Miranda's Demons

by Ian Miller

  "The only time we ever see the Terrans is when they want something," Groza spoke from his soapbox. "If they can come here to steal an enemy ship, why can't they bring us some better weapons, or, for that matter, the odd little luxury?"

  "They can't risk it, Karl," someone protested. "One ship got blown apart trying."

  "So they tell us," Groza retorted. "Yet they hear about a mineral shipment, and in no time they're here. Fellow Martians, we've got to wake up! Earth is just using us as sacrificial pawns, and do we want to be sacrificed?"

  "Karl, it can't be that bad," someone else shouted. "Give 'em a chance!"

  "They've got a chance now. And what's happening?"

  "There's a bloody dust storm on. Would you try to fly down and land in a valley several kilometers deep when you can't see a meter in front of your face?"

  "The aliens could manage it," Groza snorted.

  "Do you know that Karl?"

  "Look! You'll find out. You mark my words. When the storm's gone, nothing will have changed. We'll get fresh orders, and no supplies."

  While Groza made little immediate impact, the seeds of further despondency and dissent had been sown. Boredom had returned, and the dust storm did not help. Then, despite the storm, a squad of volunteers was called for, to return to Hellas to ensure that preparations for planting were well underway. The tanks and scout cars which had made the expedition to Syrtis Major were to be resupplied, and were to set off under the command of Akiro Shibatu. The dust storm would give ideal cover from a space attack.

  Setting off was a slow process, for despite the bluster, few wanted to drive in a sandstorm.

  "And now for 'Charge of the Snail Corps!'" Groza offered.

  This diversion relieved the tedium for about three days, and then the boredom returned. Groza's grumblings about being voluntary prisoners began to take hold. It was then that Misako Shibatu appeared on the cable television, and announced two new projects. All available labour would be working on these.

  The first project was to dig two open tanks and seal the insides. The first tank was unusual; it was fifty meters long, twenty meters wide, a little over one meter deep at one end, and three meters deep at the other, the floor sloping evenly between the ends. The other was a tiny tank, circular, eight meters in diameter and half a meter deep. The purpose of these was unknown. The second project was to smooth out the huge cave where the assembly for the deep space vehicle was to have been carried out, to make camouflaged roll-up doors, and to provide the sequences of large air locks for access from the residential caves. At the same time, outside the caves, in the dust storm, workers were to make a long smooth area parallel to the valley wall. The purpose of this was unclear, but it was the focus of a lot of speculation.

  "They're going to make a bloody space vehicle," Groza announced. "The leaders are going to scarper."

  "Maybe they're going to bring a ship in," someone pointed out. "If they're going to bring us supplies, they've got to land somewhere."

  "Yeah, and it might start raining," Groza retorted.

  * * *

  Then the news broke of the imminent arrival of a convoy. Speculation started about supplies from Earth, which Groza loudly pooh-poohed. Then the nature of the convoy was announced, and Groza was correct. The convoy had been initiated by the M'starn, and had been travelling from the northern polar regions towards Chryse when the rebellion had occurred. They were bringing ice.

  "Just what we need on these brisk, minus seventy mornings," Groza snorted. "Nice cool ice."

  It was then that the purpose of the new tanks became apparent.

  "Swimming pools!" Groza groaned when he heard. "Learn to swim in case there's a flood like those four billion years ago. We need that sort of waste like we need a third nostril!"

  Things degenerated when the schools were instructed to teach swimming. There was a call for more emphasis on the basics. There were protests against the appalling waste of valuable resources, and in the end Misako was forced to go on cable television to apologize; she had thought this would add a little luxury to their lives, but if the population thought this wrong, then the pools would be closed forthwith.

  For the first time in the hard lives of the Martian settlers, there were universal family revolts. For the children and the young adults, this would have been the first real fun they had had, ever, and they were not forgiving of the dour excuses from their parents and elders. Once again there were marches, this time for the pools to be reopened. A jubilant Misako reappeared on cable television, to announce that the pools would be reopened. When they did, the bubble of discontent burst.

  * * *

  Two weeks later, to capitalize on the better tone of the settlement, Misako appeared on cable television again to announce the first InterMars Games.

  "Well, that's just marvellous," Groza cried from his soapbox. "With a war going on, where we're fighting for our lives, we're going to take time out to start up a sports festival."

  Nobody listened. Everybody who could do anything was in training. There was an astonishing number of events for such a small population, so most reasonably fit people had a chance of excelling at something. To make it even more attractive, it was soon realized that if these games were to become regular, the names of the winners of the events in the very first games, held in such conditions, would be immortalized. Groza's grumblings could wait; the lure of the record book quickly sharpened the mind. Even the dust outside was forgotten.

  Chapter 16

  Natasha Kotchetkova had become aware of an alarming fact. With the entire population of the Federation to call on, she had to rely more and more on an ever-dwindling number of people. It was not that Earth was sustaining battle losses, for as yet there had been no battles. Gaius was planning for one, and it appeared to be based on a piece of lunacy.

