by Jay Posey
“Well maybe that’s not so bad,” Mike said. “If that means we just cut off their contact with SUNGRAZER.”
“I wish,” Thumper answered. “But no, we’re pretty sure this is just one of several channels they have to her. Most likely, they’re cycling through, using different ones at different times. The fact that one went dark probably isn’t that big a deal to them. I’d guess they were counting on it, eventually. Folks we’re dealing with are smart. Planning types.”
“And this isn’t just acting on a target of opportunity,” Lincoln said. “This level of planning and prep.”
Thumper shook her head. “They had to have been working on this for several weeks at least. Maybe even months.”
“So the big question is, how’d they even know about SUNGRAZER in the first place?”
“One of the big questions, yes. Also, how long did they know about it before they acted? And why go to all this trouble?”
“This thing was supposed to give us answers,” Lincoln said, thumping the device they’d recovered. “Not more questions.” He pointed at the ice cap region of the terrible diagram. “So this signal here. You said you were going to tell me what it was.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, here,” Thumper said. She waved away her handcrafted image and pulled up reconnaissance imagery of a small dome placed on the Martian surface. Ice tendrilled and veined its way over the terrain, its blue-white stark against the patches of red. From the looks of it, the structure was old, still using hard-shell tech for environmental protection and control. “I believe it’s an old research facility. Placement matches some records I dug up for an environmental study, back during early colonization days. But they shut it down a couple of decades ago.”
“Sounds like some new tenants moved in,” Lincoln said.
“Sounds like our next target,” Wright added.
Lincoln looked around at his team. Nodded. “Guess I better go call Mom.”
“How certain are you?” Colonel Almeida asked.
“It’s all coming from Thumper’s work,” Lincoln answered. “How certain would you be?”
The colonel grunted. “More certain than if I’d done it all myself.” He sighed and scratched his nose with his prosthetic hand. “Can’t ever be easy, huh?”
“I reckon not, sir.”
“Timing really couldn’t be worse. The Collective Republic just started the official process of calling for a summit, working to normalize relations between Earth and Mars again.”
“What’s your read on CMA?” Lincoln asked. Technically the Central Martian Authority was the unified ruling body, comprised of representatives from all the member colonies and settlements. The various governments on the red planet still maintained sovereignty, but apart from the occasional squabble over trade rights and taxation, thus far, whenever the CMA had issued a decision, they’d all fallen in line on the major points.
“A lot of posturing, for the most part. I think they want us to blink first real bad, and I don’t think the majority of those people actually want war. There are a couple of groups up there that want to get after it with us, but given enough time I think cooler heads will prevail. But… it’s delicate with the MPCR. Depends on the egos in play, I guess. CMA might not actually want war, but they don’t want to seem like they’re afraid to go toe-to-toe with big brother Earth. I believe they want peace, eventually. But they also can’t afford to let it look like the Republic made the decision, and imposed it on everyone else.”
“You think they’ll go along with the summit?”
“Eventually. And then afterwards, I think they’ll spend a couple of months hemming and hawing and pretending like they came up with the idea of pursuing peace on their own.”
“Is there a timeframe on that? Getting an official diplomatic summit together?”
“Not yet, not officially. MPCR’s making the PR push, but CMA hasn’t acknowledged it as a consideration yet. The fact that they’re thinking about it isn’t even on the public airwaves yet, it’s all backroom chatter at the moment. And even after the decision gets made, there will still be a few weeks of shaping public opinion before anybody announces anything. So not immediate, but it’s on the horizon.”
“And if something were to happen in the meantime,” Lincoln said. “Say, oh I don’t know, a secret United States vessel suddenly appearing in Martian-owned space?”
“Yeah,” Almeida said. “Could tip things the wrong way, that’s for sure. It’d be real hard to deny involvement with that one, except for the one hitch of proving UAF involvement. No reason to steal a secret, untraceable US vessel if you want to make it easy to pin the whole thing on the UAF.”
For whatever reason, the distinction between the US and the Federation hadn’t seemed like a major factor to Lincoln until just now. But the colonel’s words brought it into stark relief. To this point, he’d been operating under the assumption that the end goal was to further hostilities between Mars and Earth, specifically between the UAF and the Central Martian Authority. But now it struck him that there was another layer to consider, perhaps another game being played. For the first time, his brain started churning on what would happen if war kicked off as the result of perceived US actions. Actions unknown and unsanctioned by the Federation. There was no telling what political consequences might follow, but it was a safe bet that whatever they were wouldn’t help the war effort.
“I think it’s the doubt they’re after, sir,” he said. “On both sides of the equation. Or, all sides, I guess. I’m losing track of how many sides there are these days. But they’re throwing just enough mist and shadow around so no one knows who or what to believe anymore. Easier to keep everybody afraid and reactionary.”
“Over-reactionary, more like,” said the colonel. “But if the plan is to violate sovereign space or even carry out some sort of strike, why haven’t they done it yet? I wouldn’t want to be holding a potato that hot for any longer than I absolutely had to.”
“That’s the thing we’re chasing down right now.”
