Ephialtes (Ephialtes Trilogy Book 1) (5 page)

Bobby
continued to stare at a particularly uninteresting crate he had spotted halfway
down the warehouse.  The guard spoke, slowly and deliberately with ice on
her words.  “Hey.  War hero.  I’m talking to you.”

Bobby flicked
his eyes in her direction without moving his head.

“Please turn
your face full onto me so I can positively identify you,” she said, adding with
venom, “Mr Karjalainen.”

“Can I please
go?” said Bobby.  “It’s been a long journey and I want to get home and
rest.”

The guard
nodded a gesture at her colleague, who followed her around the desk and stood
behind her as she took up a position side on to Bobby.  “Sir,” she said,
with as little respect as she could give that word, “please place both hands
palm down on the desk.”

Bobby
eyeballed her.  “Really?”

“Hands on the
desk, sir.”

Bobby stepped
to the desk and placed both hands on it as requested.  The desk was low so
he was slightly bent over.  The guard walked behind him, kicking his legs
apart.  “You might think you’re a big deal, but you
ain’t
. 
Killing all those Asians?  Big, tough character, huh?  You don’t
impress me.  Anything in your pockets that shouldn’t be there?”  She
started patting him down without waiting for an answer.  “I read your
book.  You come over like an asshole,” she said.

“Thanks for
the review,” Bobby replied, “I’ll pass it on to the writer.”

The guard
squatted down and started patting up Bobby’s legs.  As she got to the top
of his left leg he glanced down and winked at her.  “Why, thank you Miss,”
he said.  The guard quickly span her hand around and grabbed Bobby’s
balls, squeezing hard.  Bobby grimaced, but was determined not to react
further.

“Think you’re
funny?  You might be Charlie-Big-Potatoes back there, mowing
down third-
worlders
and
tellin
’
everyone how great it was, but you’re in my world now.  I’m
gonna
put a flag on you, and you’d better keep in
line.”  She let go and stood up.  “If you spit on the sidewalk we’re
gonna
pull you in, and we’re
gonna
see how you were aggressive and uncooperative at Immigration, and we’re
gonna
think that maybe you need to be incentivised to get
your shit right.  You understand me?”

Bobby looked
at her blankly.  “Think so,” he said.

The guard
strode back around the desk.  “On your way,” she said.  Bobby smiled at
her and nodded to her colleague.  He turned, walking toward the sign that
said ‘Exit.’  The guard called after him.

“Welcome to
Mars.  War hero.”

Bobby stepped
into a driverless cab just outside the port.  He had ordered it from his
comdev while he was in the queue at immigration.  Immediately it set off
down the tunnel-like roads, which were darkening now as evening
fell.  Looking through the clear roof of the cab and the Plexiglas ceiling
of the road-tunnel he could make out the first few stars visible that
night.  He saw a particularly bright one and wondered if it might be
Earth.  The day he left he had come to the port in a cab very like this
one, but on that day there had been a dust storm.  The only thing visible
then had been a wall of that muted bloodstain red colour the planet was famous
for.

The
Karjalainen’s family seat, as his father jokingly had it, was a few kilometres
from the port.  Bobby switched on the
cab’s
built
in comdev.  He flicked through a few news channels and was surprised at
the amount of local coverage.  From his earliest memories right up to when
he left the news had always been predominantly about Earth, and mostly about
the USAN.  He felt he knew Earth.  That had been one of the reasons
he had found it so easy to leave his home to go there.  The stories he was
flicking past now were as likely to be about Mars as they were the home
planet.  Hospital staff were considering a strike at St Mary’s and Venkdt
Mars Corp were due to make an announcement about their plans to start
exploiting the asteroid belt.

Bobby had
been following home planet bulletins on the trip out.  Watching the news
here in this cab he felt, for the first time in seven years, a very long way
from Earth.