  It had all started at a Council meeting, where Harvey Munro had got to his feet and demanded to know why so much effort was being made to dig out the centre of Asteroid 2936.

  "No comment," Natasha said coldly.

  "You must inform the Council!" Munro scowled.

  "Such information is on a need to know basis," Natasha said even more coldly. "You have no need to know."

  "Is it not true that the military is mining large amounts of tantalum and indium?"

  "I can neither confirm nor deny," Natasha replied, and then sat down.

  "Mr President," Munro almost yelled. "Could you get the Commissioner to –"

  "Order! The Commissioner is within her rights. To force a reply, you need to state clearly why you need to know."

  "It's the supply of tantalum," Munro muttered.

  "That's an issue for MinCorp, surely, and not GenCorp," the President said.

  "Yes, but GenCorp needs a supply of tantalum, and –"

  "Why?" This from Elizabeth Garrett.

  Munro looked around, and saw no support at all, so he was forced to sit down.

  According to Gaius, this had been a triumph. The problem with space battles was to fight them where you held an advantage, and for Earth, their only chance was to defend an asteroid. The problem was, why would the enemy be interested? The solution was easy: Troy Munro was invited to somewhere where he would never usually have access, and he would 'accidentally' overhear a conversation between a senior officer and a geologist. The senior officer was explaining what had been found, the geologist had snorted and said that was impossible, but no, the officer countered, there it was. A miracle amount of tantalum. Troy had run off and had obviously reported home. If anything would excite the M'starn, it was tantalum, an element critical for certain parts of their ship, and an element that was incredibly rare on Earth. Hopefully, the M'starn could not ignore this, since getting them to attack this asteroid was the best chance of defeating them.

  The problem for any battle was to find the right people, because Earth had to do most of the fighting. Unfortunately, Natasha realized, each person's limitations were becoming more obvious. It was almost as if the fate of
the whole world depended on a handful of people. A number of tests had been carried out, using simulated battle trials in a training program that Gaius had provided. Hardly anybody succeeded, and in fairness to the program, it was not that difficult, for she had taken it herself once the results started to come in, and she had thrashed her opponents. The problem was only partly with pilots: there were enough who could fly the various craft and carry out orders, and some were even becoming adequate in a combat role, but once the situations became different from those expected there were too few commanders who could innovate. It became immediately apparent that too many of the regular Defence officers were simply too bogged down with tradition.

  Either Harry Lansfeld or Natasha would fly the captured M'starn vessel; Gaius would choose which. That again was a source of irritation. She was Commissioner, but she could not even make this decision! Another decision made without input from her was that Marisa Robeiro would command certain fixed defences. Marisa Robeiro was now training continuously at simulators for this role. At the key battle, she would have the most important part to play of any human; if she did not perform, then Earth would lose. Her ability to maintain a mental picture of several dozen objects simultaneously made her of unique value for controlling the huge weapons systems under construction out in the asteroid belt. Computers could track positions and momenta better than she could, and indeed she would have access to the most powerful computer information available. But a computer could not make tactical decisions as well as a human; it could not second-guess a clever opponent, nor could it entice an opponent into a psychological trap. Whether Marisa could was another question. She was so young! Then Gaius pointed out that the Roman army gave quite young people command, and Alexander had been very young when he started. Perhaps, Natasha countered, but . . . But nothing, Gaius had replied, and then proceeded to point out that all the older officers either had no idea about fighting, or they carried too much baggage with having learned the more conventional forms of fighting. Marisa had the one advantage that she had no preconceived ideas. Yes, she had a lot to learn, but at least she was young enough to succeed, and she was making progress.

  She would never have left Marisa carry this awesome responsibility, but Gaius felt Marisa could do it, nobody else could, and that was that. She should at least have help, but Gaius immediately rejected that. There would be no command committee. The decisions would be made immediately and executed immediately. Better to have a bad decision than no clear decision. Yes, there would be a back up, but that was only for the situation where Marisa could not continue. Another decision, Natasha realized grimly, that had been made unilaterally.

  Meanwhile, she had to train pilots for a new craft that was being continually redesigned to suit the latest theories. It could never be test flown, and this was creating a great strain on the manufacturers as the entire fleet of craft had to be ready in three weeks. The only other suitable commander seemed to be Shelley Winters, a simple Lieutenant. Perhaps she should inform Gaius that she had made this decision, and see what happened. No, that would be childish, but the fact she could not make the decision irritated her.

  The use of this craft was perhaps one of the most frustrating exercises being carried out; it had no significant military value and it would not affect the outcome of the war. On the other hand, it did have political importance, and it might have profound effects on the peace that would hopefully follow. Natasha had studied the history of wars and had realized a fundamental truth: the winning of a war was irrelevant if one could not ensure the subsequent peace.

  With Harry and Marisa together on the same base, the opportunity was there for them to meet, but each appeared to be avoiding the other. Each had been hurt, and perhaps of equal significance, each was always desperately tired. Such unresolved antagonism could be a problem, Natasha realized. How far would their emotions cloud their judgment at the critical time? More to the point, what could she do about it?

  There was a noise outside the door, and the door burst open. The Federation President burst in and strode forcefully to Natasha's desk.

