Miranda's Demons

by Ian Miller

  They made their way slowly and carefully down the track, made, no doubt, by the parties going to and from the observational post, until they reached the first of the pill-boxes. There, the party split into two groups of six men; the first group sat and waited, while the second group made its way to the other nest. Flashes of infrared light coordinated the attack.

  As Haruhiko's men stormed through the entrance, the sight was almost comical. Two soldiers were standing against a wall, leaning over the barrels of their weapons. Four others were seated around a table playing cards, itself no mean a feat bearing in mind the heavy gloves of the pressure suits. There was no watch and Haruhiko almost laughed as he saw the looks of aghast surprise through the pressure suit visors. His men were all for rupturing the pressure suits then and there, but Haruhiko forbade such action. With the outposts secured, the squads rested, intending to join the attack on the main base the next morning.

  At dawn, the tanks drove towards the settlement from both sides of the crater. The Brownshirts must have depended totally on their observational posts since, apart from one small squad of infantrymen who were quickly overpowered by Haruhiko's men, they were caught in bed. The entrances to the settlement were breached and the settler's infantry were running between the buildings before any alarm could be raised. Radio surveillance was maintained, and McDonald and Misako ensured that no attack was made on the signals room until the necessary message was transmitted. The message went, then the signals room was occupied. Within twenty minutes of breaching the base, the various commanders reported that resistance was totally overcome, and the senior officers were invited to inspect the base

  The sight that greeted Haruhiko and Misako was almost pathetic. Small lines of the once feared Brownshirts, dressed in pyjamas, were lined up, clutching any item of clothing they could find. Although the dome protected the settlement from the full force of the Martian night, there was eight degrees of frost within the dome, and a hoar frost covered the ground. The pyjama-clad bullies stood shivering, their eyes downcast. A few began to whimper. "I was forced to do it." "I never hurt anyone." "I'm only a clerk." A few stood defiantly proud, recognizing they had lost, and denying their victors the sight of them grovelling. But most merely stood side by side, shivering, their eyes listlessly staring at the ground a meter or so in front of them.

  It was then the Syrtis Major base uncovered a surprise far outweighing any other event, at least as far as the Martians were concerned. There was a great underground manufacturing complex, and imprisoned there, effectively as slave labourers, were a large number of the Tarsis colonists. Unbeknown to the remaining Mars colonists, Tarsis had fallen twenty-four hours before the M'starn announced their presence. Careful planning from the collaborators had allowed "normal" communications to be maintained with the rest of Mars. The telecast of the destruction of Tarsis, with the bodies everywhere was a show, quite untrue, to quell any thoughts of resistance amongst the remaining settlements. The show had worked.

  * * *

  It was the next morning, as the headaches from the celebrations began to pass, that Misako began to deal with the problem of what to do with the defeated captives. Over two thousand Martians had actively joined the Brownshirt movement, but several thousand others had collaborated to some degree. Everybody had had to submit to the M'starn domination; the problem was where did simple acquiescence stop and active collaboration start?

  Suppose a crime was to be reported to the new settler's justice committee. The stealing of a settler's property would be reported, but not the stealing from relations of a collaborator. Was the supply of goods and services collaboration, or merely a necessity for survival? Most of the settlers had little doubt. The collaborators should be punished. A collaborator was to be defined by the accusation, particularly an accusation from the settlers who had lived through the hardships of the trek and the caves of the Valles Marineris. There were increasing calls for revenge; calls from settlers whose relations had been taken, calls from the Tarsis settlers. And the most emphatic calls, Misako noted, came from those who had offered the least.

  "Want to bet the new order will be any better than the old?" Groza remarked. "Look at how many of our non-combatants, clerks and desk-bound organizers want another red on Mars, a lake of red that'll make the French revolution look like a kindergarten picnic!"

  The Council members met that afternoon. The meeting was brief. Misako moved that all prisoners be held and identified. Accusations of felonies against specific prisoners from the settlers, or from Hellas, should be collated, and if sufficient evidence could be found, the accused brought to trial. Those not guilty of felonies would be treated as prisoners of war until it could be decided what to do with them. McDonald supported this, and further moved that no action be taken until all the files of the Brownshirts had been read and collated, and the appropriate reports presented. There was general agreement, but there was also agreement that there should be some general punishment. No Brownshirt should be simply returned to the community.

  "I have a suggestion," Misako offered.

  "And that is?"

  "Give them a small dome, and locate them in the Isidis Planitia. There, they can plant cacti. Our calculations show that the atmospheric pressure is now high enough that the cacti should be able to survive there. This will accelerate even more the raising of the oxygen and nitrogen content of the air, as well as the pressure, and it will fix more carbon. This will be a service to all of Mars, and additionally, it is easy to tell when the sentence is complete. The Brownshirts can come back into society when the task is done. Of course, if they make a good job of it, we'll have the infrastructure for another settlement."

  This suggestion was agreed with acclaim. Those who had wished to destroy their lives would now be required to help fulfil their dream.

