by John Lumpkin
“Agreed, sir,” Neil said. “I would have suggested it, but it seemed beyond my authority to volunteer them for the insertion.”
“It’s all right; it’s my prerogative to volunteer them,” Thorne said. No problems with chain of command here. “San Jacinto and Bayandor are better used as the screening force. Perhaps we could persuade Swiftsure to join us.” The British vessel was back in touch, hiding out by another distant asteroid.
“Carla?” Thorne said.
“Nothing to add,” Mendoza said. “Nice work.”
“Thank you,” Neil said. This was going better than Neil could have expected.
Thorne said, “All right, Mercer, you’re dismissed.”
He paused. “Ma’am? I’m sorry if I don’t understand, but does that mean the mission is a go?”
Thorne seemed taken aback. “No, Neil, I just wanted you to plan this operation as a contingency, and to test out your skills. You’ve done well, thanks.” She looked at her handheld, apparently through with him.
We’re not going, Neil realized, angry at himself for reading the room wrong.
But Davis said, “Wait. You say this is a contingency, Captain? Why aren’t we considering going?”
Neil tried to conceal his surprise. He’d never heard anyone question the captain like this.
“Because we don’t have orders to, for one,” she said, giving the operations officer an icy stare. “And, as you said, it’s a significant risk.”
“Skipper, I’m just opening it up for discussion,” Davis said, holding his hands up defensively. “Are you sure we don’t have orders to? Our original mission was to retrieve Mister Sun and take him back to Earth. We may have a shot to salvage that.”
And your career, Captain, Neil thought darkly, wondering if Davis was implying that.
“I’m well aware of that, Merrill,” Thorne said, irritation in her voice. “Still, we passed this mission to Dextrous when we joined the task force.”
Neil stole a glance at the others in the room. Lang, the weapons officer, looked back and forth between Davis and the captain. Sanchez, the Marine, stared straight ahead, a rod of steel in her spine.
“It may also be the right thing to do,” Mendoza said quietly. “Frank Stahl is one of us. So is Jim Donovan.”
“Jim Donovan is not one of us,” Thorne snapped. “What happened in FL Virginis showed that.”
“I only meant he is an American citizen who defends American security, Captain. And Sun Haisheng is an ally, who trusted us to get him home.”
“There’s a continent full of American citizens down there we can’t do anything for,” Thorne said. She sighed. “Points taken, all of you. Mercer, Sanchez, dismissed. The rest of you, let’s move on.”
Donovan was immediately suspicious when they returned his handheld. Of course his ability to send messages and make calls was disabled. But he had full access to the planetary internet – he could view everything from news stories to hobby sites.
Was this “false world?” Donovan knew the interrogation technique – provide a prisoner more and more false information, disguised as news or letters, until he believed in the reality his interrogators had constructed. Convince a prisoner the war is over, and he might start talking, because what did it matter?
A false world took a lot of work to create. What sort of fiction could they hope to create for him? What was he supposed to find? The news from Chinese sources – the only ones he could access – was almost uniformly positive, but he read nothing that would change his perceptions about the war, or Sun Haisheng, or the NSS. He watched news stories scroll across his vision, happy to have something to read again.
“I have it, sir,” the systems officer said. “Frequencies isolated. He can’t disable the link.”
Li Xiao nodded. I will bring you nightmares, James Donovan.
The images flickered into his dream, melding with them as he slowly transferred from sleep to consciousness.
The scene faded in … a city street, low three- and four-story buildings packed tightly together, all somehow grayer than they should be. The point-of-view – Donovan had no control over it – passed over shattered glass on the street and focused on a burnt-out car, black smoke rising through its smashed roof.
The view swung lazily, as if provided by a camera, across an abstract sculpture on a field of concrete, then moved down to a cluster of blackened shapes in the street, surrounded by debris.
The shapes had been human. Now they were charred husks, burnt by orbital laser strikes. A female form, face down, her feet burned away, her left arm clutching … a child, little more than an infant, really, face up, its mouth opened in a silent, permanent scream.
