The Forbidden Army

by Henrik Rohdin

  “Of course, John.”

  Gresham climbed into the shower, and a small screen embedded in the wall flashed to life, the broadcast continuing where he’d left off.

  “Commissioner Jack French announced that he has formed an exploratory committee for pursuing the nomination of the Allied Socialist Party for next year’s Presidential election. French is regarded as the preferred candidate of the ASP’s moderate wing, and would likely face a crowded field of candidates from the party’s left wing in the primary. More on French and the implications on the race from our chief political analyst in a few minutes…”

  Gresham yawned and stuck his hand under a three-headed spout on the wall. “Shampoo, please.” A spurt of green foam erupted from one of the spouts and he lathered his hair. “Soap,” he commanded and another nozzle complied dutifully with a dose of blue foam.

  “…Longtime SIS senior officer Carl Brighton was found dead in his home this morning. Los Angeles police have not released specific details concerning Brighton’s death, but they have commented to Channel Seven that it is a suspected homicide.”

  Brighton… I knew that asshole… Gresham thought grimly. On occasion, he had clashed with the SIS officer – as JLOC, he often had to handle complicated disagreements over jurisdiction between Military Intelligence and the Special Intelligence Service. The two primary domestic intelligence branches of the Alliance had a heated and fierce rivalry that involved a lot of paperwork and negotiating over the voxcom for Gresham whenever something went wrong.

  Gresham placed his hand against the wall, shutting his eyes as he felt his knees weaken. The billowing plume of smoke, dust and debris that had replaced the podium loomed dark in his mind. It had looked so similar to the explosions he had seen during the war and the cries of the wounded after the bombing echoed like the screams of the dying on the battlefields of Puckshot.

  He heard a noise from outside the bathroom and he got out of the shower. “Dryer,” he commanded and Tiff blasted him with hot air from the ceiling, walls and floor, blowing the water off of him within seconds.

  Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped back into his bedroom to see the mystery woman from the night before hastily putting her clothes back on. He leaned against the door, smirked and then bent over to pick her bright green top up off the floor.

  “You looking for this?” he asked, holding it up. She turned around, and he got a good look at her for the first time. She was probably in her mid-twenties, with an exaggerated tan, over-colorful contact lenses and blue, green and pink streaks in her unnaturally blonde hair.

  “Yes, that’s mine,” she answered in a squeaky voice. Gresham tossed it too her and she pulled it on, shooting him a brief glare. “You just gonna stand there and watch me dress?”

  “Well, no, I was going to get dressed too. My name’s John.”

  “I remember,” she snapped and continued struggling to pull up her short, tight skirt. “Do you remember who I am, John?”

  “Alisha… right?”

  “That’s not my name,” the girl huffed and pulled her shoes on. “See ya around, John.”

  The girl stormed out into the living room and briefly wrestled with the door before Gresham commanded Tiff to unlock it. There was a brief silence before Gresham shrugged and withdrew the pressed uniform Tiff had prepared for him from a special compartment in the closet.

  And that’s why I don’t drink, Gresham thought as he pulled on his pants. Something about yesterday’s events – the explosion, the stench of death and burnt flesh, his spinning head – had convinced him that he needed the stiffest drink he’d had in years. It was a throwback to his days when he was newly home from the war, when he nearly flunked out of university from his heavy drinking.

  As he pulled his shirt on, he continued thinking about the dark cloud after the explosion and vivid memories of the Dhruiz War reemerged from the deepest recesses of his mind. Explosions tore through the ground, men screamed and howled in pain as the guns of the dhzirs tore through their limbs and bodies. Blood and internal organs splattered everywhere, drenching the survivors and adding to the stink of the battlefield, already clogged with the low mist of smoke and floating dirt. Dhzirs swarmed over the hills in their infinite swarms, their screeching voices drowning out the chatter of gunfire. Every long-haired, toothy monster that was killed was replaced by two equally rancid comrades.

