by P. R. Adams
“What about you, though?” He crossed to the desk, squatting close enough to her that she instinctively recoiled. He looked her straight in the eyes again. He could smell the soap on her skin and the shampoo in her hair: sandalwood. But he could smell her…fear? Her beauty was still intimidating, intoxicating, but it didn’t control him at the moment. “What do you think of this negotiation? What do you think of the two of them being selected? We’re seeking peace? As if the attack never happened? As if everyone they killed was meaningless?”
Kleigshoen shivered and averted her eyes. “It’s not meaningless. Things just happen at different levels, right? This moment, at this level, they’re worried about ending the war.”
“It’s lousy. All of it.”
“They’re willing to give you to this Commander Talwar if that will make the deal happen.” Kleigshoen still refused to meet his eyes. “They aren’t going to give you any good choices, Jack: court martial for war crimes or whatever torture this Talwar has in mind. You’re an embarrassment to people like Saxbury. I think they’ll want to let the metacorporations deal with you to save the military from an unpopular trial.”
Rimes gently cupped Kleigshoen’s chin and turned her to look at him. He felt a fire rising, but not for her. It was the fury burning inside him since finding Molly and the boys in the tower. “I appreciate your concern, but my fate was sealed when they took my family from me. I want to know your fate.”
Kleigshoen screwed up her face, confused. “My fate?”
“What do you think of this effort Saxbury and Mazarov are behind? They’re following a dangerous course. I need to know where you stand.”
“Why did you have to complicate this?” Kleigshoen sniffled and wiped a tear from her eyes. “All you had to do was survive. Everything else would have resolved itself. I’m not the only one worrying about you, you know. Captain Brigston, Lonny, they’re worried too. You’re not sleeping. You’ve pushed yourself too hard. You’re…changing.”
“Dana, I need to know.”
“You used nuclear weapons, Jack.” Kleigshoen’s voice was a whisper. “Unless you pin this on that Polish engineer, no one can protect you. Not IB. Not the military. No one. You’ve destroyed your career. You’re toxic.”
Rimes closed his eyes. The roar, the flames, the screams rose again. He opened his eyes and leaned in, his nose millimeters from hers. “Dariusz did what I asked him to do. It was my call. Tell me what you think of their plan?”
Kleigshoen rested her forehead against his. She shook, quietly sobbing. “It’s my job. Don’t you understand? They…everyone wants the war to end. No one wants to ask why they attacked or what they did or who was involved or how it even happened. The message was pervasive back on Earth: Make it stop. No facts, just messaging. No one’s allowed to form their own opinion. I can’t fight that.”
But you want to. They wouldn’t send you along without some latitude.
“I could hear it in their communications, Dana. The metacorporations can’t hold this together for long. Even here, supposedly cooperating, they were stabbing each other in the back, jockeying over who should take the blame and how to turn it to their advantage. It was like sitting in on an executive meeting. If it’s happening within one group, imagine what’s going on throughout their forces. We could have broken them. They had no concept what they were getting into. None. Another month, three at the outside, they’d have been begging us for peace. It’s in their nature to fight each other. It’s how they advance in their careers. It’s how one gets ahead of the others. You’ve dealt with these metacorporations for years now. You know it as well as I do.”
Kleigshoen fished a tissue out of her travel bag and blew her nose. “We’re not talking to all of them. We’ll negotiate with the commanders here. These are T-Corp and MDC forces. It’s the largest force after ADMP and Cytek. They were told what terms would be acceptable before they even launched. Break these two off, and the whole thing comes apart. The war is over, and they go back to fighting each other.”
Economically. Discreetly. Assassination, kidnapping, theft. They’re new to this full-on combat. They don’t have the stomach for it.
Rimes straightened, suddenly realizing how vulnerable and uncomfortable Kleigshoen probably felt with so little clothing and him so close. “They’ll send for me soon.”
Kleigshoen wiped away the last of her tears from red and puffy eyes. She rose and kissed him on the cheek but stopped there. She fished a conservative, dull-green skirt and jacket and a mustard yellow blouse from her travel bag.
