A Call to Arms

by Bradley Hutchinson

  “Still, not a good look,” Gibson said dourly. “Combined with the toxic atmosphere in here between some of the pollies, tonight hasn’t exactly gotten off on the right foot.”

  “Toxic?” Rebecca asked, curious. Tonight was supposed to be a benefit dinner to raise money for refugees, not to discuss – or get embroiled – in politics.

  “Yeah,” Gibson said, fiddling with his scarlet tie. “We’ve got Governor Pataki over there pushing for the creation of militias…” he gestured to a throng of people near the bar, and a rather severe, butch looking woman, before pointing out another group of people near the dance floor. “… And Governor Larijani arguing for –”

  “Food first, Bradley,” Rebecca snapped, waving him off. If she wanted a discussion on politics, she’d talk to one of her sons, not get a rambling sermon from a boring university Chancellor.

  “Yes, of course,” Bradley chuckled as he pivoted on his heel to escort them to the buffet table. “How silly of me.”

  “You cut him off rather quickly,” Sean murmured quietly as they followed in the Chancellor’s wake. His tone was neutral, but there was something about his steely gaze that suggested he was disapproving of her rather abrupt dismissal.

  “We’ll be hearing these sermons all night, Sean,” Rebecca growled through gritted teeth, offering feeble waves to a few of her colleagues – Ottens, Revira, Amrosi – as they noticed her and Sean, who opted to simply nod politely in their directions. For every academic attending tonight, there was at least one politician, or people with political interests - aside from the war, politics was the main source of conversation these days. “I really don’t want to listen to it before I’ve eaten.”

  Sean smirked. “Of course, I forgot how important the stomach is in these instances.”

  *

  “I thought tonight went well.”

  Rebecca merely nodded, her gaze looking out over the bay as her and Sean drove over the Golden Gate. It was just after midnight, and traffic – both air and ground – was very light, as was activity in the waterways below them. Despite the lights of the city around them, much of the bay was shrouded in an impenetrable darkness.

  “We didn’t raise as much money as I thought we would,” Rebecca murmured. Between the two of them, they had donated a modest million dollars – not bad, considering that they were among the poorest people to attend the dinner, which had had more than a fair few Fortune 2000 members there.

  “Well, what can you expect? They throw one of these dinners every month or so – the economy has stagnated. People are tapped out, Beck; they’re gradually going to give less and less as the war empties their coffers.”

  Rebecca glanced at Sean, her lips thinning. Times like these, she wished that she was able to do more than just give away her hard-earned money. “I suppose.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  Rebecca finally pried her gaze away from the bay and looked at Sean, whose face was mostly obscured by the darkness inside the cabin of their BMW. Despite the car being fully automated, Sean liked driving manually.

  “I’m just tired of attending these things,” she murmured.

  “I think you’ll find most people are tired… especially of the war.”

  Rebecca couldn’t refute that, and fell back into a tired silence. There was, after all, no arguing with that… and nothing she could do about it, either. She’d done all she could.

  For what little good it did.

  2432-2434: A Loss of Innocence

  “So when I say I am a refugee, you must understand that there is no refuge.” – Chris Cleave

  The old saying went it could be worse, but as to how Celina Yuen’s life could have turned out worse eluded her most of the time. The bitch who had started a war – as everyone called her behind her back, and some called her to her face – had been relegated to menial assignments, before finally being sent to command a backwater garrison on Wallace IV: after all, she had been cleared of any wrong-doing at New Haven.

  That had been ten years ago, and her career had stalled – no one respected her authority, much less trusted her, and no one wanted to work for her. But being at war, to say nothing of being declared innocent, the Navy had to pretend that she was both wanted and needed. First they’d had her desk-bound to an admiral on Earth, then Alpha Centauri, and half-a-dozen other posts before her ass had landed here in 2427, a sort-of exile.

