The Terran Mandate (18 page)

Clay

The next morning, Dekker crouched down
just outside the tower and stared into the sun as it crept above the horizon.
His mind hadn't stopped gyrating since he and Simmons had talked long into the
night about everything that had happened, and what was coming next. It didn't
matter how he arranged it, but he couldn't help running the tally again. MEF
hadn't been heard from since the night before, so there was no way of knowing
who, if anybody was left. The Paladin was safe for now, but with Second Brigade
heading for the Pyramid, it was only a matter of time before he was overrun.
The First Brigade was still unaccounted for, but it was a safe bet they were
still defending the Highlands - not that there was anything to defend them
against.

That left Dekker and his understrength
battalion. He had three companies of infantry against three battalions of
Terran Guard, plus their tanks. It wasn't even close to an even fight.
Entrenched in a prepared defense, he might hold out for a while, but he would
have to find better ground.

He took a sip of water from a clear
plastic water bottle and watched as a few drops splashed onto the cold patch of
clay just outside the tower. He watched the water seep into the clay and
disappear. He dribbled a few more drops and imagined his Marines being ground
up by a swarm of steel bolts slung out from the legions of Terran Guard troops
he would soon have to face. He poured the rest of his water onto the ground and
let it settle into the clay. He pulled his knife from its resin fabric sheath
and skewered the ground, digging up chunks of the moistened clay. He placed
them in his palm and started mashing them with his thumb.

He had to work fast as the clay was
already starting to dry. He pawed at it with his fingers, straining to pull it
into the shape of a cup. Just as he managed to coerce it into the shape of a
shallow bowl, the clay finished drying. He stared at his creation with the
indentations of his thumbs set into its sides, as if somebody had hit him over
the head and dragged him away before he could finish it.

A whisper of awareness touched his
consciousness, like a butterfly landing on an a petal. It held still just long
enough for him to feel a shimmer of comfort ripple through his mind, then fluttered
away. He was rolling the cup between his hands when he felt her hand on his
shoulder. 

Shahn'Dra knelt down next to him and
looked at the cup. "He is safe," she said. He turned away from the
memory of Jommy's voice wailing over the radio. "He is scared," she
continued. "But he is safe and very far away from them."

He took her hand and lay the cup in her
palm. "I'm not very good at this sort of thing," he said. She scraped
the rim of the cup with her claw, curling away the uneven bumps and ridges and
scratched around the indentations left by his thumb, smoothing them over.

"I, too, am learning new
ways," she said.

STI

When they were far enough away that
nobody could hear them, Dekker fished the STI grip from a bag hung on his belt
and held it in his palm. Both Lt. Simmons and Sergeant Preston stared at the
device. Preston seemed to stop breathing and reached out to touch it, as if it
were made from a web of glass threads, ready to disintegrate and blow away in
the wind.

"Is that what I think it is?"
he asked. Dekker nodded, easing the device towards him. Sergeant Preston let
the words roll off his tongue as if he were describing the first bone of a new
species dug up from the ground. "Forward Observer's Strategic Target
Interdiction Fire Control Assembly." He froze when he turned the grip over
and saw the display. Catching Dekker's eye, he said, "This is a live
track."

Dekker nodded. "Uh huh."

Preston squinted. Where did you get
this?"

"General Lane."

Preston tapped the screen. The tracking
line shimmered and a faint red X flashed on the screen. "You know, we
could bring this whole thing to a screeching halt with this."

"If we had the codes," Dekker
said.

Preston turned the grip over in his
hand. "We don't just need the codes" he said. "We also need a
com link to the bird"

Dekker closed his eyes and felt his
shoulders starting to slump. "Can you rig something on the HQ track?"

Preston smiled. "It's - complicated
sir." He shook his head. "Bottom line is this is just a trigger.
There's a lot of infrastructure we just don't have."

"Lay it out for me Sergeant."

Preston cocked his head. "Alright.
First, we need two codes. One for the grip to the linkup, the other one for the
bird. Then we need an SGL system and a big enough dish antenna to go with it
-"

Dekker put his hand up. "I'm an
infantry officer, Sergeant."

"Sorry, sir. Basically we need a
radio that can talk to the satellite so we can conduct TT&C - I mean, so we
can control it."

"And we don't have any of that?"

"Not even close sir. We need the
ground station."

"And that's at MEF," Dekker
said. A chill ran through him. "Can the Guard get into this thing now that
they've compromised MEF?"

"If they got their hands on the
codes."

Simmons caught Dekker's eye. "Do
you have something to add, Lieutenant?"

"Well, first off, S-2 would have
purged the codes if they really were overrun. The codes are kept in the S-2
bunker. It has a full magnetic purge that wipes everything. If they got in, I'm
sure he pulled it."

"Well then this thing is dead in
the water," Preston said. "Without the uplink codes, we can't do
anything with it."

Simmons clasped her hands behind her
back and scraped the ground with the toe of her boot.

