Back into the fire, p.14
Back Into the Fire, page 14
“We’ve reached out to the security offices for the High Council for further comment,” Sandra says, “but so far, they’ve declined.”
She folds her hands on the desktop before her and leans forward, affecting an almost conspiratorial tone, as though she’s sharing saying confidential with her audience. “Through investigative work, we have uncovered something else of interest concerning the Council Guard, though. Galactic Daily has obtained personnel records, revealing that no small number of the Guard’s cadre are, in fact, former members of disgraced Syntar Fleet Corporation’s paramilitary private security force.”
The holoscreen shifts images as she pivots to it once more. The image displays a Guardsman with his helmet off, watching as his comrades clear an intersection. The image freezes and zooms in to show harsh features, hair buzzed to an iron-gray burr, and small eyes pinched in the sunlight.
“This man,” Sandra says, “Camden Alden, is known to have commanded a company in the now-disbanded and outlawed organization, which still has yet to face charges for accusations of atrocities on Santos and Loudon.”
She glares at the holocamera. “Needless to say, we will be pursuing this lead further.”
>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 152435>>>RECEPTION>>> “It’s everywhere,” a deep voice warns.
A middle-aged woman sits at a kitchen table, pressing fingers to her temples, face creased in apparent pain. Outside the window behind her, overcast darkens as rain pummels the glass. On the wall beside her, a holoscreen flicks rapidly, seemingly out of her control, through one vignette after another. Scenes of street fighting, reporting from the war front, shouting politicians, and reports cast in grainy colors blaze from the pane.
“There’s no escaping it, the negativity—”
The women checks her wrist piece and a quadrant of the view divides off to show its face. Text messages scroll across it, communications from friends, family members. All are in caps or highlighted with exclamation marks and emoticons.
The woman tears off her wrist comm and flings it at a wall. Folding her hands together, elbows on the table, she sags forward, lips pressed into her knuckles. Despite obvious hesitation, red eyes flick back towards the holoscreen.
“—the lies—”
The hologram begins flicking back and forth between images of reporters and politicians. At first, it’s an evenly-spaced pattern, in time to a heartbeat that becomes louder and louder. But it begins to speed up, as does the heartbeat, which blurs into a thrum while the imagery distorts, morphing media figures and political ones into a gruesome, pixelating menageries.
“—the treason.”
The spasm of visions flashes away to be replaced by cyan streaks and splashes of flame before a star field. A fighter rips through the conflagration, spewing azure bolts. As it streaks by, a grinning skull-face, capped with a jester’s cap is clearly seen. Another flash blurs away the scene, brings into a focus a second one. Alliance Marines advance along a narrow trench line through smoke and swirling embers. Lightning-like flickers cast them in lurching freeze frame moments. Shouts fill the air. A fireball flash suddenly swallows all.
True lighting booms from outside the woman’s window and she flinches.
“But there’s help,” the deep voice of before says. “From Omnipresent Media, your partner in galactic news and entertainment, comes Clear View.”
On the kitchen tabletop a small control wafer crystal appears with a puff of colorful smoke. The woman’s eyes widen, but her face eases with unambiguous relief. She reaches for the device as the storm outside her window suddenly begins to clear.
“Based upon algorithms matched to your preferences and your holo-interactions, Clear View code will filter out content harmful to your positive perspective. No longer will you have to fumble through a jungle of memetic hostility for the holographic products you crave.”
The woman points the crystal control at the holoscreen which flashes and clears. A red band slashes horizontally across the blanked pane, emblazoned with a label stating, “HOSTILE OR UNPARTIOTIC CONTENT”. A moment later, the ribbon blinks away, showing refreshed imagery of a laughing family in summer colors, crossing a wind-tossed sea of grass under a blue sky and warm yellow sun.
“Coming to you now, from Omnipresent Media.” The deep voice brightens notably. “Clear View programming.”
The woman in the kitchen sighs and leans back with a smile of relief while sunlight streams in through the window behind her.
“With Omnipresent as your partner, your View will be Clear.”
