by Dani Kollin
“No, no, I understand,” she said over her shoulder. “You go. It’s not like there’s much you can do here anyways.”
Holke stood up and grabbed his assault rail gun, slinging it over his shoulder. He then picked up Kirk’s briefcase from the floor and handed it to him. “I’ll see that some of my men escort you, Mr. Secretary.”
“No, that would not be advisable,” answered Kirk, knowing that Holke was the last person he’d want left alive after the President was dead. He took the briefcase from Holke’s hand and then began tossing into it the few articles he’d put on the table as cover. “Right now,” he continued, not taking his eyes off Holke, “the President and her task are more important than me being escorted through already secure corridors. Your men are needed here, Sergeant, not with me.” Kirk then snapped the briefcase shut.
Holke looked over to Sandra, whose back was to the both of them. “Madam President?”
“Sure, whatever,” she answered, too busy to give Kirk’s suggestion or Holke’s question serious consideration.
Holke shrugged and unslung his ARG as Kirk brushed past.
Once out the door, Kirk ignored the nine TDCs, ever the man on a mission. But once he turned the corner, he could no longer keep his lips from arching upward in jubilation. He was almost home. He couldn’t wait to get back to Earth; to be on terra firma again; sit on a beach with a real sky and a horizon that curved downward as it was supposed to. He looked forward to buying some majorities in some good-looking and unimportant pennies and having his way with them. He was sick to death of pretending that all the people of the Alliance were his equals before the law and in opportunity. In the end, Hektor was right—incorporation was the best system because it allowed the best to rise and the rest to sink, and Kirk was going to find a comfortable level in that system and float happily for as many centuries of life as he had left.
He was preoccupied with these thoughts as he rounded a corner that emptied into an unoccupied service corridor. His thumb vibrated. He looked at it with some concern, as he was sure he’d turned his phone off.
“Yes?” he answered, coming to a halt, left brow slightly raised.
“Did you really think I’d let you kill another President?” said the hard, flat voice of Sergeant Holke.
Kirk had just a moment to tear open his briefcase and see his DijAssist before it exploded, blasting open a hole in the corridor wall and flinging the Vice President’s shattered remains into the vacuum of the Via Cereana.
* * *
Sergeant Holke looked out the window as the remains of Kirk Olmstead and detritus from the corridor flew past. A slight smile twitched the corner of his mouth. Slowly he brought his thumb and pinkie down from his head. He looked over at the DijAssist stuck between the two consoles and saw the hologram fade away.
“We’re fine, Vaughn,” Holke said into a concealed microphone, assuring the TDC group leader out in the hallway. “I’ll be out in a minute.” Holke then turned to see Dante staring at him. The avatar’s look was neither smug nor conciliatory, but certainly penetrating.
“I’m not happy that the President has to use VR, Dante, but I owe you one.”
Dante tipped his head slightly toward the sergeant.
“And,” continued Holke, “as today has shown, it’s equally obvious you can help us.” He then turned to Sandra O’Toole and pursed his lips. “I’ll keep your secret, Madam President.”
Sandra looked over her shoulder and threw Holke a knowing smile, but continued to work frantically at the panel.
“Yes!” she finally exclaimed a minute later, then swung around to face both Dante and Holke.
“Success?” asked Holke.
“Thanks to your sparring partner, unqualified,” answered Sandra, eyeing Dante.
“So we’re finished here?”
“Not quite. There is one more secret I’m going to have to ask you to keep.”
Holke sighed, shaking his head slowly. “We’re gonna turn that sorry son of a bitch into a hero, aren’t we?”
“Yes, Sergeant, we are. We’re going to swear on a stack of Bibles that Kirk Olmstead found the bomb and volunteered to carry it out, saying that you and I had to stay here so that I could finish programming this bump station and you could help me do it.”
“Ain’t gonna be easy,” groused Holke.
“You must sell it, Sergeant. We need heroes far more than we need traitors.”