“Civilian cammy,” she joked, nodding at Rimes’s uniform. She looked around the cabin for a moment before setting the outfit out on top of the desk. “You never get over how cramped these quarters are.”
“I can move to the brig. It doesn’t bother me.”
“No, I…” Kleigshoen forced a smile. “I’m trying to find the words, that’s all. What do I say? Throw yourself on their mercy? They don’t have any mercy. I thought I was ambitious, right? Career-focused, keep your eye on the prize? But these two…”
“It’s going to be all right. Trust me.”
“Jack—”
A knock came from the hatch, and Kleigshoen jumped. Although muted, it may as well have been an explosion.
“Get dressed,” Rimes said.
Once Kleigshoen had the skirt on, Rimes opened the door.
Two of Mazarov’s thugs stood outside, dressed in fanciful Russian dress uniforms rather than the duller Combined Forces uniforms. Rimes nodded at them and stepped past, then waited for the hatch to close. When the thugs walked past him, he fell in behind them, his mind already moving on to the inquiry and its inevitable outcome.
22
27 December, 2173. CFN Arizona.
* * *
The Arizona’s conference room was every bit as cramped as the quarters Rimes shared with Kleigshoen. Sweat trickled over the scar on his temple, not from nerves but from the warm and heavy air. He dragged a knuckle over the scar and brushed his skin dry. His battle dress uniform was out of place around all the finery—Admiral Saxbury in the crisp whites of the Combined Forces Navy, and General Mazarov in the Combined Forces Army blue service uniform—but with the braided epaulets and gold buttons of the old Russian military. Even frail, thin Saxbury seemed to be slowly boiling in the heat. Along with the polish, starch, and cologne coming off everyone, Rimes imagined he could smell alcohol in the sweat on Mikhail Mazarov’s brow.
Hovering over the conference room table was an image of the metacorporate task force floating in space. Formed in a tight wedge, its surviving frigates bunched in front and above the capital ships, the task force was an impressive display of power. The image intermittently flickered, another sign of the compromises behind the Arizona.
Saxbury sat at the head of the table, ghostly in starched white. Her bottomless brown eyes were framed by thin, ash-colored brows and lashes. Her features were pinched, bland. To her right, a small crown of brown hair circled General Mazarov’s sun-bronzed head. Thick, brown brows bunched over the bridge of a hawkish nose and gray eyes. He scratched at his brutish jaw, then tugged at his jacket, as if uncomfortable with the way it clung to his protruding gut.
A young Indian captain dressed in the same Combined Forces Army blue service uniform as Mazarov sat to his left. She was plain and a little plump, but her eyes were bright, and her face had subtle, telltale scarring. Rimes had seen such scarring on people who’d undergone surgical procedures to deal with genetic damage caused by chemical dumping like the kind that was so rampant on the Indian subcontinent.
Saxbury pointed to the chair at her left. The effort seemed to exhaust her, as if she could only accomplish it by drawing from the deep well of loathing she reserved just for Rimes.
Rimes stepped into the room and seated himself.
“Before we officially initiate the inquiry, Colonel, I want to assure you there is no animus behind the proceedings.” Saxbury’s eyelids were barely open, as if the th
ought of looking fully at Rimes might taint her. Her cultured, almost pleasant accent seemed even crisper than when they’d first met. “What we undertake today is a formal process to determine the facts of your actions against the enemy combatants both on Plymouth and on Sahara. The process is not unique, nor is it in any way biased. The outcome of this inquiry shall be a report which General Mazarov and I shall use to determine our final judgment in regards to your execution of duties. Do you find this satisfactory?”
Rimes looked at the three officers. There was malice in Mazarov and Saxbury’s eyes and an almost inhuman detachment in the young captain’s. “I appreciate the explanation, Admiral,” Rimes said, managing to execute the emotionless tone Saxbury had tried for.
