Duty, Honor, Planet: The Complete Trilogy

by Rick Partlow

  "Colonel,” Jason said, leaning forward in his chair and steepling his fingers, "you've got to understand by now that I'm not asking you to give me vital information---not troop strength, or ship armament, or what General Antonov ate for lunch. All we're trying to do is understand what happened to you. We know that Antonov and his followers fled to the asteroid belt during the nuclear exchange." Jason saw Podbyrin's eyes widen at that offhand remark and knew he'd been correct in waiting to spring that nugget until he'd softened the man up. "And we know he took his people through the gateway his expedition had found." The Russian's cheek began to quiver ever-so-slightly and his mouth dropped open.

  "How do you know these things?" he blurted, slamming his hands down on the table.

  He shoots, he scores! Jason cheered himself. The man had, if nothing else, confirmed that part of their theory.

  "It doesn't matter how we know," McKay said calmly. "We just know. What we don't know, and what we'd like you to tell us, is what happened then. Where did you get the technology to manufacture the biomechanical creations you use as warriors? How is it that Antonov is still alive, and still young? Or is that just some kind of trick to frighten us? Some kind of computer simulation?"

  "I must not tell you these things," Podbyrin insisted. "I cannot betray my people."

  "You don't have much of a choice, Podbyrin." Jason leaned into his face with sudden intensity. "Whatever happens on Earth, your life as you know it is over. If your buddies win, you'll die along with the rest of us, because none of us will be surrendering to the man who nearly destroyed the Earth. We'll fight to the last ship and you'll die with us. If we win, and you survive, and if you haven't cooperated with us, you'll be tried as a war criminal and probably executed. Your only chance is to do the best you can to help us and hope to God we win, because that's your only chance of coming out of this alive."

  The Russian blanched, sweat pouring from his shiny forehead as he sank back into his chair.

  "No, I will not," he said.

  "McKay," Captain Patel's voice came over the room's intercom, "that's enough. I'm sending in the medics."

  "Aye, sir," Jason sighed, settling back in disappointment.

  "What?" Podbyrin stood in sudden panic. "What is this thing you will do to me?"

  Before Jason could answer, the door slid open and a pair of beefy Security personnel stepped quickly inside, each taking one of Podbyrin's arms and forcing him back into the chair, holding his wrists down to the armrests. Behind them, the ship's medic entered, one hand filled with a hypogun, the other with a medical sensor.

  "No, you said I would be well-treated!" The Russian struggled vainly against the guards as the white-coated technician brought the injection device to his shoulder.

  "Take it easy," the medic assured him with a much-practiced smile. "Nothing fatal." He touched the trigger and the hypogun shot a jet of chemicals from the loaded capsule into the Colonel's arm. "Just a little something to loosen you up."

  Podbyrin had clenched up as the shot went into his arm, but immediately relaxed as the drug took effect, slumping back against the seat, his eyes slightly out of focus.

  "I cannot tell any..." Podbyrin mumbled, his English breaking as his thoughts became more and more disjointed.

  "What's your name?" the medic asked quietly.

  "Dmitry Grigor’yevich Podbyrin," the Russian answered, his words beginning to slur.

  "He's ready." The man nodded to Jason, stepping back.

  McKay leaned forward, then hesitated and looked up to where he thought the video pickup was.

  "Do I have access to a translator program," he asked Patel, "in case he gets so messed up he can't understand me?"

  "It's being taken care of," the Captain's voice told him.

  "Dmitry Grigor’yevich," Jason spoke to the Russian and the man looked at him as if he'd just materialized before his eyes.

  "Da...yes?" Podbyrin replied uncertainly.

  "Antonov---where did he go when he went through the gateway in the asteroid belt? Where did the gateway lead?"

  "We do not know the system," he said, shaking his head. "It is somewhere behind a gas cloud---maybe the Coal Sack, our astronomers say."

  "What was the system like?" Jason asked. "Did it have planets? Habitable planets?"