Holke sighed once more. “Yes, Madam President.” Holke gave Dante a grudging nod and then went over to the door, opening it up to an anxious group of TDCs. From just outside the hatch, Holke could be heard relating the story that would turn Kirk Olmstead from one of the most distrusted figures in the Outer Alliance’s short history to one of its most revered.
Executive office
Burroughs
Mars
Hour 71
Hektor reviewed the images pouring in from Ceres in grim triumph. To see the hated capital of the Outer Alliance trailing chunks of rock and ice as it was bombarded by the hundreds of ships of Trang’s fleet felt like justice: harsh, glorious, unforgiving justice. Every impact on the surface made him want to shout for joy. Every shock wave–induced ripple across the shattered surface warmed him. He imagined with every impact, people dying. He couldn’t know for certain, but he imagined it. Every blow caused decompression or fire or shrapnel, and that meant his enemies would be dying the horrible deaths they deserved.
For every imagining of destruction being rained down within Ceres, Hektor was left with a much more vivid image of the destruction that had befallen Earth. The vids showing the annihilation of the upper section of the Beanstalk had been horrible enough. That greatest monument of mankind’s power and purpose dissolved and fell. The true miracle had been the structure’s nanite defense. It had been able to overcome and destroy the gray bomb attack the Alliance had instigated. Ever since the first attempt to gray-bomb the Beanstalk over seven years earlier, nanite defensive strategy had taken top priority. But for the Alliance to purposely use a terrorist weapon that powerful, that close to Earth, was chilling. Hektor didn’t know they had it in them.
But, rued the President as competing images of death and destruction played across his unblinking eyes, it may have been better had the Beanstalk not stopped the gray bomb attack so soon. Dust would have been far better than the skyscraper-sized chunks of space elevator that did survive, only to plunge through the Earth’s atmosphere as so many fiery, oblong meteors. The land impacts had been bad enough, as might be expected of debris moving at thousands of kilometers per hour. The carnage left in the wake of their destruction was every bit as horrible as centuries of disaster movies had predicted. But that was nothing compared to the water impacts. Even the smaller sections that hit the Mediterranean and the Balkans had caused tsunamis large enough to swamp islands and cause damage to the coasts of Scandinavia and Italy. But the vast bulk of the debris had hit the North Atlantic—with a vengeance.
Hektor could only thank Damsah for the flying car. Most of the population had gotten enough warning to pile in and fly to safety. But millions hadn’t or, worse, had chosen to ignore the imminent threat. He’d seen the vids of large crowds gathering at the beaches to watch as if it were some sort of festive event. The monstrous fifteen-meter-high waves moving at almost five hundred kilometers per hour quickly put an end to their celebration. Hektor would quietly use his influence to keep as many of them from being revived as possible. They were, in his opinion, simply too stupid to live.
He continued hoping for the image he’d most anticipated—the accursed planetoid, Ceres, exploding outward into thousands of pieces, taking out the government of the Outer Alliance and with it the woman he now realized to be his true foe. A woman, he’d come to realize, who seemed to have all Cord’s strengths and very few, if any, of his weaknesses.
“You have visitors,” chimed the voice of his executive assistant.
Hektor sighed and turned away from the holo-display. He then call
ed up the day’s schedule in his iris view.
“I shouldn’t,” he said. He then saw who the visitors were: Irma Sobbelgé, his Minister of Information, and Tricia Pakagopolis.
“Shall I send them away?” offered the assistant. “They say it’s a matter of some urgency.”
With a pang of regret, Hektor shut off the holo-display and with it the inherent joy of watching Ceres’s imminent demise. “Send ’em in.”
Tricia entered first. “Turn on your holo-display!” she exclaimed.
“But I just—” Hektor shrugged and ordered the machine back on. “Got a particular channel in mind?”
