protocol directed all enlisted combat-technician rates below the rank of sergeant to stand at least one watch in ten. A waste of good training to pull talented people off their station and put them at risk in the field, if anyone were to ask him. But then, no one had.

  “So long as the job was done, Erin. General Hayes will know you aced his man.”

  Williams leaned in to study the screen, cupping his chin with his right hand and idly stroking the long, pointed sideburns that fell nearly to his jawline. Not quite regulation, but then the general allowed lunar bases some latitude. “Did you figure out what Neo-Soviet target they intend to strike at from Freedom?” Not that he really possessed a “need to know” such information, but no one had ordered it classified either, and the scientist in him could not resist any quest for information.

  Beside him, Captain Drake stiffened perceptibly.

  “Near as I can figure, Station Freedom will take down a Neo-Sov security satellite set to pass over central Siberia.” She tapped a few commands on the touch-sensitive screen. “Since we rarely care if they see into their own backyard, I’m guessing they want the satellite downed before it passes over the European Commonwealth.” She paused, then, “Any word on why we’re handling the number crunching, Major?”

  “Freedom is having even more trouble with planetside communications than we are, so all orders from Cheyenne Mountain are bouncing off Tranquillity. We’re to handle all the critical data until they can run diagnostics on their computers.”

  Williams moved on, pulling Captain Drake in his wake. “Beginning to see the light, Captain?”

  Drake folded thick arms across his chest. “That the moon is trembling and we have some comm troubles with Earth? Yes sir. But the Icarus is self-sufficient and under mission orders to maintain communications silence anyway for the first week.”

  “And after that week?” Williams shook his head. “If we don’t know the cause of these events, we can’t predict their duration or guarantee a solution. I refuse to send out an unsupported solar-system explorer.”

  “But instead you’ll leave an unsupported mission on Mars?” Drake stopped, his tone urgent but respectful. “Major, no disrespect, but allow me to remind you that we’ve landed an advance force on an enemy-held world. They’re expecting us.”

  Williams bridled at the insinuation that he would abandon men, but quickly controlled his anger. Drake saw only his compatriots sitting on a hostile world waiting for supplies his ship was supposed to drop. Of course, a few lunar quakes and communication problems were low priority in comparison.

  “The Mars team is one of the largest forces we’ve ever dropped and has a year’s worth of supplies, Captain. The barge you were to tow in with the Icarus is meant for expansion of a hidden base to accommodate additional forces sent at a later date.” He paused, thinking of faraway Mars. “I have friends out there, too. I helped train Captain David Hutchinson, the lead scientist. So yes, I’m concerned. But believe me when I say they can hold out just fine.”

  Drake visibly calmed himself. “I apologize for any implied insult, Major. I know they can hold out, but you have to understand what it’s like to be on the ground and out of touch with your chain of command. It’s hard on the nerves, even for experienced operators.” He exhaled noisily. “I just find it difficult dancing to a tune called by the Neo-Sovs.”

  “And you think that’s what I’m doing?” Randall Williams met the other man’s gaze easily. “Comms,” he called out. “Jason, have you broken the latest Neo-Soviet transmissions?”

  From two consoles away, a communications-rated lieutenant pushed himself back from his screen. “Yes, Major. They’re still worried about Sputnik-23’s deteriorating orbit and whatever we’re doing to shake Luna apart. Would you like the transcript?”

  “Not yet, but make it available to Captain Drake if he wants it.” Williams waited while the Marine digested that information. “If I, Colonel Allister, or General Hayes thought these problems were the effects of Neo-Soviet meddling, I can guarantee you we’d stop it and your launch would go forward. As is, I stand by my decision to postpone the Icarus’s departure.”

  Drake had the good grace to back down, nodding an apology. Williams straightened his uniform and was about to turn to new concerns, then stopped. “It’s a dangerous habit, Captain, blaming everything we don’t understand on the Neo-Soviets. It awards them too much credit, and compounds our own ignorance.

  “They may be the enemy, but right now they’re as much in the dark as we are.”

  6

  * * *

  B rygan Nystolov felt General Leonov’s menace as a palpable presence as they stepped from the lift and into the cage. Only Leonov’s personal security code let them take the lift all the way to the uppermost level of the Ascraeus Mons base, and the general had stood in cold silence the entire ride, flexing his exoskeleton gloves as if preparing to choke the Mental. That he would never do, of course—Mentals were simply too valuable—but it must have helped the general work off some of his frustrations imagining it.

&nb
sp; The doors they faced qualified for airlock-durability, and the general punched in another code with savage thrusts to a keypad. Any harder and Brygan was sure the control would shatter.

  Vladimir Leonov exhaled a sharp breath, nearly a growl, as the doors cracked open and began to roll back. He clasped his hands behind his back, removing his most obvious threat, but his tight face and narrowed red-brown eyes showed his fury. Then Brygan forgot about the general for a moment as the scents of fresh-baked bread and cinnamon spice wafted on the warm draft escaping the Mental’s quarters.

  He had never seen the Ascraeus Mental himself, or been to his quarters, which were called the cage for the heavy security it took to get in—or out. Brygan knew the empire pampered Mentals for their special touch of goryachee, but had never known to what extent. Looking about the palatial room, Brygan knew a touch of envy for the luxury and understood a bit more the general’s anger at the Mental’s failure.

  Perfection would be expected of anyone who enjoyed such privileges on Mars.

  Pillows were strewn everywhere, from small, lap-sized headrests to large plush cushions that even the stocky Brygan might burrow into. The energy it took to heat the vast space to such a warm temperature must surely put a serious drain on base resources. The lighting was soft, accented by an enormous plex skylight that covered a full third of the ceiling and allowed a view of Mars’s pale sky. A bowl of fresh fruit sat on a low table, along with a plate of vegetables and a loaf of brown bread torn in half. Incense burners occupied shelves and other tables. Colorful prints of Terra decorated the wall: arctic seascapes and forests and mountains. None of the empire’s great cities, Brygan noticed. No portraits of party leaders, past or present. And no sign of the Mental.