DUTY, HONOR, PLANET

by Rick Partlow

Chapter One

“Pioneering amounts to finding new and more horrible ways to die.”

—John W. Campbell

The fabric of reality warped itself around the utilitarian shape of the colony ship, tortured into submission by an arcane twisting of the laws of physics. Traversing the dark between the stars at an effective rate of hundreds of times the speed of light, the Republic Colonial Authority Ship Conestoga rode waves of spacetime into the Epsilon Eridani system. Ten thousand emigrants were crammed into her hold, suspended in the chemical stasis of g-sleep, not to be woken till they reached their new home at the Demeter colony.

There was no crew. An artificial intelligence controlled the ship from port to port, straying from its mission only under certain, preprogrammed circumstances. One of these was a distress call, and as the ship passed through the cometary halo of the star system it received just such a signal.

Had there been a human captain, he or she might have felt suspicious that the signal was a tight-beam broadcast from the heart of the system’s outer asteroid belt, the remnants of a failed planet. But the ship’s computer did as it was told and diverted the spacecraft from its course, answering the distress call with an automated reply. The sensors found the source of the call, a ship rotating slowly end for end, its infrared signature dangerously cold, its orbit destined to intersect a kilometer-wide asteroid in mere hours.

The bulbous drive pods glowed brightly with Cherenkov radiation as the Conestoga decelerated, braking to match orbits with the derelict craft, then they fell dark, and the shimmer of unreality that had surrounded the starship faded into the harsh lines of the mundane. The Conestoga’s computer churned away in furious thought, developing a strategy to halt the tumbling of the derelict. A human crew might have paused in that strategy to wonder at the unfamiliar lines of the ship, or the anachronistic fission-powered drives it mounted, but the Conestoga’s computer was encumbered with no such qualms.

So the artificial intelligence was taken aback when maneuvering rockets lit up on the derelict’s nose, halting its tumble. And the computer was completely surprised when a missile shot out of the side of the strange ship, slamming into the colony ship’s drive pods and blowing hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of gravimetic field generators into scrap metal with a spherical fireball.

But by the time a weapons-grade laser shot out to destroy the Conestoga’s communications antenna, the computer knew exactly what was happening. It watched through the exterior sensors, powerless to act as boarding pods rocketed toward its hull, until the occupants of those pods found the control center and deactivated it.

Inside the hold, ten thousand men, women and children slumbered peacefully, blissfully ignorant of the fact they would never wake up.

* * *

Jason was pressed into his acceleration couch as the orbital transfer vehicle departed the monolithic mass that was the star cruiser Bradley. He watched the ugly, blocky ship recede on the viewscreen, taking with it his old life. His new life loomed ahead in the form of a huge, spinning can hanging suspended in the fifth LaGrangian Point between the Earth and the Moon. He sighed. It could have been worse.

It had surely seemed worse three months ago. His career had lain dead on the bloody ground of an unimportant agricultural colony twenty light years from Earth, almost unnoticed beside the corpses of half his platoon. If someone had told him then that he would be offered a promotion to First Lieutenant and a position in Fleet Intelligence…

The imposing mass of Republic Spacefleet Headquarters swelled in the flatscreen display on the front wall of the shuttle’s passenger compartment, revealing the impressive array of defensive weapons and a three-meter deep layer of nickel-iron shielding smelted off an imported asteroid. Constructed just after the establishment of the Republic military, it had grown steadily through the following years, both in size and in mission, until it was an almost incessant buzz of activity. Jason’s orbital transfer vehicle was but one of the ships constantly docking and embarking from the station’s twin docking ports at its rotational hubs, passing almost unnoticed among the huge star cruisers and insystem patrol ships and the smaller cislunar cutters and orbital shuttles.

As his shuttle docked with one of the flexible collars that extended from the station, Jason found himself staring at the viewscreen facing the opposite way, back into the depths of space. Everything seemed so clean and antiseptic out there, so different from the dirty, mud-caked streets of Inferno.

Visions came unbidden of houses and shops built from local wood and paper by the Asian immigrants in New Saigon, burned to the ground in a single night of unbridled savagery. Whatever noble cause the revolutionaries had espoused, it had been lost in the orgy of violence that had followed the capture of the Colonial Guard armory. The local constabulary had been helpless once the insurgents had seized the military weapons stored in the armory, and the only help available to stop them was the single Reaction Force platoon on the Bradley, passing through the system to refuel at its solar antimatter factory.

There was the yielding feel of mud beneath his feet and the acrid smell of smoke that the helmet filters couldn’t quite scrub out. Shouted commands echoed with tinny distortion over the radio, punctuated by the stuttering reports of assault rifles… and ultimately, the screams of the wounded and dying.

He had hardly known them, had only been in command of the platoon for a few months, but now each face was indelibly burned into his memory. Eight of them had died in the fierce battle for the armory, and another half-dozen had been wounded. Thirty-five members of the local constabulary had died as well, along with over two hundred members of the Asian Revolutionary Resistance and forty-three civilian workers.

Afterward, he had walked among them in a daze, watching the medics go to work on the wounded of both sides, slipping now and then in the endless pools of blood that collected in the corridors. He had been on the verge of slipping into catatonia, when he came upon a Colonial Guard Captain that was trying to prevent one of the Fleet medics from giving treatment to one of the wounded civilians.

Most Guard officers were the sons of politicians from underdeveloped countries, given their commissions as payoff to their parents for the support they gave the Republic government in their local assemblies, and this fellow was no exception to the rule. Loud and brash, he had nonetheless stayed in the rear during the fighting, then had come strutting in with his clean uniform and his waxed mustache to give orders.

Jason broke the man’s nose and knocked out three of his teeth before the local cops had been able to separate them. When the Bradley had reached the Fleet base at Eden for R&R, Jason had spent a solid week drinking himself into oblivion, certain that his career was over and once the tapes from the battle were reviewed by his superiors, he would spend the next ten years in a military detention center.

Instead, he had sobered up to find orders waiting: he was being immediately transferred to the Spacefleet Intelligence Division, promoted to First Lieutenant and assigned to Colonel Kenneth Mellanby’s personal staff.

Maybe, he reflected with a dark smile, I should have shot the bastard. Then they would have made me a general.

Flashing green lights and an automated message shooed McKay and the half-dozen other passengers out of the shuttle and through the airlock, directly into a lift car. Pausing at the car’s control panel, McKay glanced at his watch—he had less than twenty minutes before he was scheduled to meet with the Colonel. Not nearly enough time to find his quarters, stow his bags and grab a quick shower. He touched the indicator panel for the Intelligence offices, then slumped aside in resignation. It was going to be one of those days.

The lift shot down the axis of the station, then began slowing, one wall flashing a warning that it was about to become a floor. As the car changed directions toward the outer rim of the cylinder, Jason began to feel the faux gravity of centrifugal force, increasing the further they advanced. When the pull had reached just short of Earth-normal, the car came to a halt and the doors slid aside, and Jason McKay stepped into the midst of the maelstrom.

Within the curved halls of Fleet Headquarters, streams of blue-clad personnel flowed from one transitory purpose to another, seemingly oblivious to all around them. Jason stepped into the midst of them, the proverbial sore thumb in rumpled Marine utility fatigues, luggage hanging off him like a rubbernecking tourist. Trying to relate the map he’d seen on the wall of the lift to the confusing, people-filled halls around him, Jason struck off down the corridor to his left.

After ten minutes of wrong turns and bad directions, Jason veered off the crowded thoroughfare into what was known to the enlisted of the station as Brass Country: the Headquarters Section. Marching down a corridor decorated with flags and battle scenes from all of the Republic’s member nations, Jason turned into an open doorway marked, “Headquarters, Fleet Intelligence Service.”

Winding his way through a maze of desks and input terminals, he advanced to a secluded anteroom which guarded an unobtrusive, plain white door. A reception desk was situated in the front corner and a clean-cut young Technician Second-Class sat behind it, typing steadily into a terminal. Jason walked up to the desk and stood silently, waiting for the Tech-2 to notice him.

“Yes…” The bored-looking Japanese male glanced up, adding, “…sir?” upon seeing the silver bars on the visitor’s shoulders.

“Lieutenant McKay to see Colonel Mellanby,” he told the enlisted man.

“Yes, sir,” the Tech said. “He’s expecting you—go right in.”

McKay nodded curtly, then dropped his bags next to the Technician’s desk and strode in as the door slid aside to admit him. The office he found himself in was sparsely, almost spartanly, decorated: bare walls but for a holographic map of Republic space floating over the plain, metal desk; and an antique, nickel-plated handgun mounted on the wall behind that desk.

The man sitting behind the desk was as Spartan as the office itself—not a big man, but rather than seeming short or spare, it seemed his frame had been compacted for efficiency, so that not an inch was wasted. Jason had heard it said that when they’d squeezed all that intelligence, muscle and daring into so small a body, they’d left no room for humanity. Rumors about the Snake’s ruthlessness floated around him like familiar spirits, and his record as a Marine Captain in the Syrian Rebellion was well-known.

“Lieutenant McKay reports,” Jason said with a salute, coming sharply to attention in front of the desk.

“At ease, McKay.” Lieutenant Colonel Kenneth Mellanby returned the salute. He nodded toward the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

Jason dropped gratefully into the chair, struggling not to sweat. He had laughed at the stories about grown men reduced to tearful anxiety in the presence of the Snake, but sitting there in the cool regard of those iron eyes, he believed every word.

“I know what you’re thinking, McKay,” Mellanby said with chilling matter-of-factness. “You fucked up royally, got a lot of good people killed and then assaulted a superior officer to top it all off.” Jason’s blood froze at the pronouncement of the indictment he had been dreading for the last three months. He couldn’t speak. “So why,” the Snake continued, leaning back in his seat, “did I ask for you to be transferred to my command and kicked up to a Silver Bar?”

McKay swallowed hard, finding his voice somewhere. “Yes sir,” he admitted.

“Tell me, Lieutenant, what do you think you did wrong in your assault on the Armory?”

Jason answered the question without a second’s hesitation—he’d brooded over it for long, alcohol-hazed hours, answering the nightmare accusations of eight dead men and women.

“I attacked an entrenched, numerically-superior force,” he said, “with no air or artillery support. And I divided my forces in the face of superior numbers.” His jaw quivered. “They trusted me, and I got them killed.”

“McKay, you’re twenty-five years old,” Mellanby pinned him with a glare. “You’re three years out of college, six months out of OCS, and this was your first mission as a Platoon Leader. You took your twenty-Marine platoon down to an enemy-controlled stronghold and defeated a force of three hundred armed terrorists without the use of any air or artillery support. You did it because you were ordered to by some two-bit ayatollah’s horny first-born to cover up the fact that he had screwed the pooch and let his command get captured without a shot using their own security system.

“You not only managed to defeat a vastly superior enemy force with no allies but some poorly-armed and poorly-trained local cops, but you even managed to free all of the Colonial Guard troops being held hostage.”

Mellanby grinned that Snake grin. “And you even had the balls to punch out that little tin-pot Captain when it was over. Lieutenant, you may not believe this, but if the President hadn’t been counting on a swing vote from that shitbird’s father, you would have been looking at a Medal of Valor.” McKay sat back in his chair, his face frozen in an expression of disbelief. Eight men and women, most of them hardly out of their teens, had died under his command and they wanted to give him a medal?

“Instead,” Mellanby went on as if he hadn’t noticed McKay’s reaction, “I asked for you to be part of a little project that I’ve been planning for a few months now.” He stood, pacing around the desk to the other side of the floating holomap. “Does the date September 12, 2150 mean anything to you?”

“Aside from being my maternal great-grandfather’s eighty-fourth birthday,” McKay said with a shrug, “it was also the day the Armstrong left orbit for 82 Eridani.”

“Very good,” Mellanby said. “I forget, you were a history major. I was a very young child the day the Armstrong left—the first of the Eysselink starships. I remember well the fantasies that went through my young mind that day.” He turned and waved a hand expansively at the map. “Fantastic alien creatures from the movies with incredibly advanced technology and some great galactic federation that we would now be welcomed into.”

A nostalgic smile snuck across his face, creeping slowly lest the Snake notice it. It faded quickly, frightened by the unfamiliar territory, and he turned back to McKay. “Instead, we found a nice little system with two habitable planets and no evidence of intelligent life. Very handy economically, of course, but rather puzzling from a scientific viewpoint. It hasn’t gotten any better in the last forty years, either. You know the numbers as well as I do. A hundred explored systems, twenty worlds colonized, but no intelligent life.” Mellanby speared him with a glance, shifting from exposition to interrogation in a heartbeat.

“Have you ever heard of Enrico Fermi?” Mellanby asked him.

“Twentieth Century particle physicist,” McKay replied, fishing through his memory. “I think there’s a big lab somewhere in the US named after him.”

“He’s also well known for a simple question he once asked. Given that the events that brought about life on Earth can be duplicated—which, by the way, has since been proven—and given the vast number of Earthlike planets which must exist in this galaxy alone, and the fact that at least some of these worlds must be older than ours, there should be intelligent life somewhere in the galaxy much more advanced than us.

“So, he asked, where are they? Why haven’t we detected their radio waves or seen their starships? It was perplexing even before FTL travel was proven possible, and it’s at least a hundred times worse now. Earthlike planets not only exist, but they’re relatively common, as is complex, carbon-based life. So now, the question isn’t just ‘where are they?’ but,”—he waved again at the map—“where in the bloody hell are they?”

Sitting down on the corner of his desk, Mellanby reached over and hit a control. “Computer, project program Mellanby Three on holographic display.” The computer silently obeyed, and eight red dots appeared on the map at seemingly random locations, scattered among the human colonies. McKay leaned forward in his chair to peer curiously at the projection. “You’ve no doubt heard rumors about the ships that have disappeared throughout the years. Oh, God knows, we expect some losses. We’re talking about star travel, after all. But a few have been more than just navigational errors.”

He stabbed a finger at the display. “These ships, all eight, were found by Fleet expeditions in the last five years. Even to the Senate Security Committee, the President admits to only five of them, the five that were unmanned cargo ships. The other three were colony ships.”

“Holy Christ,” McKay breathed, thinking of the ten thousand emigrants crammed into each of the huge, tanker-like ships. “What happened to them?”

“Something… someone brought them out of FTL, somehow, blew a hole in their hulls and stole their cargoes, reactors, fuel… and passengers.”

“Aliens,” McKay muttered, slowly shaking his head.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. No one can say for sure. But I do know that no natural phenomena made those cargoes and reactors disappear. And I have no patience for such fantasies as the notion of the Belt Pirates acquiring starships. Perhaps, in time, star travel will be advanced enough for anyone with the money to build their own ship; but, at present, the only motive force powerful enough to take advantage of the Eysselink Effect is antimatter, and its manufacture requires too much energy to go unnoticed.

“So we have finally come face to face with the unknown, though through a glass darkly, as it were. And they have not proven friendly.”

“But what does this have to do with my job here?” Jason wondered.

“I recruited you, McKay, because you’re a warrior, and I believe the time is coming when the Republic will need warriors.”

“Sir,” McKay protested, “three months ago I was convinced I was about to be cashiered out of the Corps, and I decided I didn’t mind. Because I was tired of the killing, tired of cleaning up other people’s messes. I think you have the wrong guy.”

“I said you were a warrior, not a killer. Killers are a dime a dozen—the Colonial Guard’s full of them. Warriors are a little harder to come by. You’re a student of history—you’ve surely heard of the United States Army Special Forces? The British Special Air Service? The Russian Spetznaz?”

McKay shrugged. “I believe I heard something about them in Officer’s Training.”

“They were the most highly-trained soldiers in each nation’s military, the elite. They were sent in to perform missions that were inappropriate or impossible for conventional forces to accomplish. After the formation of the Republic, they were considered unnecessary and were disbanded, along with the other national armies.”

“But you think something like that is necessary now,” Jason surmised.

“Not at the moment, but soon. And it has to start somewhere. The people I need for this team aren’t just gung-ho, by the book types. I want people who can think, who can see things from a different angle, who can operate on their own and adapt to changing circumstances. That’s why I chose you to lead it.” He jabbed an accusatory finger at McKay. “Any other Marine officer would have seen your operation on Inferno as a great success because you followed orders and accomplished the mission. You saw it as a failure because it could have been done better. I don’t have time for people who are slaves to book-doctrine or who blindly follow orders and that get soldiers killed unnecessarily.”

McKay fell silent for a moment, head spinning at the possibilities. When he spoke again, he knew he had made his decision.

“And the rest of the team?”

“I’ve selected four others to form the core of the first team. They’re still in training. The rest we will recruit together as the need presents itself.” Mellanby’s expression softened. “You know, Lieutenant McKay, not so many years ago I was in the same position you are now: tired of the killing and the dying, tired of the Marine mentality. I got lucky, got to build Fleet Intell in my own image and build my own niche. Maybe you can do the same with this.”

McKay stood and looked Mellanby in the eye.

“I’ll do my best, Colonel,” he promised. “But what do I do now?”

“First you’ll be getting an abbreviated course of the training the others are going through right now,” Mellanby told him. “Just a couple weeks of refresher training in small arms and hand-to-hand. After that…” Something tugged the corners of his mouth upward. “After that, I’ve arranged a little ‘getting-acquainted’ mission for you, just to give you all a chance to work together for a while, form some team cohesion. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the opportunity.”

Something told McKay that whatever this mission was, if the Snake found it humorous, Jason McKay was not going to find it funny at all.

Chapter Two

“Politics is war without violence.”

—Stokely Carmichael

Valerie O’Keefe stared silently out the window at the glittering New Jerusalem that was Capital City, brilliant in the reflected radiance of the morning sun. The first of the new megalopolises to be built after the Crisis, Capital City was an interconnected, independent structure six and a half kilometers on a side—in essence, one building, partially roofed over, with an independent power source in the form of a solar power satellite rectenna outlying the city.

The city was built within sight of what was left of New York, and the contrast between the high-tech dream city and the abandoned skyscrapers whose usefulness had been lost in the rising tides of history had always impressed Valerie. It was a dichotomy that fit the Republic’s government as well as its architecture.

The Republic was a phoenix risen from the ashes of the Sino-Russian War. The Crisis that had resulted from the war between Chairman Xiang’s radical People’s Republic and the New Russian Empire of Sergei Pavlovich Antonov, the self-styled “Napoleon of Eastern Europe,” had threatened to push an Earth teetering on the edge of ecological and economic doom over that precipice. One man had built the bulwark that had rescued the planet, declaring international martial law. He had shut down all polluting industry and shifted it into orbit, pouring a huge effort into research on methods of cleaning up the preexisting pollution along with the radioactive contamination from the war.

That one man, for better or for worse, had been the President of the United States, giving the U.S. de facto leadership in the World Republic which had formed from the cooperation of nations during the recovery. This hadn’t set well with many of the Asian and Middle Eastern members of the new government, but there was very little they could do about it.

Val supposed it had been better that the U.S. had formed the world government than one of the less democratic powers of the previous century, but she knew better than anyone that power corrupts. And there was just too much power centered in the Republic government nowadays.

The view out the window said it all: the beautiful dream built within sight of the burgeoning reminder of an ugly past. What was just as visible as the city in the window was the ghost of her own reflection—a rather disturbing picture, given the analogy she had built up.

Not that her face was anything to be disturbed about. On the contrary, her looks had opened more doors for her than her father’s position had, as sad a commentary as that was on society. She had a perfect, heart-shaped face with deep, brown eyes and shoulder-length auburn hair, plus a body she had worked hard to keep trim. She was grateful for her appearance, but she wished it didn’t mean as much as it did. The more things changed…

“What’s so fascinating out there?” Glen leaned over her shoulder, speaking softly in her ear. She turned in her seat, looking at the young man who sat beside her. Glen Alan Mulrooney looked impeccable as always in his Italian suit, not a strand of his wavy blond hair out of place.

She should be incredibly happy with him, she supposed. He was handsome, intelligent and successful—master’s degree from Harvard, chief aide to one of the most powerful men in the Republic Senate at only thirty. And he loved her. She guessed she loved him, too—.most of the time.

“Just the city,” she answered him, shaking her head.

“Nervous about the speech?” he asked.

“Me?” She grinned. “Valerie O’Keefe, media darling, nervous about a little speech to the Republic Senate that’ll be broadcast live throughout the Solar System?” She laughed softly. “I’m scared to death.”

“You think this is bad, wait’ll you deliver your doctoral dissertation,” he kidded her.

She punched his arm. “Oh, you’re a big help.”

“I try, my love, I try. Seriously, though, don’t worry about it. You’ve rehearsed that speech about a hundred times—I should know; you’ve kept me up listening to it for the last two weeks. Jesus, I think I could give the damn thing by now!”

“I guess you’re right.” She gave him a grateful hug. “Nathan,” she called up to the man piloting the tiltrotor aircraft. “How long before we land?”

“About another ten minutes, Ms. O’Keefe,” he informed her, twisting around in his seat. As always, Val couldn’t help but stare at his eyes. They were unreadable black pools that seemed to draw her attention like a singularity—or a traffic accident.

Nathan Tanaka looked dangerous. She supposed that looking dangerous was a plus for a professional bodyguard; but for Tanaka, it seemed to come naturally. His face was lean and hard, like a wolf’s, with a jagged white scar that ran from his right temple down his jawline—she wondered why he’d never had it fixed. He wasn’t a big man, not more than a meter-seven, but his lean, compact frame was a mass of whipcord muscle beneath his black slacks and sweater. She’d never actually seen him carry a weapon, but she had the impression he didn’t need one.

“That is one strange fellow,” Glen muttered as Tanaka turned back toward the front. “Why’s your father keep him around, anyway?”

She shook her head. “I’ve no idea. But he’s been around since I was a little girl—at least since I was eleven. It’s funny: he’s been around so long, but I don’t really know anything about him.” She smothered a giggle behind her hand. “Except once I got a glance at his personnel file. You know what his full name is?”

“What?” Glen leaned forward conspiratorially.

“Nathan Bedford Forrest Tanaka,” she confided in a hushed whisper.

“Oh, my God!” Glen tried to stifle the laugh that fought its way past his clenched teeth.

“Shh!” Val hushed him urgently. “He’ll hear you!”

“Sorry.” Glen wiped a tear from his eye, struggling to keep from breaking up again. “Nathan Bedford Forrest Tanaka… oh, God, that’s priceless.”

* * *

The propwash from the tiltrotor’s now-vertically-canted engines tugged playfully at Val’s earth-toned skirt as she and Glen walked across the landing pad to meet her father’s limousine. It was long, black and anachronistic, but Senator Daniel O’Keefe was known for being old-fashioned in many things. The fact that he kept a personal car at all in a city as well designed for cars as a church was for rodeos was just one indication of this.

The chauffeur opened the rear, passenger-side door of the vehicle and a short, broad-shouldered man in his late sixties hopped out and swept Val into a warm embrace.

“Val, dearest!” he boomed. “You look wonderful, honey!” He held her out at arm’s length. He was a strong man, both physically and politically, and didn’t look a day over forty, except for his prematurely gray mane of hair, which he refused to consider coloring.

“I guess an associate professorship agrees with me, Daddy,” she said. “You’re looking as handsome as ever. You’re not too lonely up there in Edmonton, are you?”

“You know me, my dear,” he assured her. “I always manage to find entertainment somewhere. But let’s hurry and get to the Senate! Can’t have you being late for your political coming out, can we?”

“Daddy,” she protested as they ducked into the limo. “You make it sound like a cotillion.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” he said with a contrite laugh as the chauffeur closed the door after them. “I’ll plead an excess of parental pride.”

“Case dismissed, then.” She kissed him on the cheek, almost falling back into the seat as the car accelerated away from the pad with an electric hum from the flywheel-powered motor.

“So, Senator,” Glen interjected, “do you think His Majesty will honor us with his presence?”

“Don’t underestimate Greg Jameson, Glen,” O’Keefe cautioned. “We may disagree with him politically, we may even dislike him personally, but we have to respect him as a dangerous foe.” His expression lightening, O’Keefe leaned back and pulled out a fat cigar, lighting it casually. “But to answer your question: hell, no! Old Stoneface would never walk into an audience he couldn’t control. He’s too smart for that.”

“Know your enemy, eh sir?” Glen chuckled in admiration.

“Always, son,” O’Keefe replied, more than half serious. “Always.”

Glen peered out of the car windows as they drove through Capital City, virtually alone on the old secondary road. Police and custodial ducted-fan hovercraft flittered by above them, darting between the buildings; and lighter-than-air cargoships floated by high overhead, their sides lit up with advertising holos; but almost everyone else was confined to public transportation.

It was the buildings themselves that fascinated Mulrooney. He had toyed with civil engineering in his first year at college, intrigued by the possibilities in this age of reconstruction and restructuring, but an early meeting with Senator O’Keefe had pushed aside all other callings. Now he was a part of global politics, and that siren song was just too hard to resist.

Sometimes, though, when he passed under the shadow of the huge obelisk that was Capital Center, that song began to sound curiously like a dirge. Surely, he told himself, this was a pure example of the democratic process in action; but somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder how the caterwauling bunch of demagogues that called themselves the Republic Senate could ever run anything larger than a hot dog stand.

Glen shook his head clear of such unworthy thoughts as the limo pulled up to the steps of the capital. The press were there in force, mobbing the three of them as they exited the car, pointing an arsenal of holocams their way. They reminded Glen of vultures hovering over a fresh kill.

The press are our friends, Glen reminded himself dutifully, fixing a smile on his face as Senator O’Keefe called for one question at a time.

“Senator O’Keefe,” asked a reporter Glen recognized as Maggie Wescott from Republic HoloNet, elbowing her way forward, cameraman in tow. “Are you worried about your daughter’s upcoming factfinding tour of the star colonies?”

“It’s President Jameson and his friends in the Southbloc who should be worrying,” O’Keefe shot back. “Val’s mission will prove to the world that Jameson is using Republic colonial policies as a giant slum clearance project to throw a bone to his political cronies.”

“But what about the recent unrest on Loki and Inferno?” another reporter prompted. “Aren’t you concerned about her being in the middle of all that?”

“As a father, I am, of course, constantly concerned with the welfare of my only child,” the senator responded. “But she’s a grown woman, and quite capable of taking care of herself. Now, if you don’t mind, unless you have some questions for my daughter, I’d like to find a good seat.”

Laughter at that, of course, as he’d intended.

“Ms. O’Keefe,” another journalist asked, waving his hand. “If you’re correct about conditions in the colonies, do you seriously believe that the local governments will allow you to collect proof of it?”

“That could present an obstacle,” Val acknowledged. “But I’ve got a master’s degree in overcoming obstacles.” She smiled broadly. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, waving off further questions, “I’ve got a speech to give.”

The Senator hid a smile from the cameras as he led them up the steps. She was, he thought warmly, an O’Keefe.

* * *

“If I may bring this special session to order,” the Majority Leader said, pounding her gavel. The buzz of conversation from the floor died slowly away as the Senators took their seats. From his chair behind the podium, Glen could see vice-president Lopez in the crowd, representing the Executive branch. The man was such a pawn, Glen thought to himself, shaking his head slightly. He was, as the Senator had said, a bone thrown to the Southbloc, just like the Colonial Guard and the emigration policies.

The Majority Leader looked over the quieted crowd. “Now here to introduce our special speaker is Senator Daniel O’Keefe, Libertarian, Canada.”

O’Keefe rose to loud applause, shook hands with the Majority Leader and took the podium.

“Thank you.” He acknowledged the applause with a nod, then waved it off. “Fellow senators, distinguished guests, Mr. Vice President, it is my distinct honor to present to you today a young woman who has accomplished more in her twenty-five years than I have in my sixty-three. She holds a bachelor’s degree in political science from Georgetown, a master’s in international relations from Harvard, and is a dissertation away from her doctorate. As a sophomore in college, she was one of the charter members of the Economic Justice Association and her work on their Senate-sponsored mission to the Aphrodite colony—which provided the material for her master’s thesis on colonial policy—brought international attention to the problems with forced relocation.

“Today, on the eve of an historic tour of the star colonies, she has been asked to speak to this body on that same subject, in preparation for extensive hearings which will be conducted upon her return next year.” O’Keefe paused, a smile spreading across his face. “And beside all that, I’m proud to say that she’s my daughter. I now present to you Ms. Valerie O’Keefe.”

Val stood and walked up to the podium, pausing to kiss her father on the cheek.

“Knock ’em dead, honey,” he whispered, giving her arm a squeeze before he took his seat.

“Thank you.” Val nodded to the clapping audience, waiting for them to quiet down. When they did, she took a deep breath and plunged headlong into her address without preamble.

“Throughout human history,” she began, “technology has offered salvation to mankind in many different forms, from nuclear power to the current Eysselink stardrive. But scientific apples from the Tree of Knowledge often threaten to bring about a fall from the very Garden of Eden they promise.

“With the technology to produce nuclear and fusion power came the horrible weapons which very nearly destroyed us all at the opening of this century. With the space travel that offered us the resources and energy we so desperately needed in the last few decades came the competition for those resources which sparked the Sino-Russian War and the resultant, devastating nuclear exchange between the two power blocs.” Above her a hologram coalesced into the bodiless visages of Sergei Pavlovich Antonov and his Chinese counterpart, Xiang Li Peng. Xiang’s face was the chubby, pleasant countenance of a grandfather, hiding the xenophobic paranoia that led him to a confrontation with the Russian Republic. Antonov, conversely, had the classic features of a conqueror: the aquiline nose, the storm-grey eyes and the imperious mustache that befitted the self-described Napoleon of Eastern Europe.

“And now,” she continued as the images faded, “technology has offered us salvation yet again in the form of the Eysselink stardrive. It has truly given us the stars, and ensured that no single disaster will destroy the human race. But this technological rose, too, has its thorns. With the capacity to discover the hidden wonders of the universe, to harness incredible sources of energy and raw material for the advancement of the human race, we have instead turned the colonies into a dumping ground for the poor and politically undesirable.

“Unwilling to solve the problems which cause poverty and discontent, we choose instead to shove our problems out of sight, where they won’t bother our consciences. In the past ten years, over twenty million involuntary emigrants have been shipped to the least hospitable of the colony worlds by Southbloc and Eastbloc nations. They have not been shipped there for their own benefit, but for the benefit of these governments. They have been given no economic aid beyond a pitifully small emigration bonus, but they have been abandoned to the elements in places more extreme and alien than any on Earth.

“Two years ago, I travelled to the Aphrodite colony as a part of an Economic Justice Association mission to investigate the treatment of forced emigrants, and to research my master’s thesis on this issue. There, I was introduced to the Mendoza family, Jorge and Carmella, and their two children, Anna and Elisabeth.”

At this, another hologram snapped to life, high above the Senate floor, of a Hispanic couple and two small children, all dressed in little more than rags.

“Jorge and Carmella were forcibly relocated three years ago from El Salvador, where they had been living on welfare for the previous year due to the depressed economic conditions in that state, and the obsolescence of Jorge’s former occupation as a small farmer. Now that formerly proud and efficient farmer has been dumped on a hundred acres of the most desolate wasteland I have ever seen.”

The hologram panned out over an expanse of ruddy desert, baking under the white-hot rays of Tau Ceti, then returned to the shot of the Mendozas.

“When they were told they were being sent to Aphrodite, Jorge and Carmella immediately thought of the beautiful land of the travel holos, thought they had been most fortunate. But that paradise is restricted to the planet’s temperate southern hemisphere. The northern hemisphere is an arid wasteland, with an average temperature of thirty-five degrees Celsius and an annual rainfall of less than ten centimeters.

“To fortify them against this desert, the Mendozas were generously provided with two buildfoam huts and access to a public well five kilometers away. When I met them, Jorge and Carmella were barely eking out an existence, making only enough to buy a pitifully small quantity of seed each season.” She shot a glance at the hologram, a frown passing over her face.

“How old do they look to you? Forty-five? Fifty? They’re both twenty-five in this picture. This is what life in the hellish Aphrodite desert has done to them. And the tragedy is that they really are among the lucky ones. Aphrodite, north or south, is one of the more hospitable of the exile colonies. On other worlds, these political exiles are left, in effect, to die in environments barely habitable by humans.” A sob seemed to creep into her voice for just an instant. “The infant mortality rate on Loki alone is over forty percent!

“How can we, who consider ourselves civilized, who think of ourselves as the pinnacle of evolution, who call ourselves the most advanced culture in human history, allow this tragedy to occur? How can you, the trustees of our race, the representatives of all humanity, allow this to happen?

“During the research for my thesis, I also visited colonies in the Belt, on Mars and in the Jovians. Conditions there are also harsh, and death is an everyday reality, but there is a difference. The colonists in our Solar System are all volunteers, out of necessity—certain skills are required for admission to these colonies, and a trust is required to preserve the colony. But this natural restriction does not affect the star colonies, and certain members of our international community have taken advantage of this to rid themselves of political and economic embarrassments.” Her face and voice grew progressively sterner, like a fundamentalist preacher decrying the wages of sin.

“This crime against the most helpless members of the human race will not go unpunished. Already, we are reaping its rewards. The uprisings on Inferno and Loki have claimed countless innocent lives, staining the hands of our military with civilian blood.”

Oops, Glen thought, playing a little fast and loose with the facts there. Still, he’d done worse in a few speeches he’d written for the Senator.

“What will our response to this be?” Valerie continued. “Will we finally attempt to eliminate the root cause of the unrest, the unfair and inhuman policy of political and economic exile? Or will we merely repeat the mistakes of the past and use these instances of violence as an excuse to build up a military whose sole purpose is the repression of our fellow citizens?

“The choice is yours, ladies and gentlemen. You can be remembered as the generation that brought the human race to a new moral and ethical height, or you can be vilified as just another bunch of greedy, self-serving politicians. You have the power to make history.” She swept through the crowd with a piercing gaze, and Glen imagined that each one probably felt she was looking at them. “It is not a power to be taken lightly.

“Thank you very much for allowing me to come and address you today.”

Val turned and left the platform as abruptly as she’d begun.

The first one to stand, of course, was her father, but he was quickly joined by nearly everyone in the auditorium, with the notable exception of a few Eastbloc and Southbloc delegates. But even they applauded, and the thunderous ovation echoed off the auditorium’s dome like a cloudburst that washed over Val as she sat down next to Glen.

“You,” Glen mouthed to her, “are absolutely incredible.”

She kissed him, smiling gratefully. She seemed to be entertaining a good case of post-speech shakes, and Glen didn’t think she even noticed the proud smile on her father’s face—or Vice President Lopez quietly slipping out of the building’s rear exit.

Probably sneaking off to report to President Jameson, Glen snorted. Go ahead, Mulrooney taunted him silently. Go tell your boss his days are numbered.

* * *

A gentle spring rain fell quietly on the manicured grass of Senator O’Keefe’s country estate outside Calgary, Alberta. Daniel O’Keefe leaned against his porch railing and watched the night, silently nursing the last glass from the bottle of twenty-year-old Scotch he had broken out earlier that day to celebrate Val’s speech.

Val had gone to bed an hour ago, exhausted by her first bout with the Republic Senate, and Glen had joined her soon after, at Senator O’Keefe’s insistence. He chuckled quietly to himself. They’d been engaged for almost two years, and Glen was still embarrassed that the Senator knew they were sleeping together. How delightfully old-fashioned.

So it had fallen to him to finish the bottle, stored away for just such an occasion. It had been so long ago. Margaret had been with him when he’d picked out that bottle, and another one just like it.

Damn. It had been almost a week since he’d thought of Margaret. Her memory still stung like a whip across his soul. Reluctantly, he turned and paced back into the den, back to the mantle where the holocube rested. It was their wedding picture, taken nearly thirty years ago.

He looked somewhat ridiculous with the loud suit and long hair that had been in fashion at the time. But Maggie… Maggie was so beautiful, so beautiful it hurt to look at her.

He remembered it just like it was last year and not three decades ago. He’d been an idealistic and ambitious young aide to a powerful senator, much like Glen, and she’d been the daughter of the Czech ambassador to Canada. She’d had the most incredible eyes—eyes you could just fall into. Val had those eyes—he could see so much of Maggie in Val. They’d been so much in love and so young.

The call beeper on the room’s comlink shook him from his reminiscence, petulantly demanding his attention. Shaking his head clear, O’Keefe set down his glass, stepped over to his desk and hit the answer control. A young, clean-cut male in a dark suit shimmered into existence in front of the desk, a remote dialing unit in his hand.

“Senator O’Keefe?” he asked.

“You’re speaking to him, son,” the older man confirmed.

“Please hold for the President, sir.” The man disappeared and was replaced by the Presidential Seal.

O’Keefe’s eyebrows rose. Greg Jameson calling him at home? This was going to be good. A few seconds later, the hologram shimmered once more and congealed into the form of a tall, broad-chested black man in a plain, grey suit.

O’Keefe knew that Jameson was in his late sixties, but the man looked just as fit now as when he’d quarterbacked the University of Florida to their ’71 championship season—not a grey hair on that lofty head.

And then there was that face carved from granite by a fusion blast, that face that could cow the most recalcitrant politician, those eyes that held dark, steaming hurricanes in check beneath their calm exterior. Yes, Greg Jameson looked his part.

“Evening, Daniel.” Jameson’s modulated earthquake of a voice came through the transmission.

“Evening, Mr. President.” O’Keefe nodded. “I trust you enjoyed my daughter’s speech.”

“Saw a recording of it about an hour ago. Sorry I couldn’t make it live, but some unexpected business came up.”

Unexpected, O’Keefe thought, laughing inwardly. Right. To Greg Jameson, the end of the world wouldn’t come unexpectedly.

“Quite all right,” O’Keefe assured him.

“It was very impressive,” Jameson allowed. “She’ll make quite the politician.” O’Keefe didn’t thank him—coming from Jameson, it wasn’t a compliment.

“I hope it didn’t upset you unduly.”

“Why should it?” Jameson smiled genially. “I agreed with at least ninety percent of what she said.”

“Aren’t you worried that it might adversely affect your upcoming appropriations bill?”

“I don’t have the time to worry about things that won’t happen,” Jameson replied with too much confidence for O’Keefe’s comfort.

“Then to what do I owe the honor of this call?” The Senator tried to mask his uneasiness with sarcasm.

“Talk her out of it, Daniel,” Jameson said simply.

“I’ve already been through this with Space and Security, Mr. President,” O’Keefe sighed. “She’s a grown woman. She has every legal right to go anywhere she wants and, as a representative of the EJA, she has Senate authorization to travel on a government vessel. And you can just bet that she’d need a better reason not to go than to avoid embarrassing your administration. As I would for recommending that she not go.”

“I don’t give a damn about embarrassment, political or otherwise, O’Keefe,” Jameson snapped in an uncharacteristic display of irritation. “We’re talking about your daughter’s life, man.”

“Oh?” O’Keefe cocked an eyebrow. “Can’t your vaunted Marines keep her safe from a few disgruntled emigrants?”

“It’s not the terrorists I’m concerned with. You’re on the Security Committee—you’ve read the reports.”

“What?” Daniel snorted in derision. “That drivel again? I told Secretary Long and I’ll tell you, too, Mr. President, I don’t believe in fairy tales. All that nonsense was structured to push through the funding for your precious Fleet.”

“That ‘nonsense,’ Senator, has claimed five supply ships in the last three years. There’s something out there. And don’t give me your spiel about natural phenomena. Natural phenomena don’t cut open hulls and suck out cargoes, and they don’t steal fusion reactors.”

Daniel shook his head. “Don’t hand me your paranoid delusions, Mr. President. In almost forty years of regular interstellar travel, we’ve discovered no signs of active extraterrestrial intelligence.”

“And precious little of terrestrial intelligence,” Jameson muttered. His shoulders sagged with a heavy sigh. “I had to try,” he said quietly, maybe to himself or maybe to someone off-camera. “I could just have Space pull her travel permit. Maybe I should.”

“You wouldn’t,” O’Keefe said tightly, “and we both know it. It would look like you were covering up something.”

“You think you have all the angles covered.” Jameson’s tone was soft, almost pitying. “Daniel, did you ever take any history in college?”

“Just what was required for a Polisci major,” the Senator replied.

“Back around the beginning of the last century, men quite like you, with much political ambition and many ideals, and very little knowledge of history, watched the rise of Antonov and his Protectorate and called those concerned about it alarmists and saber-rattlers. They very nearly let him and Xiang destroy this planet and cause the extinction of the whole human race.” Jameson’s voice turned hard as a naked atomic pile. “I won’t let that happen again, Daniel, not on my watch. I want you to remember that.”

The President’s image shimmered, and then was gone. O’Keefe frowned uncomfortably, got up from behind his desk and retrieved his glass. Jameson, he told himself, couldn’t have been serious. He was bluffing—he had to be. There was just no other possibility.

O’Keefe looked down at his glass. It was empty. With a sigh, he walked over to the bar and found another bottle of Scotch. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Three

“To hunger for use and to go unused is the worst hunger of all.”

—Lyndon B. Johnson

MacAuliffe Station hung like a child’s toy in high Earth orbit, a great, spinning wheel that was the gateway to space for all civilian traffic. It was brightly lit and brightly colored, a collage of solar collectors and waste heat radiators that reminded McKay of the old pictures he had seen of a 1950’s concept of a space colony.

The slablike bulk of the RFS MacArthur looked somehow out of place orbiting beside it, he thought, watching the scene on the passenger viewscreen of the orbital transfer vehicle from Fleet HQ. The Fleet’s newest and most advanced ship, the Mac was the first of a new generation of starships, built in response to the hidden threat behind the ship disappearances. Its rear end was hugely out of proportion to the main hull, housing the Eysselink drive nacelles and the oversized antimatter power plant that made it the fastest ship in the Fleet, and flanking its main hull were twin weapons pods. The heavily-armored bulbs couched an impressive array of nuclear-pumped lasers, guided missiles and railguns that made it the most powerful weapon ever built by mankind.

And now, McKay reflected ruefully, it was being used as a tour bus for some Senator’s spoiled daughter. What a world.

Settling back in his restraint web, Jason relaxed and watched the MacArthur grow ever larger on the viewscreen as the shuttle approached one of the score of docking collars that lined its right flank. He felt a series of sharp jolts as the maneuvering thrusters kicked the transfer vehicle around to match its airlock to the docking umbilical, and saw the view swing around to show the expanse of MacAuliffe Station. McKay was jerked slightly in his restraints as the shuttle mated with the ship and came to rest in its docking collar.

“We have docked with the MacArthur,” a disembodied voice announced over the cabin’s speakers. “Disembark to your left when the green light comes on and the airlock door opens. Don’t forget to take all carry-on items with you, and to pick up checked luggage at the cargo dock.”

Jason shrugged free of his restraints, popped open the overhead compartment and pulled out the duffle and shoulder bags he had packed for his journey. Threading arms through their straps, he waited impatiently for the other military passengers ahead of him to make their way out of the airlock, then kicked off from his seat and floated gracefully through the open hatchway.

Braking himself against a bulkhead with an outstretched foot, McKay took a moment to orient himself to the “up” and “down” of the docking bay, using the zero-g maneuvering techniques he had received as part of his training. He found an information terminal in a corner, pushed himself over to it and punched up an accommodation listing, searching for his cabin. He discovered that he was billeted in the guest officers’ quarters, a first for him: on the Bradley, he had been quartered with the other Marines, a situation he had preferred.

The layout of the Mac was much like the layout of any other Fleet cruiser he had been on, and he found the lift station with no problem. Officers’ Country was only sparsely inhabited, and McKay guessed that most of them were busy with preparations for departure. He managed to find his way to his cabin without help, keyed the door open and floated inside.

The one-room cabin wasn’t the Hilton, but it was a vast improvement on the shipboard accommodations he was used to. He threw his luggage into a locker, searched out a comstation and punched up the bridge. The image of the junior communications officer came up on the screen, looking somewhat harried.

“Bridge,” the young man said tersely.

“This is Lieutenant McKay reporting on board,” Jason informed him. “Does the Captain want me to report to him in person?”

“Wait one.” The Ensign blacked out the screen, but was back in a heartbeat. “That’s a negative, Lieutenant McKay,” he said, shaking his head. “Captain Bertrand is tied up with preflight prep right now. I do have two messages for you, though. The rest of your team is on board and Colonel Mellanby has directed you to meet with them in Situation Room Six at…” His eyes flickered back to the readout offcamera. “…1500 hours. The other one says that the Marine Reaction Force attached to you has reported and that Gunnery Sergeant Lambert would like to meet with you at your earliest convenience.”

“Thanks,” McKay said. “Have Ms. O’Keefe and her party boarded?”

“Not yet. They’re scheduled to board at 1600 hours.”

“Thanks. See you ’round, Ensign.”

“Pleasant voyage, Lieutenant.” The screen went dark.

With a deep sigh, McKay punched a query for the location of Situation Room Six into the terminal. It wouldn’t do to be late for his first meeting with his new command.

* * *

McKay found the meeting room without much difficulty and began looking it over, trying to find a dramatically effective place to position himself. He discovered, however, that zero gravity did not easily lend itself to dramatic poses.

He tried the desks first. They were supposedly engineered for use in null gravity, but McKay quickly came to the conclusion that they were designed by a sadist for use by masochists: the restraining bar built to hold him in the desk had this habit of jabbing him sharply in the groin whenever he shifted positions.

For the benefit of future generations of McKays, Jason abandoned the desk and contented himself with floating beside the holoprojection table, one hand attached to the edge of the projector to keep himself in place.

He didn’t have long to wait—it wasn’t five minutes before he heard voices approaching in the outer corridor.

“Naw, you’ve got it all wrong, Jock,” said a thick New England accent. “The Arm of Allah’s all washed up. All their leadership’s on Loki, freezing their asses off. The ones we have to worry about are the NeoMarxists.”

“I still say you’re completely off, Vinnie,” an Australian voice argued. “Just because they got one batch doesn’t mean the whole organization’s wiped out.”

The owners of the accents rounded the corner and came through the door abreast. One was a thin, wiry Tech-Sergeant in his early twenties, with close-cropped brown hair and a pale, freckled face. His uniform was perfectly pressed and spotless, and he had the aware look about him of someone who knew his abilities.

The other had that same look of awareness, but not the same eye for detail: McKay could spot at least one gig on his uniform for which a Marine D.I. would’ve torn him a new rectum. Not that Jason particularly cared; he wasn’t a nitpicker for such details as long as a troop did his job. And this man looked like he could handle that. At least a meter-nine, he towered a good eight centimeters over his companion and outweighed him by at least twenty kilos—a lot of iron had pumped its way into those muscles.

Yet, even with the weight and height advantage, and even though he shared the same rank as his companion, Jason somehow knew that the smaller man was the leader. There was something in his eyes that spoke of native intelligence and heads-up good sense. The big one, though his gunmetal grey eyes were clear and watchful, had the look of a follower.

The men halted inside the room, came to as much of attention as was possible in zero-g, and saluted.

“Sergeants Vincent Mahoney and James Gregory reporting, sir,” the wiry New Englander announced.

“At ease.” McKay returned their salutes, trying not to lose his grip on the holoprojector. “We’ll save the introductions till…”

A voice sounded from the hall.

“Mister, you will belay that kind of talk right now, or I will throw your ass so far into the brig that they’ll have to feed you with a mass driver!”

“I was just trying to be friendly, ma’am,” a smooth, unperturbed male voice responded. “Even officers need a little companionship now and then.”

“My needs are not your concern!”

The exchange came to an abrupt halt as the two rounded the bend and came face-to-face with Lieutenant McKay.

“…the rest of the team gets here,” McKay finished his thought with a deep sigh.

“Uh… Lieutenant Shannon Stark,” the female officer told him, thrusting out a hand, charging through her obvious embarrassment. Jason judged her to be in her mid-twenties, with the immaculate uniform and well-toned athletic form of an officer who took her job seriously. Cut regulation-short, her red-gold hair still retained a subtly-styled femininity, complimenting her high cheekbones and strong chin in a way that made Jason’s breath come a bit shorter.

“Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant.” Jason shook her hand and shook off the unexpected feeling, then looked over to the Tech-2 who had walked in with her.

“Technician Second-Class Tom Crossman reporting, sir.” The wavy-haired enlisted man threw him a sloppy salute. Everything about the man seemed manifestly unmilitary, from the barely-regulation haircut and mustache, to the way he wore the top fastener of his uniform undone, to the loose way he carried himself. McKay wondered what Colonel Mellanby had been thinking.

“At ease,” Jason returned ironically, not bothering to answer the salute. “I’m Lieutenant McKay, your new CO. I assume you all know that our assignment is to safeguard Ms. O’Keefe on her tour of the colony worlds. We will carry out this assignment despite what any of us may think of her involvement in the EJA, or her father’s politics, and despite her feelings toward us. We will be supported by a Marine Reaction Force, and we’ve been provided with a variety of special weapons. I assume all of you have been checked out with unconventional weapons?”

“We’ve all been through Colonel Mellanby’s training course,” Lieutenant Stark confirmed.

“Good. That’s it for now. I know you’re all the best or you wouldn’t be here, so I’m counting on your support. I’ll see you all in the g-sleep chambers.” He saluted and the enlisted returned it before heading for the door. “If you’d wait for a moment, Lieutenant,” he asked Stark as she was moving to leave.

He waited till the others had made their way out, then turned back to the woman.

“Lieutenant Stark,” he began hesitantly, “did the Snake—I mean, Colonel Mellanby—recruit each of you personally?”

“As far as I know,” she replied, regarding him evenly, with something of an air of evaluation.

“Did he mention anything to you about his real reason for forming this team?”

“He did say something about an idea to recreate an organization similar to the old special operations forces,” she confirmed with the briefest of hesitations.

“What do you think of the team?” He cast a meaningful glance at the door.

“I only had a few minutes with them when we arrived on board.” She shrugged. “First impressions? Mahoney seems like the best of the bunch. He seems to have natural leadership, and from the brief look I got at his personnel file”—She had personnel files, McKay thought to himself with more than a bit of envy—“he scored highly in the training. He and the big fellow are both ex-Corps. Gregory’s competent, and he’s an expert at almost every weapon made. He’ll always be a follower, though.”

“What about Crossman?” Jason asked directly. “He doesn’t seem to be the type Colonel Mellanby would pick.”

“He’s had some discipline problems,” she admitted. “And, to be frank, he seems to be a gigantic pain in the ass. But he’s a fifth degree black belt in Tae Kwan Do, and he’s put four separate unarmed combat instructors in the hospital.”

“No shit,” McKay blurted, shooting a glance at the door, and the path Crossman had taken out of the room. “Well, I guess the Snake knows what he’s doing, as always. Anyway, a couple things. First, I want you to meet me outside my cabin at 1700 hours to go have a talk with Ms. O’Keefe about security. Second, call me Jason, okay? It’d get pretty confusing with all those ‘Lieutenant’s’ flying around.”

“All right, Jason.” She smiled, and McKay could have sworn the room brightened visibly. “I’m Shannon.”

“I look forward to working with you, Shannon,” he said. “Feel free to share any ideas you might have about the structure of the team.”

She cocked an eyebrow as she shoved off toward the door. “Well, I already have one idea.”

“Yes?” he encouraged, eyes following her as she moved into the hall.

A marvelously mischievous grin darted across her face as she hung in the doorway, only her face still visible, like a childhood image of the Cheshire cat.

“I think I should be in charge.”

And then she was gone.

McKay stared after her for a long moment, speechless.

“Damn.” he finally whispered. This, he thought, was going to be interesting.

* * *

“Wish they had passenger ships to the star colonies,” Mulrooney complained, unpacking his suitcase in the tiny cabin he and Valerie were to share. “Kind of takes the romance out of it, hitching a ride on a Goddamned warship.”

“We’re not on a pleasure cruise, Glen,” Val reminded him softly, stuffing clothes into a locker. There was no use folding them in zero gravity. “It was either this or a freighter—colony ships don’t do ‘grand tours.’”

“Just because we’re working”—Glen kicked off from the wall on his side of the bed and spun in mid-air to hang upside down over her—“doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun.”

He wrapped his arms around her from behind and began playfully exploring with them while he nuzzled at her neck.

“Glen,” she sighed in exasperation. “Will you try to control yourself? That Lieutenant McKay person’s going to be here any minute.”

“Let him get his own girl,” Glen said with a laugh, working at the fasteners on her blouse.

“Glen!” Valerie protested, but only half-heartedly.

But the moment was interrupted by the chime of the door intercom. Glen sighed and let Val go, floating sullenly back across the room. Valerie hastily refastened her shirt and kicked off toward the door.

“Yes?” She hit the door’s speaker button.

“Ms. O’Keefe?” A male voice answered. “It’s Lieutenant McKay.”

“Come in.” Val pressed a palm to the lock and the door obediently slid aside, allowing Jason and Shannon to propel themselves into the cabin.

“Hello, Ms. O’Keefe.” Jason extended a hand. “I’m Lieutenant Jason McKay, and I’ll be in charge of your security escort.”

“A pleasure,” she returned.

“This is Lieutenant Shannon Stark, my second-in-command.” Shannon moved up to grasp the woman’s hand.

“This is my fiancé, Glen Mulrooney,” Val said, motioning to Glen.

“Expecting trouble, McKay?” The Senator’s aide raised an eyebrow, nodding towards Jason’s sidearm.

“It’s my job to expect trouble, Mr. Mulrooney,” Jason fired back, trying to suppress a laugh at the campy line. Had to hold up that Intelligence image.

“Just what can I do for you, Lieutenant?” Val asked abruptly.

“I need to review a couple of items on your schedule,” Jason told her. “Specifically, the meeting you have with the Farmer’s Independent Council the first day. You have it scheduled for…” he snuck a look at the notes on his wristcomp, “1930 hours, local. That’s only three hours after our arrival, which doesn’t give my team enough time to secure the meeting hall. If you could delay it for another couple of hours…”

O’Keefe shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Lieutenant. That schedule was delivered by a message on a cargo ship over a month ago—there’s no way to reschedule it in time.”

“Ms. O’Keefe,” Jason protested, “we can’t insure your safety if you don’t cooperate with us in matters like this. Surely you can see…”

“I’m afraid you’ll just have to deal with it,” she declared.

“Ma’am,” Jason insisted, beginning to become a bit irritated, “my having to ‘just deal with it’ might result in not only your death but my people getting killed as well.”

“Look, McKay,” Glen interjected, moving between Val and Jason, “we’re both sick and tired of paranoid military fantasies. First it was those so-called ‘ship attacks,’ and now this bullshit! Why don’t you Fleet bully boys stop whining and do your jobs?”

“If you politicians would allow us to do our jobs…” McKay’s voice rose.

“Gentlemen, please!” Val put a hand on each of their arms. “This isn’t the time or the place for a political argument. Lieutenant McKay, I will attempt to contact the Council once we’re insystem and, if it is workable for them, I’ll try to delay the meeting. Is that satisfactory?”

“Thank you.” McKay took a deep breath, trying to relax.

“But from now on, I would appreciate if you would coordinate all security measures with Mr. Tanaka, my personal bodyguard.”

“Sure thing.” Jason smiled frostily. “I trust we’ll have a good working relationship. Ms. O’Keefe, I’ll leave you to get moved in here. Mr. Mulrooney, I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure meeting you. I’d like to say that, but I can’t.”

With that, McKay and Stark exited the room, leaving Glen with his mouth hanging open.

“‘It’s my job to expect trouble?’” Shannon repeated with a chuckle, cocking an eye at him as they propelled themselves down the corridor.

“Sorry,” Jason said. “I just couldn’t resist.”

Chapter Four

“People are not born bastards. They have to work at it.”

—Rod McKuen

Jason McKay woke with a shiver that rattled his bones, his eyes flying wide open as he jerked upright. It took him a moment to remember where he was, but the sight of row upon row of coffin-like sleep chambers lying open all around him brought him back to reality. He still had the bitter aftertaste of oxygenated biotic fluid in his mouth and the slimy feel of it on his skin. On a conscious level, he knew he’d been breathing the stuff; that it had filled his lungs and surrounded his body for the last two months, cushioning him and the others from the crushing acceleration and deceleration necessary to reach supralight speeds in a reasonable time. But he was still grateful that he’d been unconscious during the process, in a state of chemically-induced hibernation: the thought of breathing liquid scared the hell out of him.

He looked around, still trying to get his bearings, and saw Shannon rising from her chamber, clad only in the halter top and shorts that was twice what he was wearing. Her short hair was matted with dried biotic fluid and her eyes were squinty and half-closed, but he found himself staring at her in a most unmilitary way. Her halter top was plastered over her small, pert breasts, and suddenly Jason wasn’t feeling quite so cold anymore. Her eyes came up to meet his, and he knew he should have tried to look away, but he didn’t. To his surprise, she just smiled.

“Sleep well?” she asked, stretching her legs over the side of the cabinet.

“I really hate this shit,” he admitted, swinging himself out of the chamber, feeling the kinks in his back. He was grateful that the g-sleep machinery had electrically stimulated his muscles while he was in the tank, or he’d have been a quivering mass of jelly after a couple months of floating. Trying to locate the other members of his team, he saw Jock and Vinnie still sitting in their cabinets, doing crunch situps. Shannon followed his look, shaking her head. “Ah, youth,” McKay muttered.

Crossman, he noticed as his gaze swept the room, was already hitting on one of the ship’s crew, and getting nearly as frosty a reception as he had from Shannon. Maybe, he thought, there had been a mixup of the personnel files, and they were really supposed to get some other Tom Crossman.

Flexing his knees, Jason realized that they were still decelerating at around one gravity, which probably put them somewhere around the system’s outlying asteroid belt and well below lightspeed. If they were following standard Fleet procedures, that would give them nearly twenty-four hours at one gravity before they coasted into orbit: time enough for everyone to recover from their long g-sleep. Then they would drop the O’Keefe party off and go refuel at the solar antimatter factory, where kilometers-wide collectors powered a huge particle accelerator, producing the antiprotons that were the only fuel that would take humans to the stars.

Thinking of O’Keefe, he hunted her down with his eyes and saw that she and Glen Mulrooney were just getting out of their booths, huddling close with the RHN cameraman that had accompanied them to record their mission for posterity. Posterity, my ass, Jason thought to himself. More like to further her political career, the Goddamned hypocritical bitch. Hitching a ride on a military ship so she could try to get their funding cut. How did he ever get himself into this? And just what the hell was the Snake thinking of?

“Good God,” the slim, twentyish RHN cameraman was moaning to Glen Mulrooney on the other side of the room. The young reporter’s long, black hair, usually tied into a ponytail, was hanging in greasy strings across his face and his temples pounded with every pulsebeat. “Is it always this bad?”

“I hope not.” Glen shook his head, wiping slime off of his face. “We’ve got nearly a year of this to look forward to.”

“It’s not so bad after the first time,” Valerie assured him, smoothing her hair back from her brows. “I just wish we didn’t have to wear these skimpy outfits.” She could already sense some of the male crewmembers staring at her. It was nothing she couldn’t handle, of course, but it still made her uncomfortable. “Come on, Glen,” she said, standing, her arms crossed over her breasts. “Let’s go get cleaned up. We have a lot of work to do.”

* * *

“So,” Shannon asked as they strapped into their seats, “where are the Marines?” She glanced around the shuttle’s passenger compartment, seeing only Valerie O’Keefe’s party and the guard team. It was odd to see them dressed in civilian clothes, but McKay had thought it best to maintain a low profile: if the bad guys couldn’t tell them from O’Keefe’s people, they wouldn’t know who to concentrate on. Jason, Vinnie and Jock were clothed in baggy, tan utility pants, with light-colored shirts worn open over T-shirts, while she wore a white safari shirt and tan shorts—sensible wear for the climate in Aphrodite’s dry season. Tom Crossman, of course, was clad in some garishly-colored jumpsuit more appropriate for an inner-city dance club than a desert.

“They’re coming down separately,” Jason explained, mouth screwing up in distaste, “on the lander.” He jerked his head toward Valerie O’Keefe, engaged in conversation with the RHN reporter. “She didn’t want to have them around for the press to see—thought it would make her look paranoid.”

“Hell, I wish I was on the lander,” Jock Gregory grumbled from the seat behind him. “These pus…” he hesitated, glancing around self-consciously, “wussy Fleet shuttles make me want to puke.”

“So, sir,” Vinnie asked, surreptitiously elbowing his friend in the ribs, “what’s the agenda? Did she move the meeting back?”

McKay nodded, obviously unimpressed by her half-hearted cooperation. “By a whole hour. So, after we meet with Governor Sigurdsen, we’ll have to bust ass over to the hall ahead of her and give it a good looking-over. You two’ve done security scans before, so you’ll be in charge.”

“My favorite job,” Gregory muttered.

“What about me, Lieutenant?” Crossman asked, somehow managing to look more at ease than everyone else, even in zero gravity. “Do I get to do strip searches on the local senoritas?”

“You…” Jason bit back his initial response, doubting it would seem very professional. “You’ll draw a weapon and patrol the perimeter. If as much as a cow comes too close to the building, I want you to restrain it and hold it for questioning. You got that, Mister?”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Tom’s mouth twisted into his crooked grin. “Arrest all suspicious farm animals—got it, sir.”

“MacArthur shuttle SL-103,” the pilot’s voice came over the PA system, “preparing for launch. All passengers fasten your safety restraints, and have a pleasant flight.”

“Goddamned commercial pleasure cruise,” Vincent Mahoney whispered to Gregory, who grunted agreement. McKay had to laugh: those two would always be Marines.

The metallic clunks of releasing locking rings vibrated through the aerospace vehicle as it began to float through the open docking bay doors. Muffled bangs signalled the momentary ignition of the maneuvering thrusters that carried them out of the bay and into the shadow of the massive nickel-iron obelisk that was the RFS MacArthur. For a few seconds, the black metal of the hull was all they could see, punctuated by the regular bumps of sensor pods and antimissile defense turrets; but then they emerged into the harsh brightness of Aphrodite, a brown, green and blue hemisphere that stretched before them in the compartment’s holographic viewscreen.

“It looks a lot like Earth,” Shannon observed.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Jason told her. “About a third of the surface is as barren as the Mojave desert.”

“Have you been here before?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah.” He laughed humorlessly, settling back in his seat and closing his eyes. “I have been here before.”

* * *

Jason tried to keep from sweating as he watched the rocky ground pass by beneath them, but all he could imagine was a heat-seeking missile rising from some sheltered outcropping below to wipe them out in a methane explosion. God knew, it wouldn’t take much more than a rifle bullet to bring down the bulbous, ungainly, ducted-fan hovercraft that was the only transport available from the spaceport. The damned thing was a genuine antique, surely older than him, and ran on methane, for God’s sake. Why the hell didn’t they just strap on a bomb and hang a sign on their door that said, “Please shoot me?”

At least the ride was blissfully short—the port was only about sixty klicks from Kennedy, the capital. Why they’d built the planet’s capital so close to the nearly uninhabitable northern desert, McKay wasn’t sure. Maybe it had something to do with proving a political point that the planetary government represented the immigrant farmers of the north just as much as the wealthier colonists of the south. Or maybe it gave the wealthy colonists of the south a convenient center to find failed farmers they could hire for next to nothing as servants and workers.

Either way, Kennedy did have the distinction of being the second largest city in the star colonies, with a population of nearly 500,000. They could see the outskirts of the city a couple dozen klicks before they came anywhere near the governor’s mansion: not much, just scattered housing and a few small shops. Not that the city itself was that impressive. It was barely four or five kilometers on a side, with uneven rows of low, sprawling buildings constructed of native wood and rock interspersed with the taller, more modern structures built by the multicorps; but it was more than McKay had seen on any of the other colonies he’d visited during his hitch with the Marines.

A few minutes after they’d passed by the city limits, the ducted-fan flitter banked east and ran along the edge of the town until they came to one of the few paved roads that led out of the city proper. It ran for nearly a kilometer along a tree-lined path, through painfully-green, mechanically-irrigated fields of genetically-engineered grass to a huge, stark-white palace of a building that could only be described as something out of Scarlett O’Hara’s worst nightmare. It was meant to be an authentic imitation of an antebellum southern plantation house, but something had obviously gone wrong along the way; it had wound up as a kind of hodgepodge of protruding wings and terraces that more resembled a Dali painting than an official residence.

“That’s the governor’s mansion?” Shannon Stark asked McKay in obvious disbelief.

“It looked better last time I saw it.” Jason nodded glumly. “It was on fire.”

“You were here for the Arm of Allah riots,” she surmised. Behind her and across the aisle, Valerie O’Keefe’s ears pricked up at the mention of the riots.

“We dropped in the middle of the second week,” he told her. “The Guard was falling back on their armory, the city was nearly destroyed, and the Arabs were advancing on the governor’s mansion. When we got to the place, they’d set it on fire and Governor Sigurdsen was hiding under a truck. After we got things under control, he wanted to give my L-T a commendation, but Lieutenant Chan told him to go to hell.”

“Do you think he’ll hold that against you?” she wondered.

“He won’t know me from Adam.” Jason shook his head. “I was just another faceless corporal.” He chuckled quietly. “At least the Arm of Allah won’t be causing any more trouble—after the riots, they shipped all the Arab colonists to Loki out at Epsilon Eridani. Nothing but mountains and blizzards—great place for a bunch of camel jockeys, huh?”

“And did those ‘camel jockeys’ have any say in where they were to be relocated, Lieutenant?” Valerie O’Keefe asked him, disapproval strong in her voice.

“Yeah,” McKay shot back. “They said, ‘Brrr.’”

Shannon turned her head to stifle a laugh, and Val opened her mouth, poised to make a retort, but then the flitter lurched downward, jolting them forward. For a moment, Jason thought they were going to crash, but then he realized that their home-study-course pilot was just bringing them in for a landing. McKay thought he saw a look of distaste pass across Nathan Tanaka’s face, possibly professional disapproval of the flight crew, as they settled down with a teeth-rattling bump on the hard concrete of the mansion’s landing pad.

“Vinnie,” Jason ordered before anyone could move to disembark, “take Jock and go check out the area before Ms. O’Keefe gets off.”

“Aye, sir.” Mahoney didn’t salute—McKay had told them not to as long as they were in mufti—but you could tell it took a concerted effort not to. He and Gregory scrambled out of the flitter’s slowly-opening hatchway, Tanaka stepping out behind them, as Val fixed McKay with an annoyed glare.

“Is that really necessary, Lieutenant?” she wanted to know. “I’m sure Governor Sigurdsen has his own security.”

“I know he does,” Jason assured her. “I helped carry away their bodies last time I was here.” He frowned in mock confusion. “I’m sorry, Ms. O’Keefe, but I could have sworn you told me to talk about security measures with your bodyguard. Would you rather I dealt directly with you from now on?”

“You probably don’t want to know what I’d rather you do, Lieutenant McKay,” she said, anger evident behind her eyes.

“I’ll tell you what you need to do, McKay,” Glen interjected, finally becoming too furious to hold it in any longer. “You can…”

“All clear outside,” Vinnie announced, returning through the side hatch. “The governor’s waiting for us.”

“Can’t keep his Honor waiting.” Jason shot Glen a challenging grin, then moved down the aisle toward the exit. Perhaps, he thought, this job could be fun after all.

* * *

“Ms. O’Keefe!” Governor Roland Sigurdsen swept the Senator’s daughter into a crushing hug, lifting her off the ground, level with his massive, two-meter frame. “So wonderful to see you once again!”

The man reminded Jason of nothing so much as a Dark-Age Viking, with his long, flame-red hair tied in a pony tail, his bushy beard flowing down over the lapels of his casual suit and wild, fearsome blue eyes that seemed to protrude from his face when he spoke. He weighed upwards of a hundred and fifty kilos, and not much of it was fat, making him one of the most imposing figures McKay had ever seen. It was too bad the man was such an incredible moron.

“Hello, Governor.” Val shook his hand once he set her back down. “It’s good to see you, too.” She smoothed at her clothes, and McKay could detect a hint of hidden distaste in the motion. “This is Glen Mulrooney, my fiancé and my father’s chief advisor.”

“Nice to meet you, young man.” Sigurdsen pumped Glen’s hand fervently, beaming like a proud father. “You’re a lucky fellow to have found so worthy a mate.”

“Uh, thank you, sir,” Mulrooney said with a nod. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, son,” the big man assured him. His accent was Southern US, despite his name, but McKay wasn’t sure if it was genuine or an affectation. The Governor waved at a whisper-thin, two meters-tall male standing behind him, dressed in a business suit. “This is Felix Ortiz, the Lieutenant Governor.” The tall man bowed his head slightly, a thin smile on his thin face. “And this is Captain Shan Loa-Deng.” The Colonial Guard officer just stood her ground to the big man’s left, her chubby face expressionless. McKay guessed she probably had heard Val’s views and didn’t much care for them, or for her.

“Nice to meet you both,” Val said diplomatically.

Seeing she wasn’t about to introduce him, McKay stepped forward to introduce himself—and, hopefully, to annoy her.

“Governor,” he said, sticking out a hand, “I’m Lieutenant Jason McKay, Fleet Intelligence, and this is my second-in-command, Lieutenant Stark. We’ll be in charge of Ms. O’Keefe’s security during her visit.”

