Unfaithful Covenant

by Michael Anderle

  Alina nodded. “I’d intended them to be on standby only for you, but something came up, and I needed trusted agents on short notice. They’re both fine, but I think they need more than a few days to recover from their injuries. I won’t make the mistake of utilizing your backup resources like that again.”

  Jia stared at the woman, more unnerved by her callous point of view in calling people resources than upset that she and Erik wouldn’t have additional ghosts helping them. It was hard not to wonder when Alina would point them at the wrong mission and be annoyed at the loss of more resources.

  “I want you to head out to Penglai right away,” Alina explained. “Pick up the jumpship and get to New Samarkand. I want you to follow up on the slain agent’s work and look into the command and control equipment.”

  “What if that’s a dead end?” Erik asked. “The military might have already figured that out and won.”

  “Then consider it a free vacation to a war-torn colony. Given the slaughter that occurred in the first couple of days, the surviving agents are keeping a low profile, as confirmed by the transmissions the ID has received. The few who are left are trying their best to help the DD, but they are overwhelmed, and some are long-term assets who can’t risk their cover. Bringing you two in from the outside, especially if this involves the Core, will shake things up. You’ll have general freedom of movement, and it may unnerve any Core elements and get them to make mistakes.”

  “Can we jump that far?” Jia asked, her brow furrowed in concern. “New Samarkand is a lot farther out than Chiron.”

  “Raphael seems to believe it’s possible.” Alina shrugged. “Consider this another field test.”

  Emma held up her hand, a small spherical map of the UTC floating in it. “We’ve been working on longer-range navigation. We’ve been preparing for this on my end, at least.”

  Erik wasn’t convinced, judging by the look on his face. “So, we’re going to jump twenty light-years to New Samarkand with credentials that’ll let us get our foot in the door, assuming the local government hasn’t been overthrown, to hunt cyborg tanks and gunships with the help of the local surviving ghosts. Also, most of their fellow agents were assassinated, meaning the Core has a good feeling for the state of the colony.”

  Alina looked to the side for a moment before nodding. “That’s accurate, I’d say. I trust your discretion on this matter. If you feel there’s nothing you can accomplish, you can leave. Obviously, we can’t let the jump drive fall into enemy hands. Do whatever you need to prevent that, but I’d recommend not bringing the ship anywhere near the planet.”

  “And if we need to destroy it?” Erik asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Better it is destroyed than fall into the Core’s hands,” Alina replied without so much as a change in tone or a blink. “As always, glean intel or data you can from the Elites or anyone else associated with the Core.”

  “A war, huh?” Erik snickered. “This is one time people can’t bitch if we blow anything up.”

  “The Core and their Elites are helping prop up the rebellion,” Jia replied. “If we get lucky, we might be able to stop the rebellion in its tracks and save a lot of lives on both sides.” She clenched her hand into a fist. “It’s time to let them know that no matter where they go or how far they run, we’ll be there.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  October 3, 2230, Gliese 581, New Samarkand, Sogdia

  Damir rubbed at his chest, trying to soothe the ache. It was a dull non-entity compared to the agony he’d suffered from his initial wound, but it was distracting, and a distraction was the last thing he wanted in the field. No matter how hard he tried to keep his mind on the mission, the ache was there, reminding him of how close he’d come to death days prior as if whispering in his ear that he hadn’t escaped it yet. He didn’t mind dying for the rebellion, but he wanted to know they’d win first.

  In a reasonable situation, he wouldn’t have been out on patrol so soon after suffering bad injuries, but the Free Samarkand Army had suffered serious losses in the last couple of days, enough that the fate of the rebellion was in doubt unless they could retake key sectors. Any man or woman who could carry a gun had to be available. He’d asked for refreshed med patches and volunteered to go back out.

  A desire to serve fueled part of his determination to return to the front line. Suspicion fueled the other part. There was something off about their recent defeats, something pointing at a danger to the entire rebellion.