  Chapter 18

  At last the victorious Terran pilots returned to Earth. They were tired and disoriented when they arrived, having spent much of their flight navigating at velocities they had never dreamed as being possible before. Most had begun decelerating far too early for their powerful drives, and as a consequence had undershot, which necessitated considerable more manoeuvring. Only Pennlington's craft carried out an optimum path, and consequently he arrived ten hours before the rest.

  A tremendous welcome was arranged by General Streckov. At last the representatives of NewsCorp were allowed to interview the heroes on everybody's lips. As the ships straggled in, the pilots were kept in a holding area until they were all assembled, then they were marched into the press arena. As the cheers reached crescendo level, the pilots entered, without having shaved or washed, with tousled hair and bloodshot eyes, crumpled uniforms but with triumphant spirits. All except Pennlington. He was well rested, with a crisp appearance and a freshly ironed uniform with sparkling buttons. As the questions began to fly, Pennlington became the spokesman, if for no other reason than he was the only person who was not dog-tired. He was also possibly the most senior person present who had fought, since the Commissioner and Gaius had remained in space escorting the M'starn ships, while Harry and Marisa, in their M'starn ship, together with Winters in hers, had escorted the Ranhynn ships to the junkyard.

  Pennlington competently and modestly answered the questions, but it soon became apparent that NewsCorp regarded Pennlington as the hero. After all, nobody else present had done more than he had. Pennlington did not mention Harry, Winters or Marisa, and indeed Pennlington would have had no idea what they had done. So while the remaining pilots each received a medal from the bedecked Streckov, Pennlington received two, and after being photographed from various angles that emphasized the medals, he was escorted outside for further interviews.

  The British media in particular continued their vigorous promotion of Pennlington. His face appeared on all the news broadcasts, he was shown standing on the wing of his fighter, and it was here a near disaster occurred. When one of the newsmen asked what it was like to fly at such enormous accelerations, Pennlington offere
d to show the broadcaster. Fortunately the flight was banned from the control room, for by now the Ulsian inertial equivalence units had been retrieved.

  * * *

  "Hell's teeth!" Harry growled when he finally saw the recordings. "Bloody Welly's making out he won the war all on his own."

  "He must have corporate backing," Marisa observed shrewdly.

  "Even they should be more accurate than that," Harry said angrily, as he missed the point of Marisa's observation. "There's not even a mention of you, and if anyone nearly won it on their own, that's you."

  "I hardly expected the corporates to promote a Brazilian," Marisa said as she tried to soothe Harry.

  "Maybe," Harry said, "but I'm still going to protest to Streckov. He shouldn't be allowed to talk openly like that, especially with what little he did."

  But when Harry started his complaint, Streckov held up his hand.

  "Do you have to do this?" he asked.

  "Why not?" Harry countered angrily.

  "I'll give you one good reason. What goes on in the media doesn't matter a bit. The Commissioner knows what you two have done, and wherever your futures take you, you will both be successful. Pennlington's different. He will stay with the regular Defence forces, and with what's happened, he'll most likely make it to Station Commander, with a rank of something like Brigadier in a few years. And let's be honest, he won't be the worst Station Commander, in fact he'll be one of the best, and with this news coverage, Defence will have a little glamour again.

  "Now, you protest, and all that'll be ruined for Pennlington. The story will have to be retracted, his career will be ruined, and for what end? Nothing of what he said was untrue. Sure, he left out a lot, but let's be honest: he didn't know what the bigger picture was. Only those in alien ships, and Robeiro, had any real idea of what was going on. Now, I'm going to ask you to drop this protest. It won't do any good, and it'll wreck Pennlington's career. What do you say?"

  "I suppose I don't really have any choice," Harry responded grouchily. "I'll withdraw."

  "Thank you very much," Streckov said. "You have no idea how important that decision is."

  * * *

  "Captain Pennlington, please sit down."

  "Yes sir," Pennlington replied, stiffly and formally. He retreated to the stiff, bench-like seat that Streckov had placed at the corner of his office, clearly to make things as uncomfortable as possible. The seat was hard, poorly moulded plastic, and was arranged so that the bright sunlight pouring in through the window would strike the victim in the face. A number of other officers of the General Staff stared at him.

  "Pennlington," Streckov said in a tired manner, "you have reached a critical point in your career."

  "Sir?" Pennlington was now clearly puzzled. He had approached this summons with a leaden stomach, as he was only too well aware that the recent publicity would hardly impress his superiors. And it was not as if he had wanted to promote himself; he had merely tried to be open and honest, to tell what he knew. He had always assumed the journalists would interview everybody, and certainly he had wanted to make sure his own efforts were appreciated, but he had not given a thought to acknowledging others. He knew only too well they would do that themselves. The only trouble was, the reporters had apparently ignored everybody else. Suddenly, everything had begun going wrong for Pennlington. First, someone had tried to kill him. Then Jennifer had begun to avoid him. She was formal rather than affectionate when they met, she had stopped communicating with him, and somehow, no matter how hard he tried, she was always in another city when he had free time. It was almost as if she knew when he was to have leave. Now his career was in tatters. It was almost as if there was someone who was out to destroy him. And no matter how hard he thought about it, there was nothing he could do about it. What had he done to deserve this?

