by Rick Partlow
“Can’t we track where her lander went?” O’Keefe demanded, exasperation in his voice. “I mean, we do have satellite coverage, don’t we?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” the General assured him. “It’s going to take a while…we’ve been concentrating on the threat from the Protectorate ships…now that we know they’ve been destroyed, we can run a tracking procedure on Colonel Stark.”
“Make it happen, General,” O’Keefe told him, clapping a hand on the big man’s shoulder. “I want to know where that lander went and what happened to Colonel Stark.” And Antonov, he thought but didn’t say. No one else needed to know that yet.
“Sir.” O’Keefe looked up to see an aide handing him a plate with a sandwich and sliced carrots. He opened his mouth to say he wasn’t hungry when his stomach reminded him he’d skipped lunch and was, in fact, starving.
“Thanks, son,” he said with a nod, taking the plate and grabbing a bite as he leaned against a wall, suddenly feeling the nervous energy of the last few hours running out of him.
I’ll have to see that Lt. Franks gets a medal for this, he thought, his mind beginning to wander with exhaustion. Can’t promote him though…that’s up to Stark, or McKay when he gets back. I’ll just let them know that I approve of any promotion they want to give him.
“Mr. President?”
O’Keefe’s eyes snapped up and he saw Svetlana Zakharova half-in the door of the room, looking a bit frazzled. “Yes, Svetlana?” He set his plate down on one of the few bare spots he could find, noticing out of the corner of his eye that it was wobbling and threatening to fall before one of his aides grabbed it with fortuitous timing.
“Sir,” Zakharova went on breathlessly, “it’s Colonel Stark…she’s back. She just landed and wants to meet you privately in your office.”
“I’m damn glad she’s back.” O’Keefe admitted, shaking his head. “It’s a madhouse here and I still don’t have a clear idea of what’s going on. Get my security detail…I’m heading there now.”
He took a moment to check in with the military officers and make sure they kept him informed of any new developments, then he followed his security team through the secure exit to his flyer. As a Senator, he’d often used a groundcar to get around Capital City, an old-fashioned affectation he’d clung to from his boyhood in rural Alberta, but a President couldn’t get away with such eccentricities. He was conveyed in a special, armored flyer, always accompanied by another flyer full of Security and usually a combat lander of Marines.
O’Keefe settled into his seat in the flyer as a Security agent took the seat next to him and Zakharova fell into the one across from him, eyes glued to her tablet.
“Public confidence has gone down 43 percent since the announcement and the attack, sir,” she told him. “The people are close to panicking, sir…there are reports that thousands of people are still in the shelters in a half dozen different cities. You need to address the public very soon.”
“And I will, Svetlana,” he assured her drily, “once I actually know what to tell them.”
Zakharova paused with a retort on her lips, raising a hand to her ear bud reflexively. “Yes, transfer it to my ‘link,” she spoke quietly to the caller, then she looked back to O’Keefe. “Sir,” she announced, “you have an urgent call coming in from General Kage. He says he needs to talk to you immediately.”
“Put it over the cabin speakers,” he told her.
“Sir,” she said hesitantly a scowl passing over her face, “he says this is very confidential, for your ears only.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” O’Keefe hissed in frustration. He pulled the ear bud from his ‘link and put it in place. “Put him through,” he told her, nodding. “Let’s see if he has a good excuse for missing my speech…”
* * *
Shannon Stark strode through the halls of the Republic Presidential Office Building with the casual familiarity of a regular visitor, even her sweat-soaked utility fatigues and holstered sidearm hardly drawing a second glance on a day when a Protectorate attack had narrowly been averted. The offices were a mass of confused activity as personnel trickled in from the shelters and others audited newscasts or tried to press their contacts in the Fleet to find out just what the hell had happened.
Shannon moved through the chaos purposefully, eyes fixed straight ahead as she approached the President’s private offices. There were the normal pair of Security agents stationed in the outer office, arrayed on either side of the entrance, but none of the President’s aides or secretaries were at the pair of workstations in the outer office.
