Dire Steps (3 page)

Olech snorted. “That's the first time I ever heard that one. Everybody says Ayliss is just like me, and that Jan is just like Lydia.”

­“People don't see beyond the obvious. Ayliss resembles you, so of course she's just like you. Same for Jan and Lydia. Add in the way she died, and all the time that's gone by, and basically everybody forgot what she was like.”

“I remember.”

“Not sure you do. Or that you remember what
you
used to be like. You had the right medals, but she had the brains. She wasn't murdered to bring you to heel; it was to stop her from feeding you ideas that some ­people didn't like.”

“Whoever they were, they've learned differently, haven't they? I
am
the Chairman of the Emergency Senate, you know.”

“You wield a lot of power, but you spend a lot of time trying to keep everybody happy.”

“Keeping everybody happy?”

“You look the other way on all sorts of things, in the name of keeping the alliance going. Like the slavery on Celestia. It's barbaric.”

“Funny choice of words, there. Did you know that Horace and the rest of the Celestian leadership refer to the war zone as Barbaricum? Old Roman term for basically anything outside the Empire.”

“They use a lot of funny words on Celestia. It's important to call a slave something else if you want to sleep through the night.”

“Not sure how we ended up talking about Celestia.”

“Yes you are. I'm an old personal-­security man, and I can tell when something big is in the works. You're taking a trip off-­world. You're going to use Ayliss's departure to cover your own, and something tells me you'll be stopping to see Horace Corlipso.”

“I'm managing a war that stretches across entire star systems, Dom. And the Step lets me go anywhere. So if I did decide to go somewhere, what makes you think it would be Celestia?”

“Because Reena's going too. The only reason you'd take the chance of both of you disappearing is because you need her along when you see her brother.”

“You make visiting the man who runs Celestia sound like a bad idea.”

“It could be. I was long in the war zone when President Larkin got nailed, but once the Purge was done, a lot of new faces started showing up as recruits. Familiar faces. ­People who used to work security for some of the senators who died with Larkin.”

“Yes?”

“They told me that Horace's bodyguards came to work that day loaded for bear—­and that they killed Larkin, as well as several senators Horace didn't like. Not by accident.”

“I've heard that rumor before. What are you saying?”

“Horace assassinated half the human government and made it look like an accident. I'm saying a guy like that could easily poison the troublesome wife of a promising politician.”

O
lech finally reached the last shadowy room of the day. This one wasn't far from the shooting range below Unity's main tower, and it was almost as big. It contained one of mankind's most important secrets, and so it was even more secure than Olech's personal quarters.

The woman who shared those quarters stood very close to one of the room's looming walls, the fingers of one hand resting on a glass frame just below eye level. The entire wall, and two of the others, was covered in panels just like the one she was touching. The lights in the room were low, giving a golden hue to the parchment-­like material inside each of the frames. Her own face, framed by dark red hair and tinged with concern, looked back in a ghostly reflection.

At one time, Reena Corlipso had spent endless hours in that room, studying the almost-­hieroglyphic messages. The meaning of the pictographs had been deciphered long ago, shortly after the panels had been found inside a deep-­space probe that had mysteriously reappeared near Earth. The ease of decryption was not surprising, as the pictures were meant to be understood. They described the miraculous technology that had carried the probe back to Earth. The Step.

The faster-­than-­light method of travel had allowed humanity to reach out across the solar systems, colonizing habitable planets until the dark day when they encountered the Sims. Although the Step's origin was an old secret shrouded in rumor and outright lies, the ­people who knew the truth sometimes wondered if the gift had been a cruel trick by a malicious and still-­unidentified entity.

The room's small door opened, and Reena knew without looking that her lover had arrived. She turned toward the tall figure and watched it resolve into the man she knew so well. Olech wore a dark suit cut in a military style with a high collar, and the blood-­red ribbon that marked him as one of the Unwavering stood out on his chest. Strong hands slid around her waist, exploring the swell of her hips and the fabric of her dress. Cut low to show off her considerable bosom, it was informal attire that she usually reserved for the bedroom.