  The higher-ups were keeping it quiet, but there’d been too many frustrating reversals, and he couldn’t have been the only one to suspect spies. What Damir didn’t understand was why the Army had an unerring ability to anticipate strike missions that threatened their control of certain sectors but were easy to surprise in different situations. Their embedded spies should have been helpful in both situations.

  Rocks crunched under his boots as he marched along with eight other men, the thoughts refusing to leave. The day’s mission wasn’t anything grander than a patrol. Mercenary jamming equipment and good anti-aircraft defenses had made drones useless in the area for both sides, requiring boots on the ground. The only thing unusual about the mission was who was leading it.

  He glanced at the black-clad soldier at the front of the formation. The man wasn’t a member of the FSA. He was one of the mercenaries hired by the leaders of the rebellion without consulting anyone else. More of the mercs were leading rebel squads in the last week from what he’d heard, the inevitable result of the loss of so many experienced soldiers to injuries or death.

  Their rebellion was slowly changing from a campaign waged by passionate rebels to mercenary soldiers and equipment executing tasks for credits. That didn’t speak well for the future of the rebellion.

  The presence of the mercenary Sinclair kept Damir’s suspicion burning about the recent Army successes. He’d wondered during his last mission why the jamming was so persistent, only to learn the next day it’d been the fault of the mercenaries. Their explanations for why they’d done so made sense, but combined with the questionable sniper position and the suspect shell, the rebel’s concerns had grown into a full-blown conspiracy theory with the rent-a-soldiers at the center. His mystery had suspects and means. What remained was to nail down the motive.

  Damir was proud of his latest theory for its simplicity. He’d worried about the mercs changing sides, but they’d had ample opportunity, and he’d personally seen them engage the Army, so that wasn’t the plan. The available evidence pointed to the hired killers conspiring against the FSA, not to turn the tide in the Army’s favor, but to extend the war so they could earn more money. It was obvious once he thought about it.

  He didn’t understand why anyone didn’t see what they’d been doing. Low-level soldiers like him might not have the big picture, but the leaders of the FSA must have seen it. Were they so desperate for help that they were willing to turn a blind eye?

  The mercs controlled the bulk of the rebellion’s recon equipment and jammers, so they could set up situations to their advantage while killing off the FSA soldiers who knew too much. In that scenario, there might not have been enough concrete evidence to convince the leaders that there was something wrong with the mercs.

  That was why Damir had kept his mouth shut. He didn’t have solid proof, only a theory based on questionable circumstantial evidence. No one would believe him if he claimed the shell that had killed his last squad commander had come from a merc hovertank. They would accuse him of misremembering the position of the sniper. It wasn’t like he’d recorded everything during the battle. At times, he had to remind himself he wasn’t imagining things, that everything he’d seen and experienced, however horrible, was true.

  The stories that the mercs were using some sort of dangerous Tin Men couldn’t be ignored. Most of the FSA had passed it off as government propaganda, but the government was officially denying anything unusual about the rebel forces. It didn’t make sense for them to accuse the rebels and me
rcs of something so heinous, then deny it to most people. The government never ignored easy propaganda victories. There were too many loose threads that begged to be pulled. There was a truth there, trying to wriggle into the sunlight.

  Sinclair paused at a corner and threw his hand up. The squad halted and readied their rifles, waiting for another command. He gestured them forward with a hand signal before rushing around the corner.

  “Clear,” he declared, looking satisfied. “We’re past the primary patrol area, so we’re going to move on to our secondary mission.”

  Damir frowned. “What secondary mission? No one said anything about a secondary mission during the briefing.”

  Other rebels nodded their agreement, weariness mixed with agitation on their faces. Mental preparation could do a lot to keep morale steady. Sinclair either didn’t know that, or worse, he didn’t care.

  “You weren’t told during the briefing because of concerns about government spies in our ranks.” Sinclair inclined his head at Damir. “But the men of this squad have proven themselves dedicated to the cause. I would think you’d be eager to jump at the chance to go above and beyond.”

