Indomitable (52 page)

The general looked up from her morning paper from her chair by the window. “That set cost Roman a small fortune. He couldn't just order a facsimile. No, he had to have the real deal and for that we had to find an antiquities dealer and pay twice the price. We could have fully automated our home for half as much.

Sephora's eyes went wide. “You've got to be kidding me. What's this worth?” She tossed one of the smooth rectangles into the air, which Roman caught it and added it to her hand.

Roman's scowl didn't reach his eyes. “Dear, need I remind you about the cannon I bought you for our anniversary, the very one sitting outside the front door? We could have purchased a nice aerodyne and hired a personal driver for what that monstrosity cost. But, no, you had to have an authentic twenty-third-century Terran M-86 GALANT-C Field Cannon with a functional gravplate and the original cup warmer.”

Great-Grans started to laugh as Promise walked into the room with a tray of breakfast items: mixed-berry muffins, fresh fruit, a carafe of juice, and of course one of fresh-brewed caf.

“What did I miss?” Promise said as she set the tray down and prepared the table for Grans, Roman, and Sephora to join her.

“Grans and Roman were just bickering about money while I got my butt kicked at mahjong.” Sephora threw Promise a help-me-out look. “Want to play the winner?”

“Oh, no you don't,” Promise said as she poured herself a cup of caf and added cream and sugar, stirred, and sipped appreciatively. “Yum. I'm not getting suckered into a no-win situation. You may lose to Roman
for
me.”

“Thanks a lot.” Sephora leaned on the tree-stump table with her chin on her hand and started to pout. “A little help.”

“Here,” Roman said. He arranged a few tiles for her, pulled one from Sephora's hand and one from the wall. “Ah, a dragon. You're in luck.” He rotated a second dragon tile until it was oriented just right. “There. You're doing pretty well. You just need two more tiles.”

“Why do I have the feeling I'm not going to get them?”

“Well, because—” Roman worked quickly and looked up at Sephora with a twinkle in his eye. “—you're not.”

“Those are honor tiles, right?” Sephora said. The rare pattern included all four winds: north, south, east, and west.

“Very good.
Mahjong.
” Roman couldn't have been more pleased. “Would you like to play again?”

“No.”

Promise clinked her caf mug with a butter knife. “I hate to interrupt your fun but breakfast is served.”

*   *   *

“She seems to be
doing well,” Great-Grans said. Promise and Grans were at the front of the house by the bay window. The rain had stopped and the sun had pushed through the clouds. Sephora and Roman had seized the opportunity to take Striker and Otis for a walk through the wood.

“They seem to get along well too,” Promise said.

“Roman has that effect on strays. He's a good man.” Grans turned to Promise and motioned to the chairs nearby. “Why don't you take a seat? There's something I've been meaning to discuss with you.”

“All right,” Promise said. The way Grans said “sit” sounded more like an order and less like a polite request. Now her stomach felt like it did when she was dropping through atmo toward a target.

“I'm getting back into uniform. The commandant commed me two days ago and offered me a job I couldn't refuse.”

“Really, ma'am. That's fantastic news. Congratulations.” Promise couldn't have been more pleased for her. “May I ask what the new job is?”

Grans's smile consumed her face. “I'm taking over Force Space-Reconnaissance.”

Promise sat up a bit straighter, and her shock must have bled through clearly, because Grans's smile grew into the biggest she'd ever seen. Her internal scanners detected an opportunity and oh how she
needed
an opportunity right now.
And Grans is talking SPECOPS.

“It's a star down. Technically, I'm being demoted to major general.” Gran's eyes danced with mischief. “There's no better place for a war hawk like me than special operations. You heard what happened to Senator Oman?”

The non sequitur momentarily caught Promise off-guard. Yes, she had read something in the nets about a campaign-finance scandal involving several members of the Neo-Isolationist Party. She nodded but didn't say a word. Allowed the twinge of smile to creep out. The Conservatives had smelled blood, and maybe that had something to do with Great-Grans's very fast rise to grace.

Grans looked her in the eye. “Ready to play Great-Grans says?”

Here it is.
Promise swallowed hard. She'd volunteered after all, during Victor Company's workup. And you didn't say no to Grans if you knew what was good for you.