They kissed, acknowledging the approach of a series of voyages that might separate them forever. They embraced in silence while Reena noted the unusual way that Olech's weight bore down on her. She slid her palms onto his cheeks and raised his face from her shoulder.

“You know, two ­people who are finally going to get married really should look a lot happier than we do.”

“H
onestly, if I haven't learned it by now I'm just going to have to figure it out once I'm there.” Ayliss Mortas had joined her father and Reena in the subterranean room. Her blond hair, which she'd kept long her whole life, was now cut off just below her ears. She wore well-­used walking boots, into which a coarse set of olive drab trousers were tucked. A long tan shirt hung down over her hips, and a leather belt crossed her waist. Conditions on FC–7777 were austere, and she'd been wearing that rig or military fatigues for most of the prior six months to get ready.

“Just a few final reminders, that's all.” Despite the many hours Olech had spent tutoring his daughter in the past weeks, he appeared slightly nervous. “Whatever you do, don't favor one side too much. The veterans will try to manipulate you as a representative of the Auxiliary, and Zone Quest will try to paint you as being on their side because I let them continue operating there.”

Ayliss gave him a smirk. “You know, this all sounds vaguely familiar. As if I heard it over and over these last several months.”

“How is Lee doing out there?” Reena asked. The trio stood in the center of the room, near the ancient space probe that had carried the diagrams that adorned the walls. There were many places in Unity where they could speak without fear of surveillance, but few of them were as secure as this room.

“Making lots of new friends. If I don't get out there soon, they'll probably make him an honorary vet—­or enlist him.” Lee Selkirk had been the chief of Ayliss's security detail until their relationship had been revealed by their nearly disastrous brush with the duplicitous Python. Fired from that role, he'd traveled to FC–7777 two weeks earlier. “You were right about sending him in without a cover story. The veterans had already identified a few moles among them, ­people they believed were Zone Quest spies, and they weren't gentle when they ejected them.”

“Does he think they're willing to listen to you?”

“Hard to tell at this point. There's this one senior NCO who's in charge, and so far the vets are still following military hierarchy. That solidarity has been reinforced by the friction with ZQ.”

“You can get a lot of mileage out of that.” Reena spoke softly, having coached Ayliss on the subject of politics and winning her grudging acceptance. “If you work out some compromises on these areas of friction, it will put you above the fray, where you want to be perceived.”

“I might have heard that one before, too.” Ayliss gave her a brief smile. “Sooner or later, I'm going to end up on one side. And after that, it becomes a fight.”

“Precisely why you don't want to end up on any side at all.”

Ayliss opened her mouth to speak, but her father beat her to it.

“I know your shuttle's taking off soon, but I wanted to tell you this myself.” Olech glanced at Reena, then continued. “When you leave here, Reena and I are leaving as well. We're traveling to Celestia, to get married.”

Ayliss regarded Olech with a blank look for several seconds, then an expression of minor revelation appeared. Her eyes moved over the panel-­covered walls, and she nodded without speaking.

Olech exhaled audibly before draping an arm around Reena. “We didn't want you to get the news in the war zone. Obviously, we're keeping this very quiet.”

“Leeger can't be happy you're going off-­world.”

“Leeger doesn't like it when I go outside. And he thinks bad things happen in the Step.”

“They do.” Ayliss's words were a whisper. “Sometimes, entire ships disappear.”

“That's true. But thousands of men and women get killed, wounded, and lost every month this war continues. I can't ask them to go in harm's way if I'm afraid to travel between two solar systems nowhere near the war zone.”

“That's not all you're doing.”

“No it's not.” Olech's eyes were somber. “You know I have to try.”

Ayliss extended both hands, placing one on each of them but speaking to Reena. “When you get back here, remind your new husband that having both his children in the war zone is enough danger for one family.”

 

CHAPTER TWO

O
n a planet many star systems away from Earth, Lieutenant Jander Mortas was experiencing something akin to blindness. The darkness surrounding him wasn't total, and every now and then, a break in the tall trees allowed some starlight to penetrate the night woods. Even so, those spots of increased illumination were spread far apart and only turned the gloom into a murky gray.