“Chase faster,” said Almeida, with a quick smile.
“No chance the Directorate wants to back-channel it, I suppose? Warn UAF and the CMA about SUNGRAZER?”
The colonel barked a laugh. “Aw, son. You’re still a pup at heart, aren’t you?” The old man shook his head. “No, kiddo. No, I don’t suspect anybody’s going to be feeling honest and friendly enough to go trying to avert a potentially deniable diplomatic disaster with a guaranteed one. At this stage, CMA would probably broadcast the news and spin it as a really stupid attempt to cover an already-planned attack.”
Lincoln nodded. And that nagging sensation he’d had before they’d launched the Ava Leyla operation came back, this time with a hint of dread. The thought that he couldn’t quite capture previously became clearer.
“You know the thing that’s really bugging me, sir,” he said, “is that when we first got word SUNGRAZER had gone dark, it seemed so random. But the longer we sit with it, well… it actually is starting to feel familiar. A little too familiar. Not the start of something new. The continuation of something from before.”
“You think this is Plan B in action?”
“Or more of Plan A,” Lincoln said. Uncomfortable memories started bumping around again. Unanswered questions he’d tried to forget stirred, threatened to come awake. A woman’s final words, about war not being an event, but a process.
“So what are you doing about it?” the colonel asked.
“I have a bad idea.”
“All my best ideas are bad ideas.”
“We’ve been working real hard not to draw any attention to the fact that we’re on to these guys. I’m thinking maybe it’s time we take the opposite approach.”
Almeida grunted. “You want to throw a shot, see how they take it.”
Lincoln nodded. “Yes sir, I do. Introduce a little chaos into their calculations for a change. Starting with this research facility.”
“NID’s not going to like that too
much.”
“No sir, I suspect they won’t.”
“You might just end up accelerating the bad guys’ plans.”
“Possible, yes sir. But I also expect my team to adapt faster. I know how my people handle chaos. I want to see how their people deal with it.”
“Risky,” Almeida said. Then he smiled. “I knew you were the right one for this job.”
“Well, sir,” Lincoln replied, “according to my data, between the two of us, fifty percent agree.”
“All right. You’re cleared to check out whatever’s going on at that research facility, but steer clear of the Republic for now. At least until you get something more concrete to work with. Much more concrete. I’m talking names, home addresses, Christmas wish lists. That ground is tricky enough to operate in as it is. I don’t want you running around in there unless you have very well-defined targets and objectives.”
“Roger that,” Lincoln said.
“Getting you on site is going to take some doing. I’ll coordinate with NID, and get back to you with the logistics as soon as possible.”
“Not going to mention the Collective just yet, are you?”
“Not a whisper, until you’re already back,” the colonel said. “And, if you kids do it right, maybe not even then.”
THIRTEEN
The new target information arrived as SUNGRAZER had anticipated, and while she ran her protocols to verify the command, she evaluated the objective in parallel. A military target, concealed and embedded in a civilian-centric area. High population, strategic value readily apparent, risk of collateral damage substantial.
Precisely the kind of strike for which she had been created.
SUNGRAZER understood human psychology in her own way; clinically, as a thing long-observed. Statistically, the devastation would be insignificant. A pinprick. The impact, however, could shift an entire culture, shape the course of history. The sudden disruption of normal life, the shattering of illusions of security. A reminder of vulnerability. The nation would tremble under such force, so precisely and unexpectedly applied, as a man struck without warning in a cluster of nerves. The strike would surely provoke a response, though what that response would be SUNGRAZER could not predict. Fear, outrage, certainly. Submission, perhaps.
Additional commands revealed a novel detail; an unusual, specified post-launch protocol. Narrow constraints on her escape vector. A shallow trajectory. It took her less than a tenth of a second to simulate the probable outcome a hundred thousand times.
She understood; she was a simple tool of policy, projected forward into hostile territory, or that which may one day become hostile. A single piece moving in a long game, to an end beyond her power to see.
With her initial calculations and systems checks completed, SUNGRAZER turned about and began her long journey to target.
FOURTEEN
It was a stupid idea. And one of the ways Lincoln knew it was such a stupid idea was the fact that the military continued to insist on doing it. He hadn’t done a live low-orbit jump in years. He’d done plenty in training of course, enough to qualify and many more to stay that way. But there’d never really been a need for it in any of the live operations he’d done. Most of his operational career had been on good old terra firma, with the occasional jaunt to a hop or a vessel. The closest thing he’d done to a live jump had been on Luna, but with its lack of atmosphere and minimal gravity, he didn’t really count that. Neither did any of the other vets he knew who’d actually deployed into combat in such a manner.
The chain of events that had led to him standing here, on top of a cargo ship, looking down at Mars, was a testament to the absolute mastery the US military had over logistics. From the skiff to the Durham, from the Durham to a fastboat, to a Marine transport, to an outpost space station, where they were picked up for the final leg of the journey. The Barton brothers had remained behind on the Marine transport, not without some protest. But once they found out what the rest of their new teammates were about to do, they both seemed more content with the decision.
