by Marko Kloos
“One would be enough,” he says. “A communications expert, one of our own battlespace coordinators. That might also be useful if the . . . Indianapolis . . . encounters other Alliance fleet units that may not be aware of our current truce.”
“Wait up for a moment,” Colonel Campbell says. “You want to put an SRA combat controller with advanced comms and data gear on the most advanced electronic-intelligence boat in the fleet? I know this is supposed to be the dawn of a new era of cooperation and all that happy horseshit, but that strikes me as a monumentally unwise idea. You know, just in case we go back to shooting the hell out of each other.”
“You can limit access to sensitive areas of your ship,” Colonel Aguilar suggests.
Colonel Campbell shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter if I lock him in the brig for the trip if he has his ELINT gear right with him. And even if I take away his hardware, I have to give it back to him as soon as we get close to their Alcubierre point. All it takes is three minutes on our network, and they can reverse engineer this ship from master blueprints at the New Dalian fleet yards in six months.”
“Well, what do you suggest? There aren’t too many other options on the table right now,” Colonel Aguilar says. “We need Indy to scout, and Indy needs the access code for the SRA node, unless you want to take your chances with the NAC node instead.”
“I don’t like either option,” Colonel Campbell says.
I clear my throat and chime in. “Sirs, I can ride herd on that combat controller. Be his minder, make sure he doesn’t do stuff he’s not supposed to.”
I’m the most junior rank in the conference by a fair margin, and the sudden undivided attention from a dozen staff officers is a little unnerving. I shift around in my chair and try to tune out the other officers by pretending I’m just talking to Colonel Campbell alone.
“Are you positive, Mr. Grayson? That trip may be a one-way ticket.”
“Yeah, I’m positive,” I say. “I know the job, so I know what he should and shouldn’t do. And I’ve worked with their guys on the Fomalhaut b drop, so we have a bit of a working relationship. It’ll be fine, I think.”
The colonel chews on his lower lip while he considers my reply. I can sense that everyone in the ops center is looking at me, Sergeant Fallon next to me foremost, but I keep my attention on the screen.
“I still don’t like either option, but I don’t like that one a little less than the other one, if that makes sense.”
“Is that acceptable to you, General Park?” Colonel Aguilar asks. “Have your detachment work with Sergeant Grayson here to keep things smooth?”
“It is acceptable,” Brigadier Park says in his carefully neutral voice.
“What about you, Colonel Campbell? Does this alleviate your concerns about hosting an SRA combat controller on your ship for the mission?”
“If I can get Mr. Grayson to serve as a chaperone, I’m fine with it. Not ecstatic, but fine. Assuming that the civilian administrator releases him from his current assignment with the New Svalbard Territorial Army.”
The NSTA is the fancy title for the mutinous Homeworld Defense troops on New Svalbard, all of which voluntarily subjected themselves to civilian control. Some of the other commanders, especially the officers of the Spaceborne Infantry battalion we fought for control of New Svalbard’s scarce food facilities, think that we’ve committed outright treason and desertion, but Colonel Aguilar was luckily sympathetic to our argument and decided not to force the issue or pry the HD troops out of New Longyearbyen and its terraforming network. I have no doubt that we will all end up in front of a court-martial if things ever get back to the way they were, but I also have no doubt that things won’t ever go back to the way they were. Too much has changed way too quickly, and this strange new alliance of necessity has rewritten the rulebook entirely. It’s amazing how much stuff you can accomplish when you don’t give a shit whether or not it’s feasible. We pulled off a large-scale combat mission by integrating military units from two blocs with incompatible hardware and different standards and protocols because we threw out the old manuals and improvised on the spot. Unencumbered by the stupidity of the strategic thinkers at the NAC Defense Corps headquarters, our little slice of the armed forces went from an organization that takes six years to standardize on a new toilet seat to a lean and fast outfit that can prepare and execute a two-regiment interbloc combat drop onto a Lanky-controlled moon in only two weeks. I like the new way of doing things, and I don’t want to go back to the old way.