“Colonel Stark,” the senior of the Security agents nodded respectfully. “The President is expecting you.”
She nodded and stepped towards the door, but the guard held up a hand, an almost-embarrassed look on his face. “Sorry, ma’am, but regulations…you need to check your sidearm before entering the President’s office.”
Shannon hesitated a moment, coolly assessing the beefy, professional-looking man, his right hand resting casually on the stock of a submachine gun strapped around his chest, then she smiled thinly and pulled the 10mm from the holster high on her right hip and handed it butt-first to the agent. He grinned sheepishly as he accepted it, pulling open a drawer at one of the work stations and locking it inside.
“I’ll have it for you when you come out, ma’am,” he assured her.
The door slid aside and Shannon stepped into the President’s private office. It was a well-appointed room with tasteful art on the walls and a collection of antique hardbound books on mahogany shelves, with a polished oak desk as its centerpiece. It was as nostalgic and old-fashioned as the man behind the desk…though at the moment, he looked less old-fashioned than simply old.
He looked up and smiled wanly as Shannon entered, but he didn’t rise, seemingly too exhausted to get up. “It’s good to see you, Shannon,” he said, sounding utterly drained. “I was beginning to worry.”
Shannon stepped over to the desk, absently running a finger over the antique fountain pen in a sterling silver holder displayed there. “Well, Mr. President,” she allowed with a shrug, “there were reasons for worry. Things didn’t go well.” She took the pen from the holder, turning it back and forth in her fingers, examining the classic lines of the obsolete device.
O’Keefe’s eyes flickered to the pen, then back to her. “So, Antonov wasn’t there?” he guessed.
“Oh, no, sir,” she shook her head, “he was there all right. Along with about a hundred biomech troopers, armed and armored. They knew we were coming, and they were ready for us.” Her eyes were cold and deadly as they locked on his. “They’re all dead, Mr. President. Except for a couple I left to guard our back before we went in, they’re all dead. And I had to leave them there.” Her fist tightened on the pen, gripping it so tightly it creaked in her grasp. “I had to leave Tom Crossman there to die.”
“Tom Crossman is not dead, Colonel Stark,” a voice said from behind her. Shannon spun around, her face screwing up in shock that bordered on rage, raising the fountain pen instinctively, like a weapon.
Shannon knew there were at least two concealed entrances to the President’s office. She had to guess that General Kage had been concealed behind one of them when she entered, because now he was standing directly in front of her, his eyes dark pools of impassive calm in the harsh and craggy terrain of his weathered features. His right hand rose to meet her left wrist, holding it and the fountain pen immobile in a grip of iron, while his other hand pointed a stunner at her at hip level.
“Please drop the pen and relax before I am forced to incapacitate you,” he said in a cool, level voice. “Your friend Sergeant Crossman is alive, and being taken to a hospital by Ari Shamir and my agent Roza Kovach. They also picked up your two other men, Reynolds and Von Paleske…and one other, a woman, was still alive from the raiding force, she is receiving treatment.”
“Crossman told us how Antonov forced you to submit to the hypnoprobe, Shannon,” O’K
eefe said. He was standing now, having taken a few steps back from the desk, and had his hands up in an almost pleading gesture, a helpless, plaintive tone to his voice. “We can help you through this.”
Shannon hesitated for a moment, then with a dismissive flick of her fingers tossed the fountain pen towards Kage’s chest. His attention faltered for just a moment, but it was enough: with speed born from years of constant practice, she snatched the stunner from his hand and put the barrel against his nose.
The General’s eyes widened slightly and the only sound in the room was President O’Keefe’s sharp intake of breath. Shannon pulled her wrist free of Kage’s grip and stepped back from him, then sniffed and tossed the stunner on the floor.
“Get real, General,” she told him, shaking her head, her fists on her hips. “If I were brainwashed, you’d be dead and so would the President.”
