Combat Frame XSeed

by Brian Niemeier

  Sanzen kept his eyes locked on the gallery. “Will you say the same to Terrestrial Affairs Secretary Gohaku? What about Commerce Secretary Satsu? Is there any other department in the SOC whose wanton spending is not rubber stamped by the Secretariat?”

  Seated on either side of Mitsu, portly graying Gohaku and rail-thin Satsu cast identical looks of displeasure at their chief executive. How did I miss that obvious trap? she rebuked herself.

  “We colonists endured a brutal trial after the Collapse,” Sanzen continued. “Perhaps we sacrificed our humanity to survive, as the grounders claim. I contend that our ordeal forced us to advance beyond every prior human society. Yet, while the Secretariat basks in luxury, the unsung heroes of the Security Corps fight and die on Earth.”

  The chamber fell quiet. A knot tightened in Mitsu’s stomach. They’re hanging on his every word. Even, she noted with distaste, the offensive slur for Earth natives.

  “Let us not become desensitized to the suffering of our own people,” said Sanzen, “our guardians and defenders! I implore you on behalf of the countless voices which cannot be heard across the gulf of space: Lend us your full strength that we may defeat the insurgents who endanger our lives…and our dream!”

  The gallery erupted in applause while Sanzen’s last syllable hung in the sterile air. Mitsu saw her goal of Earth’s bloodless pacification recede further out of reach.

  Sanzen forged ahead. “It is not only the halfhearted support of an indecisive administration that has condemned our brothers below to suffer. It is the SOC’s foolish entanglements with the so-called governments of Earth. We have always sought to carry out our mission with their cooperation. But how often has our generosity met with deceit and betrayal? How many of earth’s self-styled leaders have revealed themselves as greedy shiftless criminals?”

  Discontented muttering emanated from the gallery. But this time Mitsu sensed that the discontent was directed at the Secretaries’ Platform and her in particular. Sanzen is a glorified thug, she reminded herself. But he’s playing the chamber like a veteran political hand. Someone’s been coaching him.

  “My solution to this twofold problem is simple,” the Director said. “The Coalition Secretariat must show it is willing to lend full support to the Security Corps while extracting itself from all ruinous agreements with illegitimate governments.

  “To that end, I submit to you Operation Oversight. Prepared by myself and my finest security advisors, this initiative will unleash the Coalition’s full might against the criminal syndicates masquerading as Earth’s governments!”

  Applause still thundered from the chamber as Mitsu retreated down the curving, blue-carpeted hallway to her private office. It wasn’t just the sting of defeat that hastened her steps, but humiliation at an outsider’s hands.

  Originally from L2 beyond the moon’s orbit, exo-archaeologist Sanzen Kaimora had spent most of his working life on Mars. The infamous paper presenting his findings had been suppressed by L1’s government before the SOC’s founding, but its contents had won Sanzen a chief researcher position on the Colonization Commission’s shadowy Project S. Five commissioners had nominated him for CSC director, forcing Mitsu to approve his appointment.

  Mitsu would have given anything for such powerful benefactors. She’d have given more for an uncensored copy of Sanzen’s paper and access to records from his tenure as a Project S lead. As chief executive of the Systems Overterrestrial Coalition, Mitsu Kasei of L1 wielded more authority than any president, prime minister, or queen in Earth’s history. Yet all the powers of her office couldn’t unlock her opponent’s secrets.

  Someday I’ll find the key, she thought. Like everyone else, Sanzen’s past contained the seeds of his undoing.

  Mitsu stepped into her secluded office and stifled a gasp. A slight young woman in a black sweater, a blue plaid skirt, and dark green leggings stood before the glass bookshelf set against the opposite wall. The girl giggled as she thumbed through an antique volume.

  “Excuse me,” the Secretary-General said. “You’re not—Oh!”

  The girl’s waist-length black hair whipped as she turned, and Mitsu found herself meeting a familiar dark-eyed gaze.

  “Megami.” Mitsu sighed with relief. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  Sanzen’s aide snapped shut Mitsu’s first edition printing of Alraune. “I thought you could use some company after today’s session.”

