by Danny Loomis
“Yes, but only partially. Also, you’ll have limited access to the computer systems on the ships, and all civilian networks for whatever planet you’re on. Your biggest problem will be sensory overload, until you’ve practiced with the system awhile.”
“How about weapons interfaces? I’ve heard rumors, but nothing specific.”
“I’m not cleared to tell you much about that,” Doctor Martins said. “However, there’s an Intel officer on board who wants to brief you as soon as you’ve mastered the fundamentals with your new abilities.”
“Thanks. I think. How long will all this take? Sounds like years.”
“You’ll be surprised at how fast you pick it up. On the average, it takes a week to become proficient. In your case, we did prep work while you were unconscious. You could call it sleep learning. I’d say maybe two or three days. About the time you get out of that regen chamber. Now hold still while I put this on you.”
As the nurse slipped the helmet on his head, Ian could feel his spirits soar. Three days. Three more days and he could get back to the real world.
STAR’S END CAPITOL, PHOENIX (Day +40):
The cabinet meeting had moved along smoothly, until their guest asked a question. If it hadn’t been asked by the Orion Confederation’s military commander, it would have been dismissed. The President’s cabinet was about to find out how hard it was to ignore Colonel “Mad Mike” Grayson.
“I repeat, Mister President, what real actions are being taken by your government to ease the tensions between yourselves and the Westerners?”
The President’s chief of staff, Richard Dupont, cast a look of disapproval toward Colonel Grayson. “What we are doing or not doing is none of your affair, Colonel. Kindly leave the running of our government to those who…”
Grayson smacked the table so hard his glass of water spilled. “Bullshit!”
Dupont flinched back in his chair as if slapped. Grayson visibly struggled to control his temper. “First off, I wasn’t talking to you. Secondly, if you’ve done such a good job running this government, why are members of your constituency trying to kill each other even now?”
President Martinez held up a placatory hand. “Please, Colonel, histrionics are out of place here. We’re doing our level best to stop the killing. Having to ask for assistance from the Confederation should underline our awareness of the fact we need help to drive out the Alliance presence. Then we can get on with our lives.”
Grayson shook his head in disbelief. “Are you sure I’m in the same room with the core leadership of your government? Please forgive my bluntness, but we have no time for pettiness. Nor do you have time, other than to identify why the feuds between the first and second wave of colonists still exists, even after hundreds of years living side by side.”
The President shook his head in confusion, while other members of his cabinet looked at each other questioningly. “Of course we’ve had our differences. But the law was set down a long time ago concerning our world. Certain portions of the western population just don’t think those laws apply to them. That’s our problem. Once we take care of these dissidents, stability should return.”
“Sir, I’ve studied your history. I’ve also studied your laws, especially as they apply to easterners and westerners. I suspect you’ve been close to the problem for so long you don’t see the basic reasons why this conflict came about. I’ll rephrase my original question: Have you identified the root causes for your present level of instability?”
President Martinez looked thoughtful. “Give me an example of what you think one of these root causes might be.”
“You tax the westerners more heavily,” Grayson said. “There’s a tax on goods sent to them, paid by the consumer. However, the goods received from them require a transport tax. In both cases the westerners pay, while eastern companies and the government profits. And before you say there’s no problem with that, reverse the roles. See if you’d agree to live under the same tax burden.”
The Secretary of Transportation, Ralph Hemingway, cleared his throat. “I admit it looks that way on the surface, but there’s a good reason for that tax.”
“You mean there was a good reason one hundred years ago,” Colonel Grayson said. “Times change. Either you change with the times, or get left behind.”
“Granted, we have some laws that seen from an outsider’s viewpoint, are somewhat one-sided,” the President said. “But that’s why we have a representative government. To address such things.”
Grayson snorted. “Your government is so lopsidedly set up to favor the east it’s amazing there hasn’t been a full-scale revolt on your hands before now.” He looked around the room. “President Martinez, I’m not a trained diplomat who comes to you with honeyed phrases, but I’m all you’re getting. The Confederation has a firm policy of hands off local governments, and any problems they may have. We wouldn’t even be here if the Alliance wasn’t. Once their presence is gone, we are also gone. Do you realize what that means to your government, in its present condition?”
Martinez sagged back in his chair. “Yes, Colonel, I do. If the problems continue in the west, it will de-stabilize our government to the point of collapse.”
“And that’s when you’ll see us again,” Grayson said. “When your planet no longer has a government, when anarchy has taken over—as it will here, without draconian measures—we’ll step in and install a caretaker government which will make sure stability returns. I guarantee you don’t want to have a Sector Governor step in.”
“Your point is made,” Martinez said wearily. “To answer your question, no, we’ve made no serious efforts to identify and solve the root problems.”
Grayson smiled wolfishly. “Good. That’s the first step. Honesty. Without it, you’re lost. May I make a suggestion, Mister President?” At his nod, Grayson stood and moved to the front of the room. “I suggest you convene a task force to identify the most serious difficulties between east and west. Half of the members of this group will be easterners, half westerners. They will answer directly to you. Once these differences have been identified, solutions will be hammered out. Start with those which cause the greatest tension. I urge you, sir, to make this work.”