"What is it, Lieutenant?"
Dekker asked.

"Neither of you is supposed to hear
what I'm about to say, but under the circumstances -"

"Just spit it out."

Her eyes narrowed. "This isn't a
trivial matter, Colonel. I'm about to break orders." She took a step
closer. "Very important orders." She stepped back and folded her
arms. "And you're not going to like it. I need your guarantee of amnesty,
right here, right now."

"Again?" A whirlwind kicked up
and danced past them, splashing against the tower as he stared at Lt. Simmons.

"This is different. This is orders.
I need your personal guarantee," she said.

"Whose side are you on,
Lieutenant?"

Simmons let her hands drop and the
tension in her face drained away. "I'm on your side," she said.
"I'm totally, completely on your side."

"Then you need to trust me."

Simmons looked away, blinking. "I
guess so," she said. "The STI has a one-time override passcode that
resets the SGLS transponder to accept a new primary key for encrypted
coms."

"In case the MEF ever lost control
of the keys," Preston said, his eyes lighting up.

"That's right," Simmons
continued. "Or if they're compromised. But we can only do it once. After
that, it's locked to whatever new key we generate for it and that's it."

"Well, alright," Preston said.
"That's all well and good if we have the override."

"The SGL uses the P series
bands," Simmons said," but we can rekey with Ka, Ku or even S band.
Whatever frequency band we use for the rekey, it will let us continue to use
that band for TT&C"

Dekker cleared his throat.

"Um," Preston said.
"Right. Well, all she means is that we have a choice of fequency bands to
use. That's good because it gives us more options depending on what equipment
we have available. TT&C is like command and control - the stuff that tells
the satellite what to do, including the firing sequence."

He turned to look at Simmons. "We
still need the one-time passcode though. Without it, we're just talking
here."

Simmons glanced at Dekker and let out a
sigh, as if she was pushing away a lifetime of secrets. She reached down to her
boot and unzipped a pocket stitched into its side. She pulled out a composite
armor plate and then a thin plastic circuit card that had been nestled in
behind it since they had left MEF headquarters. She held the card out to
Dekker.

He stared at the card, then at her.
"Why do you have this?" he asked. Her eyes remained fixed on his as
she held the card. He needed the card more than he needed to know why she had
it. She probably knew that, too, but he waited anyway. She said she was on his
side, but there was more, and he needed to hear her say the words.

She took his hand and placed the card in
his palm. "My mission", she said, "was to make sure you didn't
use the STI against the Paladin."

Edge of Survival

Jommy dug his feet into the ground,
pushing his back against the cord tree as hard as he could. His back ached from
the bark biting into his skin, but he would have pushed himself into the tree
and wrapped it around himself if he could have. He had lost the radio during
the night and had no idea where he was. He pulled a ragged bit of root plant
from his pocket. His hand trembled as he squeezed a few drops of its juice onto
his swollen tongue. He worked his mouth, trying to reinvigorate it with
moisture, but the inside of his cheek just scraped against his gums. A knot of
aching hunger sat in his stomach like a rock.

The sound warbled again in the distance.
Without thinking, he tried to push himself away from the sound and into the
tree, digging up a fresh pile of dirt with his boot. The sound ebbed up and
then fell back to a whisper before surging again, growing closer as it moved
down the slope behind him. He knew it came from an electric motor, but he
didn't know if he should be scared or hide or run or just sit there.

When he heard the snap of dried twigs
and crunch of rocks being pressed into the ground, everything fluttered away
and left a question to fend for itself: What was that?  The whir of the motor
was a steady gyrating whine now and he could hear the thump of tires rolling
over rocks. Something metallic clattered as the driver shifted gears. It almost
sounded like one of the tractors that had worked the bigger plots on Dirt Hill
when he was younger, but it was different. His heart started to ache as
something inside reminded him to be scared. Too tired to endure the sensation,
he tried to dispel it by huffing out a breath through his cracked lips.

The engine surged as the vehicle crested
the hill behind him and started rolling towards his patch of cord trees. He
pulled his knees into his chest, closed his eyes and started rocking to dispel
his aching fear. He was so weak he didn't even know if he would be able to
stand up. He was so thirsty his throat felt like it was made of dirt. Yet, the
surging ache in his chest didn't seem to know these things or care as it
consumed the last of his will.

The vehicle rolled out from the bottom
of the hill. Something squealed as the sound veered to the side and started to
traverse the space along the edge of the cord trees behind him. As the sound
swam away from him, he eased his head around to peek out from behind his tree.
Through the thicket of cord trees, he caught a glimpse of green resin smeared
with grooves, as if a wire brush had dug into its surface. The block letters
were faded and broken, but he could see the letter M, a patch of smeared black
and then the rest of the stencil: 1-B.

