Decisively Engaged (Warp Marine Corps Book 1)

by Carella, C. J.

  What the vengeful Americans had done to the Risshah some thirty-five years later had been equally savage – and she still couldn’t find it in her heart to condemn them. She’d seen the remains of those dead cities, after all, watched the extant records from the Old Internet, watched people saying goodbye to their loved ones as they slowly burned to death. It took about an hour for the temperature inside the domes to reach lethal levels, and the force fields that contained the fires did not stop electro-magnetic communications from getting through. Millions of people had plenty of time to make a record of the holocaust as it happened. The Selfies of Doom.

  She’d joined the Agency because, like many of her peers, she wasn’t done extracting payback from the universe. Over the years she’d acquired some sense of nuance, and come to respect and even like some of the Starfarer polities America must learn to live with, but she never felt able to trust them wholeheartedly. There was no community of Star Empires. There were only fear and calculation, masked by largely empty platitudes. Heather hated the reality she lived in, but couldn’t think of a feasible alternative that wasn’t worse.

  “The ambassador will see you now.”

  “Thank you, Molly,” she said, sitting up. She hadn’t had a chance to change her torn and bloodied suit; as soon as she arrived the Ambassador had demanded her personal brief and then kept her waiting for a good half an hour. The State Department seemed to attract more than its share of dickheads, and although Ambassador Llewellyn wasn’t a career diplomat, he fit right in.

  The office could have been located in New Washington or any city on Earth; its furniture was Old Earth wood, imported at great expense. A hologram of President Albert P. Hewer filled most of one wall, dominating the room with the man’s dour but intense presence. Heather nodded towards it with instinctive reverence – President Hewer had been a constant in the lives of every American born since First Contact; he had won twenty-six elections in a row after the end of the state of emergency restored democracy, for some values of democracy – before turning to face her boss.

  Ambassador Javier Llewellyn was tall and handsome, his once-red hair gone mostly silver; anti-aging drugs didn’t alter time’s effect on melanin production, although cosmetics could take care of that easily enough. In his case, the mane of white hair matched the man’s patrician features perfectly, giving him an aura of gravitas Heather could only wish matched the reality within. His eyes were sharp, but whatever wit they displayed was of a low kind, reserved for political in-fighting and dedicated to his personal survival and prosperity. A Rat, in other words.

  Even before his appointment to Kirosha, Llewellyn had been a perfect example of the dangers inherent in a hereditary aristocracy. His family were among the new USA’s upper crust: well-to-do industrialists before First Contact who had been instrumental in incorporating the new technologies the Hrauwah had gifted America to make amends for leading the Snakes to Earth. The Llewellyn clan had supported Hewer’s seizure of power during the chaotic years following the Snakes’ attack, the state of emergency during which the country’s laws and customs had been fundamentally altered, and in the process became part of the cadre that founded the United Stars of America.

  As it turned out, Founding Parents could have rather troublesome children.

  This particular Llewellyn was a third-generation scion of that illustrious family. In olden times, he would have gone to an Ivy League university (none of those had survived First Contact); in the new one, that meant Brigham Young for his Bachelor’s degree after completing his four years’ military service, and The Citadel for his Masters in Engineering. No law degree: lawyers remained in distinct disfavor throughout the country.

  Young Javier had spent most of his school years partying, even at Brigham Young, which frowned upon such things, and had managed to turn every opportunity his family extended to him into a disaster. Twenty years in the private sector had led to one failed business venture after another; a term back in uniform with the Army Corps of Engineers ended in a dishonorable discharge rather than a court-martial only because the clan had gone to bat for him; after that, he’d been exiled to a minor colony world, where he’d managed to get himself elected Governor for two terms before corruption charges led to a resignation in disgrace, barely avoiding impeachment.

  Heather wasn’t privy to the machinations behind the man’s current appointment, but she could guess that the Llewellyn clan had exchanged its support for the President, who was facing increasing opposition from Congress, in return for a nice sinecure for their little darling, somewhere out of harm’s way and out of sight. An ambassadorship in a planet of little strategic significance had probably seemed like a good place to spend a few decades. Except that the lives of over two thousand Americans might well depend on the decisions made by this ancient trouble child.

  The Regional Security Officer was in the room as well. Mario Rockwell had joined the State Department after two decades’ service in the Navy, where his career had plateaued at the rank of Commander when, as the executive officer of the Assault Ship USS Lewis Puller, he’d participated in the Battle of Risshah, where the last Snake fleet had been destroyed. Unable to advance further for reasons unknown – she suspected Navy politics – Rockwell had resigned his commission and moved into the diplomatic service.

  Heather had been working with the RSO for two years now, and she still wasn’t sure how she felt about the man. Rockwell often came across as an ass-kissing, time-serving political animal, the kind of Rat that gave Rats a bad name. And yet, he usually managed to do the right thing, or helped get the right thing done, typically by sweet-talking Llewellyn into it. She hoped he wouldn’t throw her under the bus this time.