  Wallace was the fourth of five planets in a mostly unimportant star system. It was a small rocky world, much like Mars in the Sol system, with a thin atmosphere lacking oxygen, with barely half the gravity of Earth. It was a lifeless rock, and its only importance to the Commonwealth was as a listening post – not for the N’xin, but for pirates.

  Not that we’ve heard a peep from any mercenary groups in the last decade. Since the conflict with the N’xin had blossomed into full-scale war, most underground organizations had gone to ground, not taking any major risks. Most colonies and cargo transports had some sort of escort or protection these days, making a pirate raid an extremely risky – and costly – proposition.

  Originally, the base on Wallace had been equipped with four FTL-capable gunships, capable of quick interdictions, but these had been transferred to the front-lines in 2425; 2426 had seen two of the base’s three fighter squadrons transferred to the front-lines, and 2430 had seen a majority of her marines – and three of their five FTL-capable transports – transferred out, too.

  Now, after five years, she had a half-empty base of barely two hundred souls, and the only thing of value in the whole place was the one-time state-of-the-art long-range subspace radio antenna – despite no longer being the most advanced sensor system, the twenty-year-old device still allowed the base on Wallace to complete its mission-statement.

  At least, that had been true until that antenna had failed three weeks earlier, cutting Wallace off from the rest of the Commonwealth… cutting her off from her family and friends. Not that they’ve had much to do with me in the last ten years.

  There were times, when she was in her darkest, most depressed state, she regretted opening fire on the N’xin at New Haven. It was a vanity she rarely enjoyed – after all, if it hadn’t been her, it would have been Captain Shanthi… Or someone else entirely.

  Yuen had long ago accepted the fact that she would be considered a villain in this story forever.

  But that doesn’t make living with it any easier. If she’d been able to, she would have left the Navy long ago, duty be damned. I’ve done my duty. Her nonchalance to the uniform had extended to her physical appearance – her raven black hair was now much longer than protocol suggested, and she’d gone up a size since her days of commanding a warship.

  The man in front of her, however, could have been used in a recruitment poster. Tall, with an athletic build and dark eyes, framed by black hair that was barely regulation, James Hunter had obviously enjoyed the fruits of having cherry-picked genetics. His black uniform tunic carried half-a-dozen combat ribbons, suggesting he’d seen some combat.

  “I appreciate the repair work, Lieutenant Commander Hunter. We’ve been isolated from civilisation for too long, and with Christmas and New Year’s quickly approaching, it’s essential for morale to be able to reach their loved ones.”

  Yuen had her back to the younger man, but watched his reflection in her office viewport, which only displayed a barren, lifeless rust-coloured mountain range. Hunter smiled awkwardly. As the Third Officer of the cruiser Eisenhower, he’d been relegated to overseeing the repair and refit work of the base for the last eight days.

  “Anytime, Captain,” he said neutrally.

  “I suppose your crew is grateful to be away from the front-lines?”

  “Some are grateful for the change of pace, I suppose. Some might even be looking forward to ushering in the New Year on a planet-side facility, for a change.” Hunter shrugged casually, tugging his navy jacket straight. His rank cylinders were so new they were still sparkling silver – Yuen’s, on the
other hand, were sol old they were more than a little tarnished. “I’m sure there’s quite a few who aren’t.”

  Yuen smiled ruefully as she turned around and stood behind her desk. “Are you one of the latter, Mr. Hunter?”

  Hunter looked perplexed, his dark eyes – framed by a non-regulation length fringe – narrowed in concentration. Yuen had seen this look quite a few times during his visit. “I had to fight to get posted to the front-lines, Captain. The brass insisted on protecting me from harm, out of fear of upsetting my father. As much as I can’t say I enjoy combat, it’s infinitely more exciting – and worthwhile – than babysitting a bunch of engineers in some insignificant dustbowl in Hicksville in the ass-end of nowhere.”

  That single statement had been the longest string of words Yuen had heard Hunter mutter during his entire stay here – because of all the spare room on the base, Hunter had decided to garrison the repair teams on the planet, instead of ferrying them back into orbit at the end of every shift. The influx of twenty new people on the base had done much to boost morale.

