March of War

by Bennett R. Coles

At the time it had been nice, but didn’t seem to make any difference.

  “I didn’t know that.” But now that he thought about it, he quietly suspected where the initiative had come from. Maybe Breeze had been telling the truth when she’d declared a truce between them.

  “I don’t think you lack for supporters, Thomas,” Sean said. “I saw Admiral Chandler last time we were in, and I mentioned how you’d saved my ship. He looked genuinely pleased, mostly I think just to know that you’re still alive and kicking.”

  Admiral Eric Chandler had been the XO in the first ship aboard which Thomas and Sean had served, right out of training. What had been scheduled to be a routine patrol of Sirius had exploded into a desperate battle for survival as the Sirian civil war had erupted around them. Sublieutenants Kane and Duncan had learned from their XO and had served well. Chandler had never forgotten them as his own career path continued to climb.

  “That’s good to hear, thanks.”

  “Your CO doesn’t know what to make of you,” Duncan said suddenly. “He sees your obvious ability, but he also figures there’s a good reason why you were busted down to subbie.”

  “He’s a fair man,” Thomas said. “I’m happy to earn his respect.”

  “That’s a solid approach, Thomas. Always has been, in our business.”

  Was that a criticism? Thomas had always been the more politically minded of the pair, always the one to look for underlying opportunities in every situation. Duncan had always been the earnest one, the take-me-as-I-am boor of a line officer. Thomas had seen that as a weakness, and yet… here they sat, Sublieutenant Kane in the cabin of Commander Duncan.

  There was a knock at the door. Thomas looked over and saw his own XO peering in. Perry’s face registered surprise, then darkened in anger.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Perry said to Duncan. “I’ve finished my discussion with your XO and I’m ready to depart at your convenience. Although I see Sublieutenant Kane has decided to impose upon you.”

  “I actually requested his presence,” Duncan replied evenly, “as I wanted to hear his assessment of my new security team. I’m sure you agree that Mr. Kane’s experience is very relevant here.”

  “Of course, sir. It’s why I brought him along. I appreciate you taking the time personally.”

  Duncan rose to his feet, and Thomas followed suit.

  “Give my regards to Commander Hu,” Duncan said. “My Hawk is standing by to take you home.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Thomas said, nodding to his friend and slipping out past Perry. He heard the XO say some parting words, and then march up alongside him.

  “The senior officer speaks, Mr. Kane,” he growled as they headed aft for the hangar. “Commander Duncan’s comment was addressed to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And don’t you go sneaking around behind my back. If you’re summoned by Singapore’s CO, you call and tell me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Perry’s hand grabbed Thomas’s coveralls and pulled them both to a stop.

  “Look at me when I talk to you, Sublieutenant.”

  Thomas turned, every muscle in his body tensing, but he ignored the fist gripping the fabric at his shoulder, and glanced down the passageway to ensure that they were alone. Then he met his XO’s eyes.

  “We’re off our ship, so just for a second let’s drop the facade,” he said, keeping his words measured. “I am older, more qualified and more experienced than you are, Lieutenant Perry. I have commanded both ships and troops in battle, and I am twice decorated for my service. So get your fucking hand off me.”

  Perry released his grip, expression tightening in a fight-or-flight conflict. He stared back with an intense uncertainty fueled by growing outrage.

  “I don’t give a shit what you’ve done in the past, Sublieutenant Kane,” he said finally. “Because whatever good you did was obviously wiped out by your crimes. You are a bad influence in my ship, and your presence threatens the required hierarchy. I don’t trust you, and it’s only because we are so short-staffed that I don’t get you shipped off to a front-line platoon.”

  Was that supposed to be a threat? Thomas would welcome the brutal simplicity of life back in the Corps—at least then he’d be free of all the Fleet bullshit.

  “I’ll do my job to the best of my ability,” he said, “wherever that is. And if it’s decided that I should serve aboard Admiral Bowen, then so be it. You can trust me to do my job. Now leave me free to do it.”

  “And leave me free to do mine,” Perry snapped. “I know that the officers resist my demands for routine and protocol, and they do it because they see how laissez-faire you are about proper conduct and discipline. I am trying to maintain an exhausted crew at wartime readiness, and they need the consistency of regulations to stay focused.”

  “What they need is respect.”

  “Which you have none of, for anyone.”

  Thomas bit down his response, watching the fear and anger flashing through Perry’s eyes. This man was totally overwhelmed, and his view of reality was skewed beyond all recognition. There was nothing Thomas could say to alter that view, or even help him.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, dropping his eyes and pushing down his frustration. “I will cause no further trouble.”

  Perry exhaled sharply. Finally he raised a finger and stabbed it in the air between them.

  “Don’t talk to me, don’t talk about me,” he said. “Do your job and nothing more.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Perry stormed off, and Thomas followed a few paces behind.

  He thought back to the old days in the destroyer Victoria, when he and Sean had felt crushed under the burden of still earning their bridge qualifications while their ship fought in a messy, brutal, and confusing war. Their XO, Eric Chandler, had taken it upon himself to guide them and train them, keeping them focused on the essentials and cutting out any peacetime nonsense which their training packages had demanded. He’d rewritten the rules of training, basically, and produced two of the fastest-qualified young line officers in Fleet history.

