Patriots in Arms

by Ben Weaver

  He was right, but I couldn’t take my gaze from that poor little girl, her cries like daggers in my heart, the gun pressed to her soft flesh, the sergeant’s voice coming in a psychotic lilt, “Oh, Sweet Jesus, this little one has to die. Oh my god, she has to die!”

  10

  They were killing children.

  Even the most detached, most dispassionate Colonial Warden among us would have had a problem with that.

  Still, trying to save one little girl might result in us getting captured—again. We would fail to send off that message and ultimately lose the war because Paul Beauregard would feed the enemy everything they wanted to know in an effort to save his mother. We had to think long term, but doing that was hard when you were watching a sadistic sergeant jabbing a pistol into a little girl’s head.

  Sometimes when I speak to cadets at the academy, I ask what they would have done, given the identical situation. Some say matter-of-factly that they would have let the girl die. Others, guided more by their outrage over Alliance Marines engaging in such heinous activity and by their personal convictions, would have tried to save the girl. After much heated debate, the floor inevitably becomes mine, because they always ask, “So, what did you do?”

  The truth is, Halitov stole the decision from me. One second he huddled with us behind the airjeep, nodding that he was ready, and in the next second he was gone—without having waited for my order. Admittedly, my tone indicated that I had made up my mind; however, I was still weighing the consequences, and Halitov couldn’t have known that. In any event, he should have waited.

  The air beside the sergeant fluctuated like a heat haze, and from those waves Halitov emerged. I expected all bug eyes and brutality from him, but to my surprise he worked like a thief instead of an assassin. Even as the sergeant jolted at the specter materializing before his eyes, Halitov tore the pistol out of the man’s grip, threw it away, then snatched the child and dematerialized with her. He reappeared beside us, the screaming girl in his arms, her cries muffled by his big palm.

  “Aw, hell, what’d you do that for?” asked Val d’Or.

  Halitov’s fiery gaze was answer enough.

  “You neovics can play your little games,” cried the sergeant. “If not her, then another child. Makes no difference to me.” He dashed to the line and grabbed a small boy, who began kicking and screaming.

  Judging from the sergeant’s response, some neovics were able to connect with the bond; the sergeant had obviously seen them do that before. I made a mental note to ask Poe about that, then closed my eyes and said, “We lose this one, Rooslin. But we make sure we win the next. Let her go.” Suddenly, a round of particle fire reverberated through the chamber and struck a blow harder than if it had actually hit me.

  The little boy fell silent. I tried, but I couldn’t look up. Every muscle tensed. I shuddered. Hard.

  “Oh, no,” gasped Halitov. “This can’t be happening.”

  “This happens almost every day, all over this moon,” said Poe. “We believe the lieutenant colonel who’s running the show has gone insane. He’s the one who gave these orders. But we’ll talk more later. Let’s move now.”

  “What about her?” Halitov asked, still holding the little girl, whose bright eyes would soften even the hardest heart. “Those Marines will find her.”

  “Her parents are back there in that crowd,” said Poe. “I hate to say this, but she’s their responsibility.”

  “They can’t help now,” argued Halitov. “Better she lives—even without her parents.”

  “You’re an asshole, Halitov,” said Val d’Or. “You shouldn’t have played God in the first place. Leave her.”

  “Scott?” Halitov called, looking to me for a decision I didn’t want to make.

  Then I stole a look at that dead little boy, his parents hovering over him, the sergeant droning on about how someone else’s kid would get shot tomorrow if the miners failed to increase production.

  “She comes.”

  Val d’Or swore. Poe thought a moment, drew in a deep breath, nodded, then slipped off, with the rest of us dropping quickly into his path.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Halitov told the little girl. “You’re going to be safe.”

  “But what about my mommy and daddy?” she asked.

  “You’ll meet up with them. Don’t worry.” Halitov pushed his captain’s gon into the girl’s palm. “Hold on to this for me. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, distracted by the gleaming badge.

