Thunder & Lightning

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Understood,” Buckley said. He paused. “And if it does come to a fight?”

  “Give them hell,” the President said. “It’s one hell of a hot potato I’m dropping in your lap”

  “I’ll say,” Buckley said. “Sir, what happens if the aliens just ignore us?”

  The President scowled. “If they just pass your fleet, we have plans to intercept them with missiles nearer to Earth orbit,” he said. “It has been decided that we dare not risk letting them enter geostationary orbitals, let alone LEO, before we know just what they want. Try not to let it get that far, Captain…”

  Buckley looked, for the first time, concerned. “Mr. President, just who is in command of Earth’s defences?”

  President Cardona fought down a bitter laugh. “Well…we have some command agreements with the British, the Europeans and the Japanese,” he said. “If we lose our commanding officers in space, the British commander will take command; the same for them if they lose their commanding officers. The Japanese and the Euros have made similar agreements; the Israelis and the Brazilians have agreed to place their space-based defences, such as they are, under our command.”

  He shrugged. “We have had some covert talks with the Russians, the Chinese and the Caliphate,” he said. “If it does come down to blows, they will join us in the defence of Earth, but under their command unless something goes really wrong…which, you must understand, is a hypothetical of hypotheticals. In other words, if the situation calls for it, they will join up, but only if the situation calls for it.”

  “Politics,” Buckley said. He nodded once to himself. “What happens now?”

  “You have a week of shore leave, as do your crewmen,” the President said. “After that, you will return to your ship and prepare for the mission, along with the other ships. Don’t let the IAU walk all over you; the UNSC agreed to back whoever ended up in command when it came to the safety of the fleet.”

  He held out a hand. “Good luck, Captain.”

  Buckley grasped his hand and shook it firmly. “Thank you, Mr. President,” he said. “I won’t let you down.”

  * * *

  An hour later, President Cardona stood up from his desk, walked over to the side of the Oval Office, and placed his hand against a certain hidden sensor. There was a moment’s pause as the sensor checked his identity, and then a hidden door hissed open, revealing a small elevator. Cardona smiled, as he always did when he entered the secret system, and stepped inside; a moment later, the elevator was plunging down towards the heart of the secret governmental infrastructure. Bare seconds later, the doors hissed open again, revealing part of the vast complex built under Washington.

  He remembered his feelings when he had first seen the complex, kilometres upon kilometres of rooms and systems, deep under the city. It was an awesome construction, the more so because he knew that few of the citizens of Washington really appreciated what had been built under their city. How could they? Information on the secret complex was closely regulated, mainly to prevent possible enemies from using it to attack the very core of America; there were other complexes, but Washington remained the heart of America’s government.

  “Mr. President,” the Marine guard said as he saluted. The President returned the salute; he had long since creased to wonder why the complex’s commander bothered to station guards that far inside the complex. It was more than just overkill; if the complex were ever to be assaulted by the enemy – whoever the enemy were – America would probably have lost any war by that point anyway. He nodded once at the guard and proceeded along the grey corridors, following the mental route he had marked out in his mind; one of the reasons he liked the complex was that it was one of the few places he could go without ever-present Secret Service guards.

  He reached an unmarked door and – again – pushed his hand against a sensor. The door hissed open, revealing a small briefing room and a young man sitting in the room, waiting for orders. The young man, wearing the black uniform of the Space Marines, stood to attention as the President stepped inside; he crashed out one perfect salute and then held it long enough for the President to return it.

  “At ease,” the President said. He had never been in the military – he had been one of the eighty percent of the country to escape the draft during the middle stages of the Wrecker War and had developed his own career in space administration – but he was comfortable enough with soldiers to avoid passing the buck to General Denny or one of the other senior military officers. He would not have been at ease with just letting the young soldier carry out his mission without meeting him in person.

  “Sergeant First Class Gavin Reynolds, US Space Commando, reporting,” the young soldier barked out. The President, curious, allowed his eyes to wander over the young soldier, looking for clues as to his augmentation. Apart from the faintly unnatural look in one of his eyes, there was nothing; the technology was fairly well understood. It could never be released to the public domain – it constituted a strategic advantage – but it was useful enough to risk some degree of exposure in cases like this.

  “At ease,” the President repeated. Normally, young soldiers received a briefing package on their first visit to the White House and the subterranean command centre; there hadn’t been time for Reynolds to be briefed on protocol. Space Commandos were very rare; they had been lucky to be able to recall Reynolds from the moon in time for him to be inserted into the welcome fleet. “Please, take a seat.”

  Reynolds sat. “I understand that you have been augmented and rated at Augment Three,” the President said, shortly. “Exactly what are your capabilities?”

  “I can survive in space for short periods, I have inserted weapons and communications, I have some inserted sensors and I have enhanced strength and internal armour, sir,” Reynolds said. His voice was very even for a man who had just informed the President that he was practically a cyborg. He could walk on the moon without a spacesuit; the President dreaded what the Rockrats might do with such technology.

