Authors: Christopher Nuttall
“QUIET,” the President bellowed, finally. He must have received the message too, Glen realised. It had come in over the planetary communications network. “We shall discuss the matter when tempers have calmed.”
“We’ll take a look at the data, then we can discuss it,” the General said, as the room slowly emptied. “Can you and my daughter visit tomorrow lunchtime?”
“I think so,” Glen said.
Dauntless
would probably have to investigate the attack – the Governor would insist on it – but there was no point in departing immediately. It would take at least ten days to reach Tyson’s Rest. “By then, we should have been able to crunch the data properly and get some answers.”
He scowled as he looked over at the Governor. She looked shaken – and angry. No doubt some compliant PR officers would turn the mini-riot into an assassination attempt. She might even believe it herself.
It didn't bode well for the future.
The farm was smaller than Sandy recalled, with a handful of people – mainly refugees – working in the fields. Once, there had been plenty of equipment even if it had been basic, but now the planet’s industry was still largely earmarked for supporting the war effort. And besides, there was no such thing as organised charity on Fairfax. Those refugees who could work were expected to work, if they couldn't join the military.
She glanced over at the Captain as the vehicle came to a halt outside the farmhouse, wondering what he made of her childhood home. Gustav Mannerheim had bought the farm – literally – after ending his first stint in the planetary militia, only to be called up again when the Draconic War broke out. It simply wasn't very impressive, not compared to the towering corporate headquarters of Earth or Mars; the faint whiff in the air of too many animals pressed together didn't add to the atmosphere. But the Captain didn't show any visible reaction, beyond a slight s
mile. Perhaps he found it homey.
Inside, there was a small buffet of cheese, cold meats and bread, laid out by a sallow-faced woman who managed to stare disapprovingly at both of them. Sandy kept her expression blank with an effort. Her mother had died young and, since then, her father had kept the house tidy with the help of a series of increasingly old housekeepers. He’d expected them to serve as surrogate mothers to Sandy too, but that had been too much to expect. None of them came close to the half-remembered figure of her mother.
“Captain Knight,” her father said. His face was, as always, set in solid granite lines. “And Sandy. Welcome home.”
“Father,” Sandy said.
She scowled, then reluctantly accepted a hug. Her relationship with her father was complex – and private. On one hand, he had taught her everything from command authority to self-reliance; on the other, he had overshadowed her life to the point she’d joined the TFN to escape him. Not intentionally, she knew, but he hadn't been able to help it. Everyone knew Gustav Mannerheim and few would intentionally slight his daughter.
“Please, be seated and eat,” the General said. “We have a great deal to discuss.”
Sandy couldn't help feeling a twinge of homesickness as she took the bread and cheese. The handful of farms that were located nearby combined their products on a regular basis, allowing them to produce bread, cheese and meat for the farmers, along with a great deal else. If something happened to Fairfax City, her father had told her when she’d been a child, the farmers could just carry on. But the war had changed many things and not all for the better. What would happen, she asked herself, to the refugees.
The thought made her scowl. At least they were
human
– and humans could integrate with the local population. Farmers had been spared conscription, but Sandy and her father were far from the only ones to abandon their farms and head out to join the militia, leaving wives and daughters behind to work the fields. By now, it was likely that a few dozen refugees had married into local families and effectively
become
locals. God alone knew what that would do to the planet’s culture.
“We do,” the Captain agreed. He looked up, studying Sandy’s father with a frankness that surprised her. “What do you make of the reported attack?”
The General considered it. “A criminal faction, perhaps,” he said, “or mercenaries. Or a group that merely wants revenge and doesn’t care who gets hurt along the way.”
He sounded unconcerned, but Sandy could hear the simmering anger in his voice. Whoever had attacked Tyson’s Rest had smashed a planetary defence network, bombarded the civilian population and slaughtered thousands of alien refugees. It was unlikely that anyone in the Colonial Militia would shed tears for the aliens, but the human population of the planet wouldn't be much better off. The absence of mass bombardment might just ensure that they starved to death slowly, rather than being wiped out in a split second.
“It’s possible,” the Captain agreed. “Do you have any clues, anything at all, that might point to the perpetrators?”
Sandy felt her scowl deepen.
Cynthia
had examined the emergency broadcast and pointed out that the attack could have been carried out by the Colonial Militia. It was definitely a possibility, Sandy had to admit, but why would they have broadcast their own IFF signals, knowing that they would be picked up? Cynthia had countered that objection by noting that the idea could have been to make a statement, rather than a cowardly slaughter by unknown terrorists or raiders. The Captain had ended the argument by sarcastically reminding them that anyone could alter an IFF beacon and their presence proved nothing.
“I strictly forbade revenge attacks on alien settlements,” the General said, finally. “While I fully agree that keeping those camps on our worlds is provocative, I feel that we gain nothing through mass slaughter. Repatriating them back to their homeworlds would be much simpler and probably have fewer repercussions.”
“But some of them don’t have homeworlds to go to,” the Captain objected. “Or their worlds can't take them.”