  Despite the occasional stare, we crossed the marketplace without incident and reached the station. There, Poe instructed Halitov to hand off the little girl to an operative who would deliver her to a shelter for war orphans. She could remain there until she was reunited with her parents.

  “Here,” the girl said, proffering Halitov the captain’s gon.

  “No, sweetheart. You take it.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  Poe nodded to the operative, who scooped up the girl and vanished into the crowd. We shifted quickly aboard the next outbound train, and fell into our seats.

  “She would’ve died, just like that little boy,” said Halitov, glancing through me as I studied him from an opposite seat. “I can’t get him out of my head.”

  “There have been dozens more just like him, and hundreds more throughout the colonies,” said Poe. “But we can take back Noe and the other provinces. Seizing the capitol will be our rallying cry. Once we do that, the others will move.”

  “Sounds like you’re ready,” I told Poe. “And so are your people. You don’t need us. Just help me get access to a communications database. I need the location of the nearest tawt-capable transmitter.”

  “One did survive the invasion,” said Poe. “But I told you, long-range communications are impossible. Any unauthorized probe trying to tawt out of here will have its nav system jammed.”

  “But if that probe issues the correct authorization codes, it’ll be allowed through,” I said. “And there’s a long list of those codes in my head. We’ll input all of them and have the computer initiate a rapid-fire relay. One of them has to work. We have to give it a try.”

  “If you help us seize the capitol, I’ll get you to that transmitter.” Poe narrowed his gaze. “You saw them kill that boy. You know what you have to do. You know your calling.”

  “Of course he does,” Halitov said, then cocked a brow at me. “Did you think it wasn’t coming to this? At least we’re still fighting the same bad guys.”

  I considered Poe’s offer, then banged a fist on my knee. “We don’t have time for this,” I said. “I need to get that message out—now!”

  “Unfortunately, Major, in order to do that, you’ll have to get inside the capitol—because that’s where the surviving transmitter is located.”

  “Of course it is,” muttered Halitov. “That’s the universe flipping us the bird.”

  Poe went on, “That transmitter, along with the rest of the compound, has been secured by a full battalion.”

  My shoulders slumped even more as Poe leaned over and widened his eyes. “I know that willing yourself there will cause a considerable drain, so I suggest you stick with us, help us plan this attack, and once we’re in there, you can attempt to send word to your friends.” Poe’s tone waxed sarcastic. “You might even save a few children along the way.”

  “Count us in,” said Halitov.

  Poe looked to me.

  “I want the location of every transmitter within ten kilometers, and along with it, I want security holos that indicate those transmitters have been destroyed.”

  Poe’s expression darkened. “I’ve been honest with you, Major.”

  “Then you’ll get me what I want.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Shit, Scott, even if there is another transmitter, we’ll still have to get to it, launch our own attack without their help, and maybe get off that message,” Halitov said. “This way we kill two birds with one stone.”
r />   “Or maybe we’re the birds, and they have the stone.”

  “Just get him the maps and holos,” Halitov told Poe. “He gets cranky like this. It’ll pass.”

  Four standard hours later, Halitov and I were back at Colyad’s main station, seated in a conference room just off the catwalk. While we waited for the guardsmen who had been working with Poe to arrive, we brainstormed some ideas for our attack plan and studied the maps and holos of the other transmitters, noting that the information was recent and difficult to forge. Those transmitters were gone. Poe had been honest with us.

  “Satisfied?” asked Halitov.

  “For now.”

  Poe joined us and explained that his entire force numbered about three thousand, but less than half of those miners would be armed. He also explained why the Marines had not launched a counterattack to win back the main station, a question that had been gnawing at me.

  “Bribery, gentlemen. We’ve paid off the battalion commander so that he reports our numbers as far greater than they are. He also reports that while we’re occupying this territory and controlling it with confiscated weapons, we pose no real threat to the overall operation and occupation of this colony.”

  “This battalion commander,” I began. “Can we count on him to back off or misdirect his forces when we attack the capitol?”

