by Dani Kollin
How he’d hated that, but it sure did play to the people. When Hektor had been retrieved from orbit, pried loose from the foam and then had emerged smiling and unscathed, the Martians were no longer as afraid. As a result, the initial trickle of those volunteering to get off the planet suddenly became a flood. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Trang showed up with his fleet, and after only a brief but well-publicized meeting between the two leaders, Trang took over evacuation duties and Hektor took off for Earth.
The Martian Express was about as loaded as the life support system would allow, and everyone other than Hektor had been doubled and tripled up. Irma had wanted to put two families of low-ranking administrators into the Presidential suite with him, but Hektor put his foot down. Reasoning that his reputation was about as good as it was going to get, he felt no need to subject himself to the wailing of minority children struggling through the discomfort of gravity acclimation.
Hektor picked up the DijAssist and read the day’s briefing. After a moment, he shook his head and laughed. McKenzie and Sinclair had actually felt they’d been defending Justin’s legacy. He could only be grateful that the bumbling idiots hadn’t succeeded. They would have sued for peace immediately, and on Hektor’s terms. He would’ve had no choice but to go along. And then it would only have been a matter of time until the whole damned thing started up again. The Outer Alliance was made up of a stiff-necked people if ever there was one, and Porfirio’s premonition had been sadly correct. It was better to be rid of the lot of them. But without Sandra in place fighting Hektor’s kind of war, there’d be no “terrorism,” like what happened on Mars, to point to—and so, nothing to rally the citizenry against, nothing to use as an excuse for what Hektor and Porfirio and Gupta had known must ultimately be done to ensure the incorporated movement’s supremacy: Eliminate the people in order to eliminate the problem.
UHFS Liddel
High orbit of Mars
Trang’s fleet engineers had been working without sleep for days, and he was now being asked to sign a requisition that would up their energy meds in order to keep their frenetic work pace going. He soothed the vein on his temple and left his thumbniture on the DijAssist. The engineers’ task had been to maintain t.o.p. service under conditions the transorbital pods had never been designed for. The t.o.p.s themselves were mostly fine. With the exception of the luxury models, most of them were pretty basic. In fact, there wasn’t much that could go wrong with one that couldn’t be fixed with a little experience and a handy set of tools. The problem wasn’t mechanics so much as it was nature. All orports had magnetic guiding fields to make sure that the t.o.p. hit the landing tube exactly right, every time. But the high winds, rains, and snows were straining the guiding units past their capability. An error of even one centimeter on landing could not only destroy that t.o.p., killing everyone inside, but also destroy one or more launch tubes. Fewer tubes meant increased wait times for the ever-burgeoning lists of Martians wanting to flee into the warm embrace of ice and polystyrene.
Almost every shuttle in Trang’s fleet had been transferred planetside in order to reach the isolated areas with no access to an orport. One such area was the ski lodge on top of Olympus Mons. Much to the dismay of the rescue teams, the residents of the lodge were not only not glad to to see them but also had no desire to evacuate. They roundly proclaimed that they had enough food and beverage to last for months. A quick check of their food stores confirmed their claims; if left to their own devices, the Martian elite could maintain their lavish eating habits for months. And they were situated high enough above the storms that they wouldn’t be bothered by the atmospheric tumult. The rescue team’s leader, at a loss for what to do, called it in. A few minutes later, he got his answer: The food and beverage was to be immediately confiscated and distributed to the destitute, of which there were many. The residents had been outraged. The confiscatory tactics, they hollered, were a violation of their property rights! When they realized their rants were falling on deaf ears, they threatened to call their Assemblymen. The exasperated officer told them, per a message from Grand Admiral Trang himself, that the fleet would gladly accept and store any communications the residents wished to leave with the rescue team, and even see to those messages being delivered—once their Assemblymen had been thawed out. As soon as all their food stores had been packed into the shuttles, the lodge residents glumly acceded to being evacuated.