The cab
slowed to a halt outside the house where Bobby grew up and he stepped out from
it.  The Karjalainens, being one of the pre-eminent families on
Mars, had a dome fronting house in Central Marineris.  Domes on Mars were
expensive and generally only used for public spaces, but in some very exclusive
neighbourhoods a dome would be the centre piece of a residential area with
private housing about the perimeter.  Bobby’s family’s house, like the
others in this swanky burg, was mostly underground, extending back beyond the
edge of the dome.  A portion of the front, though, including the entrance
hall, was above ground inside the circumference of the dome.  The dome
itself was eighty metres across and had been built by
Hjälp
Teknik
, the
Karjalainens
’
company.  Six other houses shared the luxury of the dome, but the
Karjalainens’ was by far the biggest.  The land in the centre of the dome
was grassed and landscaped, and Bobby remembered climbing the trees there when
he was a small boy.  They were good memories.

Bobby tapped
his comdev to pay the cab and slung his duffle bag over his shoulder, turning
to walk up the path to his old home.  As he reached the front door he
noticed that it was already open and a slender figure was slouched in the
doorway, in shadow from the light behind it.

“You’re
back,” the voice from the shadow said, redundantly.

“Hey,
Anthony,” said Bobby, breaking into a smile and offering his hand.

Anthony
grasped the hand reluctantly and said, “Dad’s not here.”

“He’s not?”
said Bobby.

Anthony shook
his head.  “At the hospital.  Again.”

“Oh,” Bobby
said, and took his hand back from Anthony.  “Is it bad?”

Anthony
turned into the house and Bobby followed him inside.  Anthony half-turned
and spoke over his shoulder, “Well, not
good
. 
Like the last time, I guess.  I hope.”

They walked
down the hall to the kitchen where Anthony decided he should, at least for
appearances sake, play the role of a gracious host.

“Can I get
you anything to drink?  Have you eaten?” he said.

“I’m beat,
Tony, I’m
gonna
turn in in a bit.  Cola?”

“Sure,” said
Tony.  He took a cold can from the fridge and handed it to Bobby. 
Bobby cracked it open and took a swig.

“I saw you
had a book out,” said Anthony.

“Yeah? 
Did you read it?” Bobby asked.

“I don’t like
books about the military,” Anthony replied.

“It’s not
such a great book, anyways,” said Bobby.  “Which hospital is Dad at?”

“St.
Joseph’s.  We can visit tomorrow, if you like.”

“I
would.  I’d like to see him. 
D’you
think
he’d be okay with that?”

Anthony
shrugged.  “He’s dying.  You’re his oldest son.  I guess he
would.”

Bobby nodded. 
“I’ve sent him the odd message over the last few months.  I think he’s
thawing a bit.”

“Yeah,
maybe,” said Anthony, uncommitted.

Bobby
finished his cola, crumpled the can and threw it across the room into the bin,
where it landed dead centre without touching the sides.  He grinned and
mock-shouted, “Score!”  He wanted to think that he and Anthony were
fourteen and twelve again.  Anthony wasn’t having it.

“It’s good to
be back, Tony,” said Bobby.

Anthony
Karjalainen half-heartedly suppressed a sneer.  “Is it?”

Bobby slung
his kit bag into the corner and crashed onto his bed.  He closed his eyes
and thought about the day.  Images from the exhilarating trip on the
landing craft, the incident with the up-tight border guard and his uneasy
reunion with Anthony floated about his head.  He thought about his father
and the illness that was slowly dragging him down.  He tried to
sleep - he was tired enough - but he just
couldn’t do it.  Opening his eyes he looked about the room,
his
room,
or rather his twenty-one-year-old self’s room.  The
posters seemed a little silly now, but still bought a smile to his face.

He swung his
legs around and sat up on the bed, reaching into his pocket to pull out his
comdev.  He scrolled through the contacts, stopping on one and tapping the
screen.  He held the comdev up to his ear and walked over to his old desk,
listening to the dial tone.  He flipped through an old notepad on the desk
absentmindedly.  The dial tone stopped and he heard a woman’s voice.

