Into the Light

by David Weber

  “You mean the ‘Oh, military people don’t belong on the teams!’ crowd? The ones who’re all ‘They’re all ignorant savages who don’t have any understanding of the finer nuances of inter-species communication! Only enlightened people belong on the teams!’ That bunch?”

  “Yes, I see you know exactly what I’m talking about, and you could probably even guess who,” Abu Bakr said with a chuckle. “For that matter, it’s not a bad thing to have that viewpoint represented. You do remember my earlier comment about ‘sending in the Marines,’ I hope? A little restraint on military exuberance can save a ton of trouble down the road, Rob. I’m fully aware that if we go out to the stars, we will want to have this capability—” he waved at one of the tanks that had stopped nearby as a static display for the visitors “—but it’s not exactly the best possible way to introduce ourselves to potential allies. That’s really where a lot of the discussion is right now. I’m in the group that believes we’ll need military professionals to accompany the diplomatic teams and provide security for them. Will the teams include vampires? Yes, probably, but they need to have some flesh and blood personnel as well, regardless of what any of the progressives in the administration might say. And the security to go with them needs to be enough to protect them but something short of landing a full-fledged invasion force.”

  “So you’d prefer to leave the heavy backup in orbit, but you wouldn’t object to having a few Space Marines looming ominously in the background?”

  “As long as they didn’t loom too ominously.” Abu Bakr shrugged. “My father always used to say that in a negotiation, you needed to bargain from a position of strength. I’d hate to go somewhere and have an alien society view us as so weak that they tried to capture our team.”

  “I’d hate that, too,” Wilson said. When Abu Bakr’s eyebrow went up, he added, “Especially since I’m lobbying to command the ‘away team,’ and I’ve got what they call friends in high places, so I’ll probably get it.”

  “I see. And, frankly, I’m glad to hear it.” Abu Bakr smiled. “You did fairly well in Naya Islamabad, I guess.” Wilson snorted, and Abu Bakr’s smile broadened. The situation in Pakistan was about to change, and both of them had been briefed on it only yesterday. Then Abu Bakr’s expression sobered as he reflected on what that was going to mean in human terms. Wilson saw the darkness in that expression, recognized the awareness, but, after a moment, the Muslim shrugged and looked him in the eye.

  “Seriously, I’d feel a little better about the mission with you along.” he said. “I doubt you’d allow your supporting cast to be … undermanned.”

  “No, I won’t.” Wilson said as he returned the smile. He paused and then added, “There’s one other thing to be said about going to other systems looking for friends.”

  “Oh, what’s that?”

  Wilson pointed to the mushroom cloud above the impact area from another mini-KEW strike.

  “I don’t want us repeating the Shongairi’s mistakes, but if we go to someone else’s system and find out they really are worse than the Puppies were, we can always do that to them, there. It beats the hell out of them coming and doing it to us here.”

  . XII .

  NAYA ISLAMABAD, CAPITAL TERRITORY,

  ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF PAKISTAN

  “Are you getting all of this up front?” the weapons operator, Captain Chris Solice, asked from his position in the back of the Starfire assault shuttle’s cockpit.

  “Yeah, we see it on the tridee,” the lead pilot, Major Henry Frye, replied as he indicated the display on his instrument panel to his co-pilot. “Looks like there has to be what? Three or four thousand people down there?”

  Solice snorted. “More like twenty thousand. Watch.”

  The display broadened as Solice zoomed the camera back out, showing more of the crowd that had gathered around the prime minister’s palace below them. A lot of things had changed since “The Death Seen Round the World,” as the tridee press had dubbed the death of Imam Sheikh Abbas.