Where is this? Donovan wondered.
As if in answer, a line of green text appeared at the bottom of his vision.
Nanjing, September 30, 2139.
This isn’t real. I’m awake – must be some news feed from my handheld.
He felt his eyes open, but the image didn’t go away. He blinked several times in rapid succession – the command to cut off the handheld feed to his ocular implant.
But the image didn’t go away. Donovan felt around him, even as his vision was frozen on the charred bodies. Part of his mind interpreted the image as what he was really seeing; he felt a sudden looseness in his gut, the approach of nausea. He cast about his cell for his handheld, found it, felt around for the key to shut it off.
But the image still didn’t go away. He fought down panic until the view at last shifted. It’s not real, he told himself as new horrors played out inside his eyes. It’s not real.
Someone knocked on Neil’s cabin door.
Of course it was Davis – he could be old-fashioned like that. Most other officers would have called ahead.
“Wake you?” Davis said. He looked unusually serious.
“No, sir. Just reading,” he waved his handheld.
“You really should look into an ocular implant,” Davis said, looking around the room.
“So everyone says.” When Davis didn’t speak, he said, “Anything on your mind, sir?”
“Yes. A target has presented itself for the diversion, and the captain gave your mission a go. I’m going down to the surface, going to command. We’re dropping with the Aussies; their Pathfinder officer will be my second. You’ll be third.”
Just like that.
“Aye aye,” Neil said. He felt anxiety and vindication and excitement all at once. “What’s the target of opportunity?”
“Remass tanker just appeared in the keyhole orbiting Kuan Yin, arriving from Han space, just as you predicted,” he said. “It’s already accelerating toward the Han fleet. It’s worth gunning for.”
Neil nodded. The Chinese ships in the system were facing severe propellant shortages. About half were still pursuing the survivors of the allied fleet. A few more had returned to Kuan Yin orbit after Swiftsure’s daring attack on the orbital facilities. The rest, including those who had suffered substantial damage, were moving slowly back to the planet, trying to conserve remass. With them were four prize ships.
“We’re going over to Fremantle in about two hours,” Davis said. “Get your gear ready.”
Davis should have ducked out then, but he didn’t. He looked at Neil but said nothing. Finally, Neil asked, “What changed the captain’s mind?”
It was the question Davis had been waiting for. “It was something you said, actually. ‘Our best shot to hit them back and disrupt their activities in the system.’ Skipper’s tired of being at the mercy of everyone else, and you gave her a chance to start taking control of the situation.” He paused, put his hands on the doorway to push himself out. “I need to go brief Sanchez. When you see him, tell Mondragon he’s coming too, and remind him not to bust up his comms gear this time.”
Major Shen made clear his disapproval for Li Xiao’s methods. Traditional interrogation techniques had already scored compliance from the blinded lieutenant. He was quite paranoid, really, and easy to man
ipulate. The commander, Raleigh, was proving harder to break down.
Li Xiao had obtained permission to bring these three captives, all intelligence people, to Cottonwood, instead of sending them to Chinese territory. Li had been persuasive that he could interrogate them effectively, assuaging his superior’s concerns that the insurgency would attempt a rescue.
But he was unable to prevent Shen from observing his sessions and expressing his opinions. He stood now, behind Li and the systems tech, who were feeding images into the American spy’s ocular implant. An innovative method of disconcerting the man, Shen thought, but what had it gained?
“Are you planning to question him soon, Officer Li?” he asked.
Li Xiao swiveled in his chair and stood, looking Shen in the eye.
“I am,” Li said. You strutting fool.
Shen, perhaps 15 centimeters taller than Li, stared back in an unsaid challenge. Disrespectful youth.
