Back Into the Fire, page 23
“We won’t back down,” they say together.
All of the ranks of young people arrayed on either side behind them snap about in unison to face the camera. Like the pair of leaders, the voices are a stern drone.
“We won’t back down!”
“The Grand Galactic Alliance,” the young man says.
“Will never back down,” the girl finishes for him.
A little streamer of text unspools across the bottom of the hologram, spelling out, “Paid for by the Council for the Restoration of the Alliance.”
>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 666789 - NOVA TERRA - GOVERNMENT SPONSORED>>>RECEPTION>>> A man in a black uniform with red trim sits at the desk alone before the Committee for the Conduct of the War. On his shoulder patch, the dome of the Assembly rises—the emblem of the Council Guard. On his high collar, in place of buttons, are tiny brass skulls. Their meaning seems equally clear.
“Thank you for joining us” Assembly Grantholm, at his usually perch heading the Committee pauses with deliberate disrespect to feign reading off his holopad “Commandant Reinhardt.”
“It’s my pleasure, of course,” Reinhardt replies. He is a bronzed, hawk-faced man of sun-bleached eyebrows and blonde hair buzzed in the high-and-tight pattern of a marine. A faint five-o’clock shadows darkens his sharp jaw line and there is the sense that no amount of grooming is likely to clear it away.
“Commandant,” Grantholm repeats the title in a tone that leaves little doubt he finds it dubious, “can you provide us the mission statement for your organization?”
“Assemblyman,” Reinhardt replied, “you certainly have it, amongst the many other holofiles provided freely to your office.”
Grantholm smiles unpleasantly. “Indulge us please, sir.”
Reinhardt shrugs and makes a show of straightening out his uniform before replying. “The mission of the Council Guard is to ensure the safety and safe operations of the High Council and its attendant bodies.”
“Thank you,” Grantholm replied, and then turns his gaze to the proceeding’s onlookers and the hoverdrones always monitoring. He raises his voice. “The safety and safe operations of the High Council,” he repeats.
“That is what I said,” Reinhardt points out without prompting.
Grantholm meets his gaze once again with a flutter of irritation to his eyes. “And perhaps you can explain to this body, then, how that charter empowers your organization to serve in a paramilitary capacity on worlds where the High Council is not present.”
“The High Council is present everywhere,” Reinhardt replies in a deceptively mild tone. “It is the executive body of the Alliance, of all its worlds. It is the final arbiter of law and order throughout the allied stars.” He offers a wolfish grin. “I’m surprised to have to point out basic civics to an Assemblyman.”
That births a titter of laughter from the onlookers and a reddening of Grantholm’s features. “That’s a clever reading of the charter, and the law, Commandant. Just as clever as the reading that presumes what is effectively the High Council’s security force can have access to military supplies and weaponry at a level equal to the Alliance armed forces.”
“The safety,” Reinhard states, jabbing a finger onto the desktop before, “and safe operations of the Council!” He glares at Grantholm and the other Assemblymen on the Committee. “Are those not threatened throughout the galaxy?”
“You think Alliance citizens facing hard times are a threat to the Alliance?” Grantholm asks with a near-triumphant voice.
“I think there’s a war on, Assemblyman,” Reinhardt fires back. “And I think that anything that threatens the High Council’s mission to end it and bring the rebel worlds back into the fold is the business of the Council Guard.” He leans back in his seat fold his hands in his lap. “Even if that includes dealing with citizens who’ve forgotten their place.”
“Forgotten their—” Grantholm cuts himself off. Beside him, his fellow Committee members are muttering. “Sir,” he resumes, “might I offer you a refresher in civics? The citizens, the people of the Alliance are the final arbiters in our system. The High Council answers to them. That is their place.”
“The people elected the High Council,” Reinhardt replies. “As you say. And this current slate of High Councilors, on the people’s behalf, has expanded the scope of operations of my organization in the light of the growing sense of crisis throughout the Alliance. That mission, the Council’s mission, is my mission.”
