The Solar War (The Long Winter Book 2)

by A. G. Riddle

  I tune the radio to the station the French are using, and speak slowly, hoping their command of foreign languages is better than mine. “Camp Five commander, we are ceasing fire. There’s been a change in control here. We want peace. To negotiate. To work together.”

  I wait, but there’s no response.

  I activate the radio again. “Camp Five commander, please respond if you can understand me.”

  To Brightwell, I ask, “Any of your people speak French?”

  She begins asking, but a response on the radio interrupts her.

  “With whom am I speaking?” a woman asks in a heavy French accent.

  “I’m from Camp Seven. My name is James Sinclair. We came here to assist the survivors of Camp Four. We’ve been held as hostages and have just now freed ourselves.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not.”

  I nod to the corporal and a sergeant standing next to Chandler. They take him by the arms and march to the side door next to the roll-up door. He wiggles like a fish on a line, but they hold him tight. The corporal turns the door handle and they bring Chandler to the threshold, holding his hands out to let the makeshift white flag stick out.

  The corporal glances back at me and I nod. They shove him through the door into the freezing night.

  I activate the radio. “Do you recognize the person outside?”

  “Yes. We know this man.”

  Chandler is beating on the door with the stick, his screams muffled by the tape. It’s a beautiful sound.

  “I was telling the truth,” I call over the radio. “He’s not in charge anymore. We are.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To work together. We have a plan to save the last survivors. We’re looking for people to help us. All we ask is that those of you who can work do so. In exchange for food and housing.”

  There’s a long silence, perhaps the French leader speaking with her people.

  I could swear I hear something buzzing in the distance.

  Chandler pounds on the door. His words come out muffled through the tape, but I can guess what he’s saying. It’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. I’ve been wanting to gag that guy for a long time.

  Lights beam through the narrow slits in the roll-up door. Headlamps from vehicles. Are the French leaving? Or moving closer?

  I creep to the opening and peer out. The troop carrier from Camp Seven is still out there, as are the French vehicles, all darkened. The headlights are coming from the horizon, high-speed ATVs, bouncing over the snow-covered terrain.

  Another raiding party?

  Quickly, I scan through the other radio channels, stopping when I hear a man’s voice, speaking urgently. “… can hear me, please respond. We’re engaging hostiles outside the warehouse now.” I know that voice—it’s one of our soldiers from Camp Seven.

  Gunshots ring out in the distance.

  Brightwell’s radio is still tuned to the French commander’s channel. Before I can reply to the Camp Seven convoy, Brightwell’s radio blares out the French commander’s voice, yelling in her native language. The result is instant. Gunshots slam into the warehouse and lance across the landscape toward the incoming vehicles from Camp Seven. Suddenly, everyone inside is in motion and the stillness of the night shatters.

  Chapter 46

  Emma

  In the situation room, I watch the night vision video feed from the drone as warehouse 412 erupts into a war zone again.

  The troops from Camp Five fire mercilessly on the vehicles rushing in from Camp Seven. The convoy breaks up, the light vehicles swerving to the left and right, throwing up waves of snow and ice. The troops from Camp Five turn and begin firing in the other direction—back at the warehouse. Two soldiers race out from behind the trucks, stooping, making for the warehouse. They’re going to try to take it.

  Suddenly, my vision blurs and my head spins. Nausea rushes over me. Pain flares in my lower back. It seems to radiate from deep inside of me.

  I close my eyes and lean forward, setting my elbow on the table and catching my face in my hands.

  “Emma, are you okay?” Harry asks.

  “Yes,” I whisper. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re as white as a sheet.”

  “I just need a minute to rest.”

  Chapter 47

  James

  Bullets tear through the warehouse’s roll-up door, digging into the pallets of food, water, and habitat components. Pieces of the supplies float down across the aisles like confetti.

  I rush to Danforth’s wife and son and put my arms around them and herd them out of the way, to an adjacent aisle where I crouch down, my body between them and the outer wall.

  “Cease fire!” I yell into the radio. “To the soldiers from Camp Seven, this is James Sinclair. Cease fire immediately. The situation here is under control. You are to stop firing and evacuate the area.”

  The bullets stop in waves as the two groups stop firing.

  “Understood, Dr. Sinclair. We are breaking off and moving back. We were under the impression that you were under attack.”

  “Thank you,” I reply as I grab Brightwell’s radio, which is still tuned to the French channel.

  “Camp Five commander, that was a misunderstanding. I promise you we’re not here to fight. To show you how serious I am, I’m going to come out personally to negotiate. I would really appreciate it if you would refrain from shooting me.”

  While I wait for a response, Brightwell calls out to her team, making sure no one is wounded. I glance over at Danforth’s wife and son. They’re both rattled, tears in their eyes, the wife’s hands shaking. “You can return to the habitat now. Your husband will be back shortly. This will be over soon. I’m very sorry you had to be involved.”

  There’s still no response from the French commander outside. I activate the radio again. “Camp Five commander, I need you to confirm you heard my last message. And—that you’re not going to shoot me when I come out.”