  The compound still resembled a medieval castle with its surrounding walls, but now, instead of turrets in the corners, it had heavy magnetic accelerator cannons that Ghilzai’s successor had acquired on the black market and installed. Frye had heard the supplier had been found by one of the vampires and euphemistically “put out of business”; however, the weapons were already inside Pakistan and the Powers That Be had decided not to violate the country’s borders to recover them. Although the weapons were antiaircraft mounts designed to point up—to fire at incoming shuttles like the one he was flying—the way they’d been installed, their gunners could also use them to sweep the crowds gathered outside the walls. Developed to penetrate an assault craft’s armor, there was no telling how many people a single round would go through. No doubt, quite a few. Frye was happy to be sixty thousand feet above the compound, stealthed, and not outside the walls of the compound with those cannons pointed at him.

  Members of the “new and improved” Sif al-Nabi manned the walls. There had been a purge after Ghilzai’s death, which had included the deaths of any of their members who’d been at the palace “that night.” The remaining members were highly motivated to protect the new prime minister, and there was no doubt in Frye’s mind about whether they’d fire on the crowd—they would; it was only a matter of how long they’d shoot at the fleeing protestors once they started to run away. He shrugged. Probably until the gunners can’t see ’em anymore.

  Apparently, President Howell thought the same way, and Frye had heard, off the record, that the prime minister, Baseer Badrashi, had been given a new “line in the sand.” If he used the advanced technology weapons against his own people, there would be consequences. Frye’s crew, orbiting overhead the palace square, were the consequences if the prime minister chose to do so. Like his predecessor, Badrashi had proven remarkably immune to common sense, though, and the PU intel staff had every expectation that he would use them as a show of force. After all, what was the point of having advanced weapons if you didn’t get to unveil them periodically?

  The scene below the orbiting craft was reminiscent of the Arab Spring uprisings that had embroiled the Middle East prior to the arrival of the Shongairi. Just as Cairo’s Tahrir Square had become the focal point for protesters in Egypt demanding the end of the thirty-year autocratic rule of President Hosni Mubarak, crowds had been gathering around the palace all week, demanding reform and entry into the Planetary Union. The size of the crowds had grown to the point that the PU had authorized an overflight of today’s event—although the shuttle was to stay high and out of sight.

  The Arab Spring uprisings were the first popular revolutions in which social media allowed people to bypass the tightly controlled, state-run news outlets to share information, and their legacy was apparent in the crowds gathered outside the prime minister’s palace. Although the new phones everyone in the PU carried had been outlawed by the government—and it was a death penalty offense to have one in your possession—from Frye’s viewpoint above the crowd he could see a number of people using them. Unlike Voice of America and Radio Free Asia that broadcast information to the masses inside the nation—and which could be jammed or denied to the citizens by cutting off Internet access—the phones bypassed all of the central government’s measures and allowed people to talk unmonitored to anyone they wanted to, both within the country and outside of it.

  Frye had heard—anecdotally—that large numbers of the devices had been made available—i.e., given—to traders in the area, to the point that the PU had completely flooded the market. They were so available inside the country that they could be picked up, even on the black market, for very little cost … beyond the danger of being caught with one. While he knew what the PU government hoped would happen—exactly what was going on below him—he knew there was going to be a large price paid in blood. And soon. The Sif al-Nabi were well armed. Enough to stop twenty thousand people? Not if the members of the crowd were extremely well coordinated or willing to
take horrific losses, but certainly well enough to inflict those losses.

  Now that the populace of Pakistan had access to news from outside the country, the fuse had been lit. It wasn’t a matter of whether the country was going to blow; it was only a matter of when. As Solice pulled the camera farther back, he could see more people streaming towards the square, along with defensive units—tanks and APCs—responding to the gathering.

  It was going to be soon.

  * * *

  “OH, SHIT,” SOLICE said two hours later. “Take a look at this.”

  “What have you got?” Frye asked. The armored vehicles had made it to the square and taken up positions, leaving a trail of dead bodies along the way when people either could not, or would not, get out of the way. The road was also littered with the bodies of people who had thought they could stop the tanks by sitting in front of them in a line. The tanks had rolled right over them without stopping, leaving little more than a line of red stains to commemorate their protests.