“I have no problem with Sergeant Grayson going with you on the Indy,” the colony administrator replies. “We have more than enough troops to keep the town and the terraformers secure. That is, if Master Sergeant Fallon is okay with releasing him back to fleet service.”
“Oh, hell,” Sergeant Fallon says. “Andrew can go wherever he wants to go. For what it’s worth, I agree that his time would be better spent getting us all back to Earth. We have enough asses to polish chairs down here already.”
“That’s settled, then,” Colonel Aguilar says. “The Indianapolis will use the Alliance transition point to sneak into the solar system and find us a way back. General Park will provide the access codes and control personnel, and Staff Sergeant Grayson will be our interbloc liaison on the Indy. Let’s hammer out the details and get your ship ready for that mission, Colonel. And Sergeant Grayson, report to Indianapolis as soon as the weather allows.”
“Understood, sir,” I say, and suppress the urge to snap a salute.
I push my chair back from the conference table and get up to step out of the range of the cameras. It’s a terribly selfish conceit, but after I make sure nobody is looking at me for the moment, I take my PDP out of its uniform pocket and check the calendar. I have ten weeks and two days to get back to Earth and make it in time for my wedding. I don’t know if Halley is still alive, but I made a promise, and I’ll do my best to keep it. Because if I don’t, there’s not a damn thing left for me in the universe worth fighting for.
CHAPTER 4
“What do you figure your chances are to make it back through and to Earth in one piece?” Sergeant Fallon asks.
I take another sip of my drink and pretend to think about it, as if I haven’t already considered the odds of the mission many times since I volunteered for it a few hours ago. We’re in On the Rocks again for a parting drink while I wait for a break in the weather to have a standby drop ship shuttle me up to Indianapolis.
“I’m not a tin-can skipper,” I say. “Don’t know a lot about spaceborne warfare, to be honest. But that’s a really stealthy ship. If she can’t make it past a Lanky, we have nowhere left to hide.” I turn the glass in my hands and watch the reflections from the overhead lights on the surface of the blue liquid of my drink. “Honestly?
Fifty-fifty, and I wouldn’t drop too much money on the spread. Really honestly? I’m scared shitless. Again.”
“Figured you’d be used to this business by now,” Sergeant Fallon says.
“Well, yeah. I’m always scared before a drop. Aren’t you?”
“Little bit,” she says with a slight smile. “Anyone who isn’t scared at the thought of going into battle is either a moron or a sociopath.”
“It’s different for this sneaky space shit. On a combat drop, you have lots of stuff to distract you, keep your mind off things. And you have at least the illusion of control. A rifle, a bunch of ammo, stuff to shoot at. But fleet engagements? You’re just sitting at your combat station in a metal tube. Nothing to do but to wait and see if you’re going to die.”
“Yeah, that shit is for the birds,” she says. “I never did have the slightest desire to go fleet. All those idiot nuggets in boot, hoping for a navy slot. Space is awful business.”
“It has its moments. First time I looked at Earth from orbit, it damn near blew my mind. The scale of it, you know? And it looked so peaceful. You realize just how stupid it all is. Us, the SRA, the welfare rats, trying to kill each other, when we’re a
ll just a bunch of ants hurtling through space on this little piece of rock and water.”
“Damn, Andrew.” Sergeant Fallon shakes her head and smiles again. “You’re too smart by half to be in the soldiering business.”
She takes a swig from her drink and makes a grimace.
“But you’re a good soldier,” she says. “You were a good soldier from day one at Shughart. Scared like the rest of them, but saddling up and doing what you’re supposed to. And you’ve never been a mindless trigger puller. I knew that you were still the same kid who felt awful after Detroit when you threw in your lot with our little rebellion. Maybe that makes you a better soldier than me, because I’ve mostly lost the ability to feel awful about any of this.”
The PDP in my pocket chirps a notification alert. I pull it out and look at the screen.
“MetSat update,” I tell Sergeant Fallon. “Fair-weather window in ninety-one minutes. I guess I better get my gear and head over to the airfield.”