He smirks. “So, you could say the Council Guard is carrying out the people’s will.”
>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 920549>>>RECEPTION>>> A mob clamors through the streets of Dawning on New Jefferson and clusters towards the marble front steps of the Legislature Building. Signs and placards read “RECALL LEVINE” and “END THE DEBATE” and “NO MORE REBELLION”. It is a mixed group, though well-dressed ringleaders have the look of off-work legislative staffers.
Senator Cupp steps out the front entrance of the building, passing between the columns of its façade, and pausing as the crowds reaches the bottom steps. His rosy-hue brightens as he looks down upon them, seems surprised at the sudden eruption of fervor. Glancing to either side, he takes obvious notice of suited security guards taking up places around the perimeter. His gaze brightens as he eyes HoloMedia hover drones whisking a couple dozen meters above the Legislative Square and converging on the disturbance.
“Friends,” he calls down to them, “what brings you to disturb our proceedings this day?”
An ugly roar rises up from the mob. One woman with a bullhorn ascends a couple steps and raises it to her face. “We want Levine out!” she bawls. The crowd erupts with her words.
Cupp pats the air with his hands, calmingly. “Friends, citizens, we can’t devolve to mob rule. There is a process for this!”
“The war will never end with Levine in charge!” a man shouts from the crowd.
Cupp again gestures for calm as the multitudes jeer. “And, as I said, there is a peaceful, law-abiding solution to that.”
“He lied to us!” someone else shouts. “Levine led us into this disaster. He never told us it would be this way!”
“We want things back the way they were!” another member of the crowd shrieks.
“Fellow citizens,” Cupp proclaims with near-theatric heft—and, suddenly, the appearance of spontaneity to this event frays, appears more artificial. “The solution to your problems—our problems—is the system. Our constitution spells out the remedy. And that remedy is signing the petition for the Recall of the President.”
The mob thunders its approval.
Cupp turns to a young woman behind him, who appears to be one of his staff. She hands him a holopad, which he holds up to the crowd. “It’s easy,” he says. “Go to the Council for Civility’s Holosite, authenticate with your thumbprint, and click the button, authorizing the organization to put your name forward as a petitioner.”
Amongst the mob, some of the well-dressed ringleaders are abruptly producing holopads like Cupp’s and pressing them into the hands of the citizens, many of whom seem surprised. A few drift to the edges of the throng. More comply thoughtlessly, thumbs pressed to holoscreens.
“Sign the Recall!” Cupp shouts down to them. “Recall Levine!” He repeats the last over and over again.
And the crowd takes up the chant.
>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 666789 - NOVA TERRA - GOVERNMENT SPONSORED>>>RECEPTION>>> “—can see this is getting nowhere,” Grantholm huffs. “So, why don’t we turn to a separate, but related issue? Mister Reinhardt—”
“Commandant,” Reinhardt corrects him through bared teeth.
“Whatever,” Grantholm replies with a dismissive wave. “Can you describe for me, in general terms, what proportion of your recruits come to you after stints in Syntar Fleet Corporation’s onetime security forces?”
“I can’t say I’ve got that information at the top of my head,” he replies and shrugs nonchalantly. “There are some, for certain. A great number of those folks were professionals, even if their superiors were not.”
“You can’t say?”
“That’s correct.”
“Or won’t,” Grantholm snipes and quickly moves on. “Because, as I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, the HoloMedia has certainly found a number of examples.”
“You can always find a few bad apples.”
Grantholm’s eyes smolder with rising anger. “A number of those bad apples were a part of the riots that got out of control on my home world, Commandant. By the evidence I’ve seen, their brutality was what escalated the violence.”
Reinhardt shrugs again. “We’re still conducting our own investigation of the affair, Assemblyman, and until that’s completed, I’d be out of line to comment. But that said, is a domestic matter, such as the troubles on Tartan, really a concern for a committee chartered to probe the Conduct of the War?”