  Mitsu collapsed onto her cream-colored satin sofa and let the smooth cushions conform to her. “I suppose you’re right. Sanzen completely blindsided me. Do you know who writes his speeches?”

  Megami crossed the small room and pressed a dainty index finger to the security panel. The door slid shut with a soft hiss. “Probably an intern. But the sentiments were definitely his. Do you find them disturbing?”

  “I just don’t understand why he always pushes for the military solution.”

  “Humans don’t have to check their natural aggression to survive in space anymore,” said Megami. She seated herself in a matching chair across from Mitsu, crossing her legs in ladylike fashion. “The SOC’s prosperity has given them time for previously wasteful pursuits, including Sanzen’s penchant for military history.”

  Mitsu sniffed. “A strange hobby.”

  “That hobby got him nominated to head the CSC,” Megami said. “No one expected Sanzen to become like the grounders he studied—least of all you—but he’s internalized their violence.”

  It makes sense, thought Mitsu. She’d always harbored fears that the earth’s backward ways might somehow infect the colonists. But one doubt lingered. “You’re the Director’s aide. Why are you sharing his confidential information with me?”

  The girl’s sharp face fell. “I never asked to be Sanzen’s pet. He thinks the earth can only be pacified through victory over it. He’s blind to the worldwide bloodbath his conquest would entail. You want the Coalition to take custody of Earth’s people through peaceful negotiation.”

  Mitsu’s heart leapt. Finally! Someone understands. But her elation soon passed. “Operation Oversight has me in a bind. If I deny Sanzen outright, I validate his claim that I’m neglecting the Security Corps. But authorizing the operation is tantamount to declaring war on Earth.”

  Megami stood and smoothed her skirt. “If you’re given two choices, make a third.”

  “How?” asked Mitsu.

  “Why use force when projecting the threat of force can achieve the same goal?”

  Mitsu couldn’t see what the girl was implying, but she admitted herself intrigued. “Go on.”

  “Send envoys from the Terrestrial Affairs Ministry with a message for the leaders on Sanzen’s blacklist,” Megami said, running her hand over dusty books by Sun Tzu, Musashi, and Clausewitz. “Tell them the Coalition refuses to do business with warlords. Threaten to cut off aid unless their governments meet your demands. That way, you can support the CSC without giving Sanzen his war.”

  “What if the warlords refuse to negotiate?”

  “I’ll make sure Sanzen’s plan for Operation Oversight is leaked through the right channels,” said Megami. “If Earth’s leaders think he’s about to crush them, they’ll beg to negotiate with you.”

  The plan seemed too good to be true, and a moment’s thought showed Mitsu why. “By leaking Sanzen’s plans, don’t we run the risk of the warlords attacking first?”

  “If that happens, the Security Corps will be hardest hit. Sanzen will overreact and make a mistake—one you can exploit.”

  Megami’s words eased the agitation that had plagued Mitsu since Sanzen’s address. She couldn’t find fault with the girl’s reasoning, but a pang of uncertainty remained in the back of her mind. I’m being indecisive, just like Sanzen said.

  Mitsu rose and stepped around her lavender-colored desk to her secure terminal. “I’ll make the arrangements with Secretary Gohaku,” she said in defiance of her misgivings.

  “I knew I could trust you,” Megami said. “You’
ve saved untold lives today.”

  The Secretary-General barely heard her door hiss open and shut as she rang the Secretary of Terrestrial Affairs’ encrypted line.

  Megami showed herself out of Mitsu’s office and strolled down the empty hallway to a gray carbon polymer door like all the others. It opened onto a narrow corridor bearing the musty smell of disuse. The forgotten service passage led under the Secretariat Complex and into the substructure of the colony itself. Power had long since been routed to more vital areas, leaving the tunnel cloaked in the artificial dusk of emergency lights.

  An imposing figure emerged from the gloom. The sort of familiarity that so easily bred contempt granted Megami instant recognition of Sanzen Kaimora. He sported the same dark suit he’d worn for that morning’s address. His razor-straight goatee framed a tight line of a mouth.

  “Mitsu didn’t have you followed?” His question ended with a curt laugh.

  “She’s too innocent,” said Megami.

  “The seeds have been planted?”