“Why are you being so forthright with us, Colonel Grayson? What do you have to gain from all this?” the President asked.
Grayson stared at him with such intensity the President edged back in his chair.
“Because, Mister President, it would be me they would select to be the Governor. That’s something you don’t want to happen.” With that, he exited the room.
“The nerve of him!” someone muttered.
Martinez turned back to his cabinet, a thoughtful look on his face. “Yes, the nerve of him. I’m afraid we’ve become used to the bowing and scraping of those we normally invite to cabinet meetings. In this case I may not like his manners, but Colonel Grayson has a point. We need to solve our own problems, without outside interference. Otherwise we all lose.”
Richard Dupont harrumphed loudly. “Mister President, I think you’ve listened to these alarmists too long. I admit we’re presently having difficulties, but the people are solidly behind us. All we need is a firmer hand in the west, and things will settle down.”
“Do you truly feel that way, Richard?” the President asked, as he stared at his hands.
“Of course. This is all nonsense about root causes to our western difficulties. You’ll never convince me those people in the west can or will listen to reason. We need to treat them more firmly. Any sign of weakness on our part will only add fuel to the fire.”
Martinez continued to stare at his hands. “How many of you agree with Mister Dupont?” He looked up as three more hands were raised. “I’m sorry members of my own cabinet can’t see what’s happening to our world. Mr. Dupont, I will expect a letter of resignation on my desk from you and the others who feel the same by end of business today.” He stood, and looked sadly over his twelve cabinet members. “The rest of us will
meet tomorrow morning to begin drawing up a list of those who will be on the task force, and what powers will be given the group. If there is nothing further?”
The shocked members of the cabinet left in silence. Richard Dupont was still in his chair, his face having gone from pale to flushed. “What the hell are you doing, Frank? You can’t get rid of me like that. I’m the reason you got elected.”
Martinez sat tiredly next to him. “I’m sorry as hell to do this, but you’ve always known that with me the welfare of Star’s End comes before friendship.”
“Once the Conservatives learn of this, they’ll have your head on a platter.”
“I don’t doubt it, Richard. But that won’t happen until the next election, twelve months away. I’m more concerned with being able to hold things together until then.” He leaned toward his ex-chief of staff, a pleading tone in his voice. “I could really use you, Richard. I know how you feel towards the westerners, but this problem has gotten bigger than anyone’s ego.”
Dupont stood, anger radiating from him. “You’ve gone too far this time. When you begin to stab your friends in the back, your effectiveness as President will soon fade. Now if you will excuse me…” With that he was gone.
Martinez slumped in his chair a moment, heart shriveled by losing another life-long friend. He’d known this would happen, but it wasn’t any easier when it did. Colonel Grayson had been right in their discussion prior to his convening of the cabinet. Without a united group around him, it would be impossible to achieve what they planned. It was masterful the way the Colonel had shocked the group. It polarized them, made it easier to separate out those who would be unable to work with westerners. At least the ones left would give it their best effort. He hoped that was enough.
He opened a folder in front of him. On it were listed the names he and Colonel Grayson had come up with as members for the Task Force. Several politicians from the West, and clear-minded easterners willing to work with them, headed by Senator Deville. Even though he personally disliked the man, he would have to offer him the chairmanship of the task force. Disgusting thought, being polite to that oily worm.
Martinez sighed, gained his feet and moved to the door. No time to feel sorry for yourself, he thought. Maybe later. After he saved the planet from disaster.
STAR’S END: STOBOL AIR FIELD (Day +42):
The shuttle landed with a jolt, waking Ian from a light doze. “Stobol airfield, all out for Stobol airfield,” intoned the overhead speakers. The doors opened and allowed twelve passengers to straggle out the back of the craft.
Ian hefted his rucksack and walked towards the airport terminal. Inside, he cast a quick glance around and satisfied himself no one waited for him. Since he’d been discharged a day early, he’d have been surprised if there was. Once outside, he located which way the main encampment was for the task force, and began to trot. Only about two kilometers away, and he needed to get some exercise after being cooped up so long. He was surprised how they kept his muscle tone at a high peak while he was inside the regeneration chamber. He knew they had tinkered with his metabolism, and given him a new shot of nano meds. The fact was, he’d never felt this good in his entire life. He stepped up his pace to a lope.
He came to the guard post at the front gate of the camp, and slowed to a walk. No doubt about it, fresh air was better than canned stuff. The sentry waved him on through after scanning his I.D.
“Hey, Sergeant. Where’s the Recon Platoon located?” he asked.
“First right, two streets down. Can’t miss it.”
Ian waved his thanks and moved into a trot, marveling at the number of tents. Looked like tent city. Minutes later, he stopped in front of a sign labeled LRS in foot-high letters, and entered the open-sided tent. “What’s a guy gotta do to get some service around here?” he asked in a loud voice.
Sergeant First Class Boudreau turned away from his computer monitor and shook his head in mock sorrow. “Leave the tent flap open, and anything might slither in.” He stood, and grabbed Ian’s hand. “Welcome back, Ian. You look pretty good for a dead man.”
