by A P Heath
His Excellency Arstin Simler, Martian Ambassador to Jupiter’s Halo was the honoured guest, a proxy for the Marshall Governor himself.
Tylin Harten watched him as he made polite conversation with a small group of dignitaries from the colony moons.
He was a strange man for their times, squat and round where the majority were tall and slim. His wide face seemed open and approachable, but Harten had found the man to have a terribly annoying habit of allowing that friendly smile to hide a stubborn core as hard as the rock of the red planet.
They’d spoken on numerous occasions; the majority of their conversations amicable and pleasant, but Harten had found that once he broached the subject of Mars supporting the needs of the God’s Belt, that smile became a wall.
The Martian Ambassador would continue to smile, would continue to talk in a calm and cordial fashion, but his words would circle back on themselves and nothing would be achieved.
Tylin Harten marvelled at the self-serving nature of men. Mars was all but independent; sustained by its own water, able to mine the layers of its surface for minerals and with the technology to grow and spin their own food. What they lacked was a proper governing body, an authority recognised by both those on the surface and in the tunnels beneath. For this they looked to the Ministry, but in return they wished to give nothing.
The Deorum were another matter; fierce in their devotion to their own ruling tier and empowered by their monopoly over the ice mining that provided so many with the water so imperative to their survival. But they dwelled on Earth’s moon and station complexes hanging in the void; a lifeless rock and a collection of metal boxes and spheres, devoid of atmosphere, even the basic nitrates that would allow anything natural to grow. Their population boomed and they relied so heavily on trade goods from the Ministry and Mars to sustain even their generally sparse quality of life.
He didn’t even want to think on the pirate clans. Rovers and reavers all, contributing nothing and taking what they needed at the tip of a blade, the barrel of a gun.
If only they could all see.
Mankind had left the Earth behind to create new worlds in the wider solar system. It had been an age of exploration and wonder, a new page in the chequered history of the species. But as ever, humanity had failed to leave its enmities behind. Religion, race, creed; all were thrown together in the melting pots of the colonies.
It was rocky at first, conflict and civil unrest was common, but over the centuries these petty differences had fallen away. Christian, Buddhist, Muslim, Hindu, black and white, north and south; these things stopped being the points that marked people as being apart.
To walk the halls and corridors of Jupiter’s Halo was to see all the facets of humanity forging their lives side by side. It was the realisation of dreams that the boundaries of Earth would never allow to come to fruition.
Within this bright new era new factions were forming though. The age old link between territory and belief in superiority were emerging across the solar system.
On Earth’s moon it didn’t matter where a man had come from before, where his beliefs lay or what his family name was.
What mattered was that his home was now Earth’s moon.
The Deorum had risen from a mining company to the governing body; renaming their rock Luna in the process.
It had been gradual, a diversion here, a purchase of land there.
With the fall of Earth the people of its moon felt lost and without direction and the Deorum had seized that weakness to assert their dominance. Now to be Deorum meant a man was set apart from the rest of mankind.
On Mars the self-sufficiency of the planets economy created wealth and prosperity in those who had the power or the knowledge to exploit it. Never mind that the colony had originally been forged by explorers from Earth, just as all the colonies had. Now to be Martian meant a man was set apart from the rest of mankind.
And lastly came the Ministry and the colonies that circled its home on Jupiter’s Halo; the God’s Belt.
In this room alone there were ambassadors from Europa and Callisto. They even referred to themselves as Europan and Callistan. Not as part of their titles, but as a race name for the people they represented.
He knew that on the station complexes around the gas giant the people referred to themselves as ‘Jovians’.
It was astonishing; to put aside the differences that had plagued the human race for millennia, only to create new ones out here in the blackness of space.
Deorum, Martian, Callistan, Europan, Jovian, Delphi; all humans. All the same, but now all thinking of themselves as different from one another.
The Ministry governed them all. If they would only allow it to happen Harten knew the newly formed races of humanity could live in a system of harmony. He felt a little foolish at the thought. It sounded like words taken from a children’s story book, or a line from the fairy tale cine’s that so many loved to distract themselves from the trials of their lives with.
There was a swell in the motion of the room. The little groups were forever moving. A member would break off, seeking out new topics of conversation or old acquaintances or just a new audience for their tired old jokes. Some would stay, others would follow, or excuse themselves briefly to take a private moment, returning shortly afterward to a different huddle than the one they had left.
It was always the same in Harten’s experience. No matter the
occasion, no matter who the ‘honoured guest’ would be, the same people would speak with the same people. Even here, amongst those supposedly above such things, the rivalries were evident if one knew where to see them.
The Callistan Ambassador had wandered into a small group of lesser dignitaries from around the great station, which however, included the Europan Ambassador. A stony silence between the two quickly overcame the gentle conversation and soon nothing but nervous tension pervaded.
Harten was moved to intervene; to deftly redirect one from the other and allow the conversation to flow freely again. He was about to move in when a woman in shimmering blues and greens glided in between the two.
