Eye of the Storm lota-11

by John Ringo

  “We’re tarnished. The stench from this is going to stink to high heaven and you are neither the first officer, nor I’m sure the last, to be right on the edge of mutiny. But that’s sort of the point. We can still fight. We are the only true defenders of the Federation left. We are the only ones that come close to remaining true to the cause. Broken, stinking wretches that we are, we still have some of us that believe in the point, which is first, last and always, to make sure that humanity survives. If we choose to mutiny over this… abomination, we are finished. We are as dead as the 11th Corps, which is, yes, gone. I will not see the rest of Fleet Strike go the same way, Colonel. And if it takes sacrificing Michael O’Neal, who I have known for longer than you have lived, or you, colonel, or myself, on that altar, then I will make that sacrifice, Colonel. Am I making myself absolutely, perfectly, clear?”

  “Sir, they can’t… ”

  “Colonel, 11th Corps wasn’t destroyed by the Posleen, it was destroyed at the behest of the Darhel. Twenty plus thousand Fleet Strike personnel, one hundred percent of our remaining ACS, burned by orbital fire from Fifth Fleet. The staff, I’m given to understand, were shot by their captors.”

  “That is… ” The colonel’s face worked for a moment then he spat. “That is sick, sir!”

  “And the day you can figure out an effective method to strike back at the Darhel, Colonel,” the general said, “one that will break their stranglehold for good and all, one that will make those fuckers pay, well you just do that, Colonel. And then kill them all as far as I care. But in the meantime, we have to go present sentencing on one of my best friends. Are you prepared to give your last measure to this organization, Colonel? Are you prepared to pour out your honor like water, to bury it in muck and slime and horror, so that there is some chance that, someday, others will not have to? Because if you’re not, I need to have you removed from the court.”

  “And life?” the colonel asked.

  “Does it matter?” the general replied, snorting humorlessly. “On a day like today, wouldn’t you have rather died in battle? Because even burning to death would be cleaner than this. I know that I have not a shred of true honor left, Colonel. I was damned long before these proceedings. The only hope that I have is that by holding onto something I can work to prevent others from having to do this sort of thing. I can hope that someday there will be a Fleet Strike that is relieved of this horror. That some future officer can spit on my grave without fear of Darhel retribution. Our lives, our fortune and our sacred honor. Today is the day for you to cough up that last measure, Colonel. Today you get to join the rest of us and burn your honor on the bonfire of hope. Sucks, huh?”

  “Sir… ” the colonel said. “I repeat, that’s sick.”

  “Are you in, though?” the general asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Colonel Rodermund replied after a moment. “But someday… ”

  “Colonel,” General Tam Wesley replied, “I hope every day for some shred of possibility of breaking the Darhel. Yes, someday something has to give. But, unfortunately, it does not appear to be today.”

  * * *

  Security Contract Officer First Class Maxim Poddubny had been born and raised in the “unconquered” areas of Siberia.

  The Posleen invaders had swept across Europe and Asia without a check on their advance until they disovered Siberia. While the Posleen could survive in almost any environment, they were less than adept at logistics. Each Posleen god-king was supposed to find food for his own group. Usually that food was the food of the conquered or, in many cases, the conquered themselves.

  The Russians, after and brief and mostly futile defense, had done what Russia had done many times before, retreated deeper and deeper into the hinterland while scorching the earth behind them.

  The only difference from the Swedes, Poles, French and Germans was that the Posleen got further. None of the Russian armies that faced them, even in the Urals, could slow them down. Until winter descended on Siberia and the Posleen suddenly found themselves out of contact with the human “thresh” and struggling through hip-deep snow in a terrain bereft of anything resembling sustenance.

  Had the Posleen continued to occupy Earth they would eventually have spread, slowly, into the area. The shattered Russians, reduced to a day-to-day hand-to-mouth struggle for survival, might or might not have hindered them. But that question became moot when the half-renegade Fleet units had lifted the Siege. Slowly, the Russians had straggled out of the taiga, recovering their demolished cities. Those that could quickly moved to more hospitable lands under the Post-Invasion Resettlement Act. But a few remained.