“I want you to come with me. The next training class starts in three months. I
know.
That gives you little time to prepare. If you want another month or two you've got it. Just say the word. Either way I want you to try out. No guarantees, mind you. You'll have to earn your wings like everyone else.”

Marine special operators earned wings. It was the one symbol in the RAW-MC that always garnered respect, regardless of the rank you held.

The Republic of Aligned Worlds Marine Corps Force Space-Reconnaissance companies were the elite units in the Corps. SPACECON companies operated behind enemy lines and in direct-action operations. SPACECON Marines were all-around janes and jacks: masters of vacuum, land, and sea; planetary-insertion specialists; heavy-weapons experts; experts in pararescue and hostage rescue tactics … just to name a few. And their armor was the best in the 'verse. You didn't dare compare SPACECON armor to the RAW-MC's standard-issue mechsuit. For one thing, Space-Recon operators were neural-linked with their mechsuits. They had ports at both temples and they jacked into their armor. Their AIs got up close and personal thanks to the “neural clasp.” And there was the matter of the SPYADR or Synthetic Poly-Appendage Driver's Rig. A SPYADR mechsuit wasn't an add-on or something strapped to the back of a mechanized Marine like a rucksack or external pack. No, SPYADR armor was built from the skeleton out around a highly specialized arachnid-like frame. Drivers learned to integrate the SPYADR's limbs with their own, and thanks to the neural link they literally became one with their mechsuits and their AIs. They could issue commands with a thought, and scuttlebutt said they even felt their armor's pain.

“A SPYADR driver?”

“Yes.” Grans's eyes crackled with energy. “When do you want to start your schooling?”

There was a time, not that long ago, when Promise thought she might have said no. Back before she'd been field-promoted. She'd enlisted to get away from her birth world shortly after her father's murder. A fresh start where no one knew her name was what she'd been after, and for a time she'd found it. Nearly five years passed in the Corps with little fanfare. Antipiracy duties let her knock heads and stop bad men from doing bad things to good people who needed defending. She'd made good in her toon, and followed the regular promotional tack. Then she became a noncommissioned officer and then a platoon sergeant. Life seemed to be on track and she was genuinely happy. Then she'd deployed to Montana, where everything changed.

Since Montana I haven't really owned my own life.
That made her smile, because it wasn't exactly true. Enlisting in the RAW-MC wasn't for the independent soul. Civvies exercised self-autonomy and got to decide what they wanted to be when they grew up. Marines did what Aunt Janie told them to, where she told them to do it, when she told them to do it, how she told them to do it, until their service was paid in full.

In a sense, Promise had never been master of her own destiny, and she knew it.

No, the general didn't ask me to try out. She'd asked me
when
just like Auntie Janie. I'm being handled, again.
A big part of her resented that. A bigger part of her wanted in. Wanted the challenge of making it with the best, and if you wanted to operate with the best you joined Space-Recon.

“By the way, Kathy's in too. We like to keep our officers and guardians together. No guarantees. Assuming you both graduate, you'll be assigned together to a company and Kathy will stay with you as your guardian, at least until she ‘ranks out.' That won't happen for a couple of years.”

“What about Maxi?”

Grans shook her head. “I actually pulled his jacket. He's a good Marine, just not what we're looking for in SPACECON. But you are.” The general offered her hand. “Congratulations.”

Promise looked intently at the hand. Shaking it would be a game changer. For her and for Sephora. She looked out the window and realized she couldn't up and abandon the girl.

“Don't worry, Promise. She'll be taken care of. I've already spoken with Roman about it. Sephora has a home here if she wants it. If not, we'll be here for her if and when she needs help. That girl has grown on us. We won't let anything happen to her. And, let's be honest. You're not the stay-at-home type, are you?”

Promise hated to admit it, but the general had read her like a book.
And isn't this what I was after? Action? A target to shoot. A place to belong. So what are you waiting for, P?

“Space-Recon sounds good, ma'am.” Promise took the general's hand. “Three months will do.”

 

Epilogue

PEACE IN OUR TIME NOT LIKELY

Excerpted from an interview with Queen Aurilyn II of the Lusitanian Empire, in an exclusive with John Kagame of the
Lusitanian Register,
after her speech from the throne, regarding the Republican question and the heightening cold war between the LE and the RAW, August 5, 92 A.E.

