by John Bowers
As far as he could tell, Fleet Base 49 was in Federation hands.
He reached the river as the heat from the local sun began to warm his shirt. He spotted a squad of Marines sitting in a huddle eating their morning rations.
"Any of you guys seen Delta Company?" he asked.
"Down by the water." One of them pointed.
"Thanks."
He continued walking as the ground began to slope downward. Something exploded off to his right, and he instinctively ducked, but it was a quarter mile away. He could see smoke rising into the air, and wondered if it was artillery or something else.
The Star Marines were hard to see. Their camouflage fatigues blended with the ground cover, and unless one of them moved they were largely invisible. He spotted several just ahead, again inquired of Delta, and was motioned still farther forward. He frowned — the water was only thirty yards away, and the bridge abutment appeared to be deserted. The bridge itself lay in the river, probably destroyed by the space strike that preceded the landings.
"Beaner! Over here!"
Rico's heart leaped unexpectedly at the familiar voice. He saw Texas waving at him, and grinned with relief. He hurried forward and found most of his squad sitting in a narrow trench they'd dug during the night. He quickly leaped inside with them.
"You better get your brown ass in here!" Texas chided him. "There's snipers on the other side."
"Where the fuck you guys been!" Rico demanded.
Rico looked around and counted heads. The Fearless Fourless were all present, as were White, Roberson, and Sgt. Ragsdale. The other three were missing.
"We been right here. Most of us, anyway. We thought you was dead. Where the hell were you?"
Rico brought them up to date, then asked about the three missing squad members.
"Sean Kelly got it last night," Tiny told him. "We don't know about the other two. Probably like you, got separated."
"They'll turn up," Rico guessed. "So what's been happening here?"
"I learned something important," Maniac told him.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, and this wasn't in the service manual. But it could save your life."
Rico was hooked. "What is it?"
Maniac leaned forward confidentially, his eyes serious.
"I can tell where the Sirians are before anybody sees them."
"How?"
"I get this hard-on like you can't believe —"
The others exploded into laughter, and Rico realized he'd been suckered.
"Hey," Gearloose demanded, "you get any Sirians last night?"
Rico nodded. "I think I got one. When we captured the hospital."
"Outstanding."
Rico shrugged off his pack and dug inside for something to eat. The others talked aimlessly, killing time until they were ordered to do something. No one seemed to know what was next; their briefing on the ship had merely stated their objective as capturing the fighter base. They'd done that.
As the morning wore on, more landers screamed in from orbit and disgorged still more troops, supplies, and equipment. By noon Fleet Base 49 looked like a Federation supply depot. In addition to nearly a full division of Star Marines, two regiments of Federation Infantry were also down.
Though the men of Delta were not aware of it, thousands of men were already moving off the base in combat-ready columns, spreading out into the countryside around the city and forming a cordon that any enemy counterattack would have to cross. South of Lucaston, the other fighter base had also been taken, and similar activity was in progress there. By the end of the day, Federation troops completely surrounded Lucaston, though none had attempted to enter the city itself. Except for the two fighter bases, the Sirians had no military strength in the immediate area. The only resistance now came from stragglers who'd escaped the initial attack.
Elsewhere on Alpha 2, however, the war was starting to heat up.
* * *
The first thirty hours of the invasion had gone better than anyone had dared hope. Prelanding strikes by QuasarFighters had sent Sirian space power reeling; the first wave of fighters had faced virtually no opposition in the atmosphere or in orbit, with the result that nearly half the fighter bases had sustained heavy damage, the only losses coming from ground fire. Succeeding waves had met some resistance, with higher losses, but more bases had been bombed, and Sirian pilots had been largely ineffective, perhaps demoralized by the unexpected timing of the attack. By the time the first transports arrived, the enemy fighter threat had been seriously reduced.
