Duty, Honor, Planet: The Complete Trilogy Page 3

  "Two years ago, I travelled to the Aphrodite colony as a part of an Economic Justice Association mission to investigate the treatment of forced emigrants, and to research my master's thesis on this issue. There, I was introduced to the Mendoza family, Jorge and Carmella, and their two children, Anna and Elisabeth."

  At this, another hologram snapped to life, high above the Senate floor, of a Hispanic couple and two small children, all dressed in little more than rags.

  "Jorge and Carmella were forcibly relocated three years ago from El Salvador, where they had been living on welfare for the previous year due to the depressed economic conditions in that state, and the obsolescence of Jorge's former occupation as a small farmer. Now that formerly proud and efficient farmer has been dumped on a hundred acres of the most desolate wasteland I have ever seen.”

  The hologram panned out over an expanse of ruddy desert, baking under the white-hot rays of Tau Ceti, then returned to the shot of the Mendozas.

  "When they were told they were being sent to Aphrodite, Jorge and Carmella immediately thought of the beautiful land of the travel holos, thought they had been most fortunate. But that paradise is restricted to the planet's temperate southern hemisphere. The northern hemisphere is an arid wasteland, with an average temperature of thirty-five degrees Celsius and an annual rainfall of less than ten centimeters.

  "To fortify them against this desert, the Mendozas were generously provided with two buildfoam huts and access to a public well five kilometers away. When I met them, Jorge and Carmella were barely eking out an existence, making only enough to buy a pitifully small quantity of seed each season." She shot a glance at the hologram, a frown passing over her face.

  "How old do they look to you? Forty-five? Fifty? They're both twenty-five in this picture. This is what life in the hellish Aphrodite desert has done to them. And the tragedy is that they really are among the lucky ones. Aphrodite, north or south, is one of the more hospitable of the exile colonies. On other worlds, these political exiles are left, in effect, to die in environments barely habitable by humans." A sob seemed to creep into her voice for just an instant. "The infant mortality rate on Loki alone is over forty percent!

  "How can we, who consider ourselves civilized, who think of ourselves as the pinnacle of evolution, who call ourselves the most advanced culture in human history, allow this tragedy to occur? How can you, the trustees of our race, the representatives of all humanity, allow this to happen?

  "During the research for my thesis, I also visited colonies in the Belt, on Mars and in the Jovians. Conditions there are also harsh, and death is an everyday reality, but there is a difference. The colonists in our Solar System are all volunteers, out of necessity---certain skills are required for admission to these colonies, and a trust is required to preserve the colony. But this natural restriction does not affect the star colonies, and certain members of our international community have taken advantage of this to rid themselves of political and economic embarrassments." Her face and voice grew progressively sterner, like a fundamentalist preacher decrying the wages of sin.

  "This crime against the most helpless members of the human race will not go unpunished. Already, we are reaping its rewards. The uprisings on Inferno and Loki have claimed countless innocent lives, staining the hands of our military with civilian blood."

  Oops, Glen thought, playing a little fast and loose with the facts there. Still, he'd done worse in a few speeches he'd written for the Senator.

  "What will our response to this be?" Valerie continued. "Will we finally attempt to eliminate the root cause of the unrest, the unfair and inhuman policy of political and economic exile? Or will we merely repeat the mistakes of the past and use these instances of violence as an excuse to build up a military whose sole purpose is the repression of our fellow citizens?

  "The choice is yours, ladies and gentlemen. You can be remembered as the generation that brought the human race to a new moral and ethical height, or you can be vilified as just another bunch of greedy, self-serving politicians. You have the power to make history." She swept through the crowd with a piercing gaze, and Glen imagined that each one probably felt she was looking at them. "It is not a power to be taken lightly.

  "Thank you very much for allowing me to come and address you today."

  Val turned and left the platform as abruptly as she'd begun.

  The first one to stand, of course, was her father, but he was quickly joined by nearly everyone in the auditorium, with the notable exception of a few Eastbloc and Southbloc delegates. But even they applauded, and the thunderous ovation echoed off the auditorium's dome like a cloudburst that washed over Val as she sat down next to Glen.