>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 920549>>>RECEPTION>>> Ansolm Levine stands at a podium in a chamber reminiscent of the Assembly he once electrified with his rhetoric, but older in style, wood-paneled, darker, and more organic. It is the former House of Legislature on New Jefferson, converted these last two and a half years for use by the Senate of the Union of Free Stars.
Someone is banging a gavel from the desks arrayed before the podium. The wielder, a man of white eyebrows, red-tinged cheeks and nose, and a deceptively homespun suit sets the instrument down and fold his hands before him. “Thank you again, Mister President,” the man drawls in an accent of an Outregion world’s backcountry, “for gracing the people’s Senate with your presence.”
Levine nods. “Of course, Senator Cupp. It’s always a privilege.”
“That’s Mister Senate President,” Cupp corrects him.
“Of course, it is,” Levine replies with a mischievous grin that elicits chortles from some of the onlooking Senators arrayed in chairs all around the chamber. “My mistake.”
The redness of Cupp’s nose deepens slightly. “We had been hoping for an audience with Grand Admiral Greer, but he has been understandably detained.”
“Well, there is a war on.”
“A point you never cease to make,” Cupp replied with narrowing eyes. “On and on and on it goes. We had been hoping for more clarity on its progress.”
Levine shrugs and spreads his empty hands before him. “In the interests of security and not risking the lives of our fighting men and women, you can understand why that’s not as easy as it might sound.”
“Yet you have declined even a closed session with this body,” Cupp points out. “Security could be guaranteed, yet you invoke it as a reason to evade. And we continue to have to settle for what scraps the Great President Levine will toss us.”
A growl goes through some in the Senate. But Levine smiles it off. “There’s a saying about secrets, Senate President; two people can keep them, if one is dead.”
That earns Levine some laughter, but Cupp’s face pinches and crimsons further. “I’m sorry, sir, but was that a threat?”
Levine sighs, obviously recognizing the mistake he’s made. “Certainly not. Merely pointing out the challenges of complying with the Senate’s desire for information.”
“So, it’s a joke?” Cupp snaps. “The people’s right to know how their blood and treasure is spent is a joke to their President?”
The growls of the Senate resume, but there’s also an undertone of irritation between factions. This isn’t the first time they’ve seen Cupp’s theatrics, either.
Levine swipes his thinning hair back and the lights catch a glint of perspiration. “As is often the case, Senator Cupp, you seem interested in hearing what you want to hear.”
“Senate President,” Cupp insists in a raised voice.
Levine sighs loudly and sets his fists at his hips, looking around at the glowering Senators, but notably ignoring Cupp. “What is it that you all want to hear? You called me. I’ve come. Are there questions, or is this just another chance for the Senate President to make scenes for Union Free Media?”
“You made promises to us, Mister Levine,” Cupp snarls over the rising clamor between factions in the Senate. “You promised an end. Yet the war rages on. And a lot of people, your people, grow weary of the platitudes and excuses!”
>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 666789 - NOVA TERRA - GOVERNMENT SPONSORED>>>RECEPTION>>> A squirrely-looking suited man whose profession is almost certainly bureaucrat squirms at a table, accompanied by a significantly better-dressed woman in her thirties at his left who’s obviously a High Council staffer.
Harvey Grantholm, seated opposite them in the chamber—one of the sub-committee rooms adjacent the main Assembly complex—on an elevated dais, clears his throat and straightens a bright yellow tie. “For the record, you are?”
“This is Director Benton Klein,” the woman speaks up before the bureaucrat can.
Grantholm smiles unpleasantly at her. “This would probably go better if Mister Klein could answer for himself.”
The staffer smiles while chuckles go through onlookers seated around the chamber behind her. Hover drones circle above, recording the session. The glare of their spotlights highlight sweat on her companion’s brows, stains darkening at his armpits. “Of course, Assemblyman,” she replies.
“Mister Klein,” Grantholm resumes, “you are Director of what, exactly?”
Klein’s bulbous eyes dart momentarily to the woman at his side. “P-personnel and Assignments, Mister Assemblyman.”
