by Marko Kloos
This isn’t likely to be good, Idina thought as she pulled out her own device and activated it.
FROM: SUPREME HEADQUARTERS, ALLIANCE MILITARY COMMAND
TO: ALL ALLIANCE UNITS AND PERSONNEL
RED ALERT, RED ALERT—EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY, ALL ACTIVE ALLIANCE UNITS ARE ORDERED TO FULL COMBAT ALERT STATUS LEVEL RED. ALL LEAVES AND MOVEMENT ORDERS ARE HEREBY CANCELED. ALL PERSONNEL REPORT TO YOUR UNITS WITHOUT DELAY. HOSTILITIES EXPECTED OR IMMINENT. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
She took a few slow breaths to keep her heart rate low, then pocketed her device again.
“You read the message,” she said loudly into the room. “Everyone get your asses moving and report to your units. For those of you who are unsure, that’s the place you came from before you got on that shuttle. Even if you have movement orders.”
“What about our kit, Colors?” the young corporal next to her said. “All our gear is still on the shuttle.”
“Report to your unit. You are still wearing your uniform, aren’t you? If there’s something that needs shooting soon, they’ll give you your weapons and your armor. Your toiletries can wait.”
“Yes, Colors.” He rushed off, seemingly happy to get some authoritative direction.
“Anyone with the JSP company, form on me,” she called out. “Come on, people. The enemy aren’t going to wait around.”
Whoever the fuck the enemy is, she thought as the JSP troopers in the room made their way toward her.
“Attention all personnel,” an overhead announcement sounded. “Alliance High Command has ordered an indefinite flight stop for all inbound and outbound Gretia space traffic, effective 1220 hours Universal Time. All scheduled transports are canceled until further notice. All personnel, report to your units immediately.”
Idina looked at the anxious faces of the scattered JSP personnel that were now gathering around her. She was willing to bet good money that this was their first full-scale Level Red combat alert that had ended with the words “This is not a drill.” Her last live one had been half a decade ago, when they had started the occupation of Gretia. None of these kids was higher than corporal in rank, and none looked to be older than twenty-one.
“All right,” she said when they had all assembled in a loose cluster. “Let’s find some transportation. And if we can’t source any in this mess, it’s an easy two-klick run back to the company building.”
As they moved toward the exit as a group, with Idina in the center, she thought about Dahl, and wondered whether the captain had been off the base already when the Level Red alert had sounded. Right now, the base was getting sealed off from the outside world, and no traffic would pass through the main gate in either direction for a good while.
I can probably find you a bunk and a meal somewhere, Captain Dahl, she thought. Let’s just hope we’re not about to look at mushroom clouds of our own down here before nightfall.
Outside, the base was in a state of controlled chaos. The group pod that had brought Idina to the transfer terminal was gone, likely commandeered by some other group looking to get back to their own unit. Trying to flag someone down seemed like a waste of time in this mess. All around them, troops were rushing somewhere else in a hurry.
“All right,” Idina said to her JSP gaggle. They were a dozen strong, eight of them Pallas Brigade troops from First and Fourth platoons, and the other four from the Rhodian and Oceanian companies, with a single Oceanian marine in the mix. They all looked like they were expecting nukes to fall out of the sky any moment, looking around as if they were a herd of goats about to bolt from the scent of a predator. A brisk run would help channel their barely suppressed panic and give it a release valve.
“Form up in three-abreast running formation,” she ordered. “Corporal, you take point. We are moving out in this direction.” She indicated it with her hand.
“Yes, ma’am.” The corporal stepped onto the roadway outside of the transfer center. Overhead, two combat gyrofoils roared into the sky and away from the airfield. Her JSP stragglers looked up at the war machines as they got into formation as if they were expecting the gun turrets to start thundering any moment.
“Today, people,” Idina prodded them along. “Corporal, move ’em out, double-time.”
She caught up with the formation as they started their run, then kept the pace alongside them. If she had intended to turn off the minds of the young troops and get them focused on something other than their anxious thoughts, it worked on her just the same. It was good to do something physical, to move with a goal and a purpose.
“Corporal, how about a cadence?” she shouted.
The Palladian corporal took up the challenge and began to belt out a popular and highly bawdy brigade running cadence. The Palladians in the formation picked it up after a moment, and Idina could hear their boots hitting the road surface with a little more authority. The Rhodians and the solitary Oceanian in the group didn’t sing along because they weren’t familiar with the language, but tuning into the rhythm required no understanding of the words. Within a few moments, the whole formation was running along in perfect time, the Palladians sounding off loud enough for a platoon instead of a squad.
Maybe we are both exactly where we need to be, Idina heard Dahl’s voice in her head. Ten minutes ago, she wasn’t at all sure about that sentiment. But right now, she knew with certainty that she was at least where these young troopers needed her to be.