I push my drink aside and get up. Sergeant Fallon does likewise. She puts one hand on my shoulder and studies me at arm’s length. Then she pulls me into a brief but firm one-armed hug and lets me go as quickly as she initiated the contact.
“I’m not going to get all squishy on you, but see that you don’t get yourself killed,” she says. “World’s a shitty place, but it’d be a fair bit shittier without you in it.”
I smile at her. “That’s by far the squishiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
We part without further words, without any melodramatic last salutes. I just leave the bar to get my gear, and turn around at the entrance hatch of the bar to look back at my old squad leader. She’s sitting down again, one hand on her drink, and she meets my gaze. I raise a hand briefly to give her a casual little two-finger wave. She nods at me, and the expression on her face is her usual facade of mild, detached amusement, but her eyes convey emotions we wouldn’t be able to fit into five minutes of extended emotional good-byes.
Fair winds and following seas, my friend.
I return her nod and turn to leave On the Rocks, likely for the last time in my life.
There’s a tunnel that leads from the Ellipse straight to the airfield on the other end of New Longyearbyen. It’s a kilometer and a half, an easy walk on level ground, and I walk out toward the airfield in no particular hurry. When I am a third of the way down the tunnel, I hear the hum of an electric ATV coming up behind me, and I turn around to see Chief Constable Guest rolling up.
“Saw you on the security feed,” he says as he comes to a stop next to me. “Want a ride?”
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”
I take my kit bag off my shoulder and dump it into the cargo basket of the ATV. Then I take the passenger seat behind the constable, and he puts the vehicle back into motion.
“Figured you’d stop by the office to say good-bye,” he says over his shoulder.
“I was thinking about it, but I’m already kind of a mess as it is,” I say. “There’s a lot riding on this mission.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve got two girls and a wife down here on our little frozen paradise. If you don’t come back with a road map for all those troops to go home again, we’re about to have a very bad winter, and it’ll be our very last one.”
“I’ll do my best to see that it won’t be,” I say.
“I have no doubt that you will. But it’s not entirely up to you, is it?”
“It’s not even mostly up to me. I’ll just be another little cog in the wheel again.”
“Well, be a really good cog, then. I almost envy you in a way, you know.”
“How so?” I laugh. “You want to go in my place?”
“I would if I had the expertise. Beats having to wait and watch, and not being able to do anything to influence the outcome.”
“What are you going to do if we don’t come back?” I ask.
Constable Guest is quiet for a little while. The hum from the electric motor reverberates from the concrete walls, and the fat tires of the ATV whisper on the floor slabs as we trundle through the sparsely lit tunnel at a fast trotting speed.
“I’ll hole up with my family,” he finally says. “Down here in the tunnels. Stockpile whatever supplies we can, and try to make it stretch. Hoping someone’s going to come and resupply us before all the food runs out. As long as I can keep them alive, there’s always hope.”
I’ve been to Constable Guest’s office a few times, and I remember the pictures of his daughters he keeps on a shelf behind his desk. His girls are still young, in their early teenage years. He told me that they were born on Earth, but they’ve been here on New Svalbard since before they could form coherent memories of the old home. This is the only world they’ve known, and if we fail to find a way home for all those troops that are consuming the resources of the ice moon just to stay alive, then they’ll never know anything else. They’ll die with their parents, down here in these cheerless tunnels with their bare concrete walls and unpainted laminate steel doors, and the whole town will be buried under ice and forgotten, a very minor footnote in humanity’s short history. It’s a harsh life in the colonies, but it’s their only life, and I feel shame for having contributed to the very likely possibility that these girls and everyone else here will die. I didn’t have any influence on the military’s decision to come here and dump seven thousand extra mouths to feed onto this world, but I can try to help get them out of here again. It’s a much better use for all my training than killing Chinese or Russian marines over yet another untamed piece of rock circling some faraway sun.
