by John Bowers
As each subject was broached and dissected at length, Wade Palmer found himself analyzing it parallel to the verbal discussion, several times coming to tentative conclusions before the assembly at large reached them — and twice forming conclusions the planners themselves never did reach. Each option on the table involved far more than the seemingly simple matter of sending an army across interstellar space and throwing it against the enemy. Also involved were the issues of available transport, fleet protection, fighter cover, equipment, and supply. Nor was the initial landing the only consideration — any strike force sent across such distances would need continuous supply, continuous space cover, medical resources, and various other support. Not least among these considerations was the availability of specific units that were trained and/or experienced in the sort of fighting that would be required.
It was enough to make his head spin. Long before the session ended, Wade had begun to wonder if he was in the right job after all. Walking back with Cdr. Kamada afterward, he felt almost dazed.
"Well, Palmer," Kamada asked casually as they entered the lift, "any pertinent observations?"
"In reference to what, sir?"
"Anything at all. For example, what would be our next step if you were in charge?"
Wade was tempted to rub his face, but resisted. Instead, he drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, lifting his chin as he gazed at the top of the lift door.
"I agree with the suggestion about restaffing the asteroid bases," he began. "I think we should lock the door before we leave the barn. I'm not terribly concerned about those Sirian bases out at the edge of the system, but I would send low-priority strikes to keep them honest, and eventually root them out … "
"What about taking the offensive? Where would you go first?"
"Well, sir, Alpha Centauri is the closest star, but with warp drives distance is a minor issue. I'd rather see the Sirians thrown off Altair first. That would be a show of good faith to an ally, and it would probably encourage them to participate in the war effort."
"Not all Altairis are pro-Federation," Kamada pointed out as the lift door opened and they strode down another corridor. "They're all split up into tribal states, and about a third of them are pro-Sirius."
"Yes, sir. But even in those states there must be a sizeable number of citizens who'd volunteer to fight on our side. I can't see the Confederates occupying what they consider a backward territory and not violating women left and right. They must be making enemies among their 'allies' every day."
Kamada raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. "Good point."
They reached their offices and Kamada ushered him into a chair. It was after 1900 and most of the staff had gone.
"What was your impression of today's session?" the commander asked.
"It was a little frantic," Wade said. "Is it always like that?"
"Usually it's a lot more frantic. Today was pretty relaxed, since Outer Worlds is over. You'll see tensions begin to build as the next operation takes shape. Don't be too shocked at anything you see. Fireworks are fairly common."
Wade nodded soberly. "Yes, sir."
"Tomorrow, I'd like to see a rough draft of an operation prospectus for Altair. Nothing too involved, but include everything you think is relevant. Think you can handle that?"
"Yes, sir. I'm not sure I can do it that quickly … "
"By 1800 tomorrow. That gives you some extra time. And as you work on it, keep in mind that, even though this is largely academic for your purpose, anything you submit might eventually become part of an actual operational plan. Everyone here submits input, and nothing gets ignored. So don't take the assignment too lightly."
Wade's eyes widened and Kamada smiled.
"One more thing—"
"Yes, sir?"
"This morning you voiced an opinion about Titan. Remember?"
Wade didn't. It took him five seconds to dredge it up.
"You mean, about the Sirians being tipped off?"
"That's it." Kamada's smile faded, his eyes narrowed to obsidian chips. "This is an order, Palmer — do not repeat that opinion to anybody. You aren't cleared to know about that yet. Do you understand?"
The statement hung in the air like the heat from a plasma grenade. Wade's heart tripped into turbo and his mouth dropped open as he understood what the commander was saying. He closed his mouth with a conscious effort, swallowed deliberately, and blinked.
"Yes, Commander. I … think I do."
Thursday, 17 April, 0228 (PCC) – UFF Anwar Sadat, Orbit of Terra
Capt. James Carson stood on the hangar deck of UFF Anwar Sadat and watched as a maintenance team worked on his spacecraft. The ResQMed had come through Outer Worlds without a scratch from the enemy, but operating close to the Rings of Saturn was something like flying near the edge of the Asteroid Belt — the rings were composed of tiny ice chips, and inevitably there were strays. When a high-speed spacecraft ran into them they acted very much like meteorites, and the ResQMed was pitted in numerous places. The damage wasn't serious, but if left uncorrected, could eventually pose a threat to the spaceworthiness of the craft.
Carson was bored. He should have taken Terraside liberty along with the rest of his crew, but hadn't quite been able to talk himself into it. He had no family that he wanted to see, and since he was no longer married, there hardly seemed any point. Sadat was in a parking orbit around Terra, and he could see the planet itself from any observation lounge. Just being offline for a few days had been liberty enough.
The techies were about done, and he faced an uneventful evening, with nothing much to do. He had the choice of spending it in his quarters alone, or visiting the O-Club and sitting alone there. Though his crewmembers liked him, Carson wasn't a very sociable person, and knew it. Nor did he much care.
As the maint men were finishing the resurface job, Carson heard a shuttle arrive in the flight tunnel overhead, and a moment later a lift descended about fifty yards away. The shuttle rolled off the lift and stopped. Carson watched it absently, more out of curiosity than anything. The hatch slid open and passengers began to debark, all of them crew members from Sadat. To his mild surprise, the fourth person off the shuttle was also a member of his own ResQMed crew.