“Personnel attached to the Assembly and High Council, yes?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
Grantholm pauses deliberately to take a drunk. “And is it correct that hiring and allocation to the Council Guard would fall under your auspices?”
Klein’s eyes flutter with a suddenly frantic light and flick towards his companion once more. “The-the Guard has its own command structure and hierarchy.”
“But you would have oversight of that, yes?” Grantholm presses. “Your office would have records of that?”
Kelin fidgets with his tie, which appears to have been hurriedly and poorly-knotted. “I suppose that’s true, yes.”
“Then why has your office declined to provide those records,” Grantholm asks, “even under threat of subpoena?”
“I-I wasn’t aware...”
“Director Klein is in the process of producing those records,” the staffer speaks up, setting a hand upon Klein’s sleeve at the same time. “The timetables from the Committee for the Conduct of the War were tight and—I might add—unreasonably short.”
“Again,” Grantholm says with mildness that is anything but, “I don’t recall addressing my questions to you, Miss...?”
“Tamara Hall,” she replies crisply.
“And you are here why?”
“I’m on hand to assist with this investigation” she pauses and offers a practiced smile “on loan from the offices of High Councilor Noovin.”
“Of course, you are,” Grantholm sighs. He turns his gaze back on Klein. “And these complaints about timelines are ones this body has heard already.” He glances at the glowering Assemblymen seat to either side of him. “The Director of Finance did not even bother to make an appearance. So, you’re to be commended for even being here.”
Klein smiles and nods jerkily, oblivious to Grantholm’s obviously mocking tone. “Of course. Thank you.”
Giggles go through the onlookers and Grantholm rolls his eyes. “Moving on. Are you aware of reports circulating in the HoloMedia that dozens of new members of the Guard have been recruited from the now-defunct Syntar Security Forces?”
Klein’s smile collapses and, at his side, Hall’s carefully-guarded expression becomes even less readable. “I...have seen the reports. But we don’t—”
“You don’t what?” Granthom snaps. “You don’t do background checks on what are, in fact, government employees?”
“I...I...”
“You don’t double-check to make sure recruits into an organization in the employ of the Alliance taxpayers—which I might add has grown far beyond its chartered size and purpose—are not” he pauses to pick up a holopad and apparently read from it “under investigation for illicit cyberware abuse, brutality, or murder?”
“Assemblyman Grantholm—” Hall begins to say.
“Or,” he cuts her off, “are former members of an organization cited for crimes against humanity and ordered—by the High Council, itself, I might add—broken up as a result?”
“I...I...”
“GOT SOMETHING WEIRD, here, Lieutenant...”
Kia took a last bite from her protein bar, ignored the way it felt like chewing mud, and stuffed it back into the cargo pocket on her sleeve. She picked her helmet up off the floor of the trench and hefted it over her head. Her earbud mated with its onboard electronics instantly and the visor dropped over her eyes to show her a view transmitted from Cintas’ helmet.
“What?”
Cintas’ perspective bounced as the sergeant led his patrol onto the still-smoking ridge the Shiny had held a few days ago. She felt bad about that, but she couldn’t lead every sweep and it was his turn. After a quick jog that brought him to the reverse crest of the rise, the view stilled and glanced about as he waved the rest of his people down and into cover, amongst craters and wreckage. His gaze lingered for a moment on a chewed Alliance helmet that still contained the antimatter-scorched remnants of a skull.
“We sent the drone forward,” the sergeant said, looking away from the carnage so violently the view wobbled. “Looks like the Shiny pulled out like we thought, last night. Drone’s getting data from the next line of hills, ‘bout ten clicks distant. We really sent ‘em packin’.”
“Don’t get too bold with the drone,” she told him as she worked a bit of the protein glop loose from the back of her teeth with her tongue. “We’ve got hardly any of ‘em left and I had to promise Rogers a card game in exchange for prying it out of the reserves.”
“Lousy deal,” Cintas replied with a snort. “Captain cheats. Everyone knows.”
“Well, it’s better than risking any of our hides, if the Shiny take offense to our snooping.”