  "You," Glen mouthed to her, "are absolutely incredible."

  She kissed him, smiling gratefully. She seemed to be entertaining a good case of post-speech shakes, and Glen didn't think she even noticed the proud smile on her father's face---or Vice President Lopez quietly slipping out of the building's rear exit.

  Probably sneaking off to report to President Jameson, Glen snorted. Go ahead, Mulrooney taunted him silently. Go tell your boss his days are numbered.

  ***

  A gentle spring rain fell quietly on the manicured grass of Senator O'Keefe's country estate outside Calgary, Alberta. Daniel O'Keefe leaned against his porch railing and watched the night, silently nursing the last glass from the bottle of twenty-year-old Scotch he had broken out earlier that day to celebrate Val's speech.

  Val had gone to bed an hour ago, exhausted by her first bout with the Republic Senate, and Glen had joined her soon after, at Senator O'Keefe's insistence. He chuckled quietly to himself. They'd been engaged for almost two years, and Glen was still embarrassed that the Senator knew they were sleeping together. How delightfully old-fashioned.

  So it had fallen to him to finish the bottle, stored away for just such an occasion. It had been so long ago. Margaret had been with him when he'd picked out that bottle, and another one just like it.

  Damn. It had been almost a week since he'd thought of Margaret. Her memory still stung like a whip across his soul. Reluctantly, he turned and paced back into the den, back to the mantle where the holocube rested. It was their wedding picture, taken nearly thirty years ago.

  He looked somewhat ridiculous with the loud suit and long hair that had been in fashion at the time. But Maggie...Maggie was so beautiful, so beautiful it hurt to look at her.

  He remembered it just like it was last year and not three decades ago. He'd been an idealistic and ambitious young aide to a powerful senator, much like Glen, and she'd been the daughter of the Czech ambassador to Canada. She'd had the most incredible eyes---eyes you could just fall into. Val had those eyes---he could see so much of Maggie in Val. They'd been so much in love and so young.

  The call beeper on the room's comlink shook him from his reminiscence, petulantly demanding his attention. Shaking his head clear, O'Keefe set down his glass, stepped over to his desk and hit the answer control. A young, clean-cut male in a dark suit shimmered into existence in front of the desk, a remote dialing unit in his hand.

  "Senator O'Keefe?" he asked.

  "You're speaking to him, son," the older man confirmed.

  "Please hold for the President, sir." The man disappeared and was replaced by the Presidential Seal.

  O'Keefe's eyebrows rose. Greg Jameson calling him at home? This was going to be good. A few seconds later, the hologram shimmered once more and congealed into the form of a tall, broad-chested black man in a plain, grey suit.

  O'Keefe knew that Jameson was in his late sixties, but the man looked just as fit now as when he'd quarterbacked the University of Florida to their '71 championship season---not a grey hair on that lofty head.

  And then there was that face carved from granite by a fusion blast, that face that could cow the most recalcitrant politician, those eyes that held dark, steaming hurricanes in check beneath their calm exterior. Yes, Greg Jameson looked his part.

  "Even
ing, Daniel." Jameson's modulated earthquake of a voice came through the transmission.

  "Evening, Mr. President." O'Keefe nodded. "I trust you enjoyed my daughter's speech."

  "Saw a recording of it about an hour ago. Sorry I couldn't make it live, but some unexpected business came up."

  Unexpected, O'Keefe thought, laughing inwardly. Right. To Greg Jameson, the end of the world wouldn't come unexpectedly.

  "Quite all right," O'Keefe assured him.

  "It was very impressive," Jameson allowed. "She'll make quite the politician." O'Keefe didn't thank him---coming from Jameson, it wasn't a compliment.

  "I hope it didn't upset you unduly."

  "Why should it?" Jameson smiled genially. "I agreed with at least ninety percent of what she said."

  "Aren't you worried that it might adversely affect your upcoming appropriations bill?"