  "Da. One habitable world." The Russian's eyes crossed and he seemed to be seeing something else. "Barely habitable. There had been a war there, a thousand years ago...maybe ten thousand. We did not know. Much of the world was desert, much wasted, radioactive cities. I remember how ugly it seemed when I first saw it, like Siberia in midwinter."

  The hackles stood on the back of Jason's neck as the man spoke.

  "Colonel Podbyrin," he asked, "how old are you?"

  "It is so hard to tell---the years are different on Novaya Rodina." His eyes seemed to clear for a moment as he calculated, swaying in his seat. "One hundred and seventy-nine Earth years."

  "Jesus," the medic muttered.

  McKay knew what the man was thinking. The human lifespan had been expanded over the last fifty years through the advancement of nanotechnology, genetic surgery and antiagathic prenatal treatments until the average life expectancy---for Earth natives, at least---was conservatively projected at well over two hundred years. But there was no way Podbyrin could have had access to those treatments, and yet the man didn't look very much past his mid-forties.

  "How have you lived this long, Colonel?" Jason asked. "Why do you seem so young?"

  "On the planet," the Russian told him mechanically, “we found one thing almost intact. A laboratory perhaps, or a hospital. Inside was a device. Not only a computer, not just a machine. Something more. It...makes things. Anything. We cannot communicate with it much. The languages are too different---different frames of reference, I am told. But if we show it something, it can make more."

  "Things like rifles?" Jason asked.

  "Da."

  "And what else?"

  "Organs---human organs." A look of distaste spread across his face. "The General used three of our men---had them dissected, their organs put one at a time into the vats. The thing made more, as many as we wanted. Our scientists were able to get the machine to make the tools they needed to assemble the parts with other things and make the troopers. But first, the General had them transplant things into him and the most important of us---the ones who had to last to take back the Rodina...the Motherland." Jason's mouth went dry as he listened, as everything started to make sense.

  "But it could only duplicate things you already had," Jason assumed. "So you were stuck with the technology you brought with you."

  "Da," Podbyrin agreed. "And some things we could steal from your ships, plus a few, like the walking tanks, that we put together ourselves. I argued with the General...I and others. If we could understand the device better, we could have much deadlier weapons. No one could stop us. No one would even try. But he could not wait. He came up with the plan to use what we had to take back our world, and that was that. He let me stay to wait on an experiment, to use the machine to manufacture a virus." Jason's blood froze, but the man slowly shook his head. "It didn't work. Too long-lasting. I was coming to tell him, give him update on a ship we are attempting to repair, when you captured me."

  "Ask him about the gate," Patel's instructed, his voice sounding as grim as Jason had ever heard it.

  "Colonel Podbyrin," Jason said, clearing his throat, "the gate---the gate in the belt. How do you use it? What is it, exactly? And where is it?"

  "I do not know where it is." Podbryin shook his head. "None of us can know; only a handful, and the General." He shuddered, remembering something. "There was a map, on Novaya Rodina, carved into the wall of the laboratory---the scientists said it held the locations of dozens of gates to this system and many others, some close, some hundreds of light-years away. The General had one of our scientists copy it, then destroyed the original. He had his men kill all but one who had seen it and fed them to the Machine." His eyes, sud
denly filled with clarity, locked on Jason's. "No one can know! No one!" He sighed, sank back into his half-stupor.

  "My ship was programmed before I left, and the program was designed to self-destruct after I passed through. The way we pass through---I do not know exactly. It involves a thermonuclear explosion---we must bring a device with us. I know it was discovered by the expedition to the asteroids when they were attempting to use fusion bombs to bring a planetoid to Earth orbit to be mined. Somehow, the explosion opens the gate---the scientists called it a wormhole, I think, but they say it is..." He hesitated. "...nonclassical, I think, but I do not know what they mean."

  "I do," Patel's voice announced. "That's enough for now. Security, get him to a cell. McKay, I'll meet you in the shuttle bay in two hours."

  Jason nodded, but didn't get up immediately. His brain churned with speculation. If what Podbyrin was saying was true, then at least they didn't have to worry about some mysterious alien force behind the Russians. But it also made Antonov just that much more desperate.