“Well, you’re most welcome, Lieutenant.” The big man pumped his hand, his grip strong and dry. “Though I hope your services won’t be needed.”

“You and me both, sir,” Jason agreed, painting on a cheerful expression. “If you could tell us where we’re to stay, my people have to prepare for the meeting with the Farmer’s Council.”

“Surely, surely,” Sigurdsen blustered. “Filipe,” he called sharply to one of the half-dozen servants standing between them and the front entrance to the house. The man hurried over, smoothing down the front of his white uniform jacket. Jason was surprised the Governor didn’t have the man respond with “Yassah, Massah.” “Show these ladies and gentlemen to their rooms. The rest of you,” he snapped at the others, “get their luggage.” Turning back to O’Keefe, he smiled hugely. “I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay here. If there’s anything you need, just ask. I’m totally at your disposal.”

Disposal of the Governor, Jason thought ruefully to himself as he watched the immigrant servants scramble to retrieve their luggage, seemed like a very good idea.

* * *

“…and so,” Valerie concluded, “I believe that this tour, and the finding I report to the Senate, will achieve real change within the next few years. If you will continue to have faith in yourselves,” she smiled modestly, “and a little in me, things are going to get better. Thank you for your time.”

Thunderous applause filled the old warehouse as she stepped down from the hand-made wooden podium, and, somehow, she found it even more satisfying than the ovation she’d received in the Senate. Looking out at the hundreds of small farmers, some dressed in little more than rags, with their faces beaming with the hope she represented, she was almost moved to tears. A sight like that made all the travel and sacrifice worthwhile.

“How come it’s gotten so fucking cold all of a sudden?” Glen muttered, shivering in his thin, Italian suit, glancing out the open freight doors at the faint glint of the setting primary star.

“This is the desert, Glen,” she reminded him quietly, closing the upper fasteners of her light jacket. Together, shadowed by the ever-wary form of Tanaka, they stepped down from the speaking platform, and immediately were met by Miguel Huerta, the chairman of the Independent Farmer’s Council. He was a stocky, greying man in his early fifties, face cracked and weathered by more than three decades in the desert—he’d been one of the first of the forced immigrants, brought there only months after the policies were enacted.

Yet, after all the hardships and mind-numbing labor, he’d not only prospered, but he’d kept a positive, cheerful disposition: she couldn’t remember a time she’d met with him when he wasn’t laughing and smiling.

“Thank you so much for coming to see us again, Senorita O’Keefe.” He embraced her warmly, beaming through his salt-and-pepper beard. “You leave us, as last time, with a new sense of hope.”

“It’s people like you who are the true source of hope, Miguel,” she told him, squeezing his arm fondly. “You give me hope for the future.”

Glen glanced over to make sure the RHN reporter was picking all this up on the little holocam resting on his shoulder mount—this was good stuff.

“Ms. O’Keefe,” Jason McKay said, stepping up to them, “your flitter is warming up outside.” Val regarded him coolly. She still burned a bit from his insistence on running all the attendees through a weapons scan before allowing them inside.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she told him dismissively. “I’ll be along shortly.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, trying to be patient. “Please try to hurry, though—there’s quite a crowd outside, and it’s getting difficult for my people to keep them away from the vehicle.”

“That’s your problem, McKay,” Glen snapped. “We’ll be out when we’re damn good and ready.”

“Mr. Mulrooney, I’m curious,” Jason asked him, showing his teeth in something less than a grin, “did your parents have any children that lived?”

“Listen, you…” Glen flared, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Jock Gregory, who ran up to McKay with a concerned look on his face.

“Sir,” he announced, slinging his grenade launcher, “there’s a couple of CeeGee troop carrier pulling up outside—looks like a platoon of ’em.”

“What do they want?” Jason asked him.

“Don’t know,” Gregory told him. “Lieutenant Stark’s going to talk to them now.” He shook his head. “Things are getting out of hand out there, sir.”

“Jock, you get back out there and back her up,” he ordered. He pulled a small comlink out of his pocket, hitting the send control. “Crossman, get in here and cover the entrance—don’t let anyone in but one of us.” He didn’t wait for the reply, just tucked the radio away and turned to find Tanaka, who was standing on one of the steps up to the speaker’s platform, surveying the crowd carefully. “Tanaka, you keep Ms. O’Keefe in here till we find out what’s going on out there—don’t let her or Mr. Mulrooney out of here until you hear from me or one of my people.”

Not waiting to hear the bodyguard’s reply, McKay drew the 10mm service pistol from the shoulder holster beneath his field jacket and headed out the door. Outside, he saw immediately that things did not look good. There had to be at least four or five hundred people gathered outside the front entrance, hoping to get a glimpse of Valerie, and they were getting a bit restless—pockets were chanting political slogans and some had begun to shout angrily at the Colonial Guard troops slowly clambering out of their armored personnel carriers. They all were in full combat armor, rocket rifles carried at the ready, except for Captain Shan Loa-Deng—she still wore her dress uniform, with the cosmetic addition of a small sidearm.

As Jason approached, squinting at the harsh brightness of the APC’s floodlights, he could see Shannon engaged in a heated conversation with the CeeGee Captain, their words almost lost in the roar of the crowd. One of the forward lights from the nearest armored car backlit the pair, sending an elongated, ominous shadow stretching out on the rocky ground before them.

“Look, Captain,” Stark was saying as Jason walked up, “we have things under control here—I think it might be unwise to provoke this crowd.”

“I have no interest in what you think, Lieutenant.” Deng waved a hand dismissively. “I have been stationed here for an intolerable two years, and I know this immigrant trash. They cannot be allowed to get out of hand or they will start their riots again.”

Yeah, Jason, sighed to himself. What she was saying made sense, until you considered that the Guard troops were arraying themselves in a semicircle on the far side of the crowd, not separating the crowd from the building, but trapping them against it.

“What’s the problem here?” Jason asked, looking from Stark to Deng, letting his pistol hang casually at his side. This, he realized, had the potential to get incredibly ugly.

“There is no problem, McKay.” Deng smiled—not a pleasant sight, speaking of incredibly ugly. “You will take your little Senator’s daughter from this place, and my troops will disperse this crowd of troublemakers.”

“These people aren’t causing any trouble, Captain,” Valerie’s voice came from behind McKay. “They have every right to be here.” Jason just stared at her in disbelief as she and Glen Mulrooney paced through the crowd into the middle of the gathering of officers. Glancing around, he saw Tanaka close behind her, and considered demanding why the bodyguard hadn’t kept her inside. Deciding that recriminations could wait, he turned back to the brewing confrontation between Val and Captain Deng.

“You have no authority here.” The Guard Captain didn’t try to hide her sneer of disdain as she regarded O’Keefe. “All your ridiculous prating can do is cause trouble for those of us who are forced to live here after you leave.”

“You have orders from the Senate to cooperate with me,” Val reminded her.

“And I have cooperated. You had your little speech, now I will make sure it did no damage.” She turned to her XO, a broad-shouldered Filipino in full armor. “Munos, have the drivers begin launching the gas gren…” She wasn’t able to finish the sentence because of the sudden appearance of a gun barrel in her mouth. Her eyes widened as she looked past the pistol, and the arm that held it, to the stony face of Jason McKay.

“No disrespect intended, Captain,” he spoke quietly, trying to keep the anger and desperation out of his voice, trying to sound calm. “But I believe my position as senior Intelligence officer onplanet gives me authority over all planetary troops and constabulary. So I’m going to give you a direct order to put your people back into their vehicles and vacate the area.”

“McKay, you can’t…” Deng began to protest, her voice comically distorted by the gun barrel.

“If you disobey this direct order,” he continued, ignoring her. “I will have no choice but to charge you with insubordination, try you and execute you. Should take… oh, about three seconds, more or less.”

“Captain,” Lieutenant Munos said uncertainly, aiming his rifle at McKay.

“First one that moves,” Shannon warned, pulling out her compact pistol and leveling it at Munos, “gets a bullet through the faceplate. Vinnie! Jock! Tom!” She shouted. “Get over here now!”

The three enlisted men rushed forward, putting themselves and their heavy weapons between their officers and the CeeGee troopers. Vinnie obviously disliked CeeGees—he looked as if he would relish putting a few grenades into the bunch of them. Jock was nearly spastic, quivering with adrenaline and anticipation. Tom wore a confident smugness, sure of his invulnerability.

“You’re being foolish, Lieutenant,” Deng said, her voice almost a whisper—but McKay could see the doubt in her eyes. “My troops will cut your people down in a heartbeat.”

“That’ll be one heartbeat more than you live,” Jason declared flatly. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of me, Captain, but I’m well-known for my bad relationship with Colonial Guard officers. I’ve already punched out one CeeGee Captain, but Momma told me never to hit a woman. So I’ll just have to blow your Goddamned head off.”

Captain Deng stared at him, her considerable pride and self-importance struggling with an increasing conviction that the young officer would do exactly what he was promising, despite the probable consequences. In the end, it was an easy victory for self-preservation.

“Lieutenant Munos,” she said quietly, “get the troops back in the APC’s.”

“But Captain,” the man protested, rifle still trained on McKay.

“Do it now, Munos,” she growled, “or, God help me, I’ll shoot you myself.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The XO relented reluctantly, lowering his weapon with a sigh. “Platoon leaders!” He ordered, turning back toward the troops. “Back in the vehicles now! We’re going back to the armory. On the double!”

Slowly and carefully, Jason pulled the muzzle of his pistol back from Deng’s face, but still kept it trained on her from hip level.

“Don’t think this is over.” She shook her head, rage burning behind her dark eyes. “No Intelligence spook is going to come in here and push my command around and get away clean. Your superiors will hear about this.”

“I expect so,” Jason agreed. “Make sure you get their names right, though. There’s only two of them, so it should be easy to remember: Kenneth Mellanby and Gregory Jameson.” He smiled wryly, hoping it hid the way his gut was twisting. “Say hi to ’em for me.”

The Captain opened her mouth, but bit back her reply, choosing instead to turn on her heel and stride purposefully back to one of the armored vehicles. McKay felt a bit light-headed and fought to keep from swaying as the APC’s started up and pulled away from the warehouse, heading out across the rocky plain back toward Kennedy. Behind him, he could hear the crowd, which he’d shut out for the last few minutes, cheering and yelling insults at the retreating CeeGees.

“Holy shit,” he heard himself sigh, almost unconsciously, as he reholstered his handgun.

“Colonel Mellanby was right,” Shannon Stark mused, running a hand through her hair. “This assignment won’t be boring.”

Vinnie stepped over to Jock and the pair shared a subdued high five. McKay looked back at Valerie O’Keefe, who was staring at him, wide-eyed.

“Ms. O’Keefe,” Jason told her, surprising himself with the coldness of his tone, “I remember asking you to stay inside the building. If you’d like to stay alive long enough to finish this little tour, maybe you’d better think about dropping the antimilitary hostility and listening to me. As for you, Mr. Mulrooney”—he turned on the man, who looked as if he were about to say something in Val’s defense—“you feel free to do whatever the hell you want, because I really don’t give a good Goddamn whether you eat a bullet or not.” Before the man could respond, Jason turned to Vinnie. “Sergeant, get these people in the flitter right now. I want to be out of here in five minutes.”

Without another word, Jason stalked away from the group and found a shadowy corner of the warehouse to lean against. Closing his eyes, he fought to control his breath—he felt as if he were on the verge of hyperventilating and his legs were very, very weak. He forced himself to put the situation into a coherent thought: he had put a gun in the face of a Colonial Guard Captain and threatened to kill her, in the process taking the risk of having two full platoons of armored CeeGees blow him and his whole command into little bits. Yeah, that’s what he had done all right.

“Jason.” He heard a voice and looked up to see Shannon approaching.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

“I’ve never heard of that regulation about the senior intelligence officer having authority over CeeGee personnel,” she told him, green eyes glinting softly in the lights of the flitter.

Jason found himself chuckling as he straightened and headed for the open door of the aircraft.

“That’s because,” he said, not looking back, “I made it up.”

Chapter Five

“People who bite the hand that feeds them usually lick the boot that kicks them.”

—Eric Hoffer

“Damned macho-bullshit, testosterone-junkie military punk,” Val could hear Glen grumbling as he unpacked his clothes from the suitcase on the bed into the room’s closet. They’d been back at the governor’s mansion for over an hour, and he hadn’t ceased to bitch about the actions of Colonel Deng and Lieutenant McKay the whole time.

Val sighed softly, leaning out of the third-floor room’s open window and looking up at the stars. She remembered how breathtaking it had been the first time she’d seen the stars from an alien star system, how it had carried such incredible possibilities with it. Perhaps, she had thought, the new perspective could bring out a new way of thinking, even aid in the evolution of the human species. She realized now how naive she had been. Simply opening up a new frontier hadn’t been enough. The explorers of the Twenty-third Century were just as exploitative and greedy as those of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth.

The only way to change things was to change the laws; the attitudes would follow, as they had with civil rights in the 1950’s and 60’s. The military would have to be disbanded, or at least cut back, and forced emigration would have to stop. The exiles who wished to return to Earth should be allowed to, and those who wanted to stay should be given adequate supplies and funding to live with some kind of dignity. Corporate influence over colonial policies would have to end, as would the awarding of huge tracts of fertile land to friends of important politicians and corporate leaders. Things had to change.

And among the things that might have to change, she reflected, glancing back at her fiancé, who was still grumbling to himself, was her relationship with Glen. Ever since they had left on this tour, he had become insufferably protective and obnoxious. As distasteful as she found Lieutenant McKay and his militaristic attitudes, she appreciated what he had done in protecting the farmers against the atrocities of the Colonial Guard. Oh, she was sure he did it to protect her as a function of his duty, but it had been the right thing to do, nonetheless. Yet all Glen could do was bitch and moan about the Intelligence officer’s actions, as he had the whole time. She understood his frustration, but he was doing nothing but making things worse. And if he couldn’t keep his cool when confronted by situations as basic as this, how would he react to the kind of psychological warfare that could be waged by Greg Jameson?

Of course she still had feelings for him, but choosing a lifetime companion wasn’t entirely an emotional decision. She had things she wanted to accomplish in her life, and they could only be achieved by high political office. She would need a husband who could retain his composure under pressure, and it was not at all clear that Glen was that man.

She was a bit startled when she felt Glen nuzzle against her neck—she’d been so lost in thought, she hadn’t noticed when his tirade had ended.

“What are you so caught up in, honey?” he asked her, kissing her ear affectionately.

She considered telling him, but a look at the trust and dependency in his eyes robbed her of the will. There would be time for that later.

“Just the stars,” she lied, stroking his hair gently. “Just the stars.”

* * *

Jason hesitated in front of the door, suddenly feeling very foolish. He was an adult and an officer—he shouldn’t have to beg some whacked-out wannabe ninja to cooperate with him. But, he sighed softly to himself, since he was an adult and an officer, he would do whatever he had to do to accomplish his mission. He knocked firmly on the door.

“Yes.” He heard Tanaka’s voice carry through the native wood.

“It’s Lieutenant McKay,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

“Come in.”

He turned the anachronistic doorknob, feeling the cool tingle of its polished brass in his hand as the solid, hand-made door swung inward with a squeak of hinges. From the dim light of the chemical ghostlights at the baseboards of the room, he could see Tanaka sitting cross-legged in the center of the floor, staring straight ahead, his fingers intertwined in a complex mesh. Pushing the door shut behind him, Jason suppressed a shudder. Tanaka’s face was wreathed in shadows while the rest of his form was lost in the darkness of his loose, black clothing. Burning red cinders floated where his eyes would be, from the reflection of the dim ghostlights off his retinas; and McKay almost felt as if he were stepping into some otherworld, with Tanaka as its resident demon.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Jason stepped forward, feeling a bit awkward.

“Nothing that can’t wait.” The bodyguard rose to his feet lithely and economically, not a movement wasted. Jason realized then, for the first time, just how dangerous this man looked. Before, he had regarded him as just another hired merc out of the Eastbloc, but the way he moved spoke volumes as to the extent of his training.

“Mr. Tanaka,” McKay began, “I think we’ve got a couple problems that we need to work out.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “Look, I know you’ve been guarding Ms. O’Keefe for a long time, and I appreciate that, but I think we need to reach some kind of accommodation. It won’t do either of us any good to keep bumping heads in potentially hazardous situations.”

“I see no problem,” the bodyguard replied, his face unreadable in the shifting shadows. “You and your people will stay out of my way.”

“Uh-huh.” McKay chuckled humorlessly, putting his hands on his hips in an effort to avoid making fists with them. He’d lost his temper once tonight already, and it just wouldn’t do to get into a confrontation with a man he’d have to work closely with for the next year. “That’s all well and good to say, but in a situation like this evening, your allowing her to leave the building could have gotten her killed.”

“When armored personnel carriers come to call,” Tanaka declared, smiling thinly, “the worst possible place to be is inside their probable target.”

“That may be,” the Lieutenant said, trying to work the tension out of his neck. “And you may have insights in the future that will help us both take care of Ms. O’Keefe. That’s why I feel we have to work together.”

“Lieutenant McKay,” the Japanese man interrupted, “I have had much experience with soldiers, of one government or another. Some of them were honorable men, some were not. But all had overriding loyalties to a General or a Chairman or a President—or merely to a career.” He seemed to look McKay up and down without moving his eyes a millimeter. “From what I have seen, you are not without courage, but I cannot trust you.” The bodyguard sniffed almost imperceptibly, a dismissive gesture that was the most expressive thing the man had done since Jason had stepped into the room. “The point is moot. I am not under your command, and I will continue to act as I see fit to safeguard Ms. O’Keefe’s life. Your assignment, whatever it may be, is your own concern.”

“All right.” Jason took a deep breath, his shoulders squaring as the fire that had been kindling in his gut for the last five minutes flared behind his eyes. “I tried to be pleasant about this, but I haven’t yet found one of you damned civilians who wanted to listen to any kind of reason, so I’m going to be blunt.” He stabbed a finger at the bodyguard. “You can go ahead and be as stubborn as you want to be about all this, and you can ignore me as much as you want. But when the time comes that you get in my way, or obstruct any decision that I consider vital to ensuring Ms. O’Keefe’s safety or the safety of my team, I’m not going to argue with you, and I’m not going to bother trying to arrest you. I’m just going to have someone put a bullet in you, and worry about the consequences later. And that’s something you can trust.”

Jason stormed out the door without another word, slamming it behind him with a negligent shove, and stalked his way down the darkened hallway, cursing as he went. He started in English, worked his way through Spanish and French, and was well on his way into German by the time he found himself in the large, extravagantly-decorated study at the other end of the wing. The reading lamp over one of the couches was lit, and beneath it, he noticed too late as he entered in mid-invective, Shannon Stark sat reading an old-style, jacketed book. She looked up at his entrance, eyebrow raising.

“Problem?” she asked him, setting the volume down beside her.

“Naw,” he chuckled. “Just rehearsing for my court-martial. What’s keeping you up at this hour?”

“Well, we may not think much of His Honor, the Governor’s taste in architecture,” she explained, “but he has a hell of a library.” She ran an appreciative hand over the spine of the lavishly-decorated book she’d been reading. “This is a Hemingway first edition, and there’re dozens of others in here.” She stood, motioning back at the shelves behind her. “All the old classics, most of them first editions, some even signed, for God’s sake. It must have cost a small fortune to have them imported here from Earth.”

Jason stepped over to the couch, picking up the book.

“I used to love reading when I was a kid,” he told her. “I’d sit out at the docks with a hardcopy of Hemingway or Heinlein and lose myself for hours.” He laughed softly, eyes seeing something long ago and far away. “Dad thought I was nuts, but Mom told him to leave me alone—Mom was always the old-fashioned one.”

Shannon moved closer to him, putting a hand on the book he still held, her fingers brushing against his. She wore khaki shorts and a matching top, unbuttoned over a pale t-shirt; and he was suddenly acutely aware of the warmth that radiated off the bare skin of her legs and neck, and of the faint but unmistakable sweet scent of her perfume.

“I enjoy the old poetry the most,” she told him, green eyes locked on his like sighting lasers, the expression on her face displaying an intent totally separate from her words. “Like Lord Byron:

’Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,

Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!

Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,

Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.’”

She had brought her face closer to his with each word; and by the finish, her lips were inches from his, only the book separating them. For some reason, Jason found himself having difficulty putting together a coherent thought; his chest felt tight and his head was light. There had to be some reason he shouldn’t be doing this, he thought as he leaned forward almost imperceptibly to allow their lips to meet, but he couldn’t for the life of him think of one right now.

* * *

“I don’t like this,” Jason heard Vinnie mutter, half to himself, half to Jock. McKay had to agree that there was a lot not to like.

The three squat hemispheres of buildfoam that were the Mendoza’s farmhouse jutted out of the rocky, arid wastes that bordered the northern deserts, the white surfaces glaring harshly in the midday sun. The flitter that had delivered them there crouched buglike a good fifty meters from the buildings, the governor’s pilot and a security guard lounging lazily in the shade of its open boarding hatch, while Valerie O’Keefe’s party and McKay’s team slowly approached the farmhouse.

They were all out in the open, with the nearest backup a hundred klicks away, and no more of an advance recon than a couple low fly-bys. McKay had requested an earlier visit, with his team going first in a separate vehicle and checking the whole area out, but O’Keefe had found the idea insulting.

“These people are personal friends of mine, Lieutenant,” she had told him coldly. “I will find any such treatment of them a personal insult.” And that had been that. Jason had been in too good of a mood at the time to push the argument any further, not that it would have done any good.

He glanced at Shannon, saw her returning the look behind her round-lensed sunglasses, and had to smile. He’d worried, just before they’d drifted off to sleep early this morning, that things would be awkward for them now, and that he’d just sacrificed any chance at a good working relationship for a couple hours of—admittedly intense—pleasure. But in the morning, she’d managed to handle it just right, playing it loosely, but not lightly. He’d left his bedroom with the feeling that, although what had happened was not serious enough to affect their military association, nor was it something he could dismiss as a meaningless one-night stand. In fact, rather than worried, he actually felt damn good about the whole thing.

He forced himself to concentrate on the business at hand as from the largest of the three structures emerged a Latino couple whom McKay recognized from Val’s speech as Jorge and Carmella Mendoza. They looked much the same as they had in the holo from two years before, perhaps even a bit healthier and surely better dressed. But something about them struck Jason as not right, before they ever spoke a word. They seemed nervous and fitful as they stepped away from the door, like cornered animals. And he had an odd feeling that the thing responsible was the man that walked out that door just behind them.

He was a short, broad-shouldered man, dressed in work clothes and a broad-brimmed hat that shadowed a hard, craggy face and deep-set dark eyes. His beard and salt-and-pepper hair were cut short and neat, and his whole bearing suggested discipline and control. With a start, McKay realized that the man reminded him of the Snake. Now that was a scary thought.

“Jorge, Carmella!” Val ran toward them, sweeping them both into a warm embrace. “You both look wonderful! It’s so good to see you!”

“Gracias, senorita Valerie,” Jorge said. “It is good to see you as well.” His eyes flashed at McKay and the others.

“Where are the children?” Val asked, looking around for them. “Are they well?”

“Si, Valerie,” Carmella answered. “They are visiting neighbors. We hoped to get them back in time to see you, but…”

“It’s all right,” Val assured her, smiling through her disappointment. “Jorge, Carmella,” she introduced, “this is Glen Mulrooney, my fiancé.”

“Senor Mulrooney.” Jorge Mendoza shook the man’s hand. He glanced back at the stranger hesitantly, and Jason could have sworn that the man nodded at Jorge, as if giving him permission to tell the others his name. “This is Senor Carlos Gomez,” he said. “A leader in our community. He wished to meet you.”

“It is a pleasure, Ms. O’Keefe,” Gomez said in unaccented English. “I have much appreciated the work you have done for our people.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gomez,” she acknowledged. “I try to do what little I can.”

“Please, senorita,” Jorge said, “would you come inside and sit down with us?”

“Ms. O’Keefe,” McKay interrupted, “if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to have my people at least sweep the house with the scanners first.”

“Lieutenant McKay,” she snapped, spinning on him with a glare, “how many times do I have to tell you that the Mendozas are my friends?”

“Senorita,” Jorge spoke up. “It’s all right. We will not mind.”

“Well…” She didn’t like it, but if it would keep McKay quiet… “All right,” she acquiesced. “But make it quick.”

“Vinnie, Jock,” Jason ordered, “go inside and run a quick scan—sonic and metal detection.”

The two sergeants slung their shoulder weapons, pulled compact hand scanners out of the cargo pockets of their fatigue pants and headed into the farmhouse. The hand-held devices weren’t perfect, but they could pick up a human heartbeat and detect metallic weapons; it didn’t seem too likely that anyone out here would be able to get their hands on the polymer weapons used by military forces and police; but, at any rate, the chemscan that would have detected them would have required a much longer process with heavier equipment, which was more than O’Keefe was willing to allow.

While the two NCO’s scanned the buildings, Crossman started a slow patrol of the perimeter—without having to be told, McKay was glad to see—and the others waited uncomfortably in the intense heat. Of the O’Keefe party, only Valerie was dressed for the weather: she wore khaki shorts and a tan, long-sleeved shirt, plus a brimmed hat, similar garb to Shannon’s, although filled out in different places. Glen was in a short sleeved pullover shirt and slacks, which was going to leave him with a good sunburn on his pale arms, McKay thought; and the RHN cameraman was dressed likewise, while the governor’s representative, a short, slimy little man named Eberhard, wore a completely inappropriate business suit. That alone spoke volumes about how often the governor’s people got out into the Wastes, McKay mused. Tanaka, not surprisingly, was still in his standard black slacks and long-sleeved shirt, but the glare of Tau Ceti seemed to affect him as much as McKay’s temper had the night before; the only concession he made to it was a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

“How can anyone grow a damned thing in this God-awful heat?” Glen wondered, tugging at his collar.

“Genetically-engineered seed,” Valerie explained to him, surprising Jason with her knowledge. “It can grow with very little water, and its cycle’s adjusted to match the planet’s seasons. They provided each colonist an allotment of it, but it’s very expensive.”

“It is hard to afford to buy extra seed,” Jorge agreed. “We have enough to eat, now, but it was hard for a long time.”

“Sir.” Vinnie emerged from one of the outbuildings with Jock on his heels. “It’s clean, as far as these toys can tell.”

“Are you satisfied now?” Valerie asked McKay, not without a bit of disdain.

“Satisfied’s such a big word,” McKay muttered, stepping past her through the open door of the farmhouse. Tugging his sunglasses off and hanging them from his T-shirt, Jason looked around him.

The place was fairly roomy, which made its lack of furnishings even more glaring. The dining room table was built into the wall, but the rest of the furniture was either cheap, throwaway plastic or hand-built from local scrapwood. Cloth curtains partitioned the inside of the geodesic dome into the dining/living room area, a kitchen, and three small bedrooms; the only built-in internal doors were the ones to the storage closets. It was neatly kept, Jason admitted, though the ventilation wasn’t much to speak of and the unmistakable stench of human body odor filled the place.

Turning back to the door, Jason saw the Mendozas, Guzman, O’Keefe, Tanaka and the RHN reporter file in behind him. Shannon, as they had planned, would stay outside and keep a link open through the flitter’s radio to Kennedy, just in case. Why the governor’s rep had chosen to stay outside, McKay didn’t know—maybe the man didn’t consider smalltalk with the peasants to be part of his duties. Or maybe it was the smell that kept him out.

“Please, sit down,” Carmella invited them, waving at the dining room table: actually, a buildfoam booth that extended out from the wall, just beneath the window.

Jason waited for the Mendozas, Val and Glen to take a seat before he situated himself across from Guzman—he wanted to keep an eye on the man. Tanaka and the RHN cameraman both remained standing, the reporter setting up at a good angle for filming and the bodyguard taking a vantage point against the wall to the side of the table.

“So, Jorge, Carmella,” Val asked them, “have you managed to dig a well yet?”

Jorge shook his head. “Not as yet. The ground is too hard and the water too deep. We need to rent digging equipment, but we cannot afford enough seed to grow enough crops to make the money to rent it.”

“The multicorps have plenty of equipment for their mines and farms,” Gomez spoke up with a note of anger in his voice—yet McKay somehow got the impression that the words were rehearsed. “But we exiles are kept down, digging in the dirt with our hands while they lounge in their plantation houses, with their slaves catering to them, like medieval barons. How ironic that the Republic government, with its roots in the United States, has turned its back on the revolutionary ideals which founded that nation.” He glared at McKay. “Do you know that with the funds spent on shipping emigrants to the star colonies, a city the size of one of your Western megalopolises could have been built to house more than twice the number of indigents who have been sent to the colonies? But that would mean admitting that the problem is poverty and not ideology—and it wouldn’t give the multicorporations a ready and helpless work force.”

“You seem like a very well educated man, Mr. Gomez,” McKay observed. “How the hell did you end up here?” That earned him a nasty look from Valerie, but he was becoming inured to those by now.

“Nineteenth in my graduating class at UCLA, Mr. McKay” he replied, with something in the way of self-satisfaction in his voice smoothly replacing the righteous indignation as if it had never been. “Or is it Captain McKay?”

“Lieutenant,” Jason informed him, trying not to show the trepidation that was beginning to gnaw at his guts.

“I had everything,” Gomez went on, “that modern society could provide: a professorship at the University of the Americas, a real house away from the conditioned boxes of the cities, a family. But I was willing to risk it all to become politically active in my homeland of Panama, to try to bring justice to those less fortunate than I.”

“This particular brand of ‘political’ activity,” Jason surmised, surreptitiously slipping his right hand inside his open overshirt and letting it drift toward the butt of his shoulder-holstered pistol, “wouldn’t happen to be the Panamanian Liberation Front, would it, Mr. Gomez?”

“For the sake of argument, Lieutenant,” Gomez said with a wave of his hand, his smile much too confident for Jason’s comfort, “what would you say if I told you you were right? And what would you say if I told you”—his dark eyes glinted with a madness McKay had seen for one brief moment in the face of a terrorist on Inferno before the man had gone down to a hail of bullets—“that there was five kilos of plastic explosives taped to my chest, and that this”—he produced, with the flourish of a stage magician, a small plastic box about the size of a comlink—“was the trigger?”

McKay’s hand froze centimeters from his handgun, his eyes focussing so tightly on that plastic device in Gomez’s hand that they could have been hooked to the RHN reporter’s camera zoom control. With his free hand, Gomez pulled up the hem of his shirt, revealing a large, grey lump of putty taped across the lower part of his torso. Beside him, Jason could hear Valerie’s sharp intake of breath and feel the vibrations as Glen began to shake uncontrollably. The RHN reporter lowered his camera and began slowly backing toward the door.

“It is an interesting feeling controlling one’s own destiny, Lieutenant McKay,” Gomez told him calmly.

Around them, as if on cue, three men emerged from hiding places in the bedrooms and kitchen, their hands filled with compact submachineguns. McKay didn’t turn his head but he knew the answer to his own questions before they were even fully formed. The gunmen had been able to conceal themselves from Vinnie and Jock’s sensors because they had somehow been able to acquire, probably through judicious bribes to cargo ship crews, heartbeat-masking stealthsuits and all-polymer weapons that no doubt fired caseless cartridges with non-metallic bullets. In other words, this had to have been planned very well in advance.

The gunmen began to advance on them, one approaching the cameraman while the other two headed for the table. Jason didn’t try to think, not on a conscious level. He’d been too well trained in Colonel Mellanby’s crash course for that. He knew everything he needed to know on a gut level. He had to act now, before the opposition got organized, or there would be no satisfactory end to this. And he had to watch for the opportunity that always presented itself, if only you knew where to look.

When things began to happen, they happened fast. The spark that lit the match was the eruption of a barrage of gunfire outside. Gomez and his people had to be expecting it, but even as Val and the others twisted around in surprise, so did the gunmen allow their attention to be drawn away for just a split-second.

And that was more than Nathan Tanaka needed. One second the Japanese bodyguard was leaning harmlessly against the wall, a still-life of utter motionlessness, as the nearest of the gunmen approached him; the next eyeblink, Tanaka was a blur that defied definition, and the unfortunate Salvadoran who’d been luckless enough to be less than a meter from him was lying on the ground with his neck at an impossible angle.

Gomez jerked around at the crack of the gunman’s neck breaking, but all of Jason McKay’s attention—all of his being—was focussed on the man in front of him. Faster than he thought he could ever possibly move, and yet so slowly it made his brain scream at him, Jason ripped his service auto from its horizontally-canted shoulder holster and blew off the top half of Carlos Gomez’s forehead.

Later, he wouldn’t recall seeing the pistol’s pop-up electronic sight extend, or noticing the targeting dot through its clear LCD image. He wouldn’t even remember actually pulling the trigger. To him, it seemed as if the gun had jumped into his hand of its own free will. But the ear-shattering explosion of the high-power 10mm being fired in the closed building jolted him back into synch with the passage of time.

Not rising from his seat, unable to hear Valerie O’Keefe’s scream as the blood and bits of brain splashed over her and Glen, Jason twisted around and fired a double-tap into the chest of the second gunman. The fellow was tall, with long hair that whipped wildly around as he jerked from the impact of the ceramic slugs, then fell like a puppet with his strings cut. McKay glanced around frantically for the remaining one of the three Central Americans, but saw that Tanaka had already taken care of Gomez’s other compatriot, who was writhing on the floor trying hard to breathe, but having a hard go of it with his trachea ripped out.

The roar of his own handgun still ringing in his ears, Jason couldn’t be sure if the gunfire outside had stopped or not, but he wasn’t about to leave his command to fight that battle alone… or leave Shannon alone. The fierceness of the latter conviction surprised him. He turned back to the ruin that had once been Carlos Guzman and pried the bomb trigger loose from the corpse’s hand, stuffing it into his pocket before he rose from his seat. Pushing past the RHN reporter, leaving him to stare in abject horror at the corpses around him, Jason scooped up one of the terrorist’s submachineguns—they’d never had the chance to fire them—and paused at the doorway to fix a look at Tanaka.

“Keep them in here,” he told the bodyguard, seeing him nod before he turned back to the door.

Crouching beside the entrance, he shoved his pistol in his belt, grasped the handle in his left hand while his right held the appropriated weapon. He yanked the door open and threw himself out of it. Landing on his shoulder, he rolled back into a crouch, brought the subgun to the ready…

And found he’d arrived at the party too late. A half-dozen bodies littered the ground between the farmhouse and the flitter, but none of them belonged to his team: five were obviously in league with Gomez, by the look of their weapons and the black Stealth suits they wore; while the other was the security guard who’d accompanied them from the mansion. Vinnie, his flechette gun tucked in the crook of his arm, still stood over the man’s body, checking his carotid pulse. Jason rose from his crouch, letting the submachinegun hang at his side.

“Is everyone okay out here?” Jason asked, eyes on Shannon, who still held her compact handgun at arm’s length.

“All aces and eights out here,” Vinnie reported, standing. “The merc bought it, though. Took a bullet for the suit.” He jerked a thumb toward Eberhard, the governor’s representative, who was on his knees beside the flitter, puking into the sand. It was obvious from the tone in Vinnie’s voice that he thought it had been a bad trade.

“Call in a support team,” Jason told Shannon, tossing the machine pistol in the dirt and reholstering his own weapon. “And get the flitter warmed up—I want to get O’Keefe and her people out of here before anything else happens.”

Behind him, the door to the farmhouse opened and the RHN reporter looked cautiously around before stepping out, his camera still hanging forgotten at his side. He walked numbly yet deliberately up the ramp into the flitter and sat down, his gaze staring a thousand meters through the bulkhead. From the shell-shocked look on the man’s face, Jason figured he probably wouldn’t come out until the vehicle landed at the governor’s mansion. The others trickled out after: first Valerie and Glen, both still splattered with blood, the horror evident in their eyes as they partially supported each other; after them, Tanaka followed close behind, his face as impassive as if he’d just eaten lunch and was ready for a short nap.

Jason regarded him for a long moment, trying to figure out what went on behind that unreadable gaze.

“Why’d you trust me to take him before he could blow us up?” McKay asked him with open curiosity.

“Why did you trust me,” the bodyguard replied with a shrug, “to create a diversion?” Jason just nodded and let the man escort Val and Glen toward the flitter.

Last out of the house were Jorge and Carmella Mendoza, nearly forgotten in the confusion. Carmella looked nearly as anxious as she had before, nearly in tears, but Jorge seemed to project a sense of resignation to his fate.

“Please, Senor Lieutenant.” Carmella gripped McKay’s arm in desperation. “They said they would kill our children if we did not help them—I swear it! We had no choice! They were going to kill my babies! We sent them away to our neighbors, but they would have found them!”

“Is that right, Jorge?” Jason looked the man in the eye. “Is that the way it happened?”

Mendoza saw in McKay’s eyes that he was being given a way out, and nodded gratefully.

“Si, senor,” he confirmed quietly. “They would have killed us and our children.”

“All right.” McKay took a long look around at the Wastes, at their house and back at them. “You know, Jorge, things may not look that good for you here. Things may seem pretty rough. But I want you to remember: it could be a lot worse.” He shook his head. “It could be a hell of a lot worse.”

He turned and left them there, walking slowly toward the flitter, feeling around in his pocket until he found the trigger switch. Shannon fell in step beside him as he examined the small, plastic box with its inset controls, and wondered if it was real.

“What’s that?” she asked him.

“Back in there,” he said, jerking his head toward the farmhouse, “you’d better tell the support crew that Gomez has about five kilos of plastic explosives taped to his chest. Tell ’em to be careful with it. And you’d better take this.” He extended the control box to her, and she accepted it with widening eyes. “I don’t think I can hold it much longer,” he explained, looking down at his hands. For some reason, they just wouldn’t stop shaking.

Chapter Six

“Great occasions do not make heroes or cowards; they simply unveil them to the eyes of men. Silently and imperceptibly, as we wake or sleep, we grow strong or weak; and at last some crisis shows what we have become.”

—Brooke Foss Westcott

“This particular brand of ‘political’ activity,” Jason surmised, surreptitiously slipping his right hand inside his open overshirt and letting it drift toward the butt of his shoulder-holstered pistol, “wouldn’t happen to be the Panamanian Liberation Front, would it, Mr. Gomez?”

“For the sake of argument, Lieutenant,” Gomez said with a wave of his hand, his smile much too confident for Jason’s comfort, “what would you say if I told you you were right? And what would you say if I told you”—his dark eyes glinted with a madness McKay had seen for one brief moment in the eyes of a terrorist on Inferno before the man had gone down to a hail of bullets—“that there was five kilos of plastic explosives taped to my chest, and that this”—he produced, with the flourish of a stage magician, a small plastic box about the size of a comlink—“was the trigger?”

McKay’s hand froze centimeters from his handgun, his eyes focussing so tightly on that plastic device in Gomez’s hand that they could have been hooked to the RHN reporter’s camera zoom control. With his free hand, Gomez pulled up the hem of his shirt, revealing a large, grey lump of putty taped across the lower part of his torso. Beside him, Jason could hear Valerie’s sharp intake of breath and feel the vibrations as Glen began to shake uncontrollably. The RHN reporter lowered his camera and began slowly backing toward the door.

“It is an interesting feeling controlling one’s own destiny, Lieutenant McKay,” Gomez told him calmly.

“For the sake of argument, Lieutenant,” Gomez said with a wave of his hand, his smile much too confident for Jason’s comfort, “what would you say if I told you you were right? And what would you say if I told you”—his dark eyes glinted with a madness McKay had seen for one brief moment in the eyes of a terrorist on Inferno before the man had gone down to a hail of bullets—“that there was five kilos of plastic explosives taped to my chest, and that this”—he produced, with the flourish of a stage magician, a small plastic box about the size of a comlink—“was the trigger?”

McKay’s hand froze centimeters from his handgun, his eyes focussing so tightly on that plastic device in Gomez’s hand that they could have been hooked to the RHN reporter’s camera zoom control.

“…what would you say if I told you that there were five kilos of plastic explosives taped to my chest, and that this”—he produced a small plastic box—“was the trigger?”

McKay’s hand froze centimeters from his handgun…

“…and that this was the trigger?”

McKay froze…

…and bolted upright in bed with a violent grunt, every muscle in his body tensed to the point of cramping, covered with a thin sheen of sweat. He clutched instinctively at the place under his left arm where his gun should be before he realized again that he was back in his room in the governor’s mansion and it was—he glanced automatically at his wristwatch—well after midnight, local time.

He took in a deep breath and slowly let it escape, trying to slow down his triphammer heart rate as he settled back onto his pillow. He should, he knew now, have taken advantage of the fact that Valerie had cancelled all her planned activities for tomorrow and made use of his free night to get roaring drunk. At least then he would have been able to sleep through the night. He had tried to work some of the tension out with Shannon, but he hadn’t been able to get the day’s events off his mind and concentrate on her. She’d understood, and told him she’d be there for him if he needed her, which was good to know. Then he’d gone back to his own room to try to rest.

But rest wouldn’t come; his sleep had already been interrupted twice by the nightmares. This last one had been mild compared to the first: in that one, Gomez had been replaced by the animated corpses of casualties from his platoon on Inferno, intent on blowing up Jason and Shannon to avenge their own death.

Had he handled this situation the right way, he wondered? Or had he just gotten lucky? The fact that all of them weren’t dead right now, he was certain, was more attributable to the quick thinking of his team and of Nathan Tanaka than to any decision he had made. When he cut through all the psychological defense mechanisms, he knew in his heart that he was simply scared shitless and had been ever since Inferno. He feared not his own fate so much as he feared that once more he would lead those that trusted him to their deaths, and have to live with it after.

Sighing heavily, he gave up on sleep and looked around for his clothes. The air was too Goddamned conditioned and recycled in this place anyway. He’d be spending too much of the next few months breathing shipboard air—he needed to get outside. He hesitated as he reached for his shoulder holster, slung over a chair back. Would he need it for a walk in the garden?

Shrugging, he slipped into it anyway. The thing about a gun, he remembered Grandpa McKay saying more than once, is that you’ll be a lot better off having it and not needing it than needing it and not having it. Grandpa was a real throwback, but McKay hadn’t known him to be wrong about much.

He pulled his khaki shirt over the holster, then found a jacket in the closet. Though the mansion was in a much more temperate clime than the Wastes, it was still high desert; and, if it was anything like the deserts he’d visited on Earth, it would get pretty damned cold at night.

The halls of the mansion’s guest wing were dark and deserted as he padded silently down them, letting the shadows swallow him up. Did he need to think this through, he wondered, or stop thinking? Sometimes, he felt like he thought too much, although he doubted he would have been able to get his advisors in college to agree with that proposition.

Jason wandered out of the guest wing, through the wheel-like hub between the wings of the building, and finally out a set of open double-doors into the large gardens behind the mansion. Roland Sigurdsen had plenty of connections with the corporations that helped fund the colonies under the umbrella of the Republic Resources Development Council, and it was clear from the lavish way he’d poured money into the mansion that he exploited them to their fullest. The garden covered nearly an acre, its perimeter marked by a hand-cut stone wall, decorated by classical-period statues, but the extravagance wasn’t in the size or the decoration, but in the flora itself: all were Earth plants and flowers, which meant that all were produced from genetically engineered seeds grown specifically to adapt to the conditions on Aphrodite. As much as the engineered food crops cost, engineered decorative plants, being far rarer, were a level of magnitude greater in price.

Just from what Jason could see by the soft gleam of the nightlights that lined the path, the garden must have represented about a hundred thousand dollars in seed money alone. Of course, Sigurdsen hadn’t paid it, and it likely hadn’t come out of colonial funding, either. No, it was much more probable that it had come in the way of “donations” from the local multicorps representatives, in exchange for letting them walk all over the environmental and labor regulations in the mines and on the corporate farms. Or maybe, McKay reflected, he was just getting cynical in his old age.

Yeah, right.

He paused next to a round, polished stone bench and took a deep breath of the chill night air, slowly letting it out. He was finally beginning to relax.

“I just love the night air,” the voice came from behind him. He didn’t remember moving, but suddenly he was crouching behind the bench with his gun in his hand, pointing it at Valerie O’Keefe.

“Shit.” He started breathing again, stuffing his pistol away as he rose to his feet.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Val apologized, seemingly unaffected by his reaction. “I just couldn’t sleep—and, like I said, I love the night air out in the desert.” She shrugged, sitting down on the bench. “It’s so… clean. And clear.” She looked up at the night sky. “You can see so many stars.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, surprised at how civil she was being, but a bit annoyed at having his solitude disturbed. “Well, I guess I’d better get back inside.” He started to turn back toward the mansion, and was surprised again to be stopped by her hand on his arm.

“Don’t go yet,” she asked him, her voice earnest and almost pleading. As he moved back, the glow from the ring of chemical lights at the base of the bench lit up her face and he noticed the tracks of dried tears staining her cheeks.

“Ms. O’Keefe…” he began.

“Valerie,” she told him, letting her hand slip off his arm and fall back into her lap. “Please call me Valerie.”

“Uh…” he stammered, “okay, Valerie.” The name seemed to stumble awkwardly off his lips. “Anyway, it’s kind of cold out here, and you’re not exactly dressed for it,” he pointed out, actually noticing the light blouse and mid-thigh denim skirt she was wearing only after he made the comment.

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted. “Sit down for a minute.”

Against every ounce of better judgement in his body, Jason eased down next to her, feeling the chill of the stone bench even through his fatigue pants.

“The real reason I came out here,” Valerie confessed, not looking at him, “is that I saw you from my room, and I wanted to talk to you.” She met his gaze hesitantly, and the words she spoke seemed to have to claw their way free of her throat. “I wanted to thank you for saving our lives today. And apologize for the trouble we’ve given you since this whole thing started.”

Jason shrugged. “Hell, it was probably just as much my fault as it was yours.” Actually, he thought to himself, it was probably mostly your boyfriend’s fault. But that, he decided, was best left unsaid.

“I just wanted you to know,” she went on, “that just because I don’t approve of the way that the government is using the military doesn’t mean I don’t respect it… and you. If you and your people hadn’t acted so quickly, we would have all been killed.”

“We only did what we had to do,” he told her honestly. “I’ve got to admit to you, Ms. O’Kee… Valerie, that when I saw that big lump of plastique, I was thinking more about my ass than my duty.”

She shook her head, seeming not to hear his reply, her eyes focussed on an unseen memory.

“I can’t understand men like him,” she murmured softly. Men like who? Jason wondered. “How could he do it?” she asked. “Didn’t he know that I—that we were trying to help his people? To help all the emigrants?”

Okay, he got it now. It was Gomez she was talking about. But did she really want an answer to those questions? And if she did, how much of an answer did he have? He wasn’t a sociologist, just a soldier.

“My old military history professor back at UC San Diego,” he said, framing the best reply he could muster, “used to call men like Gomez ‘the horsemen’—men like Attila the Hun or Adolf Hitler; the men who believe that might makes right, who want what someone else has and would rather take it by force than work for it. He said that no matter how far humanity advances, and no matter how civilized we think we are, there’ll always be the horsemen waiting in the wings to catch us with our guard down.” He could see the old man in his mind’s eye—Dr. Hans Gabriel had been well over a hundred, but he was still out on the campus jogging track every morning at six, his long white hair tied back in a ponytail. Someone had told him that the Doctor had been in the US Army during the Sino-Russian War. “Every generation, Dr. Gabriel said,” Jason went on, recalling one of Gabriel’s lectures almost word-for-word, “there’s always a call from those that think we’ve come too far to need a military anymore, that we’ve tamed the horsemen forever—bred the trait out of us. They’re always well-meaning and idealistic, and it’s hard to disagree with their reasoning. But they’re wrong, every time.”

“I just thought,” Valerie sighed, looking up at the heavens, “that things might be different now.”

“I know what you mean,” McKay said, leaning back with her but thinking of another sky. “When I was in college, I used to rent a sailboat on the weekends and take it out into the bay at night and just lie back and look at the stars for hours. I thought that if I could get up there someday, that everything would be better somehow. That having done something as incredible as travelling to another star would give everything a whole new perspective. That’s why I joined the Marines, really—I’m not good enough with math for the Fleet, and I wanted more than anything to get up there.” He chuckled softly. “I guess I forgot that no matter what else changes, human nature usually doesn’t. We could leave all the old prejudices and the old boundaries back on Earth, but the one thing we couldn’t leave behind was ourselves.”

“Oh!” Valerie pointed up past the mansion roof. “Look at the shooting stars!”

Jason followed her stare to the bright sparkle winking out in the night sky, then tracked backward along its path till he saw a cluster of the flashing streaks coming down almost directly overhead.

“That’s funny,” he muttered. “There wasn’t anything in the dailies about a meteor shower.”

“It’s so beautiful,” Valerie said, and McKay could have sworn she snuggled up closer to him.

“Yeah,” Jason agreed, finding himself staring at her rather than the starfield above. Her auburn hair spilled over her shoulders, the pale skin of her neck glowing in the chemical light. “Beautiful.”

Her gaze drifted away from the sky and back to his face. Jason had a sudden jolt of fear that she would see through his eyes to the stirring of desire behind them and recoil in horror. Maybe she should be horrified, he thought to himself. He knew he shouldn’t be feeling this, not for her and not now. But she didn’t recoil, and she didn’t seem the least bit horrified. Instead, the look in her eyes was more akin to hunger. Her hand moved from the cold surface of the bench to the warmth of his face as she stroked his cheek, giggling at the day’s growth of stubble that tickled her palm.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Jason blurted, trying futilely to will himself to get up and walk away. “This isn’t right.”

“No,” she agreed, leaning in to cover his lips with hers. “It isn’t right at all.”

This, he told himself, was not happening, not to him. It just wasn’t possible. He had never been the type of guy to keep a string of girls hanging around in prep school or college—he’d had a grand total of four girlfriends through his twenty-second birthday. He’d always been the loyal, good-guy type that everyone wanted to set their sister up with. Through four years in the Marines, though he’d frequented the government-licensed escorts at the Rec centers, he’d avoided preying upon the “farmer’s daughters”—the Marine slang term for young, vulnerable colonists of both sexes. As an enlisted man, he’d been called “St. Jason” by his buddies.

And now, in the most responsible position he’d ever held, he had not only entered into a potentially serious relationship with his second-in-command, but he was making out on a garden bench of a colonial governor with the senator’s daughter he was assigned to protect.

Sorry, he whispered silently to the spiritual bureaucrats in charge of his fate, but you seem to have me confused with some other Jason McKay.

And then, as if to prove his point, something about the size of a bus fell out of the sky and came within about ten meters of squashing them flat.

“Holy shit!” Jason squawked as they both tumbled sideways off the bench in a tangle of arms and legs, finally rolling off of each other and coming to a half-crouch as they stared at the thing in stunned disbelief.

It was teardrop-shaped and made of some kind of dull metal, though patches of burned and melted foam suggested it had once been covered with something else; and a ragged, torn section of black cloth from the top of it fluttered in the breeze like a crow’s wing.

“How the hell…” McKay gaped at the thing, which had dug itself a three-meter deep trench in the middle of the governor’s prize rose bushes. He’d been about to ask how the thing had gotten there, but his questioned was answered in the next moment, when another of the pods glided in out of the night on a thirty-meter black parasail and crashed into the upper floor of the governor’s mansion.

“Oh, my God!” Valerie screamed. “Glen!”

Jason was too preoccupied to note how ironic her concern was considering what they’d been about to do, but he did feel a sinking feeling in his gut—not unmixed with a pang of guilt—when he realized that Shannon, too, was in the building. He jumped to his feet, hearing alarm sirens wailing from the guard barracks off to the west side of the mansion, and was about to rush back inside when a loud series of sharp bangs stopped him in his tracks.

A line of explosive bolts arrayed around the waist of the pod popped like a string of firecrackers and the bulbous shape began splitting along the seam, the blasts from the bolts enveloping everything for ten meters around in a wreath of grey fog. McKay wanted to run—wanted suddenly, worse than anything, to get away from this thing—but the spectacle playing itself out before him seemed to hold him enthralled, unable to move. A dark recess of his mind expected some eldritch horror to emerge from the opening pod, covered in slimy tentacles.

What did come out of the gap in the metal, stepping slowly but evenly out of the cloud of smoke into the glare of one of the emergency floodlights, was something a bit more prosaic but no less dangerous: a half-dozen man-shaped figures in heavy, brown-camouflaged armor, arms full of wicked-looking metal objects that were easily recognizable as weaponry. Backlit by floodlights, their shadows looming menacingly toward Jason and Val, the armored figures seemed gigantic: McKay estimated they had to be at least two meters tall.

The lead figure, faceless behind the polarized visor of its full helmet, swung its bullpup-configuration rifle toward them, the bird-cage of the muzzle-brake yawning wide. Jason made a sudden grab for his pistol, sure that he was dead, but the chatter of gunfire behind them distracted both his attention and that of the intruders.

Three of Sigurdsen’s hired security force were dashing across the garden from the mansion’s rear patio, their compact submachineguns spitting fire as they shot from the hip and on the run. The unaimed volley of ceramic bullets shattered statues and ricocheted loudly off the open pod, but didn’t come within five meters of hitting the target. The intruders unhurriedly turned on the approaching guards and returned fire, metallic cases spewing from the actions of their autorifles as they stuttered out a hail of projectiles. Two of the mercs went down immediately, red flowers blossoming on their chests as the invaders’ bullets penetrated the soft body armor there, while the third dove behind a low wall. The invaders seemed to ignore McKay and Valerie, intent on pouring a volume of fire into that barrier to deal with the more immediate threat.

The hysterical paralysis that had gripped him a moment before gone, Jason realized that the time was right to take advantage of the distraction and get the hell out of there. Without a word, he grabbed Valerie O’Keefe’s hand, yanked her to her feet and took off at a dead sprint. The mansion—much as he wanted to get to it, to Shannon and his team—was out of the question: there were already a full dozen of the armored troops between them and the house, and the pods seemed to be landing everywhere. That left two possibilities: the guard shack or the garages. He made up his mind immediately: the guard shack would draw too much attention—they had to reach the garages.

The continuing rattle of automatic weapons fire dogged their heels; and, as they rushed out the closest gate in the garden wall, the dull stutter was punctuated by the rolling roar of an explosion. Jason jerked his head around, risking the possibility of a misstep to sneak a look back at the mansion. Near the area where the pod had crashed, a red crackle of flame had begun to lick across the mansion’s roof, and he could see a dark wisp of smoke wafting into the starlit sky. He resisted the urge to scream a curse at the gods, knowing he would need all the breath he had, but he knew what that hint of flame meant: if the automatic fire-control systems hadn’t already extinguished it, they must have been disabled by the crash of the enemy pod. Shannon and the others were trapped, with fire on one side and the invaders on the other.

His body wanted to turn back, run into the teeth of the fight and die with them. What kept him running away from it was something he hadn’t thought a great deal about in the last few years—his duty.

“Jesus,” he heard Valerie hiss, then felt her stumble and fall into him, taking them both down. He managed to fall into a half-kneeling position and catch her before she hit the ground, but he could see that her eyes were not on him but the growing conflagration back at the governor’s mansion. “What can we do?” she asked him, the agony in her voice mirroring the pain in his soul.

“Nothing,” he snapped, pulling her to her feet. “We’ve got to get out of here now or we’ll wind up dead—or worse.”

Her eyes seemed to widen at the idea there was something worse than death that could happen to them, and she followed him without argument as he led her across the lawn at a right angle to the mansion. The garage was a high-ceilinged, prefab structure with large windows lining its long sides; at this hour, it was deserted and dark but for the emergency floodlights that had snapped on with the onset of the still-wailing alarms. McKay ignored the roll-up doors that took up most of the building’s front wall, heading instead to one of the smaller, side entrances. The lock was a complex, security-coded affair that looked too complicated to pick, so Jason blew it apart with a double-tap from his pistol, then kicked the door in. The interior of the garage was threateningly dark, the glow from the chemical ghostlights shattered into elongated shadows by the hulking metal shapes of various groundcars and cargo trucks.

“Find the lights,” he told Val, leaving her to feel around on the inner wall left of the door while he went to the front wall to search for the cabinet that would hold the key-cards to the vehicles. He moved slowly along the wall, feeling along the surface of a worktable, yet still managed to slam his shin into a floor jack. “Sonofabitch,” he hissed to himself, rubbing at the leg gingerly.

“Got them!” Val announced, followed immediately by the illumination of the overhead strip lights that ran the length of the ceiling.

Naturally, Jason thought to himself, moving over to the now-visible key cabinet. She finds the lights after I smash my shin.

The cabinet was locked, but it only took him a moment with a handy prybar to remedy that situation, and he soon found himself staring at rows of labelled hooks, each supporting a computer card for one the handful of vehicles that packed the building. The two limos he rejected immediately: too high profile and not rough enough for off-road use. Likewise, he shook off the scout cycle propped in a corner: too exposed and no room for supplies. He briefly entertained the idea of taking the one Ground-Effects Vehicle present, but decided that the floater was too fragile and high-maintenance if they had to take to the brush.

Which left the two all-terrain utility rovers, one of which was parked close to the main door. They were electric-powered vehicles, with collector panels that could be unfolded on the roof to recharge the batteries in case of emergency. Jason grabbed the appropriate key-card and went to check the car, sliding into the driver’s seat and discovering with a cursory inspection of the instrument panel that the rover was fully-charged.

“Get the door,” he called to Valerie, powering up the rover’s motor, its flywheel humming softly to life. She moved up to the front wall and punched the fist-sized red button beneath the key cabinet, sending the garage door rolling up into the ceiling with a rattle of drive trains. The noise from it made Jason wince: if there were any of the invaders within a couple acres, they’d have to be blind and deaf not to notice.

Val barely had time to jump into the passenger-side seat before McKay tore out of the garage with a squeal of oversized tires on slick plasticrete, the motor whining shrilly in protest. He fought with the control yoke to keep the car from fishtailing as the wheels hit the packed dirt of the drive at maximum acceleration, spitting out a spray of sand and gravel in their wake. McKay didn’t bother sticking to the long, curving path carved out to give visitors a full view of the mansion; he cut straight across the lawn and headed directly for the main road—and directly into the middle of a firefight.

Glowing tracers crosshatched the front lawn, connecting a grounded enemy drop pod with a handful of security guards on the landing pad, sheltered beneath and behind the governor’s flitter. And their landrover was heading at top speed right down the center of it all.

“Hang on!” Jason shouted, pushing the rover’s accelerator to the floor.

The vehicle shot through the gap between the two forces at over a hundred and fifty kilometers per hour, the ringing ricochets of slugs off of the rover’s body sending Valerie slouching deeper into her seat, her eyes squeezed shut. One of the invaders launched what Jason thought had to be either a rocket grenade or a shoulder-fired missile at them, but the fiery streak passed just over their hood and rammed into the side of the grounded flitter. The shock of the blast only ten meters to their left shook the rover, scorching its driver’s side and spider-webbing the high-impact transplas of Jason’s window, but McKay ignored the bone-wrenching jolt and kept the accelerator down.

A haze of smoke from the rover’s smoldering paint haloed the car as Jason muscled the control yoke to the left, cutting around the end of the landing pad, trying to put the wreckage of the ducted-fan hovercraft between them and the invaders. Transplas shattered in the rear window with a crack of impacting slugs, and Jason felt the hot knife of a graze score across his right bicep on its way to blasting out the windshield. He bit back an exclamation and kept the steering handle shoved as far to the left as he could. The rover tilted up on its right tires for a gut-wrenching moment, and then it was around the wreckage and back on all four wheels.

McKay heard Valerie gasp in relief as they exploded out onto the paved road and away from the mansion. He felt a similar shudder of relief pass over him.

“That,” he said softly, half to himself, “was too damned close.” That was when he heard an odd sort of scraping noise on the rover’s roof.

“What is that?” Valerie wondered.

“Maybe shrapnel,” Jason shrugged, too happy to be clear of the attack to care. “We need to…” His statement was rudely interrupted by the camo-clad arm that crashed through the remnants of the driver’s side window and grabbed him around the throat.

Valerie shrieked in terror, staring wide-eyed at the visored helmet that peered down at her from the windshield: somehow, one of the invader troops had clung to the rear of their vehicle as they passed by the enemy position, and had climbed across the roof. Jason fought with one hand to keep the rover from crashing into the trees that lined the road, while his other pried futilely at the steel-strong fingers that had wrapped themselves around his windpipe. The invader’s hand squeezed like a mechanical press, as inhuman and cold as the faceless visor that stared dispassionately into his eyes from outside the windshield. McKay knew that his trachea had another few seconds before the thing ripped it completely out of his body, so he braced against the dashboard with both hands and stomped the brake pedal to the floor.

The landrover jerked to an abrupt halt on its front tires with a squeal of synthetic rubber on plasticrete. He could hear Valerie cry out as she was rolled out of her seat, and the invader was thrown quite a bit further. Jason thought his throat would go with the armored figure as it flew off the roof of the vehicle and sailed into the street thirty meters in front of them with a clatter of alloy plating, but he found as he felt at his neck that he had only lost a little skin to the iron hand.

Incredibly, the invader, despite being thrown to the concrete at over a hundred and fifty klicks an hour, was struggling to its feet, apparently unhurt. A snarl coming to his lips, McKay punched the accelerator and felt the rover lurch forward as the flywheel whistled with the sudden burst of power. The rover slammed into the armored invader at over seventy klicks an hour, sending the creature flying onto the hood and crashing into the already-cracked windshield. One of the creature’s hands clamped onto the edge of the hood and it held itself in place with desperate strength, despite the clearly-visible section of crushed and bloody armor at its hip—red blood, too, a part of Jason’s mind noted.

Keeping his right hand on the control stick and the accelerator pushed down, McKay pulled his pistol from its shoulder holster left-handed and fired through the windshield at the invader’s head. The powerful 10mm sounded like a nuclear blast inside the enclosed cab of the rover, setting Jason’s ears to ringing, as the hypersonic ceramic projectile grazed the invader across the side of the helmet, tearing the armored headgear off.

“Oh, my God,” Valerie murmured, clambering back into her seat, eyes glued to the face before her.

It was humanoid, to be sure: two eyes, a mouth, two ears and two nostrils. But it was definitely not human. The eyes were protected by a bony ridge that extended down over the wide, flattened nose; and the whole face seemed blockier and larger-boned than any human could be. And then there was the fact that it had blue skin. Jason had seen cases of cyanosis before, both in vacuum training and as the result of riot-control masers, and this creature’s skin had the same, pale-blue, sickly look as a human who’d been breathing too-thin air for most of his life.

But the most alien thing about the invader was its eyes. On the surface, they seemed almost human, with the normal combination of iris and cornea; but they were dead and unfeeling somehow, like a shark’s—black, cold and emotionless. Staring at the thing’s eyes, Jason almost found himself hypnotized. But not quite. He squeezed the handgun’s trigger again and felt it buck as the heavy slug punched through the alien’s forehead and blew off a large section of skull in a spray of blood, bone and brain. The invader’s grip finally came loose and it tumbled off the hood to bounce lifelessly onto the pavement as they accelerated away.

“Oh Jesus, oh Jesus,” Valerie was whispering over and over to herself.

“It’s all right,” McKay assured her, putting a hand on her shoulder and wincing as the movement brought new feeling to the grazing wound on his right arm. “We’re all right.”

“They’re not human,” she moaned, not looking at him. “I can’t believe it… they’re not human…”

“So much for ‘where are they?’” Jason muttered. “They’re here.”

“What are we going to do?” she asked him, seeming to come out of the daze she’d fallen into. “Where are we going?”

“Into Kennedy,” he told her. “The Marine Reaction Force is quartered at the CeeGee armory—if anyplace could hold, that would be it.”

“You’re hurt,” she noticed for the first time, staring at the bloody line across his bicep.

“Just a scratch,” Jason said with a shrug, but had to wince as she gently probed at it with her fingers.

“Let me bandage it,” Val insisted, reaching for the tail of his shirt to tear off a strip.

“No,” he said, raising a hand quickly. “Wait until we get somewhere we can clean it off. Till then, it’s better to leave it alone. Could you do me a favor and check in the back and see if there’s water or blankets or anything useful back there?”

“Sure.” She unbelted from her safety harness and climbed over the seat into the back of the rover. McKay heard her rummaging around in the storage compartment and took the opportunity to allow himself to slip from the controlled face he’d put on to keep both of them calm. The air went out of him in a gust and he felt the blood drain from his face.

This was, he concluded, entirely too much. Most people, even in the active military, experienced perhaps thirty seconds of actual danger in their life, and most of them only realized it after it was over. He must be making up the average, he reasoned, for all the cloistered accountants and librarians in the universe.

“Hey!” Valerie called from the rear of the vehicle, “There’s a couple cans full of water back here. And I think this is some kind of emergency survival pack. Maybe there’s a first-aid kit.”

“Good,” he sighed, bringing his breathing back under control. “We’ll need the water, if we can’t stay in the city.”

“Jason,” Valerie interrupted him, eyes fixed on something off to the right. “What’s that glow?”

He followed her gaze, noticing as he did that it followed the rightward curve of the road around a hill. In the distance, he could see a glow reminiscent of the halo of distant city lights, but colored a much deeper, reddish hue. It was a sight he’d seen before, and he was very much afraid he did know what it meant.

“That’s Kennedy City,” he told her grimly. “It’s on fire.”

Jason slowed the car as they rounded the gentle curve, and Kennedy came into view, laid out before them in the valley below. It wasn’t an encouraging sight. The perimeter of the city, where the wealthier immigrants had built their own businesses and residences from native materials, was engulfed in a ferocious blaze. From over two kilometers away, neither of them could see if there was anyone left alive in those streets, but there was surely activity near the center of town, where the Colonial Guard armory squatted in ugly blackness.

Tracer rounds crisscrossed from the building to the invader troops Jason knew must be surrounding it, but the ratio of outgoing to incoming fire seemed pretty even, which was a positive. With the advantage of the armory’s protection and at least even odds, the defending forces should be able to hold out indefinitely.

Suddenly, from somewhere beyond their line of sight, an incandescent trail of fire shot out of the streets around the armory and slammed into the building with enough impact to shake the ground under the rover. A huge cloud of black smoke rose in a mushroom above the structure, and the firing from the armory died abruptly, along with Jason’s hopes of finding asylum there.

“My God,” Valerie murmured, her voice filled with awe at the explosion. “They couldn’t have survived that, could they?”

“No,” he answered, voice catching in his throat. It wasn’t the thought of the deaths of all those men and women that so affected him—he’d been numbed to that aspect since accepting the idea that Shannon and the others were dead. No, it was the fact that the two of them were very much alone, both for now and the foreseeable future—more alone than McKay had ever felt.

Jason pulled back on the steering yoke and pushed the accelerator, sending the rover jerking backwards into a three-point U-turn and heading them back the way they had come. At the curve where the road twisted toward the mansion, he kept the car headed straight, off the pavement and onto a barely-existent dirt trail northward. The car’s suspension creaked with the effort as the surface beneath them changed from plasticrete to rough and rutted soil and rock, and a cloud of dust rose to mark their passage.

“Where do we go now?” Valerie’s voice held the full load of hopelessness and despair that he felt.

“Away,” was all he could come up with by way of an answer. “Away.”

Chapter Seven

“And seas and rocks and skies rebound,

To arms, to arms, to arms!”

—Alexander Pope, “Ode for Music on St. Cecelia’s Day”

Shannon Stark was sleeping peacefully when something shook the building with enough force to throw her out of bed. She hit the floor catlike, on the balls of her feet and the heels of her hands, her head swivelling back and forth in startled shock as a crunching, rending crash reverberated through the walls.

An eerie silence trailed the cacophony for a long moment, and Shannon almost believed she’d merely awakened from some bad dream… until she heard a string of distinct but subdued bangs from somewhere down the hall, accompanied by a shriek of rending metal. She lunged back toward the nightstand, sweeping her sidearm off the table and rolling to the side of the bed opposite the door. Then, there was… nothing.

“Well, hell,” she muttered, starting to feel silly.

She was beginning to rise from behind the bed when her door slammed inward from the kick of a heavy boot, and a tall figure in head-to-toe armor stepped through behind a burst of full-auto rifle fire. A dozen slugs tore into her bed, kicking up a rain of foam stuffing before she aligned the red dot of her pistol’s pop-up sight on the invader’s center-mass and double-tapped it in the chest.

The 9mm caseless rounds her weapon fired were frangible ceramic surrounding a trio of tantalum flechettes travelling at well over 500 meters per second, so it was no surprise that the slugs penetrated the armor over the intruder’s chest, sending it staggering into the wall. What did surprise her was when the armored figure regained its footing and advanced on her unfazed, seemingly oblivious to the holes in its chest.

Before it had a chance to swing the barrel of its rifle around, Shannon retargeted her sights at the invader’s darkened faceplate and fired another two shots, punching through the visor without shattering the high-impact plastic. Blood sprayed from the two bulletholes as the armored intruder jerked backwards and crashed to the floor with a clatter of alloy plating.

