by David Ryker
Oscar’s throat bobbed as she let go of the tie. His eyes were wide, but whether it was with shock or fear, she couldn’t tell. Not that it mattered. She turned and headed for the front door, not knowing whether people under her father’s command would emerge to try and stop her. If they did, she would fight them with everything she had.
As it turned out, Oscar Bloom simply stared at her in silence as she left the family home for what would be the last time in her life. It didn’t occur to her until much later that she hadn’t even asked about her mother.
The two escorts were outside the door when she opened it.
“Take me to my friends now,” she demanded.
They glanced at Oscar, who nodded silently, apparently still trying to process her outburst. Good, she thought.
As she strode toward the elevator, flanked by the two people in black, Chelsea Bloom realized she already thought of the Jarheads more like family than anyone with whom she shared DNA.
2
Napoleon Quinn gazed out the huge window at the San Francisco Bay far below, the dappled Pacific waters reflecting a glaring yellow sun back up into the blue skies that made up almost the entire view. He was standing in a vast office on the 70th floor of the UFT Government House Tower, one of four identical buildings that formed the pillars of a square, with a huge park and outdoor mall at its base. It had been a long time since he’d been this high up in a building, and he’d never been able to see the ground from this perspective in his life. It had always been obscured by a bank of smog.
“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” asked Tribune Morley Drake, standing by his side.
Quinn shrugged, prompting a protest of pain in his nose. It was still tender from its encounter with the concrete floor of the hangar in Toomey’s secret lair.
“It’s just another prison, as far as I’m concerned,” he said. “They’re all the same; doesn’t matter if the view is outer space or the Bay City.” He turned to Drake. “So what happens next?”
The retired Marine general’s expression curdled, but his voice was even when he answered.
“What happens next is I get to the bottom of this, Captain. You and your men here—”
“And women!” Gloom snapped. She was sitting with Dev Schuster on a sofa a few meters away, while Ulysses and Ben sat on another. Geordie Bishop and Ellie Rosenberg stood, hand-in-hand, by the window near Quinn, with Percival Maggott straining the confines of an armchair between the sofas. There was a low table in front of the seating area with trays of food that they’d all been eyeing since their escort had dropped them here some twenty minutes earlier.
“What she said, ye fookin’ dobber,” Maggott muttered.
Drake shot a look at Quinn, likely expecting him to discipline his man for insubordination, but Quinn simply stared back. He was in no mood to kowtow to the tribune after everything he and his friends had been through, Marine protocol be damned.
“I beg your pardon,” Drake said after a long pause. “You and your people here have pulled some pretty over-the-top stunts recently. We need to get to the bottom of what happened and what we should do with you all.”
“I got a suggestion ‘bout what you can do with yerself,” Ulysses said amiably. “Wanna hear it?”
“Thanks, but no,” Drake said drily. “Wanna hear why you’re not already in custody, Mr. Coker? Do I need to remind you that you were convicted of multiple felonies, including manslaughter?”
Ulysses scowled. Quinn had to admit to himself that he’d forgotten that very pertinent fact in the weeks since this whole nightmare began. He tried not to think about the moral implications of owing his life a couple times over to an escaped criminal.
“What about me?” asked Ben, crossing his arms over his chest. “What did I do?”
“You’ve been pirating the frequencies for years with your outlaw journalism, Mr. Kenya.” Drake appeared genuinely angry at their new friend. “Spreading seditious lies around the world. People like you are the reason we required licences for posting content in the first place.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “My name isn’t Foster Kenya; that’s an online alias. You don’t know my real name, do you?” He gestured toward Gloom. “Or hers, either. You don’t know a damn thing about either of us.”
Drake glowered but didn’t answer.
“What about us?” asked Quinn, deciding to press the advantage now that the tribune was off balance. “The world now knows we were set up in Astana by that cyborg with my face, which means we were wrongly convicted and railroaded into Oberon One. As far as I’m concerned, we’re free pending appeal.”
The barely constrained desperation in Drake’s eyes told Quinn everything he needed to know: for the first time ever, the Jarheads had the upper hand.
“Look,” Drake sighed. “I’m not here to fight with you. I just need to find out what’s going on. Five of you escaped from Oberon One after inciting a riot and stealing a SkyLode ship. Then in that illegal broadcast, you were talking with those men—”
“Those men,” Bishop mocked. “You expect us to believe that people like Toomey and Agent Zero can operate without the government knowing about it?”
“We know Toomey was the head of Prometheus before it went under, or at least its black ops department,” said Ben. “And only an idiot would claim that the government didn’t have any dealings with them.”
“Yer not an idjit, are you, Tribune Drake?” Ulysses was grinning now, obviously emboldened by the defiance he was seeing from the others.
Drake, meanwhile, was running his hands down his face in exhaustion. When he looked up again, the bags under his eyes looked like they were filled with cement. It was almost enough to make Quinn feel sorry for him. Almost, but not quite.
“Let’s take this one step at a time,” said Drake. “You claim that some sort of alien intelligence has taken over Oberon One. My people have been in touch with Warden Farrell since your escape, and according to him, things are running just fine there. Other than having to clean up the mess you people left behind, that is.”