Capt. Carla Ferracci saluted the colors framed high on the hangar wall, then turned and walked unhurriedly toward Carson and his rescue ship. She was in dress uniform, and carried a space bag. Carson grinned and stepped aside to greet her. She looked a little tired, but her space-black eyes gleamed with good humor as she approached. She set down the space bag and saluted him half jokingly.
"Back so soon?" Carson chided. "I didn't expect you for three more days."
"And what about you? I'll bet you didn't even leave the ship, did you?"
He shrugged. "I can be bored here as easily as Terraside."
"And so can I."
Carson laughed and bent to pick up her space bag. He was tempted to give her a hug, as she was the one person on the ship he really enjoyed spending time with. But as tempting as she was, he instinctively refrained from any overt show of feelings. He'd known her long enough to know she was a complex person, and wanted to run no risk of losing her as a friend.
"Buy you a drink?" he offered.
She walked with him toward the exit.
"Why? So you can get me drunk and rape me in quarters?"
He dipped his head in irony. "That's one possibility."
"Then give me another."
"Maybe I won't have to drink alone tonight. A little conversation with my favorite Italian doctor would do wonders for my military morale."
"Then I accept."
Carson accompanied her to quarters, located next door to his own, and waited in the anteroom while she changed into fatigues. Ten minutes later they headed for the O-Club and found a table where they ordered drinks and dinner. It was too early for the rowdy off-duty crowd and they didn't have to shout over the music.
"So how was Venice?" Carson asked as they ate.
He laughed. "Did you have a good time?"
She didn't answer at once, and he looked up at her. She took a bite and met his gaze with her shiny black eyes. She shook her head slowly.
"There's no longer anything in Italia for me," she said quietly.
"You already knew that, didn't you?"
"I guess so. But I wanted to make sure."
"You spend your whole leave there?"
"Two days. Then I went touring. Rome, Athens, Jerusalem … "
"Jerusalem?" He frowned his puzzlement.
"I'd never seen it," she said simply. "Always wanted to."
He nodded, satisfied.
"The only exciting thing that happened to me was on Orbital 6 yesterday. In a bar."
"Yeah?" He grinned. "What, you get laid?"
"Almost. Some enlisted Star Marine came onto me. Can you believe that? A private!"
"He risked a star-court to get into your pants?"
"I pointed that out to him. He was willing to risk it."
"I take it you didn't call the Star Police?"
She shook her head, smiling gently.
"He was just a lonely kid."
"An enlisted kid."
"At first I found him annoying, but then it occurred to me that I might get him in my sickbay one day. After that it didn't seem like such a big deal any more. I let him off the hook easily."
"But you didn't … ?"
"No! Are you kidding? I don't need a star-court, either."
They ate in silence for a few moments.
"Any word on our next port of call?" she asked.
"Nothing yet. Now that the Sirians have been pushed out of the system, we may find ourselves polishing a lot of brass for a while. I can't see the Federation making any long-distance strikes for some time yet."
"Who have you been talking to?"
"Nobody. That's just how I see it. It took us six years to throw the bastards out of our system, and it wasn't cheap. I rather think we're going to have to lick our wounds for a while. Build up some muscle before we start interstellar operations."
"Maybe we should just quit now," she suggested. "The Sirians are gone. Why should we go out after them? Just beef up our defenses so they won't come back."
"I don't think that's likely."
"It would save a lot of lives. We've already lost a lot of good young people."
Carson pushed his empty plate aside.
"I'm no expert on the Sirians," he said, "but from what I do know, I don't think they're going to just stay away forever. We've bloodied their nose, but if we don't go out and finish the job, they'll be back. And they'll be stronger next time."
"So will we."
"You think so? I don't. In an emergency, the Federation can rally to the cause, but let the lull drag on a few years, and people will start demanding that the money be spent elsewhere. The military will be downsized and when the Sirians come back, we'll be worse off than before."
"So you think—"
"I think we have no choice but to pursue them all the way home."
"James, that would take years."
"Decades. You and I will be old when it's over."
She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes slowly losing their focus.
"Or dead," she amended.
Washington City, DC, North America, Terra
Admiral Leach waved Regina Wells to a chair in front of his desk. She sat gingerly, her green eyes darting toward the other man in the room, also an admiral. Judging from the stripes on his arm, he outranked Leach by a considerable margin, though she wasn't familiar with the exact trappings of rank. He was about the same age as Leach, his face lined and weathered, and regarded her with an almost fatherly expression, a little smile playing across his mouth.
"Miss Wells," Leach said almost casually, "I'd like you to meet Admiral Starr."
Regina smiled nervously and nodded. "Admiral."
"Very pleased to meet you, Miss Wells," Starr rumbled. His voice was gruff, distinctly Southern.
"Admiral Starr and I have studied your preliminary holovid," Leach said. "In fact, we went over it several times, and then it was viewed by about six other senior staff members. That's the reason I called you in. We'd like to discuss it with you."
