Some people say that the most glorious sight they ever saw was a beautiful moon or a perfect sunrise. For me, it was the three fleets of the Scutum-Crux Arm converging in orbit over Terraneau. Each fleet was set in array with its twelve Perseus-class fighter carriers set in a row like the jagged teeth of an enormous saw. Frigates and transports, awesome ships in their own right, seemed insignificant beside the mighty bulk of these dreadnoughts. The massive shadow of the fleets cast a discernible outline on the watery surface of the planet below.
Seeing so many ships huddled together fascinated me. I spent hours watching them from one of the Kamehameha’s observation stations. I watched attack wings of Tomcats and Harriers escorting transports between the capital ships and the planet below. With their black-and-gray finish and sliver-shaped hulls, the Tomcats vanished like ghosts in open space only to reappear as fast-moving specks when they sped across the bows of carriers.
“The U.A. Navy is awesome,” I said to myself with pride. I wondered how anyone could hope to stand against it.
“I spent some time stationed on Nebraska Minor,” Vince Lee said as he leaned against a guardrail. “Ever heard of
Nebraska Minor?”
“I cannot say that I have,” I said.
“They do a lot of farming there. The whole planet is like one big farm,” Lee said.
“Exciting assignment,” I joked.
Lee thought about my quip for a moment, then chose to ignore it. “People on Nebraska Minor used to say, ‘You should always kill the pig before you eat it.’ You ever heard that before?”
“I feel deprived,” I said. “On Gobi we had sayings like, ‘You should never eat your children after they are six years old.’”
Lee pretended to ignore that comment, too. “It’s a big fleet; a lot of firepower …” Lee’s voice trailed off for a moment. “Greece and Rome weren’t able to hold on to Europe, how can we possibly hope to control a whole galaxy? If there are planets that want out of the Republic, Wayson, I am not sure we should force them to stay in.”
“I don’t see how they can stand up to a fleet like this,” I said.
“What happened on Gobi?” Lee asked as he followed my gaze out the window. “Crowley attacked a Marine base?”
A shuttle with a three-fighter escort silently approached our ship, drifting past the window. The ships passing by reminded me of fish in an aquarium. Lee’s question did not surprise me; people had been asking about the Gobi story quite a bit lately. A team of security officers had given me an official debriefing, and Captain McKay had questioned me about it.
“You after the blow-by-blow?” I asked in a sardonic voice. He nodded, and I told him the whole story, including the part about becoming a corporal in three months. I think the promotion was the part that embarrassed me the most.
“The Unified Authority has long provided safety and prosperity for its member states. Now it has come to our attention that certain factions wish to divide our Republic. These terrorists would destroy the fabric of our society to satisfy their own selfish needs. Though their insurrection poses no significant threat to our great Republic, it must be dealt with.”
I noticed two things about Fleet Admiral Bryce Klyber as I watched his high-definition image on the three-dimensional screen: his nearly starved physique and his overwhelming intensity. Klyber’s cheekbones stuck out like ridges across his chiseled face and his skull looked dented at the temples. He had long arms that reminded me of twigs. The overall impression was that you could snap the man over your knee like a stick.
First fascinated by Klyber’s skeletal appearance, I soon found myself mesmerized by the intensity in his icy blue eyes. He stared into the camera, seldom blinking as he plowed through his speech. When he paused to look at his notes, Klyber pursed his mouth so tightly that his lips formed a single line, and wrinkles formed on his chin.
“In future years, historians will look back upon the Unified Authority as one of man’s crowning achievements. As a nation, we have conquered space. We have conquered the galaxy. Our progress will not be slowed by a band of hooligans.”
The impact of Klyber’s words was immediate and universal. Applause echoed through the Kamehameha. Klyber was speaking in an auditorium on Terraneau, but his speech was shown on every monitor on every deck of every ship in all three Scutum-Crux fleets. As he said those words, I have no doubt that all 2 million men under Klyber’s command shouted with excitement.
“I have spoken with both the Joint Chiefs and the Linear Committee, and they have authorized me to subdue the enemy by all means necessary. As we speak, enemy strongholds are being targeted in all six galactic arms, and terrorist leaders are being sought out.”
The platoon watched Klyber’s speech on a small monitor hanging from the ceiling of our barracks. Everyone around me fidgeted with excitement except Shannon, who stood mute and slack-jawed with an expression that betrayed no emotion. His arms were folded across his chest, and he seemed to consider the weight of the challenges ahead.
“I will not discuss our tactics at this time, but every officer will be briefed. The details and goals of our missions will
become apparent over the next few days.
“Dismissed.”
The screen blinked off. As it did, the barracks began to echo with loud conversations.
“What do you think?” Lee asked me.
“Sounds like war,” I said. “We will overwhelm them.”
“If we can find them,” Vince reminded me.
Like a crew heading into combat, we had the rest of the day to relax and think about the battles that might lie ahead. By the time Vince and I went to the sea-soldier’s bar late that afternoon, it was already packed with noncoms. Tight knots of combat-ready Marines stood along the bar slapping each other across the shoulders and speaking in booming voices. They toasted Admiral Klyber and made dunderheaded statements about Congress.
A private from our platoon waved to us as we surveyed the bar. He came to us. “Lee, Harris, we have a table back there,” he said, pointing with a frothy mug.
“I’m never quite sure, but wasn’t that one of Shannon’s men?” Lee asked, after the private left.
“Couldn’t be. They don’t talk to us.”
Lee shrugged. “I suppose we should at least drop in on them.”
“You find them, I’ll get the beer,” I said as I pushed my way through the crowd. I reached the bar and looked around. It was a big night. By all appearances, we were headed for a fight. The mood was wild. When the bartender asked what I wanted, I ordered two bottles of Earth-brewed beer.
“The best I have left is brew made with Earth-grown malt.”
“That will do,” I said handing him a twenty.
The bartender smiled and gave me very little change.
It took a few minutes to fight through the crowd and find the table. I handed Vince his beer. He looked at the label, and asked, “Earth-grown malt? I thought you didn’t taste any difference?”
“I don’t.” I smiled, nodded, took a swig of my beer. “But you’ve sprung for Earth-grown so many times, I felt guilty.”
Drinks did not come free on board the Kamehameha, but they were pretty damn cheap. Even hard stuff like vodka and whiskey cost only one dollar per drink.
As far as I was concerned, the only difference between Earth-grown and outworld beers was the cost. The snobbish crowd said they tasted a difference, but I never did. For reasons I could not peg at the time, Lee preferred Earth-grown brew; but I had not bought the beer for the taste, I bought it for the occasion.
Most of our platoon sat around this table in two nearly concentric circles. “Guess we’re standing,” Lee said.
“Have you guys heard anything?” someone asked.
“You kidding?” a familiar voice burst out. “They’re corpses. Corporals are always the last to hear shit.” Just across from me, Sergeant Shannon sat with one leg up on the table. He looked relaxed, and his smile was almost friendly.
“We’ll all know soon enough,” Lee said.
The banter continued. We no longer seemed like a divided platoon. Shannon leaned back in his chair and listened to the conversations around him.