  “I wish we could, but while he’ll take our money, our drugs, and our women, he won’t walk away from a fight,” explained Poe. “He’s already warned me about that.”

  “So you’ve got about three thousand miners ready to go. How many are neovics? And how many of them can access the quantum bond?” I asked.

  “You were listening very carefully back there,” said Poe, now beaming at me. “Unfortunately, several of us have revealed our skill to them. I wanted that to be our greatest element of surprise.”

  “You mean you people can actually tap into the quantum bond without Racinian conditioning?” asked Halitov. “I thought that was a colonial legend.”

  “There are ten of us, including myself, who possess the skill and focus. Those ten individuals will be arriving shortly, along with the guardsmen.”

  “How many guardsmen?” I asked.

  “Just seven, I’m afraid.”

  “And they’re all conditioned,” concluded Halitov.

  “No, they’re not,” Poe corrected. “But neither are the Alliance Marines. Yes, we’re heavily outnumbered, but I’m hoping our access to the bond will make up for that.”

  A knock came from the door, and Poe answered, allowing the people we were just discussing to file into the room. Ten miners, four males, six females, ranging in age from about fifteen to a woman well into her sixties, shuffled in and stood along the wall, followed by the seven guardsmen, who, despite their mining outfits, moved with that familiar deportment and keen-eyed mistrust characteristic of Guard Corps troops. Val d’Or returned as well, having shaven, cut his hair, and appearing exactly the way I remembered him from our academy days. I trembled with the desire to learn why he was not aging the way Halitov and I were.

  “All right, ladies and gentlemen,” Poe said, crossing to the front of the room. “At zero nine-fifty, we’re going to attack the capitol. This is the major offensive we’ve all been waiting for. And it seems that the universe is on our side. Major Scott St. Andrew, Captain Rooslin Halitov, and Second Lieutenant Eugene Val d’Or were shot down over Rinca-Mushara Crater, and they’ve volunteered to help.” Poe hoisted his brows at me. “Major St. Andrew will lead the attack, and in return we’ll do everything we can to help him launch a comm drone so he can get off word to his people. Major St. Andrew?”

  I rose from my seat, then leaned over and worked a touch screen on the desk. The holoplayer’s overhead projector winked on, and a 3D simulacrum of the capitol building beamed overhead, rotating slowly to reveal a five-story, U-shaped structure with a pair of hexagonal towers jutting up nearly one hundred meters from the north wing’s roof. Between those towers lay the broad, flat dispatch pad for communications probes, a disk with a diameter of several hundred meters and ringed by scores of miniature launch platforms atop which sat the missile-like probes and message drones. An enormous metallic conduit attached to the great ceiling of ice hung above the disk, and probes would blast up from the building, rocket into the tube, then rise to the surface and launch. Though I had yet to study the building’s schematics, I assumed the communications command center lay somewhere, just under that pad; however, getting to it via a conventional attack would be impossible. A force fence like the ones I’d seen on Mars encompassed the grounds, and I noted that the sentry towers had all been destroyed, replaced by a dozen airjeeps positioned at equidistant points down the perimeter. Moreover, Marine snipers had strung out along the rooftops and walkways, as well as above and below the elevated maglev train bridge running behind the building, adjacent to the modest-sized governor’s mansion, where still more Marines kept watch on that building’s domed roof.

  I cleared my throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’re all familiar with the target and realize that a conventional attack would be a waste of time and resources. That’s why Captain Halitov and I have devised something, well, much more unconventional…”

  About an hour after the briefing, Poe, Halitov, and I, walked through the station, pausing before a small Italian restaurant, a mom-and-pop operation with the age-old checkered tablecloths and bottles of vino. We had a few hours before we took up our posts and began the attack.

  “You know what this place is saying to me?” asked Halitov.

  “No, Rooslin,” I moaned. “What’s it saying to you?”

  “Come inside for spaghetti and meatballs, because this might be your last meal.”

  Poe drew in a long breath through his nose. “Smells really good. My treat.”

