by Ben Weaver
“Scott, there are forces at work here, political forces, military forces, that you couldn’t possibly understand. We both want what’s best for the colonies.”
“And what’s best? Another war to boost the economy?” My voice came in a growl. “You don’t know what that’s like.”
She widened her gaze. “Maybe not. But I will…” She tapped her tac, spoke rapidly. “Authentication five-niner-zero-tango-five, voice ID initiate. Orders batch nine.”
“Now!” Holtzman cried, and even before he finished, a dozen conditioned security officers materialized in the room and confronted Vinnery’s people. Particle fire thundered as I dove across the table, seized Vinnery’s wrist, then dragged her to the carpet as rounds crisscrossed overhead.
“It’s too late,” Vinnery said, struggling to free her arm. “God help me, it’s too late.”
“That list of intell officers you sent me. Those are names, right?” I asked. “Those are the names.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve ordered the strike. We’re going to war. It’s what we need.”
A final round echoed, then someone cried, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!”
My nose crinkled at a burning stench that nearly made me gag. Vinnery’s security team lay crumpled, dead, along with three of Holtzman’s people. Yet another security squad of ten rushed into the room, sweeping the perimeter.
“President Wong?” cried Holtzman.
“Over here,” said Wong, sitting up against the wall and gripping his shoulder with a blood-stained hand. “It’s not too bad.”
“Get me a medic in here now!” shouted Holtzman to his security team leader.
I dragged Vinnery to her feet, glanced to Wong, then turned my blackest look on my president. “You’re lucky. Very lucky. Now you’ll come with us. We want to show you something. President Holtzman?”
We followed a breathless Holtzman out of the dining room and into his office. We remained standing as he activated the holo projector. A satnet image showed our Colonial fleet moving out of orbit, preparing to tawt. Vinnery’s mouth slowly fell open. “How?”
“The order you just gave was not authenticated,” I said. “But the one from the vice president was. He ordered the retreat, overriding your order based on vice presidential protocol thirty-nine-A. Are you familiar with that protocol, ma’am?”
“That protocol details acts of treason, Colonel,” she snapped.
“Yes, ma’am. It does.”
“Madam President, we’ve ordered our fleet over Rexi-Calhoon to pull out. I’ll have images of that within the hour. The standoff is over. There will be no war. There will, however, be a recount in both the houses of Mars and Jupiter.”
“Then let me ask you this, Mr. President,” Vinnery said. “What if the vote to secede stands? What then?”
“I’m confident that it will not.”
“But what if it does? Are you prepared to lose those colonies?”
“I am. And so is President Wong. The will of the people must prevail—not the will of a select few. Now, two of my officers are waiting to take you into protective custody.”
“We’re not finished here!” Vinnery boomed.
“Madam President, I can’t stand to look at you anymore. Get out of my office. NOW!”
Vinnery boiled for a second, then spun on her heels and marched off. She slammed the door after herself.
“Jesus Christ,” muttered Holtzman. “What have we done?”
“I’m not sure, sir. But at least it feels right.”
Holtzman came around his desk, dropped a hand on my shoulder. “Yes, Colonel, it does. So tell me, when all hell broke loose, you could have forced her into a round, got her killed. What held you back?”
“I don’t know. Duty and honor, I guess. Sounds trite.”
“You know, Colonel, those political and military forces she mentioned are still out there. We brought down a conspiracy, but we hardly whipped the special interests.”
“No doubt. And now the colonial presidency will be tarnished for the first time ever. I’m glad I’m not the vice president.”
“He’s going to need all the help he can get. I’m glad he has you on his team.”
“Thank you, sir.”
During the week that followed, another election took place, and the vote to secede did not stand by a margin of sixty percent. With that nightmare over, I made a quick trip to Kennedy-Centauri. Elise Rainey had kept a small condo in Plymouth, and about a kilometer away, within a beautifully landscaped cemetery dome, she was set to rest. Her two sons, James and Michael, both in their early thirties, took me out to dinner after the funeral, and I shared with them the story of Columbia Colony and how their mother and I had helped each other over the years. While they were still bitter because their mother had put her career first, they understood that her contributions to the colonial community were great. They were proud of what she had achieved, yet a certain distance gripped their voices, a distance that prompted me to reflect on my own relationship with my daughter.