  And then there was Lieutenant Perry, and the subbies of Admiral Bowen who were all brilliant, but floundering. Following his XO back to the Hawk, Thomas realized what part of his job was. He wasn’t just the strike officer. He was also the Bull Sub, and if the XO wasn’t going to help the subbies in training, there was only one person who could.

  Perry wasn’t going to like him. Not at all. But it was for the good of the ship, and the good of the Fleet. And most importantly, it was for the good of the subbies.

  19

  Jack allowed himself a moment to admire the handsome man in the mirror. It was the first time since his promotion that he’d worn his full dress uniform, and the second silver bar on each shoulder certainly added to the bling. The pilot’s wings over his left breast would always be the most important, but he had to admit that the trio of medals just below added an impressive dash of color.

  The Colonial Uprising Medal had been renamed the Colonial War Medal. Pretty much everybody had one these days, but not everyone had four combat bars clasped to it. Next to it were the Distinguished Conduct Medal and the Military Medal, each awarded for actions performed in the cockpit and deemed particularly dangerous, heroic, or important.

  The wound stripe on his left wrist caught his eye, and he brushed his fingers over the gold braid. With his face rebuilt and his body healed, this little gold stripe on his uniform was his only remnant of the true horror of war. The only visible one, at least. He’d been banged up enough times now not to obsess over a particular injury, but he still sometimes had nightmares, and he still hated Sirians. Way deep down, he hated every last one of them.

  He looked at the wound stripe for a long moment, reminding himself that it was for this that he had joined Special Forces. To join Korolev’s plan to stop the war, and to stop other young people from getting stripes—and nightmares, and prejudices— of their own.

  The door opened behind him
and he turned to face his new Special Forces mentor and partner. Often he wasn’t sure if it was fondness or fear that made his heart beat faster when she was around, but either way she had his full attention.

  Katja’s appearance was striking in how little she actually looked like herself. Her hair was black and hung perfectly straight to the middle of her back, and her pale skin had been tanned to a deep olive. The change was so dramatic that her large, dark eyes—normally so prominent a feature—blended perfectly into the overall look. What Jack noticed most, however, was that those eyes were now level with his as she glided across the room to face him.

  “What are you wearing?” he said, looking at the conservative gown which flowed down her slender body to brush the floor. “Stilts?”

  “Killer heels,” she said with a smirk, lifting the hem of her dress to reveal stylish platform boots.

  “Are you hiding a hover tank in each shoe?”

  “Not quite,” she said, and she laughed, “but they do have some mobility augmentations that I want to try out. Some Centauri spies we’ve gone up against have had augments, and we need to keep pace.”

  “Sounds like we’re kitted out for the trenches,” he said. “I thought this was just an exercise.” He glanced at his own uniform, feeling the extra weight of the body armor. That plus the visual implants were quite enough for him.

  “No Special Forces mission is ever pretend. We’re really on the job today, but we don’t expect anything to go wrong, so it’s more a chance for you to get comfortable with your gear and use it without attracting attention.”

  There had been something odd about her voice since she’d arrived, and it was her use of the word “without” which finally clued him in.

  “Why are you talking with a Canadian accent?”

  “Because Finnish accents tend to stand out in this part of Earth,” she replied with a glint in her eye, “and today my job is to blend in. I’ve been listening to you jabber on for the last few weeks and I think I have it down. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “It’s weird, but yeah, it sounds pretty normal.”

  “Well, let’s go. It’s time to get out and about.”

  “We don’t say that,” he sighed.

  “Don’t say what, eh?”

  “I mean it.” He jabbed a finger at her. “Misusing the local slang is the fastest way to get caught out—and that sounds just painful.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s more like it—very natural.”

  She faced him, smoothing his tunic. Her eyes were bright—but with affection for him or anticipation of a mission? He couldn’t tell. Watching her chameleon skills in full force, coupled with his certain knowledge of the terrifying power that hid beneath that gown, kept his emotions firmly on the side of fear. This was a very dangerous person. Hopefully the woman who’d once been his friend was still in there, too.

  “How did you get your skin so dark?” he asked.

  “A sophisticated, tactical material applied manually.”

  “What?”

  “Make-up.” She reached into her bag and showed him a small container. “It’s actually really good—rubs right into the skin for longer wear and a natural texture. Too much sweat can stain it, though, so I always carry a touch-up supply.”

  He nodded, wondering if he’d ever be called upon to become a chameleon.

  “You comfortable with your role?” she asked.

  “Stand on the stage and look pretty.”

  “And…?” Her eyes iced over.

  “Act as close defense to the VIPs, in case of an incident. I have this”—he patted the ornate leather pouch attached to his ceremonial white belt—“for shielding… and this”—he patted his holster—“for engaging targets.” He tapped the hard surface beneath his uniform and then gestured at his eyes. “I’m capable of taking hits, and I can see the invisible.”

  “Good,” she said, and it sounded as if she meant it. “That’s the extreme situation. Now what will you really be doing this afternoon?”