“Harris?”
Captain McKay, probably fresh from the officers meetings on Terraneau and still wearing his whites, tapped me on the shoulder. He smiled and spoke in a quiet tone that was just loud enough for me to hear him above the crowd. “Harris, I suspect that you are just about the most important person in the fleet right now.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, I don’t understand.”
“That an Earth-grown brew you’re drinking?” he asked, looking at my bottle. “The record from your helmet…that was the key to all of this. I showed it to Klyber, and he showed it to the Linear Committee.
“Do you know what Admiral Klyber told the Committee? He told them that our enemies ‘no longer fear us.’ ‘No longer fear us,’ that was what finally woke them up. That and your video feed. Life in the galaxy just got a little more exciting thanks to that goddamned helmet of yours.”
“I’m not sure what to say,” I said. I could not tell if McKay was angry or pleased. He sounded sarcastic, but I wasn’t sure if he was joking or angry. He did not stay long, either. A moment later he waved to the platoon and disappeared into the crowd.
“We have our orders,” Sergeant Shannon said as he called Lee and me into his office the next day. “Have a seat.”
We pulled chairs up to his desk. Judging by the time mark on the communiqué, Captain McKay had sent the orders less than an hour earlier. “The Kamehameha has been assigned to a planet called Ezer Kri. Ever heard of it?”
“No, Sergeant,” Lee said.
“We’re invading Ezer Kri?” Lee and Shannon stared at me. “Ezer Kri has been in the news. I’ve been following the story.”
“You know about Ezer Kri?” Shannon asked. He picked up a combat knife and wiped its blade on his forearm.
I began to feel self-conscious. “The story is all over the news. Ezer Kri has a large population of ethnically pure Japanese people who want to make Japanese the official language of the planet. The governor of the planet went to DC and the Linear Committee said no.”
Shannon smiled. “Japanese? There’s got to be something more. You can’t invade a planet just because a bunch of people want to speak Japanese.”
“I thought the old races disappeared,” Vince said.
“You run into it a bit out here,” Shannon said. “But I’ve never seen an entire planet like that.”
“So we’re sending a fleet?” I asked. “Are we going to blockade the planet or something?”
“I don’t know what Klyber has in mind,” Shannon said. “He is sending the Kamehameha and a few support ships.”
“Is Admiral Klyber coming along for the ride?” Lee asked.
“I don’t know if he returned to ship after Terraneau,” Shannon said. “We’re still six days out from Ezer Kri. Harris, see that every man in the platoon gets his armor shined and ready.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You should be keen on maintenance considering all the trouble your faulty helmet has caused,” Shannon said.
“One other thing…I worked you both over when I got here. The whole deal changes now that we have an assignment. You understand? I’ll be depending on you.”
“Yes,” Lee said. “Understood,” I said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The rain streamed down in sheets. Sudden gusts of wind slammed into the sides of the armored transport, battering it off course. I always hated ATs, steel-plated boxes designed with more concern about durability than aerodynamics.
We called the cabin area of armored transports the “kettle” because it was metal, potbellied, and had no windows. Inside this kettle, we heard wind rattling the cables that ran between the AT’s tail and its stubby wings. The sounds of wind and rain were our only contact with the outside. I looked up through a hatch in the ceiling and saw the pilot flipping switches and pulling levers to smooth the ride.
The walls of the transport groaned as the ship touched down. Then the rear of the ship split open revealing a ramp for us to disembark. We had arrived.
They packed both of Captain McKay’s platoons into one transport—sixty privates, sixteen corporals, and six sergeants. We came wearing armor and carrying minimal field supplies. Larger ships would bring artillery, vehicles, field hospitals, and temporary housing. For the time being, all of our equipment came strapped to our backs. I was not concerned. We had twenty-three hundred field-ready Marines on the ground, fighter craft circling the sky, and the only thing our enemy wanted was permission to speak a foreign language.
Shannon, his M27 braced across his chest as if he expected resistance, charged down the ramp shouting for the platoon to follow. He vanished into the glare of the landing lights.
We touched down on a temporary landing strip built by field engineers. Six other ATs landed around us. Above the brightness of the landing lights, I could see the deep black of the night sky.
“Line ’em up!” McKay shouted, his voice thundering over the interLink.
“Get a move on!” Sergeant Shannon yelled. The platoon assembled quickly, forming ranks and standing at attention. Shannon inspected the line, then took his place at the head of the platoon.
The rain fell in glassy panes, which splintered in the wind. Huge drops tapped on my helmet and shoulder plates. Out of the side of my eye, I could see steam rising from spots on the racks of landing lights.
Nestled in my temperature-controlled bodysuit, I felt warm. The temperature inside my armor was a balmy sixty-eight degrees.
Captain McKay crossed the landing pad to inspect the platoon. Dressed in his Charlie Service uniform, he looked cold and wet. His face was pale, and his shoulders were hunched. “Report, Sergeant?”
“All accounted for, sir!” Shannon said with a smart salute.
I heard the whirr of a wing of Harrier fighters doing a fly-over. Captain Olivera had orchestrated the landing by the numbers. First he scanned the area from the Kamehameha to find an appropriate drop zone. Next, he sent in a team of commandos to secure the area, followed by the field engineers who erected the temporary landing facility. Once the zone was secure and the facility was constructed, fighters were sent to patrol the skies. It all seemed like overkill for Ezer Kri. From what I heard, Governor Yamashiro had even offered to let us use the local spaceport.
McKay pulled a digital map unit from his belt and showed it to Sergeant Shannon. “Secure areas 7-J, 6-J, and 5-J, then set up camp at the perimeter—space W.”
“Aye, sir,” Shannon said, and saluted.
McKay returned the salute and walked off. The loud whine of turbines cut through the air as the transports lifted from the landing pad. More would arrive shortly.
Our drop zone was twenty-two miles outside of Hero’s Fall, a city with nearly 2 million residents that served as everything but the government seat for Ezer Kri. The locals called Hero’s Fall “the old city” because it was the planet’s first settlement.
“Okay, gentlemen, we have a long night ahead of us,” Shannon shouted over the interLink. “Let’s spread out. Harris and Lee, your fire team can take the flank.”
Marines do things in threes. Platoons have three squads, each of which is composed of three fire teams. Lee, as the senior corporal, was our team leader. I carried an automatic rifle. We had two privates on the fire team—a grenadier named Amblin and a rifleman named Shultz.
As the platoon divided into fire teams and formed a picket, we moved to the rear. We would remain to the right of the formation. When the shooting started, it would be our job to circle around the enemy. The formation worked well for scouting wide areas but would have left us exposed to sniper attacks in a less secure zone. But we were not walking into battle, and as far as I could tell, the only danger on the planet was that the locals wanted to tell us “sayonara” instead of “good-bye.”
Klyber, however, saw our incursion as more of an unofficial occupation than an exercise. He deployed Marines to close the roads around Hero’s Fall. Two thousand men might not be enough of a force to lay siege to a city the size of Hero’s Fall, but we could certainly teach those Godless Japanese speakers a lesson.