Sixteen people, including a dozen Marines, came over from San Jacinto, leaving space at a premium on the Australian warship. The frigate Fremantle was of a special breed, built to convey special operations troopers to a planet’s surface. At the cost of some offensive firepower, she carried a pair of dropships, unusual for a ship of her mass. Had the allied fleet won the battle, her platoon of Pathfinders would have been among the first friendly troops to land on Sequoia, to make contact with surviving U.S. forces and scout the Chinese defenses.
Fremantle’s intelligence officer, Kieran Wu, found himself sharing his cabin with two American ensigns.
Despite his name, the plurality of Flight Officer Wu’s heritage was Irish and Scottish – family legend had it that his original relative was a transportee for murder in the 1820s. His Wu ancestor was a great-great-grandfather, part of a large extended family that immigrated from Beijing metro to Sydney in the early 21st Century, during Australia’s great blending of European and Asian.
He was slight and wiry, with tan skin, spiky black hair, and an easygoing manner belied only by intense, blue Irish eyes. He was popular among his more vigorous crewmates, though in a mildly condescending, look-at-the-little-bloke-go sort of way. Kieran recognized it and lived with it.
Wing Commander Boyd, Fremantle’s CO, had tasked him to make the junior American officers welcome and comfortable. So while Boyd and the other senior officers entertained Davis, and the American Marines got to know their Pathfinder counterparts, Neil and Tom ate and exercised with Wu and the other junior officers aboard ship.
The Americans seemed to enjoy that Australia’s ships were wet every night, as opposed to the single drink allowed on Fridays on Space Force vessels. Ensign Mondragon particularly took pleasure in a second or third beer after dinner. Wu decided he approved; everyone seemed to relax a bit after a drink. Good for interoperability if allies got along.
Neil was not so sure. The Aussies were polite and cordial, and Neil did his best to show them gratitude for backing the United States to the hilt. But he worried: One night over dinner, Tom started complaining about America’s entry into the war. Neil noticed a number of Australian officers watching his friend closely.
“Why did y’all get involved in this war?” Tom asked.
“We stick up for our mates,” Wu responded.
“That simple?”
“That simple. Of course, a lot of us aren’t sure the Sakis are our mates. But you blokes are, and I suppose that’s enough.”
“So you aren’t asking yourself whether you are fighting – and dying – for a just cause?”
“Fighting for your mates is just,” Wu said, his brow furrowed.
“But what if your mates are wrong?”
“You tell me. Are you wrong?”
“Lot of Americans sure think so.” Everyone had seen the polls. Support for the war was at about 65 percent.
“And a lot more don’t. What’s your point, mate?”
“I have been bombarded from orbit, shot at by Han infantry, and survived two ship-to-ship engagements, and I still don’t have any idea why. The Sakis aren’t our mates, either. They just give us less trouble than the Hans.”
A blond, hugely muscled officer named Kirby said, “Don’t you Yanks have a saying, ‘Semper Fi?’”
Tom read the challenge, shut up and soldier, and ignored it. “Our crazy Marines say that,” he said.
“The Japanese certainly value equality and other democratic ideals more than the Chinese,” another officer said. “Maybe that’s worth fighting for.”
“Eh, equality as long as you are Japanese. Bloody racists, that’s what they are,” said a third. The previous speaker accused him of a stereotyping remark.
“Maybe our leaders know something we don’t,” Kirby said.
“Fine,” Tom said, “But does that make it right?”
“Perhaps we are all on the side our leaders think will win,” Wu said quietly. “Cynical, I’ll admit, and they may be wrong given the outcome of the fleet engagement, but that does not make it any less a possibility.”
“I ask again, is that right? Shouldn’t we know why we are fighting? From a commander’s standpoint, isn’t it better if your troops have a reason for killing and dying? If your officers know what their objective is?”
“What about the reports that the Hans are building nanoweaponry?” Kirby asked.
“Japanese disinformation, probably,” Neil said, speaking up for the first time. Several heads turned his way; eyes dropped to the intel badge on his uniform, and no one pressed him.
But he begged off when Tom prompted for his opinion on the rightness of the war.