Saxbury signaled the inquiry’s beginning. The captain came alive, activating assorted recording devices and military legal applications. She quickly began interfacing with the applications. Rimes focused on her throughout the opening statements as dates, locations, and participants were detailed.
The whole thing dragged on interminably.
As the proceedings progressed Rimes dedicated only a sliver of his attention to Saxbury’s droning voice. The rest he focused on the metacorporate task force hovering over the table. Although the ships presented an intimidating front, they also exposed an undeniable anxiety. The commanders were no more united now than they had been before, but with the Arizona task force’s arrival they were overmatched to the point that even the perception of petty squabbles had to be squashed. The attempted projection of power and unity was an illusion, the desperate flaring of colored tail feathers to drive away a hungry predator.
“Do you accept the details as stated here, Colonel Rimes?” Saxbury’s head tilted slightly, as if she thought he might not be listening.
“I do,” Rimes said. Dates, names, times: all objective data.
Saxbury moved on to a review of the records and other interviews. Rimes listened intently, curious about the perspectives of those who had actually been involved. He blinked calmly at some of the descriptions of events, wondering at the unpredictable nature of each person’s unique perception of a situation and its vulnerability to external influences.
“In your estimation, Colonel, was Captain Meyers affected by the death of Lieutenant Kara Irvin?” Saxbury’s voice and manner failed to hide the trap she seemed to be setting.
“Captain Meyers accepted Lieutenant Irvin’s death as part of war,” Rimes said calmly. “Lieutenant Irvin was a good officer and an even better person. I admire Captain Meyers’s ability to see the unprovoked aggression for what it was and to maintain a level of professionalism in the face of personal loss.”
Mazarov turned. “You do not believe the captain conducted himself…questionably?” He seemed oblivious to how fake his affected coolness came off.
“Captain Meyers is the consummate professional, General Mazarov. He suffered a terrible loss, but he and Lieutenant Irvin both accepted the risks of being in the military. Obviously, that risk should never include being subjected to the sort of dishonorable acts you’ve recorded in your inquiry to date, but as soldiers and sailors, we at least understand that our careers involve risk of life and limb.”
“In your own estimation, a soldier’s duty is to remain…‘professional’—like this Captain Meyers—in the execution of his or her duties?” Mazarov smiled, apparently pleased with his cleverness.
“We have some fairly clear definitions about duties and codes of conduct, General.” Rimes closed his eyes for a moment, pushing away the images of slaughter and the agonized voices screaming for justice.
“Colonel Rimes?” Saxbury coughed quietly. “Was that your complete response?”
“I’m sorry.” Rimes opened his eyes. “No. Captain Meyers adhered to the codes of conduct in battle, even though our enemy was not a military force but a terrorist operation. This is commendable. I have already submitted him and several other soldiers for decorations. They performed above and beyond reasonable expectations.”
“Terrorist, Colonel?” Saxbury’s eyelids fluttered. “Would you be so kind as to explain that characterization? I’m afraid it’s the first use of the term, at least to describe the opposition.”
“Certainly. Terrorism’s accepted definition involves acts of violence—to include war—to induce terror as a means of coercion, without regard for the safety of civilians. This is done for political, ideological, or religious objectives. I believe, based off the data you’ve already presented, it’s quite clear the metacorporate operations we’ve been fighting against for the last several weeks fall under this definition. Of course, I’m open to other interpretations. Admiral? General?”
“And what political, ideological, or religious objectives would you propose meet your definition, Colonel Rimes?” The subtlest of smirks tweaked Saxbury’s lips. “These are corporate entities, not nation-states or religious groups.”
“I’m sorry, Admiral. I thought it was obvious.” Rimes tilted his head and arched his eyebrows in feigned surprise. “Capitalism. Unfettered, unrepentant, inhuman capitalism. Demands for unrestricted market access. Demands for dissolution of all patents, trademarks, and claims to property of non-metacorporate entities. Dissolution of all government entities and their programs. Did you…did you not see the original declaration of trade contravention listing the complaints and demands delivered to the United Nations Special Security Council prior to the attacks? All twelve of the metacorporate CEOs signed off on the document. The entire Special Security Council was convened specifically to hear the presentation. I simply assumed, what with the two of you being hand-picked by three of the council’s newly appointed members, all drawn from the Interstellar Trade Organization, that you were aware of this document and its implications?”