  Damir gritted his teeth to stop himself from scoffing. There was something galling about a mercenary talking about dedication to a higher cause. The FSA shouldn’t have had to pay outsiders to help them win their freedom, and if they hadn’t, he wouldn’t have to suspect those same outsiders of betraying the FSA’s trust for more money.

  “What’s the secondary mission, then?” Damir asked, glancing at the other squad members. They all looked tired. Not just looked, were. This was the third patrol for some of them.

  “We’re looking for a target of strategic importance,” Sinclair explained. He tapped a PNIU wrist interface, and the image of a bland-looking man with brown hair appeared. “This man is the rebellion’s greatest enemy, an Intelligence Directorate ghost who has been leaking information to the government. He’s been posing as a pro-rebellion civilian in different sectors.”

  He rattled off the explanation with all the care of someone discussing his lunch choices, certainly not the tone somebody would expect for a serious mission.

  Damir stared at the image. He didn’t recognize the man, but if he was a ghost, he might have been using disguises. An ID agent might explain the irregularities he’d attributed to the mercs, but it was hard to believe one ghost could be responsible for so much trouble. Or was it?

  Bile rose in the back of his throat. Had he been wrong in his suspicions this entire time? His mercenary traitor theory didn’t explain why they’d saved him during the debacle of the last mission. Killing everyone who wasn’t in the know would make it easier to control the information. He’d tried to tell himself they needed at least one FSA soldier to spread rumors and that was why he’d survived, but sometimes the most obvious explanation was conveniently the correct one.

  “Stay in a loose formation, and we’ll check out this area,” Sinclair continued. “We have no intel to suggest any Army patrols are in the area but keep alert. If we get lucky, we might do a great service to the rebellion.”

  They continued walking, poking inside the windows of damaged shops and buildings but not finding anything or anyone of interest. It struck Damir as pointless. A ghost wouldn’t be hiding under a table in a half-destroyed clothing store, especially one good enough to disrupt rebel operations so effectively. Something about the mercenary’s tone made it sound like a test.

  Sinclair sidled up to Damir. When he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper. “You don’t like me very much, do you, Sokov?”

  Damir spared a brief glance at the other man. “I don’t have to like you. You just have to help us win.”

  “Why don’t you like me?” Sinclair looked curious. “Be honest. This is not the only mission where you’ll be under my command. I need to know you have my back and will follow my orders.”

  “Your back?” Damir scoffed. Conspiracy theories weren’t necessary for the rest of the conversation. “I’ll do what I’m ordered to by my superiors in the FSA, and they told me to follow you, but let’s be honest—you’re only here because you’re getting paid. You don’t care about our cause. So no, I don’t trust you.”

  Sinclair nodded slowly. “Ah, I see. That makes sense, but you’re wrong.”

  “You’re a mercenary.” Damir frowned. “Are you trying to claim you’re doing this for free?”

  “We all have expenses.” Sinclair slowed at an alley, his eyes narrowed, and tapped the side of his helmet to magnify the sights. He nodded, satisfied there were no enemies, and moved into the alley. “My friends and I don’t work for just anyone. It’s dangerous, when you think about it, to participate in a rebellion. We’ve had to destroy the bodies of our own men to make sure they don’t get IDed. Do you know why we’re willing to take the risk?”

  “Because you’re being paid well?”

  Sinclair shook his head. “Because we do believe in your cause, or at least in its motivation. The UTC is corrupt, and it has no business controlling humanity. I fight for my own reasons, and this planet is part of them. I’m not the only new friend of the FSA who feels the same way, so you shouldn’t show such disrespect toward us. We’re brothers of sorts, and you should keep that in mind when we’re out on missions together.”

  Damir blinked in surprise, then let the conversation drop. There was a new intensity in the mercenary’s eyes that convinced Damir he wasn’t lying. Sinclair also had a point. The government might look the other way when mercs got a little rough helping out corporations, but that was different from allowing them to freely aid rebellions. By helping the FSA, the mercenary company might have doomed themselves to arrest or death.