Regina nodded, but her heart sank. This didn't sound good at all. Leach glanced at his superior.
"Would you like to kick it off, Admiral Starr?"
Starr shifted in his seat and nodded. He turned his attention to the slender redhead and smiled even wider.
"Miss Wells, I must confess that I found your information holo very inter-estin'. You certainly seem to know your Sirian history."
"Thank you," she whispered.
"In fact, everyone who viewed the holo was most impressed. Your grasp of Sirian culture is far superior to that of most people, and we believe you presented a well-balanced piece. I'm certain it's goin' to be a great advantage to our troops in the field."
Regina's eyes widened in disbelief. This didn't sound much like a rejection. Did he mean … ?
"I have one or two minor concerns," Starr was saying, "but as soon as those can be addressed, we'd like you to move forward with the final product as soon as possible."
"You mean — you like it?" she blurted.
Starr glanced at Leach, and they both laughed.
"I b'lieve that's what I just said," Starr said. "Yes, Miss Wells. We do like it. Very much."
Regina blinked rapidly, almost weak with relief.
"Thank you!"
"You're welcome."
"You said you have — concerns?"
Starr nodded slowly. "Yes. Nothin' too major, but I would like to go over them with you."
"Of course."
Starr cleared his throat and frowned briefly, as if uncertain how to explain himself.
"Miss Wells, I'm from North Carolina. As a born and bred Southerner … " He stopped, sighed, and plunged on. "Please don't take this as a criticism," he said. "But in your holo you spend considerable time explorin' the roots of Sirian philosophy, tyin' them to the Ancient South. I have no quarrel with that, exactly, except — well, Miss Wells, about twelve percent of our total fightin' forces are from southeastern North America. That makes many of them direct descendants of the Ancient Confederacy."
He paused, staring at her to gauge her understanding of his words. She said nothing, so he continued.
"Do you see where I'm headed? We don't want to cause division among our ranks, and human nature bein' what it is, I'm afraid those boys are likely to take more'n a little heat from the rest of the troops when they see this holovid."
"Not only that," Leach added, "but our own men who come from that region may well resent any suggestion that they share the Sirian philosophy."
Regina was speechless — for three seconds.
"Admiral," she said slowly, "I'm sorry! I never meant to suggest any such correlation."
"I know you didn't," Starr smiled gently. "What you presented was the unvarnished truth. All I'm askin' is, maybe you'd like to varnish it just a hair."
"No need to water down the facts," Leach said, "just don't emphasize the origins of that philosophy quite as much. You might even point out that the Sirians took the Confederate heritage and went backwards with it, rather than forward. The North American South of today has progressed centuries beyond those ancient attitudes, but Sirius literally turned them around and devolved into something worse than the Ancient South ever was."
Regina nodded.
"Admiral Starr, if I offended you …"
"No, no, you didn't offend me. This is just a precaution. Any thinkin' person will understand what you were tryin' to say, but soldiers are under a lot of stress, and we just don't want to risk anything unpleasant. And we don't want our fightin' men to feel that we mistrust their motives. I don't want any Dixie soldier thinkin' that he is related in any way to the e
nemy he has to fight. Two or three changes in the text is all we need."
"Of course, sir. I lived in Georgia for five years growing up, and I don't want any misunderstanding, either."
Starr sighed, looked at Leach, and slapped his hands on his knees.
"Good! When can you have a final product for us?"
Regina looked blank.
"Was that all? There wasn't anything else?"
"Nothin' else. All in all, the holovid is a work of art. Well researched, well documented. And with that pretty face, even the most inattentive soldier is goin' to watch it all the way through. I cain't wait to distribute it to the troops."
Regina smiled with relief. Her heart seemed to flutter.
"In that case, sir, I'd say I could have a final cut ready in four or five days."
"Wonderful. I'm lookin' forward to it."
Chapter 12
Friday, 18 April, 0228 (PCC) — Luna Base 4, Luna
Luna Base 4 wasn't the largest military installation on the Moon, but it was close. Not only was it home to a full fifteen fighter squadrons, it was also the lunar headquarters for the Star Marines. Star Marines served boot camp on Terra, but most spent several months at Luna 4 afterward as they were indoctrinated in low-gravity and pressure suit combat; the Outer Worlds campaign had been staged from there. Rico Martinez had spent considerable time at Luna 4 already, and now he was back.
Everything was underground, of course. Not only did that solve numerous atmospheric integrity problems, it also vastly reduced the likelihood of a space strike inflicting massive casualties to thousands of troops. The Marine base covered several square miles of hollowed-out caverns, everything so vast and open in appearance that it was hard to believe it was nearly a thousand feet below the surface.
Rico walked down the same camp street where he'd lived for several weeks prior to shipping out for Outer Worlds and looked around in disbelief. The regimental flag waved gently in the artificial breeze created by the atmospheric generators, and it looked the same as before. The 33rd Star Marines had been wiped out at Titan, yet the street was alive with men wearing the distinctive patch on their shoulders. It was like a dream, as if he walked among ghosts. At any moment he half expected to hear Captain Mendez bellow his name, or see Chavez shirking behind an equipment shed. It was spooky.