“It’s Kergan speaking through Farrell’s body,” said Quinn. “The guy took over the minds of everyone on the station. They’re his drones now.”
Drake stared at him. “You say that like I’m just supposed to believe it. What else, Captain? Did the Easter Bunny escape with you, too?”
Quinn sighed. The conversation was starting to remind him of the times he’d tried to convince Zero of the same story.
“First of all,” he said, “I’m not a captain, thanks to you. Second, you saw the video. Toomey confirmed everything we’re saying. That’s why he stole FUBAR and disappeared.”
“FUBAR?”
“It’s what we christened the ship after we escaped,” said Schuster. “You know what it means, right?”
“I’m still a Marine, boy, and don’t forget it,” the tribune snapped. “It means fucked up beyond all repair. Kind of like this whole situation.”
“So let’s unfuck it,” said Quinn. “You can’t argue with the evidence, Drake. We made it to Earth from the orbit of Uranus in three weeks. You know that’s impossible without considerably more advanced technology than you have access to.”
“How do I know it didn’t come from Prometheus?”
“Because the head of Prometheus stole it!” cried Ben. “Seriously, did you actually even watch the video?”
Gloom slouched on the sofa beside Ben, absorbed in the display of her advanced wristband. Quinn was glad she was distracted; if she joined the conversation, things might go even farther south than they already were.
Bishop and Ellie propped themselves against either arm of Maggott’s chair, his own massive arms leaving them with little room for their butts.
“Toomey himself confirmed it,” said Bishop. “He’s got a completely skewed idea of what the alien presence is all about, but he got the basic facts right. The aliens can subjugate the will of humans within a limited radius. Kergan and Kevin Sloane, one of the prison�
��s techs, took over the minds of several people on the station to varying degrees, but they failed with some of us.”
“So Sloane built a device to amplify their abilities,” said Schuster. “He created it with the help of an unknown element that we discovered on the moon Oberon, and Kergan used it during our escape to turn everyone on board into a drone. Now he’s using those drones to build a means for his species to travel to our solar system and conquer humanity.”
Drake raised an eyebrow. “Again, that’s a lot to ask someone to believe. What happened to this Sloane?”
“He was killed,” Quinn said quickly. He didn’t trust Schuster not to inadvertently give away the truth—that part of Sloane’s consciousness had been transferred into Schuster’s head—so he cut him off. “By Kergan. But not before Sloane had upgraded the technology on the station’s Rafts, and in some other areas.”
“And how did he do that?”
“Watch the goddamn video!” Quinn barked. “Toomey explained it all. The aliens are sentient thought, with access to a hive mind. They’ve taken over God knows how many species across the galaxy and absorbed their scientific knowledge. They can build technology that we can only dream of, thanks to the element we dug out of Oberon.”
“And this gate they’re supposedly building?”
“It’s a wormhole generator that will open up a portal to wherever the closest armada is and allow it to break the light speed barrier and show up on our doorstep,” said Schuster. “And when they get here, we’re toast unless we start preparing yesterday.”
Quinn felt a surge of pride. If he’d been able to, he would have given Dev a field commission for everything he’d accomplished in the last month. The kid had serious future leadership potential. Too bad there was no guarantee that there would even be a future.
Drake turned to face Quinn, who shrugged. “I can’t add anything to that, except that Toomey is headed to Oberon One as we speak, looking to work with Kergan.”
The tribune’s eyes widened and he reached into a pocket in his suit for a small vial that he stuck in his mouth, then withdrew. A few seconds later, he seemed to have calmed down somewhat.
“Nitro,” he said dismissively. “Routine medicine. I ordered a small group of ships to go after Toomey; they’ll bring him back.”
“You might wanna give ‘em a call, man.” Ulysses was smiling again. “I’m bettin’ they got some bad news for yuh.”
“I can already hear ‘em,” Maggott said with a chuckle. “Beggin’ yer leave, sir, but we been left holdin’ our tadgers.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Drake growled.
“Toomey is long gone,” said Bishop. “FUBAR has true stealth capability, as in it can become invisible, not just to sensors but to the naked eye. And it’s twice as fast as the fastest private ships on Earth. No one will be able to catch him.”
That didn’t appear to sit well with Drake, but Quinn found it difficult to give a shit.
“What you believe is up to you,” he said. “But we’re going to do everything we can to stop those aliens, whether you and your government are on board or not.” Sudden realization made him pause for a moment. “Where are your fellow tribunes, anyway?”
Drake cleared his throat. “They haven’t been looped in. Yet.”
“I’d suggest you do something pretty soon, then,” said Gloom, not looking up from the screen on her wrist.
“Really?” Drake said mockingly. “And why would you suggest that?”
She made a few gestures over the control panel of her wristband and suddenly there was a flat three-dimensional display of a message cloud floating in the air a few feet in front of where she sat on the sofa.
Just as it appeared, Chelsea came walking into the room. Quinn was relieved that she was here. Out of all of them, she was the least likely to be in any danger, but it still felt good to have her in his line of sight again.