Sandy nodded. The alien homeworlds were in worse condition than most of the other occupied worlds. By now, they were having problems feeding their remaining populations, let alone tens of thousands of refugees coming to a home they’d never known. Given time, and plenty of support from the Federation, those worlds would become liveable again. But if there were objections to feeding alien refugees, she didn't want to
think
about the scale of objections to human investment in a long-term terraforming project.
“Perhaps they can go to another world,” the Captain said. “I believe there were worlds that were effectively depopulated?”
“The suggestion was made in council,” the General admitted. “But it received little popular support. Those worlds are
ours
.”
“Leaving that aside for the moment,” Sandy said, wincing inwardly when her father turned his cold gaze on her, “what are we going to do about the attackers?”
The Captain sighed. “Our Governor wishes me to investigate the situation,” he said. “She sees it as an attack on her personally; the refugee camp on Tyson’s Rest was one of the camps she intended to present with supplies. The timing doesn't work out, but ...”
“Civilians,” the General sneered.
Sandy nodded in agreement. No one in the Bottleneck Republic had known that the Governor intended to bring supplies to the alien refugees. Few in the
Federation
had known, or it would have leaked out; hell, Captain Knight hadn't known until the Governor had explained what she had in mind. It was unlikely in the extreme that someone had deliberately targeted a refugee camp knowing the Governor intended to take a personal interest in it, simply because they shouldn't have known ...
Unless someone in the Federation had deliberately planned it that way. Someone who knew what the Governor intended to do. Someone who had acted to embarrass and humiliate her ...
But the timing was too perfect to be real. Sandy was an experienced naval officer; she knew better than to think that
anything
could stay on schedule, no matter how desperately the officers and men worked to keep the timetable. Getting the message to Fairfax in the middle of the mini-riot after the Governor’s speech was just too perfect. It would require investigation, but her experience told her that the conspirators – if there were conspirators – had simply gotten lucky.
She ran her hand through her hair, tiredly. Life had
definitely
been simpler when they’d been fighting the Dragons.
“And what will you do,” the General asked, “if you find no trace of the attackers?”
“I’ll do what seems best,” the Captain said. He studied the General for a long moment. “Do you have no idea at all?”
The General’s face twisted into a scowl. “The Colonial Militia has been recruiting officers and crewmen with experience,” he said. “Quite a few of them were downsized” – he made the word a curse – “and forced to leave the Federation Navy. However, we have open links with the mercenary community and have even hired a few of them from time to time.”
Sandy nodded, impatiently. The Federation disapproved of mercenaries, but the colonies tended to hire them if they needed armed support – or offered basing facilities, in exchange for first call on their services. It was yet another dispute between the Federation and the Bottleneck Republic; the Republic simply didn't bother to provide any supervision, or enforce the Federation’s ban on certain kinds of mercenary starship. But mercenaries were in high demand in the aftermath of the war. No doubt the minor taxes on mercenary operations helped the colonies pay for their military. And it gave them a pool of experienced spacers to call on, if necessary.
“Quite a few have been taking up contracts and vanishing,” the General said. “We don’t know
where
they’ve gone, but we know what they all have in common.”
The Captain leaned forward. “What?”
“Ruthlessness,” the General said, simply. “Quite a few of them have been charged or threatened with being charged for war crimes. Several of them were kicked out of Vince’s Vandals for extreme violence. Which is really quite worrying, when you think about it.”
Sandy winced. Vince’s Vandals had been known for racking up the highest level of casualties in mercenary operations in recent history, before the unit had been effectively shattered during a long campaign on an enemy-infested world. They had also achieved the unusual status of being the only mercenary organisation to be threatened with arrest by both the Federation and the Bottleneck Republic. The thought of what Vince – a sociopath – had considered extreme violence was terrifying.
“I see,” the Captain said. “And where have they gone?”
“That we don't know,” the General admitted. “We don’t track mercenaries once they leave our soil. Whoever hired them – and we can only assume they were hired by
someone
– is a mystery. So is their destination.”
“So we don’t have the slightest idea if there is a connection or not,” Sandy said, out loud. “It could just be a misinterpretation of the data.”
“It could,” her father agreed. Like the TFN, the Colonial Militia had been stung by intelligence analysts who weren’t half as smart as they thought they were. “But it is a rather odd coincidence.”
The Captain nodded. “Could it be that someone hired them to go after the refugee camps?”
“It's possible,” the General said. “There’s no shortage of people who might want a little revenge, even if it’s directed against aliens who aren't Dragons. But the sort of funding to hire those guys is rare in the cluster. It would require a planet, I think; those mercenaries don’t work for free.”
“No, they don't,” the Captain agreed.
Sandy took another bite of her bread and cheese, then took a sip of water. It was odd watching her father and the Captain interacting, as if they were both suspicious of one another and yet committed to working together. Which they were, in a sense; legally, the Colonial Militia was subordinate to the Federation. But the Captain knew better than to assume that invoking such rights would actually
work
.