  “Good,” the President said. He knew that Reynolds would have been briefed on the aliens, what little there was known about them. “You have volunteered for a dangerous mission.” He studied Reynolds’ face carefully; they’d had to ask him to volunteer without telling him more than it was something to do with the alien fleet. “I must ask you, now, if you want to back out now.”

  Reynolds looked slightly insulted. “I’m the only Space Commando on Earth,” he said. “If the mission requires one, then I am the only one who can carry it out.”

  Cardona nodded. “You may be aware that there is a welcoming fleet being launched to meet the alien fleet,” he said. “The IAU has selected the main body of representatives who are to meet the aliens, including Director Hussein herself and several diplomats and scientists. This has caused some concern among those in the know; the group that the IAU has put forward consists of people who are…inclined to be well-disposed towards the aliens.”

  Reynolds understood. “And you fear that one of them will end up telling the aliens more about us than is wise,” he said. “What do you want me to do about it?”

  President Cardona sighed. “We have prepared a cover identity for you as a simple expert in space technology,” he said. It was true enough; every Space Commando had such expertise drilled into them, learning more than most people born outside a Rockrat Freeport would ever learn. Reynolds might look like a typical dumb grunt, but he had degrees in several different areas of space technology and weapons tech, although those degrees would never be made public knowledge. “You will be attached to the core group of alien experts…and you are to act as one of them, until you receive other orders.”

  Reynolds showed the first trace of emotion; doubt. “That is a rather vague order,” he said. “Do you have anything specific in mind?”

  “No,” the President said. He understood Reynolds’ concern, but there was really no way to know what would happen until it was too late to issue orders. “In the event of peaceful contac
t, you are to keep us informed of what’s happening and avoid any discussion of weapons or weapons technology. If there is an exchange of fire, you are to act as you see fit…with the warning that you cannot allow yourself to be dissected.”

  Reynolds nodded; President Cardona felt a moment of shame. Positioned in Reynolds’ chest was, among other mechanical devices, a fusion cell. If it were treated roughly, it would explode with unpleasant results for any spacecraft, human or alien. The order he had given was practically an order to commit suicide…but what choice was there? Reynolds was a billion-dollar investment in implanted micro-technology; if the aliens dissected him, it would be all too revealing.

  “I understand, Mr. President,” Reynolds said. He met the President’s eyes for a moment. It didn’t make him feel any better; he knew now why few politicians actually met the men they were sending in to combat, although Wreckers were a far different prospect from aliens. “I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.”

  Cardona didn’t smile at the weak joke. “It may be an overreaction,” he said. “It may be that your expertise will come in handy when it comes to opening relations with the aliens, but just in case, we would feel better if we had you present on the Neil Armstrong. It gives us options and that might become very important; we believe that the other great powers will be making their own precautions along similar lines.”

  He grinned weakly. “I wonder if any of the support staff will be who they claim to be…?”

  Reynolds didn’t smile. Instead, he looked down for a second. “Will anyone on the ship know what I am?”

  “Captain Buckley will know about you,” the President said. “You will report to him, should it be necessary; he may have instructions for you that you can carry out, as long as they don’t compromise your cover. Maintaining that is the priority…and good luck.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” Reynolds said. “I’ll do the best I can.”

  Chapter Eight: Rockrats

  Freeport One, Asteroid Belt

  “Irving Schlock, you are cleared to approach the main spaceport, berth thirty-seven,” the coordinator said. Jake Ellsworth, one of the hundreds of Rockrats who used Freeport One as a base port, nodded as he triggered the final approach burn of the tiny gas thrusters; it hadn’t been a long delay before clearance to approach had been provided. Freeport One had once been an isolated base in an undeveloped part of the asteroid belt; now, there were hundreds of small spacecraft arriving and departing every day. “Please be advised that several mandatory updates have been generated for the asteroid development zones; failure to accept the updates may result in your later claims being disallowed.”

  Bureaucrats, Ellsworth thought, as he brought the Irving Schlock in towards the counter-rotating spaceport, perched on the end of Freeport One’s massive axis. He didn’t mind that one so much, although some of the other regulations could be a nuisance; a single accidental claim-jump could cost him his reputation. The mandatory update would tell him which asteroids had been claimed by his fellow Rockrats for later development and, more importantly, which ones had been confirmed as almost valueless. Most asteroids were worth some credits, although iron and rock was plentiful in the belt; the real strikes would come if he found some higher elements like uranium.

  Freeport One grew in front of him slowly; no one would be foolish enough to trigger a fusion flame so close to the asteroid. The Irving Schlock wasn’t operating under the control of the coordinators on the asteroid, but Ellsworth knew just what would happen if he accidentally triggered the fusion drive; the emplaced weapons on Freeport One would destroy him before he could do any real damage. The Rockrat culture placed self-responsibility first; if someone did trigger a drive, the Rockrats would be certain that death was the mildest thing he would deserve. Placing one’s own life in danger was fine; risking others without their permission was not.