  Max was the son of one of those families, hardy pioneers in the wilderness that had reclaimed most of Russia. His father was a strong Russian nationalist, regaling his many children with the glory that had once been Russia and, through his sons and daughters, would be again.

  Max had listened to the rants until he was seventeen, the youngest age at which you could enlist in the military, and then fled the searingly cold and achingly boring forests of “The Motherland” for anything else. His father might be insane but it didn’t mean Max had to be. Someday, if there was ever a need for the space, humans might move back into the shattered lands of Russia. In the meantime, they were wilderness for a reason. Only madmen or the desperate lived there by choice.

  He had spent a very boring five years in an absolutely less than elite infantry division. It was one of three divisions that was tasked with post-recovery security. Basically, they supported the first Indowy colonists and their human “security officers” sweeping out the hardcore remaining Posleen while the “security officers” covered the Indowy. It was tedious work involving long patrols that rarely hit contact. And when they did, by and large, they just ran away as fast as they could, called in an orbital strike and then made sure it got the infestation. What was the point of being a hero?

  The good news was that the unit had regular contact with the “security officers.” Invariably, the first thing the security company did was set up a “recreation facility.” It was usually completed before the full defenses were in place. Security companies had their own manpower shortage so they made sure that such “recreation facilities” were as complete as possible. There were plenty of games, yes. There was a decent bar, if your interest in bars translated to “dive.” And there were “entertainers”, male and female, to keep their security officers entertained.

  Getting access to those “recreation facilities” was tough for a regular. But if you made the right contacts, you could get an occasional pass. Max had visited the security recreation facility once, compared it to the one available to the regular infantry, and made it his goal to work his way into a security company.

  Now, as an SCO1 working for Hamilton-Baron Security, he had full access to such. Just as soon as he got off duty in forty minutes. There was a little lady named Lailani he was looking forward to spending quite a bit of his pay on. Why not? There wasn’t much else to spend it on and he wasn’t looking for another job any time soon.

  He slowed the Multi-Wheeled Ground Terrain Vehicle as his thermal detectors pinged. An aerial recon team had been reported missing near this location and he’d been dispatched to look into it. The air-truck had probably just lost its motivator. This planet had been colonized for twenty years, for that matter it was pretty close to some of the core Darhel worlds, and the Posleen hadn’t used anything that could take down an air-truck in a while. But the two man crew was probably on the ground somewhere nearby cursing and waiting for pick-up.

  The thermal, though, wasn’t locking the contact. Something was disturbing the signal. It was big, though. Could be either human or Posleen. He hit the lights and panned them to the left, searching in the burgeoning undergrowth for the contact, the machine-gun on the roof panning with it. If it was a Posleen, it was going to get a 14.5mm enema.

  As the light panned across the contact point there was a flicker, like a reflection on a pond. He panned back and frowned as t
he ripple seemed to move. Whatever it was, it was big. Maybe as big as a Posleen. His finger was playing with the safety on the machine-gun, wondering if he should just fire and then figure it out. But the contact sort of looked like a Himmit. Not that you normally spotted those.

  He was still wondering when a strand of monomolecular wire entered his window and removed his head.

  CHAPTER SIX

  This was a different route. They’d taken a left out of the cell instead of a right. Mike wasn’t sure what that meant, but he could feel a bode when he saw one. And this boded.

  A door dilated and he entered a low room about the size of a standard shield room. On the far side his “court” was arrayed. He knew, immediately, that that was what he was looking at. What shocked him was not that there actually was a court, but who was on it.

  “Tam?” he gasped. “Good God, you’re not… ?”