“Any news channel will do,” pressed the Minister of Information. Irma, Hektor saw, was looking far older than her chosen age of thirty. Her shoulder-length light brown hair seemed like it hadn’t been brushed in days, and her haute couture jumpsuit was in terrible need of a press. The light brown eyes still had about them their incipient curiosity, but there was clearly something missing. Irma had been dragged to this crash meeting, that much was obvious, but Hektor could now see that the recent spate of events may have taken a greater toll on her than he’d previously imagined. He’d have to monitor that.
The holo-display was suddenly filled with a visage of Sandra O’Toole, President of the Outer Alliance, standing at a raised dais and speaking in crisp, clear tones to a large but somber crowd. She looked devastated, but was most evidently in control. Well, this ought to be good, thought Hektor, watching with morbid curiosity. Maybe even perfect if the place gets blown to pieces in the middle of her speech.
“Fellow citizens of the Alliance,” she began. “I am sorrowed to tell you that our Vice President, Kirk Olmstead, has died.”
Hektor looked with raised brow over to his ministers. They both nodded in quiet confirmation, then focused back on the broadcast. Hektor watched in morbid fascination. Not only was the news of obvious interest to him, but now even more so was the bearer of that news. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her every nuance, inflection, and motion transfixed him much in the way a hunter might stalk its prey. Her performance was clearly rehearsed; that much was obvious. He knew it because he recognized the mannerisms, had used any number of them himself. There came a dawning realization, as if briefly noting one’s reflection in the murky waters of pond, that there was some of her in him. O’Toole had to have known what a worm Olmstead was, had to have hated and mistrusted the man as much as Hektor had. Yet Hektor could not detect anything other than abject sorrow in Sandra’s voice.
“That this comes right after the loss of Hildegard Rhunsfeld,” bemoaned the President of the Outer Alliance, “our beloved and ingenious Secretary of Technology, is a grievous blow. The enemies of freedom have struck and, make no mistake, will continue to strike at anyone who dares fight against the slave collar of incorporation!” After a moment of muted cheers, Sandra continued. “Kirk—” She choked, then paused, steadying herself against the dais.
Tricia and Irma’s snorts of derision were immediately silenced by a look from Hektor, who continued to watch the performance intently.
“Kirk,” informed Sandra, “discovered a breach in our internal security system. He didn’t call it in or get someone else to do the job. Time was of the essence, and he acted. And in his final act, he managed to save us all.”
Act indeed, mused Hektor.
“I cannot go into more details now,” insisted Sandra, “but when I can, I’ll shout Kirk Olmstead’s bravery from the rings of Saturn to the crowded Halls of Eris. He’ll forever be remembered as the hero he was. His death, as it is with all the rest of our brothers and sisters, will not be forgotten—and by the loving God they will not”—her voice quaked with passion—“have been in vain.” The holo cut out before the cheering erupted. Tricia and Irma turned to Hektor, but before they could say a word, the President of the United Human Federation and avowed champion of forced universal incorporation brought his hands together in a thunderous clap. Then he did it again, and again until he was clapping as if he were there on Ceres himself.
UHFS Liddel
Orbit around Ceres
Hour 72
“Admiral,” Trang’s XO said, not hiding his exultation, “the last orbital batteries have been disabled.”
The XO’s joy was reflected in Trang’s face.
“Admiral,” interjected the comm officer, “call from the Atlanta. Admiral Jackson wishes to confer.”
Trang nodded and Zenobia’s face appeared.
“One day to spare,” Trang said, gratified.
“We won’t need a day,” countered Zenobia. “This fleet can get it done in ten minutes, now.”
“We can,” answered Trang, allowing a brief pause, “but we won’t. We’re going to maintain position and fire down both ends of the Via Cereana and destroy as much as we can for two solid hours. Then and only then we will send the minimum number of ships needed to plant our atomic gift cards and then get the hell out.”
“Permission for the Atlanta to be one of those ships, sir. I’d love to be the last ship to ever use the Via Cereana.”
“Permission denied, and you can stop that scowling. There is a very good chance that the ships going in will not come out. If the Cereans realize they have nothing to lose, they could blow up the Via themselves, taking Ceres and whatever ships we send in there with them. War rarely gives us the luxury of time. We will do this slowly and we will do it right.”