But Alpha Centauri was far from finished. Even as the first wave of Star Marines was landing, hundreds of fighters from scattered bases had managed to get into the air. Fortunately, they'd concentrated on the Federation fighters instead of the transports. Losses had been traded evenly, and the Sirian pilots who survived returned to their bases to find most of them under attack; of 213 bases on the planet, 197 were swarming with Federation troops. Most returning pilots were vectored by their central traffic control to one of the unoccupied bases.
Sixteen fighter bases were still a threat to the invasion, and they were gorged with ships, far more at each facility than normal.
By the second day of the invasion, Sirian command on Alpha 2 had recovered enough to map out a hasty defensive plan, which included an umbrella of fighters around the planet to try to blunt any further landings. With some four thousand fighters still available, the only problem now was keeping them armed and fueled; the few remaining bases were terribly overcrowded.
The new defense plan didn't go into full effect until the third day, giving the Federation time to land still more troops, supplies, and equipment. By the end of the third day, nearly five million men were on the ground.
Then the Sirians closed the door.
Friday, 18 September, 0229 (PCC) - Orbit of Alpha 2, Alpha Centauri System
"God damn!" David Coffey gasped as ZF-313 dropped out of warp on 18 September. "Where the hell did they all come from?"
In her turret, Onja Kvoorik saw them as well, just a few thousand miles ahead. Dozens of fighters, several squadrons in all, in what looked like a parking orbit around the planet — like guard dogs waiting for burglars. Within seconds of the appearance of 313, about fifty of them canceled orbit and angled to intercept. Onja's blue eyes widened in dismay for five seconds. Then she keyed her throat mike.
"Mad Man, Fighter Queen. Major, you'd better stop that convoy before they get here. We've got lots of company."
"Roger, Fighter Queen. I was just thinking the same."
The 313 was running interference for a merchant convoy bringing in supplies for the ground troops. The convoy was ten minutes behind them, still in warp, and if they canceled warp here they'd be slaughtered — or at least seriously injured — in spite of their fighter escort. Major Madison subspaced the convoy, ordering them to cancel warp where they were and wait for instructions.
Even before he finished, the Fed fighters broke into sections and raced for the enemy, outnumbered two to one. David Coffey led the attack; as the Fighter Queen's pilot, his was the lead section.
"This doesn't look good, Onja!" he told her over the intercom. He was already rolling into a corkscrew that would make him a difficult target.
"Don't worry," she told him confidently. "I've done this before."
Onja released two pairs of Yin-Yangs, targeting the enemy as widely as possible. The Yins raced in and flashed their nuclear fire, releasing a massive pulse of EMP, which brought down the shields on more than half the Sirian fighters. The Yangs then delivered high explosives that killed or crippled two of them. Most of the remaining enemy fighters were now vulnerable to standard warhead and laser fire.
Her turret laser flashed and a Sirian fighter exploded, then a second. She fired a pair of torpedoes, then continued with laser. For the next six minutes, the 313 slugged it out, whittling down the enemy. Six QuasarFighters and nineteen Sirians were destroyed. Two more Sirian squadrons peeled off from orbit and climb
ed to assist, relieving their bloodied comrades — forty fresh fighters against fourteen Fed ships. Undaunted, ZF-313 turned to meet the new threat, and as they did another Fed squadron dropped out of warp — and then two more.
The odds were suddenly a lot more pleasant.
* * *
On the planet's surface, entire armies of Sirian and Vegan troops had mobilized into defensive positions around large cities and other vital assets. The immediate requirement was to meet the Federation threat, and then, as the situation stabilized, launch a counterattack to destroy those troops already on the ground. The Sirian command had in its arsenal some nine million ground troops, including Sirians, Vegans, and Alpha Centauri conscripts. These troops were virtually immune from air attack, as Federation space power had its hands full protecting inbound convoys.
Wade Palmer's plan had worked; most of the troops were on the ground, along with most of their equipment and supplies. But that was as far as Wade Palmer could go. Now it was up to the Star Marines and Federation Infantry. Neither service had ever fought a sustained action for more than a few weeks. The test of their training was about to begin.