Her Excellency Arleese Semeon was a vision of gaudy luxury in her gown. Her hair was piled high over her head and shot through with long clear needles, beaded pearls hanging from their tips in colours to match her dress.
The colours changed and blended as the light moved over them, putting Harten in mind of the seas of Mars.
Her face was made up in pale shades, hiding the lines and wrinkles that gave away her advanced years. She was smiling broadly, her arm slipping around that of the Europan Ambassador and allowing her to guide him away.
Harten’s eyes followed her route, seeing how she insinuated the two of them into a group containing both the Martian Ambassador and the Secretary of the Ministry. Harten’s eyes narrowed as he watched the woman create a new huddle out of her chosen three. Her moves were subtle, seemingly accidental, but sure enough the remaining members of the previous conversation soon found themselves inexorably on the outside of a new discussion.
Harten knew the Secretary and Her Excellency had a relationship that went beyond the bounds of their professions. He could see the heads of her audience bowing close to hear her words.
What is she saying to them? He wondered.
A sound caught his attention, pulling his eyes away from the Deorum Ambassador just as she turned to accept a refreshed
drink from one of the waiters.
A crash of metal and the strange ringing sound of glasses spinning on a hard floor had turned all eyes on an unfortunate soul a few metres closer to the stage.
It would appear a collision had occurred. A waiter was on his knees, attempting to gather up his gilded tray and its spilled contents while apologising profusely to a large woman, a member of the Ministry’s administration wing Harten thought, who had received a large volume of the spilled liquids across the wide expanse of her pale cream gown.
Harten saw the swathe of red, almost as if she’d been slashed across her a
mple belly. She was taking the accident with poor grace; haranguing the waiter and fussing over her spoiled outfit, seeming not to realise that her flustered actions were not only making it harder for the young man to remedy the situation, but turning her into a comedic spectacle at the same time.
Harten allowed himself a thin smile at her misfortune.
The administrator’s loud complaints of her hardship were interrupted by a shout from elsewhere in the hall. Harten’s head snapped around to follow the sound and he saw it had issued from the throat of his own superior, the Secretary of the Ministry. He was calling for aid, for medical help. The others with him had bent to the floor, craning over something there.
Harten moved quickly, pushing past the crowded bodies that were gathering to see the cause of the commotion for themselves, to arrive at the Secretary’s side. On the floor he saw Arleese Semeon, lying flat, her eyes wide with pain. Her shimmering dress crumpled from her fall. Across her torso was a swathe of red, similar to that of the Administrator’s dress.
Where hers had been drying from red to faded brown in the heat of the hall, the Ambassador’s was slick with the fresh blood flowing from her. It dripped onto the polished marble floor, pooled beneath her as she gasped shallow breaths.
The Secretary continued to shout as the circle of staring faces around the Deorum Ambassador grew tighter. The light shining on her face was blocked by bodies jostling for a better
view.
As the shadow fell across her eyes she looked directly at Harten. He mouth moved up and down, trying to form words through the pain and shock that held her in a tight grip.
Harten tried to make sense of the faint sounds, kneeling beside her to lean in close. He could feel the warmth of her blood as it soaked into the knees of his dark trousers.
She gasped again, her breath failing her as her body started to shut down from blood loss. Her eyes were pleading, beseeching him to hear her valediction.
He pressed his face against hers, shrugging off the hands that tried to hold him back.
He could feel her struggling breath against his cheek, the warmth of her skin on his.
She was dying. Her wound was deep, mortal. Her vitality fading with every second that passed.
Harten concentrated on her lips, straining to shut out the background clamor of the hall in uproar. There was a word there. It was alien to him. A name maybe.
She was repeating it. Harten realised it was two words, the second so indistinct as to be little more than a murmur. He cupped his hands, holding them over her mouth and his ear. She breathed the words again, faint, but just audible enough for him to distinguish them.
“…Arto…Ceres…”
Harten lifted his head and looked in confusion into her eyes. He had no idea what she meant. He wasn’t sure he’d heard her properly.
As he looked down on her the Deorum Ambassador nodded slightly, exhaled a short breath and closed her eyes.
TWENTY-NINE
The comms’ filling the bridge of the Pride were a mess of overlapping voices, calls for support, evacuation, cries of wounded men and women. Lord Admiral DeMarchek was astounded.
This was not how the marines of First Company conducted their operations.
He had demanded the network be restricted to officer level comms only to reduce the noise and bring him clarity of the situation. It was no better.
Officers were injured, dead or simply unresponsive, their comms tripping down the command chain automatically and allowing for marines of any rank to share their panic and fear unchecked.
He stood with his hand resting on the high back of Captain Strarsaan’s command chair. Around them the crew of the bridge worked at their stations and terminals. He knew each would be listening, wondering at the mix of messages coming through the comms.
DeMarchek needed answers. He needed a calm voice, someone in control of themselves to bring control to this situation.
“Restrict comms to Captain Lanad.” He ordered the officers of the communications relay.
“Direct comms set Lord Admiral.”
