Patriots in Arms

by Ben Weaver

  Bren, Tat, Ysarm, and Jiggs were first out, using their pen scanners to probe the Western Alliance people for arms, poisons, and other lethal instruments. I held my head up, into the wind, and felt a few snowflakes strike my cheeks. I found small consolation in the crispness of the air and the smell of wood burning in stoves at a restaurant across the street.

  “Sir, we’re ready,” said Bren, proffering a hand.

  I waved off his help and climbed from the jumpseat, stepped onto the icy tarmac—

  And fell flat on my ass.

  “Sir, are you all right?” Bren asked, looking shocked then battling off his grin.

  With a groan, I accepted his hand and rose shakily to my feet. I brushed snow from my own coat and noted that across the street floatcams had recorded every second of my unceremonious arrival. The journalists would write quips about me being so humbled by the power of the alliances that I could not remain on my feet. Still, their remarks would be trivial, given the reason for my visit.

  Surrounded by my team, I moved quickly inside, into a private lift, along with several other alliance security people. I switched on my tac for privacy and contacted Davyd, who gave me the latest positions of the alliances’ cruisers, then I notified the president’s office of my arrival.

  “Colonel, we’ve just received verbal commitments from Ambassador Warring and Ambassador Felice. They’re preparing their secession documents now,” said President Vinnery, shimmering in my HUV. “Which means, when you go up there, you tell those fools that they’ve already lost Mars and Jupiter, and any measure they take to prevent their secession will be considered an act of war.”

  “Madam President, I beg your pardon, but I couldn’t help noticing our Eighth Fleet in orbit, and I was unaware that you ordered the spinning up of their tactical nukes. A blockade—I mean a parade—is one thing, but you do realize the message that sends.”

  “Colonel, they spun up theirs, we spun up ours. It’s a little game we play.”

  “It’s a dangerous game, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say—with all due respect—that you’d be willing to order that strike.”

  Her expression grew even more condescending. “It’s the order no president ever wants to give, but we will not allow innocent civilians to be oppressed.”

  “We’re going to work this out,” I said quickly, afraid that I might launch into a philosophical tirade in the hopes that I could prove her wrong. “Please, ma’am, I’m begging you. Don’t make another move.”

  “I’m giving you your chance, Colonel, after which I will negotiate directly with the presidents.”

  “I understand, ma’am. Just let me speak to them first.”

  “Good luck,” she said darkly.

  I switched off my tac and asked Bren for the negotiating team’s status. Yes, I would be the primary speaker, but I wouldn’t engage in talks without a few tricks up my sleeve.

  “Most of the team’s already here or en route,” he said. “They’ll remain in our conference area until you call for them.”

  “Very good.”

  He lowered his voice. “Sir, I’m—”

  “It’s all right, Bren. We’re all a little scared.”

  “No, that’s not it. I don’t care about dying. That’s my job, right? Human shield. I just…I don’t know. You’re a good man, sir. You shouldn’t trust anyone.”

  “Stop worrying.”

  The lift doors parted. Plush, navy blue carpet swept off toward a broad, wooden receptionist’s desk that seemed quite an antique arrangement for a busy president’s office. However, the desk was Terran tradition, as were the paintings depicting former Western Alliance dignitaries that lined the walls. As we started forward, we passed through not one but three discreet security scanners whose probing beams emanated from the walls. We went through the motions and were finally granted access to the adjoining waiting area. I shook hands with Ms. Bursa, Holtzman’s plainly dressed assistant, who said that the presidents would see me shortly.

  “Of course they’ll make you wait,” said Tat. “You know what they’re doing in there right now? Sitting around, talking about how they’re making you wait. Petty power.”

  “Quiet,” Bren told the man.

  “It’s all right, Bren,” I said. “He’s probably right.”