“Hey, this is
Christina.  I’m busy just now, leave a message. 
Buyee
!” 
The recording stopped.  Bobby coughed and paused a second, thinking.

“Hey,
Christina, it’s me, Bobby.”  He paused, searching for words again. 
“I’m back.  Call me.”

He ended the
call and lay back on the bed.  This time, he was asleep in seconds.

Two Secret
Service men with dark suits, dark glasses and concealed coms furtively stepped
inside the door, one taking a position either side, both scanning the room and
turning their heads slightly as they spoke into their concealed mics. 
They nodded to each other in agreement and pulled the door open.  Two
further agents, a man and a woman, strode briskly into the room.  Having
analysed the layout two days in advance they knew exactly where they were
going.  The man moved directly to the far corner, where he stood with his
back to the wall, surveying the customers and waiting staff as the early
evening
clientèle
went about their meals.  The
woman went to a discreet opening at the back of the restaurant where, just out
of view of the customers, was a tastefully designed and tastefully small sign
reading ‘Staff
Only
.’  She took up a stance, side
on to the kitchen and side on to the restaurant floor, with legs apart and
hands loosely behind her back.  She too whispered something into her mic.

A few seconds
later Vice President Gerard White entered.  He smiled and shared a joke
with the maître d’hôtel, clasping one of his hands in two of his.  The
maître d’hôtel gestured to a table on the restaurant floor, and White thanked
him and moved toward it.

White sat
down at the table as another Secret Service woman slipped into position at the
table opposite.

“Hello, Mr
Vice President,” said Madeline Zelman.

“Hello, Ms
Zelman,” White grinned.

Madeline
flung her hand about the room, gesturing to the agents.  “Do you ever get
tired of all this rock-star nonsense?” she asked, smiling.

White smiled
back, “No, never.”  They laughed gently and easily.

“I know you
don’t have much time so I’ve already ordered,” said Madeline.

“Good, good,”
White replied, quickly adding, “Not the fish?”

“Not the
fish,” Madeline echoed.  “I thought we’d start with Pan-Seared Crab
Cakes with Cajun Remoulade and have the
Jambonneau
of
Duck with Wild Rice and Pine Nuts for the main.”

“Crabs and
Ducks?” said White.  “So you’re dragging me as near to fish as you can,
huh?”  He smiled at Madeline and she smiled back as she took a sip from
her glass.

“Wine?”
Madeline offered.

“I’d better not. 
I have a committee later.”  White reached for the carafe of water in the
centre of the table and poured himself a glass.

“Great news
about the war,” said Madeline.

White
nodded.  “Not so great from a business point of view,” he said.

Madeline frowned
at the remark.  “Come on, that’s low.  We’re not in the war game,
we’re in the armaments game.  Different thing.”

“Is it?”
asked White.  He was hoping to pull the subject back to something lighter
as soon as possible.  He only had one hour with Madeline and he didn’t
want to spend it arguing about the morality of her portfolio.

Madeline was
the majority owner of Helios
Matériel
Corporation,
the number one USAN defence contractor.  She had long held that in her
line war was bad for business.  If it came to an actual shooting war then
her products had not served their true purpose; deterrence, or ‘Peace
Through
Superior Firepower,’ as the t-shirt had
it.  Madeline preferred Teddy Roosevelt’s ‘Speak softly, and carry a big
stick.’  All Helios did was provide big sticks.  The best big sticks
in the business, she thought.

“What are you
going to do with those carriers now?” asked White as the waiter served the
entrée.

Madeline
thanked the waiter.  “Deliver them to the client as planned,” she said.
 “Like we were always going to.  And the client
is .
 . .” 
She pretended to search for the name, like she was solving a difficult
riddle.  “. . . 
the
USAN
Government, I think.  Heard of them?”

White
chuckled.  “I surely have,” he said.  “We’ll be paying for those damned
things until my grandkids have retired,” he said, gently shaking his head.