  The scattered memories gave way as he blinked, shook his head and took a deep breath. The flashback had been unusually realistic. Gresham recalled Reed, then just a lieutenant and his commanding officer, ordering a retreat through the bloody mud. A young private named Julian Castor, a good friend of Gresham’s, had his arm blown off clean off just above the elbow by a laser pulse. Gresham picked him up, cradling his friend’s limp body in his arms and taking off as the earth shook and trembled beneath them. An explosion tore open the hillside beside them, the blast knocking them both to the ground and they plunged headfirst in a red-stained river far below.

  The dark cloud of the explosion roared back and Gresham remembered shoving Reed to the ground, saving both of their lives. Just like he had saved the wounded Castor’s life. He had at least done some good in that terrible conflict.

  As he resigned himself to finish dressing, Gresham breathed in again and decided that he would try and remember his adventures last night instead, in particular the one involving the pretty young woman he’d brought home.

  #

  Pioneer City, Planet Mars, Sol System

  The board room was empty once again, as it was after every meeting Colin Hess had arranged over the past eight months. But in the last two weeks, as the crescendo of bad news intensified, the room had been filled as many as four times a day as emergency meetings were haphazardly called, sometimes in the middle of the night. There was a feeling amongst the upper echelons of Hessian Engineering’s senior management that the hammer was about to come crashing down.

  And so Colin Hess treasured every moment of stillness he received in the direct aftermath of another gloom-and-doom session with some of the top minds in the business, where he had the chance to reflect and calm himself.

  “Colin,” someone said from behind him and Hess turned around abruptly from the window, which gazed out upon the skyline of Mars’ largest city, twinkling in the night, skycabs zipping between the towering buildings above the HUVR-clogged streets and superhighways.

  “Bernie,” Hess said with a smile. His right-hand man, Bernard Rumsen, had stayed behind. “Thank you for staying late. I think we should talk.”

  “Certainly,” Rumsen replied, surveying his boss warily. Hess was in his mid-fifties but had aged rapidly after the gun trafficking scandal had broken out. Under the rims of his glasses were noticeable bags, his skin had become paler and his once-gray hair was now coarse and white. Still, at a full six-foot-five, Colin Hess was an imposing physical presence regardless of his recent signs of aging.

  Hess motioned for Rumsen to follow him back to his office, which was attached to the board room via a short private hallway only Hess could access with his thumbprint. They entered the spacious office, which was ornately furnished and included several pieces of artwork on the wall between the door to the board room and the door to the lobby immediately outside. Two portraits took up the space directly behind Hess’s desk – one of Albrecht Hess, the founder of the company and Colin’s grandfather, and the other of Johannes Hess, whose passing twenty-two years earlier had ceded control of the company to his son.

  Hess sat down and flatly said, “Bourbon.” A large, ice-filled glass emerged from the corner of the desk and Hess picked it up. Rumsen abstained from alcohol and was offered water instead.

  “I’m getting so tired of all this,” Hess sighed and sipped his drink. It was old, sharp bourbon. He smacked his lips. “I should take a vacation for a few weeks. Get away from the company, get away from the board meetings.”

  “Are you sure now is the best time, Colin?” Rumsen said slowly. “There was
a bomb attack in Los Angeles yesterday. With the Commission’s attention turned away from the investigation, we might never get a chance like this to protect your legacy. To do that, we need to act fast and smart.”

  “My legacy,” Hess scowled. “My legacy will be that I oversaw the fall of the family empire, that’ll be my legacy, Bernie. That I let the company’s name be tarnished over chump change and that I’ve now inspired legislation in the Commission to make our line of business more or less illegal. You, me, and all of our colleagues will be dragged out onto galactic television and grilled like pigs in subcommittee hearings. Even the President is publicly calling for our heads.”

  Rumsen clenched his jaw. “Colin, I refuse to watch you do this to yourself. We have allies in the right places. We are one of the biggest companies in the Alliance. We employ over two million people. We have more leverage than you think.”

  Hess nodded reluctantly. “I’ve listened to the advice of my board of directors, now I want the advice of my best friend. What do you think I should do?”