  "I am referring to the media attention," Streckov said slowly, clearly aware that this would be obvious to Pennlington.

  "Yes, sir."

  "An interesting move," Streckov mused.

  "Sir, may I say something?"

  "Yes?" The tired expression remained. Pennlington had no idea now whether Streckov had the slightest interest, but he was committed.

  "Sir, I was only trying to be helpful. When we went into the interview, we had instructions to be helpful, and I did what I thought those instructions required. I realize now that . . ."

  Streckov held up his hand to halt the torrent of words, and Pennlington felt small. It had all seemed so reasonable before, but now it had tumbled out, as if from a small boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Two of the other Generals were shaking their heads, while four others were chuckling to themselves.

  "I'm sorry sir," Pennlington resumed, more slowly, "I –"

  "Pennlington, we all expected you to say something, and the General Staff really couldn't care less what you said."

  "Then . . ?" Now Pennlington was puzzled.

  "Pennlington, what you've done is, wittingly or otherwise, and frankly, if I were you, I'd be giving the firm impression that it was wittingly, is that you made a career move."

  "Sir?"

  "That's the sort of move that could get you to the General Staff."

  "I hadn't thought of that at all," Pennlington almost pleaded.

  "I think perhaps you might be beginning to see the point," Streckov smiled. "A daring move like that, which cuts through a decade of sweat, is good for you, but a threat to others."

  "I certainly wouldn't dream of threatening you, or the other –"

  "Of course not," Streckov almost beamed. "You're no threat to the current General Staff, unless you try to be totally stupid, and I'm sure you're not that. We're twenty-five years older. No matter how hard you push, by the time you're ready to get there, we're more than ready to leave."

  "Then . . ?"

  "You're a threat to others of your own age group, who might otherwise have got there. Of course some still will, but you see my point? If you get there, someone else doesn't."

  "But that's just a fact of life," Pennlington said. "You don't think someone else's going to make another attempt on my life?"

  "Of course it's a fact of life," Streckov shrugged, "and no, I don't think anyone's going to make another attempt on your life. But there's a couple of points I think you've overlooked."

  "Sir?"

  "The first one is that if you've generated some hatred amongst others, some combinations may be incompatible. It may reduce to you or them."

  "But surely . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "Well, I was thinking that it would depend then on who got started first. The other would then have to learn to obey."

  "Of course they would," Streckov agreed firmly. "Anything else would be insubordination, and the military deals with that very firmly."

  "Then what have I overlooked?"

  "Patronage."

  "Patronage?" came the startled Pennlington.

  "Promotion depends on how you are seen by the people who really matter. Maybe only half a dozen at most, frequently as few as one or two."

  "Then I would be really grateful if you could tell me which Generals I should . . ." Pennlington stopped in mid-breath as it finally occurred to him what the role of those other Generals would be.

  "As I said before, the Generals are merely amused," Streckov shrugged. "You should concentrate on your real problem."

  "And that is?" Pennlington said cautiously.

  "I'll give you a clue," Streckov said carefully. "Yesterday Lansfeld came to me to complain quite strongly about the publicity."

  "But surely he's not in a position to affect my future. Or did he say something that made you . . ?

  "I turned him away quite firmly," Streckov shrugged, "but he has powerful friends."

  "You mean, the Commissioner?"

  "Not entirely," Streckov mused. "I think the Commissioner has done a fantastic job, but I also think she's earned a long rest from public duty. No, it was the Roman I had in mind."

  "
The Commander in Chief," Pennlington nodded in agreement. "But I thought he was going to resign his commission?"

  "I have grounds to believe that he will declare himself Emperor of Earth."

  "Surely not!" came the aghast response.

  "I see that displeases you?"

  "Of course. That would mean that there would be no Council, no Assembly –"

  "No corporations, no freedom, and in your particular case, no future," Streckov shrugged. "You've annoyed one of the new Emperor's golden boys. I would guess it'd be off to the sulphur mines for you."

  "But that couldn't happen."

  "Oh yes it could. Between you and me, there's not a thing in the world that could stop it, once he takes power."

  "Oh, no," Pennlington almost huddled back in his seat. "I've got to do something about Lansfeld's –"

  "Forget Lansfeld! He's irrelevant."

  "But you said –"

  "Pennlington, you've made a strong career move, but like any strong military move, you've got to back it up. You've got to follow through with everything you've got, because if you don't win now, you never will."

  "I'm not sure I understand."

  "You've got to go for the throat. In chess terms, the best way to avoid going into check is to put the opponent into mate."

  "You have a suggestion. sir?" Pennlington asked cautiously. It had finally dawned on him that Streckov was not in the slightest bit interested in his situation, other than that he wanted him to do something.