Someone from among the onlookers murmurs and Grantholm’s face darkens with rage he no longer bothers to hide. He leans back in his chair, fidgeting with a light pen for a moment. “Quite,” he replies venomously. “And in the same vein, why don’t we come back to the question of why a domestic security force for the High Council suddenly has jurisdiction in that same war?”
Reinhardt hold up his hands in exasperation. “Really, Assemblyman, is talking in circles what the citizenry pays you for?”
“They pay us both,” Grantholm snaps.
“Yes,” Reinhardt snarls with a defiant flare in his eyes, “they throw money at you to attend galas and rattle on without ever doing anything.”
“Mister Reinhardt—”
“And they pay the Guard to do what has to be done! Because the police aren’t getting it done and neither is the military!”
“I would remind you—”
“I would remind you, sir, that there is a war on, and we’re not winning it!”
Grantholm’s face has gone as bright as his tie. “Commandant,” he sneers out the word, “this body is fully empowered to find you in contempt of proceedings.”
“Then find me in contempt!” Reinhardt slams the table before him, stands from his seat. “Because while you all quail at cost overruns and tables of organization and conduct, the Guard is stepping in where others have failed!”
“HE’S RIGHT HERE.”
Cory pointed at a blip in the hologram projected by the Lesser Overmind. The image displayed the hilly, forested countryside about a fifteen hundred kilometers south of the Hole and the Union positions. Looking at it, Kelly wanted to feel relief, but saw only her squad mate marooned, over a thousand clicks behind enemy lines.
“The crash site is here,” Cory went on, toggling the display slightly to another location. “We know because Kimball sent off a transmission right before he activated the Hellhound’s crash protocols and blew the thing in place. He waited five days before a second transmission, this one probably from his wrist comm. That was a risk.” She sounded vaguely disinterested—almost inhumanly so. “The comms are encrypted, so not likely to be hacked, but the emanation, itself, bouncing off the atmosphere to reach us, could have been detected.”
“He was hurt,” Kelly pointed out, almost irritably. What the hell was going on with Cory? She sounded like one of her damned machines. “He probably only broke radio silence because of it.”
“Tough guy,” Tim mused from her side, staring into the hologram. “Looks like he’s made almost a hundred clicks since the crash.”
“Was there anything else in the transmission?” Kelly asked.
“It was the standard Jester distress pulse,” Cory replied.
Kelly shook her head. “I know Kimball. He wouldn’t have done that if he wasn’t near the end of his line.” She looked around at the other Jesters leaders, gathered in the conference cave, deep in the Hole. Her gaze settled finally upon Red. “We’ve got to do something.”
“That is a risk,” the vaguely-maternal voice of Overmind spoke up. “While there have been no sightings of Alliance forces in this area, that is not conclusive. And a Jester incursion at that point will be detected.” It paused, as though its next words should be obvious. “A rescue operation will put significant Jester assets in peril.”
“We don’t leave our people behind,” Red snapped.
Faint thunder shook the cave and dust purling from cracks in the curved ceiling hissed down, some of it catching in the hologram with a twinkle. The racket prowled closer, sent a rattle through equipment, through the plug chassis of Overmind, then receded. Kelly wasn’t the only one to let out a breath as it did.
“They’re persistent,” Tim grumbled, “I’ll give ‘em that.”
“Rocket attack again,” Cory said. The hologram shifted without her even touching a control, skipped back to the opposing lines, just south of the Hole. Flashes lit up the crimson bars of the known Alliance positions. Momentary arcs scathed north from these, ended in pulsing globes. “It’d been harassment till now, but the Alliance appears to be moving significant resources into position.”
“Teller expects another attack soon,” Red said. A wince of annoyance crossed her face. “He’s also pissed at us, that we didn’t do more damage.”
“We blew the hell out of Queen’s Point,” Kelly hissed, “and at no small cost!”
Red held up a palm, patted the air placatingly. “I know. I know. I’m just saying, so everyone knows. The Alliance must’ve gotten more forces down and gotten enough disbursed before we hit them that they still have enough to press another offensive.” She looked around the room. “So, the good General made it very clear he’ll be expecting Jester air support.”
