Authors: Christopher Nuttall
Susan stared at him in absolute horror. “They
can't
do that!”
Glen sighed out loud, shaking his head. He hadn't scanned Susan’s file, but judging from her age she’d grown to maturity long after the Federation Navy had pushed the Dragons away from Earth and started to advance into their territory. There had been no doubt, in the later years of the war, that humanity would win. The Federation’s combined industrial base had produced enough starships, starfighters and sheer firepower to ensure that the Dragons were steamrollered to death.
But she hadn't had to make the hard choices, nor had many of her generation. Who lived? Who died? Who was considered important enough to rate a spot on an evacuation ship? Who had to be left behind on a world that was about to be occupied? Who was to be given a rifle and told to make the enemy bleed? Who was to be told to run and hide? And who was to be euthanized – killed – to ensure that they didn't waste resources? Or, for that matter, that they didn't collaborate with the enemy.
Glen hadn’t had to make such choices himself, but the Academy had gone over all of the decisions taken by senior officers during the opening days of the war. He knew that many refugees had been men and women of fighting age, men and women who could be funnelled into the military once they reached the Core Worlds. Others had been given weapons and told to scatter, then come out once the occupiers had landed and make them pay. In the bright new day following the war, such choices seemed utterly inhuman. But the commanders on the spot hadn't had any alternative.
There was an officer who killed hundreds of people because they were too old to fight or hide
, he remembered.
And then he put his gun in his mouth and blew his brains out, because he couldn't live with what he’d done. The cold equations seem so hard to comprehend when there are names and faces attached to the dead ...
“They can't,” Susan insisted. Glen hastily replayed their conversation in his mind, remembering what she’d said. “You can stop them.”
“Yes, by removing the aliens,” Glen said, feeling his patience started to snap. “I know how you feel, but I cannot convince the planetary government to keep the aliens when they don’t have any defences to protect their world. Those aliens are targets and they have to be removed, one way or the other.”
“It sounds like you agree with them,” Susan said, suspiciously. “Do you
want
the aliens dead?”
Glen felt his temper flare and gritted his teeth, forcing himself to calm down. “I do not have the luxury of assuming that the universe is run on fairness, sweetness and light,” he snapped. “Right now, I understand the government’s position; they didn't want the aliens and now the aliens are making them targets. What I
want
is immaterial. I just need to get the aliens off Jorlem before they are massacred, either by the government or the raiders.”
Susan opened her mouth, but Glen talked over her. “If you want to care for the aliens, help my engineering crew prepare the freighters for their transport,” he added, calming his voice as much as he could. “But if all you want to do is protest, file a complaint with the Governor or with whoever sent you out here in the first place. They would probably know how to petition the Federation Senate for assistance.”
“They didn't provide enough funds to do more than keep the Mice alive,” Susan said, darkly. “I sometimes thought they sent me out here to keep me away from the decision-makers.”
Glen had to conceal his sudden amusement. He could certainly understand
that
. Susan was idealistic and genuinely caring, without any idea of the limitations facing her superiors. A person trying to do battle with the budget would find her annoying, at best. Charities might be tax-free, but they often had to struggle to work up the funds necessary to actually do something useful. Someone like Susan would demand action on a dozen fronts and be quite able to actually do it. At least she’d been willing to actually put her life on the line to work, unlike quite a few other civilians Glen could mention.
“I have that feeling too, at times,” Glen muttered.
“Your XO said you were related to the Knight Corporation,” Susan said. “Can't you get them to donate more money?”
Glen frowned. Theodore was always looking for tax breaks; somehow, donating money to charity would seem more satisfying than donating it to the taxman. Besides, Glen happened to know that every refugee aid package put together by the corporation had the corporations name emblazoned on it in large letters. It won the corporation some good PR at a very minor cost. Even the large-scale assistance packages to entire planets were still minor compared to the corporation’s profits.
“I can ask,” he said. A thought was nagging at the back of his mind. “Do you have any details with you?”