Stark dropped her handgun and threw herself over the bed, grabbing the intruder’s fallen rifle and rolling into a crouch only a split-second before a second invader appeared in the doorway. She squeezed the rifle’s trigger—in a comfortingly familiar place on the weapon’s pistol grip—and felt it buck against her hip as it spat out a stream of surprisingly old-fashioned spent brass cases. The heavy slugs punched through the newcomer’s armor with ease, sending it reeling as she walked the long burst from its chest to its helm. The last two rounds pierced it through the forehead and it collapsed like a stringless marionette even as the bolt locked open on her last round out of the magazine. Once the ringing in her ears began to slowly fade, she suddenly became aware of the distant wailing of alarms somewhere outside the walls.

Seeing a shadow advancing down the hallway, she fumbled desperately at the rifle’s receiver to find the magazine release, cursing under her breath. She almost had the spent clip free when the shadow swelled into the imposing image of Jock Gregory, his broad, shirtless shoulders filling the doorway, his grenade launcher held at the ready.

“You all right, ma’am?” he asked, eyes dancing between her and the dead invaders. Seeing him there in only fatigue pants, she suddenly remembered that she’d been sleeping in nothing but her shorts. Oh, well, no time for modesty.

“What’s happening?” she asked him, feeding a fresh magazine from the dead intruder’s chest pack into the rifle and pulling back on the bolt handle to chamber a round.

“Something really big smashed through the roof down that way”—he motioned down the hall to the left—“and I guess it’s good bet that these blokes”—he angled his launcher’s muzzle at the dead attackers—“popped out of it. When me and Vinnie heard the shooting, I came to check on you and he went down to look in on Ms. O’Keefe.”

“Where’s Lieutenant McKay?” Shannon asked, pulling her boots out from under the bed and strapping them down while Gregory watched the door.

Jock shook his head. “Haven’t seen him.”

An eruption of gunfire from somewhere below them interrupted Shannon’s visual hunt for her shirt.

“That was outside,” she decided, yanking a bandoleer of magazines off of one of the invader corpses and slinging it over her shoulder. Before she could rise from the task, however, another burst of autoweapons chatter erupted much closer, reverberating off the corridor beyond her door.

“That wasn’t,” Jock commented wryly, ducking out into the hallway with Stark on his heels.

The corridor was a smoke-filled, murky vision of hell, tinged red by the flames licking off the splintered walls around the intrusive pod. Shannon didn’t have the time to debate in her mind if the fire had begun from the thing’s ambient heat, left over from orbital friction, or from the invaders’ weapons; she and Jock were too busy thinking with their feet, racing toward the section of the guest wing that housed Valerie O’Keefe and her party.

As they reached the end of the corridor, where it split into a “T,” the chatter of gunfire was abruptly interrupted by the sharp, painful concussion of a trio of explosions in quick succession. The blasts shook the walls around them and nearly sent Jock, who was in the lead, tumbling head over heels. The sergeant managed to turn the potential spill into a controlled skid that put him into a crouch at the intersection of the hallways, and Shannon took up a position at the opposite corner, rifle trained down the corridor.

The scene before them was a canvas painted in blood. Shannon knew from a brief glance at the mansion’s floor plan prior to landing that the section of the mansion’s upper floor that O’Keefe and her party were staying in also housed several of the governor’s more highly-placed personal servants. She hadn’t met any of them, but she thought it was a safe bet that the handful of half-naked human bodies sprawled half-in and half-out of doorways all along the hallway belonged to those people.

The other four corpses visible, with large chunks of them blended with chunks of smoldering wall material, were obviously those of the armored troops which had emerged from the pod. The author of their fate was Vincent Mahoney, whom she immediately spotted at the opposite end of the hall, auto-grenade launcher cradled in his hands and pointed her way.

“Vinnie!” she called, not trusting him to recognize her and Jock with the eddies of smoke roiling in the half-demolished corridor. “It’s Lieutenant Stark! Don’t shoot.”

“Yeah, I see you, ma’am.” Vinnie let his weapon’s muzzle drop, his voice as neutral as the look on his face. “Come on ahead.”

Shannon and Jock advanced slowly through the bloody carnage, not wanting to look down but forced to against the chance that one of the invaders could still be alive. Shannon tried not to let her gaze dwell on the bullet-riddled corpses of the mansion staffers, with their open, lifeless eyes; she tried to avoid stepping in the slowly-spreading pools of blood, but both tasks were impossible. The blood was everywhere, and the dead eyes of the bodies seemed to draw her in.

She forced herself to concentrate on the invader corpses, instead. They were half blown apart, but the grenades had charred what flesh was visible beneath the armor beyond recognition, and what wasn’t black and burning was coated with blood. The armor, she noted, was laminated metal of some kind, not the advanced composites the Marines wore, and it covered them from head to toe. The camouflage pattern was a brown, black and green general woodland design singularly unsuitable for the Aphrodite Waste or even the planet’s more temperate regions.

And the weapons—they were a bullpup configuration like the issue Marine rifle, but that was where the resemblance ended. Marine weapons fired caseless ammo, with the projectile fixed on a cartridge made of molded hyperexplosives. Their ignition system was electronic, and they incorporated a sophisticated recoil-dampening mechanism to control muzzle climb. The carbine she had picked up used what looked like brass cartridges, technology that had been obsolete for over fifty years, and had kicked like a mule. She would have liked to have peeled the armor off one of them and found out just who she was dealing with, but there were more pressing matters at hand.

As she and Jock reached Vinnie’s position at the corner, she saw Glen Mulrooney crouched beside him, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, eyes wide and skin pale from abject terror. Behind them, half around the corner, was the RHN reporter, clad only in bikini briefs, sprawled out on the pile carpet. Half his head had been shot away. As they approached, Glen Mulrooney rose from his knees, hands clenching and unclenching nervously.

“Did you find Val?” he demanded, spittle flying off his lips as he struggled to control his muscles. “Did you see her?”

“She wasn’t in her room?” Shannon snapped, temples beginning to throb with each bit of bad news.

“He says she went for a walk,” Vinnie told her, seemingly cooler than any of them. “Haven’t had much time to look around.”

“What about Lieutenant McKay?” Stark wanted to know.

“I looked in his door on the way down here,” Mahoney shrugged. “Not around.”

“Goddammit,” Shannon hissed, eyes flicking around instinctively to watch for any more of the armored troops. “Well, we can’t stay around here much longer. We’ve got to get out before the place burns down around us!”

“Doesn’t look like the fire control system’s working,” Jock agreed, eyes still locked down the corridor, following the aim of his mini-grenade launcher.

“Let’s see if we can find the governor,” Shannon decided, “Then we’ll try to find some transportation and…”

“Won’t have to look too far for His Honor,” a voice announced casually from around the corner. All heads snapped around to see Tom Crossman approach from behind them. He was dressed in a pair of baggy fashion pants, with a submachinegun tucked in the crook of one arm and a young, female mansion employee in the grasp of the other: she was wearing the shirt that matched Crossman’s pants, but nothing else. “The Gov’s in his chambers.” He glanced back down the hall, a grin playing across his face. “Y’all gotta see this.”

He headed back the way he had come, and the others followed him around the corner to a set of large, inlaid-wood double doors at the end of the hallway. Sprawled at the base of the entrance was one of the invaders, its neck blown out—by Crossman’s weapon, Stark assumed. One of the doors was slightly ajar, and Crossman kicked it open, revealing the interior of the Governor’s private bedroom and a kinky diorama the likes of which Shannon hadn’t seen in all her young life.

The bed was the latest in magnetic suspension technology: a thin, pliable sheet of metal topped by a water-filled cushion held off the base by superconductive electromagnets. Since the power had failed, the heart-shaped floater cushion had collapsed over the base; but the holodisplay over the bed apparently ran on batteries, since it was still active. Amid a coruscating rainbow of pastels, a pair of teenage boys whose endowments, Shannon thought, had to be computer enhanced, were engaged in activities with a live horse that would have made a hardened sailor blush. The opposite wall was home to another such projection, different only in the lack of a farm animal and additional leather.

Governor Sigurdsen was crouched half-in a closet too small to contain his herculean frame—even though that frame looked decidedly less imposing in the lacy negligee that covered it at the moment. Pressed up against the wall behind the bed, a Hispanic youth Shannon recognized as one of the servants she’d seen on their arrival at the mansion was trying to be as inconspicuous as possible in nothing but a spiked leather harness.

“Holy shit,” Jock muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Takes all kinds,” Vinnie agreed.

“Governor Sigurdsen.” Shannon tried to keep the distaste out of her voice—she respected everyone’s right to their own sexual preference, but these kind of B&D power games turned her stomach. “The mansion is apparently under attack and on fire. We have to leave. Now, I’m going to close this door. When I open it in exactly thirty seconds, I expect you and your… friend to be as dressed as possible and ready to go. If not, we’ll have to leave you here.”

“No!” The Governor’s eyes widened and he jumped to his feet, all embarrassment gone with a sudden rush of fear. “Take me with you!”

“Thirty seconds,” she repeated, pulling the door shut. As they waited, Shannon glanced back over at Crossman, and the young woman clinging to him. “Nice shirt,” Stark commented to him wryly, regarding the garment that was all the clothes the Hispanic girl possessed.

“Thanks.” Crossman grunted, gaze falling upon her bare chest. “Like to borrow it?”

She swallowed a sharp reply as she realized just how ridiculous they must all look, and found herself chuckling softly instead. At least, she mused, she had managed to get her boots on.

The sudden clomp of heavy footsteps behind them sent Vinnie and Jock into a defensive crouch, their weapons coming on line.

“Wait, hold your fire!” Shannon ordered, recognizing the blue utilities of the mansion security force on the forms running their way through the haze of smoke in the hallway.

The trio of blue-clad figures solidified into three of the mercenary guards, the leader of which she recognized as Captain Trang, head of the security force.

“Lieutenant Stark,” he said, not even showing a hint of embarrassment at her state of undress. “Is the Governor safe?”

“As safe as any of us are at the moment, Captain,” she assured him. “He’s getting dressed. What’s the situation outside?”

“Not good,” the thin-mustached, fortyish mercenary captain reported. “Whoever the invaders are, they’re everywhere. My men are trying to hold them out front, but it is a losing cause.”

It didn’t even take the full half-minute before the colonial governor and his companion emerged, the big man in hastily-thrown-on, mismatching dress shirt and pants, his face redder than his beard. Glancing out of the corner of her eye at Trang’s face, Shannon saw a faint look of amusement.

“Lieutenant Stark…” Sigurdsen began, obviously on the verge of some kind of explanation.

“No time for talk now, Governor,” she said curtly. “Follow us. And stick close.”

Jock took the lead, guiding them toward the main stairwell, with Vinnie bringing up the rear and the three security men clumped around the governor. Shannon could still hear the distant stutter of gunfire outside, suddenly capped by the rumble of another explosion, and she began to wonder again just how many of the invaders there were and what they would do once they got outside.

The stairwell was clear as they swiftly but cautiously descended it, but smoke was already beginning to flood through the mansion, and they could feel the heat behind them as the fire continued to spread. As they came around the curve of the staircase, the front entrance came into view. The doors were shut and no threats were visible, but the raucous sounds of the firefight between the invaders and the governor’s security force echoed off the foyer walls.

“It might not be wise to go out the front,” Captain Trang recommended, obvious pain on his face from being forced to abandon the bulk of his men.

“Head for the back,” Shannon ordered Jock, as their party clumped together at the base of the stairs.

Before he could take a step, another explosion from outside shattered the full-length windows on either side of the front door and a shotgun-blast spray of shrapnel ricocheted off the walls. The governor’s young companion screamed and made a break toward the rear exit, but he hadn’t gone more than a few strides when a burst of slugs took him full in the chest, jerking him around in a nerveless dance before he collapsed in a blood-spattered heap.

“Get down!” Shannon yelled above the continuing din of incoming machine-gun fire that chopped across the staircase’s wood bannister, punching into the walls and shattering the row of mirrors that hung in the foyer.

Governor Sigurdsen stayed on his feet, staring in horror at the bullet-riddled body of his lover with a look of loss that made Shannon almost regret her harsh thoughts about him, until Trang grabbed him by the back of his shirt and hauled him down on his butt with the rest of them.

Shannon cringed at a ricochet that whizzed inches from her face, and was about to call for Jock to lay down some return fire when she saw that the big Australian was already inching around the base of the staircase, angling his selective-fire grenade launcher at the force of Invaders advancing from the rear entrance. The sergeant squeezed off a long, magazine-emptying burst, then rolled quickly back behind cover to slap home a spare stick of ten mini-grenades before the first round went off.

A string of sharp “bangs” marked the ignition of the volley, curiously not punctuated by the screams that someone with combat experience would associate with a grenade explosion. Shannon and Trang leaned out after the last blast and had a brief view of the tableau of destruction that had been the mansion’s living room—the priceless furniture shredded and smoldering, the rug charred and splattered with the blood of the three Invaders that Vinnie’s barrage had taken out—before they targeted the four armored figures still on their feet.

Shannon’s rifle punched through the neck of one of the Invaders, sending it crashing to the floor; but the others retreated to cover under the chattering fire of Trang’s submachinegun and took up a position behind the huge wet bar against the back wall, returning their fire.

“Goddammit!” Shannon rolled back behind the staircase. “We can’t get out that way!”

“We’ll have to chance the front,” Vinnie agreed, reloading his grenade launcher from a pouch of spare mags slung over his shoulder.

“Cover me,” she ordered, getting her feet beneath her and sprinting toward the front door.

She was still over ten meters away and at an oblique angle from the heavy, oaken portal when it exploded inward with a thunderclap of sound, heat and pressure that threw her off her feet and back into the foyer wall. She shook her head clear, a whistling in her ears and a dull pain in every part of her body, just in time to see the Invader trooper advancing through the ruin of the doorway.

Somehow, she’d managed to keep her grasp on the autorifle, and she desperately fumbled to bring it on line with the approaching trooper, her mind still fuzzy from the concussion.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Tom Crossman was sliding in beside her, emptying his machine pistol one-handed at the Invader, while he brought her to her feet with the other. The armored trooper took a blast of slugs in the visor and was thrown backwards through the doorway; before its comrades could take its place, Crossman had her back at the staircase and Vinnie was pumping minigrenades into the foyer to hold the Invaders off.

As the numb ache began to recede, Shannon dimly realized that her left shoulder was bristling with a half-dozen fiery blossoms of sharp pain. A quick glance downward revealed a handful of long, wooden splinters from the door sticking out of her bare skin, and she felt a wave of nausea pass over her. At least there wasn’t a lot of blood.

“What the fuck are we gonna do?” she could hear Jock yelling over the hollow whistling in her ears. That was a damned good question. The upstairs was on fire, and the front and back exits were blocked by enemy.

“In my considered opinion,” Vinnie grunted an answer, firing off another burst at the Invaders at the front door, “we’re gonna die.”

Shannon was about to agree with him, when a series of ground-shaking explosions rocked the front of the house, the crimson fire of the blasts visible through the shattered windows. Stark at first thought that the Invaders had brought out the heavy artillery, but then she saw the charred and blackened husk of one of the armored troopers collapsing through the front door, and more of them running away from the front entrance outside.

Deciding that going forward was the lesser of the two dangers—and frankly curious—Shannon ignored her various aches and pains and pushed herself up, bringing her rifle to hip level.

“Move!” she shouted hoarsely. She began jogging stiffly toward the door, with the others following after her, Jock and the two security guards hanging back to lay down covering fire at the Invaders behind them.

They stepped through the doorway onto the smoldering, shattered remains of the front porch, scattered with the bodies of more than a score of Invaders as well as the bulk of the mansion’s security force. Shannon tried to keep a watch for any further attacks, but her eyes, like those of the others, were drawn to the two vehicles approaching across the front lawn. The lead car was a sleek-lined, heavily-armed scout vehicle, bristling with missile launchers and machine guns, while the trailing machine was a boxier, bulkier APC; both bore the markings of the Fleet Marine Corps, and they were the most beautiful sight Shannon Stark had ever seen.

“Are those ours?” Glen Mulrooney wondered aloud, hope mixing with trepidation in his voice.

“Yeah,” Vinnie muttered ironically, thinking how happy the man suddenly was to see representatives of the same military he had unceasingly bitched about. “They’re ours.”

Tracking a small group of Invaders that was fleeing around the side of the house, the scout car’s 25mm chain gun spat out a burst of high-velocity slugs with a sound like a giant zipper being pulled down, and the explosive-tipped bullets chopped the armored troopers to bite-sized pieces in a tenth of a second. The scout vehicle halted abruptly in a spray of dirt a good fifty meters from the mansion, maintaining an overwatch while the APC pulled right up to the front of the building, braking only meters from their position.

So intent were Shannon and the others on watching the vehicles’ approach that their first warning anything was amiss was Glen Mulrooney’s panicked scream… and the cold hand fastening like a vise on Shannon’s shoulder, jerking her back, sending her rifle clattering to the pavement.

Spinning around, trying to shake the talon-like grasp, Stark found herself looking up into the face of a nightmare. Tinged a pale, sickly blue, the face was at once both too humanoid and all-too-inhuman, with its ridged brows and nose and recessed ears and, God, those horrible, dead eyes! For a moment, Shannon Stark was too frozen with shock to even speak as the thing grasped clumsily at her throat.

Then a blurred, black-clad shape flew out of the shadows and slammed into the thing, knocking it backwards, but not off its feet. The blur materialized into the form of Nathan Tanaka, looking for all the world like some avenging dark angel but for the blood splattered in places across his black clothing.

Staggering away from the—yes, it had to be—alien creature, Shannon noticed for the first time that the thing was badly damaged, probably from the scout car’s missile attack. Its helmet had been torn away, along with a good bite of the left side of its awful face, and there were great, bloody chunks missing from its armored chest and legs. Yet the thing was still on its feet, trying to kill them with its bare hands.

For a confused moment, no one moved. Tanaka, apparently realizing that the thing was too tough to be dispatched without weapons, had jumped back to allow the others to shoot it. But Vinnie and Jock, who had the clearest shots, were carrying grenade launchers that were too dangerous to fire at point-blank range. Tom Crossman’s aim was impeded by his female companion, who was throwing herself against him, screaming, while the view of Captain Trang and his security guards was blocked by the press of bodies as the Governor and Mulrooney swiftly retreated from the Invader.

Then the side hatch of the armored personnel carrier crashed open and a long burst of rifle-fire erased the Invader’s eerily alien visage, bursting its skull and sending a spray of cranial matter over Shannon and Tanaka. For a horrifying second, the thing stood there in macabre headless equilibrium, but finally it swayed and toppled like some base-cut redwood, crashing with a metallic sound to the charred surface of the porch.

“Jesus H. Christ,” a voice boomed in the hatchway of the APC. “What in the hell was that?”

From out of the shadowy innards of the personnel carrier emerged a tall, broad-chested figure, clad in full Marine combat armor but for the lack of a helmet. His skin was charcoal black, his head shaven and nearly polished in its gleam—still close to emotional shock, Shannon wondered if she’d be able to see her reflection on his head if he leaned forward. His face had the strong, hard-jawed, tight-lipped look nearly universal in Reaction Force sergeants, and something whispered through the confused haze of her thoughts that he was exactly that.

“You’re Sergeant Lambert,” she said, coming back to some sense of reality.

“That’d be the case, ma’am,” he rumbled, his voice like a gentle earthquake, stepping out of the vehicle with an assault rifle grasped like a pistol in his big right fist. From behind him, half-a-dozen armored Marines scrambled out of the APC and spread out to form a defensive perimeter around the car, while the Gunnery Sergeant walked up to them as casually as if he hadn’t just blown off the head of possibly the first alien being mankind had ever laid eyes on. “Where’s Lieutenant McKay?”

“We don’t know,” Shannon told her. “I’m Lieutenant Stark, his second-in-command,” she told him, absently wiping blood and brains off her arm. She winced as the splinters in her shoulder began to sting anew from the grip the Invader had exerted.

“Then I guess you’d be in charge, ma’am,” the sergeant said. “But it’d be my professional advice that we get the hell out of here. Those bastards, whatever they are, are all over the city and they were right behind us when we pulled out. I tried to convince Captain Bitch—I mean Deng—to leave, but she was convinced that the armory could hold. Last I saw of it, it was a crater.”

“But we can’t leave without Valerie!” Glen insisted.

“Wherever Ms. O’Keefe is,” Tanaka spoke for the first time since his opportune reappearance, “she is not on the grounds.” From the tone of the comment, Shannon had the distinct impression he’d been over most of the mansion area himself, no doubt at great personal risk.

“Lieutenant McKay might be with her,” Shannon deduced suddenly. “She went for a walk earlier, and he wasn’t in his room. They might have been forced away from the mansion.”

Gunny Lambert shrugged his massive shoulders. “We can take a swing around the place in the cars, but we’d better hurry. There should be room for y’all in the APC, if a few of my kids ride in the scout car.”

“Can I stay in here with the naked lady officer, Sarge?” The APC’s driver, a tow-headed young corporal with a pronounced southern drawl, twisted around in his seat, smiling broadly.

“Shaddup, Bobby,” the Gunny snarled good-naturedly, “or I’ll make you get out and push.” He turned back to the troops still crouched in a perimeter around the APC. “Frenchie, Tinker, Clarke, get in the scout car. The rest of you into the tin can, double-time!”

Three of the Marines sprinted over to the still-watchful scout vehicle while the others waited for Shannon to get her people into the APC before piling in behind them. One of the troopers elbowed the hatch control and the heavy plastrons swung shut with an ear-ringing clash of metal, leaving them in total darkness until the interior lights flickered on.

“So,” Bobby, the driver, twisted around to ask, “where’re we goin’ in this heap, anyways?”

“Once around the park, James,” Lambert drawled. “After that…” He looked to Shannon. “Ma’am?”

“Lieutenant,” Captain Trang called from the rear of the vehicle. “After the Arm of Allah riots, the Governor had the foresight to have a special shelter built. It might be wise to take refuge there for the time being.”

“Is that true, Your Honor?” Stark asked the big man.

“Why, of course.” Sigurdsen shot Trang an annoyed glance—whether because he resented the man for thinking of the idea first or because he hoped he had kept the shelter a secret, she wasn’t certain—before turning back to her. “We need to head up the old dirt road northwest, into the mountains.”

“You heard His Honor, Bobby.” Gunny Lambert thumped the driver on the shoulder. “Get us out of here.”

The APC jerked abruptly into motion, and Shannon bit back a curse as her wounded shoulder bounced against the bare metal of the bulkhead.

“Why don’t you put this on, ma’am,” Sergeant Lambert shouted above the whine of the APC’s turbines, pulling a spare armored vest from a rack above her and handing it down. She nodded gratefully, carefully slipping into the heavy, padded garment. It rubbed uncomfortably against the imbedded splinters, but it was better than the alternative, which was the bare metal of the APC’s hull. The Sergeant fished around for a set of headphones, slipped one pair on himself and handed Stark another.

“You see anything, Peplowski?” Lambert used his headset to ask the Marine who was standing in the APC’s bubble turret as the vehicle, trailed by the scout car, curved around to the back of the mansion.

“Just dead bodies,” the petite female reported. “A few live Gomers over by the back of the garden.” She traversed the turret toward the garden wall and cut loose with a short burst of 25mm. “Sorry, my mistake,” she corrected. “Make that dead Gomers.”

“All right,” Lambert decided. “Wherever they are, they aren’t around here. Bobby, steer this crate for the mountains.”

“Roger that, Sarge.”

Shannon felt the vehicle turn sharply and angle out across the grassy fields behind the mansion. Looking at the headset Lambert had given her, trying to untangle its cord so she could talk to him, she saw a monocular reticle that could be flipped down in front of her left eye. Stark slipped the set on, lowering the eyepiece. Suddenly, she found her left eye filled with the view from the bubble turret’s gunsight, still pointed back at the mansion. It was an infrared sight, lit with a hazy green, but she could see that the building was totally consumed by flames now, a column of smoke rising above it far into the night sky.

“Maybe there is a God,” she muttered to herself, not realizing that the headset’s mike was voice activated.

“What?” she heard Sergeant Lambert ask, turning toward her with confusion in his eyes.

“Oh,” she said with a shrug, a bit surprised at being overheard. “I just meant, that eyesore has burned down twice now.”

Lambert’s broad face cracked in a wide smile and she heard his full-throated laugh over her earphones.

“You’re not bad, ma’am,” he told her. “For an officer.”

“Contact!” Bobby called from the driver’s seat. “Radar says we got company at three hundred meters, coming in from the road to the city. And it’s big, boys and girls.”

Peplowski traversed the turret with a whine of servomotors and Shannon’s left-eye view turned to their left, to the road they were about to cross. She tried to bring the image into clearer focus, and finally caught sight of the… thing.

“What the hell?” she could hear Peplowski exclaim, echoing her own thoughts.

What the hell, indeed. The machine was… Jesus, it was hard to even know how to describe it. The image it initially brought to her mind was that of an industrial exoskeleton, but much, much larger—fifteen meters tall, she estimated. It walked with a curious, bounding gait on a pair of articulated, digitigrade legs—bent backwards, like an ostrich. Slung between the legs was an armored cabin, bristling with missile pods and machine guns, with a heavier cannon hanging beneath it like some kind of absurdly exaggerated penis. Twin turbines rode on the thing’s shoulders and a pair of radar dishes turned slowly atop the main cabin, searching, obviously, for them.

The thing’s main gun swung around and flared as it fired a slow-cycling three-round burst. Metal fragments pinged off the side of their vehicle and dirt kicked up around the APC as the exploding rounds hit only meters from them, the clap of the explosion reverberating through the personnel carrier like a drumbeat.

“Jimenez,” Lambert radioed to the driver of the scout car, “I don’t know what that thing is, but take it out now!”

“That’s a big roger,” came the laconic reply.

The APC’s turret powered around to view the wicked lines of the other vehicle just as the scout car’s boxy missile launcher flared with a blast of exhaust and a heatseeker flashed out at Mach 5, reaching the Invader machine before Peplowski could turn to look at it. By the time the Hopper—Shannon had already tagged it with that name in her mind—came back into her field of view, it was staggering backwards with the top half of its cabin missing, an incandescent cloud surrounded the rended and twisted metal. Only a heartbeat after it came into her sight, the fire reached the thing’s missile pods. An explosion she could feel from over a kilometer away shook the APC as the Hopper was blown into scrap metal in a fireball that lit up the night and nearly burned out the turret camera’s infrared filters.

“Evasive course!” Lambert snapped. “Bobby, Jimenez, give us some smoke. I don’t know if these boys have air support or space weapons, and I don’t want to find out.”

There was a crackle of chemical combustion as clouds of electrostatically charged smoke enveloped both Marine vehicles, obscuring even the IR viewers. Shannon flipped up the ocular and looked back over to Sergeant Lambert.

“Well, Gunny,” she said with only a trace of the weariness and isolation she felt, “I guess this is the enemy we’ve been expecting.”

“Sure looks that way, ma’am,” he agreed, pulling a small can of chewing tobacco out of a vest pocket. He tapped the can to shake loose the contents before opening it, a thoughtful expression on his sculpted face. “I’d like to know how they got by the Mac, though.”

She agreed that was a good question. The MacArthur should have been able to detect an incoming attack and give them some warning. How had the Invaders managed to get the jump on her? Shannon covered the microphone of her headset and turned to the back of the cabin.

“Governor Sigurdsen,” she yelled over the whine of the engines. “Is there a radio at your shelter that can reach orbit?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” the big man told her. “Do you think we’ll be able to call for help?”

“Maybe. If,” she said softly, half to herself and half to Lambert, “there’s any help left to call.”

* * *

The mountains that ran like a dividing line between most of Aphrodite’s temperate southern hemisphere and the Wastes of the north were as young and harsh as the rest of the world. Created during an extended volcanic period, they were all sharp edges and steep drops, only lightly weathered by the last million years of water and wind. All of which made the ride up the barely-existent dirt trail pretty bumpy.

“Couldn’t you have built a Goddamned road up to this place?” Crossman complained to the governor as the APC was jostled by one rut after another.

“It was supposed to be a secret,” Sigurdsen replied, with more verbosity than he had shown since the start of their journey, his only other declarations being “right” and “left” when asked for directions.

“Well, here’s another secret,” Bobby called from the front, able to hear them now that the APC was running in stealth mode, on batteries, the turbines shut down to lose their heat signature. “We’ve hit a dead end.”

“Then stop the car,” Sigurdsen told him, breathing a sigh of obvious relief. “We’re here.”

“We’re getting out,” Lambert radioed to the crew of the scout car. Watch our backs.”

Hefting his rifle, the Gunnery Sergeant hit the hatch control and stepped out, followed closely by Shannon, Governor Sigurdsen and Captain Trang. The rest of the Marines as well as the Intelligence team members fanned out around the vehicle, half to establish a perimeter and half because of an age-old conviction among footsoldiers that a halted vehicle was nothing but a nice, fat target.

The path had terminated in a bare rock face, sloping sharply upward for at least a hundred meters before it levelled off. Looking at it in the blue stealthlights of the APC, Shannon could find no seam in the cliff face, but Sigurdsen strode directly over to the center of it and slapped his bare palm against the stone, then quickly stepped back. With a hermetic hiss and a hum of servos, a ten-meter wide section of the rock wall separated inward and began to slide slowly aside.

“My God.” Shannon shook her head as a subdued, red-tinted light flickered on inside the shelter’s entry chamber. “This must have taken months.”

“And a ton of money,” Sigurdsen confirmed. “Unfortunately, it was worth it.”

“Bring the baby home, Bobby,” Lambert transmitted. “Clear the way, you damned jarheads.”

The dismounted passengers stepped aside to allow the APC and the scout car inside, then moved carefully in behind them as Sigurdsen found the inner door control.

“Stay where you are till the lights come on,” the governor warned, palming the ID plate.

It seemed to Shannon, standing in the dimly-lit, uncertain space of the chamber that it took hours for the false rock face to slide back into place, but it finally sealed into the side of the mountain, triggering the circuit for the overhead lighting.

The place was, if anything, bigger than it appeared from the outside. The entry chamber was as large as an industrial garage—which, indeed, it was. Beside the newly-arrived military vehicles, the garage chamber was already occupied by a heavy-duty, all-terrain utility rover; a light, skeleton-framed dune buggy; and a pair of battery-powered dirt bikes. Spare parts, maintenance equipment, charging stands and fuel tanks took up what little spare room there was along the side walls.

Shannon heard quite a few relieved groans and sighs as the crews of both vehicles dismounted and stretched out the kinks of several hours “in the saddle.” Then, quite suddenly, she realized that everyone in the garage was looking at her, waiting for a decision.

Oh well, she chuckled inwardly, you’re the one who wanted a command.

“Sergeant Lambert,” she said, “you and your men should get some rest, but before you stand down, I’d like you and Sergeant Mahoney to do a security check of this installation—Captain Trang can help you as well. I’d also like a full inventory of all weapons and ammunition within the hour.”

“Right away, ma’am,” Lambert acknowledged.

“Tom, Jock,” Shannon went on, turning to the men, “you’re to help with the inventory. Governor Sigurdsen, I’d like to see your communications setup.”

“First things first, Lieutenant,” Nathan Tanaka interrupted. “You are wounded. Governor,” he addressed the big man, “do you have any medical supplies?”

“Right this way,” Sigurdsen said.

“It’s nothing,” Shannon protested as she was led through the passage out of the garage into a central control area.

“Now, it’s nothing,” Tanaka insisted. “Tomorrow, it will be infected. You are the commander now; you cannot afford weakness.”

She gave up and let the bodyguard lead her to a couch in one corner of the large chamber, gently pulling off the armored vest she’d been loaned. Governor Sigurdsen pulled a briefcase-sized medical kit from one of the supply cabinets that lined the wall and set it on the table in front of the couch, popping its latches.

Tanaka sorted through the various packages in the case’s compartment and came up with a spray can of local anesthetic. Coating Shannon’s shoulder with a generous dose of the liquid, the bodyguard secured a large pair of forceps and a sterile swab and latched onto the largest of the jagged splinters.

“Ready?” he asked with a look of genuine concern that surprised her.

She nodded, turning her head away, and he carefully pulled the barb out of her shoulder, tossing it aside and mopping up the flow of blood with the swab. The other splinters came out easier, and soon he was spreading disinfectant over the area in preparation for bandaging it.

“You should have been a doctor,” she told him seriously.

“I should have been many things,” he replied softly, half to himself, as he taped the bandage in place. “But we do not always hold our fate in our own hands. There,” he fastened the last strip of cloth. “Try not to move this arm for the next day or so.”

“Happy birthday,” Sergeant Lambert deadpanned, stepping up to them and tossing Shannon a Marine-issue T-shirt. “A donation from your adoring fans.”

“Thanks,” she said, gingerly slipping into the garment.

Vinnie, Jock and Captain Trang had entered the room behind Lambert, and the three of them formed a semicircle around the couch, while Lambert flopped down on the couch beside Stark and Tanaka, casually propping his feet up on the table.

“Well, we’re sitting pretty here, Lieutenant,” he informed her. “There’s two main entrances, two emergency exits, three different sources of ventilation, about three meters of rock on all sides and complete 360 degree fiber-optic observation. If those ugly bastards ever found this place, they’d have a hell of a time prying us out of here. I’m not even sure this thing couldn’t survive a nuclear strike.”

“My contractors assured me it would,” Sigurdsen commented with something of a sense of proprietary pride.

“What about food and water?” Shannon asked the governor. “And power?”

“There’s enough food to last a year,” the big man informed her. “As for water and power, we’re sitting on top of an underground river: it’s what dug out most of these tunnels. I had a pair of hydroelectric generators put in; we’ll have power until they wear out… maybe two or three hundred years.”

“I wasn’t planning on hanging around quite that long,” she muttered. “All right, Jock, tell me about the weapons.”

“Ten M-70 Marine Individual Weapons,” the Australian reported, reading off from a display on his pocket computer, “with about 3,000 rounds of rifle ammo and fifty rifle-launched grenades. Two SR-8 autoguns with 2,000 rounds apiece. Four submachine guns with around a hundred rounds each. Three shoulder-launchers with ten reloads. Me’n Vinnie still have our grenade launchers, but we’re down to about two mags for each gun, and that rifle you picked up has five mags left, forty rounds in each. As for the vehicles, the chain guns are a bit low—about three hundred shots per. Grenade cannons are topped off, and they’ve still got ten missiles for the scout car’s launcher.” He shrugged, looking back up at her from the compact machine. “Plus three or four handguns with twenty rounds each and various knives, and that’s about it.”

“Plenty if we lay low and wait for a quick bailout,” Lambert pointed out. “Not even close if we try to hit them.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice into a corner wastebasket, earning a dirty look from the governor. “But then, I didn’t sign up to sit on my ass.”

“We should try to contact the Mac,” Jock declared. “If they’re still around, they could pull us out of here.”

Tanaka shook his head. “I do not think that would be wise. Transmitting from here would bring the enemy down upon us. They might not be able to penetrate this place, but we would lose it as a possible base of operations.”

“The Mac’s gone,” Vinnie declared, sitting on an arm of the couch. “If they were still in control, they’d have sent the fighter to support us at the mansion. They’re either on the run, or…” He left the sentence hanging, unwilling to verbally execute two hundred men and women.

“We tried to call for air support on the way to the mansion,” Lambert told Shannon. “Nothin’ but dead air.” He shrugged. “Course they might have been jammin’ us.” He was trying to sound hopeful, but not succeeding. Shannon shared his pessimism: despite the best efforts of Republic researchers, the only way to send a message faster than light was to write it down and stick it in a starship. If the Mac was gone, they were a long way from the nearest help.

“Is it possible,” Captain Trang asked, speaking for the first time in the impromptu meeting, “to set up some kind of mobile transmitter? Perhaps we could take the radio from one of the vehicles and set up a temporary position far enough away from here to be safe. Then, after the mobile unit transmits and moves on, we could listen for a response here, at our leisure.”

“That’s not a bad idea.” Shannon said thoughtfully. “Sergeant Lambert, have some of your people dismount the radio from the APC. We’ll work out the rest of the details later.”

“What about after that?” Vinnie wanted to know. “Are we going to lay low, or try to do something?” Silence greeted his question, as Shannon considered the matter.

“It might be prudent,” Tanaka suggested quietly, “to send out a scout.”

“Yeah,” Shannon agreed, grateful to have that decision put off. “We’ll send out a recon team. Two men, on those dirt bikes. They’ll take the transmitter with them and head into the desert. After they make the transmission, they can head for Kennedy and look things over.”

“Who’s going?” Jock wanted to know.

“I was a qualified commo geek in the Corps,” Vinnie threw out.

“It’s yours, Vinnie,” Stark told him. “And we’re going to need someone who’s familiar with the territory.”

“I will go,” Captain Trang volunteered. “I have flown over every inch of this planet at one time or another.”

“You sure you want to take the risk, Captain?” Shannon asked him. “It’s our job, after all.”

“Call it a hobby.” The mercenary captain smiled humorlessly.

“All right then,” Stark concluded. “We have a plan. You two leave tomorrow night. Try to get some sleep, and get something to eat. We’ll outfit you in the morning.”

The group broke up, scattering to find places to sleep. As they walked away, side by side, Shannon saw Jock nudge Vinnie, shaking his head.

“Damn it, it’s just not fair, mate,” he said with a laugh. “You have all the fun.”

Chapter Eight

“Man never made any material as resilient as the human spirit.”

—Bern Williams

Jason McKay woke up shivering furiously, huddling under the suddenly inadequate blanket against the bone-chilling cold of the rock floor beneath him, trying to squeeze his eyes shut to keep out the intrusive sunlight that threatened to pry them open.

Hold on a second, something in his dormant consciousness protested. Sunlight?

His eyes popped open and he bolted upright, immediately aware of the jarring facts: it was the morning after the alien attack; he was sitting in the small mountain cave that they had taken shelter in late the night before; he was Goddamn freezing; and he was alone.

“Shit,” he hissed, snatching his pistol from the ground beside him and coming to his feet.

Where the hell was Valerie O’Keefe?

Cautiously, yet with a mounting sense of urgency, Jason ducked out of the low, rounded cave mouth and emerged into the still-gentle light of the morning sunrise. Greenish-brown scrub surrounded the cave entrance, thickening into a nearly-impassable tangle of thorns and roots on either side of the narrow game trail that led down the steep slope to the clearing where he’d parked the rover.

McKay scanned carefully around him, but the rover wasn’t visible from his position and he could hear nothing but the moan of the wind through the mountain pass. They were still in the foothills of what the discoverers of this world had named the Edge Mountains, but the jagged peaks all around seemed sharper and more rugged than any he’d seen on Earth. The harsh, white light of Tau Ceti threw the dark crags into sharp relief against the yellow sky, raising the hackles on McKay’s neck as his hind-brain rebelled against the notion that he was actually on another world, eleven light-years from Earth. There was just something inherently wrong about that notion that at once frightened and excited him.

“Fucked up and far from home,” McKay muttered.

Shaking his head clear of such esoteric rumblings, Jason carefully negotiated the path down the hill, kicking loose dirt and rocks as he half-walked, half-slid along the barely-existent trail.

How the hell, he wondered, had they ever made it up this at night?

He managed to reach the bottom of the hill on his feet after about ten meters of a half-controlled slide, then took a moment to regain his balance and listen again for any sign of trouble. Farther down the draw and away from the howl of the wind, he began to hear some kind of activity down in the clearing—nothing frantic or violent, just a faint creak of metal and the sound of shuffling feet.

Probably just Valerie getting a drink of water, he told himself—but no use taking chances. He hugged the edge of the path as he slowly made his way around to the perimeter of the clearing, the rear end of the parked rover finally coming into view. Last night, he had made an attempt to camouflage the vehicle with brush, hoping to avoid being spotted from the air or from orbit, but the brush had been pulled away from the rear of the rover and the tailgate was down.

Resting on the lowered rear hatch were one of the water jugs and the bulk of Valerie O’Keefe’s clothes. A wide grin forced its way across Jason’s face as he advanced further and saw Valerie standing to the side of the tailgate, naked, giving herself a sponge bath.

The right thing to do, he knew, would be to turn away and go back to the cave till she was finished. The decent thing would have been to at least back around the corner and announce his presence. Instead, he halted just out of sight and treated his eyes to a nice, long look.

She was, he allowed honestly, very nice to look at. She obviously kept herself in good shape, and either nature or a surgical bodysculpt—he suspected the former—had been kind to her as well. Letting his gaze travel up the soft curve of her hip to her full, rounded breasts, Jason was a bit surprised by the natural response that was pressing against the inside of his fatigue trousers.

He hadn’t been this instantly aroused by the sight of a naked woman since high school, and he actually had to concentrate to keep himself from having a potentially embarrassing accident.

Well, McKay, he thought to himself, there’s only two ways to go here: forward or backward. A wise man, a prudent man, would retreat and keep things less complicated. A balls-to-the-wall, aggressive Marine type would seize the moment and throw caution to the wind. You’re not one of those Marine type of guys anymore, are you?

“Morning!” he said with cheerful loudness, stepping out into the clearing.

“McKay, you bastard!” Valerie shrieked, dropping the wet rag she’d been washing with and snatching her shirt off the tailgate to hold against her chest in a vain attempt at modesty. “Damn it, turn around!”

“I don’t want to turn around,” he told her honestly, slipping his pistol back into its shoulder holster as he advanced slowly toward her. “I like this view.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be an officer and a gentleman?” she demanded, arching an eyebrow, but noticeably less upset than she had been a moment before.

“Is that what you want me to be?” he asked her, stopping only centimeters from her, feeling the heat of her body and seeing the flush of her cheeks and shoulders. “A gentleman?”

“No,” she whispered hoarsely, shaking her head.

Without another word, he pulled her into a passionate kiss, her shirt falling to the ground. Her body was still wet from the sponge bath, and he could feel the dampness soaking through his shirt, hot from the burning flush of her skin.

He broke the kiss long enough to rip off his overshirt and shoulder holster, then pulled off his T-shirt and tossed the garments onto the rover’s tailgate. He moved forward and grasped her by the shoulders, lifted her into his arms, and set her down on the tailgate, a half-shy, half-seductive smile on her face that was about to drive him out of his mind.

He was far too aroused to be gentle or patient and she didn’t seem to mind; she worked his belt loose and yanked his trousers down over his hips with a frantic need that matched his own. They came together with an urgency that went beyond the physical and spent itself quickly with a flare of emotion that consumed them both.Jason felt the air go out of him and he nearly collapsed on top of Val, her arms clasped around his shoulders as his head rested on her breast.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

“Oh, Jason,” she hissed. “I’ve been wanting to do that for days.”

“I’ve got a great idea.” His head popped up, a wild glint in his eye. “Let’s do it again.”

“Race you to the cave,” she laughed, grabbing her clothes and taking off up the path.

“Hey, wait up!” he protested, trying to collect his scattered garments and his pistol.

“If you aren’t there in thirty seconds,” he could hear her voice come from farther up the hill, “I’ll start without you!”

“I’m on my way!” he promised, arms filled with clothes as he gingerly made his way across the rocks on bare feet.

This, he thought ludicrously to himself, would be a heck of a time for someone to take a shot at us.

“Oh, well,” he muttered with a philosophical shrug. “There are no ex-Marines.”

* * *

Much later, Jason watched Valerie as she lay unmoving in the crook of his shoulder, drifting in the exhaustion and afterglow of their frenzied—almost desperate—lovemaking. Her face was perfect in sleep, peaceful and child-like, with a natural beauty that stirred anew the urges that had propelled him into her arms hours before. He was tempted to wake her and see if he could manage to perform just once more, but she probably needed the rest—emotionally, if not physically.

He leaned his head back against the folded blanket they’d used for a pillow and tried not to think. Thinking hurt too much at the moment. Maybe that was why he’d let his hormones do the steering with Valerie. Oh, to be sure, the sex had been anything but unpleasant. What was that old saying? “There’s good sex and then there’s great sex, but there is no bad sex.” This had been better than good, but not quite great. There had to be much more emotional attachment for great sex.

Curiously enough, he hadn’t felt the guilt he’d anticipated: he’d initially thought he might feel like he was cheating on Shannon’s memory. Instead, there’d remained an emptiness that no amount of frantic coupling could fill, either with guilt or satisfaction. There was none of the wracking self-doubt and debilitating guilt he’d felt after Inferno, just a curious, cold detachment from the deaths of Shannon and the others.

It was beginning to worry him.

“Hi,” Valerie whispered, eyes blinking up at him groggily. “You still awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, giving her a reassuring smile.

“Thinking about your friends?” she asked him, propping herself up on one elbow.

“I don’t think,” he replied slowly and quietly, “that I ever got to know them well enough to call them friends. And now…” A vision of Shannon passed before his eyes unbidden. “I never will.”

“That woman, Lieutenant Stark,” Valerie questioned gently, seemingly reading his thoughts. “Were you two involved?”

“We might have been, if we’d had more time,” Jason told her honestly.

“She seemed like a very strong person.” Valerie rested her head on his chest, teasing the hair there with her fingers. “I’m sorry for you.”

“I’m sorry about Glen,” he told her, trying to sound sincere.

“I know you probably didn’t think much of him, but he was out of his element.” She shook her head. “Glen just couldn’t understand that you can disagree with someone politically but still respect them personally. Too much of Dad rubbed off on him. But he was a good man.”

“Did you love him?” Jason asked her, surprised that he actually cared what the answer would be.

She hesitated for a long moment, and he wasn’t certain she would reply, but finally he could feel her shrug against him.

“I don’t know. He loved me. Sometimes, I thought I loved what he could be, what he had the potential to become. In the beginning, when we were both in college, it was fun to talk about forever and all the things we’d do. Lately, though, it seemed like I was growing up and he wasn’t. I cared about him, but…” She sighed softly. “I’m not sure I’ve ever really loved anyone.” She chuckled. “Maybe I was ruined for all other men by having Daddy to compare them to.”

“Senator O’Keefe is an impressive speaker,” Jason allowed, trying to take to heart her advice about respecting political enemies. “It must have been interesting growing up around him.”

“Daddy always gave me everything I could possibly want. Not just material things, either—he was always there for me when I needed someone to talk to, or a hug or a smile. I think he wanted to make up for Mom not being there.”

“Were he and your mother separated?”

“Mom died when I was very young,” she told him. “I don’t remember very much about her. She was killed in an explosion in the Czech Republic.”

“Jesus.”

“That was a long time ago.” She looked up at him, her face more worried than nostalgic. “What about now? What are we going to do?”

He rested his head back against the cave wall, considering the question. Staying right where they were certainly had its temptations, if only they could find a source of water. Food wouldn’t be a problem: the Edge Mountains were full of wildlife, most of which was edible by humans. He chuckled inwardly at the thought of them living like Paleolithic hunters, spending their days scavenging for food and water and their nights coupling by the fire. There was only one problem with that.

“We can’t stay here forever,” he told her. “Even if we could find a way to get water and food, we’re only a couple months from winter, and I imagine it gets pretty damned cold in these mountains. Plus…” He shrugged, trying to sound more hopeful than he was. “Well, if the Mac got away, somehow, relief could be here in a couple months. We need to have access to an orbital comunit, or we could be sitting out here for months longer than we need to.”

“What if the ship was destroyed?” she asked him, voice betraying the pessimism he shared.

“When she doesn’t arrive at our next, scheduled stop, they’ll contact the Fleet, and somebody will come check it out. It’ll just take a while.”

“How long?” Val wanted to know.

“Maybe as long as six to eight months,” Jason admitted. “Maybe more, maybe less, depending on ship readiness.”

“So where do we go?” she asked him. “Maybe Davenport, or one of the other, smaller cities, further south?”

McKay shook his head emphatically. “The cities are probably all occupied, by now, or else wiped out by orbital bombardment. No, we need to find something the Invaders wouldn’t have bothered with.” He looked her in the eye. “Maybe it’s time to look up some old friends.”

* * *

“What the hell’s going on?” Vinnie muttered, lowering his binoculars.

The Sergeant’s words were swallowed up by the early-evening wind that scoured the sandstone plateau, but had Captain Shao Chi Trang heard them he would likely have echoed their sentiment. Unlike Sergeant Mahoney, he didn’t require binoculars: he’d been loaned a Marine battle helmet and was using its electronic ocular both as a magnifying scope and a recording device. The headgear’s integral sight was linked with a tiny data crystal, allowing them to play back whatever he saw for the others when they returned.

There hadn’t been too much to see until now. They’d ridden their dirtbikes into the desert for more than twenty hours before attempting to transmit a message to the cruiser MacArthur, a message they’d both suspected had gone pointlessly into the ether: if the Fleet ship was still intact, it was probably light-years away by now.

After quickly vacating the transmission position, they’d traversed a wide, curving arc around the edge of the Wastes, avoiding the farmsteads and coming up, finally, on the isolated plateau that was the site of Aphrodite’s only spaceport. That was when things got interesting.

He didn’t know what he’d expected to see. Perhaps he’d thought the place would have been destroyed. After all, the laser-launch facility doubled as a planetary defense system, and it would make a logical target for any invader. As it turned out, however, the Invaders had another use for the device.

The port was a sprawling, spread-out facility, with three separate sections clustered around the blockish control center. The large, paved landing pad was built for the use of orbital shuttles. The one that the O’Keefe party had arrived on was still sitting on the plastcrete, seemingly intact. Beside it was something big and white that had to be over fifty meters tall and more than half as wide. Trang assumed it to be a heavy-lift shuttle of some kind, although he had never seen its like before. An onion-shaped craft, it rested on nearly two dozen landing struts mounted around a curved heat shield, the cant of the numerous thrust nozzles ringing the ablative estrutcheon indicating that the ship took off and landed vertically.

The second element of the port was the electromagnetic levitation cargo train rail that ran in a loop around the landing pad to the keystone of Aphrodite’s space transportation system: the laser-launch platform. Fed by underground cables from the fusion plant outlying Kennedy, the huge free-electron laser was built mostly underground, its beam emitter emplaced at the center of a broad, ceramic platform. A conveyer track ran up to the platform from the maglev train’s loading dock, allowing iridium and uranium from the mines to the southeast and crude oil from the wells deep in the Wastes to be shipped in simple, easily-replaceable laser-launch capsules, wheeled directly onto the platform and launched into orbit for the waiting cargo ships.

That was the way it had worked for the Republic’s transportation multicorps prior to the invasion, and, to Trang’s and Vinnie’s surprise, the system still seemed to be in motion. In the hour they had been observing from their vantage point nearly two kilometers away, the maglev trains had been running nonstop, disgorging one bulbous laser-launch pod after another before heading back to the mines or the wells. Even as they watched, one of the rough metal pods rode up the track and settled in on the beam emitter. Intake fans on a skirt around the bell-shaped ignition chamber at the capsule’s base whirred noisily, sucking in air for a few seconds before the launch laser fired.

The laser was infrared, its beam invisible to the human eye, but Trang and Vinnie could see the sparking ionization of the atmosphere in a glowing line beneath the launch pod as it rose slowly off the platform. The high-energy pulses superheated the air sucked into the capsule’s ignition chamber and propelled the ten-ton vehicle with ever-increasing speed until it was hurtling skyward nearly faster than the eye could follow.

Trang could almost believe that things were back to normal—except for the dozens of Invader troops guarding the port facilities and the four Hopper battle machines patrolling the perimeter. Other Invader troops drove Port Authority loading equipment, ferrying what looked like electronics and computer equipment on pallets from the maglev train dock, up a cargo ramp into the belly of the onion-shaped shuttle.

“They’re looting the planet,” the mercenary Captain declared, resisting a temptation to shake his head in amazement, knowing it would jog the ocular’s picture. “They must be loading the ore and the oil onto their ships in orbit.”

“Jeez,” Vinnie snorted, sitting back on his haunches. “You mean this whole thing’s been just one, big armed robbery?”

“Apparently.” Trang pulled the Marine helmet off, deciding that he—and its camera—had seen enough. He turned to the Sergeant, shrugging expressively. “Although I must confess it makes little sense to me, either. I think, however, that we should return and report this.”

“Lieutenant Stark wanted us to scout out Kennedy,” Vinnie reminded him, unscrewing the cap from his canteen and taking a long swig.

“We know enough already,” Trang argued. “We can’t take the risk of getting captured in the city and losing this footage. I guarantee you, my friend,” he said, smiling coldly at Mahoney, “your Lieutenant will want to see this.”

Chapter Nine

“It’s better to be a live jackal than a dead lion—for jackals, not men.”

—Sidney Hooks

Shannon sat alone in the shelter’s darkened control room in front of a small, flat-screen monitor, watching the playback of Captain Trang’s surveillance recording for the twentieth time. Nothing had changed in the crystalline matrix: it still projected the same images she and the rest of the group had seen earlier that day, and they were still just as vexing.

“Why the hell,” she asked herself out loud, “would a race that has star travel bother to invade a two-bit colony just to loot computers, fissionable ore and oil?”

“Is that really the question?” Shannon spun around in her seat at the unexpected voice and saw Nathan Tanaka stepping into the room, dressed more casually than she had seen him since they’d arrived onplanet: a plain, white T-shirt and loose, black pants.

“What?” She shook her head in confusion, disconcerted at his sudden appearance.

“Should you really be asking the why of it, Lieutenant?” he elaborated, sitting on the edge of the console, glancing down at the infrared images displayed there.

“Why not?” She shrugged. “Figuring out why they’re here could help us figure out the best way to resist them.”

“Undoubtedly,” the bodyguard admitted. “But I propose to you that the question of why is not an answerable one at this point.” He waved a hand expansively. “Perhaps they are exiles, on the run from some higher authority and desperate for resupply. Or maybe the abundance of resources we have found on our colonies is the exception rather than the rule, and they’re green—or should I say blue,” he amended, “with envy. We could debate different theories forever. Even if we were able to capture one of the individual troopers, I am not sure it would be helpful. They seem to me to be something on the order of a biological automaton, incapable of independent action.”

“So what would you suggest we do, Mr. Tanaka?” She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her breasts.

“That is the question to ask, Lieutenant,” he said, “though I am not the one to answer it. As the commanding officer, you must decide what we are to do.”

“I guess,” she sighed, “that’s what I’ve been trying to avoid.”

“I would suggest that what you have been trying to avoid is admitting to yourself that you already know what you must do, and that it may result in many or all of our deaths.”

She glanced at him sharply, his angular face oddly half-lit by the glow of the monitor, his eyes lost in darkness. That was exactly her concern, and it was something of a shock to her that he had discerned it so easily.

“We have to attack the spaceport,” she almost whispered. “We don’t know why they want the supplies, but we know they want them, and we know they’re the enemy. We have to deny it to them.”

“That is the decision of a leader,” Tanaka assured her, putting a hand on her arm. It was a simple gesture, without intention, but the warmth of his fingers seemed electric against the skin of her arm and she pulled away instinctively.

Tanaka withdrew his hand, his eyes showing an unaccustomed confusion. Shannon shook the feeling off, rising from her seat abruptly.

“I’d better get some sleep.” She hit the control to shut off the screen, and the lack of its light plunged the room into darkness, only the faint glow of the ghostlights on the baseboards allowing them to see at all. Curiously, though the bodyguard hadn’t moved, he seemed closer somehow in the darkness. “I’ll brief everyone in the morning,” she promised, moving away from him, back toward the hallway to the sleeping quarters. Halfway there, she hesitated and eyed him curiously. “How did you know I’d be in here?”

“It is where I would have been,” he answered simply. A smile stretched across her face, and she tried to fight back a blush.

“Good night, Mr. Tanaka,” she said. “And thanks.”

She moved down the hallway without waiting for a reply, quickly out of sight around the corner. Tanaka’s eyes followed her, staring at the empty corridor long after she’d gone. Then, tentatively and carefully, his lip twitched upward into a smile. He allowed himself to savor the unfamiliar expression, and the unfamiliar emotion that accompanied it, for a moment before shaking away the feeling and stepping purposefully out of the room.

* * *

“Who knows laser-launch systems?” Shannon Stark asked, scanning the faces of the group collected around the frozen monitor image of the spaceport.

“What about them?” Gunny Lambert interjected from his perch on the arm of the couch. “I mean, I guess I know the newsholo spiel: the laser heats the air in the capsule’s ignition chamber and propels it into orbit.”

“Actually,” Tom Crossman corrected him, surprising Shannon, “the air that the launch capsule sucks in only gets it to the upper atmosphere; it has to carry a small fuel supply to reach orbit.”

“I’m talking about operations,” Stark clarified. “We need to find a way to shut it down, permanently, and hopefully destroy the other port facilities in the process. Any ideas on what we should target?”

“We could hit a launch capsule at take-off,” Vinnie offered. “Knock out the ignition chamber and the debris might smash the laser’s optics.”

Tom shook his head. “They’re fail-safed: all the fragile shit’s underground.”

Shannon cocked an eyebrow at Crossman. “You seem to be the resident expert. Tell us what you know.”

“Well,” the technician said, “my dad was an engineer—he helped build the system on Mars colony. I’m no expert, but I still remember a lot of the stuff he told me.” He levered himself off the couch and went up to the monitor screen and poked a finger at the image of the launch platform. “Like I said, all the laser’s focussing equipment’s down below, protected by a good ten meters of dirt and rock. Power feed’s down there, too, probably.”

“Couldn’t we pop a missile down the emitter?” PFC Bobby Comstock, the APC driver, wanted to know. “That’d take out the mirrors and power, wouldn’t it?”

Crossman rolled his eyes. “Earth to Jarhead—didn’t we just track that target? All that shit is shielded. Only thing a missile down the spout would hit is half-meter thick transplas ocular, and that’s all they’d have to replace to get it running again.”

“Well, if you’re so Goddamned smart,” Bobby drawled irritably, “then how th’ hell do we knock it out?”

“There’s maintenance tunnels running from the control center.” Crossman bonked the screen with his knuckle over the blockish building at the center of the port. “We’re gonna have to go through them to get access to the laser’s guts: maybe a shoulder-fired missile or some kind of bomb we could rig up. That’s the only way to take the thing out bad enough that they can’t fix it.”

“And that’s what we’ll have to do,” Shannon said, “if we want to prevent them from looting this colony and using that laser to knock out any rescue ships that might come.”

“That’s an awful lot of open space,” Lambert commented, wagging a finger at the port. “They’ve gotta have motion detectors and thermal scanners set up.”

“You’ll need a diversion of some kind,” Trang noted. “Something to draw their forces away.”

“We could take the scout,” PFC Jimmy Jimenez, the thin, shaven-headed scout car driver suggested, “and go after that big rocket.” He pointed at the onion-shaped heavy-lift launch vehicle over at the landing pad. “That’d get their attention, damn straight.”

“You might not want all that attention, Jimmy,” Bobby Comstock argued. “Armor on that speed buggy of yours won’t stop no missile.”

“The Private is correct.” Tanaka spoke for the first time since the meeting had begun. “The scout can be only one part of the attack. Besides the penetration team, you will need a dismounted element utilizing shoulder-fired missiles to support the diversion.”

“Oh, goody,” Corporal Camellia Tinker muttered, chuckling humorlessly, “fun for everyone.”

“So we’ll need four groups,” Shannon Stark mused, rubbing her chin. “Penetration, mounted diversion, dismounted support and an overwatch element to coordinate.”

“Well, we know who’s in the scout group,” Comstock declared. “Who gets to go inside?”

“That’s what we were trained for,” Vinnie reminded Shannon.

“Vinnie’s right,” she said. “The four of us will take the laser.”

“All due respect, ma’am,” Lambert said, shaking his head, “you going in wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“He is correct,” Tanaka agreed, his tone gently reproving. “You are the only officer: you must stay with the overwatch element and direct the other teams.”

“All right, damn it.” Shannon let out a sigh. “This commanding officer crap is getting old. If not me, then who? Three probably won’t be enough—you’ll need two to hold the control center and at least two to set the charges.”

“How about you, Captain Trang?” Vinnie asked the mercenary officer. “You handled yourself pretty good out there.” He extended the man a hand. “Wanna come along for the ride?”

“You patriotic types will get me killed yet,” Trang moaned. But he took the hand. “I’m in,” he told Shannon.

“We’ll hang with you, Captain,” one of the other two security people, a tall, lanky European whose name escaped Shannon declared. The other merc, a broad-shouldered Asian, nodded his agreement.

Trang shook his head. “I thank you for your loyalty, but your place is here, to ensure the safety of the governor.” He glanced at Sigurdsen, who sat off to the side, a potted plant for most of the conversation. Actually, Shannon couldn’t recall the big man having said more than two words since the night of their arrival, but the reference to him seemed to stir him from his self-imposed silence.

“Lieutenant,” he spoke hesitantly, “are you certain this is the right thing to do? What if your ship is still out there? Shouldn’t we wait till we’re sure there’s no other way?”

“They didn’t reply to our transmission, Your Honor,” she reminded him. “Even if they’re out there, they couldn’t approach till we took out the laser—otherwise, the Invaders could use it to knock out any attempt at a counterstrike.”

The Governor nodded slowly and reluctantly, still seemingly not quite convinced.

“All right.” Shannon took a deep breath before continuing. “Gunny, I’ll leave it to you to separate your people into three teams: the scout car assault group, an APC crew and a support team to dismount from the carrier and back up the diversion. Vinnie, you coordinate with the Gunny on coming up with the charges and timers.”

“We can rig something up from rifle grenades,” Mahoney stated, rising from his seat as the others began to drift away from the meeting.

“Lieutenant.” Governor Sigurdsen motioned for her to remain by the couch as the others moved away to prepare for the mission.

“Yes, Your Honor?” Shannon cocked an eyebrow.

“What should I… should we do if none of you come back?”

Stark regarded him silently, sorely tempted to reply: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” But a sidelong glance at the two merc guards and the young servant girl squashed that impulse.

“Pray.” She shrugged, turning away from him. “God might be merciful, but I doubt the Invaders will be.”

* * *

The midday sun beat down on Shannon’s back, leaving her with an inescapable feeling of exposure and helplessness. It seemed odd, even now, to launch a commando raid in broad daylight, but the benefits of a night attack would have been illusory at best. The Invaders surely had infrared night vision and thermal imaging equipment, and there were no assurances they slept at night as humans did. Worst of all, and the final reason for deciding on high noon as H-Hour for the raid, they had to consider the fact that the Invaders ships were undoubtedly monitoring the planet from orbit.

They couldn’t be sure what kind of computer technology the enemy had, but Republic ships and satellites had the ability to automatically scan for thermal anomalies. At night, the Marine vehicles would have stood out from the cold, desert surface like a Christmas tree; in the day, with the scorching flame of white-hot Tau Ceti beating down, the thermal output from the turbine-driven tactical vehicles would be insignificant.

Yet, despite all the logic behind her decision, sitting out on the rocky outcropping, with the shelter’s dune buggy parked down the hill behind her and Nathan Tanaka by her side, she felt like somebody had drawn a bullseye on her back. Trying to shake that image, she raised her binoculars and focussed on the spaceport control center.

There was still some evidence on the building of the damage done in the invasion. Pockmarks from bullet impacts scarred the front face, a single crater from a grenade explosion had taken a chunk out of a corner at hip level, and the front door had been blown off its hinges. A pair of bodies, still in their grey Port Authority coveralls, had been left to decompose only meters from the entrance, and Shannon flinched as she saw a local scavenger gnawing at one of the corpses.

But the building was still in use: through the doorway, she could see shadowed figures milling around, working the instrument boards and monitoring the launch systems. For a bizarre moment, she thought the figures were human, but then one stepped into the light from the entrance and she saw that it was one of the blue-skinned Invaders, sans armor and helmet. Still, it seemed different somehow from the one she’d seen face-to-face back at the mansion. After wasting a second staring at the creature, she realized what the difference was: its head. The cranium was larger than a man’s and much larger than that of the other Invader she’d seen. It gave the creature an odd, lopsided look that sent shivers up her spine.

Tracking away from the control center, she found the shining, metallic strip of the maglev rail and followed it around to the laser-launch platform, where several cars were waiting to be unloaded, their cargo of launch pods squatting in utilitarian ugliness on the flat-bed car. The powerful laser discharged even as she watched, the ionization of its beam making the hair on the back of her neck stand up from several kilometers away.

Shifting her view to the left, she brought the rotund shape of the Invader shuttle into her view—either they were still loading the same craft Vinnie and Captain Trang had observed, or this was yet another launch vehicle. Probably the former, she judged: the loading ramp was up, the cargo doors closed, and it seemed that they were clearing the area around the shuttle in preparation for take-off.

Swinging the binoculars around ninety degrees, she focussed on a narrow draw some three klicks from the control center. Her mind ticked off the seconds and, right on cue, a dull-grey teardrop shape burst out of the draw in a cloud of dust and a whine of turbines audible even from their far perch.

“There they go!” Shannon exclaimed, nearly breathless with tension—sounding, she thought, like a worried mother watching her son play football for the first time. Of her two years as a Fleet officer, nearly eighteen months had been spent as an intelligence analyst. Leading troops into battle—or worse, sending them into battle—was something alien to her.

Nathan Tanaka didn’t comment on her outburst, watching the events unfold through his own set of field glasses. The bodyguard looked ill at ease in the camo fatigues he’d borrowed for the operation, a Marine assault rifle slung from his shoulder. He’d nearly balked when Shannon had insisted he carry the weapon, but it had seemed more important to him to come along and guard her safety than to preserve a long habit. It seemed to Shannon that he had, in the absence of his charge Valerie O’Keefe, adopted safeguarding her as his primary duty.

Her temples throbbed with her pulsebeat as she watched the scout car race up the slope onto the plateau, still seemingly unnoticed. Trailing by nearly a kilometer, the APC rumbled out of the draw at a more sedate speed, curving around to take the plateau at a wide arc, keeping to the edge of the foothills on the east side. By the time the slower vehicle had taken the hill and mounted the flat table of the port highlands, the quicker scout car had finally managed to get the Invaders’ attention. One of the gangly Hoppers on patrol nearly a kilometer out stopped in mid-stride—like a grotesque, mechanical parody of a man doing a double-take—and swivelled the upper torso around to bring the main gun and missile pods to bear on the advancing Marines.

That was all the encouragement Jimmy Jimenez needed. A guided missile flared off the Marine vehicle’s launch rack and crossed the distance between the car and the anthropomorphic tank in less than a second. The warhead detonated against the Hopper’s left turbine, enveloping the machine in a halo of fire with a thunderclap that rolled across the mesa. Armored Invader troops immediately began to pour out of the control center, while the remaining Hoppers turned in their patrol paths and heavy-weapons crews picked up their guns and missile launchers to run out to the front and meet the threat.

As yet unseen, the APC curved around to the rear of the port complex and came to a halt on the far side of the landing pad, disgorging Gunny Lambert and five of his Marines. The troops fanned out into two-Marine teams, each team equipped with a shoulder-fired missile launcher, and took up positions behind what cover they could find at the inner perimeter of the landing pad.

Shannon could see the loosely-organized mass of Invaders streaming out of the control center begin to drop by twos and threes as the two Marine autogunners, in each of the outermost teams, opened up on them. A rifle grenade shot out from one of Lambert’s troopers, exploding in the midst of the armored Invaders and sending a half-dozen of them flying in a billowing cloud of smoke and dust. The withering fire drove the Invader troops even farther away from the operations building, drawing half of them toward the landing pad to face the attack from their flank.

“Now, Vinnie,” Shannon muttered to herself. “Do it now!”

* * *

More than a klick away from Shannon’s position, in a junction of rocky outcroppings overlooking the east side of the spaceport, Vincent Mahoney lowered his field glasses and twisted around on the seat of his borrowed motorcycle.

“Well, Cap,” he commented to Shao Tri Trang, seated behind him on the dirt bike, “I don’t think they’re gonna get any more diverted than that.” He turned to Jock Gregory and Tom Crossman, who shared the other bike. “Let’s move.”

Kickstarting the cycle, Vinnie twisted the accelerator and gunned it down the slope with a hum of electric motors, the other machine following close behind. The gap between the outcroppings was rutted and rocky, but both ex-Marines had been trained in handling nearly every land vehicle in existence and negotiated the path with practiced ease.

Vinnie concentrated on controlling the bike, confident in Captain Trang’s ability to look out for threats, but he couldn’t help the expectant stiffening in his spine as he heard the gunfire erupting all around. There was a bullet with his name on it out there, he had no doubt, and this was as good a chance of catching it as he’d ever had in his four years in the service. What kept him riding into the midst of the fray despite that knowledge was the realization that this was the culmination of his military experience: this was why he’d joined the Marines in the first place.

Without this assignment, the biggest contribution to the preservation of the Republic he could have hoped to make was putting down some petty rebellion that would inconvenience some corporate miner or landholder. Now, he was putting his life on the line to actually defend humanity against the most significant threat in history.

What a rush.

Both cycles were more than halfway across the plain before any of the enemy spotted them, but one of the few heavy weapons crews which had kept its position in a foxhole at the rear of the control center finally traversed its machine gun and brought the two bikes into the targeting reticle. A fraction of a second more was all it would have taken for the gunner to squeeze the weapon’s trigger and blow all four men out of existence, but their presence had not gone unnoticed by either Shao Trang or Tom Crossman.

