Patriots in Arms

by Ben Weaver

  “All right then. And my follow-up. Do you think anyone really believes Admiral Fitzower’s claim that the colonial fleet here is merely engaging in an exercise or a parade, as they’re calling it?”

  “I’ll confirm here and now that our ships in orbit are not here on an exercise. There is no parade. We’re here in response to the fleet over Rexi-Calhoon. President Wong, President Holtzman, and I have agreed that ships will remain in place until this crisis is resolved. However, there will be no blockades. All vessels will be allowed past both fleets.”

  And that set off a fit of murmurs.

  “Thank you,” Rainey said, then mouthed the word “dinner” at me before taking a seat.

  After a curt nod, I took the next question, already looking forward to a rendezvous with my old friend. Yes, there had always a been a spark between us, but we had been wise enough and strong enough not to allow that to interfere with our jobs or our personal lives. And while I couldn’t divulge much information, I suspected that Ms. Rainey and her connections could help me gather a few facts. And therein might lie one answer from the past.

  Five gravitationally stable Lagrange points relative to Earth and the moon provided engineers with the perfect coordinates for positioning ring stations, and the two located at L4 and L5 made slow, eighty-nine-day orbits in their regions. The Exxo-Tally station Halitov and I approached had a diameter of 6.4 kilometers, with an RPM of 0.53 to simulate Earth gravity. To the untrained eye, the station resembled a giant wagon wheel with a stable axis and a tire rotating around it. The tire actually housed the industrial city and protected it with a 1.6 meter-thick radiation shield. Behind that shield, the station’s floor was set edge-on so that you felt the downward pull as the ring rotated. Massive mirrors angled within the wheel’s spokes brought in light and solar energy. In truth, the station stood as a feat of engineering and research, but its aesthetic appeal had often been criticized. Some said it resembled a cheap prop from a campy science fiction film of century’s past. At that moment, though, I scrutinized the station not because I agreed with that assessment, but because I was imagining exactly what Mr. Paul Beauregard was doing, deep within the city, at his command post.

  Our ATC’s pilot maneuvered into position, then let docking command take over for the link. We thumped against the portside module jutting from the ring’s axis, and the ship locked in place. Wearing civilian tunics, we floated in zero-G toward the hatch. I keyed it open and pushed myself through the tube, into a narrow, pristine-white bay, where I was accosted by a security detail of three Western Alliance Marines wearing mag boots that kept them floor-bound. The sergeant, whose bloated face indicated that he had spent far too much time in zero-G, scanned my tac, then scanned Halitov’s. He blinked hard at the tablet in his hand, then said, “Your orders indicate zero arrival and log-in, is that correct?”

  “Yes, it is. Our orders come from the Security Chief and have already been acknowledged by Major Nicholls, Thirty-second Battalion, C-Corps.”

  “I understand that, but this is my watch, and I have a huge problem letting you two on board my station without any record of a log-in or verification of your IDs. You’re the second party this week with similar orders.”

  “Look, buddy, your CO says you have to let us through. You want to have a crisis of conscience over it, do it on your own time,” said Halitov.

  The sergeant bore his teeth. “You fuckin’ colonists coming in here. And a gennyboy to boot. Fuck you.”

  Shocked, I glanced to Halitov, his fuse already burned to the base, and shook my head fiercely before facing the sergeant. “I’m going to ask you once more for clearance.”

  The sergeant rolled his eyes and turned quickly to the lance corporal at his side, who tapped a panel on his wrist. A hatch behind them slid open. “Jones?” called the sergeant. “Take them to decon.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.” The lance corporal waved us over. “This way.”

  “Thanks for the hospitality,” Halitov growled as he floated past the sergeant, then he added his poorly disguised threat: “I hope to see you again on the way out.”

  “Off my deck now!” the sergeant boomed.

  “Nice,” I said as we glided into the decontamination chamber. “Very nice. You’ll make a fine ambassador some day.”