  “We’ve been in damage control for months. Now we go on offense,” Rumsen said firmly, jabbing his finger into the desk for emphasis. “We fire a bunch of people in sales and accounting, completely reshuffle those parts of both middle and senior management. Show we’re serious about rooting out the bad apples. A few men trying to make quick cash aren’t going to take down this company. That’s our story.”

  Hess straightened his back. “That’s a good start.”

  “We then sell off some of our subsidiaries to free up some cash and see what can be done about making sure our share value stabilizes. Most importantly, we tone down our media campaign for a few weeks while the government focuses on the terrorist attack against Shoregrove and then we come out swinging when the big League of Planets security summit in Los Angeles comes around.”

  “At least someone on the board is thinking,” Hess smirked and rose, walking over the window. “I’ll see what Elijah thinks next time I see him.”

  “Perry? Colin, look, if you wanted my advice, I’m happy to give it, but I was hoping you’d actually follow it this time instead of then running it past that snake you insist on consulting.”

  “Perry is one of the smarter men on this planet,” Hess replied. “Without him, we wouldn’t have a Commissioner as… open-minded to the interests of Hessian Engineering as Jack French. Who, I’ll remind you, might be elected President in fourteen months.”

  “That’s if he ever officially declares his candidacy and if he actually wins the ASP primaries, then he still has to take on Howard Paine, who while vulnerable is not exactly a weak incumbent. In particular now that somebody has tried to kill him.”

  Hess shot Rumsen a dirty look before returning his gaze back out over the city. “French is our best friend in the Commission right now, and we need friends there. Perry has French’s trust and ear. It pays to donate to Commission campaigns, it turns out.”

  Rumsen sighed. “I just don’t like Perry, that’s all. He’s untrustworthy, and I’m wary of your reliance on him.”

  “I’m glad you’re looking out for me, Bernie,” Hess replied. “I want you to begin initiating the recommendations you gave me. We might get subpoenaed within the next week or two, since the government seems to be wrapping up their case against me and will probably prosecute before or after that security summit they keep talking about staging. It’d be good to find out when exactly that is, by the way, I hate all this ‘tentative date’ bullshit.”

  “Of course, Colin. I’ll get right to work.”

  Hess looked up at the portraits of his two familial predecessors and pondered their stern, oily gazes. “You know, Bernie, this is a hard job. Both my father and grandfather were buried alone. It makes you think, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Colin. Is everything alright?”

  The strange expression on Hess’s face melted away. “Yes, Bernie everything is fine. That’ll be all.”

  Rumsen compliantly left the room and Hess sat down in his chair, looking one last time up at the portrait of his father before commanding, “News, please,” and leaning back in the chair.

  “Breaking news in Los Angeles as ANS continues to monitor the situation… President Paine is confirmed safe following yesterday’s attack against Shoregrove Hall… President Usines Haimon of the Vegan Union has been confirmed to be among the forty-six dead after the latest release of the death toll…”

  Hess’s eyes narrowed and he punched a number into the voxcom mounted on his desk. After a brief dial tone a voice replied, “This is Eli Perry.”

  “Perry, this is Hess,” he barked. “I’m coming over, and when I get there, you better have a good reason as to why Howard Paine is still alive.”

  #

  Department of Defense, Los Angeles, Planet Terra

  “Why do you suppose Godford wanted to see both of us?” Gresham asked Moss as the elevator crawled up towards the top floor of the monolithic Department of Defense building.

  “Maybe we’re in trouble,” Moss ventured, clicking his tongue. “Maybe he wants to hear some of that witty humor you’re so well known for.”

  The elevator stopped at the top floor and both men disembarked, pausing in front of a mirror to make sure their uniforms looked perfect and that their hair was tucked properly under their service caps.

  “He’s going to fire us both, isn’t he?”

  “I doubt it. General Godford and Howard Paine are old friends. You’re safe as long as the President is in office.” Moss went quiet as they continued down the hectic hallway, a dark expression crossing his face. “Thankfully, the President is still in office, and not in a casket. We dodged a big bullet.”