  Armed Marines in gray-and-azure utilities stood on either side of a massive, richly carved door bearing the president’s seal: a hawk alighting upon a wreath of seventeen stars. I had never been fond of that emblem. To me it implied dominance and subservience, and it hardly reflected the independent status of the seventeen colonized worlds. But that was Terran tradition again, and, ironically, I guessed that the colonial traditions we were establishing would die just as hard.

  “They’re ready to see you now,” said Ms. Bursa, her communications skin vanishing from her eyes and ears. She pointed to the door as the Marines moved sharply aside and one reached for the handle.

  I rose, along with my team.

  “You must enter alone,” Ms. Bursa instructed.

  “Negative,” said Bren.

  “I’m afraid they insist.”

  Bren shifted to me. “You go in there, they hold you hostage and get the upper hand in the negotiations.”

  “What’s to say I won’t go in there and hold them hostage?” I asked. “Bren, I’m a little out of shape, but I’m still a conditioned soldier.”

  “Sir, don’t go in there without us.”

  “Anything happens to me, don’t worry. You won’t be held responsible. I’ll log this decision so it’s legal, okay?”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t strike you as odd that they won’t let us go in?”

  “We’re talking about the fate of seventeen colonized worlds and Sol system. No matter how well they’re trained and how loyal they are, we both know that security people eavesdrop. And most of the time, it’s a necessary part of their job.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said with a weak grin. “But they know that, too. Which is why this still bothers me.”

  “I’ll keep a line open. If I need you, trust me, I’ll call.”

  He nodded, then motioned for Tat, Ysarm, and Jiggs to take up positions near the door. While none of them were armed, they, like me, were conditioned soldiers, and if I did have a problem, they would will themselves past the guards and into the room, which reminded me that the guards at the door were probably conditioned, too, and the office beyond was most certainly equipped with security and defense systems. Yes, it was a den of wolves.

  Taking a deep breath, I started into the president’s office, and I’m not sure why, but my thoughts strayed, if only a little, back to that chamber, back to Paul Beauregard. I had a premonition that one answer to my dilemma lay somewhere in the past.

  Halitov, Jing, and I lay on the chamber floor, barely able to sit up. Pairs of Marines dragged us back to our feet and held us firmly as Paul discussed something with a young lieutenant who had de-skinned and who wore a horrible grin. At least Paul maintained his anguished look. I don’t know that I could have born his gloating. He came forward, rubbed his eyes, then just stared at us.

  “Was that you in Vesbesky’s chamber?” I asked him.

  He nodded slowly. “I didn’t want to turn you over to them. I thought I could just get the data, but I couldn’t.”

  “You rat fuck!” Halitov said through his teeth. “Selling us out. Come over here. I want you to look in my eyes and tell me what you did.”

  Paul took a deep breath. For a second, I thought he would meet Halitov’s gaze. Instead, he just looked away.

  “How long have you been working for them?” Jing asked.

  “Not long,” he answered, then added quickly, “Listen. They’re not going to brainwipe you. I have that promise in writing. They just want to observe you. Study you. Look, the war’s winding down. We’re not going to win.”

  “Not now, we’re not!” Halitov shouted.

  “Paul, how could you do this to us, to your father, to your homeworld?�
�� I asked, still unable to comprehend his motivation.

  “They have my mother.”

  “What?” barked Halitov.

  “They’ve had her ever since my father began his little operation to take over the Seventeen. They’ve been trying to blackmail him, using her as the bait.” He chuckled low and scary, walking the razor’s edge of a breakdown. “My old man played the good soldier, told them they could kill my mother, that he wouldn’t betray the colonies. But he doesn’t care about the colonies. All he gives a shit about is himself and his reputation and his fucking ego. Do you know what he said to me when I told him Dina was dead? He didn’t say he was sorry or that she was a good soldier or that she had given her life for something greater than all of us. Do you know what he said? Nothing. He wasn’t even listening.”

  I slowly realized what had happened to Paul. Dina’s death had sent Paul into a deep depression, and, vulnerable, he had succumbed to the temptation to save his mother and punish his father. Only after going to the Alliances had he realized the full extent of his treachery, but then it was too late to change anything. I thought of our conversation back in my quarters; the signs had all been there, but who would’ve thought to listen?