“No,” Susan said. “I had some communications codes and suchlike in the tent on Tyson’s Rest, but they were all destroyed during the attack.”
“I’ll make some enquires,” Glen promised. “But I do need you to help the engineers.”
Susan threw him a salute that owed more to bad entertainment flicks than actual observation, then turned and strode out of the cabin. Glen watched her go, then looked down at the desk, thinking hard. If Susan was correct, the charity that had supported the alien refugee camps had been more interested in permanent refugees than actually finding them a final place to rebuild their lives. It was odd; Glen could understand Theodore and his brothers spending money on charity, but they wouldn't want to open an endless black hole. No, all of
their
programs were geared towards helping people get back on their feet, not leaving them on the ground.
Because sooner or later the money would stop
, he thought. Theodore wouldn't throw money into refugee camps indefinitely.
And then the corporation would get tons of bad publicity
.
Making a mental note to look into it, he continued skimming through the files until he found the after-action report from Xenophon. The relief force hadn't exchanged shots with the raiders – they’d pulled out rather than try to fight – but they had got some good sensor data. And they’d picked up a message in a militia code. Glen saw it and let out a sigh of relief, mixed with worry. Sandy was on the inside.
Now, all they had to do was pray that she could help them catch the raiders before it was too late to prevent civil war.
“An excellent piece of work,” Mr. Ford said. “You give those bastards quite a fright.”
“Thank you,”
Jason said. “We transmitted your message, precisely as ordered.”
“My backers are very pleased,” Mr. Ford informed him. “Pleased enough to suggest that we move at once to the next step in the plan. They want you to assault Primus Omega.”
Jason frowned, accessing his implants. Primus Omega wasn't a military target; it wasn't
any
kind of target. The planet had been devastated by the Dragons, then evacuated after being liberated. Only a handful of people remained on the surface, all small farmers intent on spending the rest of their lives on their homeworld. There was simply nothing there worth the effort of detaching a small corvette, let alone the entire squadron.
“My backers inform me that the planet will play host to the alien population of the Fairfax Cluster,” Mr. Ford explained. “The Federation has demanded that the world be handed over to the aliens – and the Bottleneck Republic has agreed. Reluctantly, mind you, but they have agreed. The first of the new colonists are already on their way.”
“I see,” Jason said. He smiled, rather dryly. The Bottleneck Republic probably hadn't cared for any ultimatum from the Federation. They’d clearly given in, rather than risk the Federation finding an effective way to express its displeasure, but it wouldn't sit well with them. Any further support provided to the new colony would be given grudgingly, if at all. “And they’re being staked out for the kill.”
“That is our objective,” Mr. Ford said. “However, the Colonial Militia will also be providing a guard squadron. You may have to tangle with it.”
“I’d prefer to avoid a direct confrontation,” Jason said. He had new ships and new crew and making sure that the ships were operative and the crew were loyal was a pain in the butt, particularly after the losses they'd taken on Xenophon. “Maybe we can divert the militia away from the main target, then attack.”
“As always, the tactical details I leave in your hands,” Mr. Ford said. He picked up a datachip and passed it to Jason. “My sources have only a vague idea of the timetable, but it may be up to three weeks before the remaining aliens are massed on the planet – assuming, of course, that camps aren't effectively liquidated by their unwilling hosts. You have until then to get your forces in order.”
Jason nodded, studying Ford thoughtfully. It still didn't quite make sense, at least to him. If the overall objective was to exterminate the aliens, they wouldn’t have needed such a large squadron, let alone to open fire on human targets. As it was, the only objective that made sense was sparking off conflict within the Bottleneck Republic ... or with the Federation, which had made its displeasure with the whole affair quite clear. Maybe he
was
working for the Dragons, he wondered. But it hardly mattered. He had little loyalty to humanity, not after they’d threatened to charge him with war crimes. How swiftly they forgot how dark the days had looked during the war.
“I understand,” he said, finally. “And then?”