JOHN KAGAME:
Your Majesty, I'm going to come right out and say what the commoner on the street is thinking. We're headed for open hostilities with the Republic of Aligned Worlds, and God help us if it comes to that. God help our sons and daughters who will pay the highest price if our two star nations come to blows. Do you think you can pull us back from the brink?

QUEEN AURILYN II:
(the queen's smile fades) Pull us back? I think about that every day, John. I don't have a daughter or son of my own, but I have cousins and nephews and I worry for them, and I worry I might have to send them into harm's way. Daily they consume my thoughts and prayers. I will do whatever I can to keep them safe, to keep them home.
     But, pull us back? That was your question. And you know me, John; I don't dodge the tough ones. I fear the answer is no, at least not entirely, because that would mean I'm dealing with rational actors, and a star nation that acts in good faith toward us. The Republic of Aligned Worlds won't even call itself an empire, this in spite of its annexation of numerous verge worlds, some against their will, and all in the name of peace. Their president says preemptive action has saved lives, and prevented wars. What rubbish. Preemptive action has lined the Republic's coffers with the wealth of other worlds—that's what's happened. Consider the planet Sheol, in the Korazim system. The Republic is in bed with the system's corrupt government. Together they are raping the planet, and the citizens of the Korazim Sector aren't seeing a single solitary chit of benefit. Why? I think you and I both know the answer.
     The Republic of Aligned Worlds may have a president instead for a queen, but the Republic is every bit as much an empire as we are. We've built ours with open hands, not a closed fist, from a coalition of willing planets. We wish to avoid hostilities with the RAW at all costs. We mean no planet ill will. But … I cannot say that of the Republic … not with the level of confidence I wish I felt … and believe me I would like to very much believe as much of the Republicans as I know is true of my Lusitanian subjects.

JOHN KAGAME:
Would you talk a bit about your government's obligations to the private sector. You've taken a lot of interstellar heat on this matter over the past year, much of it from the Republic.

QUEEN AURILYN II:
Between our realms, the Republic of Aligned Worlds claims to hold the moral high ground on this particular issue, particularly in its system of government and its relationship between the government and the markets. We're the monarchists after all, even though we are a constitutional monarchy. I am bound by the constitution as much as you, John. But never mind that. We're the autocrats and tyrants because we have a queen—me—and a hereditary aristocracy, and because our lords and ladies own a substantial share of our lands and enterprises. To be fair, we have to watch that. Too much government ownership is a bad thing. I'll grant the Republic a small point on the matter. But their senators and congresswomen point their finger at us and say, “Look, the ‘Lusies' don't believe in free markets or the common man rising above it all. Their system is rigged. Their titles are passed in utero. The rich will always be rich, the titled entitled, the poor nothing more than worker bees.”
     John, it's all utter nonsense. At the very least it's a gross distortion of who we really are. I would say something else but you're going to broadcast this and children will be listening.… At least we are honest about how we run our government. It's crass to put it this way—I doubt you'll be surprised to hear me say it, you do know me well enough by now—our government and our private sector are in bed together, and I say why shouldn't they be as close as a married couple, two equals with overlapping and oftentimes mutually aligned interests. Shouldn't our lords and ladies and their families have a major stake in the government and in the private sector? After all, the peers of the realm are often the ones who fuel the economy by risking their fortunes. They create hundreds of millions of jobs in the process, they sit on the boards of our most prestigious firms and know the ins and outs of our government too, which means they can legislate and regulate from real-world experience. The peers know how to make money and they know how to stay out of the way so others can make it too. They pay the lion's share of our taxes that care for our truly poor, taxes that fund our military, taxes that pay for myriad other things like air traffic control and clean power and interplanetary commerce; all necessary to our way of life and without which the empire simply couldn't survive.
     Of course our commoners can rise very high in our political and private sectors. We do have a House of Commons, and the Commons control the purse strings. Think on that. Can a commoner become queen? Well no, of course not, but the king was plucked off the street when I asked him to marry me and I'd say it's worked out rather well for him. Oh, and consider this: Among our top one hundred firms, fifty-five are owned by women and men—by families no less—with no title other than president or CEO. That speaks for itself.