  “Ms. McClintock,” the Ambassador said as he stood up for her. The bastard had the gall to wrinkle his nose when she shook his hand.

  Sorry for stinking up your office with the stench of combat, she thought as she forced a smile onto her face.

  “What happened out there?” Llewellyn asked.

  They already had her report and her imp data. What they wanted now was analysis, less than an hour after exchanging gunfire with murderous aliens. The only easy day was yesterday; one of her instructors had been fond of that saying.

  “A group of alleged rebels, likely sponsored by the Preserver faction of the Court, launched an attack on human and Vehelian personnel, with the support of elements of the Kirosha Army,” she said. “And, at the very least, did so with the tacit acquiescence of the Queen and the rest of the Court. To put it bluntly, they left us hanging in the breeze, and now they’ll probably raise a stink about the way we defended ourselves.”

  Llewellyn’s eyes widened. “That’s ridiculous. What would they hope to accomplish? The whole rebellion is the work of disaffected elements in Kirosha society. Peasants, led by a religious cult.” The tone he used when saying ‘religious cult’ would have served equally well for ‘pedophile social club.’ “That sort of rebellion is a common fixture here; they have one every couple decades or so. I don’t see a conspiracy at work. Just incompetence. What else can you expect from primitives?”

  “The lack of response from the Royal Guard suggests otherwise,” Heather said. “Historically, they are charged with suppressing riots, acting as the enforcement arm of the Crown. This was a relatively small uprising; less than five thousand people were involved. A Guard regiment would have slaughtered them, and there are five such regiments in the city or its environs. The Final Blow Society shouldn’t have been able to mass in numbers inside the city proper, let alone be supported by Army units.”

  “We also have to consider the Crown’s refusal to answer our calls,” Rockwell said. “We still haven’t heard from anybody at the Magistrate level, let alone the Prime Minister. Something is not right.”

  “That does concern me,” the ambassador conceded. “But that could be some internal matter that doesn’t involve us directly.”

  It involved the dead pretty damn directly, Heather thought. Out loud:
“The faction trying to co-opt the rebellion is focusing their anger on us ‘Star Devils.’ Whatever their goals are, we are being made into targets.”

  “Well, if the Ruddies get too uppity, we’ll just have to call up a starship and bomb them further down the totem pole than they already are,” Llewellyn said. “I’d rather things didn’t get to that point. Having to be rescued by the Navy will make us all look bad.”

  It will make you look particularly bad, and I’m guessing this posting is your last chance before even Mommy and Daddy decide to give up on you, Heather thought. Llewellyn’s inept handling of the Kirosha Court had likely made things worse.

  “Hopefully the incident will discredit the Preserver faction,” she said. “The Crown lost face, showing itself unable to protect their ‘honored guests.’ They take hospitality very seriously here.”

  Except when they don’t,’ she didn’t say out loud. Kirosha history was full of incidents where one ruler or another invited his enemies to a social gathering, and then proceeded to butcher them in the middle of the festivities. It was the most dishonorable thing a host could do, but winning big covered a multitude of sins.

  “Well, I’ll have Deputy Norbert draft a firm note to the Queen. Demand reparations for all the dead Americans those peasants murdered,” the Ambassador said. “They killed, what, seven AmCits?”

  “Fourteen,” Heather corrected him. “A van full of Star Mining employees got separated from the rest of the convoy. All eight passengers were massacred.”

  “Well, we can’t have that, can we? How come the Marines weren’t able to rescue them?”

  “It took too long for the rescue force to reach us,” she said. “By then, the van had been overwhelmed. The rest of us are lucky to have survived.”

  All thanks to you trying to keep the Marines at the Embassy, guarding your cowardly ass.

  Something must have shown in her face. The glare Llewellyn sent her way showed how little he cared to be corrected by an underling, even indirectly. Heather knew she needed to learn how to play the game at this level, or she’d never move beyond her covert agent status. The ambassador was about to say something when he paused for several seconds; someone had called him, which meant the call had been important enough to interrupt the meeting.

  Saved by the bell, Heather thought.

  “You will have to excuse me,” the ambassador said. “The Vehelian and Wyrashat want to hold a conference call regarding the incident. We will continue this later.” He turned his chair around so its back was facing them, his way of dismissing them without having to say a word.

  Heather and Rockwell left; the RSO gestured at her to follow him. They went outside, to a large balcony overlooking the Enclave and the city beyond. The fires around Kirosha were still burning, but the conflagrations the Marines had started during the rescue operation had been put out, a clear indication the royal authorities were back in control over the city proper. Assuming they’d ever lost control, that was.

  Rockwell got down to business. “What did you think of the new Marine CO?”

  “Competent. Takes his job seriously. Handled himself well in combat.”

  “As did you. Maybe the Company should move you to Operations instead of Intelligence.”

  Heather shrugged. “I go where they send me. Although so far Intelligence is failing miserably. I never suspected the Crown would allow insurgents to enter the city and ambush us.”

  “Nobody did,” Rockwell said. “The Kirosha were hunting down every secret society that poked its head up, as recently as a few weeks ago. Something has changed.”