  Halitov flipped the sergeant the bird as the chamber door slid shut. “And these guys are our allies?” he asked.

  “I’m sure that attitude prevails. You don’t take former enemies and put them side-by-side without some of that.”

  “Or without some of this.” Halitov beat a fist into his palm.

  We stripped and went through the decontamination process, a formality since we had already been cleaned prior to boarding our ATC, but you didn’t get on board without decon—especially after the smallpox plague of 2297. Following that, we took a lift down, passing the zero-G production facilities where purer metals and more perfect and larger crystal growth occurred. Signs posted along the catwalks indicated the days and times of free tours.

  “You know, instead of stopping Paul and saving the colonies from Alliance tyranny, we could go sightseeing,” Halitov suggested in a deadpan. “I’ve always wanted to watch crystals grow.”

  “I already have,” I said, blank-faced. “My dad’s a geologist, remember? It’s fascinating.”

  “Do I laugh now?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Listen, Scott, I know you want to take him alive, but if it comes down to it, you know what I’ll do.”

  I took a deep breath and swore. How the hell had it ever come to this?

  We traveled directly toward one of the ring’s hollow spokes, where at a small hub we caught a maglev train for the city proper. A computer voice piped in through the overhead comm instructed us to strap into our seats and anticipate a gravitational increase. Halitov withdrew one of the vomit bags from the seat ahead and joked about it, just as gravity slapped its beefy paws on our shoulders. Within a minute, Halitov turned green, fumbled with the bag, and wound up puking on his shoes. I wish I could say I didn’t vomit. I wish I could say I had time to open my own bag. Instead, I puked on Halitov’s shoes. It just wasn’t his day.

  At the next hub, feeling the full effects of Earth-normal gravity, we sat on a bench for just a moment, swallowing hard against our sunken cheeks. Halitov rushed off to clean his shoes in a public rest room, then we bought a couple of bottled waters from a street vendor and hustled away from the hub, passing beneath a broad quickcrete awning until we stood on a platform overlooking the city. Although I had seen holos of the station’s interior, they did little justice. Ahead lay a meandering river paralleled by on both sides by mountainous terrain upon which thousands of apartment buildings, manufacturing plants, parks, shopping malls, and sports complexes had been constructed. The landscape curved up and away from us, with more of it visible through a vault of literally millions of windows, obscured here and there by tendrils of clouds. I hadn’t realized that there was actually weather inside the station, and for a moment, it was easy to forget that we were encased in billions of tons of steel.

  “Where do we meet Nicholls again?” Halitov asked, then gulped down the last of his water.

  “I’m glad you were paying attention during the briefing. What if I get shot and die? How will you finish this mission?”

  Halitov squinted in thought. “We’re going to his apartment. That’s right. Just outside the base.”

  “And you should know the address. Let’s get out of here.”

  As we double-timed down a staircase leading to the street, Halitov asked, “Help me understand why this guy is helping us.”

  “You heard Ms. Brooks. He’s a valuable contact and we should trust him.”

  “I get the feeling that before the war, this guy was one of her lovers.”

  “I hope he was.”

  At the corner below the maglev platform, we caught a cab, and on the way to Nicholls’s apartment, a squadron of EE60 Endo Troop Carriers, smaller versions of o
ur own ATCs, jetted overhead, followed by a second squadron, then a third.

  Halitov’s gaze tracked the carriers. “Shit, something’s going on.”

  “It’s the big attack,” said our cabdriver, an old man with a freckled pate and white teeth gone to bronze. “I knew it. Once we got in bed with the colonies, the Eastern Alliance would hit us. Fucking maniac politicians! They’re going to blow us all to hell!” The driver pulled to the side of the road, the engine still idling.

  “What are you doing?” I asked him.

  Ignoring me, he opened his door, hopped out, and just stood there in the middle of the road, shielding his eyes from the reflected sunlight and staring at yet another squadron of EE60s thundering overhead.