We roll through the semidarkness in silence for a while. Then the tunnel ahead comes to an end. There’s a concrete staircase leading up into a little vestibule, and a heavy security hatch set into the wall beyond. Constable Guest climbs off the ATV, and I follow suit and grab my kit bag.
He holds out his hand, and I shake it.
“Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens,” he says.
“Where did you get that?” I ask.
“Oh, an old novel that I like. Orcs and elves and high adventure, that sort of thing.”
“Then let’s make it ‘See you in a few weeks’ instead,” I say.
“See you in a few weeks, Staff Sergeant Grayson. Thank you for sticking up for us colony roughnecks. And be safe out there.”
“You, too, Constable Guest.”
He gets back onto his ATV, nods at me, and drives back the way we came, leaving me in the dimly lit tunnel terminus. I watch as the blinking caution light on the back of his vehicle briefly paints the walls of the tunnel red in steady three-second intervals. Then I shoulder my bag again and walk up the stairs into the basement of the airfield’s main control center.
The brief lull in the weather isn’t very obvious on the surface. It’s still snowing, but at least I can see further than a few yards now, and the snow is coming almost straight down instead of whipping across the landscape horizontally. Out on the vast concrete tarmac, tracked vehicles with massive triangular plow blades are pushing snow out of the way. In the already cleared area, three Wasp drop ships, one Dragonfly, and two of the colony’s fixed-wing transport aircraft are in various stages of postflight operations, unloading their cargo bays or refueling their tanks from the airfield’s automated fuel probes.
I know the pilots of the Dragonfly assigned to the Indianapolis by sight, so I walk across the tarmac to where the hulking battle taxi is parked, mindful to stay out of the way of the ground crew and the refueling machinery. The pilots are in the cockpit, running through checklists. As I mill around near the port side of the Dragonfly, the loadmaster tromps down the lowered tail ramp. He spots me and comes walking over to where I stand.
“Sergeant Grayson?” he asks. I turn toward him so he can see my name tag, and raise the face shield of my helmet. The bitingly frigid polar air immediately makes my face numb.
“We ready to go?”
“Almost. We have to wait for some passengers from
the Minsk. Their birds don’t fit into Indy’s docking clamps, so they have to switch rides down here.”
“Copy that,” I say, and lower my face shield to lock out the knife-blade winds again.
A little while later, there’s a shrill roar overhead, and two Akula-class drop ships come swooping out of the driving snow overhead. They settle side by side on a landing pad on the far end of the drop-ship tarmac in an impressive display of skillful synchronized shit-weather flying. I think of Halley, probably one of the best drop-ship pilots in the entire fleet, and wonder what her critique of that landing maneuver would be.
I can see why the SRA designers decided to call their creation the “shark.” Next to the NAC drop ships, the Sino-Russian birds look more crude, but decidedly more predatory. Their fuselages are more narrow, their cockpits smaller, and the overall shape of the airframes is more streamlined. They’re bigger than our Wasps, although not quite as large as the Dragonflies. They do, however, bristle with an almost excessive array of air-to-ground weaponry—a nose turret with two multibarreled guns, large-caliber ground-attack cannons in fixed mounts on either side of the fuselage, and more cannons still in removable pods on the wing pylons. Autocannons are simpler and cheaper than intelligent guided munitions, and the SRA engineers sure used as many of them as they could cram into the design. I’ve been on the receiving end of Akula attack runs more than once, and those things can put an awful lot of armor-piercing high explosives on target very quickly. No matter how permanent our new alliance of necessity may turn out in the end, I will never lose the feeling of dread that settles in my stomach whenever I see the insectoid, angular shape of an Akula.
I watch as the tail ramps of the SRA drop ships open. From the tail end of the closest Akula, two figures in Alliance battle armor emerge, heavy-looking kit bags slung under each arm. They walk toward us across the expanse of the landing pad. The face shields on the SRA helmets are quite a bit bigger than ours, so it’s easier to make out faces. When the two SRA troopers are twenty meters away, I recognize the taller figure on the left. I raise my own face shield again and wave.