  “I don’t see what could have changed. They know what Starfarers are capable of.”

  During Kirosha’s First Contact, the High King – the current monarch’s father, dead some five years ago – had been taken aboard an American destroyer, flown to Jasper-Four, the second component of the binary planetary system, and allowed to see what a full spread of plasma missiles impacting a mountain range looked like. The whole thing had been presented as a show meant to ‘amuse’ the king, but the implicit threat had been clear.

  Not the nicest thing to do, but most other Starfarers would have been even less kind. The Vehelians were pretty nice, but if turned down they would have simply gone to the Kirosha’s nearest neighbor, given them enough tech to overrun the Kingdom, and then made a deal with the new owners of the mineral deposits they wanted to exploit. The Wyrm would have made a demonstration of Starfarer firepower somewhere clearly visible to the entire city, probably melting down one of the nearby mountains with a plasma barrage, and never mind the panic that would have caused.

  The Lampreys would have slagged the city of Kirosha, and negotiated the surrender of the whole continent with whoever came on top in the aftermath. Or depopulated the entire planet. The US didn’t do that sort of thing lightly; First Contact had seen to that.

  Which makes us the good guys, I suppose.

  The United Stars of America preferred to colonize empty planets, but when it had to deal with primitive worlds, it behaved in a manner that might be described as ‘relatively fair’ if you were charitable, or ‘evil capital-imperialistic’ if you were not, although the latter view was not exactly safe to spouse openly. Oh, you wouldn’t get sent to a gulag if you spouted it – not anymore, at least; things had been much harsher during the State of Emergency years – but your name would go on a list, and someone would be given the job of figuring out a way to legally screw you. Even if you were a hundred-percent law-abiding – a minor feat in itself, because even after the Great Law Simplification of 47 AFC, most people still committed an unwitting felony or two at some point – you would be quietly discredited; doors would be shut, career paths blocked. Dissent was fine – to a degree. Past that, your choices narrowed until the best that you could hope for was a billet in some remote part of Earth or the galaxy.

  After a while, most people figured out that going along was the way to go.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Rockwell said; Heather realized her mind had wandered off for a second or two.

  “They aren’t worth that much. Still can’t think of a reason for the Crown to behave like this.”

  “Unless they think they can get a better deal from the Wyrms or the Ovals,” the RSO said.

  “They’d have to be nuts to think that. The Kirosha have been getting ripped off even in the handful of trade concessions they’ve negotiated with the other Starfarers. We at least try to pay our bills with something of value; the others are always looking for an angle.”

  “I know it. You know it. But maybe the Kirosha don’t.”

  “If that’s the case, they sure picked a strange way to curry favor with the Vehelians.”

  “Well, there is that. Maybe the Envoy was the target. The Ovals can rub people the wrong way.”

  “Hm. That might explain it, actually,” Heather said. “But they could just as easily PNG the whole Vehelian delegation, and we’d back them up. We like the O-Vehel Commonwealth, as much as we like anybody, but we don’t want to compete with them if we don’t have to.”

  “Yeah. Declaring the Envoy persona non grata is a lot more sensible than blowing him to hell. Much lower chance of having your cities slagged.” He shrugged. “We need more information.”

  “I’ll check with my people,” Heather promised, meaning her agents, the small network of mid- and low-level Kirosha functionaries she’d turned into spies through a variety of means, fair and foul. The fact that none of them had given her a heads-up about the uprising concerned her a great deal. You always worried when your agents failed you; it could mean they weren’t placed high enough to find out what was going on, but also that they had chosen not to share their information with you. Either way, it was bad news. Intelligence work wasn’t easy.

  It was still better than playing kill-or-be killed games. She’d save that for the Marines.

  * * *

  Fromm walked past the assembled men and women in his unit.

  Mostly men
; there were exactly two women in Third Platoon. Combat units were slightly over ninety percent male on average, for a variety of reasons, some of which he agreed with, others not so much. Mostly men in their mid-twenties to early thirties, except for the few boots in their early twenties. The NCOs were far older, on average; they might look like they were in their thirties, but most of them would be pushing fifty or sixty. The Warp Marine Corps valued experienced personnel, and there was no pressure to pick up rank or get out; some people found a comfortable niche and stayed put. They were less likely to be promoted beyond their level of competence, which had been a problem back before First Contact.

  The troops’ helmet faceplates were up, but with their short hair – about half of them had ‘highs and tights,’ the rest the more relaxed medium-reg haircuts – and clean-shaven faces they all looked the same, except for variations in skin and eye color. His imp highlighted each face in turn and flashed their records. Over half of them had Combat Action Ribbons: they’d been with the unit at Romulus-Four or had seen action elsewhere. A small minority were replacements, fresh off boot camp at New Parris and assigned to the platoon just before it was sent to Jasper-Five; they’d had nine months to learn how things worked in the real world. Fitness reports showed that Gunny Obregon had worked everyone mercilessly, doing his best to keep the unit in fighting shape.

  Fromm worried that all that training might be put into practice sooner rather than later.