As we left the glare of the landing lights, the lenses in our visors switched automatically to night-for-day vision that illuminated the forest in eerie blue-white tones. While the lens enabled us to see clearly at night, it also rendered us color-blind and hampered our depth perception.
“Keep the chatter down, gentlemen,” Shannon said. “Call out only if you see something.”
Shannon led us across the meadow and into the trees. The woods outside of Hero’s Fall were filled with towering pines that reminded me of the grounds around my old orphanage. “Fan out,” Shannon said. “Keep an eye on your team.”
About forty minutes into our march, we located a paved road that ran through the woods—a highway leading to town. There were no signs of cars. The police had probably closed the highway to assist with our invasion. Shannon divided the platoon into two squads, which he marched on either side of the road.
“Harris, over here,” Shannon called, as we marched.
I trotted to the front of the formation, sloshing through the damp pine needles and kicking up mud. Shannon had left the rest of the platoon and stood on a small ridge surrounded by a particularly dense growth of trees.
“Harris, what do you see in that stand of trees?” he asked, pointing straight ahead with his rifle.
The pocket of trees looked unremarkable. I used my heat-vision lens to see if someone was hiding in the brush. Nothing. Magnifying the view made no difference. “Trees,” I said, sounding confused.
“Ever patrol a wooded area?” Shannon asked.
“Only as a cadet,” I said.
“There’s a trapdoor between those trees,” he said. “See it?”
I used every lens in my helmet. “No, Sergeant,” I said, beginning to wonder if he was playing with me.
“Stop looking for it. Listen for it. Use your sonar locator.”
The locator was a device in our visors that emitted an ultrasonic “ping,” then read the way that the ping bounced off objects and surfaces.
Using optical commands, I brought up the locator. A transparent green arc swished across my visor. In its wake, I saw four lines cut into the ground beneath a tree.
“Come here, Harris,” Shannon said. He walked toward the door. As I followed, my sonar locator made a new reading, marking an oblong cavity beneath the ground in translucent green. “Damn,” I whispered. “I never would have thought about a locator sweep.”
“It’s called a snake shaft,” Shannon said. “You have any idea what it’s used for?”
“No,” I said.
“Neither does anybody else,” Shannon said. “They’re what you might call an anomaly. Let’s go in for a closer look.”
Sergeant Shannon pulled a grenade from his belt and set it for low yield. “Fire in the hole,” he yelled as he tossed it into the trees. The grenade exploded with a muffled thud. When the steam cleared, I saw that he had blown a ten-foot hole in the top of the tunnel. Water poured down it as if it were a drain.
I stepped in for a closer look. It was so dark that even with my night-for-day vision, I could not see the bottom. “Who builds these?”
Shannon came over to me. “Mogats, I suppose. Nobody knows for sure. We found them during a battle in the Galactic Eye. That was the first time anybody saw them, I think.”
I looked up from the hole and stared at Sergeant Shannon. Had Shannon let that slip, or was he trying to tell me he was a Liberator?
“They can stretch on for miles, and they’re strong. I’ve seen LG tanks park right on top of one of these snake shafts and not dent the roof.” LG tanks were low-gravity combat tanks—units that ran low to the ground and weighed in at as much as a hundred tons. “We used to dare each other to hide in the shaft while a tank ran over it. Far as I know, no one ever died doing it.”
I stared down into that gaping black maw and watched water pour into it. “Should we check it?” I asked.
“You want to go down in there?” Shannon asked. He did not wait for me to answer. “Me either. I’ll have a tech send a probe through it later. Might be something down there. Sometimes they’re rigged to blow up.
“I want you and Lee to go scout the area for more of them. Make me a map.” With that, Shannon returned to the platoon.
It took several hours to scour the area. Our search turned up eleven more snake shafts. Lee and I caught up with the platoon at Hero’s Fall. I needed sleep, but that was not about to happen. Captain McKay and Sergeant Shannon hailed us.
“Harris, Lee…Glad you could join us.”
“We just got here, Sergeant,” Lee said.
Across the camp, the platoons had already begun to assemble. I could see ranks forming. “Follow me,” McKay said as he started toward the camp.
We set up camp in a large meadow just outside of town. By that time, the rain and wind had stopped. A pervasive stillness echoed across the grounds. The sun rose over the trees, and the wet grass sparkled.
Three Harriers and a civilian shuttle flew in from the west. The fighters formed a tight wedge and circled low in the air as the shuttle touched down. Once the shuttle landed, the fighters thundered over the city’s edge and vanished behind a line of buildings.
Captain McKay called the two platoons he commanded to attention. When we were in place, the shuttle’s hatch opened. Out stepped Captain Olivera, looking tall, gaunt, and dapper in his Naval whites. Behind Olivera came Vice Admiral Barry, the rather bell-shaped commander of the Scutum-Crux Fleet. Olivera and Barry met with McKay at the bottom of the ramp, and the three of them held a brief conversation. A few moments later, another officer disembarked, one whom I had not expected to see. Wearing a white uniform that seemed tailored to fit his skeletal frame, Admiral Klyber strode off the shuttle with what I would later learn was his distinctive long gait.
Klyber stood at least three inches taller than Olivera—the tallest of the other officers. Pudgy little Barry barely came up to Klyber’s neck. Klyber conferred with Barry, asked McKay a question, and the entire party ambled forward.
“Let’s have a look at the ranks, shall we?” Klyber said in a comfortable voice, but he paid little attention to the rows of Marines as he walked by. “Have you encountered any resistance?” Klyber asked.
“No, sir,” McKay replied.
“No one challenged the air wings, either?” Klyber asked.
“No, sir,” said Olivera.
“Have you found evidence of terrorist activity?” Klyber asked.
“One of my platoons sighted a large tunnel just west of town,” McKay answered. “It was over three miles long.”
“A three-mile-long snake shaft?” Klyber asked. “Religious fanatics, mobsters, racial segregationists…It’s getting hard to tell the riffraff apart. I understand the Mogats have a large presence on Ezer Kri. Are your men prepared to lay down the law?”
“Yes, sir,” said McKay.
“Then we have little to worry about, Captain,” Klyber said, sweeping his gaze over the ranks. “This seems like a very pleasant planet; let’s hope our stay is uneventful. Admiral Barry, I wish to conclude our tour of Ezer Kri within the month.”
The name of the city appeared as “Hero’s Fall” in our orders and in the mediaLink accounts of our operation, but as usual, we were misinformed. The local signage said “Hiro’s Fall.” Apparently the city was named after Takuhiro Yatagei, “Hiro” for short, the planet administrator who stocked the planet with people of Japanese descent. This was the spot where he and the original colonists landed—in legend talk, they “fell from the sky.”
Searching for “riffraff ” in Hiro’s Fall proved to be problematic. The bureaucratic tangles began the first day. The mayor of Hiro’s Fall complained to Governor Yamashiro, and Yamashiro formally inquired of the Senate if the Unified Authority was declaring “martial law” on Ezer Kri. The historic reference did not go unnoticed.