Chapter 31
Tuesday, 22 September, 0229 (PCC) - Wallace Plantation, Texiana, Sirius 1
Scarlett Wallace Vaughn waited several days for word from her husband — in vain. General Vaughn was much too busy worrying about the developments on Alpha Centauri to give his new bride a thought. Scarlett debated calling him, but decided it was best to wait. If the crisis were indeed as grave as he'd indicated, she might only distract him.
Capt. Davenport remained at the plantation, with nothing to do but escort her when she left the house. He took his SE assignment seriously, and she couldn't even visit the plantation office without him tagging along. She hardly minded — his company was welcome.
Five days after her new husband failed to make an appearance because of the wartime emergency, Scarlett ventured over to the office and interrupted her cousin Boyd, who, though somewhat surprised to see her, welcomed her graciously. Davenport took a seat in the corner of the office and listened silently, his cold blue eyes watching Boyd as if he were food.
"Scarlett!" Boyd smiled distractedly. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" He clasped his hands on the desk before him; he was busy, but she was now his employer.
"Boyd, I've been thinkin'," she told him with a little smile, her clear green eyes fixed on his face. "About what you said to me last year."
"And what was that, cousin Scarlett?"
"You said that God gave serfs dark skin to protect them from the heat."
He smiled as if she'd told a joke.
"I reckon I did say that, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did. And I was thinkin', Boyd — why would the Lord do that, when dark colors absorb heat, but light colors reflect it?"
Boyd's eyes widened a fraction. He hadn't expected such logic from his uneducated cousin. His eyes narrowed slightly as he tried to fathom the answer.
"Well, now that you mention it — I suppose that's right, ain't it?"
"Yes. Which means that a serf would suffer more from the heat than we would. Don't you think?"
He puzzled over it a moment, at a loss for an answer.
"Well," he said finally, "that does make sense, I reckon. But did you know that niggos don't get sunburn?"
"They don't?"
"Not a bit. Except the half-breeds. The ones with white blood in them burn, if their skin is light enough, but the pure black ones don't."
"Well, I declare, I did not know that!"
He shrugged, as if that settled it.
"I don't know what that proves," he said, "but there it is."
"What about the Spanics and the slants?" she inquired.
"Same thing — if their skin is light enough, then they burn. Otherwise, they don't."
Scarlett pondered that for a moment. Then, as if none of it was really relevant anyway, she tossed her red hair and lifted her chin.
"Boyd, I want you to put coolers in the serf shanties."
Boyd's jaw dropped open in shock. "Cousin Scarlett, are you serious?"
She nodded emphatically. "I am."
"But — but … " He fumbled for a response, then blurted, "Scarlett, that would cost a fortune! And it would be money wasted. It would do no more good than pourin' per-fume on a hog!"
"Boyd, you've been to college, and I know you are very wise about many things. But I don't believe you can prove that statement."
"We can't afford it, Scarlett!"
"How much would it cost?"
"I-I don't even know! But —"
"How many shanties are there?"
"Almost ten thousand! That's how many workers we have, and nearly all of them have families. One shanty to a family."
"How much do the coolers cost?"
"A hundred, hundred-fifty apiece! That's … " He hastily did the arithmetic. "That's well over a million sirios!"
"Do we have a million sirios?"
"Why, yes, we have much more than a million, but —"
"Then we can afford it, can't we?"
Boyd was almost frantic. He stood up and spread his hands helplessly.
"Cousin Scarlett … !" He glanced at Davenport. "Captain, surely you can appreciate my position here! Tell her!"
Davenport merely shrugged.
"As I understand it, she owns the plantation," he said quietly.
"Yes, of course, but —"
Davenport shrugged again, as if that said it all. Boyd sighed deeply and sat down again.