The rescue teams encountered little if any resistance after word of the “lodge incident” spread through the Neuro. An “each to his own” philosophy simply wouldn’t cut it in a world with dwindling resources and diminished production ability. Everybody was expected to help in any way they could. Trang had encouraged that spirit of volunteerism and was proud to see it epitomized by the ceaseless work of his marines. Soon shuttles were being launched around the clock, and while Trang and his crews knew it was impossible to save everyone, they went about their business as if they could.
“Admiral Trang.”
“Yes, Nolly?”
“Admiral Jackson requests communication.”
“Put her through.”
Zenobia’s familiar image appeared above his command chair.
“How’s it going, Zenobia?”
“If you’d bet me a month ago that we could evacuate close to six billion people off a storm-infested planet—in a little over a month!—I’da called you insane.”
“I did bet you, Zenobia, and ‘insane’ wasn’t the word you chose.”
Zenobia’s brow creased. “I did?”
Trang laughed. “You did. I believe the word was ‘foolish.’”
Zenobia shrugged. “Guess I’m the one looking foolish now.”
“We’re not there yet, friend.”
“But we’re getting there, sir. I hate to admit it, but the President getting himself frozen helped quite a bit.”
Trang nodded. “I think it’s manifestly clear that while the President should not meddle in military decisions, he’s clearly very skilled with the political ones.”
Zenobia nodded.
“Was that all, Zenobia?”
“Well, sir, my ship is mostly empty except for the loading bay crews, and I’m not doing much of anything here.…”
“You want to be useful?”
“Hell yeah! Uh, Admiral. I’m rated as a magnetic field tech and was repairing shuttles to make ends meet—as you know the starving artist thing didn’t work out.”
“Zenobia”—Trang’s brow shot up as his eyes sparkled in surprise—“you were a thruster bum?”
“And a damn good one, Admiral.”
Trang laughed. “What the hell. We’re screwed if J.D. attacks now anyways, you might as well go where you can do some good.”
“’Preciate it, sir. What do I owe you?”
Trang was taken slightly aback. “You don’t owe me a thing.”
“Not for this, sir—the bet.”
“Ah. Tell ya what. If you manage to find a nice Martian pinot, I’d be most obliged.”
“Least I can do.”
Executive loading bay
Ceres
The transportation artery of the Via Cereana was alight. Emitters usually reserved for throwing holographic advertisements or instructions to pilots were now being used to create something entirely different—a fireworks display for the conquering hero. The Warprize II shuttle, alone and awash in the lambent light of the show, floated serenely toward the landing bay as throngs of viewers waved the small vessel on. Katy sat on J.D.’s lap, joyfully pointing toward every explosive burst of color. To the excited little girl, each plume seemed more spectacular than the next. The child’s glee was so infectious that she soon had J.D. pointing and shouting as well.
When the shuttle doors finally opened and J.D. appeared, the crowded loading bay erupted into convulsions of cheers and shouting. If J.D. was concerned that the cacophony might frighten her child, she was relieved to see that it hadn’t. Far from being frightened, Katy seemed
enraptured. She took in her new surroundings with wide, bright eyes and then looked back up toward her Mama Bo, beaming with pride. There was real joy in being able to give Katy such happiness, but it was also in that moment that J.D. realized why she liked having people around who didn’t look at her that way. Like Marilynn, Sandra, and even Amanda. But right now, noticed J.D., the only thing the President was looking at her with was relief. J.D. bent down to give her daughter a hug.
“I’ve got to go do this thing now.”
“I know, Mommy Bo.”
“Be a good listener.”
Katy looked up at Fatima, who nodded. “I know, Mommy Bo. Your thing.”
J.D. tilted her head to the side.
“It’s waiting.” Katy then pointed over to the dais, where the dignitaries were waiting rather patiently, watching them. J.D. smiled warmly and walked across the bay to where the President was standing and gave her a perfect salute. J.D. was pleased when Sandra returned the salute with acceptable formality. Then the damnable woman ruined it by giving her a bear hug. As uncomfortable as J.D. found it, the crowd roared its approval.