The terrain was quite varied, and he had to move with caution. More than once he'd fallen into unexpected dips in the ground or tripped over small boulders. That wasn't the worst part, unfortunately, as the various creatures that lived in the forest were making his painstaking journey even more unpleasant. Roughly an hour into his trek he'd stopped suddenly at the edge of a dangerous drop-­off, and his abrupt halt had created an unexpected silence. Not far behind him, something had taken a single loud step before stopping as well.

The ground under his boots was covered with many seasons of dead leaves and fallen branches, and so most of Mortas's movement had been noisy. Having been made aware of the creature that was tracking him, he'd delicately negotiated the minor cliff to his front and then checked his course with a small compass. A Force shuttle had passed overhead just then, its running lights offering a merciful view of the obstacles to his front, and Mortas had stepped out quickly. Bulling forward, he'd intentionally come to a dead stop for no reason.

The dark silence was interrupted by a single sound, the crunch of the detritus on the forest floor under a hoof or a paw. Nothing followed it. The night was warm, and he was sweating freely into his fatigues, but a chill crawled up the back of his neck as if something was watching him. Clearly he was being stalked, and he'd tried to remember the species of the planet's indigenous wildlife. Standing there in the shadows, Mortas had realized that he knew nothing about the creatures that called the woods home even though he'd been living and training on this planet for the previous seven months.

MC–1932, seized from the Sims decades earlier and controlled by the Human Defense Force (hence the MC designation, for Military-­Controlled) was a major base in that part of the war zone. Numerous units called it home, among them the Orphan Brigade in which Mortas was a platoon leader. Almost destroyed in combat six months before on a planet called Fractus, the brigade was slowly coming up to full strength, and so training was practically nonstop. The jaunt through the forest that had transformed him into possible prey was part of that training, an all-­night individual movement without the aid of the multipurpose infantry goggles on which Mortas had come to depend.

The goggles could do wondrous things, and at that moment he was missing the way they let him see in the dark. His well-­worn electronic eyes were back in the office he shared with Sergeant Dak, his platoon sergeant and the author of that night's training event. Dubbing the sightless movement through the woods “Goggle Appreciation Night,” Dak had sent the entire platoon off individually, spread out across many acres of deep woods. Their start point was only a few miles from the Orphan Brigade's barracks, and the finish line for the walk was just short of their battalion area.

He'd stood stock-­still for several minutes, and so had the creature somewhere off in the shadows. Or so he'd hoped. Unable to penetrate the gloom, Mortas had been forced to fight his own imagination and the images of some horrible, fang-­toothed beast with razor-­sharp claws that might be able to see in the dark and move without making a sound.

The creature finally proved the last part wrong, crunching off into the distance on what had to be at least four paws. Breathing out a noiseless exhalation of relief through his open mouth, Mortas had waited several minutes more before resuming his walk.

The dirt under his boots grew firm and began to rise, pressing thin branches against his helmet, torso armor, and sleeves. The cloying tendrils of a spiderweb passed across his mouth, and the touch of the gossamer webbing sent him into a frenzy. Swinging his arms madly, his palms encountering more and more of the spider's work, he began to twist his entire body while swiping at the exposed back of his neck, certain that the arachnid was dropping down inside his fatigue shirt.

One of his elbows barked against the trunk of a very solid tree, and the jolting pain launched a tidal wave of muttered curses. Trying to put some distance between himself and the web, his hands spasmodically wiping off the sticky material, Mortas caught the toe of one boot on a jagged piece of deadfall. Unable to see it, he felt himself falling just as the broken end of one branch began running up his leg toward his groin. With no other choice, he lifted that leg in the air and made a clumsy hop.

The awkward move freed him from the threat to his privates, but the blackness betrayed him and he landed on the rest of the fallen branch with all his weight on one boot. His ankle turned sideways, and he went crashing to the dirt in a cacophony of snapping wood and full-­throated swearwords.