  “We will not shoot you, Dr. Sinclair. Assuming you do not attempt any deception.”

  Despite the assurances, I put my body armor back on. Just outside the warehouse door, I spot Chandler lying in the snow, a puddle of blood spreading out from him. I really, really dislike that guy. But as it turns out, I don’t hate him enough to watch him die. I rush over to him and quickly scan his body. He’s been shot in the leg. His breathing is ragged and shallow. He looks up at me like a wounded animal, fearful and, at the same time, full of rage.

  I hold the radio to my face. “Izumi, I need you out here. We have one wounded.”

  With Chandler at my feet, I stand and call to the French commander, “A show of good faith. We’re going to bring food out—enough for all of you and enough for you to take back to your people.”

  Chandler is going to live. I suppose that’s good news. Time will tell.

  The French were in better spirits after eating. And with no one shooting at them.

  It’s going to take some time to heal the rift between them and Major Danforth. But I think it’s possible. When people are starving to death and peace means eating, they’re much more willing to see past their grudges.

  I have finally gotten things calmed down enough to bring the troops from Camp Seven in. Their headlights cut through the night as they approach, the beams glittering upon the snow as the ATVs bounce towards the warehouse. Captain Brightwell comes to stand beside me at the roll-up door.

  “They thought we were in trouble,” she says quietly.

  “We were in trouble.”

  “We did all right.”

  “I think it probably would’ve gone better if I had listened to you.”

  “It’s under the bridge, sir.”

  “Nevertheless, we’re going to do things differently next time.”

  She raises an eyebrow.

  “Next time, we’re not going to assume people share our point of view. We’ll go in ready for anything.”

  “That suits me, s
ir.”

  The door on the lead ATV pops open and a soldier wearing a parka exits and jogs to the warehouse. “Dr. Sinclair?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a call on the long-range for you, sir. It’s urgent.”

  I probably should’ve used one of the long-range radios in our troop carriers to check in after the fighting stopped. But there was Richard’s surgery, and frankly, I’m almost too exhausted to think straight.

  At the ATV, I pick up the radio’s handset. “Sinclair here.”

  Fowler’s voice is somber. “James, you need to get back here.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “It’s Emma.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “She will be. Just… get back as soon as you can.”

  I race back to the warehouse and gather Grigory, Brightwell, and Izumi. “I need to go back to Camp Seven.”

  “What’s the plan here, sir?” Brightwell asks.

  “Load up some supplies and send them back to Camp Seven. I’m going to take one of the fast ATVs with two of the troops they sent. We’ll drive in shifts.”

  “After that?” Grigory asks.

  “Brightwell and her team will keep going on to the other camps. The drone surveillance should be in by now. Or it will be shortly. We need to bring these survivors together. If what we’ve seen here is any indication it’s pretty bad in the other camps too.”

  “I agree,” Izumi says. “I’d like to stay with the team making contact with the other camps.”

  “Me too,” Grigory says quietly.

  He doesn’t give a reason, but I know why: he wants to stay busy—and away from Arthur.

  I hold my hand out to Captain Brightwell. “Thank you, Captain. I mean it. Good luck out there.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She takes the hint and leaves us, barking orders to her people as she goes.

  “We need to make a decision about Arthur’s proposal soon. I think you two have earned the right to have your voices heard. But I don’t think this is a conversation we can have over the radio. If the details got out, it could be disastrous.”

  “I haven’t given it much thought,” Izumi says. “Frankly, it’s over my head technically. What do you think, James?”

  “It all comes back to power. If we could generate enough, we could make a stand here on Earth. But I don’t see a good way to do that. I think leaving is our only viable option. But I feel we need to take precautions, ensure that the grid doesn’t double-cross us. To me, that’s the real challenge.”

  Izumi nods. “Very well. I’ll vote with you.” She chews her lip for a moment, seeming conflicted. “And would you mind telling Min that I’ll be home as soon as I can?”

  “Of course.”

  Grigory is staring off into the warehouse, as if trying to ignore the conversation.

  “Grigory?”

  He nods slowly, still not making eye contact, and reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder. “Fine. But, James, please try not to get us killed.”

  On the way back to Camp Seven I repeatedly ask to speak to Emma over the long-range radio. Each time I’m denied.

  I’m still exhausted from the trip to Camp Four and the events there, but I can’t manage to sleep. The ATV jostles as it speeds across the icy terrain and my mind is racing as well.

  The ramp to the CENTCOM bunker is open when we arrive. We’ve erected two habitat walls to form an airlock, keeping the warm air in. Fowler is waiting just inside the inner door.

  “Follow me,” he says simply.

  He walks quickly along the bunker’s outer corridor, not venturing into the sea of cubicles.

  The moment we reach the infirmary, I spot Emma in one of the beds. Her arms are at her side, eyes closed. Everything else in the world seems to disappear. I can hear Fowler speaking, words muffled, far away. At Emma’s bedside, I slide my hand into hers and squeeze. Her eyes open. A tired smile curls at the edges of her mouth.

  “Hi,” she whispers.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “This doesn’t look like nothing.”