  ***

  "...realize the consequences of acting prematurely," Captain Patel said, gesticulating heatedly, "but we can't simply wait for the enemy to become even more entrenched---we have to do something while we still can."

  "I understand what you're saying, Arvid," Joyce Minishimi argued, sitting back wearily. "But I'm not certain we have the authority, whether military or moral, to make that decision."

  "If we don't, who does?" Patel protested.

  Jason sighed, sinking into his seat. They both had a point, but they'd been bickering over the issue for over an hour now, and Jason was beginning to feel like a potted plant. He glanced around the table, wondering if anyone---or everyone---else felt the way he did.

  Arrayed around the table in the Mineral Ventures Multicorporation conference room were Captains Minishimi and Patel and their senior staffs; Doctors Kovalev and Mandila from the scientific staff; Katherine Frasier, the Mineral Ventures Operations Director for the Pallas base; Lieutenant Shamir and Gunny Lambert; and Georges Kercok, the representative of the local independents---an unnaturally slim, Eastern European man with the characteristic close-cropped Mohawk and facial tatoos of the belt miners. He seemed uncomfortable with the assembled authority figures and hadn't said more than two words since they'd arrived.

  The atmosphere had seemed so momentous just a few hours ago, when he'd been strapped into Captain Patel's private shuttle, fixated on the viewscreen image of the massive floating mountain that was Pallas, tumbling gently through the star-filled firmament with an angelic host of spacecraft surrounding it. They were little more than gnats to Pallas' Olympian expanse, all but the Patton behind them and the Bradley to the fore---those Cyclopean pillars of metal loomed large and menacing in the darkness, the very spacetime around them shimmering as their Eysselink fields remained on guard against stray meteorites.

  As they'd drawn closer to the asteroid, Jason could see the touch of man's hand in the docking bays, communications antennae, weapons ports and sensor dishes that pocked its rocky face. It had taken over forty years to complete the installation, most of that in carving caverns deep into the nickel iron, far from the dangers of meteorites, solar flares and cosmic radiation.

  A Twenty-Third Century cave, Jason had thought with cynical humor. We've come a long way, baby.

  As he understood it from conversations with Captain Patel, the base at Pallas was usually a beehive of activity, with corporate and independent miners, brokers, entertainers, smugglers and technicians pouring through the corridors and ships swarming around the rock. But the civilians had scattered at the approaching war like cockroaches skittering out of the light, tucking themselves deep in the "storm cellars" of their habitat rocks and pulling the hole in after them.

  So they had found Pallas nearly deserted, its broad halls eerily empty. Jason had been hard-pressed to keep his feet in the asteroid's microgravity, nearly launching himself into the---thoughtfully-padded---ceiling with each step as the group from the Patton had made its way to the conference room.

  Captain Minishimi had greeted them at the door. The petite, gentle-featured woman seemed an unlikely starship captain, but he knew from experience that she was as competent an officer as any in the Fleet.

  "Didn't think I'd be seeing you again so soon, McKay," she'd greeted him as he entered.

  "I was hoping it would be under better circumstances, ma'am," he'd said, shaking her hand---and that had been close to the last pleasant moment in the meeting.

  After a replay of Colonel Podbyrin's drugged interview, Mandila and Kovalev had fielded the many questions about the technological aspects of the story---questions ranging from the professional to the totally ignorant.

  "What is a 'nonclassical wormhole,' Dr. Kovalev?" Minishimi had asked. "And why would they have to use a fusion device to traverse it?"

  "A classical wormhole, Captain," Kovalev had begun to wind himself up and Jason stifled a moan, "is the basic Wheeler construct, which was created during the Big Bang. Many of these may exist in our galaxy, connecting different parts of space, but they are useless to us as they are usually microscopic, making them intraversable---in theory, of course, since we still haven't actually found one.