When I returned home to Rexi-Calhoon, I attended the funerals of Tat, Ysarm, and Jiggs, offering my condolences to each of their families. Bren was cremated, his ashes scattered in the vacuum by his brother, a police officer who had frequently appeared on the news channels and was hoping to get a book deal out of his brother’s involvement in “The Sol Vote Conspiracy.” I was still in shock over Bren’s betrayal and might never come to terms with it. I had repeatedly placed my life in that man’s hands, and he had been ready to kill me at a moment’s notice. How could I have been so naïve? So foolish? I cursed him. But more so, I cursed myself and vowed never again to place as much trust in a security officer.
Still, there was a man, who, despite one unfortunate betrayal, had rekindled my trust and would be the best officer I would ever find.
“Hell no!” cried Rooslin Halitov, sitting behind his colossal desk, his sandaled feet kicked up onto his computer’s touch screen as he stroked his sandy gray beard. I didn’t notice the ponytail until he turned his head. “My sister and I are making money hand over fist. Do you know how many new accounts we racked up just last month?”
I kicked up my own expensive leather shoes onto his desk, threw my hands behind my head. “I don’t care, Rooslin. Tell me you’re happy, sitting here on Aire-Wu, running this little security business, and I’ll leave you alone.”
“I told you when I got discharged that this was the plan.” He set his feet on the floor, leaned forward, and motioned me closer. “That Hardeson Poe guy, all those years ago? He told me this. He told me my calling would be with her. We’re very happy and successful here. She found a nice guy, started a family.”
“And you’re still chasing tail.”
He winked. “College girls.”
“Is that why you got the ring?”
He fingered the diamond chip glittering on his eyebrow. “They love it.”
“You’re a dirty old man.”
“Only on weekends.”
I grinned, took a deep breath. “Rooslin, they tried to kill me.”
“Bastards. I saw it on the news.”
“I need you, man. More than ever. The vice president is in a world of shit.”
“So are you. In fact, it’s blinded you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you can’t see how shitty this invitation is, can you.”
“Your sister can run this business.”
“I know she can.”
“Then pack your bags. We’re shipping out tonight.”
He came around the desk, leaned on it, folded his arms across his chest. “I have to pass.”
“Rooslin, it’s me.”
“I’m sorry, man. I just can’t do it.”
I stood, began to choke up, realizing that he was really turning me down. I offered my hand. “Well, then. It was great seeing you. We should get together again some time. Maybe…”
He grabbed my hand, nearly squeezed it off. “You
dumb fuck. Look at you, about to cry. Of course I’ll help you. I’ll lead your security team, and I’ll get the moles for you, too. They’ll never know what hit them—but I get to keep the hair and the brow ring.”
I heaved a deep sigh. “You could’ve just said yes, you idiot.”
“Too easy. Hey, you hungry? My sister cooks dinner for me every Friday.”
“What’s she making?”
He made a face. “You have to ask?”
21 November, 2326
Four years after I recruited Halitov to serve as my security team leader, we found ourselves standing in a large banquet room of the Exxo-Tally Astoria, one of the most posh hotels on Rexi-Calhoon. Along with a crowd of nearly two hundred, we watched a holo of all Seventeen Systems floating above us, planets revolving around their suns in real time. Beside each ghostly world hung databars reporting election results. In a few moments we would know who would be the next president of the Colonial Alliance.
Halitov gulped down the last of his Tau Ceti vodka. “Well, that’s my first and last.”
“Drinking on the job again? I should’ve fired you four years ago—the day after I hired you.”
“I heard Joanna made captain.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
He threw an arm over my shoulder. “Hey, man. We’ve got this entire area locked down. Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Easy for you to say.”
Jarrett came hustling over, his artificial legs moving so naturally that you would never guess he had survived a nightmare made real. “Scott!”
“You made it,” I said, taking his hand.
“We almost didn’t. You know Dad. He has to stop and talk to everyone.”
“Where is he?”
“He went off looking for the food. I’m sure he’ll turn up. So how’re you doing?”
“I’m dying over here.”
Halitov nudged me. “Don’t die yet—because here it comes.”