  Several fire engines with water cannons followed the tanks into the square. When they arrived, they opened fire on the crowd, working together to divide the people and drive them off. Frye had just decided that today wasn’t going to be the day the revolution occurred, after all, but as he viewed the tridee, he saw he’d been wrong. The monitor showed people passing long scaling ladders from second-floor windows to a large group of people in the alley below.

  “Where’s that?” Frye asked.

  “About a block away from the Palace,” Solice replied. He pulled the camera back to give perspective. “It’s also here … and here … and here, among other places.” He zoomed in the camera to show the other locations. “Those are just the ones I saw in a quick scan. There may be more.”

  “Radio back to base and let them know it’s happening,” Frye ordered.

  “I’m streaming all the video back,” Solice replied.

  “Good. I want you to make sure they’re actually seeing this—this shit is going down today! Make sure we’re authorized to fire.”

  “Think they’ll authorize us to go full offensive and help the revolutionaries?” Lieutenant James Turbot asked.

  Frye shook his head. “No, I don’t think they will; the locals will have to—generally—do it themselves.” He turned and gave his co-pilot a predator’s grin as the authorization came over the radio. “But the Prime Minister’s troops are going to have to do it without their MACs.

  “Speaking of which,” Frye continued, turning in his seat to look at the weapons systems operator. “We ready, Chris?”

  “Yes, Sir. Drones are out, positioned, and targeted. As you noted, we’re cleared to fire if they use the MACs on the crowd, but only on the MACs.”

  Solice scanned the camera back to the square. Although the water cannons were driving off the people in front of the fire engines, people were clustering behind them, as well as behind the tanks and IFVs that ringed the square. A large number of people seemed to be sheltering along the walls of the palace, as well.

  “Hey, Chris?” Frye asked as the camera zoomed in on some of the people along the wall.

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “What’s the temperature down there?”

  “It’s expected to be about thirty-two degrees Celsius today—so about ninety degrees. Why?”

  “Isn’t that kind of hot to have on bishts?”

  “What the hell are bishts?” Turbot asked.

  “They’re those long outer cloaks they wear over the Muslim robes. It looks like nearly everyone along the wall has them on, as well as quite a few people in the crowd.”

  “Now that you mention it, yeah,” Solice replied. “I wonder why—”

  He stopped as nearly half the people along the wall, as one, pulled lighters from under their robes and held them under the rags that protruded from the bottles the other half of the people removed from under their robes.

  “Molotov cocktails!” Frye yelled as the people began throwing them up and over the walls towards the MACs mounted in the corners and the other machine guns scattered around the top of the wall. “It’s on! Watch the MACs!”

  Solice zoomed out to show more of the action, and the crew could see other people lighting and throwing firebombs at the tanks, APCs, and even the fire engines. Other members in the crowd pulled out weapons and began firing; still others ran away from the chaos as if their lives depended on it … which they obviously did. Flames and smoke choked the square.

  One of the MACs on the front wall went up in a sheet of flames as several firebombs hit it near-simultaneously. A member of the other crew, though, swung wildly at a Molotov cocktail headed his way and succeeded in knocking it back over the rampart and into some of the people along the base of the wall. Their robes caught immediately, and they ran, like blazing embers from a crackling fire.

  The ladders arrived at the same time the second round of firebombs were thrown, and the operational MAC opened up on the crowd in front of the palace complex. A tremendous spray of red mist blossomed above the square as the hyper-sonic rounds blew people from their feet. Designed to penetrate armor, they had no problem going through multiple unarmored humans when they were in a row, and lines of death were cut from the crowd as the MAC gunner fired mercilessly into it. The other MACs on the back wall began firing as they realized they were under assault as well.

  “Light ’em up!” Frye ordered. “Kill the MACs!”

  “Arming and … firing!” Solice replied, his voice slightly distant as he controlled the drones.