Although his and Jock’s bike was slightly to the rear of Vinnie and Trang’s, Crossman actually spotted the emplacement first and brought up the grenade launcher he’d worn slung across his back. Seeing his motion, Trang unlimbered his own launcher and the two men fired almost simultaneously, each loosing a full-auto three-round burst. The mini-grenades described a high arc from the lightweight launchers and came in directly over the weapon emplacement and the pair of Invaders manning it.

Dust flew and machine-gun ammo cooked off with a flash of fireworks as the grenades scattered mingled pieces of machine gun and Invader in a half-circle around the foxhole. Before the smoke had cleared, Vinnie and Jock were swinging their cycles in a dust-flinging braking arc that brought them to an abrupt halt at the back wall of the control center. Crossman and Trang threw themselves belly-first to the ground, covering Vinnie and Jock as the two Sergeants laid the dirt bikes on the ground and freed the canvas rucksacks which had been strapped to the machines.

“Go!” Vinnie barked, unslinging his borrowed Marine assault rifle.

Mahoney led them away from the bikes and Trang brought up the rear as they edged around the fusion-formed block building—ignoring the rear entrances that early reconnaissance had told them were barricaded—and jogged briskly around to the east side to the juncture of the side and front walls. Vinnie craned his neck around the corner, motioning to the others to halt while he checked out the front of the building. The weapons’ emplacements were deserted as the fight had been carried to the Marines over at the launch pad, but there were still a pair of Invader troopers keeping a guard at the front door, their rifles held at high port.

Vinnie leaned back around and, shifting his rifle to his right arm, flashed the others a signal with two fingers, then pointed at Jock and jerked a thumb at the corner. Trang and Crossman took up cover positions while their comrades moved into place at the corner, readying their weapons.

“One,” Vinnie hissed in a barely-audible mutter as Jock huddled against his left shoulder. “Two… three!”

Jock threw himself out around the corner and into a prone position as Vinnie leaned around the corner and brought up his rifle left-handed, and the two men opened fire simultaneously. The two Marine carbines chattered in unison, each sending a three-round burst into the heads of the armored Invaders. Before the troopers hit the ground, all four of the penetration-team members were around the corner and rushing for the front entrance, this time with Trang and Tom Crossman in the lead, hands filled with grenades.

Vinnie and Jock moved to take up positions on either side of the blown-out doorway as Tom and Shao deactivated the grenade’s safeties and prepared to chuck them through the entrance. Feeling something under his boot, Mahoney glanced down and saw that he was standing on the partially-skeletal, rotting hand of one of the human corpses the Invaders had left behind. Its empty eye sockets stared back at him, its face frozen in the rictus of a smile.

Vinnie forced his gaze away from the loathsome spectacle, biting his lip to keep the bile back in his throat and quickly moving his boot off of the bare-white finger bones. He turned his attention back to Tom and Trang, watching them underhand the grenades into the blown-out doorway, ducking reflexively and covering his ears just before the detonation. The ground shook beneath him and he could feel the concussion in his sinuses and diaphragm as dust shook off the walls and fire and smoke shot out through the doorway.

Mahoney and Gregory darted inside before the smoke had fully cleared, and found themselves in a control room now wrecked twice over, the equipment that had survived the surgical attack of the Invaders now wrecked completely. Blood coated the walls from the handful of Invader corpses lying in pieces on the floor; but several of the aliens still clung horribly to life. A blue-skinned Invader, his torso severed at the waist, was dragging himself toward them by his shredded hands, his eyes just as shark-dead as they had been, his face eerily expressionless. Another lay with his entrails hanging from a gaping wound that exposed most of his chest and belly, but seemed to be trying to get to his feet.

The hellish sight filled them with revulsion, but Jock and Vinnie didn’t waste any time ogling the creatures—they sprayed the survivors with carbine-fire, obliterating their oddly swollen heads with 6mm slugs. The two ex-Marines reloaded their rifles from magazine pouches in their tactical vests as Trang and Crossman dashed in behind them to cover. Crossman took up a position behind a control panel to keep their avenue of retreat open, while the others headed through the main control room, through a connecting corridor to a narrow, grey door marked “Authorized Personnel Only.”

With Trang staying in the hallway to stand guard, Jock yanked the door open and he and Vinnie ducked through it into the cramped passage within. Chemical ghostlights cast a network of shadows through the open metal gridwork that lined the passageway onto the bare sandstone behind it; but the far end was lost in darkness, which did nothing to assuage the fears of the Intelligence teammembers. Their boots clanged off the gridwork as they jogged quickly down a long set of stairs that finally levelled out onto a narrow walkway. Keeping the muzzle of his weapon pointed at the dark end of the corridor, Mahoney cursed himself for not thinking to bring a flashlight: if there was anything down there, they were well and truly screwed.

But the end of the tunnel proved to hold nothing more threatening than a stout, metal hatchway, sealed with a locking wheel. Jock slung his carbine across his chest and Vinnie moved aside to let the bigger man have a go at the door. Gregory wiped sweat off his forehead, then dried his hands on his utility fatigue pants before grasping the wheel and throwing his weight against it. There was a low squeak, barely audible above his own labored grunts, and then the wheel was turning. Vinnie flattened himself against the opposite wall, his carbine held across his chest, as Jock slowly pulled the thick hatch open.

There was a pneumatic hiss as air from the tunnel rushed into the hatchway, and an automatic light flickered on within. Vinnie angled through the portal and into a large, cavernous chamber, walled on three sides with air-sealed plastalloy. The fourth side was composed of the guts of the laser focussing system: a complex network of encased lenses and cooling valves as intricate as a spider’s web, and nearly as delicate.

Vinnie set his carbine on a work bench and shrugged off his backpack.

“Well, buddy,” he said, grinning at Jock, “looks like we got some blowing up to do.”

“What the fuck is keeping those guys?” Lambert muttered through clenched teeth, taking aim at one of the advancing Invaders and walking a burst from high on its chest to blow out its faceplate.

Invader corpses littered the ground between the control center and the landing pad, at least twenty of them down from the withering fire from the dismounted Marines and the APC’s chain gun. Bobby had kept the vehicle moving to try to avoid catching a missile from the Invader ground troops, and had been successful so far—as a matter of fact, none of the Marines had suffered so much as a graze as yet. But that, Lambert knew, was not going to last. They’d used up the shoulder-fired missiles disposing of the Invaders’ heavy-weapons teams, but there seemed to be no end to the supply of troops to attack their position. What worried the Gunny most was the thought that these guys had to have some kind of aerospace support, and it was only a matter of time till it arrived.

Lambert twisted around in his prone position just inside the low blast wall of the landing pad, panning past the other Marines arrayed in a semicircle around him to check the position of his vehicles. The scout car was nearly out of sight, even with the magnification of his helmet optics, leading the enemy Hoppers on a merry chase across the plateau, but the APC was less than half a klick away, chasing down a squad-sized element that had attempted to flank them.

The carrier’s chain gun spurted a short burst, and half the Invader squad went down, their armor flayed open by tungsten-core slugs. But Gunny Lambert could see one of the creatures bringing a plastic tube up to its shoulder.

“Bobby!” Lambert barked into his helmet pickup. “Missile on your six!”

The APC skidded into a fishtail just as a flare of propellant shot from the tail of the launch tube, and the smoke trail of the projectile angled wide of the carrier’s rear. The Invader trooper tried to bring his aim around and shepherd the wire-guided weapon back to the vehicle, but the carrier’s bubble turret barked sharply, spitting out a two-round burst of 25mm caseless that trashed the launch tube and its holder, sending the missile plowing harmlessly into the ground.

“That,” Bobby Comstock transmitted, “was too damned close.” He twisted around in his harness to fix a glare at Peplowski, his gunner. “Peppy, you better keep your eyes open or we’ll be wearing this tin can for a coffin!”

“I’m doing what I can, you redneck hick,” she grumbled. “Just concentrate on driving!”

“Shut up, you two!” Lambert snapped into their headphones, struggling to hear himself think above their cross-chatter on his comlink and the hammering of the autoguns around him. “Jimmy!” he transmitted to the scout car driver. “Gimme’ a situation report.”

“Running low on ammo, Sarge,” Jimenez told him. “We need to cut this short.”

“Jimmy!” Camellia Tinker, Jimenez’s gunner snapped. “Look at the launch pad.”

Jimenez shifted the Heads-Up-Display’s view from the Hopper he was chasing down to the far-off pad, where the Invader launch vehicle rested on its multiple thrust nozzles—which were slowly becoming enshrouded with a white mist that Jimenez recognized all too well.

“Sarge!” Jimmy transmitted, trying to keep one eye on the Hopper while the other watched the rocket. “That shuttle—it’s venting coolant! It’s getting ready to launch! You guys better get out of there!”

Lambert’s eyes went wide as he rolled over and saw the mist rolling out from the rocket in preparation for main engine ignition.

“Fuck me,” Clarke, one of the autogunners, murmured, seeing the same thing. “Sarge, we gotta get over the wall!” He nodded at the meter-high fusion-form blast wall they’d been taking refuge behind. “That thing lifts, it’ll roast us in here!”

“At ease, Clarke,” Lambert snapped. “We get out from cover, we’ll be just as dead in less time. Jimmy,” he transmitted, “get over here and give us some support. Bobby, we need to evac this area now or we’re cooked! Get your tin-plated ass over here and pick us up.”

“Roger that, boss man!” Comstock replied, twisting the steering yoke of the personnel carrier hard enough to throw Peplowski against her restraint harness, earning him a vociferous curse.

Nearly a kilometer away, Jimmy Jimenez brought the scout car around in a gentle arc, setting it in a course back toward the landing pad and simultaneously bringing the last remaining Hopper into the targeting scope of the vehicle’s missile launch rack.

“Let ’er rip, Tink,” he ordered, but the Private was already jerking the trigger on her control stick. One of the vehicle’s two remaining missiles flared out of the streamlined pod built into the scout’s roof and caught the Hopper low, at the juncture of its left leg, blowing the limb off and sending the machine crashing to the ground in a cloud of smoke. “Now let’s boogie,” Jimenez grunted, pressing the accelerator to the floor.

The scout shot forward, closing the distance from a kilometer out faster than the lower-powered APC could cross the few hundred meters to Lambert’s position. Tinker’s volley of grenades scattered the advancing wave of Invaders, and then the APC took over, pulling up between the dismounted Marines and the incoming Invader fire.

Peppy cut loose with a short burst from the carrier’s grenade cannon, trying to conserve the dwindling supply of ammo for the chain gun, to cover the dismounted Marines in their rush for the slowly-opening side hatch. Booted feet clanged on the APC’s floor as the Marines jumped into the machine en masse, the autogunners staying till last and having to be helped through the hatch before it closed.

Even as the APC accelerated away from the pad, a crackle of sparks was beginning to halo the engine nozzles of the heavy-lift shuttle, the heat from the igniting fuel distorting the image in Shannon’s binoculars. Lowering the glasses, she retrieved her comlink and broke the radio silence she’d been observing since they’d begun the operation—she was taking a chance that the Gomers could home in on her position, but there was little choice now.

“Vinnie,” she radioed. “Set those charges and get out of there!”

There was nothing but silence for a long moment, but then the comlink’s speaker crackled and a broken, tinny version of Sergeant Mahoney’s voice replied.

“We’re gone, ma’am! It’ll blow in thirty seconds!”

Shannon brought her binoculars back up in time to see the four men dashing out of the front entrance of the control center and sprinting around the side of the building toward their cycles. Shifting her view back to the shuttle, she could see the whole superstructure of the rocket shaking as the engines began to build thrust, and the massive bulk of the launch vehicle slowly and laboriously lifted itself into the air with a crackling rumble she could feel in her bones through the ground beneath her.

The ship was only a couple meters off the ground and about to begin its ascent when the last missile left the scout car’s launch rack and impacted the ship low, just above its portside nozzles. There was a small flash, barely visible through the eye-searing glare of the rocket blast, as the missile warhead detonated; and for a moment, Shannon thought the weapon hadn’t had any effect. No sooner had those neurons fired, however, than a wide swath of black smoke billowed out of the portside engines and the huge vehicle began to waver in its flight, lurching gradually to port and angling slowly back toward the control building.

“This,” Tanaka said, breaking a silence that had lasted since they’d set up the overwatch, “should be entertaining.”

The starboard engines just weren’t enough to keep the shuttle upright, and the gentle arc it had been describing turned into an abrupt plunge directly into the control center. The big ship pancaked into the control building and was engulfed in a fireball that rose up more than two hundred meters into the sky, the initial blast followed immediately by the almost inconsequential detonation of the charge that Vinnie and Jock had set.

The sound came next, a gut-level lion’s roar that rumbled through Shannon’s teeth, trailed swiftly by the shock wave. Pebbles danced wildly off the ground and a reddish haze of dust and sand rose up around them as Stark felt the stone beneath her quake like God had slammed His fist into it. Below Shannon and Tanaka, less than a klick away from the incredible blast, the scout and the APC were tossed about like life rafts in a typhoon, their passengers bouncing from one bulkhead to the other, saved from serious injury only by their armor and the padding that lined the vehicles’ inner walls.

“Judas Priest on a pogo stick,” Bobby Comstock swore softly, staring in awe at the destruction wrought by the exploding shuttle and the charges planted by the penetration team.

Where the control building had been was an immense, smoking crater topped by a huge mushroom cloud billowing high into the sky, nearly blotting out the harsh whiteness of Tau Ceti. Fiercely-burning patches of rocket fuel were scattered in a ragged circle over a kilometer in diameter, and debris continued to rain down, pattering off the roofs of the Marine vehicles like fiery hail.

“All right, you jarheads,” Lambert growled, trying to bring them back to reality. “We’ve done all the damage we can for one day—let’s get the hell out of here, top speed.”

Watching from above them, Shannon saw the scout vehicle spin into a tight turn and lead the APC away from the carnage; and for the space of a heartbeat, she thought they had actually gotten away clean. Then, something moving so fast that she didn’t actually see the object, only a blurred ionization trail, fell out of the sky like one of Zeus’ thunderbolts and impacted the Marine scout vehicle. There was an explosion, so small compared to the blast of the shuttle that it seemed inconsequential, and the sleek scout car and the two Marines inside it were blown to burning vapors in an eyeblink.

“Jesus!” Shannon’s mouth fell open and she fell from a crouch to her knees, staring at the scene below in disbelief. Tanaka lunged toward her, reaching for her comlink to warn the APC of the threat, but she came to her senses, shrugging him off and keying the device herself. “Gunny!” she transmitted. “They’re targeting you with orbital weapons! Maintain radio silence, disperse smoke screens and run an evasion pattern till you reach the mountains.”

Before she could finish speaking, clouds of dark, electrostatically-charged smoke were billowing from the APC’s gas cells, concealing the vehicle from her view and hopefully guarding it from the optical and electronic sensors of the orbiting Invader ship. Even if the faceless enemy above couldn’t see the carrier, they weren’t afraid to waste a few of their kinetic-energy weapons to luck: over a dozen ionization trails streaked down into the growing smoke screen, and Shannon flinched as each one impacted with a far-away thump.

Behind her, Shannon could hear the buzz of cycle motors as Vinnie and the others reached their position, but her attention was frozen on the nightmare tableau before her. Looking down, she saw that it just wasn’t going to work. There was too much ground between the APC’s last position and any kind of cover, and the heat was dispersing the screen too quickly. The haze of dark smoke that floated across the mesa had already ceased to grow, confirming Shannon’s fear that the gas cells had run out, and the missiles continued to rain down from orbit into the blanketing fog.

“We should clear the area.” Tanaka’s voice beside her was quiet but firm. “They may have homed in on your transmissions.”

She shook her head, needing to know, needing her eyes to confirm what her mind had already concluded was certain. It didn’t take too long. There was a heartbeat’s pause in the orbital bombardment, and suddenly the APC was racing out of the rapidly-dispersing cloud, shooting across the plateau at full throttle, aiming for the network of draws and gullies that bordered it. Safety in the rock formations was less than two klicks away, so close from Shannon’s point of view that she felt hope rise in her heart. Perhaps the Invader ship had depleted its batteries and was reloading. She almost let herself believe that they might make it.

Until one, final dart fell out of the firmament and straight into Shannon’s heart—at least, that was how it seemed to her when she saw the personnel carrier vanish in a flash of liberated kinetic energy.

All the air went out of her along with any hope, and she thought for a moment that she might pass out. She let Tanaka pull her to her feet, vaguely aware that he was walking her back to the dune buggy, but all she could see was the vision of a dozen faces: men and women, all of them young, all of them looking to her for leadership… all of them dead. And all because of her.

Chapter Ten

“The world breaks everyone and afterward, many are stronger in the broken places. But those it cannot break, it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure that it will kill you, too, but there will be no special hurry.”

—Ernest Hemingway

Aphrodite’s lesser moon was a white sliver that hung low in the evening sky above the faraway mountains, like a signpost leading Jason and Val toward their goal. McKay shook his head sharply, trying to keep himself awake despite the droning of the rover’s motor and the gentle swaying of its suspension over the rolling sand of their path through the Wastes. It felt as if he’d been driving through the desert for days, though they’d only set out early that morning and had shared the driving chores.

Jason glanced beside him at Valerie O’Keefe, curled up in the passenger’s seat, snoring softly. They’d spent the past two weeks living the Neolithic existence in their cave home, dragging it out a few days past the limit he’d set for them and stretching their supplies to the breaking point, simply because neither of them really wanted to leave. It had been a healing experience not having to think about the Invaders or the future or the loved ones they’d lost. They’d spent a lot of time talking, but it was small talk and childhood reminiscences: even now Jason was hard pressed to remember a word of it. Mostly, they’d spent their days exploring their surroundings and their nights exploring each other.

It was, he reflected with an ironic chuckle, every teenage boy’s fantasy: stranded on a desert island with a beautiful woman and nothing but sex to pass the time. The problem was, he wasn’t a teenager anymore, and it seemed somehow… empty.

McKay’s reverie was brought to an abrupt end by the unmistakable glint of lights ahead. A few more curves in the road, and the glint solidified into the square-framed window of the Mendozas’ farmhouse less than a kilometer away. Jason slowed the rover’s pace, cut the main headlamps, and leaned over to shake Valerie awake.

“What is it?” She rubbed at her eyes, sitting up.

“We’re here,” he announced, nodding towards the cracked windshield.

“Thank God,” she sighed, grateful at the prospect of being able to get out of the rover.

Jason shook his head. “Don’t be thanking anybody yet. It looks like they’ve got company.”

She followed his gaze and immediately noticed the shape of an old, beat-up utility truck parked at the side of the dome-shaped farmhouse.

“There are not many of the farmers who could afford a vehicle,” she noted, her voice sharing some of the concern McKay already felt.

“I’d better check this out,” Jason decided, angling the rover off the dirt road and taking it over a butt-busting course across the rocky, sandy ground.

He guided the vehicle in a wide arc around the farmstead and came up on it directly behind the barn, out of sight of the main house. Cutting the engine, he let the rover coast down the last twenty meters or so to the rear of the barn, cut the wheel around, and pulled in with the passenger side against the unadorned, buildfoam wall.

“Wait here,” he told Valerie, sliding out of the vehicle and drawing his pistol from its shoulder harness. “If I’m not back in five minutes, or if you hear anything, get out of here.”

“I won’t leave you,” she insisted, shaking her head.

He shut the door, hand resting on the open window. “If I’m not back in five minutes, there won’t be anything to leave.”

“Be careful, Jason.” She covered his hand with hers. “I love you.”

“I… I’ll be careful,” he assured her, pulling away and heading out into the night.

McKay moved cautiously around the curve of the barn, trying to concentrate on watching for threats, but he couldn’t quite suppress the question nagging at the back of his mind.

Why, he wondered helplessly, couldn’t I tell her I loved her?

Because I don’t, came the obvious answer. But, even so, in this situation where anything could happen, why couldn’t he mouth the words, just to make her feel better? Maybe it was just that, despite the obvious physical attraction between them, he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything for her—or feel anything at all. Was it because of Shannon? Had she gotten to him that bad in just a few days? Maybe.

And maybe, he told himself angrily, I should forget that kind of psychobabble and get on with what I’m doing before I get myself killed.

As he came around the side of the barn that faced the farmhouse, Jason saw that the rear of the building was dark but for the built-in chemical striplight over the back door, glowing in green solitude. No one was in sight and the rear windows were unlit, but the depthless night around them could be concealing legions for all he knew. Deciding enlightenment wasn’t about to strike momentarily, Jason pushed off the barn wall and sprinted across the gap between the buildings, braking against the side of the farmhouse with his free hand, trying hard not to lose his balance and smack into the wall with his shoulder.

Jason found, to his disbelief, that he was close to hyperventilating. Here I am, he shook his head, about to piss my pants over what’s probably nothing more than a bunch of farmers guzzling moonshine and bitching about the weather. Gripping his pistol tighter, he fought to get his breathing under control before he moved again. The cool night air tickled his throat and he had to struggle mightily not to cough, but finally he was confident enough to edge slowly around the curve of the farmhouse, keeping low, his sidearm at the ready. He felt his boot brush against something weighty and giving and nearly jumped out of his skin before he saw that it was only a half-empty bag of fertilizer.

As Jason glanced back up from the intruding sack of manure, a faint glow from around the arc of the side wall brought him up short, and he found himself suddenly less than a meter from the side window, its clear-plastic pane opened inward. Back against the wall, he inched toward the portal, straining to make sense of the muffled rumble of male voices within.

“You have disappointed us, Jorge,” one of the men inside intoned in a Central American dialect of Spanish that McKay, trained in high Castillian with a smattering of Mexican, could barely make out. “The O’Keefe assault was planned for over a year. It required us to call in every favor, exhaust every resource and commit our best men. Had it worked—had Gomez gotten access to the orbital shuttle—we might have acquired the resource our movement has dreamed of for the past ten years: a starship.” The man’s voice seemed oddly familiar to McKay, but the dialect and the machine-gun pace with which he spoke made it difficult for Jason to place.

Whoever the speaker was, his words raised the hackles on McKay’s neck. So that was what Gomez had wanted. Now the attack made much more sense. With O’Keefe as a hostage, the terrorists could conceivably have reached either the Mac or, more probably, one of the freighters refueling insystem.

“How can you blame this on me?” McKay heard Jorge Mendoza’s plaintive reply. “It was your ‘soldiers’ who failed. I was not brought in on your plan, I was not invited to participate, I was ordered at gunpoint. My wife and children were threatened! How can you hold me responsible?”

“If you were committed to our cause, we would not have had to force you, Jorge!” The other voice became strident, and even more familiar.

Curiosity overcoming his caution, Jason decided to risk a peek into the window. Edging closer, he turned away from the opening—putting his left shoulder against the wall, his head turned as far toward it as he could—then slowly leaned back until he could see inside through the corner of his left eye.

Besides the gently-glowing striplights built into the interior of the building, the only illumination in the living room came from a relatively high-tech lamp that Jason realized must have cost the Mendozas a pretty penny: he recognized it as a methane-burning device that could be fed raw manure to produce the fuel it used for lighting. The lamp threw heavy shadows across the communal room, and across the four men who occupied it. Jason immediately recognized Jorge Mendoza, pacing across the room, his expression reflecting a conflict of fear and indignation as he faced the others.

Two of them were muscle, plain and simple: big, menacing bruisers armed with Close Assault Weapons Systems—what the grunts in the Corps called “super-shotguns.” The last man was much less physically imposing than the other two, not much bigger than Jorge, but clearly the leader from the tone of his voice.

“I have not come here to argue with you, my friend,” the man continued, seemingly calmer. Jason struggled to get a glimpse of his face, but he was leaning on a corner table, his upper body wreathed in shadows. “The time has come for us all to band together and overthrow the bourgeoisie oppressors. We have been handed a golden opportunity and we must not hesitate!”

“But the aliens…” Jorge shook his head.

“The Invaders will not be an obstacle,” the other man advised him. “We have had reports from scouts we’ve sent out that they have ceased their attacks and abandoned their looting of the city. Some of their troops still wander the streets of Kennedy, but they have no direction and many of them have died. Juan Ortiz travelled out to the port and found it completely destroyed. Now is the time! Before the Fleet can send reinforcements and crush us under their heel once again!” He rose from his leaning position to make the last point, gesturing emphatically with his fist, and finally emerged into the light.

The face that light revealed was weathered and cracked with age, maned with an unruly mop of salt-and-pepper grey. For a heartbeat, Jason still couldn’t place the middle-aged, bearded face, but it was the fire behind those dark eyes that finally sparked the recognition. The man was none other than Miguel Huerta, the emigrant success story whom he’d met less than three weeks before as the chairman of the Independent Farmer’s Council… and an old, dear friend of Valerie O’Keefe.

Shit. This, he knew, was not good at all. Grandfather McKay had an old saying appropriate to situations like this: something about getting the fuck out of Dodge, he recalled. He was fully prepared to follow that sage piece of advice when something interfered: something hard and unyielding that slammed into the back of his head. Jason’s pistol fell from suddenly-strengthless fingers and he dropped forward to his knees, a polychromatic flare filling his vision, his head exploding with blinding pain. He swayed on his knees like a sapling in a gale, and then the unseen bludgeon cracked across his jaw and the spiralling colors faded to black.

In the beginning, God created Jason McKay’s head. And the head was without form and void; and darkness was upon his thoughts. And then God sneered wickedly and said, “Let there be pain,” and there was one hell of a lot of pain. For a moment, the pain was all that pierced the blackness clouding Jason’s mind, along with the realization that he’d been sucker-punched. At least, a small, functional part of his brain thought, Valerie was safe.

That was when he heard the scream. His eyes popped open and his head jerked around toward the noise, igniting a blinding flash of agony at the base of his skull. Stars danced across his vision for an endless second, and even when they cleared the scene before him only clarified a piece at a time through his pain-fogged brain. He was, he saw immediately, inside the farmhouse—thrown into a dark corner of the kitchen like a sack of potatoes. His feet were stretched out before him, bound with cords, and he could feel the same rope biting into his wrists behind his back. Huddled in a corner across from him were Carmella Mendoza and her children, the woman seeming even more frightened and shaky than her two little daughters—not frightened of him, but of the scene that was playing out before them.

It was, as he had feared, Valerie who had screamed. She was being dragged into the house by two of what Jason now painfully realized were three bodyguards, while Huerta and the other gunman looked on. Jorge stood to the side, wringing his hands at this turn of events, while Huerta seemed almost cheerful, casually tossing Jason’s service pistol from hand to hand.

“So nice of you to stop by, Ms. O’Keefe,” he said, waving to her in mock greeting as his men brought her before him. “I never thought to see you again after our visitors from space burned down the governor’s mansion.”

“Miguel!” She recognized him for the first time, her eyes flying open, a look of relief coming over her face. “Thank God it’s you! Tell them to let me go.” She tried to jerk her wrists free from the men holding her, but their hold was too strong.

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be prudent, my dear,” he said, stepping up to her, shoving McKay’s pistol into his waistband. “This is a fortuitous turn of events. After the little fiasco here last month, the movement needs something like this. You and your Lieutenant friend will make valuable hostages when we again have to deal with the Fleet.”

“We?” Val’s voice was full of disbelief. “Miguel, you can’t mean that you were involved with that man Gomez.”

“Carlos was a friend,” Huerta admitted easily. “But he was careless and sloppy. I told him he should have put a dead-man switch on that bomb, but he said we didn’t have time… and he paid the price.”

“But…” She shook her head helplessly. “He would have killed me.”

“That was not the plan, but had it been necessary, I’m sure he would have,” the man agreed readily. “You are like all the others, Valerita,” he said, an almost sad expression on his face. “So willing to condemn violence when it is used against you, but so ready to accept it when it benefits you. How is government violence toward my people more justifiable than our violent response? You and your ‘peaceful protest,’” he spat the words out. “You want us to sit around and sing songs while they slaughter us!”

“That’s not true!” She shook her head angrily, close to tears. “I’ve tried to help your people!”

“For which you have our humble thanks,” Huerta sneered. “Now, it is time for us to help ourselves. But I have no taste for political arguments at this late date. Now is the time for action, not argument. Our course is clear, and you are but a tool.” He smiled, moving even closer to her, caressing the softness of her cheek with the fingers of his right hand. “And tools are meant to be used.” His left hand slipped under his jacket at the small of his back and produced a long-bladed hunting knife, holding it centimeters in front of her face as his right hand seized the back of her neck.

Valerie shrieked in horror, trying to jerk away from her captors, but they held her fast as Huerta ran the flat of the knife across her cheek almost lovingly. Flinching away from the cold metal, she bit her lip to keep from crying out again, but the shaking of her shoulders betrayed her fear. Huerta chuckled, enjoying the dread in her eyes as he brought the knife down her throat to her chest. With one, swift, savage motion, he hooked the knife in her shirt and slashed downward, ripping the garment apart and drawing a sharp, startled cry from the woman.

Jason struggled against his bonds, but he was still groggy and weak from the concussion, and the ropes held fast. Jorge Mendoza, however, had finally decided that this was more than he could put up with and moved forward, grabbing Huerta’s arm and pulling him away from the woman.

“No, Miguel!” He stared the older man in the face, eyes on fire with righteous indignation. “You cannot do this! She has never done anything to hurt you or the movement.”

“Do not tell me what I can and cannot do, Mendoza!” Huerta jerked away from him angrily. “You would do well not to forget your place!”

“My place?” Jorge repeated, eyebrows going up. “You speak like a Republicista! Are we not fighting so that every man may make his own place, Miguel? Are we not fighting for justice? If you do this, how are we any better than them?”

“You fool.” Huerta yanked the pistol from his belt and shoved it into the man’s chest hard enough to drive him back a step. “Whatever gave you the idea we were better than them?” And without a word of warning, Miguel Huerta pulled the trigger.

Jason jerked in surprise at the ear-popping roar of the pistol, watching as Jorge’s face screwed up in shock and pain. The farmer looked down at his chest, staring in disbelief at the smoking hole in his shirt, gushing a flowing stream of blood. He stood there for a long moment, seemingly unaffected; but then he staggered back a step, clutching at his chest, and collapsed backward to the floor.

There was silence for the space of a heartbeat as even Huerta’s men seemed surprised at what their leader had done, but the still was shattered by the keening wail of Carmella Mendoza as she rushed across the room to fall at her husband’s side, cradling his head in her hands. Even from where he lay, Jason could tell that the man wasn’t breathing.

“Murderer!” Carmella screamed at Huerta. “Butcher!”

“Back with your children, puta,” Huerta snapped at her, motioning threateningly with his weapon. “Unless you wish for them to lose both their parents this night!”

Carmella hesitated, not wanting to leave Jorge’s side, but Huerta took a warning step forward, and she slowly made her way back to the kitchen. Anna and Elisabeth were watching her from there with haunted eyes, both of the little girls too terrified to move.

“Filipe,” Huerta ordered, motioning at Jorge’s body, “take this trash outside.” One of the men, the one Jason assumed had hit him from behind, slung his weapon—an Invader autorifle—and dragged the corpse out of the front door by its feet. Jorge’s eyes were open wide, still staring into eternity with that same look of shock and surprise.

Valerie had stopped struggling and was simply staring at Jorge’s body. Her face was pale, eyes filled with abject terror: a rabbit caught in the headlights. She seemed not to notice the way her ripped blouse exposed her, but Huerta hadn’t forgotten. Turning back from the door, the farm council chairman stepped back toward her, all faux smiles and conversational patter gone, his eyes glowing with the predatory hunger of the wolf.

“Take her to the table,” he grunted.

Huerta’s bodyguards pulled Valerie between them back to the kitchen table, laughing coarsely as they let their hands travel across the expanse of skin exposed on her chest. Valerie didn’t make a sound, too paralyzed with fear even to scream, as she was dragged back onto the flat surface. Huerta calmly, matter-of-factly moved between her legs, shoving her skirt back around her hips as he held the knife at her throat.

McKay struggled frantically against his ropes, feeling the adrenaline of desperation pumping in his blood. He was getting ready to call out, to try to draw their attention away from her; but in the second between making the decision and carrying it out, Carmella Mendoza appeared in front of him like an apparition, a wicked-looking carving knife clutched in her fist, face screwed up in a mask of rage.

“No.” He shook his head, brain too scrambled to find the words to tell her that her husband’s death wasn’t his fault. But she just knelt at his feet and used the knife to slice through the ropes securing his legs together. Jason let the breath he had been holding trickle out in a quiet sigh of relief, as he twisted around to expose his wrists to her. He felt the ropes part to the blade, then touched the crude, wooden handle of the knife as it was pressed into his right hand.

Rolling to his knees, he took in the scene before him, trying to channel his rage and prioritize his targets. The first had to be the closest of the gunmen: he’d kept his autoshotgun in the crook of his left arm while he held Valerie down with the other. The other thug had his weapon slung—he could wait. But Huerta, while he’d returned Jason’s service auto to his belt, still held a knife to Val’s throat as he ripped at her panties with his free hand. And, of course, Filipe was outside and could return anytime. Best to deal with the ones inside as quickly as possible.

Feeling the pins-and-needles beginning to fade in his extremities, Jason hopped to his feet and lunged across the room, hammering downward with the carving knife and burying it in the base of the closest gunman’s skull. The big man’s back arched, his hands clutching in the air behind his head, mouth open in a silent scream as he staggered back from the table. His shotgun clattered to the floor, but Jason hadn’t the time to retrieve it. Huerta and the other bodyguard snapped around, the older man’s knife coming off of Valerie’s throat and giving McKay the opening he needed.

Jason’s forearm caught Huerta across the throat, throwing him off his feet and sending his knife clattering across the floor. The second bodyguard struggled frantically with his slung CAWS, but Jason was already wrenching his service pistol out of Huerta’s waistband. He was bringing it up in line with the second gunman when Filipe burst in through the front door, autorifle blazing wildly.

With slugs chopping into the walls and floor all around him and no cover to be found, Jason risked a forward barrel roll under Filipe’s point of aim and came to a stop on his butt between the Central American’s legs. Firing one-handed, he punched three shots up through the man’s groin, sending Filipe collapsing backwards with an agonized scream, his intestines flopping out of the gaping hole in his lower abdomen.

Rolling onto a knee, McKay saw that the second bodyguard had finally freed his shotgun and was swinging the muzzle around toward him. With no time to bring his sights to eye level, Jason fired instinctively from the hip, the double-tap impacting the shotgun’s receiver and wrenching it from the man’s hands. Unarmed and desperate, the Central American seized Valerie around the neck and hauled her off the table, holding her in front of him as a shield.

Not wanting to give the man a chance to use Val as a hostage and not trusting his shaking hands to attempt a headshot, Jason threw himself across the table and took them all three of them to the floor in a heap, with Valerie sandwiched between the two combatants. Letting his pistol drop, Jason managed to grab the bodyguard’s left forearm and force it away from Valerie, then raised up on his knees and threw the senator’s daughter out of the pile.

That action, unfortunately, left him open for a punch from his opponent’s free hand that grazed across his cheek, snapping his head around and throwing him back off balance. The bodyguard immediately tried to press his advantage, hooking a leg around Jason’s arm and throwing him halfway across the room. McKay used the momentum to roll back to his feet, taking up a low, wide-legged stance just in time to meet the man’s headlong charge.

Running on training, instinct and endorphines, Jason responded to the assault just as his unarmed combat instructor in Basic Training had taught him. Sliding slightly to one side, he lashed out and drove a heel into the bodyguard’s knee, shattering the kneecap with an audible crunch. His balance gone and his leg buckling beneath him, the thug collapsed forward, directly into Jason’s upward palm strike. The meaty part of McKay’s hand caught his opponent across the bridge of the nose, shattering the bone and driving one of the larger fragments into the man’s brain.

McKay stood there, his palm still frozen at shoulder-level, watching through a haze of pain and lingering rage as the bodyguard collapsed in a heap, eyes rolling back into his head, a thin trickle of blood issuing from his nose.

“Mericon.” He spun at the malediction and found himself staring into the bore of his own pistol, held in the shaking hands of Miguel Huerta. The farmer cum revolutionary had recovered from the blow to his throat and taken possession of the weapon after Jason had dropped it during the fight.

Jason was tensing for a desperate leap at the man when Huerta stiffened, an explosion of breath escaping his lips and his face twisting into a mask of agony. One hand left Jason’s weapon to feel around behind his back, and then the pistol seemed to become too heavy for his other arm. It slipped from his suddenly-nerveless fingers and struck the floor with a plastic clatter; a heartbeat later, Huerta joined it, the breath going out of him as he crashed to the ground like a felled oak. Imbedded in his spine up to the hilt was his own knife, and standing over his lifeless form was Valerie O’Keefe.

Jason just stared at her for a long moment, mesmerized by the wide-eyed, savage visage into which her face had been transformed. With her hair tangled in a spikey mess and her clothes in tatters, she brought to mind some ancient Amazon warrior just stepped through a time machine.

“Are you all right?” he asked her. She didn’t reply, staring at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. Jason staggered a step, feeling his pulse echoing in his pounding head. “We’ve got to leave,” he told Valerie, trying to penetrate the trance into which she’d fallen.

“You can’t leave me here!” Carmella Mendoza ran up to him, clutching at his arm so violently that he almost fell over. She motioned at Huerta’s body. “Their friends will come. They will kill me and my children as a lesson to the others. Do not leave us here to die!”

Jason looked her in the face, searching her eyes, curious as to the ratio of self-interest to concern for her children. In the end, he found it didn’t matter; either way, he couldn’t fault her.

“All right.” He sighed, grinding the gears in his brain as he tried to plan their next move. “Get together all the clothes you’ll need, and as much water and food as you can carry, and meet us outside in fifteen minutes.” She nodded gratefully and hustled back to the kitchen to gather supplies, while Jason turned back to Valerie. “Are you okay?” he asked her again.

“I’ll be fine,” she told him quietly, making a futile effort to straighten her ragged clothes. She looked far from fine to him; as a matter of fact, she seemed to be teetering on the brink of a complete breakdown. But he wasn’t a psychologist, and they didn’t have the luxury of therapy standing in a house full of dead bodies.

“Why don’t you go pull the rover around next to their vehicle,” he suggested. “We can decide which one we’re going to take and take the fuel from the one we leave behind.”

She stepped over Huerta’s body like it wasn’t there, and headed for the door.

“Wait a second,” he said, holding up a hand. Bending down, he retrieved his pistol and handed it to her. “Just in case,” he explained.

She nodded, hefting the weight of the weapon in her hand for a moment before she stepped out the open door into the night. Jason watched her go, shaking his head slightly, then went to work scavenging weapons and ammunition from the bodies. He hoped that Huerta had been correct about the Invaders pulling out—he had to pray he was, because there was no way they could stay in the Wastes now. Carmella had been right about that: Huerta had been the leader of the revolutionary movement, and he wasn’t without friends.

There was only one place they could go now, if he was right. And God help them if he was wrong.

* * *

Shannon Stark cried out sharply, snapping a punch into the face of an imaginary foe, then sweeping the motion into a downward block and following through with a spinning kick. The spin brought her around to face the gym’s mirrored wall, and her face darkened at the reflected image. She was, appropriately enough, fighting herself.

She’d tried to avoid the others in the days since the attack on the spaceport, keeping to her room and taking her meals alone. Thankfully, there wasn’t really anything for her to do: they didn’t have the forces left to permit even a basic recon, much less any kind of attack. But she’d grown claustrophobic and restless, so she’d waited till everyone else had gone to bed and ventured out to the small workout room constructed near the back of the shelter.

Maybe, she had thought, running through a few katas would help her to break out of the depression she’d sunk into since the raid. Taking a breath, she fell into a deep stance, judging her style critically in the mirror. Dressed in a halter top and loose shorts, she could see the muscles playing in her long legs as she settled into her stance, but she felt a slight tightness in her hamstrings—she hadn’t been able to work out enough the last few months.

Depending on how long it took for a rescue ship to reach them, though, she might have plenty of time to get back into shape. Or, she thought soberly, if the Invaders found them before the Fleet did, it might not make a difference.

Shaking her head clear of such speculation, she tried to empty her mind and let the flow of the kata carry her motions. Launching into the next form, she tried to snap the kicks and punches cleanly, hoping to connect with her ki and purge herself of the negative emotions that burdened her. But with every punch, she saw the faces of Gunny Lambert and Bobby Comstock and the rest of the Marines; with every kick, she experienced anew the spear of despair as the orbital missiles intercepted their vehicles. And with every labored breath, she could hear her inner voice screaming the accusation at her: “You killed them, Shannon! It was your fault!”

Rage and futility crowded the focus and concentration from her mind, and her strikes became more desperate and uncontrolled. The sequence of the kata fled her thoughts, the punches and kicks running into each other with no order or design. She lashed out sloppily at her memories and her own image, her crisp “kia”s devolving into mindless screams, the out-of-control moves throwing her dangerously off balance. Finally, in the middle of a spinning crescent kick, she lost it: her plant foot flew out from under her and she landed hard on her back. The wind went out of her with a pained grunt, and she stayed where she lay, not able to move.

When her breath came back to her, it was in quiet sobs that shook her shoulders; and the tears she’d held back for days finally poured down her cheeks. The tears racked her body, coursing through her spasmodically like electric shocks, almost painful with their violence. Eyes squeezed shut, senses deadened, she was only vaguely aware that strong arms were enfolding her, cradling her gently, hands stroking her hair.

It was minutes later before she regained enough control to pry open her tear-sealed eyes and realize that the one holding her was Nathan Tanaka. Seeing that she had stopped crying, the Japanese bodyguard produced a handkerchief from his hip pocket and offered it to her. She took the rag without comment, pulling away from him with a little embarrassment as she wiped her face.

“Thank you,” she finally said, not meeting his eyes.

“There is nothing to be ashamed of,” he told her frankly. “It is a natural thing to grieve for fallen comrades, Lieutenant Stark.”

“I’m not ashamed of my grief,” she corrected him. “I’m ashamed at my failure.”

“Why was the failure yours to bear?” Tanaka wanted to know. “Your plan was sound, and its objectives were achieved admirably. Your troops knew the risk, and they accepted it as their sworn duty. As should you.”

“And what if I can’t accept it?” she snapped, throwing down the handkerchief and springing angrily to her feet. “What if I can’t accept throwing good people—Goddamned teenagers—into a furnace like they were disposable, replaceable pieces of machinery? What would the perfect, all-knowing ninja have to say about that?”

“I am no ninja,” Tanaka replied, coming to his feet and facing her. “I am just a man, and far from perfect.”

“Oh, sure,” she sneered cynically. “You don’t seem to be too hesitant about giving me advice. You’re the one that always knows the right thing to do, the right place to be.”

“These lessons are harshly and painfully learned.” Tanaka ran a finger unconsciously along the scar along his jawline. “Yet learned they must be for those who choose the path of the warrior, Shannon. I knew a young man once—not even a man so much as a youth, though one trained from childhood in the ways of the warrior. He was of a clan that could trace their history to feudal Japan. They had survived by evolving with the times, first marketing their skills to the Emperor, then to the yakuza, and more recently as personal bodyguards to government officials and corporate executives.

“This young man had finished his training and received his first assignment: guarding a Republic senator and his family during a trip to visit the wife’s family in Czechoslovakia. It was considered a fairly safe assignment. Yet no one had foreseen the ill feelings toward the Republic among the neo-Marxist factions in Prague. A home-made bomb was thrown from the crowd. Our young bodyguard saw it, but the Senator and his young daughter were separated by several meters from the wife, and he only had time to pull one or the other to safety.

“The young man did the right thing, what was his duty: he threw the Senator and his daughter to the ground and shielded them with his body. They survived. The wife was killed instantly.” Tanaka took a deep breath, the impassive expression on his face twisting into something darker for just a moment before the mask fell again.

“And what happened to the bodyguard?” Shannon asked, knowing the answer yet needing to hear the words from him.

“He lived, though badly injured. He pledged his life to guarding the Senator’s daughter in hopes of redeeming himself for his failure to save the little girl’s mother. And he kept one scar out of the many wounds as a constant reminder of that commitment.” His hand dropped away from the white keloid along his jaw to hang limply at his side. “And as a constant reminder of the price of failure.”

“That sounds like a lonely life for a young man,” Shannon commented softly, moving a step closer to him. All the anger and pain were gone now, replaced by something softer and warmer… something not entirely surprising or unwelcome.

“You would be surprised what a man can adjust to over time,” he replied evenly.

“Just what kind of a name is Nathan Tanaka?” Shannon wondered. “For the son of such a traditional Japanese clan, ‘Nathan’ seems awfully untraditional.”

“My father, Heideko Tanaka,” Nathan explained, a nostalgic smile playing across his face, “met and married an American girl while he was on assignment guarding a senator from Georgia. She was a staunch Southerner, and insisted that if I was to be raised in the ways of the clan, that she at least have a say in my name. So, my birth certificate reads: ‘Nathan Bedford Forrest Tanaka,’ if you can believe it.”

“I love it.” She laughed, a sound filled with more joie de vivre than she’d felt in a week. “She sounds like a strong-willed woman.”

“Oh, she is.” Nathan agreed. “She is a redhead like you.”

“Mother,” Shannon said, giving the word an Irish lilt, “said that all redheads shared the same two weaknesses. The first is a bad temper.” She traced the fingers of her left hand gently over Nathan’s scar.

“And what,” Tanaka asked, finding himself, to his amazement, a bit breathless, “is the second?”

By way of an answer, she covered his lips with hers, feeling his strong arms slipping around her once again, but this time for a purpose far beyond comfort. Without another word, Nathan lifted her in his arms and carried her back down the darkened hallway to his room.

It was, he thought with a quiet chuckle, the traditional thing to do.

Chapter Eleven

“Manhood is the ability to outlast despair.”

—James Jones

Kennedy was dead. Even as the thought passed through his mind, Jason realized the dark humor of it, but it was an accurate statement. Looking out from his rooftop perch over the burned-out, looted wreckage that was once the largest and fastest-growing city in the star colonies, McKay felt the weight of isolation pressing down on him.

He remembered the look on Valerie’s face when he’d left her and the Mendoza family in the rover behind a repair garage at the outskirts of the city.

“Take this,” he’d said, handing her the autorifle they’d taken off Filipe back at the farmstead.He’d decided to leave the weapon with her and keep one of the autoshotguns with him, since he didn’t have too much confidence in the ability of the scattergun to take out one of the Invaders and he didn’t want to leave them helpless. It was bad enough he had to leave them at all.

“Do you have to go?” she’d asked him again. He’d looked at her sitting in the front seat of the rover, his overshirt drawn around her, and a shiver had gone up his spine. The words, spoken in that context, should have been a plaintive appeal, full of the fear and apprehension he knew she felt at being left alone. Instead, the plea had been delivered in the same flat monotone she’d fallen into since the fight at the farmstead.

It was her eyes that really got to him: they’d become as dead and lifeless as one of those Invader trooper’s. If he didn’t find a place for them to rest soon…

He’d just said: “I’ve got to.”

“But what will happen to us, Senor McKay?” Carmella Mendoza had beseeched him. “What if you don’t come back?”

“I’ll be back,” he’d promised, shutting the driver’s side door and turning to leave. Behind him, he could hear the quiet sobbing of Carmella’s children, a haunting sound that still echoed in his mind as he leaned against the roof parapet high over Kennedy.

He’d come up there, to the highest building in Kennedy—an hotel, ironically—thinking that he might catch sight of some kind of human activity: that some of those who’d fled during the invasion might surely have returned now that the Invaders had pulled out most of their forces. But the only thing moving in the debris-littered streets were aimlessly wandering bands of abandoned Invader troopers. He’d narrowly avoided being spotted by one group of them on his way into town, and had watched from the cover of a shadowed doorway as they opened fire at a wind-blown piece of paper.

They were out of control and unguided, and he was only now beginning to appreciate the extent to which the troopers were some kind of automatons, rather than fully-sentient, autonomous beings. The fact that they weren’t independently intelligent didn’t make them any less dangerous if they spotted him, though. They seemed to him like maggots infesting the body of the rotting corpse that was Kennedy: moving about the dead streets, through the hulks of buildings already picked clean of anything useful, down to the holographic signs over the doors.

Feeling suddenly depressed and very vulnerable, Jason backed away from the edge of the roof in a crouched duckwalk, holding the autoshotgun across his chest. This, he thought bitterly, had been a waste of time, just like every move he’d made since the invasion. Now, they had no choice but to head for one of the other, smaller towns and repeat the process.

Far enough away from the edge to avoid being seen from below, Jason straightened and turned back toward the stairwell, mind still full of dark hopelessness. So preoccupied was he with their predicament that he nearly ran smack into the chest armor of the Invader trooper advancing up those same stairs.

“Jesus!” McKay jerked the trigger of the CAWS reflexively even as the trooper started to bring its rifle around.

The scattergun bucked wildly in Jason’s unprepared grasp and he staggered backward as the three-round burst caught the Invader in the chest. Most of the charge ricocheted off the hard armor plating, but the impact rocked the Invader back, leaving it balanced precariously on the first step of the stairs.

Realizing the uselessness of his shotgun, Jason dropped the weapon and threw himself into a flying side kick that caught the trooper full in the faceplate and sent both of them careening down the first flight of stairs, arms and legs akimbo. With the hard surface of the first stairwell landing rushing up at them, Jason somehow managed to land feet-first on the Invader’s stomach, bending his knees to absorb most of the impact. Rolling off the trooper, McKay ignored the blossom of pain in his left knee and ripped his pistol from its shoulder holster, pumping a double-tap through the Invader’s faceplate before the thing could get to its feet.

As Jason was rising from a crouch, a chattering barrage of rifle fire from the landing below punched into the wall just above his head, spraying him with stone chips and sending him diving to the floor. Another pair of Invader troopers were advancing up the steps abreast, hosing the landing above them with their assault rifles as they came. Hugging the floor, Jason shoved his handgun out in front of him and fired down the stairwell, emptying the magazine at the troopers.

Two of the slugs caught the left-hand Invader in the throat, jerking it backwards down the stairs with a crash of metal, while the rest of the rounds ricocheted off the other’s chest armor at an angle and tracked downward, finally impacting the receiver of the trooper’s rifle and shattering the bolt assembly. Scrambling to his feet, Jason threw a body-block into the Invader, grabbing the railing at the last moment to avoid following the armored trooper down the flight. The out-of-control Invader flailed wildly as it flew head-over-heels to the landing below, smashing into the plasticrete beside the corpse of its comrade.

Not waiting to see if the trooper survived the fall, McKay reloaded his pistol on the move, taking the stairs three at a time despite the flare of agony in his leg. He knew one thing from watching the Invaders from the roof: they tended to congregate in large groups, as if searching for some purpose to their continued existence. He had to get out of the hotel before the gunfire drew dozens of them and cut off his line of retreat.

Putting speed above caution, McKay careened headlong down the stairs, left hand sliding along the railing and the right holding his pistol out in front of him. Jason was half-convinced he would run straight into any of the troopers that came along with no advance warning, but the stairwell was empty of further threats, empty of everything but the thud of his heartbeat and the wearied rasp of his breath. He hit the exit to the stairwell close to collapse, hyperventilating, his knee on fire. He had to risk a few seconds’ rest at the door to bring his heart and breathing under control before he pushed it gently open and emerged into the lobby of the Kennedy City Hilton.

“Rated Finest Hotel in the Colonies by Republic Traveller’s Association!” a holographic marquis splashed boastfully across a wall pockmarked by bullets. Glancing at the charred remains of the lobby furniture and the blackened holes blown in the front wall, Jason judged that the RTA would probably have to update that rating.

“Hello, room service?” he muttered softly, quickly scanning his surroundings. “Could you send up an automatic weapon?”

The lobby seemed clear, and Jason was about to make a dash for the front entrance when he caught a glimpse through the blown-out doorway of more of the Invader troopers moving about in the street outside, probably seeking the source of the gunshots.

“Damn,” he hissed. Too late: they were flocking to the hotel already. He’d have to try the side exit, if he could find it. Ducking out of the stairwell door, he made a hobbling dash past the devastated reception desk and down a side hall deeper into the building.

The corridor led past a collection of conference rooms and utility closets, each blasted, picked clean and burned out as if the Invaders had harbored a personal vendetta against the Hilton chain. Jason smothered an insane giggle at the thought of the aliens travelling across dozens of light years simply to trash a hotel, like some kind of interstellar rock band. Trying hard to concentrate on the problem at hand, he followed the hallway around several twists until he finally ran smack into an emergency exit.

He pushed through the door without thinking and instantly regretted it when a hooting fire alarm sounded, still under power from integral batteries and keyed to go off when the emergency door was opened. Cursing heatedly, Jason pumped his legs as fast as his damaged knee would endure, sprinting toward the open end of the blind alley between the hotel and the connected restaurant next door. He’d almost made it to the street when an armored figure moved into the alley mouth, blocking his way, arms filled with the metal bulk of a drum-fed machine gun.

Not even hesitating, Jason brought his handgun to shoulder level and fired as he ran, emptying the magazine into the creature’s head and upper torso, barely a meter away from the thing as the last slug pierced its faceplate. The Invader collapsed in a heap, and McKay scooped the machine gun from its hands, shoving his pistol into his waistband as he took off across the street. Ricochets whined all around him as the downed trooper’s cohorts spotted him and opened fire from the front entrance of the hotel, nearly a hundred meters away.

McKay chopped off a burst at the group of armored figures as he sprinted across the street, the large-caliber machine-gun slugs downing two of them and peppering the front wall of the hotel with bulletholes. But the others made no move to seek cover, simply standing in open and emptying their rifles at him; halfway to the shelter of the alleyway opposite the hotel, Jason stumbled at the red-hot punch of a rifle slug in his side.

He cried out sharply and a wave of nauseating agony washed through him, but he forced himself to stay on his feet. Managing to keep hold of the machine gun, he staggered into the shadowed alley between a bank and a tailor shop, feeling the warm rush of blood soaking his right side.

Calm down, he screamed at himself, leaning heavily against the alley wall, beginning to hyperventilate. Breathe, Goddamnit, before you send yourself into shock!

Shaking himself, he forced his mind back to clarity and twisted around to see three of the armored troopers lumbering toward the alley mouth, reloading their rifles as they ran. It cost him a flare of fresh pain, but he brought the barrel of the machine gun up and hosed the approaching troops with twenty rounds, the muzzle spitting a ten-centimeter tongue of fire, a stream of brass-colored cases bouncing off the wall of the bank. The troopers went down with fist-sized holes in their armor, but McKay was already stumbling laboriously down the passage between the buildings, aiming for the daylight on the other end.

He emerged on a narrow side street, but spent little time sightseeing; instead, he ran straight across to the opposite alley, trying to make his way to the edge of town. Once he hit the outskirts, he figured he could travel more leisurely along the perimeter of the city until he came around to where the rover was parked.

As he shuffled across street after parallel street, the banks, hotels and shops slowly began to give way to the uglier, boxier shapes of warehouses and factories of the industrial district. This section of town had been hardest hit by the Invaders: there didn’t seem to be a single structure left intact, and their insides looked to be as empty as a politician’s promise, stripped bare by the looting aliens.

The skeletal buildings stared down accusingly at Jason, haunted corpses of a raped and murdered city, and he paused at their scrutiny, mesmerized by the anthropomorphic image his stress-fired imagination had built up. An unsettling sense of claustrophobia closed in on him in the looming shadows of the surrounding buildings, a numbing sensation that smothered the pain from his side and his knee as it threatened to smother his thoughts. Part of his mind, the small part that was still thinking clearly, was shouting at him to get moving, that he was slipping into emotional and physical shock; but the mental inertia seemed to drag at him like lead weights.

The metallic clomp of Invader boots from a side street startled him out of the fugue into which he’d been slipping and sent him scrambling through the open side door of a nearby warehouse. A fleeting glance of a dimly-lit snowfield of scattered packing foam over the stripped wreckage of offices and the overturned hulk of an industrial exoskeleton, and then he was hugging the inside wall, edging close enough to the opening to peek out at the street. There were half a dozen of the armored Invader troopers outside, milling around the empty buildings, hunting for him.

McKay watched them, trying not to let his gaze linger on any one of them, giving in to that old soldier’s superstition that an enemy could feel your stare. His breathing seemed to be intolerably loud in his own ears, and he wondered that they couldn’t hear it; he would have held his breath, but he knew at this point that, if he did, he would pass out. Gradually, as his gaze remained glued to the activity without, he became aware of a “tip-tap” sound somewhere in the warehouse: a persistent, nagging drip, as if someone hadn’t turned a bathroom faucet quite all the way off. The noise abraded his nerves like sandpaper, and he was sure that one of the troopers would finally notice it and come to investigate.

Then, a stray glance downward revealed to him the source of the sound: it was his own blood, soaking through his shirt to drip steadily onto the metal base of the doorway. A small, crimson pool of it had gathered around his right boot, and the realization of just how badly he was bleeding sent a fresh wave of dizziness through him. He barely caught himself as he was about to pitch over sideways, had to grab the edge of the doorway for support. Unfortunately, that meant taking a hand off the foregrip of the weighty machine gun: the barrel slipped down to scrape loudly across the gnotty buildfoam of the inner wall.

Six helmeted heads snapped around as one, and Jason thought, absurdly, of an old cartoon he’d once seen about a pack of clumsy, stupid hounds chasing after an elusive, clever fox. Except he felt neither elusive nor particularly clever at the moment. As a matter of fact, he felt very much like he was about to lose consciousness. The Invaders started for the warehouse, tromping forward in an unorganized clump. He thought this was especially odd, since they’d maintained a textbook wedge formation when they’d attacked the mansion.

Gunny Stockwell, his D.I. from boot camp, would have had the old training platoon doing pushups for a year if they’d bunched up like that in a tactical situation. “One worthless motherfucker with an automatic weapon’d take out the whole worthless motherfucking lot of you!” he would have bellowed at them. He decided it was time to figure out if that sadistic old bastard was right.

Taking in as deep a breath as he could without doubling over in agony, Jason brought the machine gun to high port and swung around through the doorway, finger already squeezing the trigger. A scream of rage and desperation exploded from him as he fought with the weapon to keep the muzzle from rising, a flare of gunpowder ripping through the air.

The machine gun bucked hard against his shoulder, sunlight winking off the brass of the spent cases as they flew over his head in a slow-motion dance. McKay could see with paranormal clarity each slug that impacted the armored troopers, see the way the armor-piercing rounds punched through their chestplates and helmets, see the way they jerked backwards with a strange, unnatural motion like the robot mannequins in a store display—not as if they weren’t alive, but more as if they didn’t feel the pain of the wounds and were only reacting to the physical damage of the bullets.

A small part of Jason’s mind wondered why they reacted that way… and why his finger stayed frozen in a death-squeeze on the trigger once all of the Invaders were bloody heaps on the ground, and why he didn’t let up on it even after the machine gun’s bolt locked open empty in a bluish cordite cloud, and why he was still screaming hoarsely at the dead emptiness of the street, and why his arms didn’t seem to have any strength anymore, and why the gun was clattering to the pavement when he couldn’t remember letting go of it, and why everything seemed to be spinning around and sinking into a haze of darkness as the road rose quickly up to meet his face…

Awash in a sea of mist, Jason came to brief clarity in the middle of a fever dream. Invader troopers stood over him, surrounding him, and he knew he was dead. But why would enemy troopers be wearing grey Marine armor? Then he saw the ugly, heavy-browed face of his old Drill Instructor staring down at him grimly, and he knew it must be a dream.

“He’s alive,” the man mouthed in a rumbling bass that was not his own voice. “Get him up.”

A wave of agony washed over him and consciousness fled once more, the blackness covering him as he had one last, disjointed thought of Shannon.

Chapter Twelve

“The stellar universe is not so difficult of comprehension as the real actions of other people, especially of the people with whom we are in love.”

—Marcel Proust

Shannon grinned playfully at Nathan, both of them still panting with effort. “Don’t try to tell me you learned that in ninja school.”

“All work and no play makes Nathan a dull bodyguard.” Tanaka leaned back into the pillow, looking more relaxed than Shannon thought she had seen him since they’d met. She had to chuckle at the way a lock of his coal-dark hair was standing straight up at the top of his head; he looked more like a middle manager in an electronics firm than a trained assassin.

The room was cool and dark, and Stark felt a shiver run through her from the perspiration condensing on her bare skin. She pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and huddled beneath it. She could feel Nathan’s bodily warmth beside her, but not a centimeter of his skin touched hers, as if they’d been sparring and he’d carefully retreated to a neutral corner. Not that it had seemed impersonal, or cold: their lovemaking had been surprisingly friendly, as if they’d been old lovers who’d run into each other on the street and slipped into bed once more for old time’s sake. But Tanaka was a man who’d been alone for a long time, and that had created barriers that one moment of tenderness wasn’t about to penetrate.

But beyond that friendliness and familiarity, she’d also felt something she’d never experienced before in connection with sex: guilt. It seemed so strange. Had Jason gotten to her that badly? She shook her head, deciding the question wasn’t worth dwelling on until she knew whether McKay was still alive. She’d never been one to agonize over things beyond her control.

“What are you thinking about?” Tanaka asked curiously, leaning over to look her in the eye.

“I was just wondering,” she lied, “whether you had any energy left after that stellar performance?”

“Of course,” he said confidently, one finger carefully tracing the soft skin of her shoulder as if she were a piece of fine china. “All the members of my clan have been trained to draw on their ki, their inner, spiritual strength in just such occasions as this.”

“Sounds like a load of mystical Asian bullshit to me.” She cocked a skeptical eyebrow, taking a playful peek under the sheets.

“Are you questioning the teachings of my clan?” he protested with mock indignation, pulling the linen barrier back over his privates. “How can I respond to such doubt?”

“Prove it,” she challenged, her right hand grasping him roughly. “Right now.”

“Ah, a women after my own heart.” Nathan rolled on top of her, arms enfolding her as an involuntary gasp escaping from her lips.

“Lieutenant Stark!” A violent pounding on the door accompanied the insistent voice of Jock Gregory. “Lieutenant Stark, are you in there?”

Nathan raised up, propping himself on one elbow and staring at the door in disgust.

“I could kill him and be back in bed in five seconds,” he offered, only half joking.

“Duty calls,” Shannon sighed, patting him on the shoulder as she hopped out of the bed, reaching for her clothes.

“Duty,” Nathan repeated, rolling resignedly onto his back. “I should really learn to keep my advice to myself.”

“Lieutenant Stark?” Jock called again, knocking persistently.

“Just a minute,” Shannon called, quickly slipping into the first clothes that came to hand—the shorts and T-shirt she’d removed so hastily earlier in the evening. Pulling the door open a crack, she found Jock standing in the hall, shifting from one foot to another like an eager child bursting with some important secret. “This had better be important, Jock,” she intoned, fixing him with an annoyed stare.

“Ma’am,” he said, a grin nearly exploding on his face, “there’s something you just gotta see.”

“Jock, I really don’t like surprises.”

“You’ve gotta come with me, Ma’am,” he insisted, still fidgeting excitedly. “Please, just trust me, you’ve got to see this!”

“All right, all right.” She rubbed a hand tiredly across her eyes, suddenly feeling the aggregate fatigue from the lack of sleep, her martial arts workout and her and Nathan’s lovemaking. “But this had better be good.”

She slipped carefully through the half-open door, not wanting to provide grist for the enlisted rumor mill, then quickly shut it behind her as she joined Jock in the dimly-lit hallway.

“What the hell’s going on out here?” Stark and Mahoney spun at the voice of Glen Mulrooney as he emerged from another of the small bedrooms, dressed only in boxer shorts, blinking groggily.

“You should come with us, too, Mr. Mulrooney.” Jock grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him into the corridor. “Come on, you’re going to want to see this!”

So they moved down through the shelter’s guest quarters, picking up Captain Trang along the way, like some kind of insomniac Conga line. The control center was dark and unoccupied, but Jock didn’t slow down to turn on the lights, ignoring Mulrooney’s pained curses as he stubbed his toe on a chair. Shannon could see the lights and hear the activity in the entrance bay even before they reached the double-doors that led into it, and something deep in her gut began whispering a suspicion that made her heart beat quicker.

Then Jock pushed those doors open, revealing Shannon’s little voice as prophetic. Parked in the jarringly empty space that had once held the Marines’ scout car and APC was a beat-up, dirt-coated utility rover, its windshield splintered and webbed with cracks and bulletholes, its body panels dented and scratched. Gathered around the car were a group of combat-suited Marines, their helmets tucked under arms or dangling from the barrels of their rifles. For a moment, Shannon was confused, her tired brain wondering how there could have been any more Marines on the planet—she had a brief notion that they’d been rescued. Then one of the men turned and his ebon skin and chiseled features came into focus.

“Gunny Lambert!” she blurted, her eyes wide with disbelief. She was frozen in her tracks, stunned at the sight of the big Marine, at all of them clustered around the open doors of the car, the whole team which had been in the APC she’d seen destroyed. All except Bobby Comstock, the driver.

“Howdy, ma’am,” the big man said with a face-splitting grin. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“But how?” Shannon shook her head.

“That stupid heroic bastard Comstock,” Lambert explained, expression sobering. “He kicked us all out of the car and took it out to decoy their fire. Saved us all. We had to hike back into Kennedy during the night, sleep during the day.”

“Where’d you find the car?” Shannon wondered, eyes travelling over the vehicle and seeing, for the first time, a slight Hispanic woman that she recognized as Carmella Mendoza, leaning against the car, her children huddled against her. “And where did you find them?”

“Well,” Lambert drawled, the smile finding its way back onto his face, “we happened to run into a few friends in the city.”

Feeling a sudden sense of urgency, Shannon pushed through the crowd of bodies that separated her from the open side doors of the vehicle, not seeing the knowing looks from the Marines as they moved out of her way. Sitting in the front seat of the rover was Valerie O’Keefe, her clothes torn and soiled, her eyes vacant and seemingly oblivious to everything around her. Shannon barely noticed the woman. Her attention was focussed on the car’s other occupant. Propped up in the back seat, his shirt stripped away, his torso wrapped tightly in a red-stained field bandage, was Jason McKay. Her breath caught at the sight of the wound, and she thought for a moment that he was unconscious, but his eyes fluttered open and his head came up, a smile struggling its way onto his face.

“You…” he whispered hoarsely, trying to work some moisture into his mouth. “You’re beautiful.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Lieutenant.” The light tone of her words was betrayed by the break in her voice as she slid into the back seat beside him. “Are you okay?” She brushed a sweat-matted lock of hair out of his eyes as she ran her fingers gently over the bandage on his side.

“He’ll be fine,” Sergeant Lambert assured her. “It was a clean, through-and-through wound, and we caught it before he lost too much blood. He may have a cracked rib or two, but nothing a Marine can’t shake off.”

“You should have seen it ma’am,” one of the troopers declared—she thought it was Clarke, the autogunner. “There was dead Gomers piled up around him so thick you could of walked on ’em. He stood his ground, bullet in him and all, and chopped ’em down one after another.”

“Semper Fi, sir,” Vinnie grunted proudly.

“Valerie!” Shannon heard Glen Mulrooney’s astonished voice, and twisted around to see the man rushing up to the rover’s side door.

“Oh, my God, Valerie!” Glen pulled her out of the car and into his arms, rocking her back and forth like an infant, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Oh, God, honey! I thought you were dead!”

“Glen?” She shook herself, as if waking from a dream, finally seemed to realize where she was.

“Yes, honey, it’s me,” he assured her, holding her out to arm’s length. “Are you all right, Val? My God, what happened to you?” He glanced from her to Jason, his face clouding over. “Did you let something happen to her?”

“No, Glen.” Valerie put a hand on his arm, her voice stronger, her eyes on Jason. “I’m okay, I swear. We were attacked at Jorge and Carmella’s house—Jorge was killed, but Jason— Lieutenant McKay protected me.”

“Oh.” Glen visibly calmed down. “Uh, well, thank you, Lieutenant,” he nodded to McKay, obviously embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

Shannon shot a glance at Jock Mahoney. “Help me get him up.”

The enlisted man moved forward and helped Shannon carefully slide Jason out of the car, each of them getting beneath a shoulder and supporting him as he slowly and painfully got to his feet.

“Crossman.” Shannon turned to the Tech-2, who was loitering near the back of the room in his neon-green shorts, arm around the girl who’d accompanied him from the Governor’s mansion. “Take care of Ms. Mendoza and her children. Make sure they have a place to sleep and something to eat, if they need it.”

“Sure thing, ma’am,” he replied, tossing her a salute. He turned to the Hispanic girl beside him, still wearing his borrowed shirt but at least now supplementing it with a pair of borrowed shorts. “Rosalita, why don’t you take them to freshen up and I’ll get them some food?”

“Si, Thomas,” she said, going over to Carmella and taking her hand, speaking to her in soft, comforting tones.

“Where to?” Jock asked Shannon, effortlessly carrying Jason through the garage, heading for the corridor leading back into the shelter.