“We shall see,” Mr. Ford said. “It depends on how the various parties react.”
Jason nodded. If nothing else, it confirmed his suspicions about how close Ford’s superiors actually had to be. No one could hope to micro-manage events from Earth or even Sphere-Prime. They had to be based somewhere within the Fairfax Cluster, perhaps even on Fairfax itself.
“I shall pass on your congratulations to my crews,” he said, standing up. “And then, if you don't mind, I have work to do.”
“Don’t let me detain you,” Ford said. He gave Jason one of his rare smiles. “Once this is completed, you will be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams.”
Or dead
, Jason thought. They’d picked up enough transmissions to know that the Colonial Militia was furious after Xenophon. They wanted blood; starships were being reassigned to hunting packs, while the reserves were being called up to man the older ships that even the Colonial Militia had placed in junkyards. If they caught a sniff of the raiders, they’d be after the squadron with everything they could bring to bear. And the Federation Navy wouldn’t be too far behind.
But it was far too late to back out now. All he could do was play the game out to the end.
***
It was rare to encounter an asteroid so far from a star, drifting through the trackless wastes of interstellar space. Sandy couldn't help feeling completely isolated when she stared out of the porthole, even though she knew that it would only take an hour or two to reach the nearest inhabited world. Somehow, the raiders had stumbled across the asteroid and turned it into a base. Given how much work someone had put into the asteroid, Sandy suspected that they’d captured it from the original inhabitants. It was rare for raiders or pirates to actually do more than the bare minimum to make their bases liveable.
She couldn't help shivering as she took in the sheer scale of the raider operation. Sandy had seen no shortage of asteroid bases, but the raiders had developed a small shipyard as well as a tiny industrial base. Not enough to pose a major threat, thankfully, yet it was enough to keep the squadron maintained and operational for years. Judging by the number of collared people on the base, they’d been kidnapped and pressed into service by the raiders. The base actually seemed more active than a handful of Federation Navy bases she’d visited.
Someone has invested billions of credits into this
, she thought, as she turned and started to walk through the asteroid base.
That’s not a small amount of money
.
The next hour passed peacefully enough. Compared to rumour, the raider base was actually quite peaceful, although the collars at everyone’s throat probably had something to do with the lack of apparent aggression. She moved from bar to bar, taking a drink at each one and just listening to what the patrons had to say. Most of them had definitely been kidnapped, or offered long-term positions that just happened to be on an isolated base. Oddly, most of the workers came from the Federation, while the starship crewmen came from the Bottleneck Republic. But then, someone might notice a sudden drop in the number of engineers in the Fairfax Cluster. Her father had certainly noticed a decline in the number of mercenaries.
But the Federation trained up hundreds of thousands of them during the war
, she thought, grimly.
A few hundred going missing would probably remain unnoticed
.
She left the last bar and walked back to the starship, keeping a wary eye out for trouble. But there appeared to be none; the starship crews had descended into the brothels, gaming parlours and drinking saloons
en masse
, leaving the ships almost completely empty. Sandy felt sick when she contemplated the sheer number of entertainments offered by the brothels, including some that were illegal even in the colonies. What sort of sick man would want to have sex with an alien? But the raiders were unlikely to care about social standards elsewhere, not when they were busy bombarding human populations from orbit. They would give their crews whatever they wanted, just to keep them loyal.
It was an old pattern, one that changed in detail, but not in overview. A person could be seduced by giving them whatever they wanted, from money to women or drugs. Then, with their new loyalties firmly established, they could be pulled deeper and deeper into the miasma that sucked them down into hell. First, they would be asked to do small tasks for their new friends, then the tasks would get darker and darker until they were hardened criminals ... with nowhere to go if they wanted to escape. She shook her head, tiredly, as she entered the access tube that led back to the ship. There was little hope of any of the raiders breaking free, not when they were physically and mentally enslaved. Most of them knew that they would be dumped on a penal world if caught, at the very least.