Ian grinned. “Can’t keep us Irish out of a good fight, Top. How’s it going?”
Boudreau gestured for him to sit, and did so himself. “Not too bad, considering how busy they’ve kept us. We’ve been on constant patrols, one on and two off. Three squads are up north, in Richland and even further. I’ve kept your squad close around the perimeter, since we’ve gotten increased sniper incidents along with the rest of the nasties the gooners have been doing.” He looked closer at Ian. “From what I heard, your bio link is working good. How’re you doing with it?”
“I’ve gotten over the sensory problems. Just need to practice data uploads in a field environment, plus weapons interface. How much did they tell you, Top? I was warned not to tell anyone about it. Strictly a ‘need to know’ basis, they said.”
“They had to tell me. I’m not only your NCOIC, I’m also your new platoon leader for the duration of this mission.”
“Great! Does that mean I have to salute you twice, Top?” Ian asked, an innocent look stealing across his face.
“Only if you want to pull KP for the rest of your life. Seriously, they wanted me to ensure you spend enough time on the rifle range to give your link a full workout on its weapons interface. It shouldn’t take too long. You only have to deal with your rifle scope.”
Ian smiled again. “I’m looking forward to that. It was a rush when I learned to control the inflow of data from the satellites and other comms. Having to make sense out of that hash was my biggest hurdle.”
“I can only guess at how that must feel,” Boudreau said. “As long as you can tie it all together to help in a tactical situation, it’ll be worth it. I suspect we’ll all learn new things as we go along. Especially you, Irish.”
“You’re right, Top. Say, where can I bunk down?”
“Back out the front, first tent on the right. Pointy’s got a spot saved for you. Go get settled in, and Brita will brief you up after tonight’s chow.”
After a raucous homecoming, dinner was muted in comparison. The squad would be on patrol the next day, which meant all but Ian had to eat and run to make it to their patrol brief after chow.
“Sorry, Irish,” Brita said, “but you’ll have to wait on your brief until we get back from this next patrol. According to Top, he’ll keep you busy the next few days. He was close-mouthed about it. What gives?”
Ian colored in embarrassment. “Well, I’ll be able to tell you more in the next few days. Right now, they’ve got me working with Intel. You know how they are about not passing on information.”
“Yeh,” Pointy said. “I’d tell you a secret, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Something like that,” Ian said with a smile. He changed the subject. “I saw some crates being unloaded for us. Looked like a bunch of new Webleys.”
“They’ve come up with a new and improved version,” Brita said with a sour look. “Want us to field test them. If I die because they malfunction, so help me, I’ll kill the regimental armorer.”
Ian chuckled. “Watch it, Brita. You’re beginning to sound like Pointy.”
Once everyone left for the patrol brief, Ian drifted back to his bunk. On it was one of the new Webleys, still sealed in its foil wraps. He broke the seal, unwrapped it and spent the next hour cleaning his new weapon. While in recuperation, he’d been introduced to this improved model, the Mark IV. The barrel was the same length, but the pistol grip was thicker. The folding stock could be adjusted more easily to fit each person’s preference and, with a slightly wider entry port for the clip to be fed into, it was easier to load and eject the magazine. It could also be switched to full auto now.
His favorite was the scope. This one had been modified for him. A bigger computer chip had been added, and gave him more of an advantage. He could now draw upon information from all sources and download it into the scope. It would then interact with his bio link to put the dot on-target
, adjusted for distance, altitude, weather, windage, and other factors he couldn’t even begin to imagine. The only thing not considered was the miniscule difference in weight between each round. He would find out tomorrow whether the theory behind what he’d been told held up or not.
He finished prep of his weapon, and yawned hugely. Christ, it was almost twenty hours since he’d last slept. He placed his rifle in a rack at the foot of his bed, and headed for the showers.
Once showered, he slipped into his bunk and pulled his helmet on. It had become second nature to do this since his bio link was installed, because the helmet used his own alpha rhythms to put him to sleep. “Sleep mode, eight hours,” he murmured, and was instantly asleep.
Next morning Ian was preparing the gear he would need at the firing range when Boudreau stuck his head through the tent’s doorway. “Get a move on, Irish. Your ride to the firing range is here.”
Ride? Ian couldn’t think of a time he’d been offered a ride to a firing range. He hefted his gear and was met outside by a familiar face who stood in front of a small floater. Except this time Major Leslie Grant, Intelligence Branch, was dressed as a master sergeant. He decided to play this one close to the vest.
“Morning, Master Sergeant. Thanks for coming by to pick me up.” He loaded his Webley and rucksack into the back of the floater, with Boudreau looking on bemusedly. “See you later, Top,” he called, and slipped into the seat next to the Intel officer, or whatever he was.
As Major/MSG Grant drove away, he gave Ian a nod of approval. “You handled that well, Corporal. Keep it up and you might have a career in the intelligence field.”
“Lord spare me, Sir,” Ian said. “I have enough troubles.”
Grant laughed. “I really am impressed, Ian. Few people can mask their reactions like you just did. The reason you’re seeing me again is I’ve got us a little privacy while you’re working on weapons interface. I’m the range NCOIC until you’re finished.”