“My room,” she told him and then looked up to see Nathan Tanaka standing just inside the door, arms folded, observing impassively. She froze, eyes locked with his, each reading in the other a hint of disappointment and a wealth of understanding.

“Lieutenant McKay.” Tanaka stepped forward, blocking their way.

“Yeah?” Jason grunted, eyes squinting in confusion.

“You have my deepest gratitude for safeguarding Ms. O’Keefe,” Nathan told him, executing a sharp, shallow bow. “I am in your debt.”

“It’s my job,” McKay muttered. Behind him, still cradled in Glen’s arms, Valerie’s head snapped up, her desensitized expression sharpening into something between anger and pain.

“As you say.” Tanaka stepped out of their way.

Shannon didn’t glance back at him as she helped Jock carry Jason down the hallway, but she could still see the bittersweet disillusionment in the bodyguard’s expression.

Damn, she thought. I’ve already felt guilty twice today, and I’m not even Catholic.

* * *

Jason lifted slowly from a fuzzy darkness, only gradually aware of an irritating itch in his side and a cool, pleasant sensation on his chest. He opened his eyes cautiously, but the lights were dimmed and it took only a moment for his vision to adjust, and for the light-colored blur above him to solidify into Shannon Stark.

“So you’re finally awake.” She smiled, squeezing out the wet cloth with which she’d been bathing him.

“How long…” he began to ask, but the words caught in a ball of cotton deep in his throat and died with a dry croak. Shannon handed him a cup of water and he gulped at it gratefully, took a deep breath before he was ready to attempt conversation again. “How long have I been out?” he finally finished the question.

“Oh, about…” She checked her wristwatch. “Fifty-six hours.”

“Jee-sus!” His eyes popped open wide and he sat up suddenly, surprised that the sudden movement didn’t cause him more pain. “Two days?”

She pushed him back gently. “Take it easy. The Marine medic says you had a classic case of emotional and physical exhaustion, compounded by loss of blood and a lingering concussion. They’ve got a Smart Bandage on you now,” she nodded at the black plastic patch adhered to his wound, “but you’ve got to stay off your feet and let it work for a couple days.”

“Never liked the idea,” he grumbled, grimacing at the bandage, “of an army of little genetic goblins chewing at my insides.”

“Aren’t you the throwback?” Shannon laughed, using the damp cloth to swab at his forehead. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard medical nanotech called ‘goblins’ before. Anyway, the bacteria will have the muscle grafted back together soon, and you should be on your feet in no time.”

“Is…” He hesitated. “Are the others all right?”

“I haven’t seen Ms. O’Keefe,” Shannon told him, “but Mulrooney tells me she’s fine, physically. She’s probably still in shock emotionally. Carmella and her children are doing okay—I don’t think the girls have stopped eating since they got here. But their father’s death will hit them sooner or later.”

“What about you?” Jason caught her eye.

“What about me?” She evaded his gaze, trying to concentrate on the sponge bath.

“Lambert told me what happened,” he explained, covering her hands with his. “I was pretty groggy, but I got the gist of it. I guess maybe it’s a little better now that you know some of them survived, but I know what it’s like to watch troops die following your orders. It took me a long time to get my head right—I’m not even sure I have yet.”

“I’m okay,” she assured him. “I’m dealing with it. But thank you,” she ran a hand affectionately over his cheek, “for thinking about me.”

Jason thought he saw a moment’s indecision behind her eyes, just before she leaned over to kiss him. It was just a chaste, friendly kiss at first, but then he was slipping his arms around her, ignoring the slight pain the motion caused in his side. She swung her legs onto the bed, getting a bit more comfortable and giving the kiss her full attention, her tongue flicking playfully between his lips.

“Why, Dr. Stark,” Jason murmured, feeling her warm breath on his cheek. “What a marvelous bedside manner you have.”

“Are you sure,” she asked breathlessly, nibbling at his ear, “that you’re up to this? I wouldn’t want to reopen your wound.”

“Shannon, darling,” he said, guiding her hands beneath the covers, “I am definitely up to this.”

Shannon tossed the blanket aside and Jason was suddenly aware that he was naked beneath it, his excitement visibly apparent. A wicked glint lit up Shannon’s emerald eyes as she quickly stripped off her T-shirt and shorts. Jason watched her undress, his breath catching at the way the soft glow of the ghostlights played over her tanned skin. She was the antithesis of Valerie—toned athleticism to Val’s rounded softness—and he found the difference as arousing as the sight of her body.

Her lips parted slightly, her eyes filled with sexual hunger as she straddled his hips, guiding him into her and slowly, carefully sliding down the length of him. Jason moaned softly at the feel of her warm dampness gripping him and his hands went to her breasts as her back arched like a cat’s, her head thrown back, eyes half-closed.

He tried to thrust himself upward, matching her movements, but had to wince from a sudden twinge of pain in his side. She put a hand on his chest, shaking her head.

“Let me do the work,” she cautioned him. “You’re the patient.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he sighed, settling back.

She worked back into a gentle rhythm, being cautious not to put too much pressure on him, the effort evident in the strain on her face. It was a warm spring shower rather than the raging thunderstorm of the first time, only weeks ago but seemingly a lifetime away. When it was over, she collapsed into the shelter of his arms, nuzzling comfortably into his shoulder with a sigh of contentment.

Jason basked in the warmth of her skin, nostrils filled with the muskiness of their combined sweat, feeling the beat of her heart against his chest. For the first time in weeks, he felt like he could relax—like he could think. And the only thing he could think about was what a bastard he’d been. Here he was, lying in bed with Shannon like nothing had happened, while a few rooms away Val was with her fiancé, pretending the same thing. He wasn’t a particularly religious person, and had few hangups about sex, but this was deception, and it was wrong.

“Shannon,” he said, the sound of his voice breaking the idyllic spell of the moment.

“Yes?” She twisted around in his arms to face him, frowning at his serious expression. “What’s wrong?”

“When it all happened, when we were at the mansion,” he struggled for the words. “I was outside, taking a walk. I couldn’t sleep—you remember, right?”

“Yes, Jason, I remember,” she said.

“Valerie—Ms. O’Keefe—she was out in the garden, too. She was still upset about the attack at the Mendoza’s, and we were talking when the pods came in. I saw one of the pods hit the mansion, saw it catch on fire. We were cut off, and I thought…” His voice trailed off and he had to look away, unable to face her. “We thought all of you were dead.”

“You did the right thing,” she tried to assure him, but he waved it off.

“No, you don’t understand. I knew I had to get her out of there—I knew what my duty was. But we thought you were dead.”

He looked up and saw understanding come into the clarity of her celadon gaze. Clarity, but—to his surprise—not anger or disappointment.

“You slept with her,” Shannon finally put into words what Jason had been trying to say.

“Yeah.” He let his head drop back against the pillow. “I slept with her.”

“Do you love her?” Shannon’s voice was calm and even, almost friendly—and that scared him.

He shook his head. “No. I mean, she’s really nice, and I have a lot more respect for her now than I did a couple months ago. She’s been through a lot, and she’s handled it better than I would have. But we were just alone and scared. We didn’t have anyone else to turn to, and we thought everyone else was dead. I… I didn’t want to think about you—about all of you, Jock, Vinnie and Tom, dying on my command while I got away. I knew I did the right thing, but I still felt like shit, and I didn’t want to think. She helped me not to have to think.” He looked up at her pleadingly. “Do you understand?”

There was a look on her face that he couldn’t quite read, something that might have been compassion or indecision… or relief.

“Yes,” she answered, laying her head back against his chest. “I understand.”

Jason wasn’t sure if that also meant she forgave him, or whether she believed there was anything to forgive, but he didn’t want to push his luck. So he just held her there in the darkness, listening to the quiet softness of her breathing, wondering if she were asleep, and wondering if sleep would come for him anytime soon.

* * *

“No!” Valerie snapped sharply, pulling away from Glen’s grasp and rolling to the other side of the bed.

“Damn it, Val, what’s wrong?” He threw up his hands, falling back against the pillow. “Ever since you got back, you’ve been treating me like a fucking leper!”

“I’m not ready, Glen,” she said tightly, wrapped in shadows, facing away from him. “It’s too soon.”

“Too soon for what?” he demanded. “It’s been over a week since you got here! What happened out there? What haven’t you told me? Damn it, Val, I deserve to know!”

“What about me?” She turned on him, face coming into the glow of the ghostlights on the wall above them, venom in her voice. “What about what I deserve, Glen? Did you ever bother to think about someone besides yourself?”

“But, honey,” he protested, shocked at the outburst, “You know I love you! I just…”

“Oh, you love me,” she sneered, throwing aside the covers and sitting up, the frost-white of her bra standing out from the newly-acquired tan of her skin. “You always throw that around like it’s some magic word that’ll make everything all right. Well, everything’s not all right, Glen!” She sprang out of bed and began feeling around for her clothes in the dark.

“Where are you going?” He shook his head. “It’s the middle of the night.”

She ignored him, stepping into her skirt and pulling on Jason’s khaki overshirt—she’d never given it back to him.

“Val,” Glen insisted, hopping out of bed. “You can’t just run off! You’ve got to tell me what’s wrong!”

“You,” she declared, shaking her head. “You, Glen. You’re what’s wrong. And where I’m going,” she said as she pulled the door open, “is none of your damned business.” Then she was gone, the door slamming behind her.

Glen stood there in his underwear in the middle of the room, mouth open, wanting to follow her but knowing it wouldn’t do any good. He chewed his lip in uncertainty, then suddenly made up his mind. She wouldn’t talk to him, but there was someone he thought she would listen to. He turned on the light and hurriedly began to dress.

Jason’s head snapped up and he peered into the darkness, uncertain if he’d really heard anything or if he’d just dreamed the noise.

Then it came again: a soft but firm knock on the door.

“What?” Shannon rolled over, abruptly sitting up in bed.

“I don’t know.” He rubbed sleep from his eyes as he slowly, gingerly made his way to the door.

When he pulled it open, he was surprised to see Glen Mulrooney standing behind it, looking worried.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Lieutenant,” he said, amazingly cordial. “But we need to talk. It’s important.”

Jason regarded him silently for a moment, considering whether to tell him to come back in the morning—or, rather, later in the morning. But there was an earnestness in the man’s tone that made him change his mind.

“Give me a second to get dressed,” Jason said, shutting the door.

“What’s wrong?” Shannon asked.

“Mulrooney’s got a hard-on for something,” McKay told her, locating his pants. “Try to go back to sleep—I won’t be long.”

Mulrooney was still waiting outside the door when Jason emerged, still bleary-eyed, into the comparative brightness of the hallway.

“So what’s so important,” Jason wanted to know, “that it couldn’t wait till morning?”

“It’s Valerie,” Glen explained. “Something’s wrong. I don’t know if you’ve noticed it.”

“I haven’t talked to her much since we got back,” Jason hemmed uncomfortably. Actually, he’d avoided her like the plague for the last week, not wanting to dredge up anything with her while he was trying to patch his nascent relationship with Shannon.

“Well, she’s been withdrawn.” He shook his head helplessly. “She’s shut me out—won’t talk to me about whatever happened. And…” he hesitated. “She doesn’t want me to touch her. You know, in bed.”

“Well, look,” Jason said, running a hand through his hair, “if she doesn’t want to talk to you about it, I’m not sure if it’s my business to tell you.”

“I don’t want you to tell me anything.” Glen raised a hand to halt the idea’s progression. “I want you to talk to her. You went through whatever happened out there with her, so you understand. I think maybe she’d talk to you.”

“I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea,” Jason protested.

“Please,” Glen implored him. “She’s outside, walking around—just outside the front entrance. I’m not sure if she’s safe out there. I mean, there could be animals out there.” His voice, his eyes, were pleading, and finally Jason gave in with a deep, hissing sigh.

“All right,” he agreed. “At least I’ll try to get her back inside.”

“Thank you,” Glen started to say, but Jason was already walking off toward the shelter entrance.

He snagged a flashlight from an equipment shelf on the way into the garage, bypassing the still-closed vehicle doors for a short set of stairs leading up to the small personal access hatch lying open to the side. He ducked out of the dim, chemical striplighting of the unoccupied garage into the brighter glow of Aphrodite’s larger moon, an irregular captured asteroid. The reflected light played over the rocky surface of the plateau overlooking the access road, turning it into a landscape of shadows. Somewhere overhead, a local nightflyer cried plaintively, a haunting, hollow sound that made the hair on the back of Jason’s neck stand up.

Jason switched on the flashlight, panning its beam across the plateau, looking for Valerie, but saw nothing but a few scrub bushes growing out of the weathered rock. He scanned back and forth again, starting to get concerned. She wouldn’t have gone off the cliff, would she?

“Are you looking for me?” He heard her voice from behind him and turned to see her leaning, arms crossed, against the rock wall behind him, just to the right of the access hatch.

“Guess so,” he admitted, extinguishing the light and stepping over to her. “Is everything okay, Valerie?”

“That’s a funny question for you to ask, Jason,” she said, cocking her head toward him. “Of all people.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, leaning back against the rock face beside her. “Look, I’m sorry if…”

“Sorry about what?” she interrupted. “Sorry you found Shannon alive again? I doubt that.”

“No, I’m not sorry I found her alive,” he told her without hesitation. “And I’m not sorry I still have feelings for her.”

“And what about me?” she asked him softly. “Don’t you have any feelings for me?”

Jason grimaced, feeling like a first-class bastard.

“I do care about you,” he sighed. “I’m not saying I don’t.”

“But you don’t love me,” she finished for him, her voice resigned, her face lost in the shadows.

“You told me you weren’t sure if you’d ever been in love,” Jason reminded her. “Or if you even knew what it was. Well, I’m not sure I know any better than you. I can’t tell you why things work between some people and not between others. I just know that I have something special with Shannon, something I’m not ready to give up. You and I…” he shook his head. “We couldn’t have any kind of future. You have your career waiting for you back on Earth, and Glen.”

“Glen.” Valerie laughed sharply, humorlessly. “Oh, yes, I’ve got Glen, lucky me.”

“He cares about you, Val,” Jason told her.

“He doesn’t care about anybody but himself,” she muttered bitterly.

“He came to me,” Jason told her. “He was worried about you—he wanted me to talk to you, make sure you were okay, since you wouldn’t talk to him.”

“Glen came to you?” Her head came up in surprise.

“It couldn’t be too easy for him.”

“No,” she agreed, “especially with you.”

“Give him a chance,” Jason urged her. “God knows, none of us is perfect. And he loves you.” Hesitantly, he put a hand on her shoulder, saw her look up at his touch. “Look, Val, what you and I had was special. We needed each other. We couldn’t have survived without one another. I’ll never forget it, and I’ll never forget you. But things are different now. We both have other people who are counting on us to be there for them.” He let his hand slide off her arm, shaking his head. “It just wouldn’t be right.”

“What if,” she replied softly, “I don’t care what’s right? What if I don’t care what anyone else thinks or needs? What if all I want is to tell everyone else to go to hell and just be with you?”

“I’m sorry, Val.” Jason sagged back against the rockface, feeling helpless and very sad. “I just can’t do that.”

“I guess I’m sorry, too.” She pushed away from the wall and stepped over to the entrance hatch, hugging her arms to herself. She took one final glance back at him, almost as if she held out one last hope that he might ask her not to go, and then she ducked back inside and was gone.

Jason stared up at the starscape, rhythmically smacking the flashlight against his palm. The mountain air was cool and clean, and the stars were painfully beautiful. He felt like staying out here for a while, clearing his mind of all the confusion and pain—but back inside, Shannon was in bed, waiting for him, and he didn’t want to let her down. Not again. He headed back inside, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

Tom Crossman paced into the shelter’s control room, hands stuffed in his pockets, boredom written in his expression. Nearly three months of unchecked growth had turned his hair from a barely-regulation cut to its more natural mass of wavy brown, and his mustache was a bushy handlebar beginning to droop over his jawline. If someone had told him when he enlisted that someday the military would allow him to wear his hair however he wanted… But right now, he would have willingly endured a high-and-tight just to get back to Earth—or anywhere.

Falling onto the couch, he saw Vinnie sitting in front of the commo panel, headphones hanging half off, chin resting on his hands. Somehow, he’d managed to retain his buzzcut—God knew how. Probably scraped it off with a Goddamned combat knife, the psycho motherfucker. Jock was at the small table, nose buried in an old-style hardcopy book.

“Whatcha reading, Jock?” he asked, not really caring but feeling he’d go nuts if he didn’t talk to someone soon.

“Something I found in a closet,” he said, sparing Crossman a glance. “S’about some bloke who deserts the army for a sheilla. It’s called, ah…” He turned the book around and checked the title. “A Farewell to Arms.”

“Any good?”

“Better than whacking my wanker, I guess,” he muttered, settling back into his chair and his book.

Tom sighed, realizing Jock was a lost cause. Oh, well, maybe he could get a rise out of Mahoney.

“How long you going to sit there and eat static, Vinnie?” Tom asked him. “I mean, you been wearing those things for a month and you ain’t heard shit yet.”

“I don’t want to spend one more minute in this Goddamned hole than I have to,” Vinnie clipped off tersely, eyes still glued to the wall. “Got a problem with that?”

“Gosh,” Tom said, shaking his head. “You guys are just a laugh a minute, aren’t you?”

“Why aren’t you with your sweet little senorita?” Jock looked back up from his novel. “She finally dump you?”

“Nah,” Crossman said. “Rosie’s okay. But she’s spending a lot of time with that Mendoza lady and her kids—guess ’cause they can talk Spanish to each other. I hung out with them for a while, but I can’t follow it when they start jabbering a hundred klicks an hour, and it gets kind of boring after a while.”

“Hell,” Jock grumbled, “I’ll talk Spanish to her—I’ll speak fucking Greek if she wants. I haven’t touched a sheilla since we left Earth.”

“It’s good for you, Jock,” Vinnie grunted. “Builds character.”

“Thanks loads, mate,” Gregory shot back, scowling at him, “but I’ve got plenty of character already.”

“Y’know,” Crossman said, rubbing the stubble on his jaw, “this reminds me of when my parents stuck me in military school.”

“You went to military school?” Vinnie’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh, yeah, man, two whole miserable years,” Crossman said. “I was what you might call a problem child. Anyway, this place was co-ed, of course, but it was about two hundred klicks into the middle of nowhere, right at the edge of the Rockies Preserve, and there was only two girls in the place—one of them was a lesbian and the other was a Muslim Fundamentalist.”

“Ouch.” Jock winced sympathetically. “So you had a pretty lonely two years, huh?”

“No way, bud.” Tom laughed. “I studied the Koran for a whole semester and had that Muslim babe believing I was Mohammed’s long-lost cousin.”

“Damn, I am impressed.” Jock tipped an imaginary hat to him. “Anyone who could…”

“Shut up!” Vinnie snapped suddenly.

Tom and Jock turned, frowning in confusion, and saw Vinnie’s hands pulling the radio headphones over his ears, eyes wide.

“What is it?” Tom sat up straight on the couch.

“Shut the hell up!” he reiterated. “Jock, go get the LT—now!”

Gregory didn’t question his partner—he knew that tone of voice. Before Tom could ask him what was going on, the Australian was off his seat and out of the room.

Jason shifted in his position, trying to get more comfortable against the rough surface of the plateau as he panned his binoculars over the narrow draw below them.

“Do you see them?” he asked Shannon, shaking his head slightly.

“Further north,” she indicated, training her own glasses toward the mouth of the draw, shielding them against the midday sun with her other hand.

Jason followed her direction and finally caught a hint of movement through the glasses. He focused in on it and saw one of Lambert’s Marines low-crawling from cover to cover, the rifle barrel of the man overwatching his move barely visible from behind a thick stand of brush. Somewhere ahead of them, at the other end of the draw, waited Captain Trang and his two men, serving as the opposing force. Jason and his team had held that honor for over a month, but the two units had become too used to one another and Lambert had asked Trang for help.

Another pair of Marines advanced up the draw, their camo fatigues blending in with the grey and brown rock around them. Watching them, Jason had a vivid flashback to his days as an enlisted man, running exercises like this in the North Dakota Badlands at the Marine Training Grounds with blank ammo and laser indicators. Everything was so much simpler when all you had to worry about was covering your buddy’s maneuver and keeping your ass out of the line of fire.

“Lieutenant McKay!” He turned at the shout from behind him and saw Jock Gregory sprinting from the shelter’s side entrance, waving his hands like a maniac, eyes wild. “Lieutenant McKay, come quick!”

McKay stood, letting his binoculars hang freely from the strap around his neck. Beside him, Shannon rolled into a sitting position, looking up with curiosity at Jock as he ran up to them.

“What is it, Jock?” McKay asked the Tech-Sergeant as the man skidded to a halt, panting with exertion.

“Sir,” Gregory gasped, “Vinnie… the radio…”

“Shit,” Jason breathed. Before Jock could elaborate further, Jason was sprinting for the shelter, Shannon at his heels.

“Tell Lambert,” she shouted over her shoulder at Jock just before she ducked through the entrance.

Jason and Shannon raced through the garage and into the shelter control room, where a small crowd had already begun to gather around Vinnie at the communications board. McKay brushed past Governor Sigurdson and Carmella Mendoza and unceremoniously yanked the earphones off Vinnie’s head. Hurriedly pulling the headset into place, he caught an explosion of static and a faint voice.

“…repeat, this is Captain Joyce Minishimi of the RSS Bradley,” the earphones hissed. “Do you read me?”

Jason twisted the headset’s microphone around and hit the transmit key.

“Bradley,” he shouted into the mike, “this is Lieutenant Jason McKay, Fleet Intelligence, do you copy?”

There was a heart-stopping pause, and McKay had a nightmare vision of the ship not picking up his signal, abandoning the planet and heading back to Earth.

“I read you, McKay,” Captain Minishimi’s voice finally came back, a note of caution evident in her tone. “Tell me, is Gunnery Sergeant Constantine with you?”

“Afraid not.” Jason had to admire her precautions. “But we do have a Gunny Lambert somewhere around here. Will he do?”

“That’s a roger, McKay.” Relief was evident in her reply. “It’s good to hear from you. Is Ms. O’Keefe all right?”

“She’s just fine, Captain,” he assured her, eyes darting up at Val and Glen, part of the crowd gathered around the radio. “We’ve even got the Governor with us here—but we could sure use a ride if you’re headed our way.”

“Oh, I think we can manage something, McKay. We’ll have a shuttle down to you as soon as we reach orbit.”

“Captain, how did you get here so quickly?” Jason asked. “I didn’t think anybody’d realize what had happened for months. Did the MacArthur get away and send for help?”

“Negative, Lieutenant.” Minishimi’s voice was grim. “The Mac was destroyed. But a cargo ship was refueling at the solar antimatter factory when she was attacked, and they managed to get away before anyone detected them. You folks just got lucky.”

“Damn,” Jason mumbled to himself, realizing just how close they’d been to being stuck on Aphrodite for at least another year, until the arrival of the next scheduled patrol.

“Anything else you folks need?” the captain asked him.

“Well,” he said, “we’ve been out of the loop for a while, ma’am. You wouldn’t happen to know who won the Superbowl, would you?”

Minishimi laughed. “Let me put it this way, Lieutenant,” she told him, “I hope you didn’t have any money on the Cowboys or you’re shit out of luck.”

Chapter Thirteen

“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life. It goes on.”

—Robert Frost

Jason swallowed hard and led Shannon into Colonel Mellanby’s office, the door hissing ominously shut behind them. Of all the things he’d looked forward to in the jubilation and relief of returning to Earth, this was not one of them. He’d had waking nightmares of The Snake pinning him to the wall like a bug in a child’s collection, ticking off a list of Jason’s various indiscretions and bad decisions like an archangel at the Last Judgement, and immediately putting Shannon in charge of the team.

And maybe she should be in charge, he’d reflected. After all, she’d led them in the successful attack on the spaceport while he’d been off playing cave-man. So he stepped into the office fully prepared to face the wrath of the Snake and give up his command.

But the smile that played over Kenneth Mellanby’s face as they stepped inside was decidedly un-Snake-like. It seemed almost friendly. For a moment, Jason thought they’d mistakenly stepped into the wrong office, but then the expression was gone as if it had never been, and the Snake-mask fell back into place.

“Lieutenants McKay and Stark report, sir,” Jason announced, he and Shannon stiffening into a salute.

“At ease,” Mellanby snapped, waving off the salute. “Have a seat, both of you.”

The Colonel watched them feel their way into their chairs, then paced around his desk, one hand behind his back, the other filled with a sheaf of hardcopy. “I’ve read the reports of your debriefing,” he told them, slapping the file against his thigh. “I’ve heard the facts, I’ve seen the pictures.” He fixed them with a stare. “Now I want your impressions.”

Jason saw the man’s eyes on him and squirmed uncomfortably. He shrugged.

“Lieutenant Stark had more contact with the enemy than I did. But from what I could see, I would say that the things that attacked us—the troopers themselves—are more like some kind of robot or mind-controlled slave than truly sentient intelligences. Once the Invaders pulled out, the troops they left behind didn’t even try to find food or water. They just shot at anything in sight until their ammo ran out, then wandered around till they died.”

“But when they were being controlled,” Shannon put in, “they were highly organized. They were capable of operating those ‘Hopper’ things, which must be pretty complex.”

“I’ve heard all this in the transcripts.” Mellanby shook his head impatiently. “I don’t want to hear the how—I want the why.”

“These things are obviously considered expendable,” Jason reasoned. “That means they must have plenty of them—either they breed them somewhere or they have some way of manufacturing them quickly.”

“Their technology doesn’t appear to be that advanced,” Shannon said. “Maybe they have to use the troops that way because their ships aren’t powerful enough to take on ours head-on.”

“Or they’re short on ships and can’t risk having one damaged in battle,” Jason suggested. “Either way, having these… drones or whatever sneak in and do their dirty work must be the easiest way for them to do things.”

“So what’s their motivation?” Mellanby prompted, sitting on the edge of his desk. “Why hit Aphrodite?”

“They were looting the place,” Jason offered. “Maybe they’re short on processed goods, like computers and power production equipment.”

“The real question,” Shannon said, “is where they’ll hit next.”

“That’s what I want you to find out,” Mellanby told them. “The Patton is being readied for departure to Aphrodite in a week. I want your team on it. You’ll have a Marine Reaction Force at your disposal—the same one that was with you during the occupation, with reinforcements of course. There will also be a scientific team on board with a full complement of forensic researchers, also at your disposal.”

“Great,” McKay said with a chuckle. “Back to beautiful scenic Aphrodite.”

“I know it’s not much of a break,” Mellanby agreed. “But we don’t know how long we have or if they’ll strike again at another colony. I suggest you make the most of your week. Go ahead and take leave for a couple days—after you take Senator O’Keefe up on his invitation.”

“What invitation?” Jason asked, a bad feeling deep in his gut.

“The Senator has invited your team to a dinner in your honor at 1900 hours Zulu time tonight at his house—all the biggest VIP’s and the press will attend.” Colonel Mellanby chuckled. “I wouldn’t force such a fate on the enlisted, but as officers it is your duty to take advantage of this golden opportunity to afford the military a bit of positive publicity.”

“Where do I go to desert?” Jason rubbed a hand tiredly over his face.

“Cheer up,” Shannon said, nudging him. “With our recent luck, maybe his house will burn down.”

“Oh, there’s one other thing.” Mellanby raised a finger as he circled back behind his desk. Reaching into a drawer, he pulled out a pair of small, sealed plastic bags and tossed them up and down in his hand. “Your team has been given official recognition by the Department of Defense. Once you return from Aphrodite, you’ll be recruiting new members of the First Special Operations Detachment.” He tossed one of the plastic bags at McKay. “Captain Jason McKay commanding.”

Jason’s mouth dropped open as he saw that the bag contained the twin silver bars of a captain’s insignia.

“But sir…” he began to protest, coming to his feet.

“Don’t worry, McKay.” Mellanby shook his head, underhanding the other bag to Shannon. “There’ll be enough promotions and medals to go around.”

Shannon’s eyebrow shot up at the first lieutenant’s bar in the bag.

“Well, that’s more back pay I won’t have time to spend,” she mused.

“The medals will be awarded upon your return,” the Colonel explained, sitting on the edge of his desk. “There’ll be a big, public ceremony, which should make it easier to recruit troops to your new command—they’ll be volunteering in droves.”

“Colonel Mellanby.” Jason swallowed hard, glancing uncomfortably at Shannon. “Could I speak to you in private for a second?”

“Of course, Captain,” the man said. “You’re dismissed, Lieutenant Stark.”

“Yes, sir.” She saluted, casting a curious look at Jason.

“Wait for me,” he mouthed as she went out. She gave him a nod as the door closed. He took a deep breath and turned back to Colonel Mellanby.

“Out with it, son,” the Snake prompted, that almost benign look passing almost imperceptibly across his face once more.

“Sir,” Jason blurted out, “I would like to recommend that Lieutenant Stark be given command of the team.”

“And why is that?” Mellanby inquired, the set of his eyes giving a hint that he had anticipated this turn of events.

“Sir, I didn’t do shit out there,” Jason said. “I was out running around the desert with my head up my ass while she was leading those troops in an attack on the Invaders. She drove them off the planet and all I accomplished was nearly getting myself and Ms. O’Keefe killed. She’s demonstrated that she’s more qualified to hold this position than I am.”

“Is that so?” Mellanby folded his arms, regarding Jason with an amused expression. “Tell me, son, what was your stated mission on Aphrodite?”

“Well, to keep Valerie O’Keefe safe, but…”

“And is Ms. O’Keefe alive and well at this point?” Mellanby asked pointedly.

“Yes, but…”

The Colonel held up a hand. “I agree that Lieutenant Stark is a fine officer and a good leader. That’s why I recruited her. And what she accomplished on Aphrodite was admirable, as her medals will attest in the near future. But you were the commanding officer, and your duty was to keep Ms. Valerie O’Keefe safe no matter what. You did that duty against heavy odds and that’s what’s important.”

“I made mistakes,” Jason protested, shaking his head, looking away at a vision of Valerie with Huerta and his thugs assaulting her. “I made misjudgments that could have gotten people killed.” He faced the Colonel once again. “I was just lucky.”

“The Vikings had a saying, McKay,” Mellanby told him. “Better a lucky captain than a good one. Look,” he pushed off of his desk and stepped up nose-to-nose with Jason, “whatever mistakes you made back there, you overcame them and accomplished the mission. That’s part of becoming a leader—it’s part of growing up.” He clapped Jason on the shoulder, and McKay had a heartbeat’s vision of his father congratulating him after a high-school football game. “I’m counting on you to keep on accomplishing the mission… Captain McKay.”

“Yes, sir.” Jason nodded slowly. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, son.” The Snake showed his teeth. “Because if you do, I’ll rip out your liver with my bare hands and eat it raw.”

“What was that all about?” Shannon asked him as he emerged from the office. He smiled and slipped an arm around her shoulder.

“I’ll tell you later,” he promised. “Want to go catch some lunch? Somehow, I don’t think I’m going to have much of an appetite tonight.”

* * *

“A toast.” Senator Daniel O’Keefe raised his glass with a flourish, wearing his best Campaign Smile. “To Captain McKay and his brave and resourceful band for safeguarding my Valerie’s life at great risk to their own.”

“Hear, hear!” A rumble of approval rose from the herd of VIP’s gathered around the banquet table as they came to their feet with an annoying scrape of chair legs on wooden floor.

“I’ve never been called a ‘band’ before,” Shannon muttered to Jason, seated beside her at the center of the table, their dress whites standing out like a neon sign among the collection of tuxedos and evening gowns.

“We get combat pay for this, right?” McKay wondered quietly, glancing around with growing discomfort at the famous faces surrounding him in the vast hall. These were people he’d seen only on Tri-V dramas or the news, a cosmetic surgeon’s wish-list that made him feel distinctly out of place. Hell, O’Keefe’s house was bigger than some museums he’d visited.

“I’m only sorry,” O’Keefe addressed them after the dignitaries had tipped their glasses, “that the rest of your command couldn’t be here.”

“Yes, sir,” McKay explained. “They send their regrets, but after such a long and arduous experience, they needed some time with their families before we head back to Aphrodite.”

“You’re going back?” Valerie spoke for the first time since they’d arrived at the Senator’s Calgary home. She looked, Jason thought, uncharacteristically frumpy in a loose, ankle-length gown, and her eyes seemed somehow sunken and hollow.

Jason nodded. “We’re going to be part of an investigation team to try and find out where the Invaders came from and where they’ll strike next.”

“I never want to see that damned place again,” Glen muttered, taking a long drink of champagne. He didn’t seem to be in the best of moods himself, and Jason was sure he hadn’t seen Glen and Valerie so much as look at one another since they’d arrived.

“So, Captain McKay,” Daniel O’Keefe said, leaning across the table, “what are your plans for the future? Or do you see yourself as a career military man?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Jason admitted. “I really haven’t given much thought to it yet.”

“Well, perhaps you should, young man,” the Senator suggested. In person, he was an impressive man, with a force of personality that reminded Jason of Kenneth Mellanby—it would, he thought, be interesting to put the two men in a room together. “Many successful political careers have been built on the foundation of high-profile military service.”

“I’m not sure I’d be a good politician, sir,” McKay chuckled, taking a sip of champagne. “I’ve got a very low tolerance for bullshit, pardon my French.”

“I can appreciate that, I truly can,” O’Keefe assured him. “But I can’t believe that politics has a monopoly on bullshit. Surely the military has politics all its own.”

“So maybe I’m already a politician, is that what you’re saying?” Jason cocked an eyebrow curiously.

“We’re all politicians, Captain. All of the interaction between human beings, from sex to government to commerce, has its own kind of politics, its own special social rituals. Over millions of years of evolution, we’ve developed rituals for dealing with other human beings without violence—imperfect, to be sure, but improving. One day, however long it may be, we’ll evolve beyond the need for violence to deal with our fellow man.”

“That’s assuming,” Shannon pointed out, “that we’re dealing with ‘our fellow man,’ Senator.”

“There you’ve got me, Lieutenant Stark.” He tipped his glass toward her. “Dealing with your Invaders, assuming they are aliens, will require an entirely new set of rituals and politics.”

“What do you mean, ‘assuming they are aliens,’ Daddy?” Valerie asked him. “I saw one of those things, and whatever it was, it wasn’t human.”

“You saw it,” he agreed, “as did the others, but did you perform an autopsy on it? Who’s to say it couldn’t have been a human who’d undergone extensive restruct surgery and some kind of sophisticated brainwashing technique?”

“But who would do that?” Valerie wondered. “Who could?”

“Perhaps a faction of the Belt Pirates,” Daniel O’Keefe suggested. “They might have bribed Corporate employees and gotten their hands on an interstellar cargo ship of some kind. Or, who knows.” He paused, taking a dramatic sip from his glass. “There are those in high places whose fates are inexorably tied to the level of military funding. What better way to ensure the continued increase of military spending than to create a mysterious enemy for them to fight.”

“Those are dangerous words, Senator,” Shannon warned him, her mouth set in a hard line.

“The only dangerous words, my dear,” he countered, “are the ones we’re afraid to speak.”

“That doesn’t seem to be a problem for you, sir,” Jason commented, his smile taking the edge off of the words.

“Touche’, Captain.” O’Keefe laughed. “Ah! And here’s dinner!”

McKay looked up and saw the servants bringing in their first course on motorized, wheeled carts.

“Funny,” he heard Shannon whisper in his ear, “I thought we were dinner.”

“…and so I told my producer, ‘Bill, I can’t fire the guy, he’s a fucking computer construct!’”

McKay tried to laugh politely at the joke, but the Tri-V drama director who’d told it seemed to be doing enough laughing for both of them, so he searched desperately around the room for Shannon. Dinner had gone surprisingly fast, considering the amount of food they’d been served, and afterward they’d moved into another chamber of the labyrinthine house for cocktails. He’d kept on the move, trying desperately to avoid being cornered by Valerie or worse, Glen, but in the process had discovered just what incredible bores famous people could be.

Finally, he spotted Shannon in a corner nursing a Tom Collins and struck out across the room toward her, but was cut off midway by Valerie O’Keefe.

“Jason,” she said, the same hollow expression on her face, “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

“Uh… all right,” he acquiesced, realizing he was trapped. “What is it?”

“Somewhere a bit more private,” Valerie insisted, then headed off for the room’s nearest exit, an open archway that led into a library.

Senator O’Keefe, Jason observed as he scanned shelf after shelf of antique books, had a collection to rival Governor Sigurdsen’s—just from where he stood he could see five first-editions that were each worth more than his annual salary.

“Okay,” he said, turning his attention back to Val, “I’m here. What’s wrong?”

“I’m pregnant,” she told him without warning, “and I’m almost certain the baby’s yours.”

Shannon downed the last of her drink in a single swallow, savoring the bite of the liquor as it burned down her throat. This whole affair had been a fiasco. She had stood in corners, either literally or figuratively, since she’d arrived. Hell, the only reason any of these snobs had talked to Jason was because his face had been in the news—when they’d each made their obligatory pass by him, he’d been ignored almost as much as she.

“So much for positive press for the military,” she muttered to herself, setting the empty glass down on a lampstand.

The worst part was, Nathan hadn’t as much as shown his face. The fact that she wanted to see him again troubled her. She was a person who was used to certainty in her life. She’d decided on a military career at age fifteen, much to the chagrin of her parents, and that had been that. First Cambridge University, then straight into Spacefleet Officer’s Candidate School, no doubts, no hesitations. It had been the same story with men. There’d been a special boy in high school, but when she’d left Ireland for college, she’d left that relationship behind along with that phase of her life. At Cambridge, she’d played the field, concentrating on studies, never letting any one man get in the way of her goal, never letting any one of them farther than a few centimeters inside her.

And now, on the verge of the biggest step of her career—of her life!—and on the verge of a probable war, she’d let not one, but two men crawl into her head. This was not how she’d planned things.

Looking up, she caught a glimpse of Jason being led into the next room by that O’Keefe woman and sighed deeply. More complications. But none of her business. She should just get another drink and forget she’d even seen it.

Right. Cursing herself loud enough to draw a few curious stares, she pushed off from the wall and began making her way to the door they’d exited through.

“What?” Jason’s jaw dropped open. “But how?” He shook his head helplessly. “Didn’t you have the treatments?”

“Glen did,” she told him. “I assumed you had, too.”

“No,” he told her numbly. “In the military, they give them to the females—something about testosterone level and male aggression, I think. But… the last time was over five months ago! Wouldn’t you have known back on Aphrodite?”

“When I didn’t get my period, I thought it was because of the stress,” she explained. “Then, when we went into g-sleep, the chemical stasis slowed down the gestation period. I almost lost the baby then—I was so sick when we came back into Earth orbit that they flew me straight to a medical center. That’s when I found out. Because of the g-sleep, I’ve still got six months till it comes to term.”

“Are you…” He hesitated, his guts churning with indecision and shock. “I mean, you’re not going to…”

“It’s too late to legally abort it,” she said, anticipating his question, a flash of stubborn anger in her eyes. “And I wouldn’t even if I could.”

“I wouldn’t want you to,” he assured her, shaking his head desperately. “That’s not what I was saying.”

“What are you saying, Jason?” She fixed him with a dark, questioning gaze.

“Look, I realize my responsibility in this,” he said, throwing up his hands. “I’m not trying to run out on it. If you want the fetus transferred to a surrogate, I’ll pay for it and I’ll take the responsibility for putting the baby up for adoption. I’ll pay for foster care until the agency finds an adoptive family. I’m not in a position to raise a child alone, so that’s all I can do.”

“That’s very adult of you,” she replied, facing away from him, staring at a shelf of books that had suddenly become fascinating. “I suppose adoption is the best idea. If the baby’s parents,” there might have been a catch in her voice, or maybe it was his imagination, “can’t be together.” She turned back to him. “They can’t be, can they?”

There was a pleading tone in her voice that tore him apart, but he shook his head, trying to meet her eyes.

“No,” he told her. “I guess they can’t.”

She made a show of straightening her dress, giving her an excuse to look away for a moment, and when she met his gaze once more, her face was hard and cold.

“I thank you for your generous offer, Captain McKay,” she said, “but I’ve told Glen about the pregnancy and we’ve decided to keep the child and raise it together.”

“I see,” McKay said, breathing out a deep sigh. “Is there anything you need from me?”

“Yes,” she said. “We need you to stay away. As far as anyone will know, this child is ours. Do you understand?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Anger, relief and a sharp disappointment fought for supremacy within him, all drowned out by the incredible notion that he was going to be a father, if only an absent one.

“I…” he finally choked out, “I’ll do what you want.” There was moisture in his eye, and he had to blink it back as he stumbled away from her, wanting more than anything to leave.

But he hesitated at the door, looking back at her, pain in the set of his mouth.

“Please,” he said. “What…?” He trailed off, words failing him.

Something softened in her eyes and he thought he saw something of the compassion that he’d once found in her.

“It’s a boy, Jason” she told him, knowing what he was trying to ask. “It’s a boy.”

And then he was out of the room, back in the hallway but still light-years away. A son. He was going to have a son.

* * *

Jason sat in silence as the tiltrotor drew away from the O’Keefe mansion, climbing higher into the night sky. An incredible panorama of stars beckoned enticingly through the side window of the darkened compartment, but his eyes were locked sightlessly onto the back of the next seat, trying to divine the mysteries of the universe in its grey leather depths.

Beside him, Shannon waited patiently, knowing he was going to talk but not wanting to push him. She’d settled into her seat and was about to let the rhythm of the plane’s engines lull her to sleep when he finally looked her way, decision in his eyes.

“Shannon,” he said.

“Yes, Jason.” She sat up and met his gaze.

“Back there… I… Ms. O’Keefe, she…” He chewed his lip, searching for words.

“She’s pregnant,” Shannon declared softly. Jason’s eyes popped open.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, afraid to ask her how she knew. “She’s pregnant.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked. He tried to read something in her eyes, but they were swallowed up in the shadows, unfathomable.

“I’m going to do what she wants,” he told Shannon, trying once more to convince himself it was the right thing. “I’m going to stay away.”

Chapter Fourteen

“Where are they?”

—Enrico Fermi

A scorching, dry wind swept across the plateau, sifting the charred remains of the Aphrodite spaceport and scouring the side of the small, preform dome with sand and dust. Jason blinked away a spray of wind-born dust that had found its way behind the lenses of his sunglasses as he waited for Shannon to slide out of the groundcar’s passenger seat.

“Good Lord,” he whispered, surveying for the first time the devastation Shannon’s attack on the port had caused. The port control building and the laser launch platform were gone as if they had never existed, only an irregular black spot on the sandstone surface marking where they’d been, and everywhere was strewn the wreckage of the shuttle that had exploded.

He felt Shannon shudder as she came up beside him, and he slipped an arm around her, realizing the memories this place would hold.

“I’ll be okay.” She gave him a grateful hug, and then they stepped through the door of the dome hut and into the welcome respite of climate control.

“Afternoon, sir, ma’am.” A straight-backed, dark-haired young Marine officer came off his chair and saluted them.

“Hey, Ari,” Jason said, returning the salute. “Having fun out here?”

“Oh, loads, sir,” Lieutenant Shamir, leader of the Patton’s Marine Reaction Force, replied, shaking his head ruefully. “And don’t think I’m not counting the hours till my team and I switch with Gunny Lambert and the troops at the orbital base.”

Shamir had taken command of Gunny Lambert’s Reaction Force when their numbers had been filled out back on Earth. Lambert had been worried that he would be stuck with some wet-behind-the-ears butterbar, but Shamir was an good man, who had seen plenty of combat as an enlisted man before going to OCS.

Once the Patton had arrived insystem almost two weeks ago, she’d immediately dropped a prefab laboratory into a high orbit, and the Marines had been divided into two teams, one assigned to guard the ground base against any of Huerta’s group that might still bear a grudge, and the other to the orbital lab to serve mostly as gophers for the scientists. Jason and Shannon had spent their time shuttling between the two labs, waiting for answers, while Vinnie, Jock and Tom were busy assisting in relief efforts for the colonists.

“Captain McKay!” Rhajiv Mandila, the team’s chief pathologist, looked up from a bank of instruments and noticed their entrance. “I’m glad you’ve come—I’ve been leaving messages for you on the orbital lab for days now!” The researcher was a homely, horse-faced man with the shoulders of a dockworker, but one of the best minds the Republic had to offer.

“Sorry, Doc,” Jason explained. “Between getting the investigation teams set up and coordinating supply drops for the surviving colonists, we haven’t had a lot of spare time.”

“Well, you need to make time for this.” He waved a hand at the bank of instruments behind him. “I’ve got the results back from the DNA analysis on the tissue samples of the Invader biomechs.”

“‘Biomechs?’” Shannon repeated, brows furling.

“It’s a term we’ve come up with to describe the things,” Mandila explained.

“Are they machines?” Jason shook his head. His gaze wandered to the back of the laboratory, where one of the Invader corpses lay in a clear plastic coffin, suspended in chemical preservatives. He winced involuntarily at the sight of those shark-black eyes, looking no more lifeless in death than they had in life.

“It’s difficult to explain,” Mandila sighed.

Ari laughed. “Yeah, he’s been trying to explain it to me for three days now.”

“They’re not mechanical in the sense you’re probably thinking of,” the pathologist told them, “with circuits and servomotors, but they’re just as much the product of an assembly line as that pistol you’re wearing.” He nodded at Jason’s sidearm. “I don’t know if either of you are familiar with current cloning technology…”

“Assume we’re not,” Jason sighed, getting impatient with the man.

“Well,” Mandila said, raising a finger didactically, “as of about fifty years ago, we’ve had the ability to clone individual human tissues in a lab—we can grow muscle, nerve, even brain tissues in a vat and transplant them back to the donor. But this,” he waved back at the preserved corpse, “is a level of sophistication above that—at least fifty to a hundred years beyond what we can do now.”

“So they’re clones,” Jason deduced.

“Not like the ones you might have seen in science fiction movies.” The pathologist shook his head, a look of professional disapproval on his face. “That fantastic nonsense about taking a DNA sample and producing a full-grown life-form. No, someone or something cloned each tissue individually and assembled them like a biological robot—I’d venture to guess they must have used some extensive nanotechnological manufacturing technique.”

“That’s pretty damned advanced compared to their weapons technology,” Shannon observed.

“Especially when you consider that the biomechs aren’t a hundred percent biological—most of their skeletal structure has been reinforced with artificial material, but nothing as sophisticated as what you might expect from the biological part of their construction.” He hunted around on a line of sample trays and came up with a swatch of shiny metal. “Nothing more advanced than corrugated aluminum.”

“You’re kidding,” Jason muttered.

“You might think so,” Mandila acknowledged, obviously pleased with his little presentation. “Also, there’s a microcomputer built into the communication centers of the things’ brains—we think as a method of remote control. Now, I’m about the furthest thing from a computer expert on this expedition, but I sent one of the units up to our technical crew, and they tell me the technology is at least fifty years behind what we have.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.” Shannon rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Maybe that backs up your idea,” she told Jason, “about them being short on supplies. Maybe they’ve been scavenging whatever they could, no matter what level of technology it represented.”

“That’s one possibility,” Mandila said. “But that’s not the end of it. I was trying to tell you when you came in; we’ve completed our analysis of the biomech’s DNA—or rather, the DNA which was used to produce the creatures’ living tissue.” He hesitated dramatically, looking each of them in the eye in turn. “It’s human. Human right down to the last chromosome.”

* * *

“Oh, Captain McKay! Captain McKay!” Jason looked back and groaned inwardly as he saw the squat, hefty bulk of Dr. Andre Kovalev waddling down the corridor, his movements absurdly exaggerated in the half-gravity of the spinning tin can that was their temporary research base. The physicist was a pleasant enough man, but his penchant for long-windedness was as well-known among the mission’s staff as his love for loud, tasteless shirts.

“Hi, Dr. Kovalev.” McKay forced a smile. “What can I do for you?”

“Captain McKay, I have been looking for you since I heard you’d come back up from planetside,” Kovalev said, clapping his hands with delight. “I trust you found your visit with Rhajiv’s staff fruitful?”

McKay nodded. “Actually, Doc, I came back up because the Space team found something in orbit—I’m on my way to the docking bay right now, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh, wonderful, I’ll come with you!” Kovalev enthused. “I’ve been hoping we’d have some time to talk.”

Jason winced. He’d really wanted to use the walk to the bay to think—Mandila’s revelation had given him a lot to digest—and he couldn’t do much thinking if he had to engage in a tete-a-tete with the loquacious Dr. Kovalev. Only one thing to do, much as he hated the idea.

“So, Doc,” Jason said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you—could you explain to me one more time just how exactly the Eysselink drive works? I’ve never been too clear about it and I think a better understanding of it might help me figure out how our ships are being pirated.”

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” Kovalev assented cheerfully. More than anything else, the physicist loved to lecture—and getting him started on a monologue would give Jason time to think. “It’s an old idea, really—originated back in the 1980’s as a piece of scientific speculation called the ‘Alcubierre Spacetime Inflation Warp Drive.’ The original idea was to use strong, exotic fields with negative energy density to inflate the space behind a starship and deflate the space at its front…”

Jason let the man’s voice fade into a background drone as his thoughts travelled back to the conversation he’d had with Shannon on the way back to the city.

“You don’t really believe him, do you?” she’d asked him, a troubled look on her face.

He shook his head, glancing away from the dirt track for a moment. “Who? Dr. Mandila?”

“No,” she sighed. “Senator O’Keefe.”

“Oh.” He’d had the same troubling thoughts. “Well, there are other possibilities. If they are scavengers—well, a couple colony vessels were among the ships that disappeared. That could have afforded them access to human DNA.”

“But we don’t know that they’re scavengers,” she pointed out. “We don’t know that they’re behind the ship disappearances. All we know is that they, whoever they are, made those things out of human DNA.”

“Well, what other explanation is there?” He shrugged helplessly. “Even if I were to assume some rogue elements of our government were behind this, how would they have technology that our best biologist says is still at least fifty years away?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “All I’m saying is, we shouldn’t rule out anything at this point.”

“…but none of this would have been possible,” Kovalev’s voice crept through his reverie once again as they boarded a lift car, “without Adam Eysselink’s discovery of the gravimetic wavelength of energy, which made possible the use of gravimetic fields to produce the spacetime inflation effect. His detection of hyperphotonic particles in antimatter reactions back in ’41 was the true breakthrough…”

The lift car lurched upward, toward the station’s central core and his thoughts returned to Shannon’s words, and to the worry that gnawed unceasingly at his gut. What if O’Keefe were right? What if the government were behind all of this? Or the multicorporations? Certainly the multicorps had enough of a stake in the continued production of military hardware, and the big ones, like Republic Transportation, were almost part of the government.

Yet his logical mind rebelled at the idea of some vast government conspiracy. He’d heard so many of those cock-and-bull stories in the barracks from the Waco Cultists and the Elvis Worshippers, about how the government was controlled by socialist alien homosexuals, that he couldn’t buy it anymore. He knew Shannon didn’t seriously believe it, either, but she’d been unusually quiet during the drive back to Kennedy. They hadn’t quite made it back to the city when they’d gotten the call from Gunny Lambert, on the orbital research station. He hadn’t given them too many details, just told them the Space team had found something interesting in orbit and they might want to come up and take a look.

They’d docked in the station’s north lock and Shannon had gone on immediately to the bay at the opposite pole. He’d stayed back in the station’s control room long enough to contact the Patton and given Captain Patel an update on Mandila’s discovery, which had delayed him just enough to fall prey to Dr. Kovalev and his atomic mouth.

“…of course,” the physicist went on, his voice breaking slightly as the liftcar passed into zero gravity and the tip of his beard bounced playfully against his chest, “it took the work of Constance Decatur with the concept of electromagnetic lensing technology to focus the hyperphotons off the antimatter reaction into the drive field. Which left the problem of the tidal forces inherent in this kind of warping of the fabric of spacetime. While we can shape the Eysselink field to reduce these forces, we have not, as yet, been able to eliminate them altogether—the best we have been able to accomplish is to focus this tidal disruption into a straight-line acceleration analog proportional to the energy being pumped into the field. This necessitates the unfortunate inconvenience of the g-tanks, which I personally find…”

“Hey, here we are,” McKay interrupted, feeling the car come to a halt. “Thanks for the explanation, Doc, I really appreciate it. Maybe we can talk more later.”

“It was my pleasure, Captain,” the man assured him, beaming, as they kicked out of the lift and floated into the station’s auxiliary docking bay.

Shannon, he saw, was there already, along with Gunny Lambert and two of the orbital station’s department heads: Sandra Cerrano, a senior investigator for the Spaceflight Safety Commission, and Dr. Kwane Munfimi, the expedition’s chief xenobiologist—all gathered around a massive, dingy-white object, its semi-ovoid shape somehow familiar to McKay, but its outline oddly lumpy and irregular. It took Jason a moment to realize what the thing was: an unopened Invader drop-pod.

“Holy shit,” he murmured, slowly floating forward. “Where the hell did you find this thing?”

“Floating in high orbit,” Cerrano answered him. She was an unassuming, mousey young woman with black hair cut severely short. “There used to be a small rocket pack attached to the ass-end of the pod to kick it into the atmosphere; it apparently failed to ignite.”

“So the… biomechs are still in there?” McKay eyed the pod uncomfortably.

“We’re about to find out,” Lambert told him. He pointed to a series of wires running from the pod’s diameter to a small control box held by Sandra Cerrano. “She’s about to pop the sucker open.”

“I would advise everyone,” Cerrano said, raising the control box, “to move back against the wall.”

They’d hardly had time to attempt to follow her direction when she hit the control and the explosive bolts that ringed the pod ignited with a series of sharp bangs that made Jason’s ears pop. A hiss of carbon dioxide escaped from the pod’s innards as it split down the middle like a coconut, the halves floating apart until they came up against the netting that was stretched over the opposite sides of the bay.

McKay tensed as an armored shape drifted out of one of the hemispheres, but it hovered motionless between the pod halves, limp and lifeless. Cerrano and Munfimi moved eagerly toward the pod, joined a bit more hesitantly by the others. Munfimi, a slim, lanky man with eyes that seemed to be too large for his head, approached the ejected Invader trooper; while Cerrano inspected the inside of the pod.

“What’s the stuff covering the outside?” Jason asked the Spaceflight Safety investigator, trying not to come too close to the armored troop while Munfimi worked at the fastenings of its armor.

“Styrofoam, believe it or not,” the woman told him. “Simple and cheap, but very efficient—it’s nonreflective to radar or laser sensors. Unless you had a telescope trained on the thing, you’d never see it.”

“Another anomaly,” Shannon said, watching Munfimi pull the helmet off the biomech. The corpse was perfectly preserved, its black eyes staring into nothingness. “Aside from the genetic engineering used to produce the biomechs, every piece of technology we’ve seen so far is retro.”

“Especially the weapons,” Lambert commented, prying the assault rifle from the trooper’s harness and turning the bullpup-configuration firearm over in his hands. “I’ve shot a lot of antique pieces, but this…” He popped out the magazine and scowled at the brass-cased rounds within. “Jeez, brass cases, steel-core bullets—nobody’s used this shit for the last hundred years.”

“Everything we’ve seen is a century obsolete,” Shannon said emphatically. “Take that heavy-lift shuttle we blew at the spaceport: binary-propellent liquid chemical rockets, for God’s sake. We’ve been using solid-fuel particle-bed nuclear engines since the end of the last century. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like that shuttle except in a museum…” She trailed off, a thoughtful look settling over her features. “A museum,” she repeated.

Jason turned from the edge of the pod, staring at her curiously.

“What is it?” he asked her.

“I have seen that shuttle in a museum,” she declared. “Or, rather, one almost identical to it. The National Air and Space Museum in the States. There was a scale model of a launch vehicle just like that shuttle—it was a Russian Protectorate spacecraft, one of the ones Antonov used to set up his Lunar base.”

“Those were heady times,” Kovalev said, his voice almost wistful. “My grandfather was an engineer for Premier Antonov’s space program—he escaped to the U.S. just days before the nuclear exchange. He used to put me and my brothers to bed at night with tales of the rise of the Protectorate.” He looked each of them in the eye. “I know that Antonov is seen as a dictator nowadays, but at the time, he was seen by the poor and powerless of Eastern Europe as a savior, coming forward to lead Mother Russia back to her days of glory. And, for a time, he did. He got us back into space, reaching to the asteroid belt and bringing back precious mineral resources. Had he not become foolishly involved with the Chinese Conflict, history might have treated him much differently. Even today, among the survivors, the tales are told that Premier Antonov did not die in the bombardment, but escaped with his most loyal troops in the Protectorate’s remaining spaceships to hide somewhere in the asteroid belt.”

“That’s where I’ve seen this gun before.” Gunny Lambert looked up from the Invader rifle, only half-listening to Kovalev’s reminiscence. “I shot one of these puppies at Camp Perry—it’s an old Russian Kalashnikov AKL-99 automatic rifle…” He stopped in midsentence, suddenly aware of what he’d just said, and his head snapped up, eyes wide.

Shannon looked from him to Kovalev and back again, and Jason’s gaze danced back and forth between all three of them.

“Pardon me,” Sandra Cerrano spoke up from the drop pod, “but just what the hell are you talking about?”

“It adds up,” Shannon admitted. “The biomechs were created from human DNA by someone or something. They had to get the material somewhere. They obtained or copied their weapons and equipment from the same place they got the genetic material—from survivors of the Russian Protectorate who escaped to the Belt during the nuclear exchange.”

“But that’s just a rumor,” Kovalev protested. “A legend.”

“I think we have dramatic proof right here,” Shannon pointed out, “that it was based on fact.”

There was a moment of stunned silence as the impact of her statement sunk home.

Gunny Lambert finally chuckled, still looking at the rifle. “Well, the xenobiologists are sure gonna be pissed.”

Jason shook his head. “That can’t be all there is to it. Even if you’re right—even if some of the Russians did escape to the Belt, and even if they were somehow captured by some alien intelligence who used them to produce these biomechs, why wait a hundred years to make a move? Why copy the Russian technology if they could get as close to us as the Belt? Why not just snatch a modern cargo hauler and use that technology?”

“He’s right,” Kovalev agreed. “I can believe that the DNA and the weapons came from Antonov’s ships, but that is not the whole story. If you are right about everything else you say…” He frowned, as taciturn as Jason had seen him. “There was another rumor my grandfather heard in the days before the War. He never really believed it, but its spread was severely discouraged—men and women who told it disappeared—so he did not forget it.” His face contorted, as if he didn’t want to continue. “The first mission to the asteroid belt, there was much publicity surrounding it. It was more of a political statement than a scientific expedition—Mother Russia regaining her ascendancy and all that. There was much embarrassment when contact was lost with the two ships. Officially they were listed as lost, but my grandfather heard from a woman involved with the training that she saw one of the men who was on one of the ships.” Kovalev’s heavy breathing had sent him floating off to one side and he came up against the far wall unprepared, grunting as he grasped for a handhold.

“Sorry,” he said, wincing. “This woman said she saw the man being rushed from a landing shuttle to a security vehicle. She asked around with a friend she knew who was the local intelligence officer. He had heard something—he said one of the ships had come back. The crew said they had… fallen? Fallen through a hole in space somewhere in the asteroid belt. Both ships had gone through this hole, but only they had arrived on the other side.”

“A hole in space?” Cerrano repeated dubiously. “As a physicist, don’t you find that a bit hard to swallow?”

“As a physicist, Ms. Cerrano,” Kovalev said, staring at her, his good-natured long-windedness quashed by the eerie atmosphere which had descended upon the occupants of the bay, “I know about such possibilities as singularities, wormholes and many things I would find ‘hard to swallow.’ But many of them exist, nonetheless.”

“This gateway,” Shannon asked him. “It was supposed to lead to another solar system?”

“My grandfather’s colleague assumed so, but she disappeared before she could tell him anything else.”

“So let me get this straight.” Jason held up a hand, face screwed up in consternation. “You’re saying that over a hundred years ago, a Russian spaceship stumbled upon some kind of gate somewhere in the asteroid belt that transported them to another star system. They came back, but before anything could be done about it, the Sino-Russian War breaks out and Antonov took a ship and went back through that hole. Then, somewhere on the other side, something got hold of him and his crew and his technology, a century later, and decided to use it to invade a colony world to loot a few computers?”

“Yes, that’s the troubling part.” Munfimi agreed. “Even assuming the other details are true, which is quite a leap—forgive me, Dr. Kovalev—then we still fall upon the question, why attack Aphrodite? If they needed resupply, why not simply continue to hijack our ships, as they obviously have been? They must surely have expended more resources attacking this colony than they recouped in their occupation.”

“Yeah,” Lambert agreed. “And after we blew the spaceport, they didn’t even try to reestablish a beachhead—they just pulled out. What’s with that?”

“Oh, my God.”

All heads turned at Jason’s almost involuntary utterance. His face seemed pale, his eyes staring intently into space.

“Anybody ever heard,” McKay asked quietly, “of the Spanish Civil War?”

“Shit, you’re right,” Shannon blurted.

“What?” Munfimi wanted to know. “What’s this got to do with Spain?”

“You know about World War Two?” Jason asked the man. “Hitler, the Nazis, the Holocaust?” The xenobiologist nodded. “Back before the war started, Hitler installed a puppet government in power in Spain. The Democrats rebelled against it, and Hitler used the revolution as an opportunity to test his military machine before he threw it at the rest of Europe. Kind of a dress rehearsal.”

“Do you really think that’s it, sir?” Lambert asked him, seeming worried. “I mean, we’re assuming an awful lot, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, and assuming usually makes an ASS out of U and ME, I know,” Jason acknowledged. “But Colonel Mellanby sent us out here to get some answers, and this is as close as we’ve come.”

“You think they did this as a… ‘dress rehearsal,’ then?” Kovalev asked him. “But a rehearsal for what?”

“There’s only one target worth that kind of effort,” Jason explained. “And that’s Earth.”

Chapter Fifteen

“Once we have a war, there is only one thing left to do. It must be won. For defeat brings worse things than any that can ever happen in war.”

—Ernest Hemingway

Shannon sipped carefully at her cappuccino, watching the pedestrians stroll casually through Reagan Plaza, reveling in the unseasonable warmth of the New York autumn.

They don’t know, she thought. They’re walking around with their heads up their ass like it’s any other day.

“Would you like anything else?” the waiter asked her. This was one of Capital City’s more upscale street bistros, with real live people to wait on you instead of the usual robot serving carts and computerized menu screens.

She shook her head. “I’m waiting for someone.”

He gave a disinterested nod and wandered off to find a better tipper, leaving her alone with her thoughts. It seemed odd to be back on Earth again so soon, as if she’d stepped right off the arid plains of Aphrodite and onto the streets of Capital City. It had happened almost that fast.

“Somebody has to go back,” Jason had said, out of thin air, as they lay together in his small cabin aboard the research base. “Colonel Mellanby needs to hear what we’ve found out.”

“It should be one of us,” she agreed, turning over to face him. His hair was tousled and unruly from their lovemaking, making the serious expression he wore seem strangely incongruous. “One can take the courier and the other can stay and wrap up the investigation, then bring back the Patton.”

“Who goes?” He grimaced, obviously disliking the idea but knowing she was right.

“I’ll go,” she volunteered.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve had enough of being a leader of men to last me a while,” she said.

“What if we’re too late?” Jason’s eyes stared through the walls, trying to see all the way back home. “What if they’ve already done it?”

“Then I won’t stay long,” she answered, smiling.

He glanced back at her, something behind his eyes even more serious than the idea of an alien invader.

“Be careful, okay?” he said quietly. “I… I love you.”

“I’ll be careful,” she told him, burying her face in the crook of his arm. “I promise.”

She still wondered, sitting there nearly two months later in a corner of Reagan Plaza, why she had avoided telling him her feelings. The question had haunted her strung-out g-sleep dreams, and had been on her mind even as she sat in Colonel Mellanby’s office up in Republic Spacefleet Headquarters this morning.

He’d listened to her report in silence, eyes as cold as flint, not showing a bit of surprise—as if he’d come up with this idea months ago and was only waiting for her to come a couple dozen light years and confirm it.

“I know there’s a lot of unanswered questions in our theory,” she’d concluded, “but we felt like we should get what we had to you now and let you make the call, sir.”

“You did the right thing,” he told her. “I’m not a hundred percent sold on this link to the Russians, but at least two things are abundantly clear. Whoever was behind the attack on Aphrodite knows enough about us to use our genetic material to create these biomechs.” He sat back in his chair, his expression as close to worried as she’d ever seen it. “And secondly, McKay’s right about the purpose of the attack. It makes no sense as anything but a practice run for an invasion of Earth.”

“What are we going to do, sir?” Shannon asked, hoping he would have an answer that she hadn’t thought of yet.

“What I’m going to do,” he said, rising from his chair so abruptly it startled her, “is get myself an immediate audience with President Jameson and apprize him of the situation. After that, your guess is as good as mine.”

“What about me, sir?” she asked him, hopping to her feet as he strode quickly to the door.

“Take some leave, Lieutenant, but don’t lose your comlink, in case anything comes up.” He paused just a step away from her, fixing her with a curious glance. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

“Sir?” She shook her head, confused. She felt intensely uncomfortable this close to him, as if she were hand-feeding an uncaged leopard.

“You’ve got something beside this threat report on your mind. And anything serious enough to preoccupy you when we’re facing a possible attack from aliens has to be worth my attention.”

She swallowed hard, not accustomed to having her feelings so easily read.

“It’s…,” she stuttered, feeling as if she were compelled to answer him. “It’s about Jason, sir… Captain McKay.”

“He’s a good man,” Mellanby agreed, as if he hadn’t picked up her train of thought. “I trust you two have developed a good working relationship?” There was a glint in his eye that she would have described as mischievous on someone lacking his reputation.

“Well, yes,” she answered quickly, fighting a sinking feeling that this conversation was rapidly spinning out of control. “That’s… I mean, we’ve become very close…”

“I would hope so,” the Snake said with a grin. “After all, you’ll be working together for a long time—quite possibly the rest of your careers.” She began to shake her head, still believing he was missing her point, but she was interrupted by his quiet, surprisingly friendly laugh. “Shannon,” he said, using her first name for the first time since she’d known him, “whatever is between you and Jason personally is your own business, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your performance. And as far as I can determine, it hasn’t as yet. Does that assuage your concerns?”

“Yes, sir.” She smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Go take some leave,” he ordered, then stepped purposefully out the door, leaving her alone in his office.

She’d followed his advice, calling her mother in Ireland to let her know she’d be visiting within a couple days—and making one more call, to wrap up some unfinished business.

Shannon looked up from her glass and saw that unfinished business striding across the plaza, backlit by the setting sun, dressed in black. She had a sudden urge to run to him, to throw herself into his arms and run away to some secluded spot for an afternoon of passion. But something stood in her way: something with brown hair and earnest grey eyes and a crooked smile—something called love.

She stood as Nathan Tanaka approached, pulling off his mirrored sunglasses.

“I did not think,” he said, kissing her hand lightly, “that I would be seeing you again so soon—if ever.”

“Neither did I,” she admitted, feeling her way back into her chair and waving him into the seat opposite her. “I felt I should apologize for the way I treated you back on Aphrodite.”

“There is nothing to apologize for, Shannon,” he told her. “I don’t believe either of us exchanged marriage vows or promises of faithfulness, unless I was asleep.”

Shannon chuckled softly, covering his hand with hers.

“I know,” she agreed. “We were both consenting adults with no illusions about sex. But there was no excuse for my avoiding you.”

“You and Captain McKay had a lot of catching up to do,” Nathan reasoned. “I would not have begrudged you that time together. I could see in your eyes the feelings between you. Even when we were together, I could see it.”

“Could you?” Shannon fought back a blush, even more embarrassed by the fact that she was embarrassed.

“Don’t worry, Shannon,” he assured her. “You were not a giddy teenager, by any stretch of the imagination. Reading people’s faces is a skill necessary to one in my profession. My father used to say that not even a samurai could guard his eyes.”

“Do you ever see him?” she asked. “Or your mother?”

“Mother visits once a year.” His face softened, his voice becoming as close to wistful as she’d heard from him. “Father died over ten years ago. He was guarding a corporate executive during a visit to the Mars colony. He was killed in an attack on the mine facilities by Martian separatists.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, squeezing his hand. “That must have been rough on your mother.”

“Not as bad as the thought of the same thing happening to me,” he replied. “She has asked me at least once every year since his death to retire to Japan, to teach the young men and women of the clan.”

“But you have to stay with Valerie,” Shannon said, mouth turning down almost imperceptibly. “How is the little princess?”

“Visibly pregnant and almost invisible socially.” Tanaka didn’t seem comfortable with the subject. “Actually, she’s here in the Capital, with Mr. Mulrooney and the Senator, listening to the President’s End-of-Session Address—they’re to go to Luna after the recess and stay till her baby is delivered. It seems it will be an easier delivery in the lighter gravity.”

