One after another, phrases run through his mind, each one seeming inadequate for the task at hand. Thoughts like:
“We do what we do today so that those we’ve left behind us can enjoy long and secure lives.
“Some of us will not return from this mission. We salute our brothers who are about to die committing to the completion of their mission.
“So that others may return to their lives with their families, we place ours in jeopardy.”
He wants to say something that will not only stand the test of time but also provide the soldiers of his new command the inspiration they need to go boldly into the unknown. Beneath him on the second level of the observation module, one of his old staff who had the ill-fortune to be transferred to this terminal mission is fiddling with one of the communication consoles, flipping between programs. The general can hear him quietly curse the available entertainment between snippets of dialogue. General Long thinks about telling the officer to turn it off but decides against it; who is he to deny what amounts to his dying wish to discover the score of the game? It still wouldn’t do to be seen completely forgoing proper military discipline, so he leans over the side of his chair to issue the order for silence. But as he locates the offending officer amongst the others, the man looks up and meets the general’s gaze, his face drained of all color.
“Sir, you need to see this,” he says as he transfers the news feed to the monitor in front of the general.
A reporter, her serious face on, stands on a residential street. Flashing lights from emergency vehicles strobe in the background. No readily identifiable landmarks are visible, as the feed is cropped closely enough to the reporter’s bland features that none of the surrounding buildings can be seen. The bottom of the screen reads: Terrorist attack in suburbia? The general is about to ask what the importance of this particular incident is when the reporter’s words begin to register.
“Mere hours ago, this peaceful neighborhood was like many that ring the Capital. Until, when most of its residents were at either work or school, a tragedy struck. The home of General Phillip Long was destroyed in an explosion. Authorities believe that both his wife and granddaughter were inside the structure when the explosion occurred. The cause of the detonation is unknown, but the utility company assures us that its fuel lines are not responsible and that all safety protocols are in place and functioning. When asked, the general’s office stated that he is currently on assignment and is unavailable for comment.”
The feed splits to show the studio anchor as well, showing that the story is winding down. Without any pause for a transition the anchor quickly fills the screen, banishing the field reporter to be forgotten until her next story.
“Let’s go to our expert panel. Steve, what can you tell me about this attack? Is it the Resistance, or are we looking at another group?”
“Thanks Pierre. When I was studying for my PhD, I happened across a study.” The expert’s self-aggrandizing monologue fades from the general’s awareness. One of his new staff attempts to get his attention.
“General, it is time to issue the order,” he says with a meaningful look. The readout has continued to count down of its own accord while they have been occupied with the newscast.
In a daze, he reaches for the microphone. The communications officer who’d been searching for the game patches the general into the intercom across all of the rockets.
“Ladies, gentlemen, soldiers, and civilians…” His voice trails off until the officer who had been watching the countdown clears his throat. The man’s menacing glare gives the general added resolve. “There comes a time when all of us must do our duty to our service, country, and most importantly our families.
“The mission on which we have been dispatched is a sham. The briefings you were given, nothing more than lies.” Once he starts talking, the truth begins pouring forth like a torrent. “We have not been dispatched to rescue civilians kidnapped in some nefarious plot. I can’t speak to what actually awaits at our destination, but I do know we are carrying a bomb big enough that no member of this expedition force nor any trace of our target will survive its detonation. I know many of you are volunteers who signed on to spread the light of liberty into the cosmos, but I must tell you that light is nothing more than an illusion. We have been lied to. I will not stand in your way if you choose to follow your hearts and continue what you believe to be a patriotic mission, however I will not follow the orders of a corrupt government that only wishes to remove any loose ends.”
He holds onto the button next to the microphone for several seconds after finishing, in shock at what he has said, the faint static of the open channel filtering through every speaker in the hastily assembled fleet. Throughout the rockets’ quiet chambers, the light hiss fills the stunned silence. The “volunteers” of the Junior Space Corps, the guards assigned to control them, and the contingent of regular army troops assigned to the general’s new command all sit quietly. Each group had been given its own version of the mission, and each had doubted its completeness and veracity, but none had thought it more than an issue of compartmentalized information for the safety of the mission. The general’s words have the unmistakable ring of truth.
Only one group of people are not shocked by the general’s outburst, smoothly moving to contingency plan B. Throughout the fleet, officers who were assigned to the general’s staff right before launch spring into action. One such officer is in the command capsule.
“Initiate command, override procedure alpha x-ray. Verification, Zulu epsilon six seven, voice print authenticate. General, you are hereby removed from command and ordered to report to the brig.” The only thing colder than his voice is his eyes, which glare at the general like two chips of obsidian. During a several second delay while the computer processes the command, the general and the apparently insubordinate lieutenant stare at each other. No one in the capsule moves.
“Authentication accepted,” the computer breaks the silence. “Shutting down all systems.”