“You all right there, buddy?” a bored voice asked, and a dull light flicked on a few feet away. Sergeant Dak had forbidden the platoon members to carry any kind of illuminants, and as platoon leader, Mortas had considered it his responsibility to follow the rules set by his right-­hand man. Looking up at the dim glow, he recognized the voice.

“Ringer, is that you?”

“Oh. Hey, El-­Tee Mortas. Lemme help you up.” Instead of grasping Mortas's outstretched hand, Ringer's long fingers slipped under his torso armor near his clavicle. The big man levered him into a standing position with little effort. “There we go.”

The light clicked off, and Mortas took a moment to rearrange his uniform. Ringer was an old hand with the Orphans, but he'd missed Fractus because he'd been in the hospital.

“How's the hearing tonight, Ringer?” That wasn't actually the man's name. Like so many of the combat veterans of the decades-­long war with the Sims, Ringer had sustained a lasting injury that modern medicine could not resolve. The drumming in his ears sometimes made it difficult for Ringer to detect low sounds even up close, and the platoon took pains to pair him off with soldiers with better hearing.

“Kind of a dull buzz, sir. I thought it was insects for a while, but I haven't been bitten by anything, so I guess it's me.”

“Well, one of us has wandered out of his lane.”

“Oh, that would probably be me. I've done Sergeant Dak's midnight stroll a few times, and finally found this downhill patch that runs all the way back to the barracks. I sorta zigzag around out here, but as long as I don't go uphill anywhere, I always come out in the right spot.”

“That's amazing.”

“Not really. I never got any good with a compass, so if you take my goggles away, I'm pretty much lost.”

“I suppose we could walk together, unless you want to keep wandering.” Mortas checked his azimuth, pondering Ringer's statement about the overall downslope.

“That'd be fine, sir. We're almost there anyway.”

“Really? I thought I was still a good ­couple of miles out.”

“How long you been in the infantry, sir?” The words were spoken in such an indifferent fashion that it was impossible to take offense. “Anything under ten miles counts as almost there.”

W
hen they arrived at the edge of the tree line facing the battalion area, Mortas and Ringer were greeted by most of the platoon and Sergeant Dak. The entire brigade had been ordered to form up on a parade field a half mile distant, and First Platoon had to hustle to get there.

The three infantry battalions of the First Brigade (Independent) of the Human Defense Force each consisted of three companies made up of three platoons, which were in turn made up of three squads. Although the unit was not yet completely up to strength, it still made for a huge number of uniformed men standing in rectangular formations facing a large wooden stage. The assembly order had interrupted early-­morning activities all over the brigade, and so different blocks of men were adorned in the T-­shirts and shorts of physical training while others sported camouflaged fatigues mottled with green, black, and brown.

Mortas's platoon, standing at attention as part of First Battalion's B Company, was the only unit wearing helmets and body armor. Dirty faces and mud-­specked fatigues showed they'd been training hard and, regardless of their personal opinions of Goggle Appreciation Night, the First Platoon troops bore the marks of exertion with pride.

Standing in front of the three squads, Mortas could only see B Company's commander and the commanding officer of First Battalion. Both of those officers, veteran Orphans, had replaced men lost on Fractus. First Battalion was now led by Major Hatton, a bear-­sized individual popular with the troops, who had been standing next to the battalion's previous commander when he'd been killed. The battalion staff, including an intelligence captain named Pappas who'd been poached from a much-­higher echelon, stood in a row behind Hatton.

B Company was commanded by a young captain named Emile Dassa. Though only twenty, Dassa had been serving in the war for five years and in the Orphans for almost two. Lean and dark-­haired, Dassa had given Mortas crucial tactical advice before the brigade's perilous defense of an important ridgeline. They were now fast friends, which Mortas still considered slightly odd because they had fought in prep school five years before, a fight that had sent Dassa to the war zone.