“Hey,” Jess said. Sandy turned to see her friend standing at the airlock, grinning at her. A moment later, Jess caught her up in a bearhug that left her gasping for breath. “I just got promoted. You want to celebrate?”
She dragged Sandy down the corridor and into the privacy tube, then blocked the pickups one by one. “They told me that I did well on Xenophon,” she said, once they couldn’t be overheard. “And they told me to take command of one of their regiments.”
Sandy stared at Jess, feeling an odd mixture of confusion and worry. If Jess accepted the promotion, she would become even more complicit in their crimes ... but Jess had no alternative. If she refused the promotion, they would start to ask themselves why she’d refused ... and they might conclude that Jess had other motives for being on the raider ship. Or they might just decide that she was disloyal and kill her.
“That would be a cause for congratulations, under other circumstances,” Sandy muttered. “What do they want you to do?”
“Get the next regiment ready for deployment,” Jess said. “They’re not going to rest on their laurels for long, it seems. They have another target in mind already.”
“Shit,” Sandy said. If another world like Xenophon was hit, the Bottleneck Republic might come apart at the seams. The agreements that had held the cluster together during the war would shatter, leaving each world completely isolated. “Do you know where?”
“They didn't tell me,” Jess said. “All they said was that I had to have the troops prepared in two to three weeks. I don't think it’s possible.”
Sandy snorted. Given the general level of competence the raiders had shown, anything Jess did would probably be head and shoulders ahead of her rivals. But then, she didn't
want
the raiders to become any more effective. They were already far too good at landing on the ground and slaughtering large numbers of helpless aliens. They’d only come apart when they’d attacked a well-defended spaceport and had their heads handed to them.
If there hadn't been any orbital fire support, the whole force would have been wiped out
, Sandy thought. She was relieved that her friend and ally had survived, but at the same time she knew just how badly the attack would hurt the republic.
They just weren't prepared for a real fight
.
“I think you’ll do fine,” Sandy assured her, dryly. They shared a smirk. The trick would be doing well enough to please the raiders, without doing the job
too
well. “Have you thought about getting a message out?”
Jess smiled. “Take pictures of the stars, then transmit them when we reach our next target,” she said, dryly. “Why didn’t you think of that?”
Sandy slapped her forehead, annoyed. She’d been so obsessed with trying to get into the navigational database or locate a working FTL communications array that it hadn't occurred to her that there was a simpler solution. And to think that they’d learnt how to navigate by the stars in basic training! All she had to do was take a few pictures and send them to
Dauntless
, where they could be analysed and the raider base located.
“I’ll do it,” she said, irked. “I ...”
There was a sudden knocking on the hatch. They exchanged glances, then fell into a passionate hug as the hatch hissed open, revealing Sandy’s supervisor. His cold gaze travelled over their embrace – Jess’s hand had found its way to Sandy’s breast – then met Sandy’s eyes. He didn't seem to be interested in their bodies at all.
“You are ordered to report to the tactical deck in ten minutes,” he said. His voice was as cold as always, despite the situation. “Be there.”
He walked out, the hatch closing behind them. Sandy untangled herself from Jess, fighting down an insane urge to start giggling. That had been too close. If the supervisor had had bad intentions, or noticed that the pickups had been carefully blocked, it could have been disastrous. Sandy had read stories of infiltrators who had slept with the enemy, quite literally, to gain a tactical advantage, but she didn't want to do it herself. Besides, her supervisor was such a cold fish that he didn't seem interested in men, women or even aliens.
“That could have been embarrassing,” Jess said, dryly. “Next time, we should probably take off our clothes.”
Sandy flushed, brightly. But Jess was right. Privacy tubes were meant for sex, after all, not private conversations. It was possible that someone would believe that they simply hadn't gotten around to getting undressed, but it would also raise eyebrows. And if someone started to wonder why the pickups weren't picking up everything they should ... she nodded, despite her embarrassment. They couldn't afford to slip now.