“Guess I caught you just in time, then,” Shannon concluded, taking a sip of her drink.

He nodded. “Another six hours, and I would have been on the shuttle with them.”

“Should be a fun vacation,” she sniffed. “I’ll bet Mulrooney’s loving this.”

“It is a difficult time,” Nathan admitted. “But Ms. O’Keefe is handling it as well as can be expected.” He glanced at his watch. “I should really be getting back to the Center.”

“And I need to catch a flight,” she said, sliding back her chair and coming to her feet. “I just wanted to talk to you first.”

“I hope you and Jason have much happiness.” Tanaka stood, taking her hand. “He is a good man—you are truly worthy of each other.”

“Thank you, Nathan.” She pulled him into a kiss, with all of the feeling, if not the desire, they’d shared once before. “I hope,” she told him as she slipped out of his arms, “that you find someone worthy of you.”

“To find two such women in one lifetime,” he said with a shake his head, “would surely be a miracle. Take care, Shannon.”

She gave him one last smile, then turned, without another word, and walked away. Yet she couldn’t help but think that she wasn’t just walking away from something—she was also walking toward something.

So intent was she on walking toward something that she didn’t hear Tanaka’s shouted warning, didn’t notice the huge shadow passing overhead until the bodyguard slammed into her from behind, knocking her out of the way just as the thing plowed into the tiled surface of Reagan Plaza. Hitting the ground with a flare of pain from her hip and shoulder, Shannon cursed reflexively but was unable to hear her own voice above the shriek of tearing metal as another of the teardrop-shaped, bat-winged craft slammed directly into the Freedom Tower at the center of the plaza, sending the skeletal structure toppling like a felled oak into the awning of one of the outdoor bistros.

For a horrible, frozen moment, all Shannon could manage was to stare wide-eyed at the black shapes of the Invader drop pods swooping down over Capital City like vultures on a rotting corpse, and amid the terrified screams of the onlookers and the muffled bangs of explosive bolts ominously detonating, all she could hear was a wailing voice screaming in her head—“Too late! We were too late!”

“Shannon, come on!” Nathan jerked her to her feet. “We have to get to the Senate!”

Snapping out of her fugue, she glanced disorientedly from the bifurcating pods to Tanaka’s desperate frown.

“The Senator,” she realized.

“Not just the Senator,” he corrected. “The President!”

“Oh, my God,” she hissed, scrambling to her feet. No sooner had she moved than a burst of gunfire ripped into the section of pavement she’d occupied only a heartbeat before, the ricochets spanging off the fusion-form cement in every direction.

Nathan and Shannon darted behind the low wall of a fountain, out of sight of the squad of Invader biomechs who’d emerged from the nearest pod. The fusillade followed them, spraying water and chips of sculpted marble cherub over their backs as they hugged the pavement. Shannon clawed at the cargo pocket of her utility fatigues, grasping desperately for the compact handgun concealed there, but the firing suddenly cut off.

Nathan risked a glance around the edge of the fountain wall and saw the squad of Invaders jogging off in a loose wedge out of the plaza, following at least three other groups of the biomechs whose pods had fallen into the square.

“They’re going,” Shannon breathed, finally freeing the pistol from the folds of her pocket.

“They’ve been called away,” Nathan deduced. “They’re being directed.”

“To the Senate?” she guessed.

“We have to get there first.” He pulled her to her feet and led her out of the plaza at a sprint.

* * *

President Gregory Jameson surveyed his audience, looking over the faces of the collected representatives of every nation on Earth, as well as the larger orbital colonies, Luna Dome and the Martian Habitats. In some ways, this was his favorite day of the year, because he was presiding over the best the human race had to offer—it made him proud and full of hope. In other ways, it was his favorite day of the year because he wouldn’t have to listen to the incessant whining of the biggest bunch of Goddamned selfish crybabies in the universe.

He sighed, trying to shake off the negative emotions. Glancing at the foot of the platform, he nodded to Charlie Klesko, the agent in charge of his security detail. The solid, shaven-headed man had been with him since his election, and the sight of him parked there in his unfashionably plain suit had become something of a comfort. But looming behind him were the huge, bronze double-doors of the main entrance, inlaid with the seal of the Republic, reminding him of why he was here.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Senate,” Jameson began, trying to collect his thoughts. “I thank you for inviting me here again to address you on the occasion of the Senate’s annual recess. I’ve given this speech many times before, so many that it’s become rather automatic. But I feel this time is different. This may be the most important speech I’ll ever give… and the most important one you’ll ever hear.

“Those of you who sit on the Security and Space committees have already been briefed about the ship disappearances, and the rest of you have probably heard the rumors about the events on Aphrodite. Today, I’m here to tell you that these rumors are true. About nine months ago, the Aphrodite colony was invaded by unknown forces.” He paused, waiting for the rumbling aftershocks to travel through the audience. Many of them had heard the news already, he was sure, but even those tried to act surprised since it had officially been top-secret.

“Due to the bravery and resourcefulness of certain members of our armed forces, whom you will be meeting in a few months, the invasion force withdrew, leaving us valuable clues that are even now being analyzed by investigative teams. We are certain of only one thing at this point: there is a non-human enemy out there capable of star-travel and perfectly willing to use force to take what they want.”

“So what makes them any different than your regime?” Glen muttered to himself, seated beside Valerie and Senator O’Keefe near the back of the auditorium. The Senator usually stayed near the head of the pack for speeches such as this, but Valerie was a bit sensitive about her pregnancy—it had taken an hour’s worth of cajoling for her father to get her to agree to attend with him, and the conditions had been that they would sit near the back and leave immediately afterward.

Valerie, hearing Glen’s comment, fixed him with a hard stare.

“Maybe someday,” she said, “you’ll stop thinking like an ideologue, Glen, and start thinking like a statesman.”

He bit back his initial response and shut up. Things had been tense since they’d returned and she’d told him about the pregnancy—as if she blamed him for what happened. He still didn’t buy her story about the g-sleep cancelling out his sterilization treatments; he had his own idea of what happened. She’d been raped by Huerta or one of his goons, and made McKay promise not to tell anyone about it—that’s what he thought.

He was willing to cut her a little slack if it would help her deal with it, but if she got any worse, he was going to have to insist she go to counselling. The one thing he couldn’t figure out was why she was so determined to keep the baby. She’d told him that by the time she’d found out, it was too late to abort it legally—fine, but why not have it transferred to a surrogate and put up for adoption? Especially if he was right, and she had been raped?

He shook his head and tried to listen to the rest of Jameson’s speech.

“I don’t intend,” the President was saying, “to use this turn of events as a political tool. In times such as these, we must work together and put our past differences behind us. We have defenses in place around all of our colony worlds, but we have no way of knowing if these will prove adequate to the task. The Department of Defense is already in the process of mobilizing every possible asset for shipment out to the colonies to augment the ships and troops already in place. What we will need, however, and sooner rather than later, is more starships. I am putting in a request, which I will forward to the Senate immediately after the recess, that all Corporate cargo ships be refitted with weapons and defensive systems, restaffed with military crews, and used to patrol the colonies. I’ve already talked to the heads of the transportation multicorps, and I’ve been assured they will cooperate completely. What I ask of you, upon your return, is to move up the construction of the three cruisers already authorized by the Defense Spending Act—we’ll need them, both to replace the MacArthur, which was destroyed during the attack on Aphrodite, and to prepare for any further such attacks.”

His eyes scanned back and forth across the auditorium, wondering how these men and women would react to the news. Would they do the right thing, unite against a common foe, or continue their petty squabbling until the wolf was knocking at the door?

“I realize,” he continued, “that we have many unsolved problems: the issue of the forced emigrants, the political unrest in Eastern Europe and South America, the independence movements on Mars and the Jovian colonies, and the continuing debate over the ethics of our plan to terraform Venus. But these must take a back seat, for the moment, to the immediate threat. I implore all of you, no matter what your political orientation, to join together with me and the whole of the human race in this time of danger. I continue to hope that there may be some way we can contact whoever was responsible for the attack and perhaps bring all this to some kind of peaceful conclusion, but the brutal and unprovoked nature of their actions makes this less than likely.

“We don’t have a clue as to where they may strike next, but I promise you that we will be prepared for them, and no more of our citizens abroad will fall victim to their predations.”

A jackhammer echo from the auditorium’s front hallway made Jameson glance around in mid-sentence. At the foot of the podium, Charlie Klesko’s head snapped up, one hand going to his earpiece transmitter and the other slipping under his jacket to the machine pistol holstered beneath his left arm.

Jameson tried to compose himself and continue with his speech, but another, closer burst of the sharp, hammer-blow noises interrupted him again.

“Sir!” Klesko started up the stairs to the platform, eyes filled with uncharacteristic fear. “You’ve got to get out of here!”

Klesko was only halfway up the stairs when two of the security agents standing closest to the main entrance vanished in a fireball that stretched from floor to ceiling. Jameson watched in horror as time seemed to slip into a slower, nightmarish pace. He could see the tide of flame wash out of the blast centimeter by centimeter, slowly passing over the seats closest to the entrance as half a dozen people ignited from its heat, dying before they could scream as the superheated gas burned through their lungs. The edge of the blast crept forward, tossing Klesko off the step, limbs flailing, even as Jameson felt it slam into him like a giant fist, knocking him off his feet.

As his back touched the platform, time rushed back into fast motion with a thunderclap of sound and a wave of heat that stole the breath from his chest. The reverberation of the blast faded, the void it left filled by the panicked screams of the audience as they rushed for the exits—and straight into the flashing muzzles of Invader autorifles.

Invader biomechs, faceless behind their helmet visors, poured in through the side exits, laying down a withering swathe of rifle-fire. Senators and their families fell like dominoes, those in the front ranks dying under the impact of the high-caliber slugs, those further back trampling each other underfoot as they retreated from the deadly hail.

Gasping helplessly, lolling on his side on the platform, Jameson could only watch the carnage unfold before him. He let his head sag, trying to look away from the slaughter, and saw a long shadow stretching down the main hallway. It was humanoid in shape, but moved with an unnatural, halting gait entirely unlike the fluid movements of the armored troopers. His stunned, barely-coherent mind envisioned some kind of monstrous ogre tramping through the hallways, a horrific, computer-generated beast from the fantasy movies of his youth.

What actually emerged from the corridor was more plausible, if no less threatening. Lurching into view came the dull-grey bulk of a massive suit of powered armor, over three meters tall, one of its arms terminating in the gaping maw of an autoloading cannon, a dish-shaped transmission antenna mounted on one shoulder. Behind it, like remoras clinging to a great white, swarmed a handful of dark-uniformed figures, faces covered by visored helmets, hands filled with the same autorifles the biomechs carried.

They spread out along the platform, surrounding Jameson as the bulky armored battlesuit lumbered into a defensive position facing the main entrance. In the background, Jameson could hear the Invader troops firing into the crowd, methodically executing them, but his attention was frozen on the black-clad humanoids that surrounded him. The one closest to him was talking into a helmet comlink, voice muffled by the mirrored visor, but there was something eerily familiar about the cadence of his words—something not at all alien.

The figure abruptly turned toward him, the muzzle of the autorifle swinging around to point directly at Jameson’s forehead. The President gritted his teeth in anticipation of the shot he expected would end his life, but instead the muzzle of the rifle swung upward and the black-uniformed figure casually slapped back his visor, sliding it up over the crown of his helmet.

“Jesus Christ,” Jameson gasped.

The face beneath that visor wasn’t the blue-skinned visage of a manufactured biomech—it was unmistakably human.

“Get up,” the man told him in English.

Jameson stared at him in disbelief. The face was young, with dark eyes and a crooked nose, and Jameson thought he’d heard a hint of Eastern European in his accent.

“I said, get up!” The man impatiently grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet. Jameson was too stunned to resist as the man pushed him down the platform stairs and toward the main entrance, past the imposing bulk of the battlesuit.

“Who are you?” Jameson finally found his voice as the man guided him down the corridor, over the smoldering remains of the entrance doors.

“Shut up,” his captor growled. “Move.”

Jameson briefly considered trying to jump the man, making a break for it—but he knew that would be suicide, and the old soldier in him wouldn’t let him give up that easy. Still, as he heard the screams of the dying slowly ebb behind him, he couldn’t help but wonder if they hadn’t been the lucky ones.

Chapter Sixteen

“He that dies pays all debts.”

—Shakespeare, “The Tempest”

“What’s that sound?” Senator Daniel O’Keefe wondered, cocking his head toward the jackhammer echo that filtered in from somewhere outside the auditorium.

“Sounds almost like…” Valerie’s voice trailed off, a haunted look coming into her eyes. “Daddy, I want to leave.”

“Honey,” he protested, “the speech isn’t over yet.”

“I want to go now!” she insisted. “Glen?” she looked pleadingly at her fiancé’, clutching at his wrist.

“Maybe we’d better go, sir,” Glen sighed, pushing himself to his feet.

“All right, all right.” O’Keefe stood, beginning to lead them out one of the side exits, hoping to remain unobtrusive.

They’d only gone a few steps when a second blast of noise, closer this time, sounded through the auditorium, and Glen could see behind him some kind of activity toward the front of the building, near where the President was speaking. The security personnel manning the side doors began jogging quickly to the front.

“Just what the hell is going on out there, anyway?” he wondered, following Val and her father.

They’d almost made it to the nearest exit door when the explosion blew in the main entrance, a ball of fire that flash-roasted the onlookers nearest the blast and seared scores more, their agonized shrieks nearly inaudible in the reverberation of the thunderclap. A wave of sound and hot wind slammed into the three of them in mid-step, sending them tumbling into the wall and throwing Glen through the exit door for which they’d been aiming as it unexpectedly opened outward before him.

Glen landed hard on his left elbow, but a cry of pain died stillborn on his lips as he found himself face to face with the dead eyes and expressionless blue visage of an Invader biomech. Mulrooney sprang to his feet with a shout of alarm, but then frowned in confusion as he realized that the creature was dead, the back of its skull blown off along with its helmet.

“Where is Ms. O’Keefe?” A viselike grip on Glen’s shoulder spun him around into the mask of intensity that was Nathan Tanaka. Glen blinked, staring past the man in disbelief at the sight of Shannon Stark guarding their backs with an Invader autorifle, a half-dozen dead biomechs stacked like cordwood in the narrow alleyway between the main auditorium and the Senate office building.

“In there.” Glen jerked a thumb back through the door.

Tanaka pushed past him, unslinging his appropriated rifle and ducking through the partially-open exit into the cacophonous slaughterhouse which the auditorium had become. Valerie O’Keefe and her father lay huddled together against the wall just inside the door, frozen with shock and fright while the Invader troops advanced across the breadth of the chamber, killing anything human in their path.

Nathan grabbed a handful of Senator O’Keefe’s lapel and tossed him bodily through the doorway, then leaned over to yank Valerie to her feet. He was pushing her toward the exit when something—maybe it was the way she stiffened in his grasp, maybe it was pure instinct—spun him around on his heel. Keeping his left hand on her arm, he brought up his Invader carbine with the other and chopped a long burst into the face of an oncoming biomech trooper, sending it jerking backwards nervelessly. Shoving Valerie toward the exit, Tanaka sprayed the rest of his magazine at a clot of advancing Invaders, then dove through the door just ahead of a fusillade of answering fire.

Glen Mulrooney kicked the door closed as the bodyguard emerged, and then they were sprinting down the alleyway with Shannon in the lead, Nathan struggling to reload his rifle as he brought up the rear. Shannon held up a closed fist to halt them as she came to the mouth of the passage, where the Capital Center opened up into Reagan Plaza. Tanaka came up beside her, jacking a round into battery from a fresh clip of ammunition.

“Did you see the President?” she asked, sparing him a glance.

“There were too many of them,” he said. “If he’s alive, the Invaders have him.”

“That makes it even more important we get you to safety, Senator,” Shannon told O’Keefe. “You might be all that’s left of our elected government.”

“Oh, my God,” Daniel O’Keefe hissed, leaning heavily against the alley wall.

“They’re all dead,” Valerie whispered, looking back the way they’d come, toward the Senate chamber. “Oh, Lord, they’re all dead.”

“And it’s still not too late for us to join them,” Shannon snapped. “There.” She suddenly pointed out across the plaza, past the ruined shells of a score of Invader drop pods. Tanaka followed her gaze to a far corner of the square, eyes drawn by the strobe of flashing lights.

A Capital Police flitter rested almost unnoticed next to a sidewalk cafe, its doors thrown open. Not ten meters from the ducted-fan hovercraft, the bodies of two uniformed police officers lay sprawled on the pavement, riddled with Invader slugs. None of the biomechs were in sight at the moment—she guessed they had moved on to the Capital Center.

“We need to get to that flitter,” Shannon announced. “It doesn’t look damaged—it could take us out of the city.”

“To where?” Valerie demanded shrilly, pulling away from Glen and standing in the middle of the alleyway, arms wrapped around herself. “Where can we go? They followed us all the way from Aphrodite—where can we run to that they won’t follow? Oh, God…” She began sobbing uncontrollably, shoulders shaking.

“Ms. O’Keefe.” Nathan gently took her arm. She looked into his eyes, her face streaked with tears, looking very much like the little girl who’d just seen her mother die.

“Nathan?” she stammered, as if she’d just noticed him.

“Ms. O’Keefe, you must stay with us,” he told her firmly but softly. “I swear to you, I will keep you safe.”

“All right, Nathan,” she said, wiping at her eyes.

“Nathan,” Shannon said. “Keep them here—I’m going to try to get across and get that thing started. If anything happens…”

“I will do what is necessary,” he told her. “Take care, Shannon.”

Shannon took one last careful look around, then headed out across the plaza in a zigzag route, running from cover to cover.

“How can she just run out there like that?” Glen wondered, shaking his head.

“She sees what must be done,” Tanaka explained, fixing the man with an unreadable gaze, “and she knows no one else will do it. That is called courage.”

Glen didn’t answer, but the look on his face was thoughtful—and ashamed.

Nathan turned back to following Shannon’s progress, feeling a surge of optimism as he saw that she was more than halfway to the aircraft, taking cover for a moment behind the shell of one of the Invader drop pods. Nathan was so wrapped up in observing Shannon that he nearly missed the faint scraping sound behind them as the door to the auditorium slowly pushed open.

“Nathan!” Valerie O’Keefe’s cry brought him around, the borrowed rifle coming up to his shoulder as he fell into a crouch.

Tanaka’s finger was tightening on the trigger when the door swung outward and a man in a dark dress suit fell through, slumping on the alley floor, barely conscious.

“Jesus,” Senator O’Keefe exclaimed, running up to the man, ignoring Tanaka’s yell that he should stay back.

Glen rushed to help him and, together, they hauled the big man by the armpits, bringing him back to the mouth of the alley where Tanaka and Val waited.

“Who is he?” Valerie asked, staring at the man. He was solidly-built, perhaps in his forties, with hair shaven close to the scalp and the face of a Marine drill sergeant. As Valerie spoke, his eyes fluttered and opened with a flash of thundercloud-grey.

“The President!” he exclaimed, shrugging away from O’Keefe and Mulrooney and straightening with sudden intensity, eyes flashing around in confusion. “Where… who are you people?”

“I’m Senator O’Keefe,” the older man told him. “Who are you, son?”

“Klesko, Presidential Security Detail,” he snapped. An agonized hiss escaped his lips. “Oh, Christ, they took him!”

“The Invaders?” Glen asked him.

Before the man could answer, Tanaka saw Shannon signalling from the flitter that the way was clear.

“Time for talk later,” Nathan announced. “We’re moving out.” He caught the security chief’s eye. “Agent Klesko, are you armed?”

The big man felt under his jacket and came up with a compact, boxy machine pistol.

“Never had time to get it out,” he admitted ruefully.

“I will lead,” Tanaka told him. “You watch our rear.” He swept a stern glance across the others. “You must all move quickly and go exactly where I go. Is this understood?”

“We’re with you, Nathan,” Daniel O’Keefe assured him. He seemed to have shaken off his shock; his voice was clear and purposeful.

The bodyguard led them out of the alley at a trot, glancing carefully back every few seconds to make sure the others were keeping up. Glen had an arm around Val’s waist and was half-carrying her to make sure she didn’t fall behind. Though her loose-fitting, privately-tailored dress hid the fact well, it was painfully evident that she was entering the third trimester of her pregnancy as she struggled to keep the pace. Tanaka bit back a curse, slowing so as not to put too much distance between them, though all his instincts screamed at him to find cover.

It seemed so surreal: the five of them running across the plaza with not another living soul in sight, as if they were the last humans left on Earth. Overhead, an automated airship projected a holographic advertisement for the latest wrist computer, crawling along in cheerful ignorance like an absurd monument to a long-dead civilization. That haunting illusion was abruptly and violently shattered by the howling scream of turbojets and the angular, angry lines of an AG-10 Osprey strike fighter.

Glen and Val ducked reflexively as the swing-wing aircraft ripped through the air only a hundred meters overhead, missiles streaking off hard-points under each wing. Smoke trails from the weapons traced a line to targets on the other side of the Senate building, the resonating rumble of their detonations nearly throwing all of them off their feet. The fighter banked left, away from the mushroom of black smoke climbing into the darkening sky, circled back and came in for another run at the Invaders.

“Go,” Tanaka urged the others, who had stopped in their tracks to watch the spectacle. “Keep moving!”

He grabbed Glen Mulrooney by the arm and pushed him forward, sending all of them stumbling on through the plaza. Coming in lower this time, the Osprey’s jetwash was an exhalation of hot breath down their backs, the roar of the engines tearing at their ears. A savage sound of ripping cloth echoed off the plaza floor as the plane’s nose cannon spat out a hail of high-velocity slugs at unseen Invader positions.

Valerie screamed and clasped hands over her ears, but Glen kept her running, and Nathan held out a moment’s hope that the distraction of the attack might aid in their escape. If they could just get to the flitter while the Invaders were still pinned down.

From the front of the Senate Building a line of smoke streaked into the sky, intersecting the Defense Command aircraft as it pulled up from its strafing run. The pilot had no time for countermeasures as the point-blank missile slammed into the rear of his plane, consuming the twin turbojets in a swelling sphere of flame.

Tanaka and Klesko bore the civilians to the ground beneath them, knowing what was coming, feeling the rush of wind as the burning fighter passed overhead and crashed through the roof of a sidewalk cafe’ not a hundred meters away. A column of fire consumed the structure, and a sheet of burning fuel washed out from the wreckage, a wall of flame that cut the plaza in two, blocking their way to Shannon and the flitter.

Shannon spat a curse and hit the controls to close up the flitter’s hatches, feeding the drive fans a jolt of power even before they swung shut. The hovercraft jerked forward, spinning around 360 degrees before Stark got it under control and gunned it across the plaza. She pulled back on the control stick and jammed her foot into the throttle, bouncing the flitter over the fiery barrier and curving around only meters from Tanaka and the others.

“Hurry!” Nathan yanked Valerie and Glen to their feet as the flitter’s gull-wing doors hissed open ever-so-slowly.

“Look out!” Klesko gestured with the muzzle of his pistol, shoving Senator O’Keefe behind him.

Tanaka spun around and saw emerging from behind the Senate Building the ungainly bulk of an Invader Hopper, bounding toward them with the howl of laboring turbines and the whine of servomotors, a halo of smoke still trailing from its missile launch pod from the round that had taken out the fighter.

“Get in,” the bodyguard urged Valerie and Glen, practically throwing them into the rear passenger compartment of the Police vehicle.

He turned to help Klesko get the Senator in beside them, but from the corner of his eye he could see the rust-colored anthropomorphic tank swivelling toward the flitter, the heavy cannon between its legs tracking in their direction.

“Shannon, go!” Tanaka ordered so forcefully that Stark followed without thought, pushing the accelerator to the floor with the doors still open and Senator O’Keefe’s legs hanging out the side.

The flitter shot away so suddenly that Agent Klesko, who’d been half-leaning against it to help Daniel O’Keefe into the cab, fell forward off balance and wound up on one knee when the Hopper’s cannon fired. Tanaka threw himself to the ground as the round plowed into the remnants of a statue of Ronald Reagan, blowing it to plastiform splinters and nearly blowing out the two men’s eardrums.

Shannon pulled the flitter into a tight turn, feeling the drag of the open doors and whispering a prayer that none of her passengers would fall out of the vehicle. She knew that the Invader machine would be trying to target the flitter with a missile, but she wasn’t ready to abandon Nathan and Agent Klesko.

“Cover me,” Nathan snapped to Charlie Klesko, breaking into a sprint without waiting for the man to acknowledge, running toward the enemy machine.

The Hopper’s main gun tracked the flitter around in its arc and fired off another round, but the shot missed by a good meter, detonating against the maglev station. Shannon finally had the doors closed and she stood the aircraft on its side, pulling negative gees as the flitter darted sideways through the machine’s line of fire. The Hopper’s circular footpads drummed the pavement as it stepped gingerly around, to bring the aircraft back into its firezone.

Nathan Tanaka and Charlie Klesko circled around the thing’s legs, the Security agent keeping a watch the way it had come, his machine pistol held at arm’s length. Tanaka scanned the machine, looking for weaknesses, something he could use to give Shannon and Valerie time to get away, knowing he only had seconds.

From one of the four circular openings in the boxy missile launch pod on the machine’s right shoulder the rounded grey snout of a nose-cone jutted, shunted forward by internal rails. Tanaka didn’t hesitate—there was the chance the warhead couldn’t be detonated by a bullet, the chance that nose was armored, the very great chance that the blast of his success could kill him and Klesko—but the first and only priority was protecting the woman to whom he’d committed his life and the woman to whom he’d been willing to commit his heart.

He raised the Invader rifle to his shoulder, centered the open sights on the missile and squeezed the trigger. The buttstock jolted his shoulder and the steel-core, boat-tailed bullet punched through the thin metal of the missile nose-cone and into the lump of plastic explosives within.

Two hundred meters away and fifty meters off the ground, Shannon cried out involuntarily when she saw the flash from the Hopper’s launch pod, and the twilit sky was illuminated by the fireworks of the machine’s complement of anti-aircraft missiles cooking off simultaneously. A concussion of heated air and thunderous sound buffeted the little aircraft, putting Shannon into a fierce struggle with the flitter’s controls. Hardly able to hear the screams from the passenger compartment above the ringing in her ears, she finally brought the hovercraft back to level.

Beneath them, a haze of black smoke floated over the plaza, obscuring the site of the explosion. Shannon desperately angled the flitter’s main fan towards the concealing cloud, trying to clear it and find Nathan. The smoke wafted across the plaza in spiraling eddies, spilling slowly off the ostrich legs of the Hopper. They were all that was left of the machine, standing there comically, as if some cartoon character had dropped an anvil onto the machine’s cockpit and taken it through a hole in the ground, leaving the legs behind.

Not thirty meters away from the machine lay a human body, sprawled and unmoving, and a second was about ten meters beyond that, equally insensate. And a pair of Invader biomechs were coming toward them.

“Mulrooney!” Shannon exclaimed.

“What?” The man pulled himself forward, sticking his head into the cockpit over the back of her seat.

“Take my rifle.” She grabbed the Invader weapon off the floor and shoved it over her shoulder at him. “I’m going to open the hatch on the right and come down between Nathan and those enemy troops—I need you to cover me while I go check on him and the other guy.”

“But…” Glen started to protest, holding the rifle gingerly as if it were about to bite him, but thought suddenly of what Tanaka had said to him. If he didn’t do it, who would? He looked at Valerie, saw her staring back at him. “I’ve never shot a gun,” he told her, but in a tone that surprised her, as if he wanted her to teach him.

“Safety’s off,” she explained quickly. “Just pull the butt in tight against your shoulder, line the front sight between the two rear blades and in the center of your target and give the trigger a quick squeeze—only for a second at a time; you don’t want to empty it in one burst.”

He only nodded, not understanding it all, but knowing there wasn’t time for more. Shannon hit the hatch control, and brought the flitter almost straight down, nearly bouncing it off the pavement only a couple meters away from the body closest to the wrecked Hopper. Shannon scrambled through the partially-open hatch, pistol in hand, and Glen leaned out behind her, resting the barrel of the rifle across the side of the flitter.

The Invader biomechs, their armor blackened and pierced by the strike-fighter’s earlier attack, were a bit sluggish in their reactions, clumsily bringing up their weapons and firing an off-target burst at Shannon. Bullets ricocheted off the pavement around her as she ran around the nose of the flitter. Glen gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger. The rifle battered his ears and kicked painfully against his shoulder, the muzzle raising as he held the trigger a breath too long. He quickly let his finger slack off and brought the weapon back on target, seeing—much to his amazement—that he’d actually hit one of the troopers: the thing was down, a line of holes from its sternum to its shattered faceplate.

The other biomech turned, spraying its rifle at the side of the flitter, and Glen had to duck away with a startled cry as the shots ricocheted off the armored side of the police hovercraft.

“Glen!” Valerie screamed, covering her ears at the ringing of the burst on the hull.

Mulrooney swung back over the edge of the hatch and brought the rifle back to his shoulder, emptying the magazine in a long, frantic burst at the Invader. The biomech danced backwards, twenty of the thirty rounds Glen fired punching through its chestplate, and it finally collapsed, still trying to move but unable to.

Glen let out the breath he’d been holding, letting his death-grip on the rifle relax. He’d actually killed something.

On the other side of the flitter, Shannon ignored the firing, all her attention focused on the singed, smoking form face-down on the ground in front of her, the pistol-grip of his rifle still grasped in his blackened right hand. She heard a low moan and her heart jumped as she thought it had come from Nathan, that he was alive. Then she realized the noise had come from her own throat.

Steeling herself, she grasped the bodyguard’s shoulder and turned him over. She gasped, despite her mental preparations. There was no blood—but only because the heat of the blast had cauterized the massive wounds. There was nothing left of his chest and throat but a mush of charred flesh and metal fragments, though his face was miraculously untouched. His eyes were opened, staring out with such clarity that she thought she could see the life and the strength behind them.

But he was clearly dead. She choked back the tears that welled up in her eyes and stepped away from him, moving on to check Agent Klesko. She couldn’t fall apart yet. Klesko was injured, but alive. The whole right side of his body had been singed by the blast, and a hunk of metal from the Hopper had buried itself in his right hip, but even as she approached him he groaned in pain and rolled onto his left side, hand searching blindly for the machine pistol laying beside him.

“Take it easy,” she told him, grabbing him under his left arm and dragging him to his feet. He tried to struggle for a moment, but settled down as he pried his eyes open and saw who was carrying him.

“What…” he croaked, barely audible. “What happened to the other fellah?”

“He didn’t make it,” she told him coldly, afraid to show the slightest emotion lest the dam burst and she devolve into a blithering idiot.

Glen Mulrooney had climbed out of the flitter and ran up to help her carry Klesko into the car. She saw, not without a touch of amazement, that both of the Invader troopers were dead, but her mind was too numb to fully appreciate it. She was dimly aware that Valerie was speaking to her as she and Mulrooney laid Agent Klesko across one of the rear seats.

“Where’s Nathan?” she was asking.

Shannon couldn’t answer her, couldn’t say it again, couldn’t even think about it.

“He’s dead, honey,” Mulrooney answered for her, getting in the copilot’s seat beside Shannon.

“Jesus,” Senator O’Keefe whispered, face pale. “Not Nathan, too.”

Shannon fed power to the lift fans and took the flitter up, gunning it directly out of the city, not wanting to run into any more surprises. Beside her, she could see Mulrooney staring at her, curiosity evident in his eyes.

“Where are we going?” he finally asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, feeling dead inside, as if she’d left her soul behind on the floor of the plaza.

“I know a place,” Agent Klesko said from the back compartment, wincing as Valerie tried to jury rig a bandage from his jacket. Shannon twisted around in her seat, saw the man looking at her, pain evident in his blackened and burned face. “I’m Agent Charlie Klesko, Presidential Security detail,” he told her. “There’s an old American military base west of here. It’s been empty for over fifty years, but we keep it stocked as an emergency strategic base for the President. If we can get to the communications equipment there, we can…” He grunted, wheezed as Valerie tightened the bandage. “We can contact Fleet Headquarters.”

“And tell them what?” Shannon asked bitterly. “They probably know we’re being invaded.”

“I saw them!” he insisted, pounding a fist against the padded seatback.

“Saw what, son?” Senator O’Keefe asked him, easing the agent back to the seat with a hand on his shoulder.

“When they took the President, I saw them,” Klesko sighed, settling back, eyes closing. “Not the armored troops—these were different. They came in separately to take him prisoner while the other things killed the Senators. They thought I was dead, but I saw them.” His eyes opened abruptly, filled with anger and confusion. “They were human.”

Chapter Seventeen

“The quickest way to end a war is to lose it.”

—George Orwell

“Where the hell are we?” Glen muttered, staring out the flitter windscreen into the moonless night.

They’d been flying for hours, heading steadily southwest, following Agent Klesko’s directions. Over the last hour, the agent had slipped in and out of consciousness from the blood loss of his hip wound, but he’d managed to give Shannon a final compass heading and distance before he’d passed out. They’d avoided the megopolises and even the smaller cities which still existed in the Midwestern U.S., keeping an almost uninterrupted blanket of woodland beneath them. Here and there had been the antique wooden frames of historical landmarks, but most of the land had been allowed to return to the wild.

“Near as I can figure,” she answered Mulrooney, “we’re somewhere over southern Ohio.”

“Do you think we should try the radio again?” Senator O’Keefe wondered.

Shannon glanced back at him. The politician had been uncharacteristically silent for most of the trip, especially since they’d tried using the flitter’s comunit to monitor the news networks. The networks were off the air—Shannon suspected because the orbital antennae farms had been taken out. They had listened in on the police and military frequencies for a while, until those too had gone dead.

Everything was chaos, and no one seemed to know what was going on ten kilometers away from them, but by listening in they’d been able to piece together a picture. The Invaders had taken control of Capital City, the outlying defense base, and the civil communications center, and were shooting anything or anyone that came near them. More ominously, she’d caught scattered, static-filled broadcasts from further west reporting rumors that the laser-launch facilities in Baja had fallen, and that there was substantial enemy activity in the area. The laser-launch site also served a dual purpose as the primary ground-based space defense system for the Western Hemisphere, and if the enemy had control of it, they could shoot down anything that came into orbit.

“No use,” she shook her head, finally responding to the Senator. “By now, if any military forces are organizing a resistance, they’ll be staying off the public or civil channels. Once we get to the base, we might find something out.”

“What difference does it make?” Valerie muttered. “We can’t get away from them. They killed Nathan. They’ll kill all of us.”

“Honey,” Senator O’Keefe said, pulling her to him, stroking her hair, “you can’t think like that. Lieutenant Stark will keep us safe. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Shannon stifled the mocking laugh she felt coming up her throat. Everything, she thought to herself, was definitely not going to be all right. If everything was all right, then one of the most noble and courageous men she’d ever met wouldn’t be lying dead on the ground with a chestful of scrap metal. She’d tried not to think about Nathan, knowing that she didn’t have the luxury of dealing with that grief until she’d gotten them all to safety, but she couldn’t help but feel the hollow inside her—and she couldn’t banish from her mind the image of his face, peaceful and untouched, satisfied in death as he was in life that he’d discharged his duty.

“What’s that?” Glen lunged forward in his seat, pointing at a spot below them, at a string of lights that stretched out over a kilometer from east to west.

“That,” Shannon announced, checking the distance they’d travelled on the flitter’s computer readout, “is the base.”

She took the aircraft down to twenty meters, skirting the edge of the woodline, finding herself travelling along an old secondary road, unused since the Crisis and the Reclamation Laws. Bordering the rutted road was an old-fashioned chain-link fence, with three strands of razor-wire along the top, interrupted at evenly-spaced intervals by wooden light poles. She would have thought the fence the relic of some old farm or factory shut down fifty years ago… but the lights were still burning.

She slowed the flitter as they approached the center of the fence—and a gate.

“Couldn’t we just fly over it?” Glen wondered as she brought the craft down.

“Not… not a good idea,” Klesko spoke unexpectedly. Apparently, his last brush with unconsciousness had been precipitated by sleep rather than blood loss. He hauled himself up by the back of Glen’s seat, sticking his head into the cockpit. “Automatic security systems would knock us down with a maser. There’s a keypad on the gate. I know the code.”

The gate swung open with a hum of well-maintained motors that belied the out-of-date look of the place, and Shannon brought the flitter through, staying low and close to the road. The running lights of the ducted-fan hovercraft didn’t penetrate far into the inky blackness, but Shannon caught sight of the ruby flash of eyes just at the edge of her vision. She knew it was just the reflection of their headlamps off of a herd of deer or wild hogs, but she had a sudden, disquieting image of them riding the hovercraft into the netherworld like the Stygian boatman, with a host of red-eyed demons surrounding them in the blackness.

The dirt track, rather than leading to Hades, brought them to a group of squat, wooden structures which Shannon assumed to be military barracks. They seemed to be relics of at least a century ago, their doors and windows boarded up, the decades-old paint nearly stripped from their rotting flanks. She brought the flitter to a hover in the center of the collection of huts, looked back to Klesko.

“You’re the tour guide,” she told him without the humor the words might have contained. “Where to now?”

“The big one.” He gestured at the largest—by a slim margin—of the barracks buildings, only a dozen meters from where they sat.

Shannon cut power to the fans, and let the flitter settle gently on its landing skids, hitting the controls to pop the hatches. A rush of chill air into the cabin reminded them forcefully that Ohio was not sharing the gently warm fall they’d left in New York and set them all shivering fitfully. Glen and Senator O’Keefe helped lift Agent Klesko out of the passenger compartment and the five of them hobbled wearily over to the front door of the hut. Incongruously, set in the face of the rotting wood door was a keypad identical to the one they had seen in the front gate. Klesko leaned heavily against Glen’s shoulder as he tapped in an alphanumeric code and was rewarded with a satisfied beep.

The door powered open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing ten centimeters of duralloy backing the rotted facade, and a staircase leading downward.

“Well,” Glen murmured, remembering the Governor’s shelter back on Aphrodite, “talk about deja vu.”

“I’ll go first,” Shannon said, drawing her pistol. Glen had kept the empty rifle—he still carried it slung over his shoulder like a totem.

Shannon led them down the stairway. Each step was lit by a chemical striplight, but the end of the passage was swallowed in darkness. She descended slowly, dragging one hand against a wall for balance, feeling Mulrooney’s breath on her neck as he nearly crawled up her back. She spared him an annoyed glance and he backed off a step with a sheepish look.

At the foot of the stairs was another door, this one without the camouflage or the keypad—a simple lever was mounted instead, and Shannon whispered a prayer that it wasn’t locked from the inside as she reached for it. The lever moved hesitantly, with a creak of rust, but it did move and the heavy door swung open. Behind it was the gaping maw of a shotgun and the wide, frightened eyes of a young man.

“Shit!” Glen exclaimed, nearly letting Klesko drop as he fumbled with the rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Don’t shoot,” Shannon said firmly, hands raised to the ceiling. “We’re friends!”

“Who are you people?” the boy stammered—he couldn’t have been older than nineteen and looked even younger, despite his uniform. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m Lieutenant Stark, Fleet Intelligence.” Shannon spoke quickly, trying to relax the boy’s trigger finger. She fished her I.D. from her hip pocket and held it in the light from the other side of the door. “We’ve just come from the Capital—have you heard what’s going on?”

“Have I heard?” the young soldier snorted, lowering his weapon, running a hand through his close-cut black hair. “Jesus Christ, ma’am, what else have I heard?” He looked past her at the bedraggled band, at Klesko’s burned face and Valerie leaning wearily against the wall, wincing at the pain in her back. “Come on inside.”

They followed him into a well-lit chamber taken up mostly by communications equipment. A plain, plastic-upholstered couch had been dragged into the room and set in front of the room’s main viewscreen, and Glen and Senator O’Keefe lowered Klesko onto it carefully. Val sat on the edge of the couch and worked at the agent’s bandage—she seemed to have absorbed herself in caring for the man since Tanaka’s death.

“I’m Corporal Lee, ma’am,” the teenager told Shannon, setting his flechette gun on one of the control boards. His plain, brown uniform, she noticed with something of a start, was that of the Republic Service Corps—the Janitor Corps, Marine troops called them. Those who were unsuited for space travel for one reason or another served their mandatory two years in the Service Corps, providing unskilled labor for one or another construction or reclamation project, security for government facilities and cleanup crews for natural disasters. Their reputation in military circles was somewhere on a par with the Colonial Guard—only not as ruthless nor as well-trained.

“How did you end up here, Corporal?” Shannon asked casually, trying to keep her preconceived opinion of the Corps out of her tone.

“We were assigned to keep the place up,” the Corporal told her, leaning back against the console. “Me’n Raj… PFC Vingh, I mean. We’re part of a maintenance platoon quartered over by Cleveland ’plex. We were over here doing preventative maintenance on the machinery when we caught the news—just a flash before everything went dead. We didn’t know what to do. We couldn’t get the Lieutenant over the radio because of all the traffic and the static.” There was real fear in the boy’s dark eyes as he related the story to Shannon—she tried to imagine a pair of lower-income draftees stuck out in the middle of nowhere, cut off from any leadership while the world fell apart around them.

“We were going to take our truck back to the ’plex,” Lee went on, “but then, about an hour ago, we got the first play of the message.” He shrugged. “After that, we decided it would be better if Raj went back and I stayed here and monitored things.”

“What message?” Shannon wanted to know. “We stopped listening three hours ago, when everything went off the air.”

“So did we,” Corporal Lee said. “But this shit”—he jerked a thumb at the commo gear behind him—“picks up any wide-band communication automatically. And ma’am,” he went on, grinning despite himself, “this sucker was wide, wide band.” He leaned over and punched a series of controls and the main screen—an old-fashioned, LCD flatscreen—flickered to life. “I taped the first one,” Lee explained, sliding off the desk to give them all a clear view.

An image formed slowly on the meter-wide screen, coalescing from a hazy darkness into the figure of a man. Everything about him spoke of strength. He was powerfully-built, his broad shoulders and thick neck straining the seams of his old-fashioned grey suit, his clenching hands large and thick-fingered. Grey was sprinkled liberally through his bushy mustache and the hair at his temple, but it seemed more to signify the wisdom of experience than the weakness of old age. Behind him hung a flag: red and white vertical bars, centered by a circle of stars.

Even before he spoke, Shannon knew who he was. There was no mistaking the jut of that cleft jaw or the set of his beady brown eyes; they had jumped out at her from a thousand old videos in history classes and political science lectures. But though she knew it for a certainty, every fiber of her being screamed, No, it can’t be.

“I am,” the man spoke, his voice a boulder crashing on a field of gravel, “General Sergei Pavlovich Antonov.” The corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “You may have heard of me.”

“Holy God,” Klesko muttered from the couch. Beside him, Valerie’s eyes were the size of pie-plates. Her father’s mouth had dropped open, and he backed up, falling awkwardly to a seat on an arm of the couch. Glen was watching silently, expression neutral.

“Feel free to doubt whether I am truly the man I claim to be,” Antonov continued, a hint of a Slavic accent evident in his voice. “I shall not go into how I have survived over a century without appearing to have aged, since your belief or disbelief in no way affects my actions. What you must believe, however, is that the fist of the Protectorate has returned to reclaim what is ours. Once before, we offered to lead the oppressed masses of this world to liberation, but the forces of the reactionaries resorted to the ultimate in aggression to thwart us, and we were left with no choice but to withdraw and regroup.

“Regroup we have.” A vibrant light burned in Antonov’s eyes. “Our strength is renewed and we have come to unseat the pretenders who have stolen our revolution and used it to enrich the upper class exploiters. They have claimed to defend your freedom, yet they have enslaved you and imprisoned you in their gulag cities and kept you docile with their bread and circuses. No more. Our soldiers have crushed the defenses of the corporate masters, and you will soon be free.

“To those remnants of the oppressor military which may hold out hope of opposing us, this warning is for you,” the big man said harshly, the affectionate tone melting into fiery rancor. “You may think your spacecraft and weaponry superior to ours, but you may wish to reconsider.”

The image of Antonov disappeared, replaced by a shot of Gregory Jameson. The Republic president seemed disheveled but unharmed, sitting on an office chair with a biomech’s weapon pointed at his head.

“This is the corporate puppet who arrogates himself as your leader,” said the Russian’s voice-over. “He is being held in the ground control center for your network of defense satellites. We have destroyed your military space station and have assumed total control of these orbital weapons.” Shannon flinched, stomach twisting as she realized that Colonel Mellanby was likely dead—along with a thousand other Fleet personnel. “Any attack on our space vessels will be met by the fire of your own ground-based laser weapons and will provoke us to use the fusion missiles in your military satellites on your population centers. Any attack on the satellite control center will result in the immediate execution of the pretender Jameson and a terrible retribution by our ships in orbit on one of your cities.”

The image on the screen switched back to Antonov, his eyes afire with the same glare they’d possessed when he’d declared war on China.

“Our demands are simple: complete and unconditional surrender by all military forces. Your ships will immediately assume a high-earth orbit, deactivate all drives and weapons systems and prepare for boarding. Your ground forces will lay down their arms and report to Capital City within the next forty-eight hours. Anyone caught wearing a military uniform after that deadline will be shot on sight. Anyone attempting to interfere with Protectorate troops will be shot on sight. Be assured that any action against us is futile, and will not only result in the deaths of the aggressors but in the deaths of civilians. I am not a monster, and I do not wish this to happen, so do not force my hand.”

Antonov’s expression transformed once more, from the ruthless warrior to the revolutionary ideologue. “When last I left this world, I was consumed, obsessed only with winning back the glory of my Slavic brethren and, one day, making whole the Motherland. Since then, my travels and experiences have helped me to grow—and my dreams have grown as well. Now, I seek not just the liberation of my own people, but all people. All those among you who love liberty, rejoice! Your time has come at long last.”

Lee hit a button and the screen faded to black.

“There was some other shit about penalties and curfews,” the corporal said, “but you get the gist of it.”

“It must be some kind of trick,” Senator O’Keefe said, hands visibly trembling. “Antonov—even if he survived the war, he’d be dead long ago. It’s got to be a trick.”

“I don’t know,” Shannon admitted, still staring at the screen. “The reason I’m—I was back here was to report our findings on the investigation at Aphrodite.” She turned and looked the Senator in the eye. “Those ‘alien’ Invaders, Senator, were actually biomechanical constructs, assembled from cloned tissue—cloned human tissue.” She saw Daniel O’Keefe’s eyes narrow and nodded. “We managed to piece together a theory, and it looks like we were right.”

“What kind of theory?” Glen asked. He seemed, incredibly, unfazed by the series of revelations. Maybe, she thought, he’d finally reached the point where he couldn’t be shocked anymore.

“According to rumors among the Russian scientific community,” she told them, “the first Protectorate ships that were sent to the asteroid belt discovered some kind of gateway—a hole in space that led to another solar system, somewhere. They reported their discovery, but before Antonov could do anything about it, the war with China broke out. Sometime during or after the nuclear exchange, the stories say, Antonov and his staff and personal guard took a shuttle to the ships that were waiting in orbit for their planned Mars mission.

“Our theory was that Antonov took the ships through the gateway and that somewhere on the other side, someone or something found them and used them for their genetic material to create the army of biomechs that invaded Aphrodite.”

“You said that was your theory,” Senator O’Keefe interrupted.

“Yes, sir,” she explained. “If that is Antonov, then the Russians that escaped through that gateway weren’t just the victims—they are and have been collaborators.”

“But what can we do about it?”

“That’s your decision, sir,” she told him. She couldn’t help but want to laugh. Jason would love this. “With the President in enemy hands and his staff and the other members of the Senate dead, you are the acting head of the Republic.”

Chapter Eighteen

“The whole art of war consists of guessing at what is on the other side of the hill.”

—The Duke of Wellington

Jason woke from a fever-dream of shark-eyed blue monsters to a rush of frigid air and the bitter aftertaste of biotic fluid. He choked out a hacking cough and forced his eyes open. For a long moment, he was convinced the face looming over him was a creature come to life from his nightmares, but then it coalesced into the severe bangs and perpetually disapproving gaze of Commander Hellene D’Annique, First Officer of the Patton.

“Captain wants to see you on the bridge,” she told him curtly, “soonest.”

“Yes’m,” he croaked, but she was gone.

“What the fuck, over?” Jason heard Vinnie’s voice beside him and tried to sit up—and quickly discovered what the NCO was bitching about. His head felt like it weighed ten kilos. And it probably did.

“We’re still at three gee’s,” Vinnie said, steadying himself against the side of his chamber.

“Emergency deceleration,” McKay guessed, prying himself painfully out of his g-sleep chamber. “Something’s wrong.” From everywhere around him, he could hear the groans and complaints of the Marines and the scientific staff—apparently, the Fleet personnel had been revived earlier.

“Orders, sir?” Vinnie asked him.

McKay glanced around, saw that Jock and Tom’s eyes were on him as well.

“Collect Lieutenant Shamir and Gunny Lambert,” Jason instructed him, “and meet me in Situation Room Three in an hour.”

* * *

Jason watched the image of Antonov fade from the main bridge viewscreen, his heart pounding. He jerked his head toward Captain Arvid Patel, saw the man watching him with a somber expression.

“The ship’s computer picked it up out around the orbit of Saturn,” the spare, thin-faced Fleet officer told him, “and brought me out of g-sleep.” He grimaced. “We were still braking at five-gees, and believe me, it wasn’t half as pleasant as it is now.”

“Have you confirmed this?” McKay rasped, mouth dry, the heavy deceleration dragging at him.

“We received a tightbeam signal from the Bradley not a half-hour ago,” Patel said. “She’s hold up in the belt near Pallas, along with a few dozen system defense boats and corporate cargo haulers. She was steaming in from a run to Eridani when she received an emergency signal from Luna—it gave her enough warning to get away.” The ship’s captain fell back into his padded chair at the center of the bridge with a sigh, his dusky face darkening even more.

“The Fleet engineers at the Lunar mines saw the whole thing. Apparently, the enemy hijacked a robot freighter from the Ceres run and loaded it up with those drop pods—and quite a few fusion bombs. When the ship reached Cislunar orbit, the pods were ejected and the ship headed straight for the Defense Base at L-4.” Patel’s eyes closed for a moment, pain evident in the set of his mouth.

“L-4 saw what was happening and launched missiles, but it was too late. The ship went up and took the Defense Base with it.”

Jason remembered Colonel Mellanby and felt an intense sadness and something of disbelief that even a fusion bomb could take out the Snake. But most of his thoughts were absorbed with the fact that Shannon was either somewhere on Earth and in imminent danger, or on that station and dead.

No! he screamed at himself silently. She was alive. He wouldn’t let himself believe her dead—not this time.

“About an hour after the pods hit the atmosphere,” Patel went on, “the Lunar base saw seven ships coming in from somewhere in the direction of Ceres.”

The captain punched a command into his console and an image came on the viewscreen of a squadron of spacecraft in a loose wedge formation. Jason shook his head, wondering if his eyes were still bleary from the g-tanks—for the ships were the oddest collection of craft he’d seen outside the Air and Space Museum.

Three of them were Republic ships—corporate cargo haulers, most likely pirated and refitted with armor and weapons—but four were obviously Russian Protectorate ships from a hundred years ago. Bright flares of fusion fire expanded like balloons behind giant blast bells as a drive lasers reached out to ignite deuterium/tritium fuel pellets in a pulse drive that hadn’t been used in the Republic for twenty years. Paired habitat cylinders were hinged on each side of the main hull, fixed and motionless under acceleration but designed to rotate for gravity when the ship was in free fall. Jason could see that weapons pods had been grafted to the shielding over the bulbous fuel tanks, almost an afterthought on ships designed for asteroid mining.

The camera view panned in to the grey-metaled hull of the lead ship, lingering on the red and white vertical stripes of the Protectorate flag.

“The Lunar base stopped transmitting about a half-hour later.” Patel hit a control and the screen went dark. “We’re burning in to join the Bradley at Pallas—we should be there in six hours.” He turned to look Jason in the eye. “I want you to meet me in the shuttle bay at…” He glanced at his watch. “…2300 hours. We’ll be meeting with Captain Minishimi at the multicorps mining base—she’s set up a command center there. If you can come up with anything, I’m sure we’ll all be glad to hear it.”

“Aye, sir,” Jason replied numbly. I’d be glad to hear it myself.

“Captain Patel!” The sensor officer spun around at his station. “We’ve got a contact at four million kilometers, coming in way off the ecliptic.” He shook his head. “It just popped onto the screen, sir—one second it wasn’t there, then there was an energy burst almost like a nuclear explosion and there it was!”

“Calm down, Damphousse,” Patel soothed. “What can you tell me about it?”

“Uh…” The mousey little man glanced back at his board. “It’s small and slow, sir—can’t mass much more than five or six thousand tons, and the spectrograph says he’s running some kind of fission drive.” He looked back around. “It looks like he’s setting a course for Earth.”

“It’s one of them,” Jason decided. Patel fixed him with a questioning stare.

“Are you certain?”

“The Russians are using some kind of hole in space—that’s got to be what your sensor man saw,” McKay said. “No other way a ship that small would be out here. We should intercept it.”

“If he gets off a transmission, we could be sentencing a lot of innocent people to death,” Patel reminded him. “You heard what Antonov said.”

“His communication gear can’t be that good,” Jason pointed out. “If what we’ve seen so far is any indication, he’ll be using straight microwave. Jam him.”

Patel frowned, his eyes lowered in thought as he weighed the consequences.

“All right,” he finally assented. “Sound general quarters,” he ordered the First Officer abruptly. “Helm, take us on fastest possible intercept course—I want to be on top of him before he knows we’re there.” The whooping of the alarm filled the ship’s bridge and Patel had to raise his voice to be heard over it. “Communications, lay down a wide-spectrum microwave jam—I don’t want him getting a word out on radio. Weapons, arm lasers and let me know when we reach optimum range.”

“We’ve got to take them alive,” McKay said quickly, grabbing hold of the edge of Patel’s chair as the ship lurched to starboard, changing course to go after the bogey.

“We’ll try,” Patel told him, seemingly unaffected by the stomach-jarring turn. “But that all depends on how cooperative he wants to be.” He turned to Damphousse. “Give me a sensor-enhanced image on the main screen.”

The viewer lit up with a glittering starfield, and it took Jason a moment to search through the points of multicolored light for the glowing red triangle that represented the enemy ship. It was moving slowly compared to the Patton’s velocity of nearly a tenth of lightspeed and, even as he watched, the icon was growing in relation to the decreasing distance between the ships.

“Laser range in ten minutes,” the Weapons officer announced.

“Helm, I want to match velocities with him,” Patel ordered.

“Sir,” the helmsman objected, looking up in surprise, “that will take a five-g deceleration analog for at least five minutes!”

“Then sound the alarm and start the burn, Mr. Raines,” Patel told him calmly. He caught Jason’s eye. “You might want to find an acceleration couch, McKay.”

Swallowing hard, Jason nodded and made his way over to one of the spare seats at the front of the bridge, strapping himself in just as the acceleration alarms began. Then a massive weight came down on his chest and it was all he could do to force breath into his lungs. Prying his eyes open, he let his head loll to the side and saw the bridge crew also struggling against the press of the focused tidal forces, pressed back into the liquid-filled cushions of their seats, only their hands and eyes moving. All of a sudden, the womblike sleep of the g-tanks didn’t seem so burdensome to him.

The seconds seemed to crawl by, and the red triangle of the enemy ship grew at a slower pace as the Eysselink field contracted the space behind the ship and lengthened that in front of it. Jason was beginning to wonder if he would ever breathe again, but then, as abruptly as it had settled, the crushing weight lifted from him and he was floating against the straps of the acceleration couch in the bliss of near zero-gravity. On the viewscreen, the red triangle had been replaced by an enhanced visual image from the ship’s telescope. A bulbous passenger pod stuck out from a cluster of hemispherical fuel tanks arrayed around the small fission reactor, and a thin blue line of exhaust stretched out from the single engine bell.

“We’re running just over his speed, sir,” Helm told him, sweat beading on his forehead from the strain of the burn. “At the rate he’s accelerating, we’ll be running parallel to him, a thousand meters off his starboard bow, in five minutes and twenty-two seconds.”

“Communications?” Patel demanded.

“He’s attempting to signal, sir,” the woman reported. “We’ve got him covered though—nothing’s getting through.”

“Weapons?”

“He’s in range for a missile or a railgun shot,” Weapons replied with a shrug. “If you want to use the lasers, it’s another three minutes before we can be assured a full-effect shot.”

“What about his long-range transmission antenna?” Patel asked. “Are we close enough to burn it out?”

“That we can do, sir,” he confirmed.

“Make it happen.”

The ship’s lasers were ultraviolet in frequency, and would have been invisible in a vacuum in any case, but the ship’s computer thoughtfully provided a simulated crimson line that intersected the enemy ship at the juncture of the passenger pod and the reactor, striking the dishlike antenna mounted there and melting it to slag in a fraction of a second.

“His transmission has been terminated, Captain,” the communications officer reported.

“Send him one of ours, Ensign,” Patel ordered. “Tell him he can either cut power and prepare for boarding, or we’ll blast his reactor and hope he’s got the radiation shielding to survive it.”

“Aye, sir,” she acknowledged, turning back to her station to deliver the message.

“Could we disable him any other way, sir?” Jason wondered, frowning at the thought of losing such a potentially valuable intelligence source.

“Of course we can.” The Captain eyed him with evident disdain. “But he doesn’t need to know that.”

“Yes, sir.” Ears burning, Jason looked back to the view of the ship.

“Reply coming in, sir,” Communications reported.

“Put it on the main screen.”

The image on the viewscreen shifted abruptly from the Protectorate ship to a snowy, blurry picture of a man. Pale and gaunt, his bald head was beaded with sweat, and his dark eyes had the look of a trapped animal. He wore some kind of high-collared brown uniform, pulled open at the front to reveal the stained t-shirt beneath, with the flag of the Protectorate displayed on the breast.

“I am Colonel Dmitry Grigor’yevich Podbyrin of the Great Protectorate,” the man said, trying to put more pride and confidence in his voice than could be seen in his eyes. “You will cease this attack on my ship and allow me to proceed unmolested, or your fellows on Earth will suffer the consequences.”

“Don’t waste my time with idle threats, Colonel,” Patel snapped. “You know as well as I do that your transmissions were jammed. If you don’t surrender, I can and will cut you in two, and no one need be the wiser.”

Jason knew that Podbyrin had to have been expecting that sort of reply, but the man’s expression was still one of nervous indigestion. The Russian swiped at his brow, sending globules of perspiration cascading off him in the null gravity and splattering against the video pickup, blurring the picture.

“I can destroy this ship,” Podbyrin stammered, his English worsening as he became more agitated. “There is a device—a thermonuclear device on my ship. I can activate it and damage your vessel if you do not let me go.”

“Sensors, distance?” Patel asked, sotto voce.

“Four thousand meters,” Damphousse replied quietly.

“Colonel Podbyrin,” Patel said, “any device you may or may not have will not be close enough to damage our ship. All you will accomplish is your own death. However, if you surrender, I will guarantee you will be treated humanely.”

“I cannot!” Podbyrin shook his head, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “The General would…”

“The General will not know,” Captain Patel assured him as he might a frightened child. “They will assume your ship was lost.” The Russian seemed to hesitate, but Patel pressed on. “Consider, Colonel Podbyrin, that whatever your duty to Antonov, you will definitely be of more value alive than dead. I will give you thirty seconds to decide, then we will move to a safer distance and disable your drives unless you power down your ship. Contact me if you make a decision.” He turned to Communications. “Off screen.”

The viewer switched back to an image of the little ship.

“What do you think?” Patel asked Jason.

The question startled McKay—the Captain had seemed so sure of himself speaking to the Russian.

“He’s scared,” McKay said. “He’s scared of you, scared of Antonov, but mostly scared of dying. He won’t use the bomb—if it even exists.”

“That’s my read,” Patel agreed, satisfied at Jason’s confirmation.

“Sir,” the Communications officer announced. “Transmission coming in.”

Podbyrin reappeared on the main viewer, seeming even more haggard than before, his mouth twisted in distaste and abject fear.

“I will not be harmed if I do as you say?” he stammered.

“You have my word, sir,” Patel assured him.

“Very well. I am shutting down my drives. I will await your boarding party.”

The screen went dark as Podbyrin cut off.

“Security.” Patel spoke into the intercom pickup on the arm of his chair. “I need a boarding party in the primary EVA airlock in ten minutes. We’re going to be bringing a ship in tow.”

Not waiting for the reply, the Captain looked up at McKay. “Well, Mr. Intelligence Officer,” he said, smiling thinly, “it looks like you’re finally going to get some real intelligence.”

Jason wasn’t sure, but he thought it was just possible he’d been insulted.

* * *

“I will not betray my people,” Podbyrin declared again, hands shaking as he sipped from a squeeze bottle of water.

Jason eyed him with a clinical detachment he wasn’t aware he possessed till a few hours ago. The man had given up his ship—it was now in tow as they decelerated towards Pallas—but steadfastly refused to yield any information. They’d been cooped up together without a break in the same three-meter by three-meter room for the last three hours, just the two of them, while Captain Patel and his Security Chief watched over a video pickup. The room was bare but for a small table and a pair of chairs facing each other over it, and Jason almost felt that he was becoming as claustrophobic and bored as the Russian.

“Colonel,” Jason said, leaning forward in his chair and steepling his fingers, “you’ve got to understand by now that I’m not asking you to give me vital information—not troop strength, or ship armament, or what General Antonov ate for lunch. All we’re trying to do is understand what happened to you. We know that Antonov and his followers fled to the asteroid belt during the nuclear exchange.” Jason saw Podbyrin’s eyes widen at that offhand remark and knew he’d been correct in waiting to spring that nugget until he’d softened the man up. “And we know he took his people through the gateway his expedition had found.” The Russian’s cheek began to quiver ever-so-slightly and his mouth dropped open.

“How do you know these things?” he blurted, slamming his hands down on the table.

He shoots, he scores! Jason cheered himself. The man had, if nothing else, confirmed that part of their theory.

“It doesn’t matter how we know,” McKay said calmly. “We just know. What we don’t know, and what we’d like you to tell us, is what happened then. Where did you get the technology to manufacture the biomechanical creations you use as warriors? How is it that Antonov is still alive, and still young? Or is that just some kind of trick to frighten us? Some kind of computer simulation?”

“I must not tell you these things,” Podbyrin insisted. “I cannot betray my people.”

“You don’t have much of a choice, Podbyrin.” Jason leaned into his face with sudden intensity. “Whatever happens on Earth, your life as you know it is over. If your buddies win, you’ll die along with the rest of us, because none of us will be surrendering to the man who nearly destroyed the Earth. We’ll fight to the last ship and you’ll die with us. If we win, and you survive, and if you haven’t cooperated with us, you’ll be tried as a war criminal and probably executed. Your only chance is to do the best you can to help us and hope to God we win, because that’s your only chance of coming out of this alive.”

The Russian blanched, sweat pouring from his shiny forehead as he sank back into his chair.

“No, I will not,” he said.

“McKay,” Captain Patel’s voice came over the room’s intercom, “that’s enough. I’m sending in the medics.”

“Aye, sir,” Jason sighed, settling back in disappointment.

“What?” Podbyrin stood in sudden panic. “What is this thing you will do to me?”

Before Jason could answer, the door slid open and a pair of beefy Security personnel stepped quickly inside, each taking one of Podbyrin’s arms and forcing him back into the chair, holding his wrists down to the armrests. Behind them, the ship’s medic entered, one hand filled with a hypogun, the other with a medical sensor.

“No, you said I would be well-treated!” The Russian struggled vainly against the guards as the white-coated technician brought the injection device to his shoulder.

“Take it easy,” the medic assured him with a much-practiced smile. “Nothing fatal.” He touched the trigger and the hypogun shot a jet of chemicals from the loaded capsule into the Colonel’s arm. “Just a little something to loosen you up.”

Podbyrin had clenched up as the shot went into his arm, but immediately relaxed as the drug took effect, slumping back against the seat, his eyes slightly out of focus.

“I can… not tell any…” Podbyrin mumbled, his English breaking as his thoughts became more and more disjointed.

“What’s your name?” the medic asked quietly.

“Dmitry Grigor’yevich Podbyrin,” the Russian answered, his words beginning to slur.

“He’s ready.” The man nodded to Jason, stepping back.

McKay leaned forward, then hesitated and looked up to where he thought the video pickup was.

“Do I have access to a translator program,” he asked Patel, “in case he gets so messed up he can’t understand me?”

“It’s being taken care of,” the Captain’s voice told him.

“Dmitry Grigor’yevich,” Jason spoke to the Russian and the man looked at him as if he’d just materialized before his eyes.

“Da… yes?” Podbyrin replied uncertainly.

“Antonov—where did he go when he went through the gateway in the asteroid belt? Where did the gateway lead?”

“We do not know the system,” he said, shaking his head. “It is somewhere behind a gas cloud—maybe the Coal Sack, our astronomers say.”

“What was the system like?” Jason asked. “Did it have planets? Habitable planets?”

“Da. One habitable world.” The Russian’s eyes crossed and he seemed to be seeing something else. “Barely habitable. There had been a war there, a thousand years ago… maybe ten thousand. We did not know. Much of the world was desert, much wasted, radioactive cities. I remember how ugly it seemed when I first saw it, like Siberia in midwinter.”

The hackles stood on the back of Jason’s neck as the man spoke.

“Colonel Podbyrin,” he asked, “how old are you?”

“It is so hard to tell—the years are different on Novaya Rodina.” His eyes seemed to clear for a moment as he calculated, swaying in his seat. “One hundred and seventy-nine Earth years.”

“Jesus,” the medic muttered.

McKay knew what the man was thinking. The human lifespan had been expanded over the last fifty years through the advancement of nanotechnology, genetic surgery and antiagathic prenatal treatments until the average life expectancy—for Earth natives, at least—was conservatively projected at well over two hundred years. But there was no way Podbyrin could have had access to those treatments, and yet the man didn’t look very much past his mid-forties.

“How have you lived this long, Colonel?” Jason asked. “Why do you seem so young?”

“On the planet,” the Russian told him mechanically, “we found one thing almost intact. A laboratory perhaps, or a hospital. Inside was a device. Not only a computer, not just a machine. Something more. It… makes things. Anything. We cannot communicate with it much. The languages are too different—different frames of reference, I am told. But if we show it something, it can make more.”

“Things like rifles?” Jason asked.

“Da.”

“And what else?”

“Organs—human organs.” A look of distaste spread across his face. “The General used three of our men—had them dissected, their organs put one at a time into the vats. The thing made more, as many as we wanted. Our scientists were able to get the machine to make the tools they needed to assemble the parts with other things and make the troopers. But first, the General had them transplant things into him and the most important of us—the ones who had to last to take back the Rodina… the Motherland.” Jason’s mouth went dry as he listened, as everything started to make sense.

“But it could only duplicate things you already had,” Jason assumed. “So you were stuck with the technology you brought with you.”

“Da,” Podbyrin agreed. “And some things we could steal from your ships, plus a few, like the walking tanks, that we put together ourselves. I argued with the General… I and others. If we could understand the device better, we could have much deadlier weapons. No one could stop us. No one would even try. But he could not wait. He came up with the plan to use what we had to take back our world, and that was that. He let me stay to wait on an experiment, to use the machine to manufacture a virus.” Jason’s blood froze, but the man slowly shook his head. “It didn’t work. Too long-lasting. I was coming to tell him, give him update on a ship we are attempting to repair, when you captured me.”

“Ask him about the gate,” Patel’s instructed, his voice sounding as grim as Jason had ever heard it.

“Colonel Podbyrin,” Jason said, clearing his throat, “the gate—the gate in the belt. How do you use it? What is it, exactly? And where is it?”

“I do not know where it is.” Podbryin shook his head. “None of us can know; only a handful, and the General.” He shuddered, remembering something. “There was a map, on Novaya Rodina, carved into the wall of the laboratory—the scientists said it held the locations of dozens of gates to this system and many others, some close, some hundreds of light-years away. The General had one of our scientists copy it, then destroyed the original. He had his men kill all but one who had seen it and fed them to the Machine.” His eyes, suddenly filled with clarity, locked on Jason’s. “No one can know! No one!” He sighed, sank back into his half-stupor.

“My ship was programmed before I left, and the program was designed to self-destruct after I passed through. The way we pass through—I do not know exactly. It involves a thermonuclear explosion—we must bring a device with us. I know it was discovered by the expedition to the asteroids when they were attempting to use fusion bombs to bring a planetoid to Earth orbit to be mined. Somehow, the explosion opens the gate—the scientists called it a wormhole, I think, but they say it is…” He hesitated. “…nonclassical, I think, but I do not know what they mean.”

“I do,” Patel’s voice announced. “That’s enough for now. Security, get him to a cell. McKay, I’ll meet you in the shuttle bay in two hours.”