“What did I miss?” she asked. “What’s going on?”
Quinn focused on the cloud, a group of text messages from the comments board linked to Foster Kenya’s channel, with tags like #FreeTheMarines and #TruthAboutOberon. One had a red three-dimensional heart next to #Jarheads4Ever. His eyes narrowed.
“What does it mean?” he asked.
“It means we’re famous,” she said with a grin.
Ben scanned his own monitor. “Thousands of people are demanding to know more about Oberon, and just as many are recognizing you four as the Marines associated with Frank King’s kidnapping. They want answers from the government.” He looked up at Quinn with a grin of his own. “We did it, man. People are talking, and it’s only going to get louder from here.”
As the others gathered around the displays to read the messages, Drake grabbed Quinn’s elbow with one hand while stuffing the vial from his pocket into his mouth again with the other.
“You and I need to talk alone,” he said quietly after he’d pulled it back out. “Before this situation gets out of hand.”
“I agree we need to talk,” said Quinn. “But believe me, Drake, this situation was out of hand about six weeks and three billion kilometers ago.”
3
Quinn and Drake excused themselves and left the others to go through the network buzz that had been generated by the video. Chelsea had made it clear by her expression that she needed to talk, too, and Quinn had nodded his understanding.
They settled into a smaller office with a desk and two chairs; Drake waved him toward one and took the other himself, so that the desk was between them. The security drone that was Drake’s constant companion whirred its way into the corner and rose to the ceiling, where it hovered softly.
Drake pulled a bottle from a side drawer. “Drink?”
Quinn thought for a moment; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had booze, and he figured that a tribune of the world government would have some of the best.
“Sure, why not?” He leaned back in the chair and propped his feet on the edge of the desk. “There’s no shortage of things to celebrate.”
Frowning, Drake handed him the glass with two fingers of what turned out to be far and away the best scotch Quinn had ever tasted. It was so smooth it almost felt like he was breathing it instead of drinking it.
“All right, Quinn, I get it,” Drake said as he took his seat. “You were dealt a shit hand, and you managed to play it into a winner. Now dial back the cockiness, will you?”
“Easy for you to say, seeing as how you were the dealer.” Quinn took another sip. “I swore to you that it wasn’t me in the Astana incident, and yet you still testified against us in the court-martial. No one would even consider investigating our claim, including you, and my men and I spent two years in that orbital hell because of it.”
Drake surprised him by grinning. “Well, if what you’re saying is true, Quinn, it’s a damn good thing you were there, isn’t it? Because as much as I hate to admit this, I highly doubt anyone else could have gotten to where you are now, to warn us about what’s coming. We can talk about reparations later; right now we need to focus on this alien invasion of yours.”
“We can focus on some of the reparations later,” said Quinn. “But first I want a full pardon for my men and me, and I want it right fucking now.”
“You know that’s not how the system works. Just because this Toomey fellow admits he set you up doesn’t mean he wasn’t deranged. There has to be an investigation—”
“Investigate this.” Quinn flipped him the bird. “Tribunes have the power to pardon.”
“Not exactly. The tribunal has the power to pardon. The three of us have to agree, or at least have a majority vote. And I haven’t brought the others in yet because I didn’t want to bother them with something that could have turned out to be a trivial matter.”
Quinn sighed inwardly. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. The Trilateral government had barely formed when the Jarheads had been banished to Oberon One. Here it was two years later and it was alread
y back to secrets and lies.
“You mean you wanted to get to me first,” he said. “Because you knew that your political rise was a direct result of Frank King’s disappearance, and that your hard stance at our court martial played a role in it. It’s good to know the world government is in such trustworthy hands.”
“Prison has made you cynical,” said Drake.
“No, wrongful conviction made me cynical. Prison just made me tougher and more resourceful.” He sipped his scotch. “Tell me, did you pull my file before you sent us on that assignment with King?”
“Your service record, yes. You were an exemplary Marine, until you punched out a militia colonel from a Global Family in Sao Paulo.”
“I was born in Manhattan,” said Quinn. “Even then, the island was already one huge Tower. But my father made a few mistakes in the market when I was two and we lost everything. I grew up in the Bronx.”
“So you’re from the lowtown.”
“Call it what it is, General: a slum, just like all the other slums in the shadows of the world’s Towers. But before we fell, my family had a long tradition with the Marines. My father served in Kazakhstan during the occupation after the nuclear conflict. My grandfather drove a tank in Iraq and Afghanistan, and my great-grandfather was a platoon commander in the American war in Vietnam.”
“I don’t mean to make light of your family legacy,” said Drake. “But I’m afraid I’m not getting your point.”
“The point is that service is in my blood. I enlisted because I was expected to, even though my father ended up with nothing and we had to scrape every single day to survive. They didn’t come up with the service pension until after he’d mustered out.”
The service pension was a by-product of the Trade Wars. It paid anyone who served two full terms in war a monthly stipend for the rest of their lives. That was usually enough to allow them to live in a Tower, as long as they had another job on the side. It was the perfect recruiting tool at a time when the world was littered with poor people looking to improve their lot in life.