  "A so-called nonclassical wormhole was a conceit of late Twentieth Century physics which fancied that the fabric of spacetime was a froth of constantly appearing and vanishing wormholes and singularities on the Quantum level. Later, this theory was expanded to predict that macroscopic wormholes could be created during the formation of stars---still fairly small, but large enough to keep track of, though shorter in span than a Classical version. As to why they would be able to traverse it by using a thermonuclear weapon---well, I can only assume that there may be some way to expand the entrance of the hole using a fusion explosion of correct intensity. I would have to examine the actual process to elaborate further."

  "What about the machine Podbyrin described, the one they're using to duplicate their weapons?" Patel had asked, looking at Mandila. "Is such a thing possible?"

  "Pretty far beyond our present technology, but certainly possible," was the researcher's reply. "We've been using nanotechnology since before the Sino-Russian War---you're carrying some of the little buggers in your blood right now, injected at birth to patrol against blood clots and cancerous growths. In another thirty years or so, we might be able to use them for simple manufacturing processes. But what Colonel Podbyrin described is centuries beyond that." The man shook his head, frowning deeply. "If they discover how to fully make use of such technology, they could roll over us like we weren't even there."

  Then the real debate had begun---a debate unlike any Jason seen in his military career. Minishimi and Patel shared a rank and a nearly identical time in service, but not one opinion of what their strategy should be. Patel was all for an immediate attack---he felt the threat to use nuclear weapons was a bluff. Minishimi was more cautious, favoring a scout mission to evaluate the enemy forces.

  The two commanders had stated their positions early on and had been arguing them for the last hour, either person-to-person or through the proxies of their staff officers. Jason had barely been able to get a word into the debate and Shamir and Lambert had sat silent as zombies---Ari seemed vaguely amused by the whole thing, while the Gunny was clearly losing patience.

  Jason knew what he wanted to say: Stop arguing, Goddamnit, and come up with a course of action! But the Captains outranked him---though most of the Fleet retained traditional naval ranks, the Intelligence Division, due to Mellanby's background in the Corps, had adapted the Marine designations, so a Fleet Captain was the equivalent of an Intelligence Colonel. The upshot was that he was three steps in rank below the shipmasters and two below even the First Officers, which put him in an uncomfortable position.

  Which, he supposed, was just the position Colonel Mellanby had chosen him for.

  "Excuse me, sir, ma'am." Jason stood up suddenly, grabbing the edge of the table to keep himself from boun
ding to the ceiling. The two of them broke off in mid-bicker and looked at him, every head in the room swinging his way. Great. "Now, I may be speaking out of turn," he ventured carefully, "but I don't think you brought me in here to keep the minutes."

  "Go ahead, McKay," Minishimi urged. "You've had more experience with the enemy than anyone else here."

  "Thank you, ma'am." He nodded gratefully, trying to work up his courage. "You've both spelled out your positions thoroughly," he went on, "and you both have good arguments---but I think that this kind of discussion is counterproductive. This is a military operation, not a democracy, and one of you needs to take control."

  "Of course, we'll need an operational commander," Captain Patel allowed, "but until we settle on a course of action..."

  "That's just the point, sir," Jason interrupted him, seizing the moment. "A commanding officer can consider the suggestions of his subordinates and accept or refuse them, but the ultimate decision and responsibility belongs to him or her. Without that responsibility, there is no decision." He leaned forward, taking a breath. "A lot of people here and on Earth, soldiers and civilians, are going to die because of the decisions that are made right here, today. We owe it to those people to be unified in those decisions. They have the right to know who's responsible for either our defeat or our victory. I don't know if either of you have ever sent good men and women to die, knowing that they went to their deaths because they trusted your judgment and your decisions, but there's a special kind of pain you feel afterward, a doubt that claws at your soul..." He trailed off, sitting back in his chair, visions of Inferno haunting the back of his mind.

  "It's the price we pay for doing what we do, and it has to be on the shoulders of one individual---anything else mocks the sacrifices we ask." He fixed the Captains with a stare. "I've born that weight and it's not something I'd wish on anyone else. But the responsibility that will rest on whoever leads us into this makes anything I've done look laughable by comparison."