  Halitov burst from his door, jogged around the hover, then knifed into the driver’s seat, seized the half-wheel, and engaged the throttle.

  “We’re stealing his cab?” I cried.

  “He needs a moment,” Halitov said as we hissed off.

  I glanced back at the driver, who still hadn’t reacted to our departure. Nothing mattered anymore to him, and I understood his disbelief. The world that he knew—everything—was in jeopardy, more jeopardy than he could possibly know. I turned my attention to the tablet built into the rear of the driver’s seat. I pulled up a local news feed. An Eastern Alliance fleet had tawted into the system, arriving just 10,000 kilometers away from the station. The Western Alliance’s Second Fleet had set up an ambush, and while the two forces traded fire, Eastern Alliance troop carriers had penetrated the station’s perimeter defense network and troops were gaining forcible entry through the docking modules. In the distance, over the hover’s engine, I detected the report and echo of particle fire.

  “It’s already too late, isn’t it,” said Halitov. “Paul got them by the peridef so they can get their troops inside.”

  “Probably,” I answered. “But we can still remove him from command before he does anymore damage.”

  “If he hasn’t run.”

  “I don’t think he can. I think he needs to ensure that the Eastern Alliance gains control of this station.”

  Halitov abruptly pulled into a small lot adjacent to a five-story apartment complex. “Okay, this it.”

  We hopped out, and a stout security drone was about to confront us when an explosion about a kilometer down-ring stole its attention. An alarm went off as we rushed past the drone’s gate, then dashed frantically through a hallway, beyond the lift, and into the stairwell. We reached the fourth floor, found unit 491, and thumbed the hatchcomm. The door glided open.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Come on in, gentlemen,” came a man’s voice.

  A dimly lit living area lay before us, and on a small coffee table sat a tablet propped up on a stack of books. Colonel Nicholls, forty, with tiny eyes and gray temples, stared motionless at us from the screen. A databar below his image flashed the words MESSAGE AWAITING.

  “He’s not even here?” asked Halitov.

  “Would you be?” I countered, tipping my head up, toward the booming outside. I touched the screen and Nicholls spoke evenly:

  “Sorry I couldn’t meet you in person, but by now I’m sure you know why. On the table you’ll find a pair of particle rifles, along with two pistols loaded with six hiza darts each. The darts hold the antimnemo per your request. I’ve secured you some uniforms, temporary security clearances, and this tablet to locate the target, though if he does run a personnel check, he’ll pick you up, so you’ll have to move quickly. Good luck.”

  “Three words, man,” said Halitov, stripping out of his tunic. “It’s all about three words: element of surprise.”

  “Exactly,” I said, undressing myself. “We’ll only get one shot at him before he reaches into the bond and wills himself away.”

  “Man, I remember bullshitting with him back in the mess at South Point,” Halitov said, looking as wistful as I felt. “I just can’t believe this.”

  “Hey, he asked me, so I’ll ask you. What would you do if they had your mother and your father write her off?”

  “Anything but this.”

  “That’s easy to say, being on the outside.”

  “You defending him?”

  “Just trying to understand. Trying…”

  Dressed and fully armed, I accessed the tablet and learned that Paul, now a major, had established a command and communications post for his Twenty-first Battalion within an elevated maglev station in what we designated as Point Rattlesnake, one of thirty-one tactical defense positions lying opposite each maglev railway. Invading troops could enter the station only through the railways, lest they waste a whole lot of time trying to cut through the station itself. Thus, the bulk of our forces were concentrated in those potential breaches.

  “All right, we have a choice,” I said. “We see if that hover’s still outside and drive the thirty minutes over there, or we pay the price and use our magic.”

  “Let’s do one better,” said Halitov. “Let’s see if we can use an old miner’s trick and bypass those bugs in our head. Call it our coupon for a free ride.”