I wish we had declared Martial Law. I wish we had launched a full-scale invasion. Enemies do not demand their rights when you bully them, citizens do. Several shopkeepers refused to allow us to inspect their businesses. The president of a car manufacturer called his congressman in DC when Captain McKay sent an inspection team to visit his plant. The Hiro’s Fall police department even arrested one of our fire teams for assaulting a local resident. When the police discovered that the victim was a burglar caught in the act, they let the squad go with a warning.
None of this should have mattered, but the more we scratched the surface, the more we found evidence of deeply rooted corruption. An inspection of the port authority logs showed that the local police ignored smugglers. The Senate’s problem might have been with the Japanese population of Ezer Kri, but the problem in this town was a Mogat infestation. The Mogat community had become so deeply rooted in Hiro’s Fall that people referred to one of the western suburbs as the “Mogat district.”
I had read more than a few stories about Mogats since taking Aleg Oberland’s advice about following current events. The Mogats were a religious cult that took its name from Morgan Atkins, a mysterious and charismatic man who vanished about fifty years ago. I did not know anything about Atkins himself, and the only thing I knew about his movement was that it was the first religion created in space.
The U.A. government promoted Christianity, Judaism, and Islam. These churches had holy sites on Earth, and the government encouraged any activity that strengthened ties between frontier planets and Earth.
Atkins’s beliefs were pangalactic. His preaching stressed independence, stopping just shy of outright rebellion. While the U.A. Constitution called for general freedom of religion, the Senate spun out a litany of obtuse laws designed to discourage Mogat expansion. The laws did not succeed. Protected by the courts, Mogat communes sprang like daisies across the frontier. News stories about the Mogat movement inevitably started with accusations about smuggling and ended with warnings about Mogat proselytizing and predictions that Atkinism would one day be the largest religion in the galaxy.
No matter what we found, Barry and Klyber seemed unwilling to do more than patrol the streets. We sent platoons on routine patrols through the Mogat district—an industrial area lined with warehouses and factories. We sent “peacekeeping” missions to monitor spaceports. Klyber wanted to make our presence felt without creating confrontations. His strategy worked. Most of the residents of Hiro’s Fall resented our presence. We made ourselves hard to ignore.
I did not mind patrolling Hiro’s Fall, though it was fairly dull work. The town was not especially picturesque, but you could see the Japanese influence everywhere. A few downtown parks had pagodas with rice paper walls and fluted roofs. The canal running through the center of town was teeming with gold and white koi. Less than 30 percent of Hiro’s Fall was Japanese; but if you were in the right part of town, you might see women dressed in orange-and-red kimonos. My sightseeing ended when the shooting began.
We began sending routine patrols into the Mogat district the night after we landed. These patrols were uneventful. We would hike past warehouses, steel foundries, and gas stations. Workmen stopped and stared at us. There was no way of knowing if these people were Atkins believers, though I suppose most of them were. One thing I noticed during a patrol was that few people in the Mogat district were Japanese.
Seven days after we landed on Ezer Kri, Staff Sergeant Ron Azor led the Twenty-fifth Platoon into the Mogat district for a late-morning patrol. The goal was to follow a random path, marching through alleys and small streets as well as main roads. Azor’s path, however, was reckless.
Our combat helmets were designed for standard battlefield situations. They offered good visibility in most situations, but anything above a seventy-degree plane was a blind spot. Whoever planned the attack must have known that.
Azor opened his platoon up for an ambush by marching through a labyrinth of tall buildings and narrow alleyways. A four-story cinder-block building lined their final stretch. Walking beside that building, Azor’s platoon had no hope of spotting the enemy that watched from above.
Just as the platoon reached the middle of the block, somebody fired two rockets from the roof of the building. Four men died instantly. Gunmen, hiding behind a ledge, picked off three more men as the platoon dashed across the street for cover.
Desperate to regroup, Azor shot the door off a warehouse. He and his men ducked in and radioed for assistance. Moments later, three rockets slammed into the warehouse. The corrugated steel walls blew apart as did a fuel pump inside the building. No one survived.
***
I was off duty when Shannon burst into the barracks and announced the attack. Every available man was called in. I threw on my armor and climbed into a truck. As we drove from the camp, I looked into a blue sky filled with feathery clouds, wondering how there could be an attack on such a beautiful day.
I asked that question again as the truck dropped us next to the pile of rubble that had once been a thirty-foot-tall warehouse. Twisted fingers of what once was a wall stood in the corners of the lot; everything else had crumbled. We were the third platoon to arrive on the scene. Men in green armor dotted the rubble. Shannon led us to a corner of the ruins, and we began pulling up metal sheets and concrete chunks by hand. I felt the urgency, but I knew that we would not find survivors. No one survives that kind of devastation.
I heard the thudding engines of gunships passing overhead. Long and squat and bulky, three Warthogs floated across the sky. They hardly looked airworthy, but there was something menacing about the deliberate way they scoured the rooftops.
The tension was thick. Had a pedestrian carelessly strolled down the street, we might have shot first and asked questions later. But the streets were empty. Perhaps they had been empty before the ambush as well. I wondered how many people knew that the ambush was coming.
“Dig,” Shannon shouted over the interLink. “Any man who finds a survivor gets a three-day pass.”
We normally would have located the bodies by looking for signals from their helmets, but the heat of the explosion must have destroyed their equipment. There were no signals, so we dug blindly through concrete, iron, and dust. As time went on, hope dwindled, and the rescue effort became less organized.
City engineers arrived on the scene with laser arcs that could cut through concrete and iron alike. With their help, we located twelve crushed bodies and the search became even more discouraging. Judging by the way the bodies were laid out, Azor must have told his men to spread out along the outer wall once they entered the warehouse. Perhaps they thought they needed to guard the windows and doors.
Sergeant Shannon came to check on me. He cursed softly when I mentioned my theory about the way the bodies were spread. “Fool,” he said, yanking a metal sheet from under concrete so violently that it tore. “Clone idiot! The enemy shoots rockets at you, so what do you do? You don’t hide in a fuel dump. Goddamn it!”
As Shannon spoke, a formation of fighters flew over us. Even though we were wearing helmets and speaking over the interLink, the noise of the fighters drowned out his voice. When they streaked away, I heard Shannon say, “So much for passive force. Klyber is going to make an example of friggin’ Ezer Kri.”
We did not find all of the bodies. In the early evening, as the sun set and a thick layer of clouds filled the sky, Captain Olivera spoke to us on an open interLink. “An entire platoon has perished here,” the captain of the Kamehameha began.
As he spoke, three Harriers cruised low overhead—less than fifty feet off the ground. They rotated in perfect unison and banked as they made a hairpin turn. Perched on two crumbling piles of rock, I watched them. Suddenly the middle fighter in the formation exploded and dropped out of the sky. It landed in a heap of smoke and flames. Looking quickly, I saw a contrail leading from a nearby rooftop. Someone had sneaked up there and fired a missile. The two remaining Harriers broke out of formation.
“Spread out! Take cover!” Shannon yelled.