“But…” O’Keefe stuttered, his back against the wall of the office. “But Captain Shamir said…”
“Mr. President, you’ve known me for six years now,” she said, her glare boring into him. “Have you ever known me to be careless?” She looked to Kage. “I’ve known for weeks that the enemy was using hypnoprobes to control their agents. One of the first things I did was to visit the Fleet psych-med wing and receive counter-conditioning. I’m sure you did the same thing once Agent Kovach informed you that you’d been brainwashed during that voyage on the Patton.”
“Yes I did,” General Kage admitted, nonplused. “But if you were not hypnoprobed then why did you allow Antonov to…” Realization dawned in his dark eyes and he smiled, an unusual expression for him. “Ah, I understand…you are tracking him.”
“But why didn’t you tell us?” O’Keefe stepped away from the wall, approaching the two of them tentatively. “Why didn’t you tell Captain Shamir?”
Shannon fell tiredly into a chair beside the desk, closing her eyes and taking a breath. “Because frankly, Mr. President, Antonov has been two steps ahead of us this whole time and I don’t trust our lines of communications. I had to make sure he believed I was doing exactly what he told me to do so he wouldn’t deviate from his plans.” Her mouth twitched and her tone grew hard and bitter. “So I didn’t get all those men and women killed for nothing.”
O’Keefe was about to offer her some condolence, when Kage interrupted. “Where is Antonov going?”
“He left nearly a hundred biomechs behind at the bunker,” Shannon told him. “He abandoned them as if they were superfluous. I’m guessing he’s going somewhere he can get a lot more…”
* * *
General Sergei Pavlovitch Antonov, former leader of the Russian Protectorate, former ruler of Eastern Europe and part of Asia, former ruler of the Novoye Rodina system and a dozen others, surveyed his army with an air of satisfaction long delayed. They were seated on dozens of benches, row upon row, in a square half a kilometer long by half a kilometer wide. Each of them was in simple, unmarked grey body armor and each was hooked up to feeding and waste removal tubes through hookups in the armor.
They sat motionless and silent, thousands of them, like a high-tech terra-cotta army in the harsh, sharp-edged shadows cast by the industrial lighting of the old warehouse. Here and there, human technicians walked among their ranks, tending to the feeding machines or emptying the waste disposal tanks; here and there one would pull off a helmet and make an adjustment to the hookups.
Antonov watched them for a moment more, then hit the control to darken the window that looked out from the office to the main floor of the warehouse. He looked over to Kevin Fourcade, who stood by the utilitarian metal desk, still watching over Brendan Riordan. The executive was no longer blindfolded, but his hands were still cuffed in front of him and his expression was sullen and fearful as he sat quietly in a chair much too small for his bulk. Every so often, he glanced almost unnoticeably at the handgun Fourcade kept trained on him.
“I have to thank you, Mr. Riordan,” Antonov said in a booming voice, smiling broadly. “None of this would have been possible without your limitless ambition and hunger for power. I can respect that.” He stepped over to the man, grabbing the square chin in a hand and turning Riordan’s face toward him. “The difference between us, tovarisch, is that I want power for the good of the oppressed people of this world, while you want it merely for your own glorification.” He let the man go, shrugging expressively. “Still, you may yet be of use to me…perhaps, if you prove yourself able, I can find a place for you in my new government.”
Fourcade cocked his head to the side as a call came in over his ‘link. He spoke softly to the caller for a moment, then turned to Antonov. “We can find a use for him right now, sir,” he said. “The vehicles are ready to ship out-all we need is his authorization.” Fourcade pulled a tablet from his jacket pocket and touched it to his ‘link, syncing their settings, then put it down on the desk next to Riordan.
“If you would be so kind, Brendan…” Antonov nodded towards the tablet.
“And you will be so kind, Brendan,” Fourcade said softly into the big man’s ear, “because I have worked for you for enough years to have many reasons to want to kill you even if he didn’t order me too.”
Riordan glared at him for a moment, but then nodded curtly. He placed a thumb on the tablet’s side and winced as it pricked him, drawing blood for DNA analysis. When it confirmed that his DNA sample had been confirmed, he leaned over its audio pickup and spoke slowly and clearly. “Riordan, Brendan Jacob. Authorization E-98.”