Growls rippled through the chamber.
“What about our Union Fleet friends?” Tim said over the rising discontent. “Is he in communication with them? They looked pretty hungry when the Alliance was showing us their backsides. Where are they now?”
“They’ve apparently withdrawn to the edge of the system and are keeping a low profile.”
“So, it’s okay if we’re left slugging it out down here on our own?” Tim snorted.
The growls of before darkened, rose in volume from the others.
But Kelly’s had an edge of fear. “Does that mean we’re not going after Kimball?”
“I said we don’t leave our people behind,” Red replied stonily.
“Then what?”
Red fixed her gaze upon Jerry, standing—noticeably—close to Wheeler. “This sounds like a job for the Assault Group. What do we have to work with?”
Jerry exchanged a look with Wheeler. “We have, maybe, six Basilisks. We lost two and a third’s pretty much only good for parts salvage. What’s more, we’ll have to tear out the anti-starfighter armaments to actually make room for anyone.”
“How long’s that going to take?” Red asked.
He shrugged. “I dunno...maybe four hours apiece.”
Kelly ground her teeth. Twenty-four hours more Kimball was out there, maybe hurting, definitely on his own.
“Make it faster,” Red said. She looked at Wheeler. “And we’ll need a ground element.”
The Raider commander elbowed Jerry with playfulness that escaped no one in the cave. “You clear me space on four of those boxes, I’ll give you the Raiders to fill ‘em.” She turned flashing eyes on Red. “I’ll lead.”
“Four will be enough?”
Wheeler shrugged. “If we don’t run into anything, it’ll be plenty.” The light in her eyes went cold. “If Kimball’s picked up a tail...” another shrug “...we’re Raiders; it’ll still be enough.”
Red smiled tightly. “All right. You’ll need air cover, too.” The wince of before returned. “And we’ve got to keep a strong reserve ready for this attack Teller’s fretting over. So, a smaller group. No more than a squadron.”
“I’ll go,” Jerry spoke up. “Assault Group’s mine, anyway. I’ll take the Hog.”
“I’ll go,” Kelly rushed to add. “Kimball’s mine.”
Red met her gaze with a slight pinching of the lips. “And it’s because of that that maybe someone else should do it.”
Kelly opened her mouth with a reflexive snarl, but barely held it at bay. “Kimball’s mine,” she repeated. “We had to leave him. His squad mates will feel the same way.”
“Your wing got used hard a few days ago,” Red replied.
“So did Jerry’s! So did everyone’s! We’re all Jesters, here, and—”
“I’ll go,” Tim spoke up quietly from her side, surprised her. She looked at him and he smiled back disarmingly. “I’ll take Second Squadron. They’re the least damaged of anyone.” He snorted. “Li’s infernal good luck...”
“It’s settled then,” Red spoke up as Kelly tried to. “I’ll leave coordination to you and Rodann, Tim. Commander Harrison” there was no mistaking Red’s tone of warning “you and I will organized the air defenses for the Hole and the marine positions.” She looked around the chamber one last time. “Any other questions?”
Kelly had plenty, but kept her mouth riveted shut, silently seething.
“Great,” Red said. “Let’s go get our man back!”
With murmurs, the meeting began to break up. Kelly took a step towards Red, but the red-haired woman was already halfway out a side passage, chattering to one of the Logistics people. Supplies were tight, she knew, but also didn’t doubt Red wanted any excuse to not hear more from her.
“Hey.” Tim set a hand on Kelly’s arm. “Buy you a drink?”
She snorted and looked at him. “And you know a place on this rock?”
“Plenty,” he chortled and tugged her towards the exit passage.
They let a few of the others meander on ahead of them in the tunnel. Tim glanced back, ostensibly to make certain they’d reached a point of relative privacy, and halted, drawing her into a curve in the cave that made for an alcove, relatively out of sight. There he leaned a shoulder against the wall and let his hand slide down to her hip, draw her a little closer. No further.