The Harriers zipped around a building, then charged back to the battle zone. Crouching, with my rifle drawn, I watched the roof from behind the knee-high remains of a concrete wall. No more shots were fired. Whoever hit that Harrier had slipped away after making his point.
CHAPTER EIGHT
What leads men to make such foolish decisions? Admiral Klyber could never have touched the Mogats of Ezer Kri had they lain low. The government did not trust them, but our bylaws protected them. The daily patrols would have continued. We might have raided some buildings. Perhaps they had something to hide, or perhaps their separatist beliefs prevented them from waiting us out. Whatever possessed those Atkins believers to ambush our platoon, they had seriously miscalculated. Fanatics that they were, perhaps the Mogats thought they could take on the entire Scutum-Crux Fleet. But a few rockets and a massacred platoon did not intimidate Bryce Klyber. It irritated him. It showed him that the Ezer Kri government could not be relied upon.
With the Kamehameha at his command, Klyber had more than enough firepower to overwhelm Ezer Kri—a planet with a commerce-based economy and impressive engineering facilities but no standing army. Annihilating Ezer Kri would not have been enough for Klyber. He would have used Ezer Kri to send a message across the territories, and he would have made that message clear enough that every colony in the Republic would understand it.
The day of the massacre, the Kamehameha altered its orbit so that it flew over Hiro’s Fall. As it made its first pass, the ship opened fire, leveling the entire Mogat district. More than fifteen square miles were thoroughly pulverized. Whatever it was that the Mogats wanted to hide, the Kamehameha vaporized it in a flash of red lasers and white flames.
A few hours after the demonstration ended, Captain McKay sent several platoons to the area to inspect the damage and search for survivors. It was all theatrics, of course. The destruction was total; nobody could have survived it.
I did not recognize the scene when I hopped off the truck. The sun had not yet risen, and in the gray-blue light of my day-for-night lenses, the urban Mogat district looked like a desert. Lots that once held buildings now looked like rock gardens. The heat of the lasers had melted anything made of glass and metal. It incinerated wood, paper, and cloth into fine ash.
We strolled around the wreckage for nearly an hour, not even pretending to search for survivors. Klyber sent us so that the citizens of Hiro’s Fall would know that the U.A. Navy assumed responsibility for demolishing the offending district and that the U.A. Navy felt no regret.
“You see anything?” Vince Lee asked, as we walked over a sloping mound of pebbles that might have once been a factory.
Gravel crunched under my armored boot. “This is an improvement. If they planted some trees and built a pond, this could be a park,” I said.
“You’re not far off,” Private Ronson Amblin said, coming up beside us. “That happens a lot. I’ve been on more than one assignment where we sacked an entire town, just blew it to dust. You watch. They’ll build a monument to galactic unity in this very spot.”
“And the bodies?” I asked.
“Bodies?” Amblin asked. “Harris, those lasers were hot enough to melt a truck. Anybody caught here was cremated.”
By this time, the sun had started to rise above the skyline, and just as it cleared the tallest buildings, a motorcade approached. Four policemen on motorcycles led the way followed by four shiny, black limousines, with more motorcycles bringing up the rear. The convoy drove within fifty yards of us and stopped.
Shannon spoke on an open interLink channel. “The local authorities.” I detected disgust in his voice. “Fall in behind the other platoons.”
Moving at a brisk trot, we lined up in two rows behind the other platoon and stood at attention. The doors of the first government car swung open. I had not been able to see into the cars with their heavily tinted windows, but I was not surprised to see Captain McKay, dressed in formal greens, emerge.
“Attention,” Shannon bellowed in our ears, and we all snapped to attention.
I did not recognize the next man who climbed out of the car, but the third man out was Alan Smith, the mayor of Hiro’s Fall. A couple of young aides climbed out of the second car and joined Smith. As Smith looked up and down the scene, I saw a set of meaty fingers grip the sides of the car as the rotund form of Vice Admiral Absalom Barry, wearing whites with multiple rows of medals, struggled to his feet.
Barry smiled as he looked over the landscape. Happy-looking wrinkles formed around his eyes. He approached the mayor and muttered something in a soft voice. I could not hear what he said, but Smith laughed nervously. He looked pale. As he passed our ranks, he stared down at our feet.
“I think a slight alteration in the town’s name would be appropriate. Naming the town ‘Heroes’ Fall,’ after the fallen Marines seems fitting, don’t you think? And this spot, this destroyed area, would be a fine spot for a monument and park…with a statue dedicated to the memory of the fallen. That would go a long way toward showing your loyalty to the Republic,” Barry said in a raspy voice, his pudgy cheeks glowing. “Nothing too fancy. Nothing over a hundred feet, just a simple monument surrounded by U.A. flags…” and then they were too far away to hear.
As the others left, Captain McKay remained behind to address the men. “Gentlemen, you have just witnessed the ‘Bryce Klyber Urban Renewal’ program.”
EZER KRI: One of over 100 habitable planets in the Scutum-Crux Arm
POPULATION: 25 million (8.5 million of Japanese ancestry)
LARGEST CITY: Hiro’s Fall (4.5 million residents)
CENTER OF COMMERCE: Hiro’s Fall
CENTER OF INTELLECTUAL ACTIVITY: Hiro’s Fall
GOVERNMENT SEAT: Rising Sun
POPULATION OF RISING SUN: 3 million (2.5 million of Japanese ancestry)
Pulverizing the Mogat district changed the social climate for us in Hiro’s Fall. People who once pretended to ignore our presence now feared us. Captain Olivera left three platoons to patrol “Heroes’ Fall,” then stationed the rest of us in other major cities. My platoon was assigned to accompany a diplomatic envoy visiting the capital city, Rising Sun.
We crossed the planet in two ships. Most of the platoon traveled in the kettle of an AT. Vince Lee and I, and four other lucky privates, stood guard on the second ship, a civilian cruiser on loan to the diplomatic corps.
The rest of the men flew in the belly of a flying drum that barely looked fit to fly. They sat on hard benches with crates of supplies and equipment around their feet. The main cabin of the civilian cruiser looked like a living room complete with lamps, couches, and a wet bar. God, I envied those other guys.
Wearing greens instead of armor, two privates and I stood guard around the main cabin. We stood like statues, pretending we did not notice as the bartender mixed drinks and the waiter served meals.
The pilot flew the mission like a sightseeing tour, hugging close to mountains so that his passengers would enjoy the vistas. That was another difference between the AT and the cruiser—the cruiser had windows. From where I stood, I occasionally saw our Harrier escort through those windows. After the trouble in Hiro’s Fall, we weren’t taking any chances.
Whenever I could, I stole a glimpse outside. The rain around Hiro’s Fall gave way to snow as we traveled north.
We flew over snow-glazed forests and frozen lakes, heading east into a brilliant red-sky sunset. The flaming horizon turned black, and we flew beneath a cloudless sky. As we continued on, the pilot lowered the lights in the cabin, and several of the passengers went to sleep.
When my detail ended, I went to a small cabin in the back of the cruiser to rest. Vince Lee took my post. As I entered the ready room, I noticed light under the door of an executive berth. I tried to figure out who might be behind that door as I lay on my bunk. Sleep came quickly.