As if choreographed, everyone erupts into motion at once. The lieutenant reaches for his ankle and the hand gun concealed under his pant leg. Across the capsule, the communications officer who had been searching for the game releases his harness and jumps from his seat. As he pushes off, the computer shuts down the engines. All the lights click off, and the light acceleration that had mimicked gravity stops. The communications officer’s tackle, which had been aimed for the lieutenant’s midsection, goes high over his head. He reaches out, more to control his momentum than to attack, and grabs the lieutenant’s head, dashing it against a console.
The lieutenant hangs limply in his harness, blood oozing up through his close-cropped hair. Across the fleet, similar scenes are acted out as the government’s agents begin to initiate their contingency plan. The rockets continue to coast on their trajectories, no systems online.
Chapter 20
Space
Mountain Stronghold
The atmosphere in The Watcher’s chamber is subdued, like a wet wool blanket has been draped over a bomb that has entered its final countdown. A solid jangling core of tension fills everyone’s stomachs. The Watcher has prepared an overview of the space surrounding their mountain home, scaled so that the approaching rockets are clearly visible. The tiny rockets creep closer to the mountain, each one little more than a speck of light when shown next to the mountain’s flanks. However insignificant they may appear, The Watcher has just informed the assembled humans that the rockets carry enough firepower to destroy their entire facility should they manage to get inside.
The information displayed beside the rockets continues to grow as The Watcher scans deeper and deeper into their systems, building a portfolio of details that might prove useful. The humans simply watch as they creep closer.
“Hostiles have ceased acceleration burn and should begin deceleration in twenty seconds,” The Watcher’s voice states conversationally. Gavitte is lost in his own thoughts and lets The Watcher’s voice fade
from his consciousness. Where did the rockets come from? Surely he would have heard if there was a military program of this scale underway during his term. The hole in the budget would have been too big to cover up. They couldn’t have rushed the project out in the few days between the launch of the mountain and their pursuers’ launch. So where did they come from? The Watcher’s voice cuts back into his awareness.
“Three. Two. One. Burn should initiate.” The gathered humans stare at the screen, and even The Watcher’s glowing avatar seems to hold its breath. “No burn detected, all systems appear inactive. They’re coming in dark, but by my calculations they do not possess the power in their auxiliary thrusters to handle their relative velocity. They will pass us by.”
Everyone begins talking at once, speculating on the intent of their would-be assailants. Could they be trying to sneak in undetected? Or maybe they’re planning on launching an attack as they fly by before continuing on their mission. Other theories are bandied about, but none seem to make any sense.
“Watcher?” Gavitte asks quietly from his place at the back of the crowd centered around The Watcher’s projection. The computer is fully capable of engaging in multiple conversations at once, so even though it is involved in sounding out the group’s theories, Gavitte asks for its assistance on his own theory. “Can you calculate back to the launch site of the rockets pursuing us and tell me who owns the land?”
“Certainly, Mr. Gavitte.” The Watcher’s voice sounds like he is whispering in Gavitte’s ear, having been projected so only he can hear. “Give me just a minute to access the databases on Earth.”
Gavitte only has to twiddle his thumbs for a matter of seconds before The Watcher is back whispering in his ear.
“The parcel of land from which they were launched appears to be a private federal reserve. None of the records indicate who owns it, nor can I access any historical data regarding who owned it before the government assumed stewardship. Interestingly, it appears to not be managed by any particular branch of government either.”
“I see. The only people with enough clout to pull off something like that would be one of the ruling families, but what would they be building rockets for?” Gavitte muses, sifting through layers of office gossip and overheard snippets of conversations from the halls of government. His lips are pursed as the memories flicker past, until one grabs his attention, some laughable bit of gossip that he’d heard in the lunchroom the week before this whole absurd adventure had begun.
“Can you analyze the rockets further?” he continues. “I’m guessing they were not built for military service but for colony building.”
The Watcher makes a few short comments in the main conversation as the military minds in the room have steered the discussion away from what the approaching force’s motives are to what their response should be given the possible situations.
“From what I can gather about the equipment and crew on board, it would appear that your assumption is correct. Aside from a small contingent of highly armed soldiers and one very large explosive device, the remainder of the crew appears to be lightly armed guard staff and what appears to be a large civilian militia contingent though I have my doubts as to their actual capability. There is evidence to suggest that the guard staff is there to guard the civilians, which draws into question their status as a militia force.”
“Thank you,” Gavitte whispers back, bemused by the overreaction and apparent ineptitude of the government: a response force sent after them that consists primarily of conscripted labor who’ve been training to build an off-planet colony. Surely they could have commandeered one of the rockets for their military force, unless the whole thing is meant to be some sort of decoy.
By now the hubbub in the room has died down, the defense plans having been completed. Gavitte can hear Angelina’s voice quietly issuing orders over a radio to the units stationed around the base. Everyone else is entranced by the display once more.
“The first rocket will draw even with our position in one minute,” The Watcher announces.