  “It’s just exhaustion. Stress—”

  “The drone footage. You saw what was happening out there?”

  She nods.

  “The baby?”

  “Is fine. Just fine. I just need to rest.”

  Chapter 48

  Emma

  For someone like myself, who is happiest when they’re working on something, bedrest is like a prison sentence. I feel as though I’ve been in this infirmary for three years.

  James arrives every morning, bearing the healthiest MRE he can find, a smile on his face, Allie and Sam in tow.

  Today is chicken noodle soup. For breakfast. I’m not complaining. In fact, I’m happy to have something to eat. Still, chicken noodle soup at 6 a.m. takes some getting used to. As with every meal these days, James methodically studies the nutrition label, verifying that it has the requisite macronutrient content. I know the first trimester is a critical time for the pregnancy, but since he saw me in this infirmary bed, he’s become almost obsessed with protecting me.

  When the kids are off to school, and he returns, I take his hand in mine. “I have to get out of here.”

  “You need to take it easy.”

  “I will. Just not here. This is like prison.”

  “Trust me. This is not like prison.”

  “Oh. Right. Sorry, I keep forgetting.”

  “Actually, we do need to formalize our response to Arthur’s offer. If you’re feeling up to it. It would just be the team discussing—”

  I throw the covers off. “I’m feeling up to it. It’s just talking. How much can it hurt me?”

  It feels good just to be out of the infirmary, sitting upright, hearing the cheap, faux-leather chairs in the situation room squeaking as everyone takes their seats. I’m pretty sure James has purposely seated me with my back to the wall screens, which show drone footage of Captain Brightwell’s convoy approaching Camp Two. He’s scared I’ll see something upsetting. Every now and then, I sneak a glance, drawing a scowl from him. I feel like a kid in detention. It’s kind of fun.

  Everyone is here: Harry, Min, Fowler, Colonel Earls, even Charlotte, who has left Madison in charge of the school for the morning.

  Fowler clears his throat. “The question before us is the offer from the grid, as conveyed by Arthur. Grigory and Izumi are not here, and the decision has been made not to include them via radio, given the sensitivity of the issue at hand. They’ve confided their votes to James and we’ll tally them at the end. Let’s start with the idea of rejecting the grid’s offer and staying here on Earth.”

  James speaks first. “It comes down to this: in about a year, the planet will be an ice ball. The issue is power. And I can’t solve it. Not with our currently known resources.

  “Even if we solve the power issue, we’re not out of the woods. We’d need to create a self-sustaining habitat, capable of growing food and recycling water. Building a small one is doable—not easily—but doable. A large one? Capable of sustaining a viable gene pool? Impossible.”

  James glances over at Colonel Earls. “Unless there’s some kind of classified site we’re not aware of—a self-contained habitat hardened against extreme weather, either complete or pretty far along?”

  “Not that I know of. The Citadel was the most advanced bunker in the Atlantic Union, for the obvious reasons–proximity to CENTCOM and NASA.”

  James holds his hands out. “Plus, even if we’re successful, if we stay on Earth, we’re sitting ducks. The grid could end our civilization at any moment.”

  Fowler leans back in his chair. “To me, the real question is which are we more likely to successfully build: a self-sustaining underground habitat or a colony ship capable of carrying us to another star system? The colony ship, frankly, seems a lot harder to do.”

  My hand instinctively touches my stomach as I speak for the first time. “There’s another consideration. We’ve been
talking about short-term survival. But we have to consider the long term. Even food, water, and shelter doesn’t guarantee survival. Will to live is also vital. We saw that in the Citadel. Surviving, simply put, is not enough. Our plan has to give our people a life worth living. Most of all, these people need to believe that their children have a chance of a life worth living. I don’t think we’ll find that on Earth, in a confined habitat, under the constant threat of attack, in a place where we must control our population size, where any catastrophe in the farms or habitat might bring about our extinction.”

  When no one says anything, I continue. “Leaving Earth is uncertain, I’ll admit that. But on a new world, beyond the reach of the grid, we have a chance at happiness. Here, I feel our fate is certain, even if we survive in the short term.”

  “Valid points,” Fowler says. “Ones I hadn’t considered.”

  Charlotte’s voice is pensive. “Children typically adapt better than we expect. But I have to agree with Emma. Our species evolved over millions of years, in a predominantly temperate climate. Above ground. I believe our best chance of long-term survival is in a similar environment, even if slight adaptations must be made.”

  Harry steeples his fingers together. “If you think about it, living aboard a starship for generations will be a lot like living in an underground habitat—a closed ecosystem with constant threats outside its walls. We run the same risks whether we stay on Earth or live in the starship for the next who knows how many years. As Charlotte says, we haven’t evolved for it and can’t know how we’ll fare under those circumstances.”

  It’s a good point, one I hadn’t considered.

  “That assumes the trip to the new world will take generations,” James says.

  Harry smiles. “You think the grid has warp drive?”

  “Who knows. Obviously it took the new harvester years to get here after the Battle of Ceres, not seconds. But that may have been due to other factors. Before we make any judgments about the colony option, I think we should understand exactly what the grid is proposing.”