  Nearly as one, the four MACs, including the one already on fire, disappeared in a hail of explosions. Solice had targeted all of them with his drones and gun system, and the HE rounds destroyed both the weapons and their crews.

  The battle still raged in in front of the palace as the remaining militiamen on the ramparts fired into the crowds with their machine guns.

  “Base says we are not cleared to engage the others,” Solice noted, his voice louder. “We are to let the revolutionaries do it themselves, unless things go badly.”

  It was soon apparent, though, that the attacking force wasn’t going to need any additional support, as snipers appeared on the roofs of nearby buildings and began picking off the militiamen. Several realized they were under attack from above and tried to fire on the snipers, but they were quickly put out of action. Other members of the Sif al-Nabi ran for the safety of the palace, and a few made it, but then the attacking force made it over the walls and dropped into the courtyard, cutting off their escape.

  Several of the attackers pulled out coils of rope, looped them around crenellations and tied them to the militiamen’s appendages, then pitched the bodies over the side to dangle in the sun.

  Other members of the attacking force opened the front gates, and additional forces streamed into the courtyard, while others continued to scale the walls. A group of nearly one hundred, all with rifles and pistols, grouped up at the palace, then kicked the doors in. Several were immediately shot by militiamen from the interior, but the attackers threw in grenades and then followed them into the building.

  “Holy…” Turbot’s voice trailed off as if he were at a loss for words to describe it.

  “Yeah,” Frye replied. “Revolution isn’t pretty, is it?” Although he was sickened by some of the things he saw the attackers doing to the corpses—and sometimes still-living members—of the Sif al-Nabi, he found he was unable to look away. It was necessary for progress … but it was appalling to watch.

  “Holy shit,” Turbot finally muttered after a particularly gruesome death. He made gagging noises as he stumbled from his seat towards the craft’s small bathroom facility.

  Frye hoped his co-pilot didn’t lose it; he was sure he would join him if he did. After a few minutes, the people who had gone into the building came out—far fewer in number—along with what looked to be the prime minister’s corpse.

  “Looks like they got him,” Solice said in a small voice.

  Frye didn’
t know how Solice felt, but he felt dirty. Just watching had been enough to sicken him. Frye wasn’t sure what he wanted to do first when he got home—throw up or shower. Maybe he’d save himself the trouble and just throw up in the shower.

  “So I guess the revolution is over,” Solice added.

  Frye reached up and turned off the tridee monitor.

  “No,” he replied. “It’s just beginning.”

  . XIII .

  SPACE PLATFORM BASTION,

  L5 LAGRANGE POINT

  “No,” Damianos Karahalios said flatly. “We’re not going to discuss this again.”

  “But the possibilities—” Brent Roeder began.

  “Are fascinating, exhilarating, and potentially extremely important,” Karahalios finished for him in a cutting-off-the-conversation tone as he waved one hand. “I understand that. Believe me, everyone understands that, Doctor Roeder. Most of us even agree with you. What you’re proposing, however, is scarcely what anyone could call a controlled experiment.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Roeder said a bit stiffly.

  “Because it’s your experiment,” Karahalios’ tone was even tarter than it had been, and Roeder bit his tongue rather firmly, reminding himself to avoid any phrases about pots discussing kettles’ complexions. He also decided against mentioning any little inequities in how time was assigned … and to whose projects.

  “That’s true,” he said instead. “That doesn’t invalidate my reasoning or diminish the potential returns. And my calculations indicate the risk factor is substantially lower than the assessment committee’s analysis.”

  “Perhaps because they’re your calculations?” Karahalios suggested, although, to his credit, this time his tone was almost sympathetic.

  Almost.

  “My models all indicate—”

  “I said we’re not going to discuss this,” Karahalios said firmly. “So, I want you to save all your data, all your notes, and put away all your bits and pieces. I promise we’ll come back to this at some point. Right now, however, there are more pressing—and less risky—projects that need your attention. Is that clear?”