Zenobia’s face couldn’t hide her disappointment.
Trang looked to the weapons officer. “The fleet will fire at programmed targets. On my order.”
Bump Station 192
Via Cereana
Ceres
Sandra could only pray the information she’d input, gleaned from the avatars’ surveillance and recording of Hildegard Rhunsfeld’s activities, would work. There was no time to fix anything if this went wrong.
She waited anxiously for all the bump stations to report in, then watched with relief as the targeting program came online—in all of them. One by one, each station began to grab tens of metal ingots about the size of softballs and position them for firing.
“This is exit rail gun control,” she said calmly, staring out into the empty Via, “we are active.”
Over the intercom, Sandra heard Kenji’s voice. “Entrance rail gun control reporting. We are active. I repeat, we are active.” Then, ever so softly, she heard Kenji whisper, “This is for you, Hildegard.”
And lo it came to pass that all the mighty fortresses defending the Holy Road of the Holy City were destroyed and the enemies’ greatest warrior was joyful. His master, the devourer of souls, would feast well with the death of the Holy City and the Children of the Stars that dwelled within. But the Warrior had not realized that the Anointed Woman was a child of the Creator and she called on the guiding spirit to abandon not his children in their greatest hour of need, and lo he did not. For the Anointed Woman was given the power to control the very rocks of the Holy City and she did command them to rise up and rush out and destroy the enemy as its gathered storm swarmed in. And lo, its moment of triumph became a moment of bitter defeat. For who can stand against the righteous when the righteous stand with the Lord.
—The Astral Testament
Book VII, 3: 107–109
UHFS Atlanta
Orbit of Ceres
Hour 82
Zenobia paced her quarters in a rage, waiting. They’d been so close. All they needed was one ship and ten minutes to bore into the rock and place the atomics. Five, properly placed in the center, would have done the trick. But then as they’d tried firing down the mouth of the Via Cereana, the damn thing had started firing back. Every shot of the fleet’s was met by one from the Via. It was as if Ceres herself were spitting contemptuously at her aggressors. For hours, Trang tried every maneuver and every combination of ship and shot, but couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried, get anything through. Finally, he called off the attack and ordered the fleet to consolidate far above Ceres an
d away from her venomous mouth. It was only then that he’d called for a meeting with Zenobia—in person, on her ship.
When he finally came through her door, he didn’t greet Zenobia in his usual ruminative manner. Instead he entered as if giving orders on the deck of his command sphere, midbattle.
“I say we take her out now.”
“Admiral?” asked Zenobia, looking askance at the stranger standing in her room.
Trang gave Zenobia a penetrating look that made her want to melt into the floor. He smoothed the protruding vein on his forehead. “I would have thought you, of all people, Zenobia, would welcome the opportunity for a rematch.”
“Sir, this ground is cursed, and we’ll be fighting an enemy with too many advantages.”
“Nonsense!” barked Trang. “Black’s at only two-thirds strength, and the ships that do get here are going to be beat to hell. On top of that, her crews have got to be stretched to the breaking point after four days of all-out acceleration—gel couches or not. And finally, their gas tanks are on E,” he said, using the old adage.
“All of that is true, sir,” Zenobia answered, “but our ships are damaged as well. And maybe we haven’t been flying across the solar system at idiotic speeds, but we have been fighting hard this entire time. Our fuel gauges might not be on empty, but they’re a long way from full and we’re a long way from home—not to mention dangerously low on ordnance. We have hardly any atomics, rail gun shot, or missiles left. All of which means we’d have to win that battle in three passes, maybe only two.”
“I’ve won against worse odds, Zenobia.”
“Not against her, Sam,” Zenobia said, purposely using Trang’s name, desperate for a means to break through to the man. She saw anger flash across his face, an emotion that seemed so unnatural there. She’d seen him mad, but this was different.