  “The Prisoner will remain silent,” General Tam Wesley said, harshly. “This is your sentencing, not a moment for grandstanding. Michael O’Neal, you have been charged with violation of Galactic Military Code 4153-6398-Delta, excessive force leading to the death of non-combatants without commensurate military value gained. Your plea of not-guilty has been recorded by your Counsel. You are found guilty and sentenced to fifty years in a Penal Unit to be determined. Case is closed.”

  “I appeal,” Mike said, looking around. Neither his most recent “counsel”, if he had one nor even the prosecution were present.

  “The sentence has been automatically reviewed by higher authority,” General Wesley said. “It stands. Take the prisoner away.”

  “I appeal to the Aldenata,” Mike said, loudly. “I appeal this sentence on its merits and I place suit against the Darhel, in toto, for failure of contractual obligations, to whit failure to abide by payment structures in keeping with contractual obligations to myself and the rest of the human race.”

  “What?” Tam said, his brow furrowing. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “This trial is over,” the Tir Dal Ron said, entering from the opposite door. “Silence the prisoner!”

  Mike grimaced as the stunners hit, but it had a trace of a smile in it.

  * * *

  “That was unnecessary, Tir,” General Wesley said as the unconscious body was dragged from the room.

  “I determine what is necessary, General,” the Tir said. “You may all return to your duties.”

  “What was that about failure of payment?” Colonel Rodermund asked. “Is there something we should be discussing, Tir?”

  “Only if you wish to go to the same place as the former General, Colonel,” the Tir said, coldly. “This matter is closed.”

  * * *

  “Glad that’s over,” Master at Arms First Class Chan Mu said, dropping the prisoner unceremoniously to the deck. “Bastard’s heavy as hell.”

  The sub-surface shuttle called The Deep Tram ran between the Fleet Base in the Chaplygin crater and Fleet Central Penal Facility in Chaplygin K. There was a regular shuttle consist that ran four times a day, carrying normal prisoners, their guards and the occasional releasee. This one, though, was unscheduled and consisted of only one car. It was for the specific job of getting the former General Michael O’Neal into that extremely secure sub-surface facility. Surrounded by space-capable weaponry and with nearly a thousand guards, once he was in FCPF the general wasn’t going anywhere, ever again. Assuming that he even made it through in-processing. The Fleet masters at arms were charged with getting him to the facility, not killing him.

  On the other hand they had very specific orders in the event there was any attempt to rescue him.

  “Stay alert,” Lieutenant Mang Rong said, setting the stunner aside and pulling around a laser rifle. “If we lose this one it’s all our heads.”

  “Not much chance of that,” Rei Shun said with a snort as the shuttle jerked into motion. “Solid rock between here and the prison. Be pretty hard to get to us and even if they did they’d evacuate the shuttle, killing him. That’s if we missed, sir.”

  “Nonetheless,” the lieutenant said, training the laser rifle on the back of the prisoner’s head. “Remain alert.”

  * * *

  Tommy Sunday was trapped in a bubble of rock and not particularly happy about it.

  After all the time he’d spent in suits, he thought he was over anything resembling claustrophobia. When you put on a suit, the undergel flooded into your ears, eyes, nose. You were trapped, for just a moment, in a coffin. It was a very claustophobic experience that was hard to get used to, at first. But if you stayed in suits, you got really comfortable with it. So here he was, breathing stale air, room to move his feet, so why was he getting so claustophobic.

  Maybe it was because he was under a thousand feet of rock and the only thing between him and eventually dying when his air ran out was the questionable support of a sohon mentat none of them ever got to meet.

  “Prepare yourselves. The shuttle is leaving the station. The General is in the rear portion. There are five guards. They are armed with laser rifles and have low-light glasses. I will stop the shuttle, shut off the lights, disable their systems and let you through. All else is up to you. I may take no direct action against a human being. When you have secured the general, I will extract you.”

  Tommy supposed he also shouldn’t wonder how the damned mentat was contacting a radio under a thousand feet of rock. But was having a harder time getting past that than how they’d gotten here.