“Captain Lanad.” He tried. “Captain Lanad respond.” The comms link returned only silence.
“Re-direct to Captain Timonny.” For all the man’s bluster and self-importance DeMarchek would be glad to hear even his voice.
“The link is unresponsive Lord Admiral,” The lead comms officer replied.
“Then get me a lieutenant, a sergeant.”
He rounded on the officer, “Get me someone in charge down there and damn it get them on comms now!”
He roared the last few words, letting his anger overcome his usual measured tone.
“Yes Lord Admiral.” The officer squeaked, turning in his chair and feverishly working at the panel of his station.
What a bloody mess! The Lord Admiral thought to himself.
All had been going well, just as expected. They had found the bodies of the LSS security force, at least some of them, although the marines were not privy to their assignment on the station or even their exact designation.
The operational existence of the LSS was a closely guarded secret of Command.
What better way to ensure the confidentiality of the dark but necessary deeds they undertook, than to deny their very existence. Denial was easiest to achieve when there weren’t any questions being asked, so Command took great pains to reduce the likelihood of such queries ever arising.
The unit had been stationed on GS-114.66.1-Delta to prevent just such an occasion as had arisen now. They were supposed to remove any potential threat and prevent focus being drawn to the station at all.
DeMarchek had received explicit orders regarding the deployment of his marines; they were not, in any instance, to question or attempt to debrief any living station personnel they encountered.
They were not, no matter the circumstances, to attempt entry of the fusion core reactor. There was too much at stake.
If any marine were to raise questions about its contents DeMarchek had been ordered, ordered to return that marine and those of his or her squad to Central Command for debriefing.
He knew better than to ask those sorts of questions himself. The station reactor core should be no different than any other in the stations or fleet of the Deorum. There was something different, something special but ultimately dangerous about this one though. DeMarchek chided himself, all reactors were dangerous by design, so there was something even more dangerous about the contents of this one.
Captain Lanad had reported enemy forces attempting to breach the core chamber of GS-114 and DeMarchek had felt he had no choice but to allow the captain to send a force of his
own to remove the threat.
That did not seem to have worked though. The last transmission from the sergeant he’d tasked to clear the reactor chamber, a woman called Johs, had been distorted by the radiation of the chamber. Only some of the words made it through to the Pride and her comms cut off abruptly before any real sense could be made of her garbled messages.
Now Lanad was not responding, Timonny’s comm was dead and his last attempt to reach Lieutenant Mentrim had been returned by some simpleton sergeant, gabbing about un-killable enemies and crying for emergency evac. The whole situation was disastrous.
DeMarchek had been able to ascertain that the station personnel; the comms officers, med-techs and scientific team, had evacuated, but to where was uncertain. There was no life beacon from an evac pod attempting a return to Luna and the only other option was…
Why the hell does a supply station need a team of scientists?
DeMarchek did not want to finish that thought. It would lead him to questions he had been specifically ordered not to ask.
The enemy forces tearing his marines to pieces were another puzzle of unsettling magnitude.
His intelligence, though sparse, had supposed the distress signal was most likely a glitch in the comms array, with an outside possibility of attempted boarding by hostile forces. His strategic staff had assured
him the probability of such an occurrence was less than eighteen percent.
Command had instructed a full combat compliment of marines nonetheless. Something about this station was important.
Important enough to warrant a standing unit of LSS operatives and the dispatching of over one-hundred marines; practically a whole Company, to ensure the security of Deorum property.
His thoughts were interrupted by the comms officer of the bridge.
“We have contact with an officer sir.” He spoke the words almost timidly.
“Comm link is live and fully operational.”
“Good,” DeMarchek replied, “Who is it, Timonny?”
The comms officer looked uncertainly at his panel before replying.
“No sir it’s…it’s Lieutenant Cassini sir.”
DeMarchek’s face didn’t register the name for a moment, then memory kicked in just as the comms officer continued, “Lieutenant of the First Company Reserve, sir.” He finished.
DeMarchek was surprised; he wouldn’t have expected Cassini to be the last man standing. He knew the officer from Lanad’s reports only. A cautious man, strong but lacking imagination. He had been promoted at Lanad’s insistence after that fiasco on AM-960. DeMarchek recalled that Timonny had pushed for another sergeant to be raised up, although the name now escaped him.
“Send to my private comms.” He instructed.
The bridge officer nodded and DeMarchek felt the link open in his head.
“Situation report Lieutenant,” He demanded, “Tell me what the hell’s going on down there!”
The comm link was silent for a moment then Lieutenant Cassini responded.
“Lord Admiral,” His voice was calm and DeMarchek felt a tremor of relief at hearing someone who seemed un-panicked by the mayhem the mission had dissolved into.
“First Company have taken heavy losses sir,” Cassini continued, “At present numbers are unclear, but estimations are that we’ve lost sixty percent combat effectiveness.” DeMarchek was shocked. Sixty percent was huge!
He began to think the lieutenant might not be quite so on top of the situation, but the report was far from concluded.