A faint image tickled the back of his
mind. The tank that had torn away his home glistened in the moonlight. Bullets
rang against the side of the troop carriers that climbed Dirt Hill. The Terran
Guard made their vehicles from metal and steel. The vehicles the Marines had
were more like toys.

Jommy strained to stand up, grimacing as
fire shot through his legs. He grunted and tried to form a fist to pound his
leg, but couldn't curl his fingers in tight enough. "Not now," he
said. He pressed the palm of his hand against the tree as hard as he could and
let the bark gouge into his palm as he forced himself to his feet. He couldn't
pick his foot up, so he scooted his boot forward. Still leaning against the
tree, he scooted his other foot forward and then let go. Unable to balance his
weight on his own feet, he fell face first into the dirt.

The sound from the vehicle's engine was
starting to fade. He thought of trying to stand up again, but without the tree
to help, he knew he didn't have the strength. He reached forward with his good
hand and kicked his leg, scooting himself forward. He winced when he tried to
use his other hand, blood oozing from its palm, so he used his elbow instead,
keeping his hand off the ground. He kicked again and slid forward some more.
Eyeing the vehicle as it started to fade behind the cloud of dust kicked up
from its tires, he kept kicking and crawling until he was clear of the trees.

Rolling over on his back, he stared at
the vehicle and held up his hand. He tried to yell, but only felt a grating
pain, as if a sheet of sandpaper was stuck in the back of his throat. He wanted
to cry, but there were no more tears. All he could do was breathe and bleed and
hold his hand in the air until somebody saw him or he fell unconscious.

The sound changed. The whir of the motor
wound down to a purr. Something squealed. The dust clouds boiled away as the
troop carrier stopped. A clatter clicked through the air and the whir started
up again as the vehicle backed towards him.

Jommy felt his chest heave with
laughter, but the sound bunched up at the back of his throat and his abdomen
ached as it strained to draw more air into his lungs. Nothing came out, not
even a croak. His arm creaked back and forth like a rusted pendulum as he
waved.

The vehicle stopped and the rear hatch
swung open. A Marine hopped out and turned around to drag something out of the
carrier. Another hopped out and picked up the other end of the litter board;
then they ran towards him. When he heard the thump of their boots, he let his
hand down and felt a river of air ease from his chest. He felt the inside of
his lips stuck to his teeth when he tried to smile as he became intoxicated by
the giddiness welling up inside him and wrapping around him like a blanket.

The Marines dropped the litter and
crouched down next to him. One of them grabbed his feet while the other hooked
his hands under Jommy's shoulders. The one holding his shoulders puffed out a
short count: "One, two, three." They hoisted him onto the litter
board, picked it back up and ran back to the carrier.

He felt the world fall away as he
allowed the feeling of being cradled consume him. As they trotted along, he
felt the anxiety evaporate and surrendered entirely to the comfort of being
taken care of by gownups who stood between him and everything the outside world
had done to him - or ever would. For that moment, there was nothing that could
find him in the bastion of his litter board guarded by his Marines.

When they reached the carrier, his
Marines lay the litter board down head first and shoved him backwards along the
floor until he was all the way inside. They climbed into the vehicle and swung
the hatch closed. Red light infused the air as the whir of the carrier's motor
spooled back up and Jommy felt the terrain beneath them thumping through the
frame and into his back.

Somebody put a hand behind his head and
pulled it up as the lip of a plastic water bottle appeared in front of his
face. Water trickled out of the bottle and between his lips. When it reached
the back of his throat, he clutched at the bottle like an animal. He wanted to
feel it wash over his face. He wanted to feel it fill his mouth and peel away
his cheeks from his gums. He wanted to breathe it in and drown on the stuff and
cough it back out, choking on it.

"Easy, tiger," a man's voice
said. Something tugged at the bottle, keeping it out of his control. He felt
like growling, but could only manage a croak. "Not so much at first,"
the voice said. Barely a splash had found its way to the back of his throat
when the bottle disappeared.

His eyes were starting to adjust to the
light and he could see the forms of the others riding with him. Many of them
had the bearing and bulk that told him they were Marines, but some weren't
dressed right or their hair was too long. One of them wore a sling. Scanning
the compartment, he realized one of them was a woman from Dirt Hill. His heart
quickened as the thought of his father sitting there with him scampered through
his mind.

He scanned the faces. There was the
woman, two sturdy boys on the verge of manhood, and the old man wearing the
sling slumped over and staring at the floor. Jommy looked to the spot he was
staring at and saw a spatter of blood forming the outline of a body. "Was
there somebody else?" he asked, pointing at the steel plating inside the
outline of blood. He felt a sting in his arm and a hand on his forehead.
"You need to rest, Tiger," somebody said.

The world grew soft around him and the
light faded so that he couldn't see it anymore; he could only feel it
shimmering around him. He heard his own heartbeat and his arm burned as the IV
fed his blood with something that he wanted to ask about. But the words
wouldn't come. Instead, something soft rolled over his entire being and he fell
asleep.