Lee woke me a few hours later. “Harris,” he said as he prodded my shoulder, “we’re nearly there.”
I dressed quickly and went to the main cabin. The bureaucrats were all where I’d left them, including one fellow who had camped out on a sofa and snored through half of my watch. Their suits were wrinkled, and a few had messy hair, but they seemed alert. As I moved to the front of the cabin, I looked out a window and saw the first glimpse of dawn—a small swirl of light just beyond dark layers of mountains. And there was Rising Sun, the most glorious city I have ever seen.
Rising Sun sat wedged between a snow-frosted mountain and a mirror-flat lake. Unlike Hiro’s Fall, a city that seemed to embrace the past, Rising Sun was thoroughly modern. The streets were regular and straight. White-gold light blazed out of the buildings that lined those streets, illuminating the sidewalks. As we flew closer, I realized that the outer walls of the buildings were entirely transparent. The sight reminded me of a night sky filled with stars.
As our pilot banked the ship and came around for a landing, I stole one last glance out the window and saw the lake. The cruiser touched down softly and coasted toward a landing terminal. We taxied down the runway, the diplomats straightening their clothes and touching up their hair. They were not interested in the spectacular view, only organizing their briefcases and giving their computer files one final read.
When we came to a stop, I peered through the window and saw the armored transport landing a few yards away. Shannon would rush the men off the AT and line them up before our pilot opened the hatch. They were the lucky ones. They traveled in armor. Dressed in our greens, we would freeze our asses in that snowy cold air.
The hatch opened. Carrying my rifle poised across my chest, I led my soldiers down a ramp. We formed a line on each side of the ramp.
At the door of the terminal, a disorganized crowd of Ezer Kri politicians waited for our diplomats to deplane. There might have been as many as fifty of them. I could not tell if it was fear or cold air that made their jaws so tight and their skin so pale.
The first man out of the shuttle was Bryce Klyber, looking tall and gaunt, and wearing the same disingenuous smile that Vice Admiral Barry wore when he toured the Mogat district with the mayor of Hiro’s Fall. Dressed in his admiral’s uniform, Klyber looked severe despite the grin. He must have been cold in that uniform, but he gave no sign of it. He paused beside our ranks, pierced a few of the men with his gray eyes, then turned toward the terminal.
Yoshi Yamashiro, the governor of Ezer Kri, trotted out to meet Klyber. He wore a dark blue trench coat, unbuttoned and untied, over a charcoal-colored suit. Yamashiro was a stocky man with broad shoulders and huge hands. He was thick, not fat. There was no hint of softness in that neck or those shoulders.
Klyber and Yamashiro shook hands. Klyber said something in a soft voice that I could not hear. Catching himself too late so that it would seem more awkward not to finish, Yamashiro bowed. He made several smaller bows as he and Klyber waited for their limousine. Lee and I followed, taking our places in the front seat of that car.
“Admiral Klyber, we are honored by your visit.” I heard Yamashiro’s stiff banter as I sat down. Seeing him up close, I realized that Yoshi Yamashiro was older than I had previously guessed. Viewing the video clips, I took him to be in his forties. Now that I saw him in person, I thought he looked closer to sixty.
“This is a remarkable city,” Klyber said, with a distinctly informal air.
“You are very kind,” Yamashiro said, visibly willing himself not to bow.
As Klyber spoke, his diplomatic corps clambered onto a bus. These were the lackeys, the bean counters, the men who would give Ezer Kri a legalistic pounding. Once the lackeys were loaded, the entourage drove through town.
Isn’t that just the way, I thought. Klyber is all smiles and handshakes, but he comes with a fighter carrier and a complement of frigates.
The car drove us to the west side of town, where the capitol building was framed by a backdrop of distant mountains. It looked like a glass pyramid with honey-colored light pouring out of its walls. There, we waited in the car while Shannon and his men lined up outside. Once the reception line was ready, aides opened the car doors, and Yamashiro led us up the walk to the capitol. Lee and I followed, trudging through shallow puddles on the way.
Lee and I were to remain with Admiral Klyber and maintain line-of-sight contact until relieved. As he led the admiral into the capitol, Governor Yamashiro glanced nervously over his shoulder at Lee and me, but his comfort was no concern of mine.
“This building is stunning,” Klyber proclaimed, in a loud voice.
“Good thing it wasn’t in Hiro’s Fall; he would have bombed it,” an aide whispered behind me. I looked back over my shoulder, and the three aides quickly turned down another hall.
“We are quite proud of our architecture,” Yamashiro said.
“I have never seen anything like it,” Klyber said.
“Then this is your first visit to Ezer Kri?”
“Yes,” Klyber admitted. “I thought I had been all over this Arm. I’ve been assigned here for several years now.”
Low-level bureaucrats peered out of office doorways as we walked down the hall. I worried about security even though the Rising Sun police had searched the building earlier that morning and there were guards and X-ray machines at every entrance.
For his part, Klyber focused his attention on Governor Yamashiro, pausing only once as we passed an indoor courtyard with a large pond and some sort of shrine. I saw several works of art around the capitol, but the best piece sat behind the desk just outside the governor’s door. She stood as we approached, and I had a hard time staring straight ahead.
“Admiral Klyber, this is my assistant, Ms. Lyons,” Yamashiro said.
I would have expected the governor to have a Japanese assistant, but this statuesque woman was cosmopolitan with brown hair that poured over her shoulders and flawless white skin. She had green eyes, and her dark red lipstick stood out against her white skin.
Admiral Klyber paid no attention to her. He walked past Ms. Lyons as if she weren’t there and into the office.
She followed him, shuffling her feet quickly to keep up. She wore a short blue dress that ran halfway down her thighs. “Can I get anything for you, Admiral Klyber?” Ms. Lyons asked.
Klyber might not have noticed her, but Lee homed right in. He stole an obvious gander as he snapped to attention and pretended to take in the entire room.
“I am quite fine,” Klyber said, without turning to look at the woman.
“We’re fine for now, Nada,” Yamashiro said.
“Very well,” the woman said.
My first thought when I saw the woman was something along the line of, Yamashiro, you sly dog. But there was intelligence in her voice. I had misjudged.
Yamashiro’s assistant turned to leave the room and stopped in front of me. She looked at me, and said, “Can I bring you gentlemen anything?”
With some effort, I looked past her and said nothing. When she turned to leave, I felt relieved.
Admiral Klyber might not have paid attention to Ms. Nada Lyons on her own, but our little exchange had not escaped him. He stared into my eyes until he was sure that I saw him, then he made the smallest of nods and turned his attention back to Governor Yamashiro.
Yamashiro did not retreat behind his wide wooden desk. Klyber sat in one of the two seats placed in front of the gubernatorial desk, and Yamashiro sat beside him.
“Okay, Admiral Klyber, the gloves are off. What can I do to prove my planet’s loyalty to the Republic?” Governor Yamashiro asked, sounding stymied. “We have the entire Ezer Kri police force searching for leads. I have authorized the wholesale questioning of anybody affiliated with the Atkins movement…a sizable percentage of our population, I might add, and you still have no proof that the Atkins believers were behind the attack.”