  We make our own luck.

  I didn’t realize it was that bad down there. I really didn’t.

  It’s too late. And there are other people to think about.

  “So all of that digging I did for you was really for them,” Jing said. “You turned me into a traitor.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” Paul said. “The Alliances outnumber and outgun us, and they have a new weapon against conditioned soldiers—the drug that’s inside you right now.”

  “After you hand over the colonies, do you really think they’ll hand over your mother?” Halitov asked.

  “I’m not giving them the colonies. The colonies were theirs in the first place. None of us would be here if it weren’t for them.”

  “Yeah, they brainwashed you good, didn’t they,” snapped Halitov.

  “And those encryption codes at Columbia?” Paul said, unfazed by Halitov’s remark, “Yeah, I had to give them up, but I only made their job easier. They would’ve attacked anyway and still beaten us.”

  “Does that make you feel better?” Jing asked, seething.

  “Paul, do you remember when we were just cadets? Remember that night in our billet?” I asked. “The night we had to choose sides? Do you remember what you said?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I remember it exactly. You said the articles of the Code of Conduct are no longer valid. ‘We’re not alliance citizens anymore. We’re colonists, and that’s where our loyalties should lie. We’ve been exploited for long enough. Maybe history is repeating itself here, but if it doesn’t, then our families are doomed. I want to know right now who will stand with me.’” I paused to let the memory sink in. “That’s exactly what you said.”

  He sighed in disgust. “And I can thank your cerebroed brain for that guilt trip down memory lane, huh?”

  “Don’t turn your back on us.”

  Halitov snorted loudly. “Are you kidding? He’s not turning his back—he’s stabbing ours!”

  The colonel’s son glared at Halitov, then he looked to me, his fury fading. “Scott, you’ve always lived by the code. What would you have done? Would you have abandoned your mother?”

  At the moment, I would have rather taken a round of particle fire than consider that question. He was reminding me that my own mother had abandoned Jarrett and I. Her lack of loyalty was why I never turned my back on the code. Sure, when I had agreed to join the Wardens, I accepted the fact that the code was being rewritten, but at its heart still lay the same principles that made me proud to be a Colonial Warden. Paul had disregarded those principles in favor of the love and loyalty he had for his mother.

  “That’s a stupid question to ask him,” said Halitov. “You know how he is. He would’ve done the same thing your old man did. The colonies are more important than one woman.”

  “Is that right?” Paul asked me.

  “I wouldn’t have abandoned her,” I answered slowly. “But I wouldn’t have made deals with the devil to get her back.”

  “Yeah, well you have no idea how it is out there. You don’t know. You just don’t.”

  “Maybe not. But I do know one thing. You’re going to die for this.”

  “Probably, but you won’t have the pleasure of seeing it.”

  “There’s no pleasure involved. Right now, I hate you, Paul. But I pity you even more. You could’ve come to us, told us what was happening. We could’ve formed a little commando unit, gone in wherever they have her, and busted her out. You could’ve done that.”

  “You’re saying that now, but you wouldn’t have helped. You would’ve done what Rooslin said. You three are soldiers. You think like soldiers. I can play the part, but inside, that’s not me.” He threw up his hands. “All of this is not me.”

  “Fuck the psychobabble,” said Halitov. “You ratted us out. And I’m blaming you. And you know what’s worse? You soiled Dina’s memory by using her as an excuse to get us down here. Did you realize that?”

  Paul tensed and grew flush. “Dina’s going to get a proper funeral. That’s already been taken care of.”

  “You had them recover her body?” I asked, tipping my head toward the Marines.

  “No, I’m going to get her now.”

  Halitov threw a madman’s glare at Paul. “Have fun.”

  “And after that?” Jing asked. “You’re not going to keep feeding them data, are you?”

  “There’s a mission coming up. It’ll be the last thing I have to do.”