“And no one appreciates it more than me!”
The drone was a modified UI-11d surveillance type, liberated from some bankrupt firm’s storage racks and purchased en masse and on the cheap by the Union’s perpetually desperate quartermasters. A frisbee-shaped hover model, it had reasonable stealth measures, including a light-bending hide, and ran with a low power signature. Active sensors or a good, hard look would reveal it, but it wasn’t totally useless in sneaking around. And it swapped out weapons for a pretty robust sensor suite of its own.
And, as Cintas had pointed out, it was better than Marines risking their asses.
“So, what’s so damned weird?”
“Check it out.”
The view switched to the visual feed from what she presumed was the UI-11d. Haze draped over everything in the early morning light, most of it still the fumes of the previous days’ fighting. A counter blipped up to the right of the view, showed radiation levels elevated well into the red. Unsurprising, as the Jesters had pounded the snot out of everything with those damnable antimatter rockets of theirs. But Kia was glad not to have to cross that half-glassed moonscape.
The visual zoomed in and holographic pointers highlighted shapes scampering into position atop the distant ridge line. Kia frowned, didn’t quite recognize the silhouettes; weren’t the familiar Alliance gear and bulbous armor. The visual zoomed in further, distance and haze robbing her of some detail, but black uniforms and red trim becoming apparent. The AI in the drone froze a figure dashing from one boulder to another and holographic lines indicated markings—a dome on one shoulder plate; what looked like a gleaming skull decal on the helmet.
“What do you make of that?” Cintas asked.
Kia blinked a pattern that her helm visor would pick up and take as a request for further information. The little AI in her own helm immediately analyzed the imagery and returned an answer to her query. A schematic sprang up with notations and her frown deepened.
“Council Guard...?” she murmured.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought!” Cintas replied. “What the fuck is a Foundation World parade ground unit doing here?”
“The skulls are new,” Kia said, scratching her chin. “Maybe some kind of auxiliary group?”
“Maybe the Shiny are getting down to the bottom of the barrel? The Lucky Thirteenth wore the real marines out and now they’re stuck sending in the REMF’s.”
Kia chortled. Rear Echelon Motherfuckers. But something about this sent a tingling through her nerves. She keyed up the command channel on the tactical. “Rogers, is anyone else seeing these guys?” She blinked a command and transmitted the image sent to her on to the Captain.
A pause. Then, “Yeah, they’re popping up in other spots, too, and not just in front of us.” He grunted incredulously. “CG’s...I thought they were just for baby-sitting the High Councilors and their offices and properties.”
“Well, they’re here and it’s a bunch of ‘em,” Kia replied. “Looks like they’re shifting into positions as the First rotates out.”
“Mm-hmm,” Rogers said, “We’ve been getting signs of hover vehicles shuttling them forward—lots of them. Doesn’t look like they intend attack, though.”
“Not yet.”
“Always the optimist, Munro,” Rogers chided.
“I’ve got a patrol out,” Kia began. Her guts twisted. She didn’t want to go out there. Time spent back from the lines had been heaven—and stumbling across Wheeler, a miracle. But... “Should I probe with the whole platoon?”
Another pause. “Not now. No sense stirring whatever this is up. Let me send it up the chain. But call your patrol back in. That drone’s intact?”
Kia smirked. “Last I checked.”
“Then you owe me a few hands.”
She rolled her eyes. What he wanted to do with his hands was pretty obvious, and she wasn’t entirely unwilling. It’d been a while and she didn’t mind men—and Rogers was no slouch. But it all ended up feeling like such a damned chore. She missed living.
Seeing Josie had reminded her of that.
It’d been Alpha Company, 3rd of the 505, back then, when they’d first crossed paths. Wheeler had already made First Lieutenant by the time Kia came in—which was saying something in the peacetime Corps, with little real action and little opportunity for advancement. She’d been the freshest thing Kia had seen, bright-eyed, driven, can-do. She’d been going places. Everyone said so. And she’d been adventuresome, too, and shared that with Kia, in more ways than one.