  * * *

  So how’s this supposed to work? George had said.

  The four suits were standing on the lunar surface, looking around for any sign of their contact.

  Michelle said there’d be a signal, Cally replied. It had better be soon.

  Would a line in the sand be a signal?

  In front of Tommy’s eyes a line was drawing itself without anyone touching the lunar dust. As he watched, his name appeared next to an X drawn on a point on the line.

  I guess X marks your spot, Cally said, with just a hint of nervousness.

  After lining up they had waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, their radios crackled.

  You are about to sink into the ground, a male voice with all the emotion of a robot had said. Attempt to control your emotional reactions.

  Before Tommy could reply he felt a sinking sensation in no metaphorical sense. Looking down, the lunar dust was opening up around his feet into a pocket the width of his body and a few handspans. The others were descending as well. In moments he was below the surface of the moon, the pocket had closed above his head and, as far as he could tell, he was still dropping. In fact, if his inner ear was any judge, the rate had increased.

  You will be dropped to the level of the shuttle tube, the voice said. How the presumed mentat was broadcasting to fairly normal radios was beyond Tommy. On the other hand, so was how he was opening up a pocket in solid rock! You will then hold there until it is time to retrieve the General.

  * * *

  So here he stood, waiting in this hole. The recent transmission had been the first sign he’d heard that the mission was still a go in over an hour. He hoped the other members of the party were doing better than he was, because Tommy was about to flip his lid.

  “How are the guards arrayed?” Cally asked.

  “The General is unconscious on the floor. Recently stunned. The lieutenant in charge of the detail is to starboard flanked by two guards. The other two are to port. Mr. Sunday will be dropping almost on top of the General. Are you prepared?”

  “Yes,” Cally replied. “Tommy, Guard.”

  “Roger,” Tommy said.

  “Good, because the shuttle is stopping in three… two… ”

  Tommy dropped in the low lunar gravity. Looking down he could see the top of the shuttle somehow dilated out, just as the rock around him had been. General O’Neal was directly beneath his feet. Which meant the rest of the team was arrayed further forward.

  The guards had apparently been
thrown off their seats by a violent stop. In total darkness, their electronics disabled, they floundered in the dark. At least one appeared to be injured.

  Tommy didn’t have time to take in more than that before spreading his feet so he wouldn’t crush the package and then ducking down to cover the General with his body. There was a meaty sound from forward then a series of muted pops. Cally was being her usual efficient self.

  “Package secured,” Cally said. “Guards secured.”

  “Retrieving,” the mentat replied.

  This time, as the group gathered around Tommy and “the package”, a wider hole was opened. The five of them, Tommy holding onto the General, started lifting upwards as if with grav belts. The top of the shuttle, which had been solid a moment before, simply seemed to momentarily disappear. Then they were back in rock.

  “Okay,” George said. “I’ve seen and done some weird shit, but this is starting to freak me out.”

  “At least we’re not still sitting in those damned coffins,” George replied. “I was starting to totally freak out.”

  “Should have tried being in a suit for a few years,” Tommy heard himself say. “After that, sitting in solid rock is nooo problem.”

  * * *

  “He’s what?” Tir Dal Ron snapped.

  The Tir’s position had always been a bit confusing to the humans. Technically, Tir was a relatively minor position, the Darhel equivalent of a paper-shuffler. The term usually used in Human-Darhel dictionaries was “clerk.” But while there was a higher ranked Gil who was the official ambassador to the Human government of the Confederation of Allied Races, the Tir seemed to wield extraordinary powers.

  As time went on, and Humans had been in contact with the Darhel for nearly sixty years at this point, another term had entered service. “Eminence gris.” While the Tir might not be a Clan leader among the Darhel, nor a planetary governor nor even a senior member of the rubber-stamp Legislative Committee of the Confederation, what he was was a mover and a shaker, a shyster, a power broker sitting very close to the right hand of the master of all Darhel, the shadowy Ghin whom no human had ever met.