  "Commissioner, I want to talk to you!"

  "Of course! Take a seat," Natasha said, as she tried desperately to conceal the anger building within her.

  "Alone!" he said, indicating with his arm that he wanted Marcellus to leave. Marcellus had been seated at a smaller desk near the window, perusing a pile of documents relating to the manufacturing abilities of a large number of Earth facilities. Marcellus, with the assistance of the Actium's computer facilities, was to prepare a list of options as to who could build what, and with what assistance. Marcellus got up and moved to leave.

  "Stay there, please," Natasha said quietly but firmly. "That job has absolute priority. Marcellus will keep any information totally confidential," she continued to the President. "I assure you he is totally incorruptible."

  "I don't think you understand. I want –"

  "I don't think you understand. This is my office. I am fighting a war, with the odds overwhelmingly against us. Now just wait," she continued as the irate President was about to speak. "You're so good at protocol. You know full well you are supposed to make an appointment to enter a Commissioner's office." As she said that, she was surprised to see Marcellus go over to the bookcase, take out the large volume encompassing the Constitution and Protocols of the Earth Federation, and begin reading it at a rate of approximately four pages per second.

  This went unnoticed by the President, who at least had the grace to sit down. "Commissioner," he said, "we have a problem with your expenditures."

  "What's that?" she asked, perplexed. "I'm still well within budget."

  "Total budget, yes," the President said, puffing himself up a little, "but these goods are being manufactured for alien vessels. Since we have not voted an alien assistance budget, you cannot simply pass goods over to them."

  "Why not?" Natasha asked. "They're for rebuilding battle craft, to fight our war."

  "Yes, but you have transferred ownership," the President said in an annoyed tone. "What do I put on the ledgers? You see, there is no budgetary item for alien military aid, and there is nothing in the Constitution relating to aliens."

  "What do I care what goes on the ledgers?" Natasha almost shouted as she gripped the table to control herself, then as she calmed down a little, she added cynically, "I'm sure you can think of something. After all, the Constitution does not specifically deny the giving of aid to aliens."

  "By law, the goods must remain in your ownership, or have approval to leave your ownership," the President retorted. "Otherwise you could give them to anyone."

  "The Ranhynn are not just anyone," Natasha spat. "They're risking their lives for a planet that offers them nothing in return. The least we can do is repair their ships so they can continue to help us!"

  "I appreciate that," the President said, "but that doesn't alter some fundamental truths. One of those is that there are a number of people who would like to see you moved to one side, and this gives them ammunition."

  "Garrett and Kleppe, by any chance?" Natasha asked.

  There was a hesitation from the President, who turned his eyes away before he continued, "I'm not going to say who's raised this. Now I'd like to help you, but we've got to stop this from continuing. Now if you were to guarantee that no more goods will be transferred, I can say this was all a mistake, and once it was pointed out you did everything to cooperate, and –"

  "It is not a mistake," Natasha said firmly. "It is a military necessity."

  "You must not give them goods," the President stood up and thumped the table. "The Constitution is very clear on that point. If you don't follow the Constitution, I have no option but to dismiss you from your post, and put in someone who will."

  "You can't do that," Marcellus interposed.

  "Be quiet, you! You shouldn't be here."

  "Clause two hundred and eighty-three, section C (v), is very explicit. This is the section that defines the powers of the Commissi
oner for Defence, and part (v) is almost amusing. You see, when the Commission was set up, there had to be something very important to do with the post, as a face saving for the Russians to take it. Of course, nobody wanted to give the Russians anything, so the trick was to give them something extremely important, and at the same time, give them nothing."

  "What on earth are you talking about?" the President asked. Apprehension had begun to appear on his face.

  "I think it's clause (v)," Natasha responded, with a smile beginning to break over her face. "As a matter of interest, Marcellus, just what is this clause?"

  "In the event of a verifiable threat to the security of the planet Earth from a source external to the Earth, the Commissioner for Defence may take such actions, which include: the deployment of whatever troops or materiel as are available; the appropriation of any manufacturing facility, land or resource; the implementation of conscription, compulsory acquisition, or martial law; the suspension of any Government power or function and the powers of total censorship, but not the powers to commit or condone felonies under the Felonies Act; as are deemed necessary to remove the threat and restore the security of the Federation, such powers to remain in force until the threat is removed and the stability of the Federation be restored. Quite a mouthful, isn't it?"

  "That's ridiculous," the President exclaimed.

  "No, it's the Constitution," Natasha responded with a grin. "It is the duty of the President to uphold the Constitution, and not deride it."

  "It is remarkably poorly drafted," Marcellus agreed, "probably because it was seen as so unlikely as to be not worth worrying about. It leaves out such things as who will deem the threat to be removed. As it stands, Commissioner, it virtually gives you the power of an autocrat. Nobody can actually argue the threat is removed, because nobody is nominated to such a position."

  "The person who does so is clearly the President," the President said, suddenly reinflating himself. "Since our last victory, I believe the threat is greatly diminished, and hence there is no requirement for such special powers."