13 December 2174. Karpov Desert, South of Turning Point, Bellar Frontier Colony.
Shortly after sunrise, Meyers crawled out of his cot and blew out a tired, rancid breath. He pulled on his uniform, then his armor, surprised at the twitch in his fingers. The CAWS-5 that was locked into place in the armor’s brace along his spine seemed to calm him a little, but the real problem was the stims still in his system. He would need to drink a lot more water and let some time pass before the stims would be fully out of his body. His head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, and his mouth tasted like it was lined with rust, but he was otherwise rejuvenated. It was too hot to sleep, though, even with the tent’s built-in heat exchange system working to keep the temperature under control. Halfway through brushing his teeth, someone knocked on the tent frame.
“Come in.” The words came out muffled, but it was enough for Paxton to understand. He let himself in, stepped away from the flap, and pulled off his helmet.
“Colonel.” Paxton looked as if he’d just returned from a three-week vacation at an island resort. He always reminded Meyers of an old, sun-dried, leather jacket—weathered, worn, cracked, but reliable. Paxton was the oldest among the ERF soldiers by far, and he generally showed it. What little hair he let grow out was brown but beginning to go gray around the fringes.
Meyers rinsed, then he opened the flap and spat, squinting at the bright sunlight. He let the flap close, but the heat had already slipped through. “What’s up?”
“I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t something important, sir. You do look better, though.”
“I feel better.” He squeezed cleanser into his palm, then scrubbed his face.
Paxton glanced toward the flap. “Private Starling’s been scraping data. She set up a bunch of crawlers and filters earlier.”
Meyers toweled his face dry. “And?”
“It seems word gets around pretty fast in the city. The rescue operation last night is all over communications. Sounds like the locals are worried there might be some sort of invasion going on.”
“I see.” Meyers set the towel on the end of the cot to dry. “Sounds like they’re a little paranoid, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. A couple of the warlords are talking about—”
“They’re warlords now?”
“Well, Colonel, that’s what they’d be called back on Earth. They aren’t elected representatives, and they seem to be holding their positions by right of force.”
Meyers couldn’t argue that.
“Anyway, they’re talking about sending people out to see if there’re tracks.”
There would be; Meyers was sure of that. “Anything else to report? Waverley?”
Paxton looked down at his boots. “Not yet, sir.”
“We need something, dammit.” Pressure built behind Meyers’s eyes. He tried to calm himself. “Okay. We run things in parallel.”
Paxton cocked a bushy eyebrow.
“Starling and Barlowe keep looking for Waverley using the idea she had, see if they can find where he is, or at least where he isn’t. At the same time, we make our presence known to the warlords. Officially.”
“How were you thinking we’d do that, sir?”
“Is there enough of a trail being left on the Grid for us to contact one of them?”
“I’ll check on that.”
Meyers scooped up his helmet. “I’ll come with you.”
The wind had died down overnight so that it felt less like a blast furnace crossing the camp and more like a simple oven. Sweat trickled down Meyers’s forehead when they stepped into the Operations Center. The far left corner of the building was piled with charred debris, most of it pried open to reveal cracked and stripped component cards. The stench of fried electronics and worse stung his nose.
His stomach growled as he came to a stop in front of the displays. Data crawled across four of them, and video played on two others. The video had text scrolling next to it, keywords highlighted in bold yellow. Meyers saw military
, invasion
, Lancers
, and Ardennen
in several of the flashing text boxes. Starling stared into the distance, caught up in something only she could see. Barlowe was seated below a blank display, legs crossed, hunched over as he stared at the display. He suddenly straightened, then stood. He looked wobbly, ready to collapse.
“Lonny.” Barlowe rubbed his eyes. “You know about the chatter?”
“Yeah. I’m going to take a team in, meet with Reyes and the others.”
“Really? You think that’s a good idea?”
“Do you have Waverley’s location?”
“N-no.”
“Then we don’t have a lot of options. If they send people out to search, they’ll find Rover wheel tracks. They may not be able to follow them back to here, but they’ll at least suspect something’s out in the desert. I think it’s best to give them some answers—maybe we can solicit help from them.”
The corners of Barlowe’s mouth twisted down; he didn’t think it was a good idea.
“I’m open to alternatives, Ladell. Right now, I’m not seeing any. If we leave it to rumormongering, it’s only going to get worse.”
“I thought the Special Security Council directed us to not antagonize?”
Meyers’s stomach grumbled, and it shot a hint of acid onto the back of his throat. “I think we’re past that point, aren’t we? Whether we let them slit your throats or rescued you, we were committed.”
Barlowe reeled slightly, as if the comment had been a slap. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I don’t think this is anyone’s fault. There haven’t been any good choices from the start, have there?”
Paxton stepped past to examine Barlowe’s display. “These the warlords, Agent Barlowe?”