Jason nodded, but didn’t get up immediately. His brain churned with speculation. If what Podbyrin was saying was true, then at least they didn’t have to worry about some mysterious alien force behind the Russians. But it also made Antonov just that much more desperate.

* * *

“…realize the consequences of acting prematurely,” Captain Patel said, gesticulating heatedly, “but we can’t simply wait for the enemy to become even more entrenched—we have to do something while we still can.”

“I understand what you’re saying, Arvid,” Joyce Minishimi argued, sitting back wearily. “But I’m not certain we have the authority, whether military or moral, to make that decision.”

“If we don’t, who does?” Patel protested.

Jason sighed, sinking into his seat. They both had a point, but they’d been bickering over the issue for over an hour now, and Jason was beginning to feel like a potted plant. He glanced around the table, wondering if anyone—or everyone—else felt the way he did.

Arrayed around the table in the Mineral Ventures Multicorporation conference room were Captains Minishimi and Patel and their senior staffs; Doctors Kovalev and Mandila from the scientific staff; Katherine Frasier, the Mineral Ventures Operations Director for the Pallas base; Lieutenant Shamir and Gunny Lambert; and Georges Kercok, the representative of the local independents—an unnaturally slim, Eastern European man with the characteristic close-cropped Mohawk and facial tatoos of the belt miners. He seemed uncomfortable with the assembled authority figures and hadn’t said more than two words since they’d arrived.

The atmosphere had seemed so momentous just a few hours ago, when he’d been strapped into Captain Patel’s private shuttle, fixated on the viewscreen image of the massive floating mountain that was Pallas, tumbling gently through the star-filled firmament with an angelic host of spacecraft surrounding it. They were little more than gnats to Pallas’ Olympian expanse, all but the Patton behind them and the Bradley to the fore—those Cyclopean pillars of metal loomed large and menacing in the darkness, the very spacetime around them shimmering as their Eysselink fields remained on guard against stray meteorites.

As they’d drawn closer to the asteroid, Jason could see the touch of man’s hand in the docking bays, communications antennae, weapons ports and sensor dishes that pocked its rocky face. It had taken over forty years to complete the installation, most of that in carving caverns deep into the nickel iron, far from the dangers of meteorites, solar flares and cosmic radiation.

A Twenty-Third Century cave, Jason had thought with cynical humor. We’ve come a long way, baby.

As he understood it from conversations with Captain Patel, the base at Pallas was usually a beehive of activity, with corporate and independent miners, brokers, entertainers, smugglers and technicians pouring through the corridors and ships swarming around the rock. But the civilians had scattered at the approaching war like cockroaches skittering out of the light, tucking themselves deep in the “storm cellars” of their habitat rocks and pulling the hole in after them.

So they had found Pallas nearly deserted, its broad halls eerily empty. Jason had been hard-pressed to keep his feet in the asteroid’s microgravity, nearly launching himself into the—thoughtfully-padded—ceiling with each step as the group from the Patton had made its way to the conference room.

Captain Minishimi had greeted them at the door. The petite, gentle-featured woman seemed an unlikely starship captain, but he knew from experience that she was as competent an officer as any in the Fleet.

“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon, McKay,” she’d greeted him as he entered.

“I was hoping it would be under better circumstances, ma’am,” he’d said, shaking her hand—and that had been close to the last pleasant moment in the meeting.

After a replay of Colonel Podbyrin’s drugged interview, Mandila and Kovalev had fielded the many questions about the technological aspects of the story—questions ranging from the professional to the totally ignorant.

“What is a ‘nonclassical wormhole,’ Dr. Kovalev?” Minishimi had asked. “And why would they have to use a fusion device to traverse it?”

“A classical wormhole, Captain,” Kovalev had begun to wind himself up and Jason stifled a moan, “is the basic Wheeler construct, which was created during the Big Bang. Many of these may exist in our galaxy, connecting different parts of space, but they are useless to us as they are usually microscopic, making them intraversable—in theory, of course, since we still haven’t actually found one.

“A so-called nonclassical wormhole was a conceit of late Twentieth Century physics which fancied that the fabric of spacetime was a froth of constantly appearing and vanishing wormholes and singularities on the Quantum level. Later, this theory was expanded to predict that macroscopic wormholes could be created during the formation of stars—still fairly small, but large enough to keep track of, though shorter in span than a Classical version. As to why they would be able to traverse it by using a thermonuclear weapon—well, I can only assume that there may be some way to expand the entrance of the hole using a fusion explosion of correct intensity. I would have to examine the actual process to elaborate further.”

“What about the machine Podbyrin described, the one they’re using to duplicate their weapons?” Patel had asked, looking at Mandila. “Is such a thing possible?”

“Pretty far beyond our present technology, but certainly possible,” was the researcher’s reply. “We’ve been using nanotechnology since before the Sino-Russian War—you’re carrying some of the little buggers in your blood right now, injected at birth to patrol against blood clots and cancerous growths. In another thirty years or so, we might be able to use them for simple manufacturing processes. But what Colonel Podbyrin described is centuries beyond that.” The man shook his head, frowning deeply. “If they discover how to fully make use of such technology, they could roll over us like we weren’t even there.”

Then the real debate had begun—a debate unlike any Jason seen in his military career. Minishimi and Patel shared a rank and a nearly identical time in service, but not one opinion of what their strategy should be. Patel was all for an immediate attack—he felt the threat to use nuclear weapons was a bluff. Minishimi was more cautious, favoring a scout mission to evaluate the enemy forces.

The two commanders had stated their positions early on and had been arguing them for the last hour, either person-to-person or through the proxies of their staff officers. Jason had barely been able to get a word into the debate and Shamir and Lambert had sat silent as zombies—Ari seemed vaguely amused by the whole thing, while the Gunny was clearly losing patience.

Jason knew what he wanted to say: Stop arguing, Goddamnit, and come up with a course of action! But the Captains outranked him—though most of the Fleet retained traditional naval ranks, the Intelligence Division, due to Mellanby’s background in the Corps, had adapted the Marine designations, so a Fleet Captain was the equivalent of an Intelligence Colonel. The upshot was that he was two steps in rank below the shipmasters and one below even the First Officers, which put him in an uncomfortable position.

Which, he supposed, was just the position Colonel Mellanby had chosen him for.

“Excuse me, sir, ma’am.” Jason stood up suddenly, grabbing the edge of the table to keep himself from bounding to the ceiling. The two of them broke off in mid-bicker and looked at him, every head in the room swinging his way. Great. “Now, I may be speaking out of turn,” he ventured carefully, “but I don’t think you brought me in here to keep the minutes.”

“Go ahead, McKay,” Minishimi urged. “You’ve had more experience with the enemy than anyone else here.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He nodded gratefully, trying to work up his courage. “You’ve both spelled out your positions thoroughly,” he went on, “and you both have good arguments—but I think that this kind of discussion is counterproductive. This is a military operation, not a democracy, and one of you needs to take control.”

“Of course, we’ll need an operational commander,” Captain Patel allowed, “but until we settle on a course of action…”

“That’s just the point, sir,” Jason interrupted him, seizing the moment. “A commanding officer can consider the suggestions of his subordinates and accept or refuse them, but the ultimate decision and responsibility belongs to him or her. Without that responsibility, there is no decision.” He leaned forward, taking a breath. “A lot of people here and on Earth, soldiers and civilians, are going to die because of the decisions that are made right here, today. We owe it to those people to be unified in those decisions. They have the right to know who’s responsible for either our defeat or our victory. I don’t know if either of you have ever sent good men and women to die, knowing that they went to their deaths because they trusted your judgment and your decisions, but there’s a special kind of pain you feel afterward, a doubt that claws at your soul…” He trailed off, sitting back in his chair, visions of Inferno haunting the back of his mind.

“It’s the price we pay for doing what we do, and it has to be on the shoulders of one individual—anything else mocks the sacrifices we ask.” He fixed the Captains with a stare. “I’ve born that weight and it’s not something I’d wish on anyone else. But the responsibility that will rest on whoever leads us into this makes anything I’ve done look laughable by comparison.”

He fell silent, looking down at the surface of the table, studying its plastic surface intently as he tried to ignore the stares of those around him. Patel and Minishimi glanced at each other, guilt and embarrassment in their eyes.

“Excuse us for a moment.” Patel stood abruptly and headed out of the chamber. With a heartbeat’s hesitation, Minishimi followed him out.

Jason didn’t look up, his ears burning, the back of his neck hot. He’d said much more than he’d intended, and he was certain he’d pissed off the Captains and probably their staffs, but what the hell? Everything was falling apart and he’d be damned if he’d stand by and watch it happen. There was too much at stake.

He owed it to Shannon.

He was so absorbed with his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice when the starship captains returned, nearly arm-in-arm. They paused in the doorway, looking at him and then briefly at each other before they came back to the table. Minishimi took her seat while Patel stood at the head of them all.

“We find ourselves in an awkward and perhaps unprecedented position,” he said. “Our decisions will affect all humanity, yet we have no appointed leader. Either Captain Minishimi or myself is the obvious choice, but we share a rank and nearly the same time in grade.” He grimaced painfully. “What we also share is a complete lack of practical experience in fighting this particular enemy. As a matter of fact, the only person here of appropriate rank with that kind of experience,” he said, his gaze settling on Jason, “is you, Captain McKay.”

“Me?” Jason felt a strange, disturbing tingle in his stomach.

“And,” Patel went on, ignoring the interruption, “since the last orders I have are to provide you with all the support necessary to aid in the effort against the Invaders…” He glanced at Minishimi, who nodded wordlessly. “Captain McKay, I’m loath to dump this kind of responsibility on someone else’s shoulders—we both are.” He gestured to his fellow starship commander. “But regulations and military procedure won’t do us any good if we lose this fight. I can’t order you to be our commanding officer, but we’d both appreciate it if you’d accept.”

Jason stared at him in disbelief, filled with a sudden and overwhelming sense of resentment. How could they do this to him after what he’d told them? How could they put him in this kind of position?

And how could he possibly say no?

He stood slowly, trying his best to bore a hole through Patel’s skull with his glare. Around him, he could hear the muttering from the starships’ staff officers, could feel their stares, sense the shaking of their heads. This wasn’t going to work. No one would follow him—they’d know he wasn’t qualified. They wouldn’t trust him, wouldn’t believe in his decisions—and why should they?

He wasn’t sure if he believed in them himself.

But from somewhere in a dark corner of his soul loomed an image of Colonel Mellanby, eyes as cold as death, smiling savagely.

I’m counting on you to keep on accomplishing the mission, the specter whispered. And if you don’t, I’ll rip your liver out with my bare hands and eat it raw.

“Captain Patel,” Jason said, “I’m going to need to interrogate Podbyrin again. And I need to figure out a safe way to send a wide-band message to Earth.”

Chapter Nineteen

“Life is a grindstone. Whether it grinds you down or polishes you up depends on what you’re made of.”

—Anon

The viewscreen flickered, its picture grainy and unfocussed from the poor quality of the helmet cam, but gradually the image formed of an old, one-story block building surrounded by an electrified fence.

“That’s the armory outside Cleveland ’plex,” Lieutenant Leon—“Call me Kristy”—Kristopolis told Shannon, standing behind her, half-leaning on her chair. “We’d already cleaned out by then, but I left an observation team to gather what intelligence we could.”

Shannon nodded, only half-listening to the man. He’d arrived earlier in the day, brought by Corporal Lee’s friend Rhajiv Vingh along with the rest of the Service Corps platoon. She’d been worried that he’d be the stereotypical Janitor Corps officer—fat, sloppy and obsessed with paperwork—but so far he’d proved surprisingly intelligent, if somewhat garrulous. He reminded her of her college economics professor, and was near the same age. Promotions came slowly in the RSC.

On the screen, a group of Protectorate biomechs came into view, emerging from a tracked personnel carrier. A squad of them spread out around the vehicle for security while the rest poured through the main gate, left gaping open by the fleeing RSC troopers.

“There,” Kristy said, jabbing a finger at the rotating dish antenna mounted on the vehicle. “That’s what I was talking about. It’s putting out a constant signal on a narrow band. We tried to listen in and all we got was this.” He put a tape into a slot on the control board and hit the play button, and was rewarded with an ululating computer squeal.

“Probably a control signal,” Shannon guessed, stopping the tape. “They have to maintain some kind of local coordination to keep the things organized. Otherwise, they return to basic programming: kill anything in sight.”

“So they’re sort of like Marines,” Kristy muttered.

Shannon glanced back at him, laughing in spite of herself. It seemed the RSC had the same low opinion of the Marines that the jarheads had of the janitors.

“Sort of. Anyway, if we can destroy the control antenna, we can disorganize the troopers.”

“You’re the expert, ma’am,” the slim Greek officer said, shaking his head. “I didn’t know these things existed until yesterday. We’re a bit lightly armed for any action, though.” Kristopolis sighed, switching off the video replay. “All we’ve got are twenty flechette guns and a couple sidearms.” He grinned in self-deprecation. “They don’t exactly let us Janitors play with the fun toys.”

“I talked about that with Agent Klesko last night, before you and your platoon arrived.” Shannon spun her chair around to face him. “They didn’t store any weapons at this facility, but he knows of an emergency cache nearby—older stuff, but still useful.”

“Hell, I’m game, ma’am. Let’s go grab it.”

“I’m afraid it won’t be that simple, Lieutenant. First, we have to convince the Senator to approve.”

Her head snapped around at the attention tone from the communications board and Kristopolis leaned forward, checking the readout.

“It’s a wide-band message,” he told Shannon, activating the viewer. “Maybe more announcements from that loud Russian fellow.”

As the screen flashed to life, Shannon had to stifle a gasp. The face in the flickering image wasn’t Antonov, it was Jason.

“This is Captain McKay, Fleet Intelligence,” Jason intoned solemnly, “acting commander of the surviving Republic military forces.”

“I’ll be damned,” Shannon hissed, shaking her head. That lucky son of a bitch had been promoted again.

“You know this guy?” Kristopolis regarded her curiously.

“You could say that.”

“I’m speaking both to our citizenry and to the representatives of the Protectorate,” Jason continued, “and any of my comrades who are listening should remember this.” Shannon’s ears pricked up and her brows knit as she quickly scanned the commo board for a frequency monitor. “We of the Republic military understand the threats that have been made by General Antonov should we take any action against his forces. We wish him to be assured that we are not in the planning stages of any such attempt. Our primary concern is the safety of the President and of innocent civilians. However, we choose not to surrender at this time, as we are not assured of our safety and also do not wish to allow our ships to fall into the hands of the Protectorate.

“We advise the forces of the Protectorate not to bother tracing the origin of this signal, as we will not be remaining at these coordinates for more than another thirty hours. For our comrades in arms on Earth, we leave you with the message that we are one in thought, one in courage… and one in action. This may not be a time for flagships and space battles, but it is the time for brave men and women to step forward and unite.”

The screen degenerated into a snowy, patternless collage and Kristopolis shut it off.

“Yes!” Shannon beat her fist against the console triumphantly, earning a curious stare from Kristopolis.

“Am I missing something?” he asked her. “I mean, it was a stirring speech, but…”

“Get the Senator,” she told him. “And Agent Klesko. Bring them back here now!”

“Yes, ma’am.” He sketched a salute and sprinted out of the room, leaving Shannon staring at the screen, shaking her head.

“Jason McKay,” she whispered, grinning from ear to ear like a child on Christmas morning, “you’re a Goddamned genius.”

“I don’t understand.” Senator O’Keefe shook his head as Jason’s image faded and the recording ended. “I mean, I’m gratified that Captain McKay is all right, but what’s the urgency?”

“Listen to the beginning again,” Shannon told him, keying the read-write disc.

“I am speaking both to our citizenry and to the representatives of the Protectorate,” McKay’s image repeated, “and any of my comrades who are listening should remember this.” Shannon paused the replay and turned to O’Keefe.

“That’s a code-phrase,” she told him. “The mention of speaking both to us and the Protectorate means he’s trying to deliver a message but can’t speak plainly.”

“It’s POW code,” Charlie Klesko confirmed, leaning on Valerie O’Keefe and Glen Mulrooney, who’d helped to bring him from his room. His wounds had been treated with medical supplies stored in the shelter, but the metal fragment had cracked his right hip and he should, Val kept reminding him, have been in bed. “Standard for almost a hundred years—if the enemy’s listening, find a way to let the good guys know. A pretty good job of it, too.” He groaned softly as Val and Glen gently lowered him into a seat on the sofa.

Mulrooney stood leaning against the far wall, haunting the room like a ghost. He’d wandered the shelter like a lost soul since last night. Shannon wasn’t sure if he’d slept. Val sat on the room’s sofa next to Klesko, as if she lacked purpose without him around to tend.

“But what’s he trying to tell us?” the Senator wanted to know.

“He says they’re ‘not in the planning stages’ of any attack on the Protectorate,” Shannon reminded him, “but since he’s let us know that he’s talking for the benefit of the enemy, I’d say that means they are planning something, and he tells us exactly what their objectives are.”

“The President,” Klesko said. “He wants someone down here to try and free the President.”

“And probably take the control center for the orbital defense satellites at the same time,” Shannon agreed.

“Even if anyone had the capability for that,” Lieutenant Kristopolis protested, “the Protectorate ships would just destroy the control center with a missile.”

“That has to be the other part of the plan,” Shannon deduced. “He said ‘This may not be the time for flagships and space battles, but it is the time for brave men and women to step forward and unite.’ The Protectorate’s flagship—he’d have to be setting up some kind of attack to take it out.”

“He stressed unity several times,” Klesko pointed out. “He wants to coordinate the attacks so the Protectorate won’t have time to react.”

“I don’t know,” Daniel O’Keefe sighed, running a hand across his face. “That’s assuming an awful lot.”

“I know Jason,” Shannon insisted—and couldn’t help but notice the sharp glance that earned from Valerie. “He wouldn’t waste time on a message like that unless it meant something more. There was a carrier wave tucked into the message—it’s a standard navigational code. He’s giving us the coordinates to transmit a reply.”

“And a time frame,” Klesko reminded her. “Thirty hours.”

“It’ll have to be a tight-beam transmission.” Shannon bit her lip thoughtfully, pacing around the room, hugging her arms to her. It was chilly in the shelter at night, and she wasn’t dressed for it. “We don’t have that kind of equipment here.”

“What would you need?” Kristopolis wondered.

“Access to one of the orbital comsats would be best,” Agent Klesko told him. “But we could probably get away with a high-powered, ground-based laser.”

“Access to a comsat,” the RSC Lieutenant mused, rubbing at his chin. “You mean like a Republic Holonet broadcast station?”

Shannon’s head snapped around and Klesko struggled to sit up straighter.

“I mean exactly like an RHN station.” Klesko grabbed the man’s arm. “Tell me there’s one near here.”

“In Cleveland ’plex,” Kristy confirmed. “I pass it every day on the way to work.”

“The Russians’ll have it secured,” Shannon warned.

“But not tightly,” Klesko argued. “They can’t have that many troops onplanet yet. We can do it.”

“We’re still going to need those weapons,” Kristopolis said. “If you try something like this, it’ll make it harder to get them.”

“What weapons?” Senator O’Keefe asked, looking at each of them as if they’d lost their minds. “What are you talking about?”

“We could do the ops at the same time,” Klesko suggested, continuing as if he hadn’t heard the man’s question. “It won’t take that many troops to pull off the transmission—actually, I wouldn’t take more than ten people.”

“That’s true.” Shannon leaned back on the commo console, her eyes glazed in thought for a moment. “But we’d be stretching our resources pretty thin.”

“I might be able to find us some more help,” Kristopolis told her. “I know a few of the local cops—they could provide some warm bodies.”

“Just hold it one Goddamned minute!” Senator O’Keefe slammed a fist down on the commo console.

Everyone’s head swivelled around, staring at him wide-eyed. O’Keefe’s face was red and he was huffing like a steam engine.

“I seem to recall,” he strained the words out through clenched teeth, “someone telling me I was the de facto leader of the Republic. If I’m not mistaken, the three of you,” he eyed Shannon, Klesko and Kristopolis, “work for me. So why don’t you try running this brilliant plan of yours by me before we send out the troops?”

“Sorry, sir.” Shannon winced contritely. “You see, Agent Klesko knows of an emergency cache of weaponry nearby—we’ll need them if we’re going to carry out any actions against the Protectorate forces.”

“The site’s pretty well camouflaged,” Klesko put in. “There probably won’t be any resistance—we’ll just have to be careful on the way back. What Lieutenant Kristopolis was pointing out was that it would be more risky if we attempted to access the weapons after we made the transmission, since the Protectorate forces would be on alert.”

“You really think we can accomplish anything,” the Senator asked him, “with just a handful of Service Corps troops?”

“They’re damned good troops, sir.” There was an edge to Kristopolis’ tone.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea.” O’Keefe shook his head, pacing across the room, hands shoved in his pants pockets. “You heard what Antonov said. If we oppose them, there may be reprisals against civilians.”

“And if we don’t oppose them, sir,” Shannon countered, “do you think those civilians will thank us for sparing them to live a life of servitude to the Protectorate?”

“What if you lead them back here?” he asked, eyes on Val.

Shannon hissed out a frustrated breath. She recalled Governor Sigurdsen asking a similar question back on Aphrodite, but she couldn’t give the acting head of the Republic government the same flip answer she’d given him.

“Sir, you’re the leader of the entire human race, not just the part of it in this shelter.” She didn’t take the point any further, but she could see in his eyes that he’d understood.

“Lieutenant Stark.” Glen Mulrooney pushed off from the wall, stepping into the midst of them. “You’re going to need some help loading the weapons. I’d like to go with you.”

Shannon blinked at him in surprise: that was the last thing she expected to hear and for a moment she couldn’t think what to say.

“No offense, Mr. Mulrooney,” she finally stuttered, “but you’re not exactly qualified for this kind of work.”

“Maybe,” he said, grinning crookedly, “it’s time I got qualified.” His expression sobered. “Before this is all over, I think we’re all going to have to learn.”

She was about to turn him down again, but suddenly reconsidered. The mission, as they’d planned it, wouldn’t involve undue risk, and their objective was to avoid contact with the enemy. Besides, this was nearly the first time she’d seen Mulrooney doing anything but bitch, and she was of a mind to encourage the change.

“All right,” she agreed, “as long as you agree to follow my orders and those of Lieutenant Kristopolis immediately and without question.”

“No problem,” he assured her, smiling. “Thank you.”

“Glen?” Valerie’s voice came from behind him and he turned to face her. In her eyes, Shannon could see the same disbelief she’d felt. “Why? Why do you want to go?”

“It’s got to be done,” he told her quietly, “and no one else will do it.”

“Well,” Senator O’Keefe sighed, shoulders sagging in resignation, “I guess that’s as good a reason as any.”

* * *

Glen Mulrooney huddled under the uniform jacket he’d borrowed, hands sheltered in his armpits. He tried to steady his shotgun between his knees so he wouldn’t have to touch the chilled plastic, but the bed of the truck bucked and he had to grab the weapon to keep it from falling. The RSC troops on either side of him looked nearly as miserable, shivering fitfully, swaying with the movements of the old cargo truck, its bed uncovered and open to the predations of the chilling night.

Misery loves company, Glen comforted himself. He just wished he had an excuse to be up in the heated cab with Corporal Lee and Private Vingh, but they were the only ones who’d been trusted with the location of the weapons cache. What a kick in the ass, being ranked lower than a damned corporal.

He still couldn’t believe he was here; he certainly wouldn’t have been able to imagine himself volunteering for something like this only a few days ago. But so much had changed for him—for all of them--in the last few months. He wasn’t sure if things could ever go back to the way they had been before all this, or if he even wanted them to. He felt as if he’d been wearing blinders for the last ten years and they’d just been lifted.

He’d been so concerned with the machinations and intrigue of politics that he’d forgotten the “why” of it all. Every law he’d helped the Senator pass, every appropriations bill they’d hammered out was more than just a petty political victory: it had real, substantial effects on real people. What if they lost this war because he’d denied the Fleet one cruiser or one more refueling center? Would the billions of people living under the thumb of the Protectorate be grateful to him for saving them a few dollars more per month?

There was no way to go back and undo what had been done, but he had to do what he could. Maybe he could become the kind of man that Valerie could respect again, someone who didn’t always think of himself first: someone like Lieutenant Stark or Captain McKay…

“Oh, my God,” he whispered to himself, eyes opening wide. The RSC trooper next to him glanced over curiously, but Glen didn’t notice the man.

Suddenly, everything was abundantly clear to him. The baby Val was carrying was Jason McKay’s. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before, but maybe he’d just been so self-centered that he couldn’t imagine Valerie having sex with another man. It certainly made more sense than anything he’d thought of so far. It explained why she wanted to keep the baby, why she’d insisted on going alone to the obstetrician, and why she’d seemed so distant from him when they’d been reunited.

He knew Valerie had thought he was dead, and—more importantly, he admitted ruefully—McKay had believed Shannon Stark dead. They’d been alone in the middle of nowhere and they’d turned to each other for comfort. The only thing that surprised him was that he wasn’t angry. It seemed distant, somehow, and unimportant. And liberating.

He realized with a crack of emotional thunder that the only thing that had kept him with Valerie the last few months was the belief that either she was carrying his child, or she’d been raped and needed his support. With that thread of commitment severed, there was nothing connecting him to her: not friendship, not respect, not even the vestiges of love. And sitting in the back of an old truck with a shotgun between his knees, freezing his ass off, on his way to sneak a load of guns out from under the noses of ruthless invaders, he suddenly felt better about his life than he had in years.

* * *

Jason McKay floated in the midst of the firmament, feeling as if his soul had slipped the surly bonds of his corporeal form and gone sailing through an ocean of stars. Nothing could touch him anymore. No life-and-death decisions could twist his guts nor petty minutiae wear at his patience.  He could just let his thoughts drift.

Maybe he wouldn’t come back this time, maybe…

“Captain McKay,” an irritatingly insistent voice resonated in his ear. “Captain McKay, please, it’s important.”

“Off,” McKay sighed with great reluctance.

The starfield surrounding him flickered away and suddenly he was back in the holochamber of the Patton’s recreation center, its bare walls staring balefully back at him. Standing in the chamber’s open door was Lieutenant, Junior Grade Ifeanyi, one of Patel’s junior staff officers, fidgeting like a four-year-old with a full bladder.

“What is it?” McKay asked impatiently.

“Sir, we’ve got a reply… from Earth, sir.”

“Well, Goddamnit,” Jason snarled, exploding out of the room past the stunned Fleet officer, “why didn’t you say so?”

McKay flew through the ship’s corridors at breakneck speed, nearly colliding with at least a dozen startled crewmembers on his way to the bridge. He’d delivered his message from the remote commo platform over twenty hours ago, and had almost given up hope of a reply. He’d retreated to the holochamber to relieve some stress after he realized he’d spent nearly two hours staring at the same page of a status report.

“Where is it?” he blurted as he zipped onto the bridge, braking his zero-g momentum against Captain Patel’s chair, earning a raised eyebrow from the ship’s master.

“Bring it up,” Patel ordered the communications officer.

The main viewscreen lit up, somewhat incongruously, with the seal of the Republic HoloNet, which faded into a face.

“Holy shit!” Jason’s breath caught in his throat and he rocked back, floating against the padded restraint bar behind the captain’s chair.

“Hi, Jason.” Shannon smiled at him from the screen. “Surprised to see me? For those of you who came in late”—she put on a serious expression—“I’m Lieutenant Shannon Stark of Fleet Intelligence, acting commander of the surviving Earth forces,” she sniffed derisively, “which consists, at the moment, of a few scattered platoons of RSC troops, a couple precincts worth of local police officers, and one slightly-beat up Presidential Security agent. The acting head of the Republic government is the sole surviving member of the Senate, as far as we know, Senator Daniel O’Keefe.” She glanced down with an almost imperceptible discomfort, then glanced back up. “Valerie’s safe, Jason, and so is Glen. Nathan’s dead.” She shook her head. “Anyway, we’ve got access to heavy weapons, and we’re ready to try to carry out the attack on the orbital weapons control center. We may not be a Marine special-ops team, but we’re all you’ve got. What we need now is a time. We can be ready within two weeks. We have a base of operations, but we’re still gathering our forces, plus we’ll need a few days for recon and training.

“Send us another broadcast, widebeam, with just the time—shift it exactly forty hours and ten minutes ahead, just in case they figure it out, and maybe camouflage it with another one of your commanding-general type speeches.”

Jason barely heard the snickers that remark elicited from a couple of the bridge officers.

On the screen, Shannon’s expression softened.

“Now, I hate to embarrass the acting commander of the Republic forces in front of all his loyal minions,” she went on, a glint in her sparkling green eyes, “but there’s one more thing I forgot to tell you last time we talked, and I want to make sure I pass this bit of information along, just in case.” She gazed into the screen, and Jason felt as if he could reach out and touch her, like she was only meters away instead of millions of kilometers.

“I love you,” she said, blinking at something in her eye. Shaking her head, she looked behind her and then back to the camera. “Well, got to go. Stark out.” The screen blackened, and, for a moment, all Jason heard was the sound of his own breathing.

Only when his face began to ache did he realize that he was wearing a huge, blithering-idiot grin.

Chapter Twenty

“Darkling they went under the lonely night.”

—Virgil, the Aeneid

Shannon tried not to hold her breath as she watched the Protectorate patrol roll by, the independent axles of their personnel carriers bouncing rhythmically with the ruts of the road. She lay sprawled over the frame of her battery-powered cycle, her heavy backpack—laden with ammo and a pair of missile launchers—in the brush beside her, where it had fallen when she’d ditched the bike.

Finally, the last vehicle passed by, its transceiver dish spinning slowly, and Shannon scrambled to a crouch, unslinging her rifle as she listened for any other threats. The night was silent, but for the gentle whisper of the north wind and the distant, mournful hooting of an owl. Satisfied that the Protectorates had gone, she stood and whistled softly. From the brush further along the side of the old Interstate, another figure emerged, walking a motorcycle back toward her.

“That was pretty close, ma’am,” Corporal Lee commented, reshouldering his pack.

“Get used to it,” she said, kickstanding her bike. “We’ll be seeing a lot more of them the closer we get to Capital City.” She waded into a stand of tall grass to grab her backpack.

“That was a good idea you had,” Lee went on, reminding her of a puppy dog with its tongue hanging out. “I mean, about all of us heading out separately and meeting outside the city. If we’d all been together, that patrol would have spotted us for sure.”

She grunted, not wanting to encourage the youth. He apparently had the idea that being paired with her meant he was the “teacher’s pet,” and he’d been talking nonstop ever since they’d left the base, excepting the two times they’d run across Protectorate patrols—one airborne and this one on the road. Of civilians and police, they had seen not a soul in the last fifteen hours. She hadn’t realized till lately just how few people lived outside the megalopolises anymore.

Things had moved quickly since they’d received Jason’s reply. They’d gathered together a hundred police officers and RSC troopers in the woodlands surrounding the base and used the few days they had for intensive training. It seemed only hours ago that she was briefing the assembled RSC and police officers in the base’s tactical center, using interactive video maps drawn off the central computer system.

“Since we’re dealing with such a diverse and inexperienced force,” she’d told them, “I’m going to keep this as simple as possible. I don’t want any of this information disseminated until we all reach the rally point outside Capital City—if any of your men are captured and interrogated, I don’t want them to know enough to kill the operation.” She’d looked each of them in the eye in turn. “Because this operation has to go on, ladies and gentlemen, no matter what.”

She’d used a laser pointer to indicate the map on the room’s main screen. “This is Capital City, which is built on what used to be called Long Island, and over to the west are the Ruins,” she’d told them, using the slang term for the huge stretch of abandoned buildings that had been New York City, Jersey City and Newark. “In-between is No Man’s Land—the security zone around the defense satellite control base and the civil communications center. It’s a full kilometer of thermal and sonic sensors, motion detectors and nonlethal traps. Thanks to Agent Klesko,” she said with a nod toward the big man, who was now able to walk with a cane, “we know the override codes to disable the traps, but once we use them, they’re going to know we’re coming. What we have to do is send in a small group on foot along the one path where the sensors don’t overlap—along the inlet between the coast and Fire Island—to sneak in and secure the President during the attack on the control center. I’ll be leading that team, which will consist of ten troopers hand-picked by Lieutenant Kristopolis, while the Lieutenant will lead the main strike force.”

“How’re you going to find the President?” Cleveland P.D. Lieutenant Melissa Sanchez had asked her. Sanchez was a powerfully-built woman with the body of a weightlifter but a surprisingly gentle face. Kristy had brought her in, along with twenty of her officers and almost the entire Cleveland ’plex Emergency Reaction Team. “After all, he could be anywhere in there.”

“We have to try,” Shannon had answered with a pensive shrug. “Kristy, you give us half an hour to get into place, then go ahead with the attack—we have to take out the satellite controls, no matter what. You’ll have to use the missiles we mounted on the police riot vehicles to take out the Protectorate hoppers and APC’s first, then hit the transmission antennae. After that, we’ll try to extricate the President. It may be necessary to abandon the vehicles and retreat on foot if they use orbital bombardment.” She’d paused thoughtfully. “Of course, if they use orbital bombardment, it means the attack on their ships has failed and we’re all dead anyway, so I guess retreat isn’t that big a priority.”

“Was that why we did it this way, ma’am?” Lee asked, still rambling on, apparently not getting the idea. “’Cause it’d be harder for them to find us?”

“That’s one reason,” she said, swinging a leg over her cycle. A flick of her wrist brought the motor humming to life, the vibrations travelling through her utility fatigues and into her legs.

“What’s the other reason, ma’am?” he asked, starting his own bike.

“Someone’s got to get through. If we go in small groups,” she explained with a cold smile, “then they can’t kill us all before we get there.”

With that, she pushed off from the aged, cracked pavement and accelerated down the road. Lee followed somewhat hesitantly, the perpetual grin on his face blanching into something less confident.

* * *

“Tell me how this is supposed to work again,” Tom Crossman said, staring at the less-than-imposing bulk of Colonel Podbyrin’s courier—or rather, what had been his courier.

The little spacecraft had been pulled into Pallas’ pressurized drydock several days ago, and three teams of technicians had been working on it nonstop since then. The ship still retained its outward appearance, but an ungainly antiproton-drive booster pod had been grafted to its ass-end, meant to make up for the loss of two of its four fuel tanks. The bulbous hydrogen containers had been replaced with Marine boarding pods—heavily-armored capsules meant to be launched through the skin of a spaceship and insert troops. Rounded shells camouflaged the true nature of the pods, but any close examination would pierce that disguise—just as a thorough scan would reveal that the two-passenger control capsule that was formerly mounted on the nose of the modular craft had been replaced by a jury-rigged lookalike three times the size of the original and designed to shelter twenty people.

“Stop complaining,” Vinnie admonished Crossman, cinching the man’s armored chestplate tighter, jerking him backwards. “It’s simple—we get close enough to the Russian flagship, then we take the boarding pods right through the hull. After that, all we gotta do is reach the weapons control center and take it over until the Bradley and the Patton can come in behind us and wipe out the rest of them.” He spun the man around to face him and shoved a rifle into his hands. “What’s not to understand?”

“Actually,” Crossman muttered with a grimace, “I was only hoping I’d misunderstood something.”

Before either of them could comment further, Jason McKay and Jock Mahoney came through the drydock’s safety lock with Ari Shamir, Gunny Lambert and the rest of the Marine Reaction Force in tow, decked in full body armor and bristling with weapons.

“Everybody on board,” McKay said. “We got four days ahead in that piece of shit, and I’d like to get it over with as soon as possible.”

“You really think this is going to work, sir?” Crossman asked him. “I mean, there’s only us against that whole ship—and if Lieutenant Stark doesn’t take out the ground control center…”

“Think positive, Tom,” McKay urged with mock enthusiasm. He reached out to pat the chevrons on the man’s shoulder. “You’re a sergeant now—you have to be an example for the men.” He turned to Clarke, one of the autogunners. “Doesn’t Sergeant Crossman inspire you, Clarke?”

“He’s my fuckin’ hero, sir,” the big man grunted.

“There you go, Tom,” Jason said. “Now get your ass on board.”

Crossman followed the others down the skeleton-frame stairway to the access hatch in the side of the courier, leaving Jason on the platform with Ari Shamir and Gunny Lambert.

“Lieutenant Stark’s a good soldier, sir,” Lambert told him, hesitating at the top of the stairs. “We can count on her.”

“I know we can, Gunny,” Jason assured him. The Gunnery Sergeant eyed him closely for a moment, head cocked strangely, as if he saw something different, then turned and headed after his men.

“What was that all about?” Jason wondered, glancing at Ari.

“He was saying to me a couple minutes ago,” Shamir replied, “that there was something different about you the last couple days—good different. But he couldn’t put his finger on it.”

“I think I know what it is.” Jason pulled his helmet out from under his arm and put it on, sliding back the faceplate. “I feel like a Marine again, Ari,” he said thoughtfully. “And the weird thing is,” he went on with a wistful smile, taking a step down the stairs toward the ship, “it feels good.”

* * *

Valerie shivered, hugging her arms to her as she paced out into the chill of the night air, letting the fake door to the fake barracks building swing shut behind her. A single bulb mounted above the doorway lit the path out a few meters, but beyond that everything was swallowed in the darkness of the moonless night. At the edge of the cone of feeble light was Glen Mulrooney, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, gazing out at the sky.

“Glen,” she said, stepping up to him—actually, waddling was more accurate, she thought ruefully.

He turned, frowning at the sight of her in a too-small RSC field jacket over the dress she’d worn to the President’s speech. “Val, you shouldn’t be out here,” he admonished her. “You’ll get sick.”

“I just woke up and saw you weren’t in bed,” she explained. “I was worried.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “You wanted to go with them, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t ask,” he admitted dejectedly. “I knew Lieutenant Stark would’ve said no. But I feel so impotent just sitting around here, not knowing what’s happening.”

“Daddy feels the same way,” she told him. “He’s always been in control—and now, when he has the responsibility for the whole government, suddenly everything’s out of his hands.”

“Life’s that way sometimes,” he said, stepping away from her, letting her hand slide off his back. “You think you know where your life is going, you think that everything’s under control, and then you realize it was all an illusion, and you don’t know anything.” His eyes fixed on her. “Or anybody.”

“I know things have been a bit rough between us, Glen,” Valerie said. “And I’m sorry. It’s just that things have seemed so different since Aphrodite…” She trailed off into a cough, winced as it sent a sudden pain through her distended abdomen.

“Are you all right?” he asked dully, more from rote than from any real concern.

“I’m a lot of things, Glen,” she replied with a sigh, shoulders sagging, “but ‘all right’ is not one of them.”

Glen didn’t feel any urge to be sympathetic—didn’t feel anything but an almost uncontrollable impulse to tell her that he knew, to scream that she’d betrayed him. But that was something the old Glen Mulrooney would have done, so he just said, “Maybe you should go back inside.”

“Maybe I should, maybe I should,” she murmured, her words slurring as she seemed to rock back and forth unsteadily.

“Val?” Glen took a step toward her, finally feeling real concern.

“Oh, God…” she moaned, clutching at her stomach, and then she collapsed forward into his arms.

“Val!” Glen staggered with her unconscious weight, but managed to lower her gently to the ground, one hand behind her back, the other at her right thigh. It was then that he felt the moistness soaking the lower half of her dress. “Jesus!” he exclaimed, suddenly realizing that his hand had come away from her thigh slick with blood.

His head wagged back and forth between Valerie’s motionless form and the door to the barracks, frantically debating in that split second whether to go for help or try to lift her and take her inside himself. He realized with a piercing ray of perception that there was no way he could handle her weight and that the attempt might just injure her further.

“Help!” he shouted as he threw open the door to the barracks, sprinting down the stairs. “We need help out here!”

Chapter Twenty-One

“God is on the side not of the biggest battalions but of the best shots.”

—Voltaire

The metallic bulk of a Protectorate hopper paced jerkily from one side of the fenced-in compound to the other, its groin-mounted cannon scanning from side to side, throwing an elongated shadow over the sterile, sandy soil. Most of the control center was underground: only the black wedge of the cargo entrance scarred the surface, its huge double-doors yawning invitingly open. The massive, skeletal dish antennae surrounded the entrance, each protected by the same sonic stun fences that guarded the base’s perimeter, and each patrolled by half-squads of biomechs. At the gap in the sonic fences that formed the security entrance, a pair of trollish figures in powered armor squatted motionless, shoulder-mounted weapons trained outward.

Shannon lowered her binoculars, hissing a sigh through her teeth as she stared westward at the setting sun.

“It’s about what we expected,” Kristopolis said with a shrug, still staring across the kilometer of open, grassy plain.

“As long as they don’t spot us,” Shannon whispered hopefully.

The makeshift assault force was spread out through the trees of Powell Federal Preserve, peering through the old security fence that marked the border of No-Man’s Land. Their dozen or so vehicles were parked further back under cover from orbital surveillance. Shannon was amazed so many had made it through—she credited it to the fact that the Protectorate had spread their forces so thin. They’d only lost two of the two-to-four-person groups they’d sent out, leaving them with nearly sixty troops. They’d linked up only three hours before, on the outskirts of the Ruins, and held a final mission brief before taking up their positions here, at the edge of the forest. Now, there was nothing to do but wait for sunset.

“At least there’s only one hopper,” Lieutenant Sanchez mumbled, unconvinced by their optimism. “That we can see.”

Shannon tugged uncomfortably at the neck of her neoprene wetsuit—it was an unseasonably warm fall in New York, and she was sweating like a racehorse in heat. “Might as well get this over with,” she decided, scrambling up from a crouch to join the rest of her infiltration team.

Of the ten individuals selected for the infiltration, six were RSC lifers with combat experience—older NCO’s who’d retired from the Marines to the RSC because of various injuries that would keep them out of space—while the other four were members of the Cleveland PD’s Emergency Response Team. They huddled together under the cover of a stand of oaks, all of them dressed in wet suits, an assortment of diving gear collected on the ground in front of them. She’d barely had time to learn their names, and here they were about to follow her into the valley of death. Just like on Aphrodite.

What had she said to Jason when she’d left for Earth? Something about how she’d had enough of being a leader. What a sense of humor God must have.

“Gear up,” she told them, grabbing the mesh bag that held her own diving equipment. Her weapons and ammo were already sealed in a waterproof pack strapped across her chest—the diving gear had come from the stores of a recreational SCUBA club back in Cleveland. Shannon still wondered just where the hell anyone found to go diving in Ohio.

Not that she was all that excited about diving off Long Island. Impressed as she was by the scenic beauty of the place, she was fairly sure that the surf crashing on the sand of the shore a couple hundred meters away was colder than a taxman’s heart, and she didn’t even want to think what might be swimming in that water. She had been diving before—once, when she was fifteen, when her parents had taken her to Australia on holiday. She hoped her troops wouldn’t be intimidated by her wealth of experience.

“Not too late to back out,” Kristopolis joked as he stepped up behind her. “I’ve always wanted to be a commando.”

“You just make sure you’re not late,” she said, arching an eyebrow at him. “I don’t want to have to take on the whole Protectorate by myself. Remember, if they spot us…”

“I know,” he said, raising a hand to interrupt her. “If I hear any firing or see any sudden troop movement, I’m to attack immediately. Don’t worry—this plan’s so simple not even a dumbass Janitor could screw it up.”

Shannon patted him on the shoulder, smiling proudly. “No matter what happens today, Kristy, you and your troops will never be called ‘dumbass janitors’ again.”

Without another word, she marched off toward the shoreline, with her squad in tow.

Kristopolis watched them until they were over the dunes and out of sight, then turned back to the faces of the fifty men and woman under his command, all looking to him expectantly.

“What are you waiting for?” he yelled, his smile offsetting his words. “An engraved invitation? Everyone in your vehicles and in place! Private Vingh, you have the codes—get your ass over to the security lock on the gate and get ready to deactivate the sensors on my signal. Come on, you miserable bastards, we got ourselves a war to win!”

* * *

Shannon fought to keep from hyperventilating as she sucked air through the regulator of her borrowed rebreather unit, blowing out streams of bubbling carbon dioxide into the dark water. Despite her wetsuit, the water of the Long Island Sound felt like liquid nitrogen, and every muscle in her body threatened to cramp up from the bitter cold.

Below her, she could see the sand of the sea floor and the furtive movements of underwater life, some of it disturbingly large, but the night-vision lenses built into her dive mask robbed her of depth perception and she wasn’t sure how close or how large the things were. It seemed as if they’d been slogging through the frigid water for hours, but a quick check of the luminous LCD readout of her dive computer told her it had been less than thirty minutes—which, she figured, put them somewhere just past the control center.

Turning back toward the rest of her group, she held up her hand for a security halt, quickly did a head count, then signalled for a position check. Together, they slowly ascended the ten meters to the gently-rolling surface waves and the swiftly-darkening sky, and Shannon turned 360 degrees searching for the shore. It was difficult due to the rise of the dunes at the beach and the gathering darkness, but Shannon finally spotted the lights of the entrance gate shining into the sky nearly parallel to their position.

She motioned for them to head in, then carefully and quietly let air from her buoyancy control vest to allow herself to sink below the waves—too much movement would trigger the sensors on the shore. Once she was down and swimming inland, she checked her chronometer once more and nodded with satisfaction. They had ten more minutes before Kristopolis shut down the alarms.

* * *

“You remember the code, Raj?” Corporal Lee nudged Private Vingh, jostling his hands away from the gate’s security panel. Rajhiv craned his head around and favored his friend with a withering glare.

“Yes, I remember the Goddamned code,” he growled.

“You sure?” Lee shook his head doubtfully, trying to hide his smirk. “I mean, after all, that Klesko guy wouldn’t write it down and that was a couple days ago… anything could happen. What if you forgot?”

“Johnny,” Vingh snapped, “if you don’t leave me the fuck alone, you won’t have to worry about the Goddamned Protectorate, ’cause I’ll kill you myself.”

“Hey you two, quit screwing around.” Lieutenant Kristopolis came out of the trees behind them, taking a knee at the gate controls. “We’re all set. Give me a minute to get back to my vehicle, then punch in the codes and get the hell out of the way.”

“Yes, sir,” Vingh said, but Kristopolis was already sprinting back into the darkness of the woods. The PFC turned back to the gate and an alarmed, blank look passed over his face. He fixed Lee with a terrified stare. “Oh, shit!” he blurted. “I can’t remember the code!”

Corporal Lee laughed. “It’s okay, Raj,” he assured his friend, pulling a slip of paper out of his fatigue pocket. “I was hanging out around the corner when Klesko gave it to you. Here.” He shoved the paper at Vingh. “I wrote it down.”

“Oh, you son of a bitch,” Vingh muttered, punching in the override code.

The chain-link gates swung open with a whine of infrequently-serviced motors, and before they were halfway apart the assault force’s motley train of vehicles was already advancing out of the treeline. Lee and Vingh scrambled out of the way, waiting for the last of the assortment of groundcars, motorcycles and hovercraft to pass through before they hopped into the three-wheel All-Terrain Vehicle parked to the side of the gate and gunned the engine.

“You ready?” Johnny Lee asked, swinging his rifle around so that it pointed out his side of the buggy.

“Brother, I’ve been landscaping public parks for the last two years,” Vingh laughed, spinning the little car around and accelerating through the gate. “Of course I’m not ready!”

* * *

Shannon knew that the fight had commenced when the Protectorate hopper exploded.

“Go, go, go!” she snapped, levering herself up from the sand with the butt of her rifle.

The infiltration squad raced across the beach, black-clad ghosts incongruously lit by the pinwheels of fire belching from the enemy machine. Shannon had removed her night-vision goggles when she’d donned a battle helmet for the assault—and the obsolete headgear they’d liberated from the stockpile lacked infrared imaging—but in the light from the blast she could see the enemy scurrying around the compound with all the organization of a rugby scrum. Human and biomech troops rushed to the suddenly stilled black pylons that had been the base’s sonic fence, running to meet the attack from Kristopolis’ diversionary force.

The infiltration team bounded forward, one six-person group moving while the other provided cover in the classic overwatch formation she’d drilled into them over the last few days, but she was too preoccupied to feel much tutorial pride. Her eyes darted about frantically as she led the team through the inactive fence, weaving a path through bits of burning wreckage from the hopper. She had to actively restrain herself from diving to the ground at the explosion of gunfire across the compound as the Protectorate troops opened fire on the assault force.

She tried not to focus on the yawning cargo entrance lest she ignore possible threats from elsewhere, but the light from within the open doors drew her gaze irresistibly. Which was why she was the first one to notice the suit of Protectorate powered armor lumbering up the ramp from the bowels of the base.

“Down!” she yelled, throwing herself into the prone position, her rifle coming to her shoulder.

She was squeezing the trigger even as the armored Russian swung his arm-mounted weapon around, but the 6mm rounds spanged harmlessly off the thick alloy surface of the suit and the gaping bore of the trooper’s recoilless rifle lit up with a crack of thunder. Shannon buried her head under her arms as she felt the hot breath of the shell on her neck, and then something that was more a feeling than a noise picked her up and deposited her two meters farther toward the cargo doors.

The impact drove the breath from her lungs, sending her vision spinning through a kaleidoscope of colors, a persistent ringing in her ears drowning out all other sound. Distantly, she felt hands picking her off the ground, dragging her forward, and she wondered with stunned detachment why the battlesuit’s weapon hadn’t fired again to finish her off. But as her vision cleared, she could see the remains of the heavy, powered armor sprawled just inside the base’s entrance at the end of the downward-sloping ramp. A huge hole was blown through its upper torso, the metal peeled back by the blast, and within the remains of a human male still burned wildly. Shannon managed to twist around and spotted one of the Cleveland cops reloading his shoulder-fired missile launcher, a look of grim satisfaction visible through the clear faceplate of his helmet.

As clarity slowly returned to Shannon, she became aware that her own faceplate was spiderwebbed with cracks, and that her whole body was one giant ache from head to toe. It was best she find out now just how badly she’d been hurt. Pulling away from the RSC troopers who had been half-carrying her, she managed to stand on her own and discovered that at least her legs weren’t broken.

She shook her head to clear her vision, then threw back her helmet’s fractured faceplate and looked around as she struggled to keep up with the squad. They were about halfway down the cargo ramp, and there were no enemy troops in sight from where they were to the shoulder-high stack of palleted cargo containers that blocked off the end of the ramp. A quick count told her they were short by two people.

“Casualties?” she snapped, jogging up beside Lieutenant Priata, the Emergency Response Team leader from Cleveland ’Plex.

“Two of my people dead,” he told her—his face was hard, but she could see the pain behind his eyes. “Tripper Scott and John Rubinstein.” The names meant nothing to her, and she felt a sudden sting of guilt. He looked her up and down. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, surprised she could still hear after the concussion from the blast. “But I don’t have time for a physical.” She glanced around. “Did anyone pick up my rifle?”

“Here, ma’am.” One of the cops passed her a bullpup identical to the one she’d been carrying but with a grenade launcher mounted under the barrel. “Your stock was broken—this one belonged to Trip.”

She took the rifle without a word, checked to make sure a grenade was loaded in the tube, then took the point back from Priata.

“You two.” She gestured to the man and woman trailing their extended file formation. “Check around the other side of those pallets.” She singled out the man with the missile launcher. “You hang back and cover our rear—I don’t want any more of those armored things surprising us. Everyone else, follow me.”

While the pair she’d designated sprinted to the right side of the twenty-meter-wide ramp to flank the cargo containers, Shannon led the rest up along the left-hand wall. It was oddly silent within the high-ceilinged chamber, the battle sounds from outside only faint murmurs through the insulated walls, and Shannon felt chills running alongside a trickle of perspiration down her back.

Maintenance catwalks stretched overhead, parallel to the tracks for heavy loading equipment, choice perches for an enemy sniper, and the end of the ramp lurked in hidden menace behind the cover of dozens of cargo containers. Her eyes danced back and forth between the two threat areas, distracted here and there by the blinking lights of control panels and displays, and she began to understand how Jason must have felt as he walked through the hostile streets of Kennedy. She became conscious that she had slowed down to a crawl and made an effort to speed up while still staying alert—this wouldn’t be a good place to be if any of the Protectorate troops decided to retreat from the attack.

She dearly wished she wasn’t walking point, but the simple fact was that she’d had more tactical training and practical experience than even the ERT cops, whose most hazardous duty was probably smoking out some endorphin dealer from the city’s maintenance tunnels. Actually, she admitted to herself, she wished that Nathan were here.

Shannon trod carefully into the narrow aisle between the left-hand wall and the unbroken row of cargo containers, watching the open space beyond for any tell-tale shadows that would reveal a hidden enemy, then came to a halt as she approached the last of the containers. The line of closed security doors against the far wall could conceal anything, but the first order of business was to clear the backside of the pallets. Turning back to the rest of the squad, she motioned Priata forward and signalled to him to “watch high.”

The ERT leader nodded and backed into a standing position at the edge of the last cargo container, shoulders pressed against the bright-blue thermoplastic, rifle held at high port. Shannon fell into a crouch just in front of him, facing the line of security doors on the back wall, her weapon across her chest. She took a deep breath, then signalled Priata with a slap on the leg and dove forward on her left shoulder, gun and eyes aimed across the front of the row of pallets.

Movement at the far wall tightened her finger on her rifle’s trigger, but she let off a gram’s worth of pressure away from firing as she saw it was the two RSC troopers she’d sent around the other side of the cargo containers. The lead of the two Janitors signalled an all-clear, and Shannon motioned for them to take up a position against the far wall, watching back the way they’d come.

She turned back to the half-dozen security doors, trying to remember the rough sketch Klesko had drawn for her, and finally decided on the double-doors marked simply with an oversized “Three.” The keypad on the door yielded to the emergency override codes the Presidential Security Agent had provided, hissing open slowly, giving Shannon time enough to jump to the side out of the line of fire.

But the long, downward-slanted hallway beyond was deserted and Shannon allowed herself a breath of relief as she moved into it, waving the squad forward. The three she’d left to guard the entrance remained in place—she didn’t like depleting her already-small force by another third, but she’d like being trapped in there even less.

The squad spread into a close wedge in the wide hallway, stretched out lengthwise over twenty meters, and moved quickly down the corridor. Here and there the odd security office or utility closet beckoned and had to be checked, but all were dark and deserted as Shannon knew they would be. Klesko had told her that the real guts of the place were further down, and that was where she was sure they would be holding the President.

Finally the hallway terminated in a circular cul-de-sac, ringed by a bank of elevators and a single, unmarked door. The squad spread into a defensive formation without having to be told, and Shannon went to the door, the entrance to the emergency stairwell—and swore under her breath. Klesko hadn’t remembered the security mechanism for the stairwell, and now she knew why. It didn’t have a control panel, a palmprint reader, not so much as a damned doorknob. The only thing she could figure was that the door was set to open automatically if the base’s fire alarm went off—which didn’t leave her with too many options.

“Back off, everyone!” she ordered, waving them back into the hallway. “On the ground.”

While her troops took up prone positions about twenty meters back into the corridor, she paced off another ten meters past the last of them, then fell into the crouch facing the door. Racking her brains to recall her brief familiarization training with the old M-46 Individual Weapon, she adjusted the grenade launcher’s sight and brought it to bear on the door.

With an expectant wince, she pulled the trigger.

She had vague ideas of going prone as the buttstock of her rifle kicked her in the shoulder, but before her body could react the hallway was filled with smoke and thunder. Shannon stood at the center of the storm of sound and heat, feeling the patter of low-velocity shrapnel off her ceramic stealth armor. Then it was past and the door was a dozen bits of twisted metal in a haze of smoke.

Shannon let her breath out in a hiss and advanced on the stairwell, not noticing the incredulous looks the men and women of her squad gave her as they rose to follow.

Quickly, they moved downward into the darkness.

* * *

Greg Jameson had just managed to drift off to sleep when the far-off rumble of an explosion brought him upright on his cot. Blinking in confusion, he stared at the bare, white walls of the storage room his captors had converted into a cell, automatically checking his watch and cursing as he realized it wasn’t there.

The Invaders hadn’t left him so much as a sharp edge with which to slit his wrists, and God knew, by now he was almost ready to try it. The only escape he’d been allowed in the month he’d been confined to the three meter by three meter room was one trip to the washroom every three hours—and, of course, the daily interrogation sessions. At first, he’d entertained thoughts of heroically resisting, defiantly refusing to answer their questions no matter what tortures they put him through, while he expertly plied them with questions and learned more about them than they did about him.

Unfortunately, his captors held no such romantic notions: he’d been unceremoniously dragged from his cell, injected with truth drugs and pumped like a cryogenic fuel tank for over three hours. Since that first session, the interrogations had become less regular and far less lengthy, but he still felt a perpetual stupor nagging at him from the lingering effects of the drugs, and his shirt was stained from the vomit that always accompanied his return to consciousness. And the most humiliating thing about the whole business was that he knew just as little now about his captors as he had when he was brought here.

They were humans—the ones in charge at least—and spoke with some kind of Eastern European accent, probably Russian, and that was it. The only time he saw them was during the interrogations, and then he was in no condition to ask questions. He couldn’t even remember how much he’d revealed under the influence of the drugs. This was, he reflected bitterly, the lowest point in his life.

Jameson felt himself beginning to sag back onto his bed, the perpetual drowsiness beginning to take hold of him once again. He had almost decided to go back to sleep, convinced the noise had simply been the product of an incoherent nightmare, when the door to his makeshift cell was unceremoniously yanked open. Into the room burst a man—a man and not one of the blue-skinned things!—in a brown military uniform, his eyes clouded with fear, the ugly, angular lines of a small pistol in his right hand. He was an older man, with thinning hair and lines under his eyes, and seemed less imposing than he had when the President was under the drugs.

“You will come with me,” he declared, grabbing Jameson by the arm and jerking him off the bed.

Being manhandled was something the President was not used to—he’d always been a big man, used to people steering clear of him, even as a child—and a month in captivity hadn’t changed that. Suddenly, he wasn’t President Greg Jameson anymore, or Captain Jameson, Fleet Marines, or even captive Greg Jameson—he was number eleven, quarterback Greg Jameson of the University of Florida fightin’ Gators, and this asshole with a gun was some puke defensive back running a corner blitz.

With an incoherent roar, Jameson grabbed the man’s gun hand and smashed the forearm down on his knee, snapping the bone with an audible crunch. The European uttered a high-pitched scream, the gun dropping from his suddenly-useless hand, but Jameson kept his grip on the man’s arm, using it to spin him around and send him flying backward across the room. The uniformed man bounced off the far wall with a grunt of breathless pain and came right into the elbow that Jameson poised to smash across his temple. The European went down like a felled tree, his eyes rolled back into his head, while Jameson went for the pistol.

His heart was pounding and his head felt as if it were about to explode. The President struggled to stay conscious as he covered the fallen enemy with the weapon. The man didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. Jameson wondered if he’d killed him with the blow to the head, finally deciding that he hoped he had.

He took a second to check the pistol for any kind of safety, but it had none. It was a primitive design, made of metal stampings, with a concealed hammer. He pulled back the slide and a round popped out, clattering to the floor—the weapon had been chambered and ready to fire. Jameson fought back a fresh wave of dizziness at the knowledge of how close he’d come to death, then decided he’d better get out of the cell while he could.

Grasping the pistol tightly in both hands, he ducked out the open door and quickly scanned the corridor up and down. Nothing, not a soul. To the right was the entrance he’d been brought through, to the left the washroom—and the control room. Which way to go? He leaned back against the wall, trying to catch his breath, and listened. For a moment all he heard was the pounding of his heart, but then, so close it made him jump, there came the hollow, metallic echo of gunfire down the hallway to his right.

Gunfire! That meant someone was attacking the Invaders! Jameson limped cautiously down the corridor, keeping his right shoulder against the right-hand wall, pistol extended in front of him as he approached a bend in the hallway. This was it, he decided. Whatever was happening, he wouldn’t go back to a cell—they’d have to kill him. He’d be damned if he would wither away strung out from drugs, locked in a box like a lab-rat.

The hoarse stutter of an automatic weapon came even closer this time, and the President abruptly realized that he wouldn’t have to seek out the fight—it was coming to him. He glanced around quickly, searching for a doorway to take shelter in, but before he could move a step a pair of brown-uniformed soldiers burst around the corner, running headlong toward him. Gasping in panic, Jameson fell backwards onto his butt, bringing his captured weapon up in front of him as he saw that the two men were facing the other way—the way they’d come—firing ear-splitting submachinegun blasts at their unseen pursuers.

It had been over twenty years since Jameson had fired a gun, but apparently it was just like riding a bicycle because the gun seemed to point itself as he lined the sights on the first man’s chest and squeezed the trigger. The gun’s sharp report and bucking recoil took him by surprise, but he managed to keep it on line as he fired again and again, watching with an almost out-of-body detachment as the two men jerked under the impact of the bullets.

The President only stopped firing when the pistol’s slide locked back empty, a haze of smoke and heat pouring from the chamber and obscuring the image of the two soldiers, turning them into surreal shadow-figures that spun silently to the floor. Jameson seemed to wake from a trance with a wave of gut-twisting horror, the red-hot weapon slipping slowly from his grasp to land next to him with a metallic thunk.

“Sweet Jesus,” he murmured, his whole body trembling uncontrollably.

So shaken was Jameson that he almost didn’t notice the black-armored troopers swarming around him until they grabbed his arms and pulled him to his feet. For a moment, the President tried to struggle, thinking his captors had retaken him, but then one of the armored figures pulled off its helmet and revealed the flaming red hair of a captivatingly beautiful young woman—none of the Invader humans had been female.

“Mr. President,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay—we’re here to rescue you. I’m Lieutenant Stark, Fleet Intelligence.”

“Thank God,” Jameson sighed, finally feeling his breath return.

“Sir,” Stark said, “we’ve got to get to the control room. Can you walk?”

“Walk?” He laughed with an almost giddy relief. “Hell, Lieutenant, I can run!”

* * *

Senator Daniel O’Keefe burst into the base infirmary bare-chested and barefoot, his trouser belt flapping around his waist, face twisted with horror at the sight that confronted him. Valerie, his only child, his whole life for the past two decades, lay motionless on an examination table, her dress stained with blood, her skin as pale and lifeless as a corpse.

“Oh, my God,” he gasped, stopping in his tracks.

Slowly, the rest of the scene penetrated his stunned senses. Gathered around the table in a frenzy of feverish activity were three RSC medics, part of the small group which had remained at the base. Even as he watched, they were fixing the tube of an IV drip into Val’s arm and placing a medical scanner over her swollen abdomen, their faces taut with anxiety.

“She just collapsed,” Glen said, coming up behind him. “We were outside, talking, and she just collapsed.”

“What’s wrong with her?” O’Keefe demanded, stepping up to the medics. “What are you doing for her?”

“She’s hemorrhaging,” the woman administering the IV, snapped impatiently. “As soon as we find out where, we’ll have to go in and stop it.”

“Oh, Jesus,” the medic examining the scanner readout murmured, shaking his head. He looked back up to his two colleagues. “It’s the baby—it’s coming prematurely… or trying to.”

“But why is she bleeding?” O’Keefe wailed, fists clenching helplessly.

“High blood pressure, maybe,” the medic shrugged, plunging into a supply cabinet, searching for an injection gun. “Doesn’t matter—we can’t close it off, so we’re gonna have to get some coagulants into her.”

“Can’t you stop the labor?” Glen asked, amazed at how detached he felt from the situation.

“I could,” the man grunted, concentrating on loading a drug vial into the injector, “if I had access to an Ob-Gyn clinic. But all we got here is emergency medical supplies, and those don’t happen to include those kind of drugs.” He got the vial loaded and injected the coagulant into Valerie’s thigh with an angry pneumatic hiss.

“So what are you going to do?” O’Keefe wanted to know.

The medic finally looked up at the Senator, and the fear in his eyes nearly matched that in the older man’s.

“Only one thing we can do, sir,” he said with a sigh. “We’re going to have to try to deliver the baby.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Fortune favors the bold.”

—Virgil, the Aenid

General Sergei Pavlovich Antonov sat in his chair and watched the world roll by beneath him.

My world, he thought, not for the first time. The beautiful blue planet that filled the observation room’s giant transplas window was his to control, his to destroy if he so wished.

“What are you thinking, Sergei?” the naked woman beside him wondered.

Antonov turned to regard her stunning beauty. She was like a classical sculpture, a blond Venus manufactured for his pleasure by the scientists. He’d thought he might grow bored of her, like a child with a toy, but she learned so much so quickly.

“It is destiny, Yevgenia,” he told her, using her, as he often did, as a sounding board for his thoughts. “How else could you explain it?”

“Explain what, my love?” she asked, floating at his shoulder in the weightlessness of the chamber, her fingers stroking his temples.

“All of this,” he told her, waving a hand expansively, the sleeve of his robe billowing with the motion. “Just when things seemed irretrievably lost, when the Motherland lay in radioactive ruins and the whole world turned its hand against me, my one desperate hope of escape led me to the very source of the power to take it all back. And it is within my grasp, Yevgenia, my beautiful one.” He stretched out a hand toward the viewport, as if he could take the world in his fist.

“It is only a matter of patience,” he went on. “My technicians have assumed control of power and food production in all the major cities—within days, the people will be forced to come to us to survive. Already the city officials in three of the largest of their megopolises have begun to cooperate in exchange for food and supplies.”

With a satisfied smile, he slipped an arm around his biomechanical consort and drew her into the chair with him, settling her on his lap.

“Yes, Yevgenia,” he concluded, softly stroking her perfect skin, “there must be a God and he must be a Russian…”

“General Antonov!” the unwelcome voice came over the room’s intercom with a palpable sense of urgency. “General Antonov, are you there?”

“Damn it!” The General punched the comm switch on his chair angrily, startling Yevgenia and sending her floating out of his lap. “I told you never to disturb me here, Pyotr!”

“I am sorry, General,” the bridge officer stammered, “but it’s the orbital-weapons control center… the place we are holding the Republic President.”

“I am very well aware where we are holding the Republic pretender, Lieutenant Dubronov,” Antonov growled. “What about it?”

“Sir, it’s under attack!”

“What?!” Antonov exploded out of his chair, nearly impacting the chamber’s padded roof before he caught himself. “Don’t do anything!” he yelled at the intercom pickup, pushing off toward the door. “I’ll be right down.”

The command bridge of the Protectorate flagship was awash with confusion when General Antonov arrived, floating gracefully through the transport tube. The ship was equipped with a rotating habitat drum to provide simulated gravity for the crew quarters, but the bridge was intentionally kept at zero-gee for tactical purposes.

“Silence!” Antonov roared, coming to a halt in the center of the control room. The buzz of activity came to an abrupt halt, as if a switch had been turned off, and all eyes turned immediately to the General. “Lieutenant Dubronov!” he snapped. “Report!”

“Yessir, General,” the younger man barked—though younger was a relative thing with the original Russian crew: Dubronov was a hundred and five to Antonov’s hundred and thirty, though thanks to the technology of the Great Machine he still seemed to be no older than his mid-twenties. “General Antonov, we received a transmission from Captain Constantinov at the satellite control center. He reported that they were under attack by motorized forces with missiles and small arms.”

“Get him on the radio for me,” Antonov ordered.

“We cannot, sir,” the Lieutenant said, shaking his head, his face pale. “We lost contact with the base five minutes ago, and we apparently no longer have control of the weapons satellites.”

“I am surrounded by incompetents!” Antonov roared, and Dubronov’s face went pale as he anticipated one of the General’s legendary rants.

“General Antonov!” One of the comtechs took his life in his hand by interrupting the General. Antonov swung around to glare at him menacingly, but the man went on hurriedly. “Sir, it is Colonel Podbyrin. His ship is approaching, requesting to dock with us.”

“Podbyrin!” the General barked. “Good Lord, I’d nearly given up hope he would make it. Put him on screen.”

“Yes, sir,” the comtech said, eager to comply and get the General’s focus off him.

The bridge’s main screen lit up with the snowy, staticy image of Colonel Podbyrin, flashing in and out of existence with each moment.

“Dmitry Grigor’yevich!” the General boomed. “What the hell is wrong with your communications?”

“…eral Antonov,” Podbyrin’s image said between bursts of static. “…attack by… forces damaged… antenna… life support failing.” The screen blacked out for a moment, then returned with amazing clarity, revealing Podbyrin’s sweating, wrinkled visage. “Need to dock immediately!”

Then the image disappeared into a collage of snow and the comtech switched it off.

“His radio has stopped transmitting, sir,” the comtech announced. “Your orders?”

“Allow him to dock,” Antonov instructed, frowning deeply. “Have a security team detailed to the docking bay in case there is anything wrong.”

“Sir,” Lieutenant Dubronov asked with some hesitation. “About the satellite control center—do you wish me to land support troops?”

“Not yet,” the General shook his head, sneering. “We cannot afford to lose any more troops--we are spread thin. We do not need the center anymore, since we have established orbital dominance.” He sniffed, turned to the weapons officer. “Prepare a fusion missile for immediate launch.”