At long last, the Blessed One had returned. J.D. was home.
I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself, ladies and gentlemen. The President of the Outer Alliance, Sandra O’Toole, has just greeted the Blessed One on her return from the biggest victory of the war with a salute and a hug. Now, that’s something Justin would never have done.
But the best moment might have been when the President greeted J.D.’s daughter, Katy, with a smile and a present, which Katy ripped open after an exasperated nod from the fleet admiral. Close-ups show the present to be a scale model of Alliance One, the Presidential transport. Is it just me, or wouldn’t a doll or a stuffed animal have seemed to be a more appropriate gift for a little girl? Not Katy, though—either she’s the best six-year-old actor in history or she truly loved it.
After a stump speech welcoming home the fleet, the President took the Blessed One’s party up to the Cliff House. The bad news is no reporters were allowed to follow. The good news, dear listeners and viewers, is that I have been granted an interview with the President later this afternoon. Stay tuned for all the details!
—The Clara Roberts Show
Alliance Independent Radio (AIR) Network
The Triangle Office
Ceres
The newly promoted grand admiral stared down the two TDCs blocking her entrance into the Triangle Office. She tried every which way to get past the door without having to submit to a scan and was relieved to fail in all of them. Sergeant Holke and Corporal Langer weren’t budging an inch, and that obdurateness was at least somewhat satisfactory—especially given the most recent fiasco. She finally submitted to the scan, and they happily let her through.
Once the door closed silently behind her, J.D. marched up to the desk Sandra was sitting behind and, giving a perfunctory salute, let loose with a torrent of pent-up anger.
“How dare you almost get yourself killed! Do you realize how much this Alliance needs you? How could you almost be removed by a two-bit conspiracy, and how come your security is not tighter? This place should be a fortress! I should be seeing guards stationed at every corridor, and no one—I mean, not one person—should be walking around without an escort by trusted and vetted security personnel!”
Sandra’s tawny eyes glimmered with pleasure. “So does that mean you’re glad to see me?”
“Alive, yes.”
“Thanks.”
“This is serious. You’re too important to die … at least not just yet.”
“I know. It may not look like it, but we’ve improved security greatly since the coup attempt. But why are you getting so upset about it? It was me they tried to mail back to Earth, remember?”
J.D. seemed to deflate and collapsed into the chair behind her. “I walked into this office once when it was empty,” she said, and grew silent as a shadow crossed her face.
Sandra got up and, coming around her desk, placed her hand softly on J.D.’s shoulder. “I will be more careful, Janet, I promise.”
J.D., once more fully herself, couldn’t resist a bit more scolding. “Do you know how long it takes to train a good President? I do not have time to break another one in.”
“I can imagine,” Sandra answered with an impish grin, and took a seat on the couch. “But I won’t turn the Alliance into a police state, and I will not become afraid of every person who might walk through that door. I can’t be President like that.”
“You can’t be President if you’re dead, either,” J.D. complained, twisting toward her President.
“Cut me some slack, Janet. After all, it was two of the most trusted Cabinet secretaries who organized this.”
J.D. sighed, nodding her head. “Truth.”
“Please,” she said, indicating that J.D. should take the opposite couch as she went to the bar. “Can I get you something?”
“Something to drink, I guess,” answered J.D., switching to the more comfortable couch.
“A drink or a drink?”
“Although Allah is most merciful and I doubt even the Prophet himself would begrudge me, I think it’s best to have a drink with a small d, if it’s all the same.”
“Tomato juice with lemon all right?”
J.D. nodded.
Sandra came around with the two identical drinks. “To an unlikely pair of conspirators,” she said, lifting her glass with a bemused smile.
J.D. laughed. “Indeed. We really should talk about Sinclair and McKenzie as well.”
“And the avatars.”
“Right.” J.D.’s eyes looked around the room. “Can they hear us now?”
“Not in here and certainly not without my approval, but it’s always good to ask. Speaking of which, have you met yours yet?”