Everyone inhales slightly and seems to hold their breath as the seconds tick by slowly. They wait to see if the rocket will suddenly awaken and launch some kind of attack. On the projection their relative positions, represented by two icons, one a cluster of dots and the other a mountain, draw closer and closer until they overlap and merge.
“First rocket passing us now. Still running dark, no active systems detected. Life signatures within the vessel appear to be in some sort of turmoil,” The Watcher informs them. “Second rocket appears to be on a collision course, impact in thirty seconds.”
Everyone glances around in confusion. Of all their expected scenarios, flying past without doing anything was not one they had contemplated.
“Twenty seconds. Impact is ninety-nine percent probable,” The Watcher says without inflection.
“All hands, brace for impact,” Angelina orders over the base’s communication network. “I repeat, impending collision. Brace for impact.”
A small timer in the corner of the projection ticks down slowly, each second feeling like an eternity as the icon for the second rocket approaches and merges with theirs. Once they are completely superimposed, there is a pause as everyone tenses.
Nothing happens, the timer clicks through to zero. The icon for the rocket disappears from the projection. Then, after a heartbeat, a trembling sensation builds up through the floor into a crescendo as the rocket crumples into the flank of the mountain. The transfer of energy pushes the mountain askew slightly on its flight path, causing everyone to stumble as the floors feel like they all suddenly tilt. But other than a few rocks jarred loose and a few sloshed drinks, no damage is reported throughout the base. Everyone in The Watcher’s chamber is dumbstruck, but to all appearances the rocket just crumpled into the mountain without even trying to change course or launch an attack.
“Third rocket is approaching and will impact on the opposite flank. One minute until impact,” The Watcher states.
Once more, the gathering begins talking animatedly, trying to digest the newest development. Their voices continue to rise until Gavitte cuts them off.
“Everyone, hold it a second.” His voice echoes in the chamber as everyone else stops mid-sentence. “I think the situation with the rockets is more complicated than a hastily equipped military expedition. In fact, I’m willing to bet a majority of those sent after us had no choice in the matter.”
“How does that help us deal with the bomb they are carrying?” one of the general’s aides asks.
“Because a bomb needs someone to push the button,” Gavitte responds. “And if the mutiny I suspect is happening on those rockets is actually underway, we might be able to negotiate a peaceful outcome for everyone. We just need more time.”
“Impact in thirty seconds,” The Watcher says, as if to punctuate Gavitte’s point.
“Can we stop it?” Gavitte asks.
“Yes,” The Watcher states. “It might damage my drive capabilities, but I can slow the approaching vessels and bring them under my control.”
“Then do it,” Gavitte commands without hesitation. “I don’t want any more innocent people to die.”
This time the shudder that passes through the base feels rhythmic, like the pulsing of a heart, as The Watcher redirects and detunes the mountain’s drives and uses their force to slow the inbound vessels. At first it seems as effective as blowing at an approaching freight train, but as The Watcher brings the drives’ output into a tighter focus, the cluster of dots begins to noticeably slow. Throughout the base, lights flicker and cracks begin to appear as the engines, which had been powerful enough to rip them free from Earth’s gravity, struggle to finesse the delicate structures of the incoming rockets to a relative velocity of zero.
Chapter 21
Foothills of the Western Mountains
A University Town
As far as basements go, the one in which Jon and Ryan are hiding is pleasant. The walls are painted a
cheerful shade of yellow, and the furniture pieces, while rejects from the world above, are comfortable. Their hosts have left the house to try and find some stronger painkillers for The Professor, whose condition has been worsening each day despite the little medical knowledge they have figured out by trial and error. His broken limbs have been set and splinted, his broken ribs wrapped in an attempt to stabilize them, and the numerous cuts and scrapes that he collected during their escape have been cleaned and bandaged.
He is lying on the bed beside them, his forehead beaded with sweat and his face pale. Each breath seems strained, the inhale abruptly stopping followed by an exhale that sounds like sandpaper dragged across stone. Beside the bed, Jon and Ryan are slouched in two mismatched overstuffed floral print armchairs, oriented so they are facing a television screen at the foot of the bed.
They had been watching a daytime movie they had both already seen, occasionally talking through the bits they remembered but generally using the film as an excuse not to talk. Unfortunately as the sun had risen higher in the sky, its rays tracking across the dingy white carpet, the movie had ended and was replaced by a news program.
“Several members of the Resistance were apprehended today as they attempted to pass through a security check point,” the perky reporter who anchors the midmorning newscast announces with a smile. “They have been linked to the bombing that occurred this morning at the honorable General Long’s home outside the Capital. It is believed they were attempting to break the quarantine surrounding the university campus so they could meet up with their fellow terrorists who carried out the bombing. They are set to be sentenced later this week. For more insight into this series of events, we turn to our expert Bill O’Donnell live from the Capital. Bill?”
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