  A dull thump ran through the little ship as it docked directly with the asteroid; he checked quickly as the airlock matched up with the hatch on the other side, followed by the direct link into Freeport One’s internet. Automated programs checked out his computer connection before granting him limited access; he checked to see if there were any good entertainment movies waiting in his private cache on the internet before unstrapping himself and floating up into the main cabin. Like many Rockrats, he did most of his mining work naked – not least because he was alone; few Rockrats worked in pairs, no matter how much safer it was – and he pulled on a standard outfit before checking the airlock again – Rockrats without a great deal of paranoia didn’t last long – and entered the spaceport, sealing the Irving Schlock behind him.

  An official greeter welcomed him as he passed through the second set of airlocks into the main body of the spaceport. “Captain Ellsworth,” he said. “Welcome back to Freeport One.”

  “Thank you, Charlie,” Ellsworth said. Charlie was the son of one of the handful of people who actually kept Freeport One running; a boy who was a curious mixture of European, Chinese and African. His grandfather, one of the first Rockrats, had married a refugee ‘mail order bride’ from Africa when the Exclusion Zone went up; their daughter had married a Chinese-ethnic Rockrat and had four sons before returning out to the Rockrat lifestyle. “Anything interesting happening apart from the aliens?”

  “Nothing,” Charlie said seriously. “My Dad will want to see your manifest first, of course.”

  “I bet he would,” Ellsworth said, and picked up one of the standard communication terminals before making his way into the next office. Jamie Hong glanced up at him from his desk; Ellsworth had occasionally wondered if the man had bureaucracy in his blood. In zero-gravity, Hong had a desk that wouldn’t have shamed a bureaucrat on Earth; rumour had it that Hong and a few hundred other Chinese had deserted the Party’s iron control on one of the Chinese asteroids to come join the much more reasonable Rockrat culture, where they had fitted right in. “Morning, Jamie…”

  Hong nodded once at him. “Welcome back,” he said. “Anything interesting on the manifest?”

  “Less than I would like,” Ellsworth admitted. He passed across a datachip without comment. “I’d also like to register a temporary claim on one of the asteroids I studied; there be gold in them there hills.”

  The joke slipped past Hong, but his son giggled. “Gold?” Hong asked. “That might fetch quite a high price from one of the industrial stations out there, or you could forward it to Earth and see what they might offer you. How are you for money at the moment?”

  “I have enough for a load of Helium-3 or Deuterium, if I have to use it,” Ellsworth said. Rockrats preferred Helium-3 to Deuterium; Deuterium was hell on the drive tubes. “What are the current prices?”

  “Pretty high,” Hong admitted. He named a price; Ellsworth stared at him. “It’s the aliens, you see; they have everyone scared and excited at the same time. The mines on Jupiter have been forwarding fuel loads to us to add to what we have found in the asteroids, but the price is starting to rise higher and there’s a great deal of inflation as well. The cost of weapons has also gone through the roof; you might want to consider a quick sale of the gold and take what you can get.”

  “Fuck me,” Ellsworth said. He didn’t doubt Hong’s word, not for a moment; if he was caught lying to one of the Rockrats, his reputation would be at an end. Hong might have been willing to serve as a middleman, but if he gouged his customers, he would rapidly find himself out of business. “What would I get if I sold now?”

  “I’m not buying on speculation at the moment,” Hong informed him. Ellsworth appreciated his honesty; Rockrats wouldn’t offer to buy or sell unless they were serious. Hong cast his eye down the manifest. “You might get two to three hundred credits for the gold and around fifty to sixty credits for the other materials on spec; I can open a line of enquiry for you with the industrial stations if you don’t mind waiting a week.”

  “Please do,” Ellsworth said. He started to pull himself towards the hatch and then paused. “Is there an
ything else I should know?”

  “Kyle Short is going to be holding a meeting tonight relating to the alien crisis,” Hong said. Ellsworth lifted an eyebrow; the chairman of the Rockrat Association – the closest thing the belt had to a real government, not least because trying to organise Rockrats was like trying to herd cats – rarely attempted to assert any power, unless something had changed radically. “Any Rockrat who has paid his dues is entitled to attend and vote.”

  “I’m fully paid up,” Ellsworth said. “I guess I’ll see you at the meeting.”

  He left Hong’s office and pulled himself into the asteroid, entering one of the tubes that led down to the interior surface of Freeport One. Like most asteroid habitats, Freeport One spun to create gravity, with most Rockrats spending time in the Earth-standard gravity field to keep their muscles in trim when they were not on their ships. Ellsworth, like almost every other Rockrat, kept a small apartment on Freeport One; it provided a convenient place to shower, change into more practical wear, and head out to one of the entertainment centres. One of the main attractions of Freeport One was the brothel; jokes aside, not all the Rockrats were either married to refugee women or gay.

  “Welcome back,” the bartender said. Ellsworth nodded to Ian; the bartender had been around longer than he could remember, seemingly unchanging. There were rumours that he had been waiting on Freeport One when the first settler had converted it into the first freeport, complaining about the millions of years he had waited for the human race. “Your usual?”

  “A double-orgasm would be nice,” Ellsworth said, looking towards the brothel’s entrance. Moments later, Ian put a pink drink down in front of him. “Oh, very funny.”

  Ian’s face was as impassive as ever. “You asked for a double-orgasm,” he said. “I’ll put it on your tab.”