“I appreciate your efforts,” Klyber said, still sounding relaxed. “All the same, I think the manhunt will go more smoothly if some of my forces help conduct it.”
“I see,” Yamashiro said, his posture stiffening.
“From what I have observed, Hiro’s Fall was overrun by Mogat sympathizers. I understand that several Mogats held posts in the city government. I am sure you were aware of those problems, Governor Yamashiro.” Klyber folded his hands on his lap.
“I see,” Yamashiro said, looking nervous. “And you hold my office responsible for the attack?”
“Not at all,” said Klyber, still sounding conversational. “But I will hold you personally responsible for any future hostilities, just as the Joint Chiefs will hold me accountable for anything that happens to my men.
“I will insist, Governor, that you remain in the capitol for the next few days. I have assigned one of my platoons to see to your protection.”
“Am I under house arrest, then?” asked Yamashiro.
“Not at all. We are simply going to help you run your planet more efficiently.”
“Then this is undeclared mart—”
“Martial law?” Klyber asked, his smile looking very stiff. “Friends in the Senate warned me about your gift for historical references.”
Klyber leaned forward in his chair, and his voice hardened. His back was to me, but I imagined that his expression had turned stony as well. “This is not martial law, Governor Yamashiro. I’m trying to protect you.”
Admiral Klyber retained five men from our platoon to guard his quarters, then set the rest of us loose on Rising Sun. He gave us full liberty so long as we remained dressed in battle armor. Apparently Klyber wanted to make sure that the locals knew we were there.
We, of course, used the occasion to acquaint ourselves with the bars.
Most of the men went out in a herd, but Lee and I got a late start. Lee was fanatic about his sleep. We had liberty, but we did not leave to try the local drinking holes until well past eight, and he insisted on trying the upscale institutions along the waterfront. When I told him that the rest of the platoon was checking out the bars on the west side of town, Lee responded, “Those clones may be satisfied with mere watering holes; we shall look at finer establishments.”
“Asshole,” I said, even though I knew the attitude was a sham.
We took a train to the “Hinode Waterfront Station.” Everywhere we went, I saw signs referring to Hinode. Many of the signs were also marked with those strange squiggling designs that I understood to be the Japanese form of writing. It wasn’t until the next day that I realized that “Hinode” was the Japanese word for “Rising Sun.”
The bars we found were posh and elite, with swank names; some had Japanese lettering in their signs. The late-night dinner crowd strolled the waterfront streets. Men in business suits and women in fine dresses stopped in front of restaurant display cases to look at plasticized versions of the foods.
“This looks pretty expensive,” I told Vince as I looked at a menu. “Yakisoba, whatever that is, costs fifty dollars.”
“Maybe that’s the name of the waitress,” Lee said.
“Pork tonkatsu costs forty-five. If pork tonkatsu is the name of a waitress, I don’t want her.”
“How about over there,” Lee said, pointing to a small, brightly lit eatery.
“That place is too bright for drinks,” I said.
Lee ran across the street for a closer look, and I followed. The place was crowded. People used chopsticks to eat colorful finger foods off small dishes.
We entered, and the crowd became quiet. A man came up to us and spoke in Japanese. We, of course, did not understand a word of it. “Think he speaks English?” I asked Lee over the interLink in our helmets.
“Sure he does,” Lee said. “This is why the Senate does not want them to have their own language.”
After a few moments, I looked at Vince and shrugged my shoulders. The diners became loud again as we turned to leave.
I hated admitting defeat, but the Rising Sun waterfront beat me down. After a frustrating hour, Vince and I caught a taxi to the center of town. We found a likely-looking bar and went inside. The place was nearly empty. Three men sat slumped in their seats at the counter.
“This must be where the clerical help goes,” Vince said.
Two Japanese women waited just inside the door. A hostess came and seated them. When Vince started toward the bar, she turned, and said, “Please wait to be seated.”
After twenty minutes of waiting to be seated, we gave up and left to find another bar.
By 2300 Kamehameha time, Vince and I retreated to the west end of town. We were hungry, thirsty, and frustrated. In any other town, the bars would be the only lit buildings by that time of night. Not in Rising Sun. In this town every building’s crystal finish glowed with the same goddamned honey-colored lights. At that point I wanted to stow my armor and walk into the next bar pretending to be a civilian; but if I took off my gear, I was technically AWOL.
As we explored the west end, we started hearing voices and music. We followed the sounds around a corner and found a crowded bar. Staring through the window, I saw several Marines. They had removed their helmets, which sat on the table. When I scanned the helmets, I recognized the names from my platoon.
“This must be the place,” said Lee.
“I hope they have food,” I said. I opened the door, and dozens of Marines turned to greet me. Sitting in the center of this ungodly pack, happily waving a cigar as he spoke, was Master Gunnery Sergeant Tabor Shannon.
One private placed his helmet over his head so he could read our identifiers as we entered. “It’s Lee and Harris,” he said to the others.
“The illustrious honor guard has finally found its way,” Shannon said. “Hello, Lee. Hello, Harris.”
“Sergeant,” I said.
“I’ll get the drinks this time,” Lee said.
“I don’t get it,” I said as I started to sit down. “Are we on duty or off?”
Shannon smiled behind his cigar, then uttered a few curses. “On duty. Klyber is using us as”—he considered for a moment—“as a diplomatic bargaining chip. He wants to show the locals how easy it would be for this visit to turn into a long-term occupation.”
“Drinking sounds like a good occupation to me,” one private said.
“Not occupation as in job, moron!” another private said.
“Oh,” the first one responded.
“That’s the kid that found the bar,” Shannon said, pointing at the private with his cigar. “He’s been soaking up beers for hours.”
“So, are we on our best behavior?” I asked.
Shannon smiled. “In this case, bad is good.” He nodded at the drunk private. “This boy’s going to empty his stomach somewhere, probably right outside that door. Usually that would get him a night in the brig; but tonight, it will go unnoticed. Klyber wants to show the respectable politicos of Rising Sun just how much they don’t want us around. A little puke leaves a lasting impression.”
Shannon leaned forward. “Harris, did you know you have a friend in town.”
“A friend?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Shannon. “It appears that the Japanese are not the only ones keeping their bloodlines pure on this rock.” Shannon turned and gazed toward the far side of the bar. “That guy was asking about you.”
I stood up and looked around the room. At the other end of the building, Ray Freeman sat with an untouched beer. The top of the table was level with the tops of Freeman’s thighs. He looked like an adult sitting on children’s play furniture.
“Know him?” Shannon asked.
“I know him. His name is Ray Freeman. He’s the mercenary I met on Gobi.”
Freeman looked over at me from his table. His eyes had their same dark intensity, but his mouth formed a cheerful smile. The overall effect was unsettling.
“You would not believe how much they charge for a damn beer,” Lee said as he returned with two huge mugs. “For these prices…” He saw me staring at Freeman. “Friend of yours?”
“That’s the mercenary that Admiral Brocius sent to Gobi,” I said.
“Looks dangerous,” Lee said. “Are you planning on talking to him?”
“He doesn’t talk much,” I said. “But I am curious about what he might have to say.”
“I’m coming with you,” Lee said.
“Do you think he wants trouble?” Shannon asked.
“If Ray Freeman came looking for trouble, I doubt I would have made it to the bar alive,” I said. “He’s worse than he looks.”
“I don’t know how that could be, Harris,” Lee said. “He looks pretty bad.”
Freeman stood and smiled down at me as Lee and I walked over. “Well, hello, Wayson. Been a long time. How is life in the Corps?” His voice had an overly friendly quality. First Barry, then Klyber, then Freeman. It was my day for seeing painted smiles.
“Is he always this chatty?” Lee asked over the interLink.
“What brings you to Scutum-Crux?” I asked. Freeman sat down and waved to the empty chairs around his table. Lee and I joined him. We must have looked odd, two men in combat armor sitting beside a bald-headed giant.
“I’m here on business,” Freeman said.
“Anybody we know, Mr….” Lee let his voice trail off.
“Sorry,” Freeman said, still sounding friendly. “Call me Ray.”
“Vince Lee.”
“I guess Wayson has told you what I do.”
“Sounds as if you do it well, too, at least if everything Harris says is true.”
“I suspect Corporal Harris has exaggerated the story,” Freeman said.
“He might have,” Lee said. He removed his helmet. “No use letting my beer get warm. You’re not drinking yours?” The head on Freeman’s beer had gone flat.
“Actually, I only bought the beer to help me blend in,” Freeman said.
“I don’t think it’s working,” I said. “So is your target in the bar?”
“No, I came here looking for you. I heard your platoon was stationed in Rising Sun. This seemed like the best place to watch for you.”
“What a coincidence,” I said, not believing a word of it. “Both me and your target came to the same planet.”
I took off my helmet and took a long drag of beer. “Are you still looking for Crowley?”
“I have a score to settle,” Freeman said, “but that is not why I am here. I bumped into another friend of yours from Gobi earlier today. In fact, he’s staying in the hotel across the street.”
“Really?” I said. I took another drink, nearly finishing my beer. “Who is it?” Names and faces passed through my mind.
“I was hoping to surprise the both of you,” Freeman said. “You know what would be funny, you and Vince can trade helmets, and we can surprise the guy. You know, so you don’t have that identifier …just in case he’s wearing his helmet.”
Lee and I looked at each other. As far as I knew, the only people in Rising Sun with combat helmets flew in on the Kamehameha. Freeman had some scheme in the works, but I could not think what it might be, and I did not trust him.
“That doesn’t sound like such a good idea,” I said.
“Nothing is going to happen to you, Wayson,” Freeman said, sounding slightly wounded. “It will be fun.”
“Who are we surprising?” I asked.
“You wouldn’t want me to spoil the surprise.”
“I don’t mind trading,” Lee offered.
“Tell you what,” Freeman said. He dug through his wallet and pulled out a bill. “It’s worth twenty bucks to me to have you guys trade helmets.”
“I don’t know about this,” I said. The more Freeman tried to act breezy and conversational, the more ghoulish he sounded. I wanted to warn Lee over the interLink, but he had removed his helmet.
“You still don’t trust me?” Freeman said.
“Twenty dollars?” Lee asked. He gulped down his beer. “What can it hurt?”
“Thanks,” Freeman said, sounding pleased. “I’ll pick up your next round, too.”
“Don’t worry about it, Harris,” Lee said. “I’ll just head back with the rest of the platoon.”
Lee’s hanging back with the platoon sounded good to me. I could not think of any reason why Freeman might want to hurt Lee, but I still did not trust him.
Lee grabbed my helmet, and I took his.
“Look, Wayson, I need to pay the check. Why don’t you head across the street, and I’ll meet you in the hotel lobby.”
I took one last look at Lee, then put on his helmet. “Damn,” I whispered. Whatever he’d eaten for lunch had left a foul-smelling ghost in his rebreather. I got up from the bar and walked toward the door. Shannon and a few other soldiers waved as I left.
The street was completely empty by that time. I checked for cars, then trotted across the street to the hotel.
The outside of the hotel was built out of that same thick crystal—very likely an indigenous mineral of some kind. The lobby, however, was not so elegant. Poorly lit and cheaply decorated, it had metal furniture and a scuffed-up check-in desk. The unshaved clerk at the desk watched me as I entered the lobby, but said nothing.
“Let’s go,” Freeman said as he joined me a few moments later. He no longer smiled or wanted to talk, that was the Freeman I knew.
“So who are we here to see?” I asked.
He did not answer.
“Is it Crowley?” I asked.
“Not Crowley,” Freeman said.
Rather than take the elevator, Freeman ran up the stairs. We entered a dimly lit stairwell and climbed twelve flights. “You’re still charming as ever,” I said, as we reached the top.
Freeman pulled his handheld computer from his pocket and looked at it. “Hurry,” he said. “Your pals are getting ready to leave the bar.” He held the monitor so that I could see it. Apparently he had placed a remote camera under his seat. Looking at the monitor, I saw Shannon standing up. Some of the other men were already wearing their helmets and heading for the door.
We entered a red-carpeted hall with numbered doors. Freeman stopped under a hall light. He pulled a pistol from under his chestplate. He walked to room number 624. Pulling a key chip from his pocket, Freeman unlocked the door and let it slide open.
The only light in the room came from the glare of the street outside. We crept along the wall. We had entered a suite. Freeman pointed toward a bedroom door, and I stole forward to peer inside.
Looking across the room, I saw the pale moon through the top of a window. Someone was crouching beside that window, spying the street. I could only see his thick silhouette. In this dim light, he did not look human.
“He’s watching the bar door,” I whispered inside my helmet.
Using his right hand, the man brought up a rifle with a barrel-shaped scope. I had used a similar scope in training camp. It was an “intelligent” scope, the kind of computerized aiming device that offers more than simple magnification. “He’s looking for…”
Then I understood. I sprang forward. Hearing my approach, the sniper turned around and started to raise his rifle. By that time, I had leaped most of the way across the room. I grabbed the rifle, spun it over my right hand, and stabbed the butt into the assassin’s face. The man made an agonized scream and dropped to the floor.
I removed my helmet and went to the window. Raising the rifle, I looked down at the street through the scope. Most of the men from the platoon stood outside the door of the bar. The intelligent scope had an auto-action switch set to fire. The scope read the identifier signals from our helmets. The scope would locate a preset target, and the rifle would shoot automatically. In the center of the pack, Corporal Vincent Lee was clearly identified as Corporal Wayson Harris— me. The scope made a soft humming noise as it automatically homed in on my helmet.
“You owe me twenty bucks, Harris,” Freeman said as he switched on the lights.
Lying dazed on the floor, the sniper moaned. One of his eyes was already starting to swell from the impact of the rifle, and blood flowed from the bridge of his nose. He reached up to touch his wounded face, and I noticed that his arm ended in a stub.
“Well, hello, Kline,” I said.