  "I don’t have the time to worry about things that won't happen," Jameson replied with too much confidence for O'Keefe's comfort.

  "Then to what do I owe the honor of this call?" The Senator tried to mask his uneasiness with sarcasm.

  "Talk her out of it, Daniel," Jameson said simply.

  "I've already been through this with Space and Security, Mr. President," O'Keefe sighed. "She's a grown woman. She has every legal right to go anywhere she wants and, as a representative of the EJA, she has Senate authorization to travel on a government vessel. And you can just bet that she'd need a better reason not to go than to avoid embarrassing your administration. As I would for recommending that she not go."

  "I don't give a damn about embarrassment, political or otherwise, O'Keefe," Jameson snapped in an uncharacteristic display of irritation. "We're talking about your daughter's life, man."

  "Oh?" O'Keefe cocked an eyebrow. "Can't your vaunted Marines keep her safe from a few disgruntled emigrants?"

  "It's not the terrorists I'm concerned with. You're on the Security Committee---you've read the reports."

  "What?" Daniel snorted in derision. "That drivel again? I told Secretary Long and I'll tell you, too, Mr. President, I don't believe in fairy tales. All that nonsense was structured to push through the funding for your precious Fleet."

  "That 'nonsense,' Senator, has claimed five supply ships in the last three years. There's something out there. And don't give me your spiel about natural phenomena. Natural phenomena don't cut open hulls and suck out cargoes, and they don't steal fusion reactors."

  Daniel shook his head. "Don't hand me your paranoid delusions, Mr. President. In almost forty years of regular interstellar travel, we've discovered no signs of active extraterrestrial intelligence."

  "And precious little of terrestrial intelligence," Jameson muttered. His shoulders sagged with a heavy sigh. "I had to try," he said quietly, maybe to himself or maybe to someone off-camera. "I could just have Space pull her travel permit. Maybe I should."

  "You wouldn't," O'Keefe said tightly, "and we both know it. It would look like you were covering up something."

  "You think you have all the angles covered." Jameson's tone was soft, almost pitying. "Daniel, did you ever take any history in college?"

  "Just what was required for a Polisci major," the Senator replied.

  "Back around the beginning of the last century, men quite like you, with much political ambition and many ideals, and very little knowledge of history, watched the rise of Antonov and his Protectorate and called those concerned about it alarmists and saber-rattlers. They very nearly let him and Xiang destroy this planet and cause the extinction of the whole human race." Jameson's voice turned hard as a naked atomic pile. "I won't let that happen again, Daniel, not on my watch. I want you to remember that."

  The President's image shimmered, and then was gone. O'Keefe frowned uncomfortably, got up from behind his desk and retrieved his glass. Jameson, he told himself, couldn't have been serious. He was bluffing---he had to be. There was just no other possibility.

  O'Keefe looked down at his glass. It was empty. With a sigh, he walked over to the bar and found another bottle of Scotch. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Three

  "To hunger for use and to go unused is the worst hunger of all."---Lyndon B. Johnson.

  MacAuliffe Station hung like a child's toy in high Earth orbit, a great, spinning wheel that was the gateway to space for all civilian traffic. It was brightly lit and brightly colored, a collage of solar collectors and waste heat radiators that reminded McKay of the old pictures he had seen of a 1950's concept of a space colony.

  The slablike bulk of the RFS MacArthur looked somehow out of place orbiting beside it, he thought, watching the scene on the passenger viewscreen of the orbital transfer vehicle from Fleet HQ. The Fleet's newest and most advanced ship, the Mac was the first of a new generation of starships, built in response to the hidden threat behind the ship disappearances. Its rear end was hugely out of proportion to the main hull, housing the Eysselink drive nacelles and the oversized antimatter power plant that made it the fastest ship in the Fleet, and flanking its main hull were twin weapons pods. The heavily-armored bulbs couched an impressive array of nuclear-pumped lasers, guided missiles and railguns that made it the most powerful weapon ever built by mankind.