  Jing winced and glanced away. “Oh, God.”

  “So what’re you going to tell Daddy about us?” Halitov asked.

  “The truth. You were taken prisoner. I managed to escape.”

  “And even if they scan you, they won’t get anything different, will they?” I said.

  “No, they won’t.”

  “And who would suspect the colonel’s son?” Halitov said.

  “Not us,” Jing added darkly.

  Paul turned and headed back for the young lieutenant.

  “What? No fucking good-bye?” yelled Halitov.

  The colonel’s son paused, threw us a sidelong glance, then kept on.

  “All right, let’s move out,” said the lieutenant. “Jing goes on A-6. St. Andrew and Halitov with the others on A-7.”

  Jing glanced worriedly at me. “Guess I’m heading out on a different transport.”

  “Why are you separating us?” I called to the lieutenant.

  “Shut up,” he hollered.

  “I might never see you again,” Jing said.

  “I know. Would you like to get married?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, you know, if we live through this.”

  “You picked some time for a marriage proposal.”

  “I never said I had good timing.”

  “Hey, if he doesn’t want to marry you, I will,” said Halitov. “We could learn to like each other.”

  “I said shut up,” the lieutenant barked once more. You just knew the kid was days out of the academy, and we were his first big mission. “Okay, I’m going to read to you the conventions regarding prisoners of war.”

  “Listen, boy,” began Halitov. “We’ve done this before. You obviously haven’t. You shut the fuck up and take us to wherever we’re going.”

  The lieutenant marched up to Halitov and grabbed him by the throat. “Old man, you’re a POW. If you open your mouth again, I’m going to fill it with dirt, then tape it shut. After a while, you’ll wind up swallowing that dirt. And that’s just nasty. And unnecessary, right?”

  Halitov nodded. The lieutenant released him.

  And that’s when my former XO fired a huge glob of phlegm into the lieutenant’s face. The spittle struck a direct hit and hung from the young man’s nose. Yes, that was my partner—a man of g
reat courage and fierce loyalty and no class.

  The lieutenant tripped Halitov to the cave floor, and even as the two Marines holding him gathered dirt in their palms, Jing cried out as they hauled her away.

  I wanted to shout, “I love you!” because I meant it. But even as I opened my mouth, the words seemed cheap and desperate, not unlike my marriage proposal, which she had never answered.

  But then she did. “I’ll marry you, Scott. I will.”

  Before I could reply, they shoved her into the tunnel.

  The Marines forced dirt into Halitov’s mouth, wrapped him with tape, then hauled him back to his feet. My own Marines shoved me on, my limbs still numb. By the time we made it outside, onto the mesa, the Alliance ATC carrying Jing—a boxy, broad-shouldered aircraft—was already blasting off, its exhaust so violent that it threatened to blow us off the cliff. As we leaned into the wind, eyes narrowed and growing teary, our own ship settled down. They shoved us up the ramp, into the hold—

  Where we took in a remarkable sight.

  Looking as though they had spent the past year or so on a deserted island, or, in fact, roaming the canyons and caves of Exeter, three long-haired and bearded men sat in jumpseats, their clothes sun-bleached and tattered but unmistakably South Point Academy cadet uniforms.

  “Who are you guys?” I asked, still astounded as the Marines lowered me into my own seat.

  One man, a blond, lazily raised his head. “You, you’re that gennyboy who was a first year. You had a brother. And you got so old.”

  “That’s right. I’m Scott St. Andrew. What happened to you guys?”

  “When the academy was first attacked, we went to the other side of the moon, met up with a few others, then stayed there. A few more of us came, and some tried to escape and got killed or captured.”

  “You know we came back and took this moon from the Alliances.”

  “Yeah, we found out only after the Alliances took it back again. Fucking game.”

  “Do you know Paul Beauregard? He was in the Minsalo Caves for a while with a few people.”

  “We made it a point to stay out of there. That place was always heavily occupied.”