by A. G. Riddle
“We’ve counted two hundred vehicles thus far,” Brightwell says. “They’re coming in from the west.”
“Wake all of your people up, Colonel. Including the reserves. Arm everyone and guard the armory.”
Brightwell responds without looking over at me. “Already done, sir.”
“Colonel,” one of the techs calls out. “We’ve sighted another force coming in from the north. Putting it on screen.”
That group of troop carriers looks far smaller, less than half of the western column. All vehicles from Atlanta.
“Anything from the south or east?” Brightwell asks.
“No, ma’am.”
“Push the drones to max acceleration.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the tech replies.
Fowler and Earls burst into the room at that moment.
“Sitrep,” Earls barks.
“It’s either war or a heck of a dinner party,” Harry says.
Brightwell’s response is more to the point. “Assumed hostiles inbound from the west and north. ETA thirty minutes. Troop strength unknown.”
Earls stares at the screen. “Chandler.”
“Has to be,” I mumble, deep in thought.
“Third shift comes on in an hour,” Brightwell says. “It’s a perfect time to attack. Our troop strength is lowest then. The personnel are the least experienced.”
“We’re getting infrared data on the western host,” the technician says.
The screen displays the images. Every vehicle is the same: two blurry red and orange blobs in the cab, the armored troop carrier compartment solid blue, indicating it’s cold and empty.
“Can infrared readings penetrate the carrier compartments?” Fowler asks.
“Yes, sir,” Brightwell answers. “If those compartments were full they’d be lit up right now.”
“Unless they’ve insulated them,” I say carefully. “Chandler knows we have infrared drones. He may have found a way to trick the sensors.”
“Ma’am,” the tech barks. “We’ve got incoming from the south.”
The screen displays the night vision image, at least thirty cargo trucks about twice the size of the troop carriers. Their canvas backs flop in the wind as they cut through the snow. There’s no way there are troops back there. They’d be frozen solid when they got here. I recognize the trucks. Chinese made, brought here by the Pac Alliance to transport their people and provisions from the coast to the southern camps.
“And from the east, ma’am,” the tech says.
The eastern convoy is also made up of Pac Alliance equipment, a mix of light armored vehicles and utility vehicles. Unlike the other groups, the forces are spread out, cutting a dozen paths through the snow.
The infrared images come through for the southern convoy: same as the northern, two drivers in each truck, nothing in the back. Or seemingly nothing.
The images for the eastern group appear soon after. Most of the vehicles are loaded: four, five, sometimes six bodies in each.
“Get me a total life signs estimate,” Brightwell says.
“Copy that, ma’am.”
She walks to the corner of the room, drawing Fowler, Earls, Grigory, Min, Harry, and I over to her.
“Ma’am,” the tech calls to her. “Platoon leaders are requesting deployment instructions.”
“Tell them to stand by, Sergeant.”
“Orders?” Brightwell whispers to us.
When no one replies, I say, “Let’s start by considering what Chandler wants.”
“Revenge,” Fowler says quickly. “On you and me, James.”
“He can’t sell that to the Pac Alliance and Atlanta survivors, though,” I reply.
“The lottery,” Grigory says, nodding. “It gives them a motive to take us out. Work is done on the ships and launch facility. Stasis too. They don’t need us anymore.”
“But there is still one thing they need here,” I say. “The plant. They need the three-D printers and the material inside to finish the capsules.”
“They could just use the capsules already stored at the launch ring,” Harry says. “That gets—what?—seven, eight thousand people down to Eos?”
“That’s about half of their population,” I reply. “Doubtful they’d leave that many. They want the plant. And they want control. Here—and when we land on Eos. That’s what this is about.”
“How many troops did Atlanta and the Pac Alliance bring in total?” Harry asks.
“We’re not sure,” Brightwell replies. “Estimates are five to six thousand. Maybe a couple thousand more civilians of fighting age.”
“So,” Harry says slowly. “We have... what, four hundred AU Army? Five?”
“A little over four hundred,” Brightwell confirms.
“Against possibly eight thousand.” Harry glances at the group. “Do we even have that many bullets here?”
The fact that neither Brightwell nor Earls responds immediately makes me think the answer is a definite no.
“We won’t need that many bullets,” Fowler says. “We’re not going to win this by outfighting them. We’re going to outthink them. We need to do it quickly. There’s a reason I became the administrator of NASA and not a famous astronaut.” He exhales. “I’m better at planning than quick action.” He eyes me. “This is a situation for you, James. Like the first contact mission and Ceres. This is probably the last battle on Earth, and I’m placing you in charge from here out.”
Every eye turns to me. I feel my mouth run dry. No pressure. I’m trying to gather my thoughts when a tech shouts, “Ma’am, strength estimates are four hundred from the north, seven hundred from the east, a thousand from the west, and a hundred from the south. All ETA forty minutes.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Brightwell eyes me.
I take a deep breath, trying to focus on one thing at a time. “That’s a lot fewer troops than we think they have. So let’s assume the numbers are bogus. They know we’ll see those readings at least half an hour before they get here. We need to focus on what we think they’re after. I agree with Fowler, it’s the plant. Killing everyone in this warehouse also gives them fewer bodies on the ships.”