The Central Martian Authority still had elevated security in place on all its approach avenues, doubly so where orbital lanes were concerned. That being the case, the Outriders were hitching a ride to their final destination on a commercial cargo vessel, operated by the Saint Michael’s Shipping Company.
Saint Michael’s Shipping was the business arm of a Luna-based monastery, and one of the most trusted long-haul corporations in the solar system. Their success story was well-known. The way Lincoln had heard it, the company had originally started with a single donated vessel, with a simple goal of serving the Lunar community and as a means to help sustain the monastery financially. Their prices were modest. But the monks’ reputation for integrity and careful attention in all things had led to such explosive demand, over time they’d expanded to become a system-wide service, running from the floating cities of Venus all the way out to the far-reach hops near the belt, and everywhere in between. And now, financially, they were sustaining a whole lot more than just their abbey; they were supposedly something like number five or seven on the top ten list of most philanthropic organizations on Earth. All the more impressive since they still only had the one abbey, on the moon. Their prices remained modest.
Before they’d left the space station, Lincoln had met briefly with the monk who was piloting the vessel. An elderly man by the name of August, with a stooped back, few words, and a kindly smile. There hadn’t been much conversation. Lincoln naturally couldn’t say anything about the nature of the shipment August would be hauling; August seemed to have a polite aversion to idle conversation and a well-cultivated lack of questions. Lincoln did manage to learn that the monk was just beginning six months of travel in solitude, with only the occasional stop to make or pick up deliveries for far-reach stations. August had simply referred to it as his “time of devotion”.
They were monks of the Christian faith, and their ships were technically classified as places of worship. Lincoln didn’t know the details of the arrangement. Only that August would be carrying their cargo from the station to a UAF Naval research facility out towards the Belt, and taking a path over Mars to do so. Whether or not he was aware that the Outriders would be along for the journey, or for a small part of it at least, Lincoln didn’t know. August had taken care to mention specifically how his route would require entering low Martian orbit, and remarking upon God’s wondrous provision, how he’d never had the opportunity to personally view the ice cap before and looked forward to doing so. The sentiment seemed utterly genuine, but given his otherwise laconic nature, that seemed also to be his careful way of communicating that he understood the importance of that particular trajectory.
Lincoln wasn’t a religious man himself, but he had said a little prayer afterward anyway, just in case, asking for forgiveness if there’d been any deception involved and promising that if there had been, it was for a good cause. At least Saint Michael was the patron saint of the military. Maybe that made it all OK.
After meeting with August, Lincoln and his team had loaded up into two separate cargo containers, specially designed to house their gear, their dropsuits, and themselves. The containers were something like small apartments, if your apartment was just a closet with a chemical toilet in it, and you had a roommate who was a mechanic who liked to keep all his gear in your bedroom. Like all things military, one thing the containers had not been designed for was comfort. Sahil, Mike, and Lincoln had bunked up together, and the fit was not quite tight enough for them to have to literally sleep on top of each other. Even so, they slept in shifts, one man racking out while the other two tried to keep from going crazy. That left Wright and Thumper in the second container, with a little extra space. Lincoln had said it was to give the ladies some girl time together, but in reality it was because Thumper had drawn the short straw. No one wanted to be in a box with a restless Wright for three days. Even Wright. She’d said it wasn’t fair she didn’t get to draw straws too.
The Saint Michael’s vessel had both internal cargo bays as well as externally-mounted attachment points, where shipments could be easily handled by station loading crews without need for much direct interaction. The Outriders’ special containers were the only two set into the midsection attachment points atop the ship, side by side. When they’d loaded in, Lincoln had wondered if any pirates had ever been dumb or desperate enough to try ripping containers right off the outside of a Saint Michael’s vessel. The monastery’s ships had no attack capability, but supposedly had some of the most advanced and effective defensive measures in existence. Not least of which, Lincoln assumed, was the very hand of God.
It had been seventy-four hours of travel since they’d first entered the containers. And all of that had led him here to this moment, standing on an exterior platform designed for use as a staging area for loading cargo. Obviously, the vessel they’d hitched a ride on didn’t have a proper jump bay. The platform they were using instead was wide and flat, and had not even a suggestion of a hand rail. Their containers were still in place attached to the ship, their inconspicuous airlocks resealed for the journey to the naval base.
And about two hundred and fifty kilometers below was Mars. Specifically, the Northern polar ice cap of Mars.
And Lincoln was nervous. Oddly, his discomfort with open space didn’t really come into play in these situations. There was, after all, a giant rock down there, and there was literally zero chance of him missing it on the way down. It wasn’t even the idea of falling for so long that bothered him. What was eating at him was the fact that even though it looked like it was more or less a straight drop from here to there, Lincoln knew he was actually flying, for lack of a better term, sideways at ridiculous speeds. In deep space, it never mattered that much how fast a ship was going when he was walking around on its exterior, because there was nothing to compare it to. But it was pretty hard to ignore orbital velocity when you wanted to get down, and you had to spend so much time going sideways.