The two
carriers, known together as the
Aloadae
, were to have been the crowning
glory of the USAN Army Commander Program.  The two ships - the
biggest spacecraft ever built - had been designed to provide an
extremely rapid response to any perceived threat, in any theatre at any time,
on the surface of the Earth.

The carrier
ships carried twelve dropships each and were to be stationed in permanent low
Earth orbit, able to move around the globe as and when necessary.  Each
dropship could deliver a Commander Program squad to the surface of the Earth
within twenty minutes of the order being given.  Each dropship was fully
automated but nominally piloted by the human commander of the squad. 
Eleven humanoid-shaped mech drones hung in the bays behind the
pilot.  Once the squad had been dispatched the dropship would then act as
an aerial drone.  The dropships had limited but useful firepower and were
a huge asset in terms of reconnaissance.

The first
carrier,
Ephialtes
, had been delivered three months ago.  The peace
talks were well under way at that time so, despite some skirmishes along the
most bitterly contested borders, there had been no deployments made from
it.  Delivery of the second carrier,
Otus
,
was scheduled for two months’ time.  The great warship was to be borne
into the heavens two months after the war it was designed to fight had
ended.  White was sanguine about that.  Maybe Madeline was right
after all.  Maybe the carriers had added to the deterrence element of the
USAN’s military might.  Maybe that had played a role in the negotiations
and therefore, maybe,
just maybe
, the carriers did help to bring about
the end of the war, just as they had been designed to.  Still, he’d rather
not be paying for the damned things.  Winning the war was one thing. 
White’s focus now was on winning the peace and for that he, or rather the USAN
government he represented, would need every spare cent there was.

The meal was
agreeable and they ate together.  As White had hoped, the conversation
turned more convivial.  They chatted about their kids and their day to day
lives.  Madeline’s daughter Melissa had just got engaged to a realtor, and
Madeline wasn’t convinced it was a great match.  For a short period White
was far away from the jungle of government.

Presently, he
looked at his watch and patted the sides of his mouth with a napkin.
 “Look, this has been great, Madeline,” he said.

“You’re not
staying for dessert?” Madeline replied.

“I’d love to,
but,” he shrugged, “I’ve got to run.”

White stood
up and leaned across the table to kiss Madeline on the cheek.  “I love ya,
babe,” he said into her ear and, winking, he straightened his tie and left.

Audrey Andrews
sat in the biggest chair in the room.  It was premium ethically grown
leather, very comfortable, and higher than the other chairs.  In front of
her were to two long, short coffee tables end to end, with two rows of slightly
less comfortable chairs surrounding them.  On the tables were bottled
water and bowls of fruit, which no one was eating.  In the chairs were the
brightest and the best of the defence department, or at least the most senior,
and Andrews was their leader.

Andrews
leaned forward.  “What have we got?”

“Domestic
terrorism is at a nine year low,” said a man to Andrews’ left.  “There
have been no major incidents in the mainland this year and only one last year
in the entire USAN, where the perpetrators were quickly apprehended and their cell
closed down.  The powers granted us under the Restrictive War Measures
have proved invaluable in intercepting terrorist communications.  There’ll
always be a few loopy-loos with a cause picked up from the internet, and
there’s not much we can do about them, but the traditional domestic terror
groups have all but been eradicated.”

“Overseas?”
said Andrews

A woman to
Andrews’ right, seated a little way down from her, responded.  “The Asian
Bloc poses no immediate threat.  We are continuing to monitor communications
and it seems they’re as relieved as we are that the war has come to an
end.  There are some dissenters near the top of the regime - we’ve
always known about them, of course - but even they recognise
that the terms of the armistice were a necessary compromise.  They would
have been unable to sustain their casualty rates into the future and they knew
that we had the upper hand in all areas - military, economic
and logistic.  Great wars always come down to battles of attrition, I
guess, and in the end we managed to grind them down.  The war has done
lasting damage to their economies and infrastructure.  They currently pose
the weakest of threats, but their capacity to act against us in the short and
medium term has been neutralized.