I hold a finger up. “First, let’s consider our battlefield. The warehouse is north of the plant. The two buildings are connected by a fifty-foot enclosed breezeway. The solar field lies just east of the warehouse.”
“It’s a lot of ground to defend,” Brightwell says.
“It’s worse than that. Even if we can defend it, they can still win. We have rations for about two weeks?”
Brightwell grimaces. “That’s generous but probably doable.”
“All they have to do is lay siege and wait.”
For a moment, the group is silent. It hits me then. “Chandler is smarter than a head-on assault like this. There’s another element here. Something we’re missing.”
“Such as?” Fowler asks.
Instinctively, my mind drifts to the two dead soldiers at launch control. How do they fit in? Are they part of his plan? How?
The other mystery is the stolen radios from the vehicles. How could that help him? We don’t use the radios for comms. I guess they could but they likely have plenty of radios.
“Ma’am,” the tech shouts. “Should we arm the land mines?”
Brightwell turns to me.
“No. They probably know about them and have a plan to set them off. I have another idea for them.”
“Troop deployments?” Brightwell asks.
“Mass our forces in the plant. Station minimal forces at the four entrances to the warehouse.”
A voice calls over the PA. I can’t believe what I’m hearing: Richard Chandler’s voice.
“The following was recorded during a meeting of the AU’s executive council.”
“Turn that off!” Brightwell shouts.
“It’s not over the PA, ma’am.”
He’s right. Chandler’s voice is muffled, but loud, the sound seeming to ooze through the ceiling.
&
nbsp; “I left the group immediately after the meeting because I was appalled. I have gone to great lengths—at great risk to myself—to bring you this information. Why? Because your very survival depends upon it.”
“Fowler, get on the PA and just start talking, try to distort what he’s saying.”
As he rushes to the comm station, Brightwell says. “We could cut the power.”
Finally, it makes sense. “It won’t work. He’s using car speakers. This is why they stole them. They’ll be battery powered, distributed throughout the warehouse. Colonel, redeploy half your people to find and destroy the speakers. Enlist the civilians too.”
I see Chandler’s whole plan now: his hope that we would cut the power, leaving us in the dark, cold and confused as his words play over the speakers.
Chandler’s voice rings out beyond the walls: “When you learn what they’re planning, I urge those of you who are able: rise up. Take control of the warehouse. We’re waiting outside, and we will take you with us.”
But Fowler’s voice already overlaps Chandler’s, his message brilliant: “Citizens of Camp Nine. We are under attack. Troops are on their way here now to do battle with us, to kill us and to starve us. The assault has started—and you hear it over the speakers. Propaganda. Our enemy is trying to confuse us, to make us turn on each other. If we do that, we all perish. Band together.”
Through the speaker outside, I hear the first lines of the meeting playing.
Chandler: It’s time to face facts: we can’t take all of the survivors with us. What are you proposing? Tell me—how will you choose whom we take and whom we must leave on Earth to die?
Fowler: A lottery.
I focus on Grigory, Min, and Harry. “Review the surveillance footage. Find the people who planted the speakers. They’re traitors.”
Chandler’s voice again over the speaker: A lottery? As in, what, the people randomly selected live and those who aren’t die?
Fowler: It would be random, a computer program that generates numbers matched to a list of all colonists.
The fact that it’s Fowler’s voice on the recording and over the PA works to our favor: there’s no contrast in the sound of the voice—the words run together.
Behind me, I hear one of the guards say, “Son, this is a restricted area.”
“I n-n-need to talk to James. His wife. The b-baby.”
Sam.
“Ma’am,” a tech shouts, standing. “We’ve got intruders.”
On one of the smaller screens, which shows the area outside the plant, I see it instantly. Our enemy is already here.
Chapter 60
Emma
The contractions pass like waves, stronger, faster, pushing against a levee about to break. I breathe in and out, wishing, hoping for the contractions to pass. I can’t have this baby here. Not now.
Abby squeezes my hand and whispers in my ear, “It’s okay.”
I hear Chandler’s voice outside the flat, droning on. Fowler’s voice breaks over the PA, the volume deafening, words mixing with Chandler’s. I can’t understand what either man is saying.
I try to focus on breathing. I’m scared. Even after the ISS was destroyed, even in the Citadel, when we were trapped and starving, I wasn’t this scared. I’m scared for the life of my child. If he’s born here, in this room, and he needs urgent medical care, we can’t save him. The infirmary is his best chance. I have to get there.
I grab my cane, push up from the couch, and take a wobbling step toward the door.
“Emma,” Abby pleads. “What are—”
“We have to get to the infirmary. Help me. Please, Abby. Please.”
I teeter on shaking legs. Then Abby’s arms are around me and she’s calling to the children: “Help your aunt, Jack. Owen, you too.”
I feel their arms around me, hear Abby directing them. “We need to carry her. Gently, boys.”