Another pair of gyrofoils roared overhead, then another right behind it. The craft took up a staggered formation and roared toward the distant skyline of Sandvik. On the road in front of them, a company of personnel carriers appeared, wedge-shaped chunks of armor with autocannon mounts on top, rolling on heavily studded honeycomb wheels. They turned onto the road in the direction of the main gate and dashed off at high speed. The vibrations from their nearby passage made the surface under Idina’s boot soles shake. If war had a smell to Idina, it was the scent of fuel in the air that heavy combat machines left in their wake. She was glad that the red alert hadn’t come five minutes later while she was already on the way to orbit, that she had been on the right side when the portcullis came rattling down. Whatever happened next, she’d be facing it with a gun in her hands and a platoon under her guidance, not witnessing it from afar while condemned to observer status.
As they ran along the road that would take them back to the JSP complex, Idina realized that the bone-deep fatigue she had felt earlier had lifted from her completely.
I guess the brigade museum will have to wait for now, she thought. There’s a war coming up. And gods help me, I am glad not to miss it.
CHAPTER 22
SOLVEIG
The dinner with the Hanzo directors was a boring affair that didn’t even really loosen up when the formal part ended and the Acheroni plum brandy bottles came out. Solveig made a mental note that a dull corporate drone continued to be a dull corporate drone even after seven shots of high-strength liquor, and that the alcohol just removed the self-restraint from the dullness and gave it an aggressive quality. She had nursed one small glass of the stuff all evening, never letting it drop to below half-full because she was aware of the Acheroni custom to always refill an empty glass for a guest. Gisbert hadn’t been aware of that custom, and he had toasted himself into a near-catatonic state by the end of the dinner, studiously avoided by even the most hospitality-minded Hanzo people. Solveig had observed a long time ago that alcohol didn’t bestow new personalities on its consumers but merely amplified the existing ones—or in Gisbert’s case, the lack of one.
They returned to the hotel just before local midnight. Gisbert had his assistant on one side of him and his security agent, Lanzo, on the other as they maneuvered him the short distance from the skylift platform to the door of his suite. Solveig hoped he’d be sick enough in the morning to bow out of the first round of negotiations so she wouldn’t have him hovering just behind her right shoulder for hours, alternating between looking at her c
ompad screen and dozing off.
“If there is nothing else, I will see you in the morning, Miss Ragnar,” Cuthbert said when they had reached the door to her suite.
“Good night, Cuthbert. I wasn’t planning on any nighttime excursions, but I will let you know if I change my mind and decide to go to a nightclub or something.”
“Of course, Miss Ragnar. Good night to you.”
The smile he gave her had a slightly pained quality to it, as if the thought of having to escort his protectee out into the nightlife of Coriolis City caused him physical discomfort. For a young guy, he wasn’t very adventurous.
Solveig closed the door behind her and stepped out of her shoes. Then she walked over to the seating arrangement in the middle of the living space. The ambient floor and ceiling lights came on with a soft blue-white glow.
“Room, open blinds,” she said.
The multi-segmented blinds in front of the panoramic window moved aside soundlessly. Beyond, the city was a sea of lights. It seemed brighter out than it had been at midday in full sunshine. She tried to imagine what Coriolis City looked like right now from the outside, floating among the dark clouds with all the buildings and streets illuminated, a bubble of moving light in the swirling darkness of Acheron’s night side.
There was an ample supply of security-screened refreshments in her suite, water and snacks and a variety and quantity of alcohol that would have been enough to fuel a decent dormitory party back at the university. Solveig made herself a little plate with salted almonds and grapes and poured herself a glass of Gretian red wine. Then she took her drink and snacks over to the seating arrangement and sat down. The wine was a good dry grape and vintage, captured sunshine squeezed into a vat and left to ferment for a little while.
She was halfway through the glass and the bowl of almonds when her private comtab hummed with an incoming request for a vidcom. She checked the ID code of the caller.
Here we go, she thought. Time for me to report on what I’ve learned in school today.
Solveig put the wineglass on the table in front of her and brought up a screen at eye height above the table surface. Then she leaned back on the recliner seat and accepted the incoming vidcom.
“Hello, Papa.”
“Hello, daughter of mine,” Falk said. He was sitting in his usual spot at the bar in the main house. Behind him, Solveig saw the flickering from his multiple news screens, silently blasting content into the room.
“I see that it’s wine hour where you are,” he said and nodded at her half-full glass. He raised his hand, which had his own glass in it, this one with two fingers of Rhodian whisky over ice cubes. That was one area where she knew she was not like him at all—she didn’t mind whisky, but she’d never pour an expensive one over ice. And expensive ones were the only kind he drank.
“We just got back from the Hanzo dinner,” she said. “Gisbert got so loaded that his poor little assistant had to help carry him home. She’s half his size. If that doesn’t merit bonus pay, I don’t know what does.”
“Gisbert’s a bumbling idiot,” her father said. “But he has one redeeming quality. He does what he’s told.”
“Are you even supposed to call me like this?” Solveig asked.
“It’s a loophole,” Falk said. “Neither of us are on Ragnar property, and you are off the clock. And we’re not talking business. I’m just a father checking in on his daughter, who’s on her first trip to a new planet. How was your day?”
“Perfectly all right. If I could tell you about the business, I’d probably complain about the Hanzo people taking three hours to ask a direct question. I could be on the way home already if I could find just a single subdirector among them who can say and understand the words yes and no.”