  A wry grin tugged at the corner of Megami’s lip. “Mitsu will give us everything we want.”

  5

  Sieg took the measure of his captors as he sat handcuffed in the cramped, noisy cabin of Major Collins’ gunship. He looked past Ritter, whose tanned hands cradled his face, and through the left window. His and Ritter’s Grenzies and Kopp’s damaged Grento dangled like ripe fruit from the three transport helos flying beside them.

  The Earth Governments in Exile claim to be legitimate, but they’re just scavengers, too. I hope they’ll listen to reason. Sieg brushed his jacket’s breast pocket with his thumb and felt the silk ribbon tucked inside.

  Edmonds sat on a canvas bench facing Sieg and Ritter. The EGE soldier’s fleshy face betrayed no emotion as he kept watch on his prisoners. Behind Edmonds, Collins and Zimmer piloted the gunship from its double-decker cockpit. Through the forward bubble canopy Sieg glimpsed a massive ship with a flat, angular deck gliding on the azure sea below.

  That carrier is older than some of the space colonies, thought Sieg. Sixteen Shenlong V/STOL attack aircraft—and Darving’s oddball fighter—occupied the ship’s bustling flight deck. It clearly wasn’t a pre-Collapse American supercarrier. The ship had probably been a fleet defense carrier from a nation that had sat out the war between the Atlasid Caliphate and the seventh Holy League.

  Collins brought the gunship in near the carrier’s island, a forty-five meter tower sprouting a forest of antennas. The three transport helos hovered over a port-side elevator, where a deck crew helped unload the combat frames.

  The gunship came to rest tilting slightly to the left. Edmonds, along with two men seated behind Sieg whose names he hadn’t caught, escorted the prisoners onto the ship. The scents of saltwater and jet fuel assaulted Sieg’s nose as he stood in the whipping breeze amid the controlled chaos of the flight deck.

  Collins and Zimmer emerged from the cockpit and stood facing the island. An older man in a khaki uniform bearing an FMAS flag strode purposefully toward the gunship. His wavy hair and neatly trimmed beard matched the white clouds overhead. His light blue eyes took in the surrounding activity at a glance and settled on Collins.

  “Who’s the geezer?” asked Ritter.

  “That’s Griff Larson,” Zimmer whispered behind his hand, “hero of the Mid-American Campaigns. They say he uses a knife for a pillow.”

  “Colonel Larson,” Collins said with a crisp salute, “I trust you received my message, sir.”

  Larson eyed the prisoners while returning Collins’ salute. “I didn’t come above for a stroll, Major,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Now, how about telling me why some damned squid spooks interrupted my meeting with General McCaskey?”

  “Sir,” said Collins, “I came into possession of sensitive information that OPSEC procedure dictates be screened through Naval Intelligence. I—”

  “Get to the point, Colons, or start swimming back to Pansy Island.”

  “It’s Collins, sir. And I wish you wouldn’t refer to England that way.”

  “I wish I knew why the hell I’m standing out here holding my dick. Get on with it, Major.”

  “While en route back to the Yamamoto,” said Collins, “I responded to Captain Darving’s report of smoke rising from a small village. My crew and I found that a paramilitary group had razed the settlement using stolen Soc combat frames. Between Darving and my crew, we killed all of the hostiles except these two.” He nodded to Sieg and Ritter.

  One corner of Larson’s mouth turned downward. “Colons, you don’t need my permission to throw bandits in the brig. Hell, in the militia we’d have stood them in front of a trench they’d dug, shot them, and used the CFs to push the dirt back in. I’m not hearing why I got a visit from Omaka’s snitches.”

  “Sir, I strongly advise having that prisoner, who identified himself as Tod Ritter, incarcerated before we discuss potentially global scale—”

  “Major, I strongly advise spilling your guts before I reassign your bird as the maintenance division’s hangar queen. The General’s been riding me to solve our parts shortage.”

  Collins winced. He gestured to Sieg. “Sir, this man claims that his father was the late L3 Prime Minister Josef Friedlander.”

  Larson cocked a snowy eyebrow at Collins’ copilot. “Throw the kid in the brig, Mike.”