“Yes. I’m pretty sure. We’ve been trying to do meaningful image searches, but with the processing limits we’re up against…”
“Can you get a message to them?” Paxton tapped the one that was labeled “Reyes,” an angry looking, middle-aged man with long, black hair, a broad nose, and dark, coppery skin. “Especially Reyes. He’s the one from all those propaganda videos? Colonel wants to pitch to them all, but the ringleader’s what matters.”
Barlowe settled back onto the cargo case a little unsteadily. “What’s the message?”
No more argument, Meyers noted. He didn’t like it when Barlowe just caved, but there was no changing his behavior. “So, I’m thinking we go with a UN pitch. Something along the lines of, We would like to meet with Turning Point leadership to discuss a proposal from the United Nations Special Security Council about the Bellar Colony joining the United Nations as a probationary member.
”
“No mention of Waverley?” Barlowe’s tone fell just short of challenging.
“Master Sergeant Paxton, what do you think?” Meyers saw that Starling was now paying attention as well. “Private Starling?”
Paxton crossed his arms and stared at Starling.
“Well, um.” Starling blinked. Her eyes were red, and she looked about as frazzled and drained as Barlowe. “I think that was sort of the original mandate?”
Paxton grunted. “I think it’s good, Colonel. To the point, and like the private said, it’s not introducing a bunch of lies that’ll bite us in the ass.”
Barlowe winced; he didn’t agree, but he wasn’t going to challenge.
Meyers didn’t want to antagonize his only I.B. Resource, but there wasn’t much choice. “Please send that message, Ladell. And feel free to log your concerns in your report. I’ll take McNutt and Zacharowski with me. Have Banh and McNutt’s squad in position along the Farmers Road, ready for extraction. There’s a large building north of that club you and Cisneros went to.”
“I think that’s the theater the road’s named for.”
“Good. Propose that as a meeting place.”
“You want me to send that now?”
“I don’t want to give them time to plan. Suggest an hour from now?” Meyers caught Paxton’s approving tap of the nose. “I think that’s more than enough time. Oh, and let’s keep representation down to the warlord—or whatever you want to call them—and three bodyguards. Master Sergeant Paxton, could you get the squads moving?”
Paxton slipped his helmet over his head as he strolled out.
“I’m sorry about not having Waverley’s location yet, Colonel.” Starling’s face tensed as she spoke. “We were able to salvage some processors and memory. That oughta help some.”
“What you two are pulling off with these resources is amazing, Private. Thank you for your hard work. Take a break—maybe see if you can get a nap before the meeting.” Meyers looked at Barlowe. “Both of you. We’ll need you watching out for us.”
He forced a reassuring smile, the sort Rimes pulled off naturally, then headed for the Rovers. As he waited for the approaching squads, he checked the Rovers’ power supplies. They were both below sixty percent, which wasn’t ideal. If they kept their speed low enough, the charges would hold about even in the sunlight, and there was always the option of transferring power from their armor, if necessary.
McNutt threw a casual salute as he approached. “Heard we’re starting up negotiations, Colonel.”
Meyers returned the salute. “Just trying to control a situation gone bad.”
McNutt settled into the driver’s seat of the closest Rover and looked at Meyers from beneath dark, heavy brows. “Situation gone bad. Wouldn’t be here otherwise, would we?”
“No.” Meyers slipped into the passenger seat beside McNutt.
Banh waited until Paxton was seated in the passenger seat of the other Rover, then took up the driver’s seat. Zacharowski popped up the seat on the flatbed immediately behind Banh, then stretched out the leg rests and relaxed while the rest of the soldiers settled elsewhere. Once everyone was seated, Banh accelerated away from the camp; McNutt followed a short distance behind.
A few minutes north of the camp, McNutt turned. “These folks don’t particularly sound like a weak group of pacifists, Colonel. You have a plan to make them all civil?”
“Something short of guns blazing but more than offering chocolates and roses.” McNutt’s soft snort was justified. Meyers wasn’t sure there was an approach that would make a significant difference. With a population armed to the teeth, just getting people to come together to talk rationally would be a challenge.
They stopped three klicks out of the city, the Rovers hidden behind clumps of scrub. Meyers strode to the center of the road, back turned to the others, and waited until Paxton joined him before heading toward the eastern edge of Turning Point. McNutt fell in behind them, and a moment later, Zacharowski.
A klick out, Meyers closed his faceplate and tapped the CAWS-5 to be sure it was locked in place in the brace. “Seal up. I’ll open a tight channel, but keep it clear.”
Four soldiers in environmental armor were sure to be an intimidating sight. He hoped it would be enough to manage the delicate balance between preventing attack and not making it seem like an attack of their own.
The first to notice them were children. Black, olive-skinned, and several shades in between, they seemed to represent a broad mixture of the populace rather than just the area, which Barlowe and Starling had designated Mattias’s territory. Then Meyers remembered that the section of road had been claimed by Reyes. Some of the children seemed young—maybe five years old—while others seemed a few years out from teenager. They mostly laughed and ran around Meyers and the rest, but a few just trailed and watched quietly. Meyers hoped that meant there was some level of peace beneath all the guns and posturing. That hope slipped away when men began drifting into view.