“Of the
unaligned countries, none have the necessary economic or military power to pose
a significant threat, nor the inclination, either.  The greater USAN is
probably now in the most secure position it has been in for the last hundred
years.”

Audrey
smiled.  “That’s good,” she said, “thank you.”  She glanced down at
her papers.  “We find ourselves in the happy position of not having a war
to fight.  Of course, that doesn’t mean there’s nothing for us to
do.  I expect that in the next few months we’ll be hearing about cuts to
our budgets, so I’d like you to start thinking about that now.  I’d also
like to ask you to consider how we should be rethinking our force deployment to
best support the new peace and guard against any flare-ups in the more
contested regions.

“Before the
end of the summer I’d like a series of reports prepared.  Budget reviews,
analyses of our most problematic borders, and a deep overview of the
geopolitical landscape we will be dealing with for the next five to ten
years.  A major war like the one we’ve just been through comes along maybe
once every few generations, and thank God it’s over, but peace tends to be
fleeting, so very soon it’s going to be back to pre-war business as usual
for us.  Our nation spans the globe and you can bet that someone, somewhere,
is grinding an axe even as we speak.  Tin-pot generals and wannabe
revolutionaries bringing a little local misery into the world are likely to be
the crux of our business for the foreseeable future.”

At the far
end of the tables a woman timidly raised her hand.  “Ms Andrews?” she
said.  Heads turned to look at the woman, who half lowered her hand and
shrank back a little.  Andrews leant forward, better to look at the woman.

“Yes?” said
Andrews.

The woman
steadied herself.  “You know there has been some seditious talk coming
from Mars?”

Audrey looked
at the woman.  “There has?  Well, get that into the report on
geopolitics if you must, but I’d rather we focused on plausible areas of
contention.”

“One of our
monitoring stations on Mare Orientale has recently picked up some
conversations, believed to be from inside Venkdt Corp, with a decidedly
unpatriotic bent.”

Audrey looked
at the woman.  “Believed to be?” she said.  “Honey, two PAs talking
shit in their lunch break does not make for a revolution.”

The woman
hesitated.  “We think the conversation was between a high ranking officer
at Venkdt Mars and an equally high ranking Venkdt official here in the USAN.”

“I think the
hazard level will be minimal.  Mars is no threat to national
security – it’s a hundred and forty million miles away, for one
thing.  And they don’t have a military.”

“They have
deuterium,” the woman said.  “They could harm us as much by omission as
commission.”

Audrey’s
temperature was rising.  “Maybe we’ll leave this one to the foreign office. 
We’re looking for military threats, and this isn’t one.  But thank you for
your contribution.”

Audrey spoke
to the room.  “In summary, the war’s over.  Get ready for
change.  We’re currently geared up for a large scale global conflict that
has now ended.  We have to prepare ourselves for smaller, maybe more
widely distributed hostilities in the future, and as part of that we need to be
thinking about where those might arise.

“Go back to
your desks, find the next potential crises and think about how we can stop them
before they get started.”  She stood and left.

The old
barracks was a no frills operation.  There were no home comforts to speak
of and it comprised of what were more or less sheds.  The doors were draughty,
and on a cold winter’s night the windows would rattle in their frames. 
The living quarters were sheds with rows of double bunks down either side, with
a red painted concrete floor shined to a mirror finish by generations of
marines.  The Commander Program, with its emphasis on the physical,
embraced all that was old-school and hard and outdoors.  For the
commanders the air conditioned stations of the regular soldiers, with their IVR
get-ups and their well-appointed living spaces, reeked of decadence. 
A real soldier - a Warrior - had to be in touch
with the earth.  He or she had to know the pain of hunger in their belly;
know the chill of the cold against their inner core; know the weakness and the
tiredness of days in the unforgiving wilderness, and by that know
themselves.  The commanders, willing to stride onto the field of battle
and kill or be killed, could live and sleep in an unheated, wind-rattled
shed and know it was luxury, never once thinking of complaining.