  And now, McKay reflected ruefully, it was being used as a tour bus for some Senator's spoiled daughter. What a world.

  Settling back in his restraint web, Jason relaxed and watched the MacArthur grow ever larger on the viewscreen as the shuttle approached one of the score of docking collars that lined its right flank. He felt a series of sharp jolts as the maneuvering thrusters kicked the transfer vehicle around to match its airlock to the docking umbilical, and saw the view swing around to show the expanse of MacAuliffe Station. McKay was jerked slightly in his restraints as the shuttle mated with the ship and came to rest in its docking collar.

  "We have docked with the MacArthur," a disembodied voice announced over the cabin's speakers. "Disembark to your left when the green light comes on and the airlock door opens. Don't forget to take all carry-on items with you, and to pick up checked luggage at the cargo dock."

  Jason shrugged free of his restraints, popped open the overhead compartment and pulled out the duffle and shoulder bags he had packed for his journey. Threading arms through their straps, he waited impatiently for the other military passengers ahead of him to make their way out of the airlock, then kicked off from his seat and floated gracefully through the open hatchway.

  Braking himself against a bulkhead with an outstretched foot, McKay took a moment to orient himself to the "up" and "down" of the docking bay, using the zero-g maneuvering techniques he had received as part of his training. He found an information terminal in a corner, pushed himself over to it and punched up an accommodation listing, searching for his cabin. He discovered that he was billeted in the guest officers’ quarters, a first for him: on the Bradley, he had been quartered with the other Marines, a situation he had preferred.

  The layout of the Mac was much like the layout of any other Fleet cruiser he had been on, and he found the lift station with no problem. Officers’ Country was only sparsely inhabited, and McKay guessed that most of them were busy with preparations for departure. He managed to find his way to his cabin without help, keyed the door open and floated inside.

  The one-room cabin wasn't the Hilton, but it was a vast improvement on the shipboard accommodations he was used to. He threw his luggage into a locker, searched out a comstation and punched up the bridge. The image of the junior communications officer came up on the screen, looking somewhat harried.

  "Bridge," the young man said tersely.

  "This is Lieutenant McKay reporting on board," Jason informed him. "Does the Captain want me to report to him in person?"

  "Wait one." The Ensign blacked out the screen, but was back in a heartbeat. "That's a negative, Lieutenant McKay," he said, shaking his head. "Captain Bertrand is tied up with preflight prep right now. I do have two messages for you, though. The rest of your team
is on board and Colonel Mellanby has directed you to meet with them in Situation Room Six at..." His eyes flickered back to the readout offcamera. "...1500 hours. The other one says that the Marine Reaction Force attached to you has reported and that Gunnery Sergeant Lambert would like to meet with you at your earliest convenience."

  "Thanks," McKay said. "Have Ms. O'Keefe and her party boarded?"

  "Not yet. They're scheduled to board at 1600 hours."

  "Thanks. See you 'round, Ensign."

  "Pleasant voyage, Lieutenant." The screen went dark.

  With a deep sigh, McKay punched a query for the location of Situation Room Six into the terminal. It wouldn't do to be late for his first meeting with his new command.

  ***

  McKay found the meeting room without much difficulty and began looking it over, trying to find a dramatically effective place to position himself. He discovered, however, that zero gravity did not easily lend itself to dramatic poses.

  He tried the desks first. They were supposedly engineered for use in null gravity, but McKay quickly came to the conclusion that they were designed by a sadist for use by masochists: the restraining bar built to hold him in the desk had this habit of jabbing him sharply in the groin whenever he shifted positions.

  For the benefit of future generations of McKays, Jason abandoned the desk and contented himself with floating beside the holoprojection table, one hand attached to the edge of the projector to keep himself in place.

  He didn't have long to wait---it wasn't five minutes before he heard voices approaching in the outer corridor.

  "Naw, you've got it all wrong, Jock," said a thick New England accent. "The Arm of Allah's all washed up. All their leadership's on Loki, freezing their asses off. The ones we have to worry about are the NeoMarxists."