"Cousin Scarlett, you have a warm heart," he said. "I can appreciate what you are tryin' to do. But you asked me to manage the plantation for you, and in my professional opinion, this is a useless expenditure of your money. I must protest."
Scarlett smiled sweetly.
"Your protest is noted," she replied. "And it is very kind of you to be concerned about my money. But I believe those people are sufferin' under the heat of Sirian Summer. I want them to have relief."
"Sirian Summer is over."
"Yes, and that means you have seven months to install the coolers before it comes around again."
Boyd spread his hands on the desktop and tried one last time.
"Cousin Scarlett, please reconsider. I simply cannot condone this expenditure!"
"I am not askin' you to condone it, Boyd. I am tellin' you to do it."
"How much are you paying these serfs?" Davenport asked.
"It varies," Boyd told him. "Fifty sirios a month for common labor, more for the skilled people. The foremen make around ninety."
"How much of that do they really need?"
"Very little," Boyd admitted. "We increase them every few years to prevent them from riotin'."
"They can live on less?"
"Most certainly. They purchase their food from the company store, they have no need for luxuries, and any other necessities we supply."
"Explain to them that any who want the air-conditioning can have it, but it will cost them five sirios a month. Let them choose, and for those that want it, in a couple of years you'll have your money back."
Boyd stared at the SE officer with new respect — his dilemma was solved. He looked at Scarlett, and she smiled encouragingly.
"Very well," he conceded. "I don't personally believe they need it, but under those circumstances I can justify it. I thank you, Captain."
"And I thank you, Boyd," Scarlett bubbled. "You are very sweet." She stood suddenly and turned toward the door. "Captain Davenport?"
* * *
"Let me ask you a question, Captain," Regina Wells said as they walked back to the big house.
"Go ahead."
"You seemed to approve of giving the serfs air conditioning back there."
"Absolutely. That business about brown skin beating the heat is pig shit."
"You have compassion for serfs," she stated. "So why did you rape Kim?"
Jolted, Davenport looked at her quickly.
"I didn't r
ape her!"
"What would you call it? 'Coerced sexual intercourse'? Please explain the difference to me."
He stopped walking, and they faced each other. No one was in sight, no one could hear them.
"You're speaking as a Feddie now, I take it?"
"I'm speaking as a woman!" Her green eyes blazed.
"Okay, I know what you're getting at. But I told you, I've been here since I was fourteen. I was recruited young. My goal became the SE long before I was old enough to vote."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"In case you haven't noticed, the SE controls the slave industry. SE loads the transports on the Centauri systems, on Altair, and Vega. SE oversees the slave transports back to Sirius, SE runs the slave processing centers, and SE regulates the market. SE is the highest authority on the entire fucking planet, with the power to enslave even citizen females! How far do you think I would've got in the organization if I worried about the civil rights of a nonwhite woman?"
"And that makes it all right for you to rape my house girls?"
"Not all right," he corrected. "Necessary."
"Necessary! You fucking pervert!"
Davenport flushed and was tempted to slap her, but didn't, in case anyone from the house was watching.
"Look, I didn't come here with the intention of raping anybody. I do it when I have to, because it's part of my cover. But the first time that girl saw me, she reacted to the uniform. The sight of me scared the shit out of her. I saw it in her eyes, and right then I knew I had to do it, because she expected it."
"She expected it?" Regina was furious. "That's bullshit!"
"You think so? Fine. We'll leave it at that. But just remember, I'm all you've got. Without me, you're naked on this planet!"
He turned and stalked off toward the house, leaving her standing by herself.
Wednesday, 30 September, 0229 (PCC) - Polygon, Washington City, DC, North America, Terra
The Strategy Room was crowded. Wade Palmer was alert, his sleeping schedule somewhat more normal than it had been for some weeks. He sat beside Cdr. Kamada and listened quietly as General Willard delivered his morning recap of the situation on Altair and Alpha Centauri. The news was mixed.