Saxbury’s face suddenly took on color. Mazarov’s thuggish, brutish eyes narrowed to pale slits. They quickly glanced at each other, then back at Rimes.
“Capitalism is an ideology,” Rimes said. “I can’t think of any rational person who would argue otherwise. It’s an economic theory, put into practice. A system. General, our nations were bitter enemies for decades over our opposing economic ideologies. Establish that point, and you only have to connect the metacorporate actions to acts of terror against a civilian populace: butchery, torture, mass executions, rape. That’s easily done, I’m sure you would agree. You did review the video evidence gathered by my soldiers from Fort Concord and Delta City, correct, Admiral? General?” Rimes didn’t wait for a response. “If you consider the way governments have abdicated any hope of their citizens satisfying their basic needs to the whims of these metacorporations and even to their corporate forebears, I think it’s easily argued that terrorism, and the inability to reasonably assume we could have a decent life even with our best efforts, has been ongoing for some time. All that was missing was the gunfire and the more obvious acts we’ve seen in these recent weeks. Now you have those recordings, and you’ve already read from some of the interviews covering this fairly thoroughly. So, based off long-established international accords regarding combating terrorism, the options for conducting operations are limitless. This is, after all, how we obliterated terrorism in the past.”
Saxbury waved her hand. “I believe we can conclude our interview now.”
Rimes glanced up at the cameras mounted over the table. “Ladell, keep the recordings going, please.”
The young captain pressed and swiped at command icons on her virtual display, but the system continued to glow. She looked up, exasperated. “Admiral—”
Saxbury glared at Rimes. “Who are you talking to, Colonel Rimes?”
“Agent Ladell Barlowe. He’s Agent Kleigshoen’s aide. You should know. You requested IB send a systems expert to prevent our interference in your negotiations with the metacorporate fleet.” A menace-laced smile tugged at the corner of Rimes’s lips. “He’s been listening in this whole time.”
“The interview is completed.” Mazarov pounded a meaty fist on the table
.
“Not yet, General.” Rimes’s voice was as soft as Mazarov’s was harsh. “But it won’t take much longer. I want the record to show that I commend both Admiral Saxbury and General Mazarov for their bravery and the Special Security Council for its resolve.”
Mazarov stabbed a finger at Rimes. “That is enough from you, Colonel—”
Rimes held up a hand. “Given your family’s ties to metacorporate interests, Admiral Saxbury, you’ll have to work extremely hard to avoid any claims of bias, considering your knowledge that tens of millions of dollars of your family’s wealth is at risk, should the metacorporations suffer extensively from your negotiations or should they retaliate. Of course, this information isn’t widely known, but there are people with the resources to dig it up, and you do know how information loves to be free.”
“Colonel Rimes!” The color drained from Saxbury’s face.
Rimes turned calmly to the purple-faced general. “And General Mazarov, I’m sure your brother’s position at EEC can’t possibly be stable, given the relative failure of their security forces to date. Imagine the money at risk, not just for him but for you with touchy negotiations like this. You were planning to retire next year, I believe? Right around the time EEC planned to stand up a permanent security presence on the Europa colony? You’d probably double your pay with a position like that. Fortunately, you’re willing to put our people before your own welfare. I only wish I could manage such integrity and restraint at a time like this.”
Mazarov’s mouth worked, and veins bulged on his face. He looked from Rimes to Saxbury, exasperated. Finally, he turned to the young captain, who seemed once again calm.
“Do try to maintain some semblance of dignity, Mikhail,” Saxbury said. Her face was a waxy mask as she nodded slowly at Rimes. “Agent Barlowe, I believe that is quite sufficient?”