Movement on the reviewing stand caught his eye, and Mortas observed several figures in camouflage fatigues mounting the rostrum. He immediately recognized Colonel Watt, the Orphan Brigade's beloved commander, and then noted the heavyset figure of General Merkit, the officer in charge of personnel assignments across the Force. The brigade's expected dissolution after Fractus had been halted when Merkit unexpectedly arrived on MC–1932, and he'd been instrumental in the unit's rebuilding over the last six months.

Officers and senior NCOs from the brigade headquarters filed into place behind Watt and Merkit, giving some of Mortas's troops an opportunity to mutter choice comments.

“Look at ol' Merkit. Hardly recognize him. All skin and bones.”

“Remember what he looked like when he got here? I bet he's dropped fifty pounds.”

“That's what you get for hanging around with the walking infantry.”

“He sure didn't want to hang out with us at first. They say Colonel Watt had to practically drag him to PT.”

Mortas tried hard not to smirk, standing rigidly at attention. The comments continued.

“That was part of the plan. Force the fat bastard to spend time with us.”

“It worked, didn't it? Colonel Watt killed him with kindness, and he rebuilt the brigade.”

The discussions ended when a shouted command told the Orphans to stand at ease. Spreading his muddy boots to shoulder width and placing his hands against the small of his back, Mortas watched Colonel Watt approach a microphone at the front of the platform.

“And good morning, Orphans.”

“Good morning, sir!” Hundreds of voices shouted in return.

“This is a big day for the brigade. Although we're not quite up to one hundred percent, you've all performed so well in our recent live-­fire evaluations that we've been put back on the list of active units.”

The voices rose again, a chorus of loud shouts and low grunts that quickly subsided.

“I thought you'd like that. Here's something else I think you'll like. We have just received our first mission, and this one goes to B Company of First Battalion. Captain Dassa!”

Dassa popped to attention, and called out, “Here, sir!”

“When we got alerted for Fractus, your company was en route to Verdur to clean up some Sim holdouts. As B Company never got to do that job, I wanted to offer the assignment to you. Same mission: chase down the Sim remnants who've been giving the stations on Verdur so much trouble—­and kill them.”

Behind him, Mortas heard Ringer's drawl. “Ya think Sergeant Dak will give us our goggles back now?”

At the rear of the platoon formation, the platoon sergeant growled, “Cut the chatter.”

On the platform, Colonel Watt looked directly at B Company. “What do you say, Captain Dassa?”

“B Company accepts the mission on behalf of the entire brigade, sir!”

“That's what I expected to hear. It's only fitting, considering how many times on Fractus I had to explain why B Company was wearing jungle fatigues on a planet with no jungle.”

The laughter was subdued, as was all joking when it came to the subject of Fractus. Although the brigade had held its ground and destroyed an enormous number of Sims, the cost had simply been too high.

Colonel Watt continued. “On this special occasion, I want to personally thank General Merkit for the invaluable help he's given to our brigade in its rebuilding. Sadly, General Merkit is leaving us later today. I can honestly say that he has become a true friend to the Orphans and that he will be missed.”

Watt turned to the florid-­faced man standing next to him, and shook his hand. They spoke briefly, words that no one could hear, and then Merkit appeared to be declining Watt's offer to address the troops. The brigade commander would not relent, however, and Merkit finally took the microphone.

When he spoke, his voice shook. “I cannot express my humble gratitude to all of you. When I came out here, it was with the intention of leaving as soon as I could.”

Merkit stared at the platform's decking for an instant, and the watching soldiers saw Watt's lips moving. Merkit's somber face brightened just a bit.

“Your colonel just told me that most Orphans feel the same way when they get here.”

A low ripple of laughter rose from the formation.

“On my first day, I was being driven to your brigade headquarters when I saw a soldier limping down the road. His fists were balled up, he was sweating all over, and he didn't seem to be getting anywhere. I offered him a ride, and you know what he said? He told me he was rehabbing a leg wound on his own because he was afraid that if he went to a therapy center, he might be reassigned to a unit other than the Orphans. I will confess to you that I have never been more ashamed in my life than I was right then.