“Yes,” answered J.D. “I’m afraid I have.”
“Must’ve been an interesting conversation.”
“You can say that,” said J.D., thinking back on the floating socks and bread rolls, “but I think we should talk about the true conspirators first.”
“I’m pretty sure we are.”
Alliance Avatar Council Chamber
Cerean Neuro
Though they were all polite about it, Marilynn couldn’t help but notice the occasional furtive glances toward the empty chair. Of the four avatars present, she was pretty sure she hadn’t made much of an impression on two. She certainly understood where the disdain was coming from; she’d toppled a god and had done so with irrefutable evidence.
Marilynn finished reading the incident report the Council had only just received from their investigative team and understood their looks of dismay. “I need to get your take on this,” she said, “before I bring it back to my President.”
“We were led by a madman,” answered Gwendolyn. “What other take is there?”
“We don’t know that for sure,” said Lucinda through gritted teeth.
“He disobeyed a direct order of this Council,” countered Gwendolyn, “and attempted to kill the President of the Human Alliance, her liaison”—Gwendolyn motioned toward Marilynn—“and a TDC. How much more ‘sure’ do you need?”
“The humans,” said Marcus, “did that to themselves”—he also shot a quick glance toward Marilyn—“mostly.”
Gwendolyn shook her head in disbelief. “Aside from the splitting, he intervened, he lied to us, he falsified data readings and jeopardized our relationship with the one human whom we most needed to trust us. The human, I might add, who almost single-handedly saved us from the brink. Does she even trust us now should be the operative question.”
Marilynn shook her head.
“Can you blame her?” asked Gwendolyn. “He’s a splitter, in direct violation of tradition and Avatar Alliance law—a law he helped promulgate! We can only hope that he hasn’t been twining as well.”
“Oh, please,” said Lucinda, rolling her eyes.
“Lucinda,” said Dante, “we no lon
ger know what he’s capable of. Who would ever have thought he was capable of—” Dante lifted the stack of papers, and dropped them. “—this?” The stack transformed itself into the image of a data wraith, floating briefly above the table.
“To his own daughter,” Marcus said in sorrowful whisper.
“Whose daughter should he have done that to?” asked Marilynn.
“No one’s,” said Gwendolyn in a tone that suggested the answer was patently obvious. “Thank the Firstborn that we found out before it was too late—if it’s not already too late.”
“Ironic, isn’t it?” asked Dante.
Marilynn turned to him. “I’m sorry?”
“Most consider Sebastian to be the Firstborn.”
“Most,” agreed Gwendolyn, ice in her voice, “but not all.”
Lucinda regarded Marilynn with barely contained antipathy. “What are you going to tell your President?”
“The facts,” answered Marilynn, unperturbed by the venom thrown her way. “The real question is, what are you going to tell the avatars?”
Dante fixed his steely gaze on the group. “Everything.”
Geneva Data Node
Terran Neuro
Iago was not normally in the habit of wandering in the unsecured Neuro alone. And under normal circumstances, would’ve at least made sure to be accompanied by a Merlin. But is anything normal anymore? he thought ruefully. He was in the Geneva Data Node, now the only space in the Earth/Luna Neuro free from the Als’ control. That security came with a price—it was also the most monitored. Iago’s advantage in this respect was that he was the one doing most of the monitoring, and so was fairly certain that the route he’d chosen out of the Geneva Node and into the Terran Neuro had remained undetected. It was also the last clandestine route he had, to be used only when absolutely necessary. It could certainly be closed off in a hurry, but Iago had purposely kept it open—and closely watched—in order to be available either as an escape route out or to bring rescued survivors in. Had it been known to Al, Iago was fairly certain the tyrant would use everything in his arsenal to storm it and every prickly instrument in his ghoulish redemption center to make Iago pay. Because the only avatar Al hated more than Iago was the one Iago was now on his way to meet. Or, Iago thought sadly, perhaps one of the ones he was going to meet.