Falk laughed. His teeth looked very white in the semidarkness of her suite’s living room.
“Welcome to the Acheroni business world. Where intent and semantics are everything. Gods, I miss mixing it up with those little bastards.”
He looked at her intently and took a slow sip of his whisky. She could tell that he had something on his mind, and he did her the favor of getting to the point right away, unlike the Hanzo negotiators.
“I know who you’ve been meeting,” he said. The smile that followed was his usual toothy dominance display, without a trace of good cheer or humor in it. He took another sip from his glass as he waited for her reaction.
Solveig felt the shock of alarm trickling down her spine. She sat up and reached for her glass to give herself the second she needed to smooth out her composure.
If he knows, then he knows. And then at least I don’t have to pretend anymore.
“You do,” she said. “And how do you know that?”
“Some little birds told me, Solveig.”
Birds, she thought. More like weasels.
Now that his surprise was out of the bag and failed to make her crumble with the shock of it, his expression switched from predatory cheer to restrained anger.
“I expected better from you. I never would have thought that you’d have such abysmal judgment.”
“I did what I thought I had to do,” she said evenly and took a sip of her wine, giving him another second or two to start showing his hand without folding hers.
“You thought you had to sleep with the police detective who’s investigating our company? Oh, Solveig. Maybe I have overrated your critical thinking skills.”
He’s talking about Berg, she realized, feeling a wild wave of relief coursing through her that she was equally careful to keep out of her expression.
“He closed the investigation. He said it was a dead end. They handed it all off to the military investigators. It’s not our concern anymore. He’s no longer involved in any cases that touch Ragnar.”
“So he figured he’d do some touching of his own, I guess. What if that’s all part of the investigation? What if it’s still in progress? Have you thought of that? What if he wants to see if you’re holding anything back? You’ve given him backdoor access to the company’s pulse, Solveig. You don’t sleep with the enemy.”
“He’s not the enemy. I haven’t even slept with him. We’ve gone out a few times for dinner. That’s it. Not that it’s any of your business, Papa.”
He took a quick little sip from his glass and put it down on the counter with a sharp click of glass on wood.
“I beg to differ. When it comes to anything Ragnar, it’s very much my business. Regardless of what those Alliance people put into writing. And you are the future of Ragnar. Only you, Solveig.”
Then nothing I do will ever fail to be your business, she thought, and the sudden anger she felt warmed her middle better and far more quickly than the wine had. This wasn’t even about Aden, and he was treating it like a personal betrayal, just because she had dared to make a judgment call that disagreed with his.
“I like him. I think he likes me. He seems like a good man. I may sleep with him in the future, or I may not. But that’s my choice to make, not yours.”
“We will talk about that when you’re back home,” Falk said.
She closed her eyes briefly and took a slow, deliberate breath. This was a fork in the road, and her next statement would put her on one of two paths. If she stepped the way she had always done, she could feign acquiescence and recognize his sovereignty over every aspect of her life, resign herself to getting her way only whenever she could tiptoe past him. She’d have to be content with sneaking the ice cream from the freezer at night occasionally.
Or she could step the other way, on a new path she’d never taken before. She could be more like him, but in the way he would least appreciate. That path had far more thorns and brambles on it. But whatever she would find at the end would be hers to claim entirely, whether it was good or bad.
She made her decision, and as soon as she opened her mouth, the contentment she felt made it clear that it had been the right one.
“I love you, Papa. You know that. And I respect your opinions and you
r counsel. But my love life is absolutely none of your business, either now or after I get back home. And I will not discuss this any further. Good night.”
She gave him a stern glare and wiped the screen away to terminate the vidcom.
Her father was not used to people ending talks with him. He was the one who terminated the connection, and only when he felt that you knew he was done with you. Solveig knew that there was probably a whisky glass exploding against one of the walls in the bar right now. His fury would be red-hot when she got back from Acheron. But she knew that if she had yielded to him on this, it would have been a universal adapter for him to attach himself to every part of her life and never let go again.
Solveig put down her wineglass and shut off her private comtab before her father could send another vidcom request. She got up and walked over to the panoramic windows to look out over the city and let her emotions ebb a little. The anger at her father’s intrusion was battling it out with the relief she felt that his network of snoops had followed the wrong track, leading her father to Detective Berg instead of Aden. The tiredness she had felt when she had walked into her suite was gone now, and she knew that she’d need either a good, brisk run or another glass of wine to wind down enough for bed again. After a few moments of consideration, Solveig decided to choose the easier option. Going for a run in a strange city in the middle of the night wouldn’t make her security detail happy.
She had just topped off her wineglass at the bar when the door chime sounded. She looked over at the screen that materialized in front of the door to show her who was outside. It was Cuthbert. He was holding his comtab and wearing a concerned expression.
“What is it, Cuthbert?” she asked. “If that’s my father trying to talk to me, tell him I’m not taking any more comms tonight.”
Cuthbert looked up from his comtab and shook his head. She couldn’t recall the last time she had seen him flustered or upset, but he was clearly in crisis mode.