Holo journalist Raverna Avery, perhaps the most familiar newscaster on Rexi-Calhoon, appeared at her desk, flanked by the shimmering star systems. “Ladies and gentlemen, the results have been tallied, and we can report with certainty that former Security Chief Scott St. Andrew has won his bid for president. I repeat, Scott St. Andrew will become the next president of the Colonial Alliance.”
A deafening roar lifted in the banquet room as Halitov grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “Son of a bitch, you won, man! You won! Finally, after all the bullshit we’ve been through, we get to run the show!”
“What do you mean ‘we’?” I shouted with mock seriousness, barely able to hear myself.
He glanced back as Katya came over, then made way as she hugged me so tightly that I lost my breath. “I am so proud of you, Scott. So proud.”
“Daddy!” cried Joanna, rushing toward me in her black dress uniform, her captain’s gon proudly displayed on her breast. You’d never know she was the daughter of two epineuropaths. Not a single birthmark marred her beaming face. “Daddy, I can’t believe it. You won!”
“I guess I did,” I said, accepting her into my arms. “And I know this’ll be rough on you.”
“I’ve lived in your shadow for this long. Trust me. I can take it.” With that, she pulled back, winked, then willed herself across the room, to a knot of other Colonial Wardens, friends from her unit.
“I told you not to show off,” I shouted, but she didn’t hear me.
“Congratulations, Mr. President,” said Jarrett, grabbing my chin. “My kid brother. Who would’ve thought…”
“Come on,” said Katya St. Andrew, the Colonial Alliance’s new first lady. “Acceptance speech. And it had better be longer than the one you gave when you became security chief.”
“Longer, yes. Better? We’ll find out…”
“I don’t know why you didn’t want my help…”
“I can handle this,” I said, moving shakily toward the dais, people slapping me on the back during the entire walk. “Katya?”
“I’m right behind you.”
“Stay close. Maybe I can’t handle this. Maybe I’m going to pass out.”
“Give the speech first,” she ordered.
Finding strength in her tone, I reached the dais, gripped the podium with one hand, then hoisted a fist in the air as the microphone hovered into place. “To the person who said a kid from the mines of Gatewood-Callista, a gennyboy no less, would never grow up to become president, I say this: here I am. Here I AM!”
Chilled by yet another wave of thunderous applause, I spotted Halitov near the northwest exit, whistling, clapping, as tears slipped down his cheeks. Then Katya broke down, even after she had promised she wouldn’t. I’d forgive her for that. I’d forgive both of them for making me cry. After all, we were old soldiers, the three of us, standing there among the living, standing there in memory of our fallen comrades. I saw ghosts in the crowd: Joey Haltiwanger, Dina Forrest, Jane Clarion, Judiah Pope, Kristi Breckinridge, and even Paul Beauregard. Many more joined them. Hundreds more. Thousands more. We had all been brothers, rebels, and patriots fighting together for a just and lasting peace. Sure, some would forget us or take what we had done for granted.
But some would always remember.
Acknowledgments
Once again, I must thank Jennifer Brehl and Diana Gill at Eos for their encouragement and editorial expertise. With their help, this series has become far better than I could have imagined.
Thanks once more to my agent, John Talbot, whose enthusiasm can turn a lonely writing day into one with laughs and excitement.
I’m very much indebted to Nancy, Lauren, and Kendall, who understand the demands of a writing career and fully support me while I’m figuratively “blowing stuff up.” I thank them for keeping the peace at home.
Finally, as I mentioned in the previous volume, both Robert Drake and Caitlin Blasdell helped me create this series. Their ideas, criticism, and strong belief in my writing are what made this happen.
About the Author
BENJAMIN ANDREW WEAVER is a military scholar, astronomer, and armchair physicist with a keen interest in weapons technology, quantum theory, and the search for extrasolar planets. He spent four years conceiving, researching, and writing the first two Scott St. Andrew novels, Brothers in Arms and Rebels in Arms, from his home in Central Florida.
Readers are invited to email him at [email protected].
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Also by
Ben Weaver
BROTHERS IN ARMS
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
PATRIOTS IN ARMS. Copyright © 2003 by Ben Weaver. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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