  Halitov practically leapt into the place. We asked for a table in the back and settled down to salads and fresh bread, my stomach groaning in anticipation of the pasta to come.

  “So you like spaghetti and meatballs?” Poe asked Halitov.

  My former XO closed his eyes in ecstasy. “Eating spaghetti and meatballs is not a matter of life and death. It’s more important than that.”

  Poe grinned. “I see.”

  I made a face at my comrade. “Everywhere we go, that’s all he orders. You’d never know he has Russian blood in him, though he does take to the Tau Ceti vodka pretty well.”

  “What’s it matter?” asked Halitov, jabbing a black olive and a huge hunk of hydroponic lettuce into his mouth. “When you got no woman, only food is left.”

  After rolling my eyes, I regarded Poe. “So, you think it’ll work?”

  “I think it’s the best chance we have,” he said. “We would have never come up with a plan like that. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Anyway, there’s something else I’ve been wanting to discuss. Rooslin and I were involved in an accident. There are problems with our conditioning, and as you can probably tell, we’ve been aging at an accelerated rate. But Eugene was involved in the same accident.”

  “Only he hasn’t aged,” said Poe, with a knowing gleam in his eyes. “He told me about that. And this may come as a surprise, but he asked if I could help.”

  “No shit?” said Halitov. “Guess he’s only two-thirds the asshole I thought he was.”

  I shushed Halitov, then said, “Can we get Eugene to a doctor or some medical facility? Maybe run some tests? Figure out what’s different? Our lives literally depend on it.”

  “Running tests won’t help,” said Poe. “Eugene is a neovic—and that’s the difference.”

  “Whoa. Hold on a second.” Halitov aimed his fork at Poe. “You’re going to sit there and tell me that he’s not aging because of his religion?”

  “I just did.”

  “Bullshit. There’s something physical here, and we can pinpoint the difference.”

  “Good luck trying.” Poe straightened as the waitress delivered our entrees.

&nbs
p; “What is it about being a neovic that helps him?” I asked.

  Poe shrugged. “It’s everything.”

  “Well, this is easy,” began Halitov, his sarcasm not missing a beat. “All we have to do is convert, turn over our worldly possessions, and start talking vague and mysterious.”

  Poe fixed Halitov with a solemn stare. “Captain, we are not a cult. I wouldn’t even call us an organized religion. We’re simply people trying to make connections.”

  “Through prayer and meditation,” I muttered, thinking aloud. “Maybe Eugene’s always prayed, always meditated, and he’s more in control of his thoughts and his body than we are.”

  “Or maybe his genes shielded him from the accident,” suggested Halitov. “And all this metaphysical mystic crap is exactly that.”

  “Make no mistake,” said Poe. “You were placed here for a reason—to save us—and, perhaps, save yourselves.”

  “Know what? These are the best meatballs I’ve ever tasted, but you two are ruining them.” Halitov grimaced at his plate. “Can we all shut up and eat?”

  I waved him off, leaned toward Poe. “Tell me more about the way you meditate.”

  “After we eat, I’ll let you try it for yourself.”

  “What is this place?” I asked Poe as we ventured into a narrow cavern that had taken us twenty minutes via airjeep to reach. “Narrow” was being generous. I had to turn sideways to follow him inside, and Halitov said that his meatball-laden gut would not stand for such abuse, so he waited for us in the tunnel.

  “We discovered it a few years ago,” said Poe. “Just follow me.”

  I hesitated. “First, you tell me why you dragged us out here.”

  “I told you, to help.”

  “How?”

  “You’ll see. Come on.”

  He left me behind, and I stood there, shaking with indecision. Finally, I swore and hurried after him.

  The passage grew a meter or so wider, yet we remained hunched over for another few minutes until we abruptly reached a ledge overlooking a perfectly spherical chamber of translucent ice cast in the orange glow of Poe’s searchlight. The opposite wall stood some fifty meters away and swept seamlessly upward without signs of drilling or the melting techniques I had seen elsewhere in the colony.