  “I’m presuming you passed along my request for a crew transfer to the High Command?” Yuen asked.

  “I did, but I suspect they’ll only take more of your staff away from you. I wouldn’t count on having any replacements anytime soon, if at all.” He shrugged ruefully.

  “Yeah, but most of my staff here are misfits, miscreants or delinquents… led by the biggest delinquent of all.” Yuen pointed at her chest, stabbing a finger between her breasts like a knife.

  Hunter arched an eyebrow at her. “You’re not a delinquent, ma’am.”

  Yuen blinked in surprise. “Is that an implied insult, Mr. Hunter?”

  “Not at all, Captain,” Hunter replied, shaking his head. “Your reputation is undeserved. Those who accuse you of starting this war are either ignorant, or stupid. Or both.” He sighed. “The war was inevitable. Those who say otherwise are either cowards… or just delusional. The surprising thing was that the détente between our two nations lasted as long as it did before the N’xin called your bluff.”

  Yuen smiled. That was the nicest thing she’d heard said to her in many years – while few people were seldom ever rude to her, she could tell by their tone and choice of words that most thought little of her. Sufficed to say, it got tiresome after a few years.

  “That’s very kind of you to say, Lieutenant Commander.” Yuen sighed. “Unfortunately, the High Command disagrees with that assessment. Otherwise, I’d be out there fighting… or sitting on a beach, writing my memoirs.”

  Hunter shifted uncomfortably, clearly unsure how to respond.

  “The High Command is nothing but a bunch of politicians out to save their asses. This war has already claimed two presidencies. You’re just a convenient scape-goat, who just happens to be a bit too competent at her job.” He smiled maliciously. “They need you, more than they’re willing to admit.”

  It was now Yuen’s turn to be uncertain how to reply. She decided to change the subject. “How long until your engineers are done?” In addition to repairing their communications, Hunter’s personnel were retrofitting their life-support and computer systems – the latter of which hadn’t been updated in nearly five years.

  “The last of your computer systems should be operational by the end of the day.”

  “And then you’re off?”

  “Yes, the Eisenhower is to report to Elysium by October 1st. If we don’t leave tonight, we’ll miss that rendezvous.”

  Yuen sighed as she pulled her chair out, sitting down heavily. “Your ship is going to be sorely missed. You’re the first visitors we’ve had in months.” She caressed the arms of her chair lazily, as if sitting in it for the first time. “Part of me wants to go with you. I’ve been stuck here for over five years.”

  Hunter frowned. “Regulations stipulate ground-based personnel are to be rotated every two years, unless an extension is requested,” Hunter said, his tone sharp, suspicious as his eyes flashed. “Even with a war on, the Navy is averaging a rotation period of 29 months for nearly seventy percent of the active fleet.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I’m presuming, by your tone, that you haven’t requested to remain here?” He cocked his head, nodding meaningfully when she confirmed it. “Want me to look into it?”

  The question surprised Yuen – she’d long given up hope of getting back into space. Or even just getting off this rock. “If you think you can do something, by all means. Anything to get off this wasteland.”

  “I’ll quote you on that if you get sent to the frontlines.”

  Yuen eyed Hunter intently. “You do that… just be sure you get me the hell out of here. Preferably before next year.”

  “You’re giving me three weeks? Gee, make it harder next time.”

  *

  It was a loud knocking on his bedroom door that awoke Troy from a sound slumber – just three hours after Troy had crashed onto it. Adlai had had his weekly stay-over at a friend’s place, leaving his father with too little to do, and too much time to do it in.

  Naturally, that meant Troy went out drinking, which invariably led to dancing the night away in a nightclub or seedy bar, and – with no child to worry about at home – this meant that he was able to bring home a very nice junior associate by the name of Evan.

  Or was it Ewan?