  “Wait,” Ritter shouted as Zimmer led him away. “Don’t I get a trial?”

  “We’ll get around to it,” said Larson. “Collins, you’re with me. Bring towhead along.”

  Larson turned and marched toward the island. Collins stepped behind Sieg and nudged him forward. The three of them entered the ship’s dim, crowded command center and descended a nearly vertical staircase to a narrow corridor with white and gray steel walls. They brushed past a steady flow of crewmen whose echoing footsteps filled the hallway. The Colonel stopped at the fourth door on the right and knocked.

  “Come in,” said a calm resonant voice only partly muffled by the door. Larson turned the knob and entered. Collins marched Sieg in after the Colonel.

  Sieg found himself in an austere office painted off-white and furnished with a simple oak desk fronted by two steel chairs. Behind the desk sat a leather office chair occupied by a man slightly older than Larson. He had iron gray hair and a lined face with a strong chin. His tan uniform also had an FMAS patch with twenty-five stars and two vertical blue stripes flanking a larger red stripe. The black glass nameplate before him read GEN Edward McCaskey.

  Larson planted himself two steps from the desk and saluted. McCaskey returned Larson’s salute. His dark eyes focused on Collins. “Go ahead and uncuff him.”

  Collins complied. Sieg fought the urge to rub his sore wrists. Instead he kept his hands still and his eyes open.

  “Thank you, Major,” McCaskey said. “Dismissed.”

  Collins gave a textbook salute and left, closing the door behind him with a metallic thud.

  “Are you sure we can trust this guy?” Larson asked McCaskey.

  “Admiral Omaka cleared him.” The General waved both men toward the chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat, gentlemen. We have a lot to discuss.”

  Sieg took the chair on the right. Its firm support came as a relief after riding in a helo jumpseat. Larson shot a skeptical glance at Sieg before sitting down next to him.

  “Be advised, Colonel, that this entire conversation is classified,” McCaskey warned. “Do not share anything you hear in this room with your men—especially not Collins. But especially not Darving.”

  Larson folded his arms across his sinewy chest. “I got it. Darving’s girlfriend works for Omaka, and he’s two-timing her with his jet. Icebergs are less likely to cause leaks.”

  “If the preamble’s over,” said Sieg, “I’m sure the Admiral told you my mission is vital to the earth’s independence.”

  “What’s left of it,” Larson scoffed. “Except for us and a few warlords, the planet’s run from space by a nanny state on steroid
s.”

  Sieg locked eyes with the Colonel. “Exactly. The Coalition already controls most of North America and all of Europe. They just established a beachhead in the Middle East and are planning to expand from there. The EGE has been forced to abandon all its land bases. You still operate from your Atlantic fleet, but the Socs can come for you whenever they want.”

  “The FMAS Militia’s kept a big swath of Middle America Soc-free,” Larson said. “There’ll still be at least one independent people on Earth as long as my boys keep up the fight back home.”

  “Wishful thinking,” said Sieg. “The SOC hasn’t gotten serious yet. Secretary-General Mitsu is still keeping Director Sanzen reined in, but his influence is growing. If he gains the upper hand, the Socs will roll over you in a week.”

  “That’s truer than you know,” said McCaskey. He leaned forward, planted his elbows on his desk, and laced his fingers. “Sanzen just gave a speech to the Coalition Secretariat. He outlined an aggressive foreign policy that would cut off the exiled royal families that are our main source of funding. And that’s just for starters. There are rumors that Mitsu plans to endorse key parts of his plan.”

  “Alright, Golden Boy,” Larson said, “where do you fit into this FUBAR picture?”

  “I’m an operative with ZoDiaC,” said Sieg.

  Larson tilted his head to one side. “I take it you’re not an astrologer.”

  “He’s with the Zone Demilitarisée Coloniale,” McCaskey explained. “They’re a secret alliance of space colonies opposed to the Coalition’s military intervention on Earth.”

  “I doubt ZoDiaC’s working against the Socs out of neighborly concern for Earth,” said Larson. “What’s their angle?”

  “Enlightened self-interest,” said Sieg. “ZoDiaC’s member colonies—particularly those in L3—know the Coalition will come for them when they’re done with you.”