* * *

“We’re in like Flynn,” Vinnie told Jason, shutting off the hologram simulation of Colonel Podbyrin. His sweat-covered face disappeared from the front screens, replaced by the looming mass of the enemy vessel. Sunlight glinted off the silver-metaled hull of the cylindrical Protectorate flagship, an elongated mass driver stretching along its spine.

“Ari,” McKay spoke into the radio pickup in his helmet, “are your people secure?”

“We’re tight, sir,” came the reply.

“Launch the pods,” McKay told Vinnie.

The Sergeant hit the control, and they all felt a sharp jolt as the boarding pods cut loose from the body of the ship, floating a few dozen meters away before their small rocket motors ignited.

On the screen, the egg-shaped grey shells streaked across their view, one of them heading up the portside toward the bridge, while the other preceded them into the yawning mouth of the docking bay. Vinnie turned up the magnification and they could see spacesuited maintenance workers within the bay scurrying for safety as the pod rocketed into the bay’s inner wall, small braking thrusters in the nose igniting just short of the surface of the hull.

The combined impact of the tungsten-carbide nose of the pod and the heat of the chemical braking thrusters burst through the inner wall and melted an airtight seal around the nose of the vehicle. Vinnie hit a control and a video window appeared on the viewscreen, bringing them a picture from Ari Shamir’s helmet cam.

In front of Ari, the pod’s combat lock shot out with a bang of explosive bolts, revealing the smoke-filled corridors beyond the docking bay and a cluster of stunned Protectorate officers staring with disbelief at the hole that had suddenly materialized in the wall.

An armor-clad Marine streaked past Shamir with a puff of compressed gas from his zero-gee maneuvering jets, slicing across the Russians with a burst of flechettes from a CAWS supershotgun. A haze of bright-red blood globules floated across Shamir’s vision, and when the view cleared a half-dozen Marines had spread out in a hemisphere around the opening.

“We’re in, sir,” Shamir reported.

“Head for the bridge, Ari,” McKay ordered. “We’ll meet you there.”

A weight pressed the occupants of the courier forward as Vinnie hit braking thrusters, bringing them from docking speed to a dead stop just short of the forward wall of the bay.

“Take small children by the hand and check your seats for personal possessions, ladies and gentlemen,” Vinnie announced, securing the yokes of his battle helmet. “And thank you for flying Protectorate spaceliners.”

The four men moved quickly and with practiced ease as they pulled weapons from ready-mounts on the hull and moved to the ship’s emergency airlock. McKay hit the control to open the outer door to the hard vacuum of the bay, then turned to his team.

“You boys ready?”

“You only live once,” Tom grunted, racking a round into the chamber of his CAWS. “Might as well get it over with.”

McKay chuckled, then punched the pressure plate to open the inner door.

The atmosphere in the courier’s cabin shot them out the door like they’d been launched from a mass driver, straight into the midst of a squad of Protectorate biomechs. Jock squeezed the maneuver control in his left fist and turned himself in a lazy arc, at the same time pressing down on the butterfly trigger of his assault gun. Modified for zero-g, the gun vented its exhaust gasses from rear-angled ports to counter the recoil as he fired, pumping alternating penetrators and frag rounds into the biological robots.

It was a surreal scene, the armored biomechs falling apart under the impact of a hail of slugs in the dead silence of the vacuum. All Jason heard was his own breath rasping inside his helmet as he, Vinnie and Tom joined Jock in pouring fire into the squad of Protectorate troopers, but the effect of the barrage was real enough. Within seconds there was nothing left of the half-dozen biomechs but careening chunks of flesh and metal and baseball-sized globules of floating blood.

A half-dozen spacesuited human workers scurried for cover, but McKay ignored both them and the primary debarkation collar that was extending automatically toward the courier, and moved instead to the maintenance airlock. While Vinnie, Jock and Tom surrounded him in a defensive cordon, Jason pulled a computer module from his belt and affixed it to the airlock control panel. The module read and decoded the door’s security system in less than a second and sent the outer door sliding silently open.

Jason pulled the device free and the four of them moved into the lock, shutting the outer door behind them. Through their pressurized helmets, the men could hear the gentle hiss of inrushing air as the lock equalized pressure with the ship. Once the indicator lights went green, Jason attached the lockpick module to the inner door and then moved quickly back from it, bringing up his rifle.

The inner lock slid aside with a rumble of antique motors, moving with painful slowness, and before it was halfway open they were squeezing out through the gap and setting up a perimeter in the corridor. Jason had half-expected a squad of biomechs to be waiting for them, but there was not so much as a cockroach to be seen in the antiseptic-white hallway—just a Cyrillic-lettered sign on one wall with a pictographic symbol for an airlock and the universal symbol for danger.

“The Marines must have ’em distracted,” Jock opined hopefully, looking around nervously at the lack of opposition.

“Yeah,” McKay grunted, unconvinced. “Well, let’s not wait around for them to find out we’re here.”

With a gust of compressed gas, he led them down the corridor, heading for the bridge.

* * *

“What in the hell is going on?” Antonov roared, turning on Lieutenant Dubronov, the violence of his outburst sending the officer floating gradually backwards till he caught himself against a safety rail.

“Sir…” the man stuttered, “I think we are under attack!”

“You think!” Antonov repeated, glaring at the man. “What in the hell do you mean, ‘You think?’ Dubronov?” He pointed at the image frozen on one of the ship’s security scanners, the bodies of a squad of biomechs floating in a sea of blood and metal fragments. “Do you see that, Lieutenant? You damn well better know and you’d better know fast.”

“General,” he said hastily, “we have received scattered reports of gunfire throughout the ship, and a maintenance crew in the docking bay has radioed that several armored men came out of Colonel Podbyrin’s ship and killed the security detail.”

“Podbyrin! That goat-fucking moron!” Antonov’s fists clenched and he wished for gravity so that he could smash something. “He let himself be captured!” He turned back to Dubronov with unbridled rage in his visage. “You. I want you to take a security team and find these invaders. Do not try to engage them directly, just get behind them and herd them.”

“Herd them where, General?” Dubronov asked, shaking his head.

“Why, exactly where they wish to go, Lieutenant.” The General’s eyes narrowed and Dubranov could see the foxlike cunning that had brought Antonov from a minor division commander to leader of half the world. “Right here. I want you to bring them to me.”

* * *

Johnny Lee shook away the darkness and tried once more to claw his way free of the wreckage of the overturned ATV. Lee wasn’t sure what had hit them, but the last thing he remembered was a flash of light and the taste of metal and dirt, and then he’d woke upside-down beneath the roll-cage of the little machine. The front end of the ATV was a twisted mass of smoldering metal, and he didn’t know where Raj was.

His helmet kept getting twisted around and bumping against the roll cage, so he impatiently yanked it off and suddenly felt as if he were about to faint. A warm trickle of blood flowed down his forehead and dripped off his nose, and he cursed under his breath—if his brains were leaking out he wouldn’t be walking very far.

“Goddammit, Raj,” he hissed, pushing at the dirt beneath him. “Where the hell are you when I need you?”

“Just give me a second, you ungrateful asshole,” came the unexpected reply.

Lee twisted around and saw Rajiv Vingh leaning into the frame of the wrecked ATV, trying to push it off his friend.

“Just hold still so I don’t crush your silly ass,” he grunted. “That’d be real funny—you live through an enemy rocket hitting us and then get your neck broke while I’m trying to get you out.”

As Lee watched him, he noticed that Vingh’s right leg was covered with blood, his fatigue pant ripped at the thigh, but it didn’t seem to slow the man down as he strained against the vehicle. The ATV frame began slowly rocking in rhythm, and finally Vingh rammed into it with his shoulder and the little rover toppled over with a high-pitched metallic creak. Lee pulled his legs into a fetal position and let the ATV’s roll cage pass over him, the vehicle coming to a rest on its side with a rattling crash.

“Thanks, Raj,” Lee moaned, rolling gingerly to his feet. He felt a little dizzy and his head throbbed with every heartbeat, but at least he was alive. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll live,” Vingh told him—and as he did, Lee finally noticed how quiet it was.

No rattle of gunfire, no explosions, not even the rumble of engine turbines. He looked across the field and saw to his surprise that they were alone. The burning hulks of the hodgepodge of vehicles the strike force had assembled littered the plain like little roadmarks leading to the control center. At their head, toppled apocalyptically, was the remains of one of the Protectorate Hoppers, one of its legs a twisted ruin, its biomech driver hanging limply from the shattered cockpit.

The control center itself loomed only a hundred meters in front of them, the transmission antennae it guarded now scorched wreckage from multiple missile hits, and around its walls were scattered lumps that could have been bodies. But there was not another living soul to be seen on the field of battle.

“Where is everybody?” Lee blurted, taking a tentative step toward the control center.

“Far as I can tell, ” Vingh declared wearily, “they’re all dead. Nothing’s moved since I came to.”

“They can’t all be dead,” Johnny said, shaking his head. He waved at the entrance to the base. “If anyone made it, they’d be inside.”

Without warning, he began striding purposefully toward the entrance, leaving a limping Raj struggling to keep up.

“Did that ding on your head scramble your brain?” Vingh asked, catching up with him. “What if there are more of those biomech things inside?”

“Whadda you wanna do, Raj?” Johnny shot back, eyes fixed on the entrance to the control center. “Walk back to Cleveland?” He laughed sharply, regretting it as his head throbbed. “It’s all over today, man. If we don’t win here, if they don’t do their job up there… well, we’re all dead anyway.”

“That’s what I like about you, Johnny,” Vingh chuckled, falling in step with his friend. “You’re always so damned upbeat.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“War is the unfolding of miscalculations.”

—Barabara Tuchman

“Shit! Cut right, cut right!”

Jason pushed his carbine out one-handed against the chest harness that secured it and poured a long burst of fire into the oncoming squad of biomechs, his other hand jerking his maneuver control to the right. Vinnie, Jock and Tom followed on his heels, laying down suppressive fire as they turned sharply into the connecting corridor with a hiss of compressed gas.

Flechette loads and low-velocity slugs chased them into the passage, spanging off the metal bulkhead, one round cracking painfully against the hard armor plate covering Tom’s calf. Grunting through clenched teeth, Crossman spun around and triggered a barrage of rocket-assisted rounds back at the pursuing biomechs, tearing through the armor of the lead troopers and sending them spinning uncontrollably in the zero gravity. As Crossman rounded the corner, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a human officer behind the biomech troopers and held up long enough to try to put a bullet in the man. The shot slammed into the wall instead, and then he was out of sight.

“How far off course are we?” Vinnie panted breathlessly, coming up on McKay’s right shoulder.

“That’s the screwy thing,” Jason replied, shaking his head. “We’re not. This isn’t the route we had planned, but it still leads straight to the bridge.”

“Kinda makes you nervous, don’t it?”

Vinnie’s eyes scanned ahead of them as they jetted forward, but they were alone.

* * *

“Well, where the hell is everybody?” Lieutenant Shamir muttered, glancing back at Lance Corporal Kurita, the NCO for his fire team.

“You got me, sir,” the woman muttered distractedly, attention concentrated on the corridor that stretched ahead of them.

They had penetrated the hull nearly ten minutes ago, and after a brief but fierce confrontation with a biomech security team, they’d encountered only token resistance at a few intersections. They still seemed to be heading for the bridge, and had taken no casualties, but something nagged at him that this was just too easy.

“Hold up,” he ordered, braking himself with his maneuvering jets.

Shamir twisted his left wrist up to his visor, bringing up the controls for his helmet computer, and tapped out a command. Immediately, a digital map came up on his helmet’s heads-up display, showing him the layout of the Protectorate flagship that the intelligence types had wrung out of Podbyrin back on Pallas.

The ship was surprisingly large, considering it had begun life before the collapse as a vehicle for a manned Mars mission—but, according to Podbyrin, the Defender had undergone extensive expansion since the arrival of the Russians at Novaya Rodina. Now, the former exploration ship was a full-fledged warship, with the redundancy of people and equipment that entailed. As a side-effect of this piecemeal construction, the Defender was a confusing maze of interconnected corridors and compartmentalized sections, all surrounded by a thick layer of nickel-iron armor scavenged from asteroids.

An indirect result of this was that there were many possible routes between parts of the ship. The original plan had been for Shamir’s team to take a route to the bridge which led them on a path beneath the central habitation drum, while McKay and company went above it, and the third team headed for the auxiliary control room to ensure the backup weapon system overrides were shut down. But Shamir’s route had been forcibly modified by contact with the enemy so that now, while still headed for the bridge, they were now being squeezed into a path that took them directly through the center corridor that traversed the hub of the rotating habitation module.

And that looked too much like a trap.

“Wazzup, boss?” Kurita asked him.

“I’m about to disobey a direct order,” Shamir muttered, activating his helmet radio.

They’d been specifically instructed to stay off the radio to avoid being zeroed in on by the Gomers, but the Marines had always put a high value on initiative. “Gunny, this is Shamir, come in.”

He waited for a long stretch of heartbeats, praying to a God he hadn’t believed in for years that Lambert and his team were still alive.

“Lambert here. Go ahead, LT.”

Shamir let out the breath he’d been holding.

“Gunny, have you run into any Gomers?”

“Aye, sir, but nothing organized—it’s like they’re busy someplace else. We have possession of the target.”

“Roger, Gunny,” Shamir acknowledged. “Hold until further notice. Out.”

“What are we going to do, sir?” Clarke, his autogunner wondered.

Shamir took one last, long look at his map before answering.

“We’re rats in a maze, Clarke,” Shamir mused. He smiled tightly. “Time to climb the wall.”

* * *

“Come into my parlor…” McKay murmured to himself, staring down the elongated corridor at the heavy blast door that was the entrance to the bridge.

It sat there plump and juicy, like a prize plum hanging in front of them, with no enemy in sight.

“They gotta be waiting for us in there,” Vinnie surmised with a sigh.

“What was your first clue?” Crossman cracked, chuckling mirthlessly. “So, we just gonna stroll on in and demand they surrender?”

Jason gave the question a second’s consideration. This was obviously a trap—but how obvious a trap? Did the Gomers expect them to just walk in, or was the snare more elaborate? Would the Russians use heavy weapons and risk decompressing their own ship? How desperate were they?

“Jock,” Jason finally said, his voice sounding tinny in the echo of his helmet intercom. “Do we have anything that’ll take out that door?”

“Aye, sir,” the big man said, swinging the tube of a missile launcher off his back. He took a moment to program the warhead for maximum penetration, the onboard computer automatically adjusting the configuration of the explosives.

“Vinnie,” Jason instructed, “the second that door’s down, put a spread of grenades through it. Tom, you and I go in once the smoke clears. I’ll take the left, you take the right, and remember, we’re in a zero-g environment, so think three-dimensional. Jock, once we get in, you cover from the door. If they pin us down, we’ll head low, you shoot high.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Crossman said, his helmet hiding his sneer.

“Everyone get behind me,” Jock told them, centering himself on the blast door.

The big Australian let his assault gun hang off its articulated harness while he concentrated on aiming the missile launcher—and fervently hoped that the bulk of the gun and his body armor would combine to stop any fragments the explosion kicked back toward them. Vinnie positioned himself directly beneath his friend, bracing his drum-fed mini-grenade launcher on his hip and anchoring himself to the floor with the electromagnet in the heel of his right boot.

Jason and Tom had barely had time to move behind the two when Jock fired. The missile kicked out of the tube on a gust of compressed coldgas before the rocket motor ignited, slamming the warhead into the blast door with a blast that would have thrown the four of them backwards had they not countered it with their attitude jets. A wreath of smoke shrouded the far end of the corridor, but Vinnie didn’t wait for it to clear—he immediately pumped a half-dozen 25mm grenades into the bridge, aiming high, hoping ricochets off the ceiling would help spread the fragments.

Things sounded funny on a spaceship, Jason thought out of nowhere—the thinner atmosphere and the different mixture of oxygen and helium made the bang of the grenades sound tinny, like a snare drum, and his helmet filters baffled the sound even more. Jason felt Crossman start to move into the bridge but grabbed his shoulder to stop him—in the zero-g, the fragments from the grenades would ricochet around the room for several seconds unless something soft stopped them.

Jason mentally counted to three, then let loose of Crossman and grasped the control for his maneuver pack, giving it a hard squeeze. The jet of compressed gas kicked him in the pants and sent him flying headlong into the bridge, with Crossman close behind. Jason cut the boost and flipped end for end just as he entered the ruined doorway, coming into the bridge feet first and giving himself a microsecond’s sideways burst that put him in a slow spin.

The bridge slowly spun around him as he covered all directions with the assault rifle cradled across his chest, finger half-pressure on the trigger… and saw nothing. The bridge was deserted.

Outdated flatscreen displays flickered with activity, and here and there an indicator light flickered red or green in eerie silence. Other consoles, shattered either by the missile or the grenades, sparked wildly in a cloud of shattered glass and plastic. A haze of pale smoke floated through the room, playing tricks with Jason’s eyes, but his helmet’s infrared filters assured him that there was not a soul in the room but he and Crossman.

“Damn it,” Jason hissed as his boots came up against the huge flatscreen viewer at the far side of the bridge. “What is going on here?”

Crossman braked himself, a twisted grin on his face revealing both his confusion and his perverse pleasure in it. Back at the door, Vinnie and Jock slowly and cautiously made their way inside, Jock’s eyes flickering back and forth from the bridge to the corridor behind them.

“Vinnie,” Jason ordered, “check the ship’s computer—see if they’ve sabotaged the reactor or something.”

Not that doing that would make a lick of sense, he reflected. If the Defender went, the rest of the ships wouldn’t be able to fend off any kind of attack, either from the ground-based defenses or from the Republic ships already headed in from the asteroid belt. That was, after all, the reason they were attacking it.

So where was everyone?

Feeling the hairs standing up on the back of his neck, Jason carefully scanned every square centimeter of the walls with his helmet’s sensors. There was only one other way in or out of the bridge that he could see, and that was the rounded airlock to an emergency escape pod, but the lock yawned open and there was nothing inside. He could smell the rat, but the trick was seeing it.

“I can’t figure out this system,” Vinnie reported from one of the intact consoles. “Damned Cyrillic alphabet.”

“Sir,” Jock warned, still framed in the doorway, “something is not right here.”

“Yeah,” Jason breathed. “Vinnie, get that AI module in place and we’ll get out of here.”

“Aye, sir,” Mahoney muttered, one hand fishing on his belt for the computer module that the techs on Pallas had fashioned for them.

They’d dug deep into technical archives to emulate the old Russian computer operating systems and come up with an AI module that could penetrate them and permanently disable the Defender’s weapons control systems. Once the module launched the virus, the ship would be helpless when the Patton and the Bradley got here. Of course, it would behoove them not to be there when the cruisers arrived, since the plan was for this ship to be blown to vapors.

Vinnie had the module out and was checking the ports when Jason noticed the odd change in the bridge lights. The flashing red of the emergency strobe built into the hull above them, protected by a hard, clear plastic casing that Vinnie’s grenades hadn’t been able to penetrate, had changed its pulse rate, and was blinking frenetically. White strobes at the corners of the bridge joined its flashing beat, growing brighter with every eyeblink, becoming almost painful in their intensity, yet somehow Jason couldn’t seem to look away.

It was a gradual thing, so that when the moment came that Jason realized he couldn’t move, his mind was too numb to be surprised by it. It was like being caught in a cobweb—you knew that the slightest movement could set you free. But he couldn’t move, not a centimeter, and somehow he knew that Vinnie, Jock and Tom had to be the same way, even though he couldn’t see them, couldn’t see anything but the light.

It seemed that only a moment had passed, but the next thing Jason knew, he was floating limply on his back, his helmet off, staring into the face of a legend.

“So,” Antonov rumbled in unaccented English, “this is the best they could do.”

Sorry to disappoint you, Jason wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure if he could yet control his voluntary muscles well enough to speak. Smarting off didn’t seem that great an idea anyway, with half-a-dozen automatic weapons visibly pointed his way.

He managed to move his head a few centimeters to one side and saw that Vinnie, Jock and Tom were likewise immobilized and disarmed, in the grasp of a mixed force of Protectorate officers and biomechs. Their zero-g maneuver packs had been removed, leaving them helpless even to escape, much less to fight. The Protectorates must, he realized abruptly, have been hiding in some concealed compartment, waiting for the right moment to spring the trap.

McKay looked back to Antonov, thinking that the man looked just as big in person as he did in the history videos. His barrel chest threatened to burst the seams of the dark-toned, soft-armored vacuum suit that seemed to be the standard uniform for Protectorate officers on the ship, and his bull neck barely fit through the helmet yoke—unlike the rest of the Protectorate officers, he wasn’t wearing his helmet.

“In case you are curious as to what has happened to you,” the General told them, obviously pleased with himself, “the lights you saw are part of the ship’s internal security system—a result of an interesting experimental project underway shortly before my little altercation with the Chinese. They flash on a frequency designed to cause seizures and paralysis, and I just knew they would come in handy someday.

“You Americans are all alike,” Antonov went on, shaking his head. “So overconfident, so arrogant to think we would not have precautions against such contingencies.”

“Ain’t… fuckin… ’merican,” Jock managed to mutter through clenched teeth.

“Do not fool yourself, my friend,” Antonov laughed. “You may have the illusion of freedom, but you are all pawns of the Americans—or you were,” he smiled with self-satisfaction, “till my return. Your sons and daughters will thank me someday.” Antonov turned to Lieutenant Dubronov. “Where are the others?”

“One group is in the auxiliary weapons control center,” the younger man reported, checking the video readouts from the ship’s security cameras from a clipboard-sized computer readout. He spoke in Russian, but Jason had undergone a hypno-imprint of the language back at Aphrodite when it had become apparent who their enemy truly was. “We have troops in place to keep them pinned there, per your orders. The other…” He trailed off, face drawing into a deep frown as he worked the controls on the readout.

“Well,” Antonov demanded, “where are they?”

Dubronov’s went pale beneath his faceplate.

“Sir, they do not appear on any of the security scanners.” He looked up from the readout. “It does not seem that they are anywhere on the ship.”

“Then I would strongly suggest you check again, Lieutenant,” Antonov intoned darkly, face clouding over. Jason could see his knuckles whitening on the heavy machine pistol in his right hand and wondered for a moment if he might shoot the man. The humans among their captors let their eyes flicker toward the General, wary at the possibility that the man might explode.

Antonov was unbalanced, McKay realized, and even more dangerous than he had thought. Whether that was the result of the treatments he’d received to preserve his life or whether he had always been imbalanced, Jason wasn’t sure.

“General, sir,” the Lieutenant insisted, “I have checked the cameras, the heat sensors, the sonic monitors, everything. They are not on the ship.”

Jason flexed his fingers, feeling the strange numbness fading from his body. To his right, he noticed Jock surreptitiously flexing his arms, trying to force feeling back into them. Maybe they could make a move while Antonov and the others were still distracted.

“No matter,” the General decided, still scowling. “They may have seen through our trap and left the ship, but it will do them no good.” He turned and speared McKay with a venomous stare. “I warned you,” he growled, switching back to English. “I warned you not to attempt something so foolish, that the consequences would be the deaths of thousands. Yet you have ignored my warnings, just as your people ignored my warnings so many years ago. And now you will suffer the consequences. Dubronov,” he said, without looking at the man.

“Yes, sir?”

“Launch a spread of nuclear missiles into the area they call ‘Capital City.’ I want it and the orbital weapons control center levelled.”

“Yes, sir,” the officer agreed eagerly.

Jason’s pulse pounded in his ears and he stole a glance at Vinnie. The Sergeant nodded. It was time.

“Lieutenant Matviyenko,” Antonov addressed another of the human troops, “take whatever of the clone troops we have left and kill the enemy soldiers in the auxiliary control room.”

“What of the prisoners, sir?” the man asked, his eyes flickering uneasily behind his helmet’s clear faceplate toward Jason and the others.

“I’ll take care of them myself,” Antonov said with a cold matter-of-factness, motioning meaningfully with his machine pistol.

Moving ever so slowly, Jason moved his right boot toward the deck, attaching the electromagnetic plate on that heel as quietly and carefully as he could—he would need leverage for this. The moment Lieutenant Matviyenko turned and motioned his force of humans and biomechs toward the jagged metal hole that was the bridge entrance, Jason moved. Snaking out his left hand, he grabbed Vinnie by the arm and swung him bodily into Antonov, the Sergeant’s feet slamming into the General’s chest and sending them both crashing into the viewscreen on the far wall.

Antonov jerked the trigger of his machine pistol as he was struck, but the burst went wild, ricocheting off the hull with a muted, musical spanging. Jason felt one of the errant slugs impact against the armor plate at his back, but ignored it, pushing off the floor as he deactivated the electromagnet in his boot and aimed for the back of Lieutenant Dubronov. The Russian officer began to turn at the sound of Antonov’s pistol going off, but Jason caught him by the shoulder and yanked him away from the weapons control console.

Dubronov tried to bring around his slung carbine, but Jason grabbed the muzzle of the weapon and jerked it upwards, slamming his elbow into the side of the Russian’s helmet. The Lieutenant let loose of the carbine, floating away from McKay, and Jason spun around, bringing the rifle up to his shoulder.

The room froze before Jason like a still photo: Antonov and Vinnie tangled together, backlit by the glow from the main viewscreen, Jock and Tim hanging on the backs of a pair of biomechs, and Lieutenant Matviyenko bringing around his rifle, searching in confusion for a target. Jason centered his carbine’s sights on Matviyenko’s head and squeezed the trigger. The carbine bucked against his shoulder, sending him floating back up against the bulkhead, but the Russian Lieutenant’s faceplate disintegrated in a spray of blood and he flew backwards into the corridor, limp as a dishrag.

Even as Jason tried to regain his stability and choose a new target, a dull stutter echoed across the bridge and a cone of fire erupted from the muzzle of one of the biomech’s weapons. The clone trooper swung the weapon indiscriminately, spraying the bridge with slugs, and Jason saw Vinnie jerk as one of the bullets struck him in the back. Jason tried to target the biomech, but before he could move the thing swung its weapon his way and McKay felt a red-hot lance of pain spear through his right leg.

The impact of the slug sent Jason tumbling forward, spinning slowly head over heels, the carbine floating out of his hands as his vision filled with stars. By the time he spun back around toward the rest of the room his eyes had cleared, but what he saw made him wish they hadn’t. Vinnie floated motionless, red globules of blood bubbling out of the hole in his back. Antonov was heading for the missile launch controls while Jock and Tim were doing all they could to hold onto the biomechs they were wrestling. And the rest of the clone troopers in the squad seemed itching to open fire at something.

Then everything exploded.

Looking back, Jason would realize that the blast had come from inside the escape pod, but at the time it seemed to him that the whole ship was going up as the concussion threw him back against the bulkhead. A blinding pain flared again in his leg, and he felt pinprick penetrations on his face and neck as shrapnel from the explosion peppered the bridge. Then suddenly his ears popped. Dimly, through a haze of pain and an eyeful of bright afterimages, he realized that there was a hard vacuum on the other side of the hole in the hull, and it wanted in.

Jason flailed wildly, trying to plant a magnetized boot on the deck, but the outgoing air was sucking him toward the opening in the hull with inexorable force. He could see the blackness of space through the gap. Metal and plastic fragments swirled lazily through the air in spiral patterns, preceding him through the gap, joined abruptly by a screaming Lieutenant Dubronov. The man spun through the hole where the escape pod used to be, arms and legs flailing, and then he was gone, disappearing into the eternal night.

Jason felt the breath leaving his lungs as he came closer and closer to the dark gap. He had time to think that he was glad he’d heard Shannon say she loved him… before a camo-clad arm reached out and grabbed him around the chest. Wondering if the lack of air was causing him to hallucinate, Jason found himself staring through a helmet faceplate at Ariel Shamir.

McKay blinked at the unexpected sight, and he thought he would black out, but then he felt something plastic slide over his head and tasted the sweet nectar of fresh oxygen. He realized that someone had fitted him with an emergency air bubble, a standard item in a Marine EVA kit which could be sealed onto the neck yoke of his combat armor.

As reason returned to his oxygen-starved brain and fresh pain revived itself in his wounded leg, he let Shamir help him back onto the bridge. He affixed his boot magnet to the deck and observed the rest of Shamir’s people aiding Vinnie, Jock and Tom into their emergency bubbles. Vinnie was still not moving. One of the biomechs had managed to get a grip on a piece of bridge railing and attempted to aim its weapon at the incoming Marines, but Clarke, Shamir’s autogunner, cut the thing in two with a quick burst.

Of the other biomechs there was no sign, nor, he noted, was Antonov anywhere to be seen. Was the man dead? Or had he slipped away somewhere into the depths of the ship? Well, once they did their job, it wouldn’t matter. He waved an arm to try to get Shamir’s attention, but saw that the man was already mounting the second of the pair of AI computer modules they’d been given onto the weapons control console.

While Shamir did his job, one of the other Marines was unfolding what appeared to be an opaque tarpaulin from his backpack kit. He and two others spread the patch over the hole in the hull and then sealed it with a palm-sized heating unit. Jason could hear the outrush of air slow and then cease as the plastic of the tarp melted itself to the interior of the bulkhead.

Tentatively, Jason pulled the plastic air bubble off of his head and took a deep breath. The air was thinner but still breathable. Moving slowly and painfully, Jason made his way to where a Marine medic was looking at Vinnie, with Jock and Tom hanging over his shoulder.

“Is he alive?” Jason asked, surprised at how raw and hoarse his throat was from the exposure to the vacuum.

“Yes, sir,” she said, looking up from her scanner readout. “But he has three broken ribs and a collapsed lung. We gotta get him out of here and into a hospital.”

“Working on it, Corporal,” he assured her as he moved toward Ari Shamir.

“Sir,” the Corporal called to him. “What about your leg?”

“Later.” Jason didn’t look back at her.

“The program is in, sir,” Shamir reported as he approached, his voice tinny through his helmet’s external speaker. “The ship’s weapons system is officially dead.”

“Good job, Ari,” Jason sighed, feeling a weight coming off his shoulders. “Great timing, but Jesus Christ, how about a little warning next time?”

“It was the only thing I could think of,” Shamir admitted. “I knew they were trying to drive us to the bridge, and I knew there had to be a trap.”

“Yeah, me too,” Jason said, closing his eyes. “But we had to come.” He looked the Lieutenant in the eye. “And now we have to go. Radio Gunny Lambert and tell him to meet us at the courier. The fleet should be blowing this thing to vapors in less than an hour and I don’t want to be here.”

“Aye, sir,” the Lieutenant nodded, activating his helmet comlink as Jason turned back to the rest of the troops.

“Get your shit together, people,” he ordered. “We’re moving out and we’re moving now.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“What do you think of yourself? What do you think of the world?… These are the questions with which all must deal as it seems good to them. They are riddles of the Sphinx, and in some way or other we must deal with them… In all important transactions of life we have to take a leap in the dark… If we decide to leave the riddles unanswered, that is a choice; if we waver in our answer, that, too is a choice: but whatever choice we make, we make it at our peril. If a man chooses to turn his back altogether on God and the future, no one can prevent him; no one can show beyond a reasonable doubt that he is mistaken. If a man thinks otherwise and acts as he thinks, I do not see that anyone can prove that he is mistaken. Each must act as he thinks best; and if he is wrong, so much the worse for him. We stand on a mountain pass in the midst of whirling snow and blinding mist, through which we get glimpses now and then of paths, which may be deceptive. If we stand still, we shall be frozen to death. If we take the wrong road, we shall be dashed to pieces. We do not certainly know whether there is any right one. What must we do? ‘Be strong and of good courage.’ Act for the best, and take what comes… If death ends all, we cannot meet death better.”

—Fitz-James Stephens

“Helm, what’s our position?” Captain Patel asked for the fifth time in the last ten minutes.

The helmsman sighed quietly and answered, “Ten thousand klicks and closing, sir. Twenty minutes at present deceleration.”

“And the Bradley?”

“Still in formation, sir.”

“Support fighters ready to launch, sir,” the executive officer reported, anticipating the Captain’s next question.

“What about McKay?” Patel wanted to know. “Has the courier left the Protectorate ship?”

“Nothing yet, sir,” the tech at the sensor board assured him. “And no traffic between the enemy ships.”

“Sir,” the weapons officer asked tentatively, “what do we do if we don’t hear from them?”

“We’ll have to attack anyway, Perez,” Patel told him, letting out a deep breath, his expression sad. “They knew what they were getting into.”

“But what about the Russians, sir?” the younger man wondered. “They said if we attacked, they’d bomb one of our cities. If Captain McKay failed…” He let it trail off, the question still in his eyes.

“Son,” Patel began, but his words caught in his throat. If they had to allow the deaths of thousands or millions to insure the freedom of billions… But who gave them the right to make that decision? What gave them the right to play God? “Son,” he finally said, “ we’ll just have to hope for the best.”

“Yes, sir,” Perez said. He didn’t sound convinced.

But then, Patel reflected, neither am I.

* * *

McKay shook his head violently, trying to stay sharp. It was all he could do to maintain his hold on Ari Shamir’s harness, letting the younger man tow him with his maneuver jets. His leg throbbed with every heartbeat, though at least the blood had stopped soaking the field bandage the medic had forced onto him. The pain was all that had kept him alert as they had navigated their way back through the ship. Luckily, they’d encountered little resistance—a few scattered groups of biomechs and the odd human crew had been dispatched summarily by the Marines riding point.

Their biggest enemy was time. The Bradley and the Patton were scheduled to attack in minutes, and there was no way to contact them—the Eysselink drive warped all electromagnetic signals just as it warped spacetime, and the only way to contact a ship with its drive field activated was through the use of another drive field. Which the Protectorate ships didn’t have. Their only option was to get to the courier and get out of the free-fire zone before it was too late.

Finally, just when Jason was beginning to think they’d somehow gotten lost, the narrow corridor opened up into the broad expanse of the pressurized half of the ship’s docking bay. Waiting for them there, framed against the clear-plastic wall that separated them from the hard vacuum without, was Gunny Lambert and the other half of the platoon.

“Glad you fellas made it,” Lambert drawled, a scowl visible through his faceplate. “But I’m afraid we’re all dressed up with no place to go.” He jerked a thumb at the vacuum behind them, and the conspicuous emptiness therein. “The ship is gone.”

* * *

“Well, this is fucking hopeless,” Lieutenant Kristopolis sighed. “Pardon me, sir,” he apologized to the President, who hung behind Shannon Stark’s shoulder, watching the RSC officer attempt to take control of the orbital weapons control system.

“Not a problem, Lieutenant,” Jameson assured him. He seemed a bit more presidential now, not as harried and haunted as he’d been less than an hour before, though in his torn, soiled clothes he still looked more like a refugee than anything else. “What’s wrong?”

“Is it the controls, Kristy?” Shannon asked, leaning heavily against the console, the beating she’d taken during the attack beginning to take its toll on her.

“Controls work fine,” he told her, absently rubbing his hand across his face, smearing a persistent streak of carbon on his forehead. “It’s the antennae—they got totally blasted in the fight.” He frowned. “I told them to try not to damage them unless things looked hopeless, but…” A pained look passed across his face as he thought again of how many of his people had died just an hour ago.

“Can we fix it?” Jameson asked.

“There are plenty of spares in storage,” Kristopolis explained, “but it would take at least four or five hours just to put the new dishes up, let alone calibrating them.” He shook his head. “I can start some of my people on it if you think it’ll do any good.”

“No point,” Shannon decided. “It’s out of our hands now.”

Almost unconsciously, she glanced upwards. Somewhere up there was either their salvation or their destruction… and Jason.

* * *

Jason stared at the empty space where the courier had been, shaking his head. How the hell could anyone have got past the security seal they’d installed on the ship’s airlock? Surely those frightened sheep they’d left in the bay wouldn’t have had time to physically cut through the hull.

“What about the boarding pod?” Shamir asked. “It’s only one level up.”

“Useless,” Lambert grunted. “It’s fused to the hull, same as ours.”

“So what now?” Jock asked, still grasping Vinnie’s limp form by the back of his harness. “Are there any other ships? Maybe maintenance pods?”

“Escape pods,” McKay declared suddenly, remembering the emergency escape vehicle he’d seen on the bridge less than an hour before. “Ari, they’ll be on your map.”

“Roger that,” the Lieutenant confirmed, calling up the Heads-Up-Display from his suit’s computer. “We got three escape pod bays, closest one two levels down from here, second on the bridge that we blew through and one more back in engineering.”

“I can check on the pods from here,” Crossman announced, moving to a computer terminal set in the hull next to the docking umbilical. He came up short, looking back at the others with an expression that was half embarrassment and half desperation. “Does anyone read Russian?”

Jason sighed, kicked across the room to the terminal.

After a frustrating series of wrong turns in the complicated Protectorate operating system—some ancient, pre-Collapse relic called “Portholes” or something, he couldn’t quite make out the translation from Russian—Jason finally found the readout that gave the status of the ship’s escape pods.

“Okay,” he reported, “the pod bays below us are empty—we gotta go to engineering.”

“We’d better haul ass, too,” Lambert urged. “In another half-hour, this ship will be nothing but a fond memory.”

“You know the way, Gunny,” Jason waved a hand by way of invitation.

Lambert grunted humorlessly and pushed off from the wall, giving himself a boost in the right direction before he activated his maneuvering jets. The others followed close behind, backtracking through the eerily quiet corridors.

It’s a goddamn ghost ship, Jason thought, a cold shudder running through him. A Mary Celeste, with the food still on the plates. And if we can’t get off of it in time, we’ll be the ghosts.

Gunny Lambert led them back through a central hub that was the connection for the Defender’s independent modules, this time taking a route that led directly away from the bridge. The corridor narrowed until they were forced to move two abreast as they approached closer to the engineering section. Here and there floated the corpses of biomechs and crewmen, killed by Gunny Lambert’s team on their way to the auxiliary weapons center. Their bodies moved hauntingly with the air currents. Jason found his eyes following the corpses as he passed them, half-expecting them to come alive from their horrible wounds and begin shooting at him.

He shook himself, realizing with a start that he was starting to zone out—whether from the concussion of the earlier explosion, the violent decompression, the wound in his leg or a combination of all three. He had to watch himself—being careless could still get them killed. But the eyes on the corpses… they were staring at him with that sharklike blackness…

“Have you seen my master?”

Jason yelled in surprise, letting go of Ari’s arm as he spun around. And his jaw fell open.

“What the fuck, over?” Tom Crossman asked, and Jason had to admit it was a damn good question.

Standing half-in and half-out of an open doorway in a cloud of blond hair was one of the most beautiful women Jason had ever seen. A look of pure innocence graced her perfect face, an innocence belied somewhat by the fact that she was completely naked. She didn’t seem to even be conscious of her nudity. She made no attempt to cover herself, just hovered there with her hands behind her back like a little girl.

So befuddled was Jason by her appearance that it took him a full five seconds to realize that she had spoken in Russian.

“Have you seen my master?” she repeated in a little-girl voice that sent chills up Jason’s back, a voice that seemed eerily incongruous with her blatant sensuality. “He told me to wait here for you,” she explained, eyes blinking back tears. “He said you’d come. But then he left on the little ship, and he didn’t take me with him.”

“Your master?” Jason asked hesitantly in her language. He felt silly talking to her, still convinced she was but a product of his fevered imagination. “Who’s your master?”

“He’s a great man,” she assured him, nodding firmly, her breasts jiggling with the motion. “He’s the General, and he said I should give this to you.”

Her hands came from behind her back, and cradled lovingly in them as if she held a bouquet of flowers was a small, round object that could only have been some kind of grenade. Her grasp had held the spoon in place, but as she opened her hands the curved metal spoon flew free.

An image of an old training video flashed through Jason’s mind: the spoon’s release would free a plunger that would, in turn, ignite a three-to-five second fuse…

Jason had time to think: Great… other guys see their lives flash before their eyes and my last thoughts are a Marine weapons lecture… before a grey-armored shape zipped past him on a burst of maneuvering jets, slamming into the woman and taking her back through the doorway, grenade and all.

The blast was puny compared to the one that had blown through the hole back on the bridge, but Jason jerked at the bass-drum sound as if the grenade had gone off inside his gut.

“Aw, Jesus!” The Marine medic shot into the room even before the pinging sounds of ricocheting fragments had quieted, and Ari went in on her heels, his face pale.

Jason grabbed one of the Marines by the arm and nodded for the man to take him into the room. It was somebody’s cabin, he realized immediately. A bunk folded out of the hull beneath a wall-mounted locker, and a clothes closet was set into the opposite wall, partially open to reveal a selection of utility fatigues. But those walls were covered with blood, and gobbets of flesh floated hellishly in the periphery of the room. What was left of the girl hovered in the center of the room, a hideous Venus de Milo, lacking arms and a head. She looked less a corpse to Jason than a doll dismembered by some spoiled child.

What the hell was she? Was she human, or something like the biomechs?

Jason shook the thought away as his gaze drifted to the armored body that was cradled in the medic’s arms. Shamir stood by her side helplessly, fists clenching and unclenching, eyes closed. It took McKay a long moment to realize who it was—the blast had shattered the faceplate of the helmet together with the face beneath. But the Sergeant’s stripes marked in subdued black on the sleeve of his combat armor left no doubt: it was Gunnery Sergeant Lambert.

“Christ,” Jason breathed. Looking at Ari, he saw the same hurt and disbelief in the man’s face that had manifested itself in his own visage back on Inferno. But there was no time.

“Ari,” Jason said quietly.

For a moment, he thought the man hadn’t heard him, but then he looked up. His eyes linked with Jason’s and there was so much in that gaze that would never be expressed. So much hurt and betrayal and disillusionment… so much that Jason had already felt.

“Corporal Kurita,” Ari finally said, his eyes never leaving Jason’s, “you’re the platoon sergeant. Everyone out of here! We’ve got to get to the escape pod.”

“What about Gunny’s body?” the medic asked.

“We won’t be able to take him on the pod.” Shamir shook his head.

“But…” she began to argue. His chilling stare stopped her in mid-sentence.

“Let’s worry about the living,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she mumbled, reluctantly letting loose of Lambert’s body and exiting the room.

Jason took one last look at Ari, then headed out, leaving behind the lifeless form of yet another good soldier.

The engineering section was scarred with the pockmarks of bullet impacts and strewn with metal fragments, globules of blood and the chewed-up bodies of dead crewmen and biomechs. Electricity arced from ruined terminals and consoles, sending a haze of light smoke drifted lazily through the compartment. The acrid smell of burnt insulation was thick in the air.

“Where are we going?” Ari asked the Corporal who had been with Lambert’s team.

“This way.” The rangy young Australian waved, leading them down a side corridor through a darkened maze of power conduits and coolant pipes.

The circuitous route finally ended in a small chamber set at the very edge of the hull and a pair of rounded, drum-shaped escape pods.

“Thank God,” someone sighed. Jason couldn’t tell who it was, but he personally wasn’t inclined to be thankful for anything yet.

“Get Vinnie into a pod first,” Jason ordered. He was finding it harder and harder to talk and he wondered if the ship’s atmosphere was going.

The medic tugged Vinnie toward the left-hand pod while Jock worked the hand-crank to open the access hatch. The wheel-shaped crank had seen little use, apparently, since the ship had left the Protectorate, and it refused to budge at Jock’s effort. The big Aussie tried to wedge himself against the wall to gain leverage, but the wheel stuck fast.

“Somebody give me a hand,” Jock grunted, glaring at the rest of them.

Clarke, the autogunner, shifted his weapon around to his back and moved to help Jock, but suddenly the ship was jolted violently, the impact throwing everyone against the hull. Jason found himself floating upside down over Jock, his vision filled with explosions of light from the impact of his head against the wall.

“What the hell was that?” Crossman demanded.

“That was a mass driver,” Corporal Kurita announced. “I was on a Patrol boat in the belt that got hit by pirates, and that’s exactly what it felt like.” She looked Ari and Jason in the eye. “Sirs, I think the Fleet has arrived.”

* * *

“Direct hit, Captain,” the weapons officer announced quietly. “That took out her engines.”

“Hit the weapons pods,” Patel directed. “I want to make sure she’s defanged before we do anything else.”

On the bridge’s tactical display, another of the Protectorate ships disappeared in a globular fusion blast from one of the Bradley’s Shipbuster missiles, leaving nothing behind but a ball of glowing gas.

The ensign at the weapons board adjusted the aim of the electromagnetic cannon that ran the length of the ship and hit the control to fire it. The ship jolted noticeably, swayed by the expulsion at hypersonic velocity of a lump of metal the size of a groundcar. The projectile was invisible as it covered the hundred kilometers between the two ships in a heartbeat, slicing through the strut that connected the Defender’s primary weapons pod to the hull. The massive collection of chemical power cells, missiles, lasers and submunitions twisted away from the main body of the ship, propelled by the torque imparted to it by the impact, and tore free with a puff of escaping atmosphere. The pod described a lazy arc downward, destined to burn up in the atmosphere, leaving the Protectorate vessel shuddering from the twin impacts.

“Teeth are pulled, sir,” the ensign reported, turning back to face Captain Patel. “Orders?”

Patel’s face was grim, his eyes half-closed in a silent prayer.

“Give it a Shipbuster,” he ordered, his voice almost a whisper. “Blow it out of orbit.”

* * *

“Get those Goddamned things open!” Jason bellowed, shoving off the hull, where he’d just been hurtled for a second time. “That’s got to have been the weapons section going, and the only thing that’s left is to put a fusion bomb up our ass!”

“Get over here and help me!” Jock urged, grabbing hold of the left-side pod’s crank one more time.

Clarke growled deep in his throat, unhooked his autogun and maneuvering jets and shrugged them free, then set his back into the wheel, shoulder to shoulder with Jock. On the opposite side, three marines worked the other pod’s hatch, sliding a carbine stock through the spokes of the wheel and using it for leverage. A bone-rattling shriek echoed through the chamber as the Marines on the right-hand pod broke the wheel loose and the hatch popped open, nearly swatting them away. A second later, Jock and Clarke got their side moving, their pained grunts drowning out the squeal of the rust, but the medic was already shoving Vinnie into the right-side hatch.

“Into the left one,” Ari urged his Marines, sending half the platoon scurrying into the little pod.

Weapons and maneuvering packs flew free as they were abandoned to save space, and the Marines packed into the spacecraft, ignoring the safety straps and counting on their sheer numbers to restrain them. In the right-hand vehicle, the medic swiftly but thoroughly secured Vinnie in one of the six acceleration couches while the remaining two Marines, Ari, Jason and Tom Crossman waited impatiently, eyes darting toward the hull, wishing they could see through it.

Jason checked the chronometer on his wrist computer. It had been nearly a minute since the last mass-driver hit.

“Two minutes,” he estimated in a soft whisper. Two minutes till the multimegaton fusion warhead turned them into a cloud of radioactive particles.

Two minutes to live.

* * *

“Ma’am,” Lieutenant Kristopolis announced, excitement in his voice, “I’ve got a feed from one of the satellites!”

Shannon and President Jameson hopped up from the consoles they’d been using as impromptu seats and rushed to hang behind the man’s shoulder as he adjusted the view on the screen he’d been fiddling with for the last hour.

“What is it?” Jameson asked, looking from the static-filled screen to Kristy and back.

“It’s not a defense bird,” Kristy told them, chewing on his lip as he tried to bring in a clear view. “But I managed to hook into a weather satellite in geosynchronous orbit.”

The snow on the viewscreen slowly cleared and revealed a dimly-glimmering metallic star just at the edge of vision. Kristopolis worked the magnification and the glint of light grew into a huge cigar shape, its aft end twisted into a shapeless wreckage and a free length of metal strut hanging limply along its belly. Scrawled alongside a Protectorate flag was a red stream of Cyrillic letters that Shannon recognized as spelling “Defender.”

“That’s the flagship,” Shannon guessed. “That has to be the one Jason is on.”

“It looks like they’ve taken damage,” President Jameson observed.

“Yeah, and we’re still alive,” Kristy cracked. “Does that mean we’ve won?”

“Maybe,” Shannon said, eyes glued to the screen. “I just hope he’s… they’re okay.”

“What’s that?” Jameson pointed to a small flare of light closing on the Protectorate ship from a higher orbital path.

“I don’t know,” Kristy admitted, shaking his head. “Maybe another ship?”

The flare of light kept coming, intersecting the Defender amidships, and for an eyeblink there was nothing.

Then the ship transformed into a ball of light, an epiphany of blinding fire that grew and grew until it seemed to reach out for them, and the screen dissolved into a mass of snow.

“Oh God,” Shannon murmured, her eyes wide. She stumbled backward, catching herself on another row of consoles and using them for support.

“He must have already gotten off the ship,” Kristopolis attempted to assure her, rising from his seat and going to her side.

“I’m sorry…” Jameson said, shaking his head in confusion. “Did you… do you know one of the people?”

“Jason,” she whispered, not hearing the President. “Oh Jesus, Jason.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“It is no time for mirth and laughter,

The cold, grey dawn of the morning after.”

—George Ade

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” the medic was chanting as the capsule shuddered violently, buffeted by a wash of superheated air as the edge of the fusion blast touched the upper atmosphere. Jason wasn’t sure if she was praying or swearing.

“How much control do we have over this thing?” he asked, yelling to be heard over the roaring of the air around the pod. They’d popped the escape pod out of the hull only thirty seconds ahead of the fusion explosion, and Jason was hoping they’d gotten far away enough to avoid a potentially fatal dose of radiation. But that was premature. If they couldn’t bring the pod down safely, they wouldn’t have to worry about radiation poisoning.

“Not much,” Jock told him, struggling with the rudimentary control panel at the center of the pod’s floor. “We got about a minute’s worth of maneuvering fuel left. Where do you want me to try for?”

“We need someplace with people,” Jason told him. “Someplace with enough organization to take care of Vinnie.”

“Some of the cities might not have power,” Ari warned.

“The orbital control center,” Crossman said. “Lieutenant Stark’ll be there—they gotta have a medstation at the base.”

“Can you take us there, Jock?” Jason asked.

“I can try,” he said with a shrug. “At least we’re on the right side of the planet.”

He guided the tiny joystick in gentle moves toward a guesstimated point on the computer-simulated globe in the dinner-plate viewer, then squeezed the thruster control. There was a sound like a sledgehammer pounding on the hull as the maneuvering jets emptied their contents in a series of short bursts.

“That’s it.” Jock shrugged, giving the joystick a slap and watching it waggle. “It’s all in God’s hands now.”

“You believe in God, Jock?” Jason asked him, surprised.

“Not really,” the big man shrugged. “But now’s not the time to be making new enemies.”

Jason looked at Vinnie, head sagging, only his straps holding him upright. His face was pale, his breath so shallow that it took a few seconds’ watching to see it. He looked dead. Maybe God was on their side… but then again, maybe God required a human sacrifice.

The pod began to shudder and rock, and Jason’s ears were filled with the roar of the atmosphere as they slowly reentered. Gravity returned with a vengeance, pushing them back into their acceleration couches and against each other. With the return of gravity, the wound in his leg speared him with a fresh spike of pain and he gritted his teeth to push it back. Through the single porthole, Jason could see flames dancing over the surface of the pod as it heated up from atmospheric friction—he knew that the ceramic heat shield on the belly of the capsule had to be glowing cherry red.

Not just a human sacrifice, Jason thought with macabre humor, but a burnt offering.

* * *

It looked like the end of the world.

The smoke from the burning vehicles joined with the low, overcast clouds in conspiracy to block out the rising sun, casting a mourning pall over the plain. Shannon shivered, hugged her arms to herself. It was cold. The Indian summer was over.

Everything’s over, she thought, pacing past the wreckage of a groundcar, not looking at the burned body inside. Everything.

She hurt—she hurt almost everywhere, and she was sure she’d cracked a rib—but she ignored her own pain, just as she ignored the carnage and death around her. Nothing seemed to penetrate the shell of numbness that she’d built around herself. She’d left the President and Lieutenant Kristopolis in the control room and made her way to the surface without saying a word to her troops, without even bothering to bring a weapon.

What did it matter if she were to die now? The mission was accomplished, civilization was saved, she was expendable. They were all expendable. Those Marines on Aphrodite had been expendable, Nathan had been expendable, Jason…

“Oh God, Jason,” she moaned, rubbing a hand over her face, feeling tears there that she didn’t remember crying.

When she hadn’t cried for Nathan, she hadn’t thought herself capable of it anymore. Now the tears came. In gentle sobs, not the violent spasms that had wracked her on Aphrodite, yet still she cried, crying for Nathan and for Jason… and for herself.

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

Shannon spun at the unexpected voice and saw Corporal Lee stepping up hesitantly behind her. He looked beat up, as they all did, with a blood-stained makeshift bandage wrapped around his forehead and dirt and grease staining his fatigues. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, beyond embarrassment.

“I’m fine, Corporal,” she replied. “What do you want?”

“Well, ma’am,” he said, shrugging, “it’s just that no one seems too sure of what’s going on. I mean, did we win?”

“Oh yeah, Corporal,” she barked a humorless laugh, struggling to hold back a fresh wave of tears. “We won all right.” She shook her head. “The Protectorate ships have been des…” She had to swallow the lump in her throat to continue. “Destroyed.” She let out a deep breath. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone for a while.”

She turned away from him and began to walk toward the shoreline.

“Ma’am?” She heard his persistent call before she’d made it ten paces.

“What is it now, Corporal?” She turned back, exasperation in her face. But the young man was staring into the sky above the satellite control center, eyes squinting.

“Ma’am, what the hell is that?” He pointed upward and she followed his gesture, found the dark outline of a small, rounded object falling slowly out of the clouds, dangling beneath the eggshell-white canopies of multiple parachutes.

“It doesn’t look like one of the biomech delivery pods,” she said, brow wrinkling in confusion. “I mean, they had a maneuverable parasail and this has a regular parachute setup. Looks more like some kind of emergency reentry vehicle.”

Shannon’s breath caught in her throat. Without another word, she took off across the grassy field at a dead sprint.

The bulbous metal hulk hissed and pinged, sending up a pale cloud of steam as it heated the morning dew. Its belly had dug a trench in the soft earth a meter deep when it hit, despite the huge silken expanse of the parachutes that trailed behind it now, flapping in the wind. Shannon stopped a few meters away from the thing, going from a full-out run to a haltering stop in two steps, reason finally penetrating the fog of her thoughts.

A Protectorate flag, scorched by the fires of reentry, was emblazoned on the side of the capsule, proving it had indeed come from one of the ships of the invasion fleet, but giving no indication of who—or what—was inside. And she was unarmed.

Shannon jumped involuntarily as a metallic groan issued from somewhere in the guts of the pod. She backed up a step, remembering hordes of biomechs pouring out of drop pods in Capital City. The hatch in the nose of the capsule inched upwards, opening towards her, giving no clue as to what manner of creature lay behind it. Behind her, Shannon heard the hum of a groundcar motor—most likely some of the troops from the control center come out to investigate the capsule, she surmised—but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the opening hatch.

An arm, clad in dark-hued camo, braced against the edge of the hatchway, giving the leverage needed to push the hatch over. The heavy portal fell open with a hollow, thunderous bong, a sound that Shannon could feel echoing through her sinuses. She blinked involuntarily at the sound, and when her eyes refocused, she was looking into the sweat-drenched, smoke-stained face of Jason McKay.

“Hi honey,” he said with a lopsided grin, “I’m home.”

“I’ll be damned,” she murmured, a smile slowly spreading across her face. “Jason McKay, you have got to be the luckiest son of a bitch I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, the smile running away from his face, “not all of us were so lucky.”

He clambered slowly and painfully out of the hatch, making room for Jock and Tom to lift Vinnie through, then he helped them lower the wounded man to the ground.

Shannon turned to see the groundcar she had heard pulling up behind her, disgorging Lieutenant Kristopolis and a pair of armed RSC troops.

“Get over here!” she ordered. “We need to get this man to the infirmary!”

The RSC soldiers slung their rifles and rushed to load Vinnie into the open groundcar, while Ari Shamir and the Marine medic climbed out of the pod. Jason limped away from the uncomfortable heat of the escape capsule and slumped to the ground, stretching his injured leg out in front of him.

Shannon watched the jeep head back toward the control center with Vinnie, the Marine medic and Kristy, then she walked over to Jason and sat down beside him. They sat there together for a moment in silence, not looking at each other, not touching, before Shannon finally spoke.

“You’re hurt,” she said, nodding toward his leg.

“Yes, I am,” he sighed. “But I’m alive.”

“Is this everyone?”

He shook his head. “There’s another pod full of Marines—don’t know where they touched down.” He looked her in the eye. “Gunny Lambert’s dead.”

Shannon hissed a breath through her teeth and closed her eyes. “He was a good man.”

“They’re all good,” Jason replied, his face stone.

“And we’re all expendable,” she said, remembering the pain she had felt and imagining it transferred to Lambert’s wife, or mother, or child…

“Well hey,” Jason barked a sharp, humorless laugh. “We saved the world, didn’t we?”

“Well, what do you say, Captain McKay?” Shannon levered herself to her feet and offered him a hand. “Wanna come let someone take a look at that leg?”

“All right, Lieutenant Stark,” he assented, taking her hand and letting her pull him to his feet. He chuckled hoarsely. “As Supreme Commander of all Republic forces, I make it a point to listen to the suggestions of my loyal minions.”

He tried to take a step, but his leg collapsed out from under him and Shannon had to catch him before he fell on his face.

“Come on, Supreme Commander.” She got his arm around her shoulders, and Tom Crossman stepped up to take the other side, half-carrying him away from the grounded pod. “Let’s get your Supreme ass to the medics.”

“No respect,” Jason muttered hazily. “Us Supreme Commanders don’t get no respect.”

* * *

Glen Mulrooney awoke suddenly, feeling the touch of a hand on his arm. He sat up straight in his chair and saw Valerie’s eyes on him. She had rolled halfway over in bed, and he could see the pain in her eyes from the motion.

“Lie back,” he cautioned her, putting a hand on her shoulder and gently pushing her back to the bed. “You don’t want to strain yourself yet.”

“What’s happening?” she asked, her voice hoarse and whispery. “Where am I?”

“You’re fine,” he assured her, stroking her hair. “You’re going to be okay, Val.” He reached to a night table and retrieved a cup of water, guiding it to her lips.

She didn’t look okay. Her face was pale, her hair matted with sweat, and there were lines of pain around her eyes and mouth. Her skin was cool and clammy, and she reminded Glen of a fresh corpse—but she was going to be all right.

Pushing away the water, she looked around at the darkened confines of the barracks room where she lay on a military bunk, eyes squinting at the gloom lit only by chemical ghostlights. They were alone. She looked into his eyes and he saw the realization in her gaze.

“I lost the baby,” she said, her voice like a ghost sighing.

Glen nodded, hand clenching hers. He hissed out a long breath, not knowing what to say. A day before, he had told himself that he no longer cared if Val lived or died, but it wasn’t so easy to be dispassionate now.

“They did the best they could,” he told her. “But their first priority was to save you.” He shrugged. “Considering the conditions they had to work with, they did a hell of a job.”

“They should have let me die,” Valerie muttered, letting her head fall back to the bed.

“Don’t talk that way, Val,” Glen adjured her. “You have everything to live for. You’re intelligent, you’re beautiful, you have a great career ahead of you—your whole life’s ahead of you.” He shook his head in exasperation. “What’s happened to you, Val? You always used to be the one who was in control of everything, the one who’d never let anything rattle her. What made you give up?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, licking her lips hesitantly.

“I mean,” Glen went on, “it can’t just be this thing with Jason.” Val’s head snapped around and her eyes narrowed, but he pretended not to notice. “I know you must still have feelings for him—you decided to have his baby, after all, when you could have avoided it. But how can you let it mess with your head like this? So he loves someone else, so what? Is your self-image so weak you can’t take one Goddamned rejection in your whole life?”

Her mouth dropped open. She’d never heard Glen speak this way to her before. And how had he known about Jason? She was so dumbfounded, she answered him without thinking, without trying to conceal the truth behind comforting words.

“Everyone I know is fake,” she blurted. “Their words are fake, their clothes are fake, their houses are fake, their lives are fake. They live for the camera, for the politicians or professors or lovers they want to impress. Jason…” she trailed off, seeming to regain her control, but past caring. “Jason was a real person. He didn’t care who my father was, or whether I was going to be a Republic Senator in ten years, or what media personality I’d been associated with.” She closed her eyes, mouth in a tight line. “And, in the end, he didn’t care about me.”

“Mirror mirror on the wall,” Glen murmured with a wry smile, “who’s the fakest of them all?”

She glared at him, her depression beginning to give way to anger.

“Leave me alone,” she said.

“Sure, I’ll leave you alone, Val.” Glen laughed, standing. “But first I’d like to tell you something I’ve been holding back for a while. You know, you’re right—everyone we know is fake. And you and me are no different. Damn it, Val,” he exclaimed, “people have died for you! Real people with real families and real lives. They gave up everything to save your life, and now you’ve decided, shit, they may as well have not tried.” Glen paced back and forth across the room in agitation, hands thrust in his hip pockets.

“I’ve learned a lot from being around these people, Val.” He nodded at the room’s door. “And the main thing I’ve learned is that unless you think about more than yourself and your petty little problems, you’re just wasting your life. I don’t know about you, but I’ve wasted enough of one life.”

She stared at him closely, as if she were seeing him for the first time.

“You’ve changed in the last few months, Glen,” she said. “I don’t think I know you anymore.”

He laughed softly, sitting on the edge of her bed.

“Well, darling, is that a good or a bad thing?”

She slowly reached out her hand and took his.

“I think you know,” she said, biting her lip like a schoolgirl on her first date. “Glen, I’m sorry. I can’t apologize for my feelings for Jason, and I won’t. But I wasn’t honest with you, and all you ever tried to do was be there for me. Can you forgive me?”

“The old Glen,” he mused, staring thoughtfully into space, “would have walked out of this room and never spoken to you again. But that’s not me anymore.” He looked her in the eye. “I forgive you, Val.”

“Glen, I know this isn’t fair to ask, but…” she faltered, the words not coming. She paused and took a deep breath. “I don’t want to be alone. Not now. I know we can’t go back to the way things were, and I don’t expect you to go through with the engagement. But can we…” She shrugged helplessly. “Can we still try?”

Glen swallowed hard. He’d thought she might ask that, yet still he was unprepared.

The door to the room burst open, the inrushing form of Daniel O’Keefe granting him a reprieve.

“Glen!” he exclaimed, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. “Glen, we just…” He trailed off as he saw Valerie. “Honey!” He rushed over to her bedside, kneeling down and embracing her gently, as if she were a china doll. “Oh, God, I’m so glad you’re awake! I almost died when I saw you in the infirmary, darling.” He stroked her hair, burying his head in her shoulder. “Oh, God, Val, I couldn’t stand to see anything happen to you.”

“I’m all right, Daddy,” she assured him, patting his arm. “I promise, I’ll be okay.”

“Christ, I forgot why I came in here!” O’Keefe slapped himself on the forehead. “We just received a transmission from the satellite control center outside Capital City! They’ve done it! The Fleet has arrived! They’ve destroyed the Protectorate ships!”

“Thank God,” Glen sighed, his shoulders sagging with relief.

“Then it’s all over,” Valerie said.

“Well, hardly over,” her father replied, coming to his feet. “After all, aside from President Jameson and myself, there is no Republic government to speak of. Most of the cities have had their power feeds cut. There are still Protectorate troops on the ground on the North American continent, and God only knows what’s happening in the star colonies. No, we have a lot of work to do still.” He leaned down and kissed Valerie on the cheek. “I’m very sorry about your baby, honey. But maybe now when you and Glen decide to have another child, you’ll have a better world to bring it into.”

Valerie glanced at Glen, saw him looking at her and quickly looked away.

“Well,” Senator O’Keefe smiled, “I’ll leave you two alone—try to get some rest, honey.”

“I love you, Daddy,” she said.

“I love you, too, honey.” Then he was gone.

“If you want to go,” Val told Glen, “I’ll understand.”

“I’ll stay till you go back to sleep,” he said, slipping an arm around her.

She snuggled into his shoulder, arms going around his waist.

“What about after that?” she whispered so softly he could hardly hear her.

“After that,” he sighed, finding a smile creeping across his face, “I’ll stay a while longer.”

Val hugged him tighter.

Epilogue

“Perhaps the best thing about the future is that it only comes one day at a time.”

—Dean Acheson

Jason leaned back in his chair and watched the construction pods flit to and fro on his office’s holographic viewscreen, slowly rebuilding republic Spacefleet Headquarters from the inside out. He glanced around his office, at once incredibly large and incredibly confining, and wondered for the hundredth time what the hell he was doing here.

All right, it had made sense. With the Snake dead, along with most of the Fleet officer corps, he was the logical choice to head Fleet Intelligence. But Colonel? For Christ’s sake, he wasn’t even thirty!

He checked his watch again. He had an hour till his ViR-conference with the Joint Chiefs and nothing at all to do till then. Was this what the Snake had done when no one was around? Sat back and looked out the window?

He nearly jumped out of his seat when his intercom beeped.

“Sir,” the young ensign outside announced, “Major Stark to see you.”

“Send her in,” he blurted, straightening up in his chair and smoothing down the front of his uniform.

Shannon strode in, her Intell blacks impeccable as always, the smile on her face a beacon that lit the dreariness of his office. She stiffened into a salute as the door closed behind her.

“Major Stark reporting for duty, sir,” she clipped off, her smirk belying the crispness of her words.

“Stop that,” Jason admonished her, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her into a kiss.

“Aren’t you going to return my salute?” she asked as they parted slightly.

“I think I am,” he replied with a wry grin. He shook his head. “God, I’ve missed you.”

“Aren’t you going to decorate this place?” She looked around at the vast emptiness of his office. “You’ve been here what? Three weeks?”

“I still can’t get used to having an office,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I think I’ve risen to the level of my incompetence.”

“The President has the utmost confidence in you,” she reminded him, kissing him to punctuate the statement. “And so do I.”

“How’s the recruiting coming?” he asked her, slipping out of her arms to sit on the edge of his desk. “Does Ari have a team together yet?”

“He’s getting there,” she told him. “It’s slow going, with so many holes to fill in the military. We picked up a couple recruits from that Cleveland Police emergency response team, and Ari brought in Clarke and a couple others from his platoon.” She sighed. “I think he still misses Gunny Lambert.”

“We all lost a lot,” Jason said quietly, a frown descending over his face.

Shannon stroked his arm in silent understanding. Jason had taken the loss of Valerie’s baby hard, harder than she would have thought.

“Have you talked to her since…?” she asked him awkwardly.

He shook his head. “I called the Senator yesterday. He said she and Glen are taking a long vacation at his house in Canada. I guess they’re going to try and make things work.”

“I’m happy for them.” Shannon took his hand, squeezed it. “And I’m happy for us. So,” she asked him, ”does our fearless leader have time for lunch with his executive officer?”

“Oh God, I wish,” he moaned. “But I have the Joint Chiefs in an hour.”

“What now?” she wondered. “Still arguing about the search project?”

He nodded, letting out a deep breath. “Antonov got off that ship,” he declared. “I know he did. We still haven’t found that wormhole in the belt, and even with Podbyrin’s cooperation, we may never locate it. We have to get scoutships out there and find that system.”

“There’s a lot of problems in the colonies,” she pointed out, “and we don’t have enough ships to cover them all.”

“That’s what Admiral Patel keeps saying.” Jason grimaced. “God, I already hate this job.”

“Well,” she laughed, “there has to be a downside to being the youngest Colonel in Republic history. Look,” she went on, straightening his collar, “you are probably the most respected—hell, revered—officer in the Republic military, you have the President’s ear anytime you want it, and I can get you a meeting with the Senate Majority Leader with one call.” She fixed him with a glare. “If there’s something you think should be done, don’t let Patel and Minishimi or any of those stuffed shirts in the Joint Chiefs push you around—go over their heads and get it done.” Her expression softened. “That’s what the Snake would have done.”

He regarded her seriously for a long moment before his face finally cracked into a smile.

“You’re right, as always,” he admitted. He looked around him and laughed softly. “Sometimes I think all this is the Snake’s ultimate revenge.”

“Well,” Shannon said, checking her watch, “you’d better get ready for that meeting. But I’ll tell you what—after you get out of here tonight, what do you say we take the shuttle to McAullife,” she ran her fingers through his hair, arching an eyebrow suggestively, “get a nice little suite and enjoy the weekend?”

“You got a deal, Major. I’ll meet you at my quarters in three hours.”

“I can hardly wait, Colonel.” She pushed gently away from him and headed for the door.

“Hey, Shannon,” he called, halting her as she reached for the door control. “I seem to recall,” Jason reminded her, “that you once told me you thought you should be in charge.”

“Jason,” she said, smiling broadly, “I am in charge.”

The door closed behind her, and Jason regarded it in bemused silence.

Look for the further adventures of Jason McKay and Shannon Stark in:

Duty, Honor, Planet 2: Honor Bound

now available on Amazon for Kindle.

Content

DUTY, HONOR, PLANET
by Rick Partlow

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Look for the further adventures of Jason McKay and Shannon Stark in: