Duty, Honor, Planet dhp-1 Read online

  “Holy Christ,” McKay breathed, thinking of the ten thousand emigrants crammed into each of the huge, tanker-like ships. “What happened to them?”

  “Something… someone brought them out of FTL, somehow, blew a hole in their hulls and stole their cargoes, reactors, fuel… and passengers.”

  “Aliens,” McKay muttered, slowly shaking his head.

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. No one can say for sure. But I do know that no natural phenomena made those cargoes and reactors disappear. And I have no patience for such fantasies as the notion of the Belt Pirates acquiring starships. Perhaps, in time, star travel will be advanced enough for anyone with the money to build their own ship; but, at present, the only motive force powerful enough to take advantage of the Eysselink Effect is antimatter, and its manufacture requires too much energy to go unnoticed.

  “So we have finally come face to face with the unknown, though through a glass darkly, as it were. And they have not proven friendly.”

  “But what does this have to do with my job here?” Jason wondered.

  “I recruited you, McKay, because you’re a warrior, and I believe the time is coming when the Republic will need warriors.”

  “Sir,” McKay protested, “three months ago I was convinced I was about to be cashiered out of the Corps, and I decided I didn’t mind. Because I was tired of the killing, tired of cleaning up other people’s messes. I think you have the wrong guy.”

  “I said you were a warrior, not a killer. Killers are a dime a dozen—the Colonial Guard’s full of them. Warriors are a little harder to come by. You’re a student of history—you’ve surely heard of the United States Army Special Forces? The British Special Air Service? The Russian Spetznaz?”

  McKay shrugged. “I believe I heard something about them in Officer’s Training.”

  “They were the most highly-trained soldiers in each nation’s military, the elite. They were sent in to perform missions that were inappropriate or impossible for conventional forces to accomplish. After the formation of the Republic, they were considered unnecessary and were disbanded, along with the other national armies.”

  “But you think something like that is necessary now,” Jason surmised.

  “Not at the moment, but soon. And it has to start somewhere. The people I need for this team aren’t just gung-ho, by the book types. I want people who can think, who can see things from a different angle, who can operate on their own and adapt to changing circumstances. That’s why I chose you to lead it.” He jabbed an accusatory finger at McKay. “Any other Marine officer would have seen your operation on Inferno as a great success because you followed orders and accomplished the mission. You saw it as a failure because it could have been done better. I don’t have time for people who are slaves to book-doctrine or who blindly follow orders and that get soldiers killed unnecessarily.”

  McKay fell silent for a moment, head spinning at the possibilities. When he spoke again, he knew he had made his decision.

  “And the rest of the team?”

  “I’ve selected four others to form the core of the first team. They’re still in training. The rest we will recruit together as the need presents itself.” Mellanby’s expression softened. “You know, Lieutenant McKay, not so many years ago I was in the same position you are now: tired of the killing and the dying, tired of the Marine mentality. I got lucky, got to build Fleet Intell in my own image and build my own niche. Maybe you can do the same with this.”

  McKay stood and looked Mellanby in the eye.

  “I’ll do my best, Colonel,” he promised. “But what do I do now?”

  “First you’ll be getting an abbreviated course of the training the others are going through right now,” Mellanby told him. “Just a couple weeks of refresher training in small arms and hand-to-hand. After that…” Something tugged the corners of his mouth upward. “After that, I’ve arranged a little ‘getting-acquainted’ mission for you, just to give you all a chance to work together for a while, form some team cohesion. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the opportunity.”

  Something told McKay that whatever this mission was, if the Snake found it humorous, Jason McKay was not going to find it funny at all.

  Chapter Two

  “Politics is war without violence.”

  —Stokely Carmichael

  Valerie O’Keefe stared silently out the window at the glittering New Jerusalem that was Capital City, brilliant in the reflected radiance of the morning sun. The first of the new megalopolises to be built after the Crisis, Capital City was an interconnected, independent structure six and a half kilometers on a side—in essence, one building, partially roofed over, with an independent power source in the form of a solar power satellite rectenna outlying the city.

  The city was built within sight of what was left of New York, and the contrast between the high-tech dream city and the abandoned skyscrapers whose usefulness had been lost in the rising tides of history had always impressed Valerie. It was a dichotomy that fit the Republic’s government as well as its architecture.

  The Republic was a phoenix risen from the ashes of the Sino-Russian War. The Crisis that had resulted from the war between Chairman Xiang’s radical People’s Republic and the New Russian Empire of Sergei Pavlovich Antonov, the self-styled “Napoleon of Eastern Europe,” had threatened to push an Earth teetering on the edge of ecological and economic doom over that precipice. One man had built the bulwark that had rescued the planet, declaring international martial law. He had shut down all polluting industry and shifted it into orbit, pouring a huge effort into research on methods of cleaning up the preexisting pollution along with the radioactive contamination from the war.

  That one man, for better or for worse, had been the President of the United States, giving the U.S. de facto leadership in the World Republic which had formed from the cooperation of nations during the recovery. This hadn’t set well with many of the Asian and Middle Eastern members of the new government, but there was very little they could do about it.

  Val supposed it had been better that the U.S. had formed the world government than one of the less democratic powers of the previous century, but she knew better than anyone that power corrupts. And there was just too much power centered in the Republic government nowadays.

  The view out the window said it all: the beautiful dream built within sight of the burgeoning reminder of an ugly past. What was just as visible as the city in the window was the ghost of her own reflection—a rather disturbing picture, given the analogy she had built up.

  Not that her face was anything to be disturbed about. On the contrary, her looks had opened more doors for her than her father’s position had, as sad a commentary as that was on society. She had a perfect, heart-shaped face with deep, brown eyes and shoulder-length auburn hair, plus a body she had worked hard to keep trim. She was grateful for her appearance, but she wished it didn’t mean as much as it did. The more things changed…

  “What’s so fascinating out there?” Glen leaned over her shoulder, speaking softly in her ear. She turned in her seat, looking at the young man who sat beside her. Glen Alan Mulrooney looked impeccable as always in his Italian suit, not a strand of his wavy blond hair out of place.

  She should be incredibly happy with him, she supposed. He was handsome, intelligent and successful—master’s degree from Harvard, chief aide to one of the most powerful men in the Republic Senate at only thirty. And he loved her. She guessed she loved him, too—.most of the time.

  “Just the city,” she answered him, shaking her head.

  “Nervous about the speech?” he asked.

  “Me?” She grinned. “Valerie O’Keefe, media darling, nervous about a little speech to the Republic Senate that’ll be broadcast live throughout the Solar System?” She laughed softly. “I’m scared to death.”

  “You think this is bad, wait’ll you deliver your doctoral dissertation,” he kidded her.

  She punched his arm. “Oh, you’re a big help.”

&nbs
p; “I try, my love, I try. Seriously, though, don’t worry about it. You’ve rehearsed that speech about a hundred times—I should know; you’ve kept me up listening to it for the last two weeks. Jesus, I think I could give the damn thing by now!”

  “I guess you’re right.” She gave him a grateful hug. “Nathan,” she called up to the man piloting the tiltrotor aircraft. “How long before we land?”

  “About another ten minutes, Ms. O’Keefe,” he informed her, twisting around in his seat. As always, Val couldn’t help but stare at his eyes. They were unreadable black pools that seemed to draw her attention like a singularity—or a traffic accident.

  Nathan Tanaka looked dangerous. She supposed that looking dangerous was a plus for a professional bodyguard; but for Tanaka, it seemed to come naturally. His face was lean and hard, like a wolf’s, with a jagged white scar that ran from his right temple down his jawline—she wondered why he’d never had it fixed. He wasn’t a big man, not more than a meter-seven, but his lean, compact frame was a mass of whipcord muscle beneath his black slacks and sweater. She’d never actually seen him carry a weapon, but she had the impression he didn’t need one.

  “That is one strange fellow,” Glen muttered as Tanaka turned back toward the front. “Why’s your father keep him around, anyway?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve no idea. But he’s been around since I was a little girl—at least since I was eleven. It’s funny: he’s been around so long, but I don’t really know anything about him.” She smothered a giggle behind her hand. “Except once I got a glance at his personnel file. You know what his full name is?”

  “What?” Glen leaned forward conspiratorially.

  “Nathan Bedford Forrest Tanaka,” she confided in a hushed whisper.

  “Oh, my God!” Glen tried to stifle the laugh that fought its way past his clenched teeth.

  “Shh!” Val hushed him urgently. “He’ll hear you!”

  “Sorry.” Glen wiped a tear from his eye, struggling to keep from breaking up again. “Nathan Bedford Forrest Tanaka… oh, God, that’s priceless.”

  * * *

  The propwash from the tiltrotor’s now-vertically-canted engines tugged playfully at Val’s earth-toned skirt as she and Glen walked across the landing pad to meet her father’s limousine. It was long, black and anachronistic, but Senator Daniel O’Keefe was known for being old-fashioned in many things. The fact that he kept a personal car at all in a city as well designed for cars as a church was for rodeos was just one indication of this.

  The chauffeur opened the rear, passenger-side door of the vehicle and a short, broad-shouldered man in his late sixties hopped out and swept Val into a warm embrace.

  “Val, dearest!” he boomed. “You look wonderful, honey!” He held her out at arm’s length. He was a strong man, both physically and politically, and didn’t look a day over forty, except for his prematurely gray mane of hair, which he refused to consider coloring.

  “I guess an associate professorship agrees with me, Daddy,” she said. “You’re looking as handsome as ever. You’re not too lonely up there in Edmonton, are you?”

  “You know me, my dear,” he assured her. “I always manage to find entertainment somewhere. But let’s hurry and get to the Senate! Can’t have you being late for your political coming out, can we?”

  “Daddy,” she protested as they ducked into the limo. “You make it sound like a cotillion.”

  “I’m sorry, dear,” he said with a contrite laugh as the chauffeur closed the door after them. “I’ll plead an excess of parental pride.”

  “Case dismissed, then.” She kissed him on the cheek, almost falling back into the seat as the car accelerated away from the pad with an electric hum from the flywheel-powered motor.

  “So, Senator,” Glen interjected, “do you think His Majesty will honor us with his presence?”

  “Don’t underestimate Greg Jameson, Glen,” O’Keefe cautioned. “We may disagree with him politically, we may even dislike him personally, but we have to respect him as a dangerous foe.” His expression lightening, O’Keefe leaned back and pulled out a fat cigar, lighting it casually. “But to answer your question: hell, no! Old Stoneface would never walk into an audience he couldn’t control. He’s too smart for that.”

  “Know your enemy, eh sir?” Glen chuckled in admiration.

  “Always, son,” O’Keefe replied, more than half serious. “Always.”

  Glen peered out of the car windows as they drove through Capital City, virtually alone on the old secondary road. Police and custodial ducted-fan hovercraft flittered by above them, darting between the buildings; and lighter-than-air cargoships floated by high overhead, their sides lit up with advertising holos; but almost everyone else was confined to public transportation.

  It was the buildings themselves that fascinated Mulrooney. He had toyed with civil engineering in his first year at college, intrigued by the possibilities in this age of reconstruction and restructuring, but an early meeting with Senator O’Keefe had pushed aside all other callings. Now he was a part of global politics, and that siren song was just too hard to resist.

  Sometimes, though, when he passed under the shadow of the huge obelisk that was Capital Center, that song began to sound curiously like a dirge. Surely, he told himself, this was a pure example of the democratic process in action; but somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder how the caterwauling bunch of demagogues that called themselves the Republic Senate could ever run anything larger than a hot dog stand.

  Glen shook his head clear of such unworthy thoughts as the limo pulled up to the steps of the capital. The press were there in force, mobbing the three of them as they exited the car, pointing an arsenal of holocams their way. They reminded Glen of vultures hovering over a fresh kill.

  The press are our friends, Glen reminded himself dutifully, fixing a smile on his face as Senator O’Keefe called for one question at a time.

  “Senator O’Keefe,” asked a reporter Glen recognized as Maggie Wescott from Republic HoloNet, elbowing her way forward, cameraman in tow. “Are you worried about your daughter’s upcoming factfinding tour of the star colonies?”

  “It’s President Jameson and his friends in the Southbloc who should be worrying,” O’Keefe shot back. “Val’s mission will prove to the world that Jameson is using Republic colonial policies as a giant slum clearance project to throw a bone to his political cronies.”

  “But what about the recent unrest on Loki and Inferno?” another reporter prompted. “Aren’t you concerned about her being in the middle of all that?”

  “As a father, I am, of course, constantly concerned with the welfare of my only child,” the senator responded. “But she’s a grown woman, and quite capable of taking care of herself. Now, if you don’t mind, unless you have some questions for my daughter, I’d like to find a good seat.”

  Laughter at that, of course, as he’d intended.

  “Ms. O’Keefe,” another journalist asked, waving his hand. “If you’re correct about conditions in the colonies, do you seriously believe that the local governments will allow you to collect proof of it?”

  “That could present an obstacle,” Val acknowledged. “But I’ve got a master’s degree in overcoming obstacles.” She smiled broadly. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, waving off further questions, “I’ve got a speech to give.”

  The Senator hid a smile from the cameras as he led them up the steps. She was, he thought warmly, an O’Keefe.

  * * *

  “If I may bring this special session to order,” the Majority Leader said, pounding her gavel. The buzz of conversation from the floor died slowly away as the Senators took their seats. From his chair behind the podium, Glen could see vice-president Lopez in the crowd, representing the Executive branch. The man was such a pawn, Glen thought to himself, shaking his head slightly. He was, as the Senator had said, a bone thrown to the Southbloc, just like the Colonial Guard and the emigration policies.

>   The Majority Leader looked over the quieted crowd. “Now here to introduce our special speaker is Senator Daniel O’Keefe, Libertarian, Canada.”

  O’Keefe rose to loud applause, shook hands with the Majority Leader and took the podium.

  “Thank you.” He acknowledged the applause with a nod, then waved it off. “Fellow senators, distinguished guests, Mr. Vice President, it is my distinct honor to present to you today a young woman who has accomplished more in her twenty-five years than I have in my sixty-three. She holds a bachelor’s degree in political science from Georgetown, a master’s in international relations from Harvard, and is a dissertation away from her doctorate. As a sophomore in college, she was one of the charter members of the Economic Justice Association and her work on their Senate-sponsored mission to the Aphrodite colony—which provided the material for her master’s thesis on colonial policy—brought international attention to the problems with forced relocation.

  “Today, on the eve of an historic tour of the star colonies, she has been asked to speak to this body on that same subject, in preparation for extensive hearings which will be conducted upon her return next year.” O’Keefe paused, a smile spreading across his face. “And beside all that, I’m proud to say that she’s my daughter. I now present to you Ms. Valerie O’Keefe.”

  Val stood and walked up to the podium, pausing to kiss her father on the cheek.

  “Knock ’em dead, honey,” he whispered, giving her arm a squeeze before he took his seat.

  “Thank you.” Val nodded to the clapping audience, waiting for them to quiet down. When they did, she took a deep breath and plunged headlong into her address without preamble.

  “Throughout human history,” she began, “technology has offered salvation to mankind in many different forms, from nuclear power to the current Eysselink stardrive. But scientific apples from the Tree of Knowledge often threaten to bring about a fall from the very Garden of Eden they promise.