  This new information challenged Damir and forced him to admit he might have been wrong about his conspiracy theory. It was a difficult, stressful time, and his mind might be trying to explain away the horror of what he’d witnessed and his own foolish naivete. The rebellion wasn’t easy or glorious. It was a bloody, slow slog that was costing good people’s lives. He might have been desperate to find an explanation, something that would justify it all.

  “What about you?” Sinclair asked.

  Damir frowned, his suspicion returning. “What are you asking?”

  Sinclair motioned around the battle-scarred area. “Some people might say this isn’t worth it for a tiny bit of freedom, but you’re fighting, and you have from the beginning. What motivates a young man to take up arms and risk his life against the UTC government? What made you decide that death was worth the risk? Is this about freedom and self-determination? Or are you risking your life to feel alive?”

  Damir hesitated, not insulted by the questions but surprised. It wasn’t like his story was a secret, but he didn’t like baring his soul to a mercenary, idealistic or otherwise. Sinclair might be his commander, but they weren’t friends.

  “My father is the reason I joined,” Damir replied quietly after more thought.

  “Your father’s in the FSA?”

  Damir shook his head. “No, he’s not. He’s…let me start from the beginning.”

  “Please do.” Sinclair sounded curious.

  “I wasn’t born on New Samarkand,” Damir explained. “I was born on Earth in Saint Petersburg. When I was a baby, my father screwed up. Fell in with some people who convinced him to do stupid things. He was greedy and got involved in an embezzlement scheme.” He scoffed. “The pathetic part was it wasn’t even that much. He thought that if it wasn’t much, it’d be easier to get away with it.” He sucked in a breath. “He was wrong. Isn’t that how it always goes? If you steal a little, you get caught, but if you’re bold and steal millions and billions, everyone calls you brilliant.”

  Sinclair nodded, surveying the scattered troops behind him before turning back toward Damir. “If you’re here, that suggests they sentenced him to transportation and indentured servitude rather than prison.”

  “That’s true, but it’s more complicated than that.” Damir sighed.
“My mother divorced him because she didn’t want to leave Earth to be with a man who got himself transported, but that didn’t stop him from keeping in contact with us, and she didn’t want to deny me my father, even if she didn’t approve of what he did.” He smiled wistfully. “The man was twenty light-years away, but he sent so many messages that I felt like he was always there, helping raise me.”

  “And your mother?”

  Damir shrugged. “She never remarried. I think she always loved him but was frustrated with him. When I got old enough, I wrote back to him regularly. The thing is, he completed his sentence and started a new life here. He wanted us to visit, but it’s expensive, and my mother made it clear she wasn’t going to leave Earth to move to a place like this. She told me all the time that it didn’t make sense to leave the center of civilization to go somewhere less civilized. She said colonies were for criminals and people with nothing left to lose.” He stared at the ground and shook his head. “But then she died—freak accident. I decided there was nothing left for me on Earth, so with my father’s help, I came here at ten years old. That was what the colony represented to me: a new start, almost a rebirth.”

  “And you came to love your new home that much?” Sinclair asked. He motioned to the red sky. “This place is many things, but it’s not Earth, and it’s not going to be like Earth for a long time, if ever. You’ll live your whole life here under domes.”

  “If the colonies prove anything, it’s that humans are adaptable. Give us enough centuries, and people will find Earth an uncomfortable place to live.” Damir kicked a pebble. “After three years, I was really fitting in. I didn’t miss Earth at all. I liked the more laid-back pace here. I liked how people cared about each other. It was more like a community than I’d ever been in before.”

  “I could see that.” Sinclair chuckled. “You should have gone to the real frontier. It’s like living in an annoying little village.”

  “I might like that, but I came here for my father. He was so much better here than he’d ever been on Earth. He had his own accounting business, but setting that up led to trouble.”