  “No kidding.”

  They reached a door marked GEN. RICHARD GODFORD near the end of the hall and both took a deep breath before knocking. A gruff voice barked for them to enter and they both complied.

  Behind his heavy, aged oak desk, Richard Godford cut a large and imposing figure even in his late fifties. As Commander of Allied Forces, the highest position attainable within the military, he was officially second only to the Secretary of Defense on all security matters, but Godford’s long personal relationship with President Paine from their time on Aurora had given him a level of independence unheard of for a CAF since the Fifth Human-Krokator War. Unofficially, Godford was the second-most powerful man in the Alliance after the President.

  Moss and Gresham snapped to attention and saluted. “General Godford, sir!”

  Godford pointed at the wall-length couch. “As you were, gentlemen. Have a seat.” They complied and he ran a hand along his beard, cut so short and close it was more of a gray shadow on his cheeks than significant facial hair. “Colonel Moss, your report.”

  “General, sir, Section Four has compiled chatter from the six-hour period preceding the bombing and the two-hour period following it. There’s been a spike in Network activity on military frequencies following the attack, but there was nothing abnormal prior to the bomb going off.”

  “And on the unofficial streams?” Godford asked, appearing bored. He had obviously had a long day.

  “Krokator military personnel have been voicing concerns about their own security at the culmination of the Urkuran holy week. The Emperor will give an address, which would be the presumed time someone would attempt to strike.”

  Godford gave Gresham an once-over with his pale blue eyes, leaned back in his chair and tapped the desk with his index finger. After a lengthy pause with his idle tapping the only sound, he finally said, “Some analysts at Military Intelligence are going to lose their jobs. Not either of you, of course, but I’m going to send the six section heads my recommendations. The head of the Shoregrove Police has already tendered his resignation and I told Simon Cray that I expect him to make an example of some people at SIS as well.” He looked at Gresham. “As for you, Major, I have something else in mind for you.”

  Gresham raised an eyebrow. “Reassignment, Gener
al?”

  “Unofficially,” Godford replied cautiously, a small smile flickering across his lips. “Colonel Moss, will you please wait outside?”

  “Certainly, sir.” Moss shot Gresham a confused look and nodded once. “Major Gresham, I’ll see you outside when you’re done.”

  Once Moss was out of the room, Godford requested two glasses of water from his office’s AI. Once the two ice-filled cups were produced, he handed one to Gresham and then said, “When was the last time you saw the President?”

  “The President? Oh, a few months after his inauguration or so. Just over two years ago.” Gresham sipped at his water. “Why do you ask, sir?”

  “If I recall correctly, you and the President go back a ways. You served with his son in the Dhruiz War.”

  “Lieutenant Paine, yes,” Gresham answered. “The late Lieutenant Reggie Paine. The President’s only child.”

  “And you know that Howard and I go back a ways ourselves. I served on Aurora for many years while he was a rising Tory and later Prime Minister, before I was sent over to Special Projects.” Godford sipped his water. “I bring it up, Major Gresham, because the President asked for you specifically.”

  “Asked for me in what way, General?”

  “To do a job. A very particular job.” Godford picked a file up off his desk and handed it to Gresham. “Like I said earlier – reassignment.”

  Gresham opened the file to see the gruesome image of a man lying on his back on the floor of an office in a pool of blood. What looked like a wide, red grin extended across his throat and his white shirt was dark around his stomach. There was an additional picture, this one of a large, well-built man in his early thirties in a hospital pod with bandages wrapped around his chest and abdomen, and with a nasty gash on his face.

  “Jeff Vance,” Gresham said, feeling an uncomfortable lump rise in his throat. An image of one of his fellow Marines from the war passed in front of his eyes, the poor bastard’s intestines spilled over the ground much in the same way as the dead bureaucrat pictured in the first photo. “What does the President want with this?”

  “You know what Vance was investigating, don’t you?”

  “I just thought he was in the hallway when the attacker broke out of this man’s office,” Gresham said, indicating the picture of the dead body. “This… Alan Evans.”