“It’s his way,” Tom said. “Neil doesn’t have a high opinion of his opinions.”
Some of the Aussies laughed. Neil wondered if it was a good idea for Tom to engender such discussions. He saw dark looks on a couple of their hosts’ faces, but they remained silent. We need them; why go around creating divisions? Neil thought. Then he chided himself. Don’t be so political; people need to talk.
The Chinese bought the feint toward the tanker.
San Jacinto and Bayandor were merely bright points of light in Fremantle’s camera now, pulling away toward the Chinese tanker and its meager escort. Swiftsure was also accelerating toward the tanker from another angle.
Fremantle, meanwhile, shaped a course for Kuan Yin. Neil’s plan depended on the tanker running for the planet, and the Chinese dispatching several ships to protect it. They were sunk if the fuel vessel decided to break for the keyhole back to Chinese space, but Neil was betting the Han fleet needed the hydrogen and helium-3 bad enough to risk it.
He was right. The Hans would have three ships in orbit when Fremantle arrived, one of them damaged. At the halfway mark, Fremantle underwent turnover but didn’t immediately begin decelerating.
That should throw them, Neil thought.
There were times when the parade of violent recordings stopped, when the image sent to Donovan’s ocular was a black wall. During those times, he was merely blind. In those moments of relief, some part of him appreciated the skill in which he was being handled. The person sending him these images was a talent.
He knew it because he knew he was breaking down. He found his mind spontaneously reach for bits of information to give them, anything to have his vision restored. But the interrogators hadn’t asked him for anything. The closest thing to human contact he had was when someone noisily slid food under his door twice a day.
At last, two weeks into his captivity, he heard a voice.
At that moment, his vision was of a still image, with green text that said it was recorded on the Korean world of Kuji, around Beta Virginis. I hadn’t heard of attacks there, Donovan thought, wondering if these images were fabricated. The scene showed a civilian train that had been hit with some kind of kinetic weapon dropped from orbit. The camera focused in on the gore. Arms and legs, separated from their bodies. A woman, cut in half, her intestines exposed like a great bloody worm. This was the worst yet. It was obscene, what had been done to the
se people. He had seen death, but, to Donovan, destroying bodies so was a desecration. He tried, and failed, to avoid imagining his own son killed in such a fashion.
“I can take these pictures away,” a voice said in unaccented English. It was vaguely familiar. “But you’ll have to give me something in return.”
“This treatment is in violation of the Geneva Convention Against Torture,” Donovan said, trying to conceal any stress from his voice. “I am an American diplomat. I request to speak with a representative of the Red Cross.”
“I am afraid that isn’t possible, James Donovan. You are a NSS criminal and a terrorist, and you have no such rights.”
After 30 seconds of silence, Donovan said, “Ask your questions.” I should at least find out what they know, and what they want.
His vision changed to black, then gave way to his prison cell. Some muscles in his head suddenly relaxed, and an electrical caress of relief cascaded through his body, starting at the back of his neck and running down through his toes.
Two guards entered and escorted him to an interrogation room. He was seated across from a man he immediately recognized – Li Xiao. Now this makes sense.
“I will tell you what we already know, to save us some time, Mister Donovan,” Li said. “You were born James Gary Worth in Trenton, New Jersey, in October 2090. You attended the University of Maryland and were recruited into the National Security Service by a professor there. You were noted for talent with language, flexibility in thought and analysis, and as an expert marksman with a sidearm.
“After your training, you joined the Directorate of Operations and served on the Southeast Asia desk at agency headquarters in McLean, Virginia, from 2112 until 2115. Your postings include Bangkok, Thailand, 2118 to 2120; St. Petersburg, Russia, 2121 to 2123; Xinzhou, 2124 until 2128; Donau, chief of station, 2133 to 2135. There are, admittedly, some blank spots on your record.
“You have used the alias Bill Marshall in the past, but are currently known as James Donovan. You are married, with a 15-year-old son.”