  “Monitoring all transmissions in the area, and looking for any unusual patterns.”

 

 

 

 

  She took his arm and led him toward the door. Her new height really was alarming, but he couldn’t help but notice the way her gown flowed down over her breasts. Fear and lust, he thought to himself. It was a deadly combination.

  * * *

  The State limousine delivered them to the university at precisely quarter to the hour. Media were already lined up along the driveway, and Breeze remained comfortably in her seat as the security team opened the door from outside and her husband stepped out into the maelstrom.

  Their PR team had done an excellent job, she thought, at making sure Vijay’s name kept popping up in the news, often enough to be remembered and always connected to something positive. It wasn’t enough to steal the limelight from the President or the senior members of the government, but it was having a slow, steady impact.

  As planned, Vijay smiled and spoke to the media only briefly before bending slightly and gesturing to her. She slid across and took his hand, stepping out onto the pavement, turning her most dazzling smile toward the cameras. Then she looked to her husband with an expression of deep affection. Images were captured of the earnest, long-serving Minister of Natural Resources and his beautiful, war-veteran bride. If there was a better tale of humble success, Breeze couldn’t think of it.

  She cast her gaze upward at the gorgeous facade of the university’s main building, red brick covered in ivy and sporting white pillars. Similar buildings formed a wide square around the main driveway, with leafy parks snaking through the open spaces that lay between. On Vijay’s arm she was escorted through the front doors and into a towering foyer teeming with excited young graduates and their families.

  As a VIP Vijay could certainly have requested to slip into the ceremonies through a private entrance, but this mingling with the crowd would further his growing reputation as a man of the people. He wasn’t such a household name that people instantly recognized him, but Breeze noticed with satisfaction the large number of curious stares as their little entourage casually made their way through the foyer. If those students and their families didn’t yet know who Vijay Shah was, they certainly would by the end of the ceremony.

  The auditorium was already starting to fill up, the broad chamber rumbling with the excited hubbub of the guests. Breeze followed Vijay up onto the stage and took her assigned seat near the podium. As one of the scheduled speakers, he was quickly briefed by the university’s technical staff, and Breeze had a moment to glance around the room.

  The ceremony today was the graduation for students in a special interplanetary geology program, and Breeze idly tried to identify members of the audience based on their fashions. Amid the huge range of outfits, it was still quite easy to spot the cultural influences of each region of Terra.

  The most preening were undoubtedly the Jovians. Next she could spot three different kinds of understatement—the severe sleekness of the Mercurians, the efficient practicality of the Martians, and the cold minimalism of the Tritonians. The Earthlings showed the most skin, and the Loonies—no, she chided herself, the Lunar Citizens—wore the most make-up.

  Her own choice of outfit was quite conservative by Earthly standards, as befitting the wife of a minister, but the braided fabric of her sleeves revealed enough bare skin to titillate a Mercurian. The Jovians would dismiss her as frumpy no matter what she wore, so for them she just had to rely on her brilliant smile.

  Vijay, she noticed, hadn’t yet sat down next to her. A new figure had arrived on stage and was chatting with him. She immediately recognized Christopher Sheridan, and found herself on her feet.

  “Mr. Sheridan,” she said, extending her hand, “what a nice surprise.”


  “Mrs. Shah,” he replied smoothly, kissing her hand. “You look stunning.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced at her husband. “Shall we expect the President, as well?” Under his easy laughter, she could see that Vijay was perturbed. His style of public speaking was low-key and dignified—and flat next to the charismatic charm of Sheridan.

  “I’ve been a presenter at this graduation ceremony for years,” Sheridan said. “Perhaps you didn’t know, but I was a geologist before I took up public service.”

  “I didn’t know,” she said, feigning interest. “Are you a graduate of this program?”

  “No, but I helped to establish it when I was chair of the Martian Geological Society. This program,” he added with no small amount of pride, “was the first to provide students with field work on every inhabited world in Terra.”

  “One to which the government provides generous funding,” Vijay added.

  “And for that I’m grateful,” Sheridan said. “Today I’m happy to put aside any partisan politics, and just enjoy being in my professional field again.”

  “What I’m looking forward to,” Vijay said, slapping Sheridan’s arm, “is hearing you bring that oratory power to discussing rocks. If anyone can bring glamor to our field, it’s you, Christopher.”

  Sheridan laughed and nodded his thanks.

  Aware that they were on stage and being watched by hundreds of people gathering in their seats, Breeze kept her smile firmly in place, hoping her attachment to Vijay would take some of the shine off Sheridan. This man was a threat, and she needed to figure out how to minimize him.

  * * *

  With a smile, Katja handed off the last tray of graduate scrolls to the other assistant. The younger woman had been quite excited at the idea of carrying the trays onto the stage during the ceremony, and thus getting so close to the limelight. Katja had been more than happy to stay back in the wings.

  With both Christopher Sheridan and Charity Shah-née-Brisebois on the stage, she doubted even this disguise would have kept her anonymous. In her new life she rarely interacted with any citizen long enough to be remembered. Having two familiars in the same small space was awkward.