“Authorization confirmed,” the tablet announced.
“And there we go,” Fourcade said with satisfaction, snatching the tablet back. “The vehicles will start staging here in a few hours. It shouldn’t take more than a day to get them loaded.”
“It will be more difficult without the Colonial Guard troops to support us,” Antonov mused, “but with McKay and Stark out of the way, and the military’s space assets distracted, it should be enough. By the time our forces break through their ships, we will have the orbital defenses under our control.”
“Even if you win,” Riordan said slowly, his indignation finally overcoming his fear, “you’ll have wrecked everything.” He shook his head in disgust, his matted, sweat-soaked hair flopping limply. “Why bother? You have resources, you have your own worlds, we couldn’t have reached you…why not just leave it alone?”
The good-natured smile never left Antonov’s face, but his gaze went cold as he took a step toward the corporate executive. Riordan flinched instinctively as the Russian’s hand raised, but Antonov merely patted his cheek as one might a toddler who’d said something amusingly naive.
“Because it is my world,” he told the man, his voice at once warmly condescending and yet as coldly lethal as a blade. “And I will rule it, finally, as is my destiny.” He laughed softly, an unholy sound that sent shivers up Riordan’s back. “I will rule it, Mr. Riordan, or I will watch it burn.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Drew Franks emerged from the access tube into the engineering section of the RFS Bradley, pausing for a moment to let his head stop spinning before he moved into the chamber. The Brad had been in zero g for over two days now and it was starting to get to him. Staying still until he was sure he wasn’t about to throw up, Franks finally pushed off into the chaotic turmoil of activity that filled the chamber.
Spools of superconductive cable were stretched out across the chamber ready to install, while engineering crew ripped charred lengths of it from burned-out conduits leading to the main trunk line from the fusion reactor. Scorched carbon streaks lined the deck below where the conduits had exploded under stress, filling the chamber with deadly shrapnel that had sent a dozen men and women to the medical bay. On the central station display, he could shuttles hovering near the midsection of the ship, using loader arms to insert antimatter fuel pods into the heavily armored ports there, while other technicians in vacuum suits oversaw the seating of the pods into the evacuated portion of the engineering bay.
&
nbsp; Radio traffic filled the air, a cacophonous racket of overlapping conversations as dozens of men and women worked at a dozen different major tasks. In the center of it all, maintaining a Buddha-like calm in the eye of that storm, was Lt. Commander Maria Infante, the ship’s Chief Engineering Officer. As he watched her, Franks was amazed at the way she seemed to be able to keep track of all those separate conversations and respond to each question while still monitoring the various displays at her station.
He was loath to disturb her when she was obviously insanely busy, but he had a job to do as well, and this wouldn’t wait. He pushed off from the wall and floated across the chamber, twisting in midair to avoid being sideswiped by a preoccupied technician, then stopping himself against the side of the engineering control center console.
“Commander Infante,” he interjected and she looked up at him, still droning orders to three different people.
“Yes, Lt. Franks?” she said, automatically muting the audio inputs to the microphones at her station.
“You’ve seen the effects of field intersect now,” he said, trying to be quick and brief. “I need to know if you can come up with any way we can do it repeatedly without almost destroying ourselves.”
“Why?” she cracked, “Are you planning on making a sport of it?”
“Ma’am,” he went on seriously, “I don’t think the Protectorate is going to quit at two of those things. Eventually, they’re going to throw everything they have at us, and we can’t be knocking a star cruiser out of commission every we have to take out one of those ramships. I need to know how to take them out.”
“Lieutenant,” she said soberly, shaking her head, “there is no way we can harden the power systems on this ship enough to survive multiple field intersects. We can jury-rig it to barely make it through one, but that’s it without access to a full dry-dock. The gravito-inertial feedback is just too intense. I’d need a whole secondary power trunk, and we just don’t have the equipment to build one…or the time, most likely.”