The three of them hoist me up, and Adeline rushes to the door and opens it. In the corridor, it’s chaos, the voices getting louder. There are people everywhere, soldiers and civilians alike. Everyone is shouting, ripping into the air conditioning ducts and the low ceilings above. Looking for something, though what that might be I’m too weary to comprehend.
We snake through the corridors, weaving through the people. Twice, we have to stand aside as soldiers rush past us. Every minute or so, Chandler’s voice grows quieter, as though the volume’s being turned down by degrees, a click at a time. How? It’s as if the speakers he’s using are turning off.
Up ahead, the intersection is packed with people milling about. Platoons of troops are flowing through them, automatic rifles in hand, dressed in full battle gear. They’re moving in the direction of the manufacturing plant. At this hour. Why?
My heart catches when I hear gunfire behind us, loud, piercing even over the PA. I could swear it came from the direction of the command post.
Suddenly, I hear shots closer; the sound is deafening.
A bullet rips past me, into the wall. A soldier in the intersection ahead turns and trains his gun on the corridor, pointing directly at me. Abby and the kids lunge for the wall, seeking protection, but there’s nowhere for us to go.
Chapter 61
James
In the command post, I hold a hand up for Sam to wait.
I turn back and watch the video feed on the screen. It’s from a security camera on the south side of the plant. At first glance, nothing seems amiss, simply snow piled high, a quarter-moon shining down through the haze. But every few seconds, the surface of the snow moves, like ripples on a placid pond of ice. On any other night, I’d assume it was only the wind blowing, the surface powder shifting.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I know what I’m seeing: troops tunneling under the snow, crawling their way to the plant.
This is why Chandler and his allies have waited so long to attack: they needed the snow to get deeper. It’s at least four feet high around the plant. Easily deep enough for soldiers to crawl and tunnel through.
How did they get here—this close? Their insulated clothing and the snow above clearly hid them from our infrared scans, but we’ve been flying the drones non-stop since Chandler left, monitoring the road and a wide perimeter outside the warehouse and plant. The troops must have parachuted down from a dirigible that flew over our drones. I have to hand it to them—it’s a pretty well-conceived approach.
The convoys are another matter: they’re impossible to hide from our drones. Chandler and his allies had to know we would react the moment we saw them.
As I turn the pieces of this puzzle over in my mind, their full battle plan becomes clear. Part one is to destabilize our population with Chandler’s recording. Seeing the convoys farther out, they’re assuming we’ll take the time to do crowd control here inside the warehouse—instead of fortifying our perimeter. They’re hoping we’ll leave the manufacturing plant virtually unguarded. They’re hoping the paratroopers they inserted covertly would take the plant—which they need intact.
Except one thing went wrong: we’ve seen the paratroopers. Also, they’re still a ways out from the plant. I bet tunneling under the snow has taken longer than they expected. I hope it will be enough time for us.
“Sergeant,” Brightwell yells, “get me an estimate on how many hostiles are tunneling out there. And reassign three platoons from the speaker search to the plant. Alert me when everyone’s assembled.”
“How will you engage them?” I ask her.
“We’ll start with grenades and finish with rifles.”
I walk over to the entrance, where Sam is standing, trembling. I squat and put both of my hands on his upper arms. “What is it, Sam?”
His speech has gotten progressively better, especially around people he trusts and feels comfortable with. “Emma. The baby’s coming.”
The words are a gut punch.
I grab a handheld radio off the nearest table and activate it. “Infirmary, command post, do you read?”
�
�Command post, infirmary. We read you, sir,” a man says.
I skip the military lingo, even though there’s other chatter on the channel. “I need to speak with Izumi.”
“Command post, infirmary, she’s left, sir—on her way to your flat.”
Izumi’s voice comes over the radio, barely audible over the commotion around her. “James, I’m on my way there now, but the corridors are packed. People are panicking.” In the background, I hear shouting and muffled sounds, as if Izumi is shoving her way through a crowd. “I’ll take care of her, James. I promise you.”
Sam looks up at me, eyes pleading for us to go.
“Sounds like you’ve got your hands full there,” Izumi says. “Don’t worry, James.”
“Copy that, Izumi. Thank you.” I bend down to eye-level with Sam. “We’ll go as soon as we can.”
He grimaces, looking hurt as he turns back toward the entrance, making to leave, but I grab his arm.
“Sam, I need you to stay here for a little while.”
“Why?”
“We need to stay out of the corridors while the troops are working there. Just wait over there behind the desks. I’ll come get you when we can go. We’ll see Emma soon.”
“James!” Harry shouts. “We’ve found the guy planting the speakers.” Harry types at his terminal, moving the surveillance image to the main screen. He’s dressed in an AU Army uniform, a corporal’s stripes on his shoulder.
“Does anyone recognize him?” Brightwell asks.
When no one answers, she focuses on one of the nearby technicians. “Use facial recognition to give me a present location.”
“Wait,” Min says, pointing at the security camera footage on his screen. “There’s another one. There were two people planting the speakers. Both soldiers. Facial recognition is working… It says this person is a major named Danforth.”
A technician calls over his shoulder. “The other mole is Corporal Caffee.”