  Troy shook his head as he looked at his bedroom door. Whichever. It didn’t matter – the only thing that did, in a situation like this, was that they both had a good time. As his mind flashed over the nights events – thanks to his virtual-array, remembering the past was as easy as retrieving a computer file – he smiled, even as he pulled his arm out from under his paramour and faced the door. Yes, we did have fun.

  “Come in,” he called out, after making sure they were reasonably decent. Evan/Ewan was on his side, his face half-buried in the pillow, facing the closed windows, and breathing rhythmically. Thank god he doesn’t snore. He didn’t stir as the door opened – Troy had neglected to lock it the night before. Adlai strolled in lazily.

  “Adlai?” Troy said, sitting up in the bed. “When did you get home?”

  “I dunno,” the eight-year-old said wistfully. “A little while ago.” While he looked much like Troy had at that age, the blonde hair came from his mother Felicity, as did the wide-eyed innocent look he affected on a regular basis. “Uncle Michael is here to see you.”

  Troy frowned – he hadn’t even known Michael was on Bastion, much less looking for Troy. “How long has he been here?”

  “He was here when I got here.”

  Troy groaned, wondering why Michael hadn’t bothered to wake him up before now, and grateful that he hadn’t. Michael had access to the whole house, like the rest of the family. James wouldn’t have wasted time – he’d have annoyed Troy until Troy was ready to throw him out of the room.

  “Alright, go and tell Uncle Mick that I’ll be there in a minute,” Troy said, reaching out for his jeans that were lying crumpled on the floor. “Did you have fun last night?” he asked as Adlai swaggered off.

  His son gave him a goofy smile and walked out. He hadn’t so much as acknowledged the presence of Troy’s companion, which surprised Troy – after all, Troy rarely had anyone over these days, and as far as he knew, Noah’s mother, Felicity, didn’t either.

  Not that she sees much of Adlai these days, Troy thought regretfully. Although Felicity had been a surrogate mother, he’d always been prepared to share his son with her… but for reasons that escaped him, Felicity had been quite reluctant to have more than a token relationship with Adlai.

  It took Troy all of two minutes to dress and scurry out of his bedroom, silently closing the door behind him. Michael was waiting for him, dressed as smart and immaculately as ever, in the spacious living room, standing in front of the three-seat leather couch, and taking in the city-scape with his hands clasped officiously behind his back.

  “Michael, what the hell do you want?” Troy grumped. “You know I do
n’t do mornings.”

  Michael turned to face him, arching an eyebrow that disappeared underneath his over-long fringe. “Good morning to you, too.” He had a closer look at Troy. “You look like shit, Troy.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Troy muttered, padding into the kitchen bare-foot with the intent of making coffee. “Do you want one?” he asked, holding up a mug, not that he had much interest in catering for his brother.

  “Sure,” Michael said, walking towards the kitchen bench as Troy set to work. “As for why I’m here – the Commonwealth Senate has become aware of the concerns of refugee groups regarding the conditions displaced settlers are living in and want –”

  “The Senate has been aware of these concerns for some time, Mick. What you mean to say is that they’re now actually willing to maybe do something about it... Or acknowledge that there even is a concern to be dealt with.” Troy waved a hand impatiently. “And for that, they want to snoop around and make sure that everything that can be done for the refugees is being done?” He fixed Michael with a level stare. “Am I right?”

  Michael blinked at him, surprised – after all, Troy wasn’t usually this verbose in the morning. “Actually, yes, you are. For once.” Michael nodded a salute at Troy. “Since I sit on the boards of several of these interest groups, the Senate has invited me to join the inspection team.” He nodded at Troy. “I want you to come with me to help.”

  Troy snorted wryly. “Why would you inflict that sort of thing on me? What did I do, who did I offend?”

  “Do you really want to go down that path, Troy?” Michael smiled wickedly as he flicked a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Because, contrary to your air of disdain and outright dislike for most of society around you, I know you’re actually a humanist at heart. You’re good at talking to people, getting them to trust you and open up. You’re also reasonably well-connected, which is also useful.”