  “This one’s for you, Mr. Hardeson Poe,” I whispered, then closed my eyes, reached into myself, found the point, saw the two images of myself, and lo and behold, Halitov and I stood beside a warehouse opposite the maglev platform.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  I gasped, looked around, grinned a little. “Son of a bitch.” No drain. Nothing. Just force of will. I couldn’t tell if I had any control over my aging, but I didn’t feel any older.

  We squatted near the wall, skinned up, and zoomed in to pick out Paul’s snipers positioned along the roof, catwalks, and elevated walkways. I’d never seen soldiers looking more tense, all of them just waiting for those enemy troops who would come barreling through the tunnel in their airjeeps, particle cannons swiveling and blazing.

  And somewhere nearby, inside that complex, Mr. Paul Beauregard waited to begin choreographing the demise of his own battalion.

  “Ready?” Halitov asked.

  I took in a long breath, held it, and we bolted across the barren street, into the shadows collecting beneath the maglev platform.

  14

  18 February, 2322

  Had I been in the same room with President Vinnery, she would have throttled me for not consulting her before I met with the press corps. As she had ripped into me for that convenient oversight, her cheeks had grown so flushed that I wondered if she were having a breakdown. “Ma’am, I apologize. I should have spoken with you first.”

  “You’re damned right you should have. You’re over there negotiating with them like you’re the president, and you fail to notify me of your intention to divulge classified information to the press.”

  “Time was of the essence. And certainly my presence here represents our respect of their traditions. You know I’m hardly a replacement for you, and I thank you once again for allowing me to speak with them. I’m happy to say we’re making excellent progress.”

  “Somehow I doubt that. Anyway, Colonel, by tomorrow you’ll be relieved of your duties there.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “The Falls Morrow is en route to Earth. We’ll be tawting out in six hours.”

  “Coming here is too dangerous. Between the situation with the Aire-Wuian missionaries and the fleet, you’re inviting another attempt on your life.” I conveniently failed to add that her coming to Earth might make my investigation into her vote tampering a bit harder, since I had already hired investigators who were traveling to her ship, but they wouldn’t reach the vessel before it tawted out.

  “I’ve increased my security team. They assure me that I’ll be perfectly safe. And I’ve already told Wong and Holtzman that I’ll be having breakfast with them tomorrow.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do. You’re headed back home.”

  “I understand, ma’am. But if I stay, it’ll be two on two. You won’t be outnumbered.”

  “You�
�re groveling, Colonel. And it’s unbecoming.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’ll catch a shuttle out of there immediately.”

  “Understood.”

  She pursed her lips, gave a terse nod, ended the link.

  I sat there alone in my makeshift and meager command post within the Western Alliance capitol, thinking hard about my next move. I called Holtzman, who told me that Vinnery’s appearance might mean that she had been tipped off.

  “But why come here? To destroy the evidence? She knows that’d be impossible. You’ve backed it up on satnet.”

  “I don’t know why she’s coming in person. Perhaps you’ve bruised her ego. I do know that you shouldn’t leave. I don’t care what she told you, Colonel. I believe your life depends upon you staying.”

  “Message read and understood, sir.”

  “And Colonel, we might need to go public with our evidence before we’re able to round up all the traitors. President Wong and I have already discussed this, and it’s something we are prepared to do. No matter what, Vinnery will go down, but we need to take as many with her as we can.”

  “Just stall as long as you can. When the Falls Morrow arrives, I’m going to contact your operative on board. We’ll see what we can come up with. It’s clear Vinnery had help, and I’m betting some of those people are on board that ship.”

  “We’ll do what we can.”

  About two hours after my conversation with Holtzman, I sat at a small table in the president’s private dining room, glancing over a candle and Caesar salad at Ms. Elise Rainey. Wong, Holtzman, and their guests had already finished their meals and had been leaving when we had arrived, so technically Ms. Rainey and I had the entire dining room to ourselves. I say technically because Bren, Tat, Ysarm, and Jiggs loomed warily in the corners, and I had warned them about ogling my dinner guest.