With assault weapons casually settled on shoulders, the men appeared from alleyways ahead and to the rear of the group’s position, easily hidden by the towering, empty warehouses. They were black, probably Mattias’s people. One of the men shouted, and the children froze. Another shout from the man, and the children ran.
“We’re here to speak to your leaders,” Meyers said. The suit amplified his voice without significantly changing it.
The men ignored him, or at least it seemed that they did, but then he saw they were continuing forward, flanking him and the others, leading them southwest. It was the direction he wanted, or at least it was for now. They crossed a modest road, and a bit later, another. Ahead, Theater Road, which marked the eastern edge of Reyes’s territory, loomed. The displays were dull, barely visible in the daylight. Reyes shouted down on the people below from the display, but Meyers could only catch bits and pieces—promises of rewards for unity, threats about betrayal, reminders about how they were all treated on Earth.
Three haulers, the ones with what looked like light machine guns mounted, sat behind the checkpoint, on Reyes’s side. Men leaned casually against the length of the flatbeds. Meyers couldn’t sense any change in the escorts’ pace, which he took as an indication things were all right. Even with the escorts, they didn’t have the numbers to stand against Reyes’s force.
“Agent Barlowe, those haulers—”
“I’ve got them down. AMARMI.”
“Amar-what?”
“AMARMI. Apollo Minerals and Resource Management, Inc. SunCorps’ biggest mining corporation. The larger ones are Cougars, the smaller one’s a Devil Cat. They’re modified versions of vehicles designed for HSI by Global Motors’ Heavy Machines Division.”
“HSI as in SunCorps’ HSI?”
“Yeah.”
“And the
Global Motors?”
“Yes, part of True Transportation. Another of SunCorps’ corporate structures. Heavy Machines does specialized haulers for the rest of the SunCorps entities.”
Meyers squinted. “Why would Waverley flee to a planet where SunCorps is selling expensive haulers to warlords? Does that sound like something a fugitive sold out by his peers would do? This is going to show up on a report to the SSC at some point.”
“I-I don’t know. Is there really any place SunCorps wouldn’t have a presence of some sort?”
“Good point. What about those machine guns?”
“Alexander Arms.”
“Shit. That’s run by GDS.”
Barlowe sighed. “There aren’t that many heavy weapons manufacturers, Lonny.”
“So it’s pure coincidence Reyes’s men are driving around armored haulers built by SunCorps entities, mounted with military-grade weapons manufactured by another SunCorps entity? The assault weapons?”
“MKEK.”
“Also run by GDS, Ladell. Dammit. When were you going to tell me all this?”
“I don’t see how it changes anything.”
“You don’t see—” Meyers groaned. “Are you serious?”
“Addis Ababa Street,” the leader of the escort said. He waved his free hand at the checkpoint guards. “We go to the theater.”
One of Reyes’s men waved them north. Meyers wasn’t sure what to make of that until his escort turned off the road and into an alleyway. Their pace picked up, and before long, they were jogging, with Reyes’s men and the haulers becoming visible, paralleling them, whenever the group came out of alleys and had to cross streets.
“Looks like someone’s not keen on your plan, Colonel,” McNutt said over their internal channel.
Zacharowski chuckled. “You mean besides me?”
“Colonel said to keep the channel clear, you knuckleheads.” Paxton’s voice was calm, but the no-bullshit tone was impossible to miss.
Meyers appreciated it. There was a time for cockiness, and there was a time for caution. Every time he got a good look at the haulers, he felt surer that even their environmental armor would be tested by the sort of weapons they had mounted. Even the best armor transferred some kinetic energy to the wearer, and what they wore was a compromise between protection and mobility. A well-placed round might penetrate. Enough hits in the same general area, and the armor’s integrity would fail. He wondered where the big hauler was, the one with the heavier gun on it. It looked like a mobile anti-aircraft weapon, something meant to take out armored vehicles. If the hauler and the gun were SunCorps, that would seem to seal the deal.
The open lot of the club appeared ahead of them. Turkish and Arabic-looking men stood there, gathered in two groups, many hidden behind what little cover there was in the lot: the tables, the storage drums. Their escort sprinted, and on Theater Road, the haulers came to a stop. Beyond the lot, the larger building rose, gray and ugly in the morning light.
Beniam stepped from the front of the building, assault rifle on his shoulder, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. A bandage stood out on his forehead, stark white against his black skin. He waved them forward, and the escort didn’t slow until Meyers reached Beniam’s position.
“You are safe,” Beniam said. He looked past them, toward Reyes’s forces. “Come.”
They followed him inside the building, which had what appeared to be a lobby with a sealed-up concession stand and two double doors that were open to reveal auditorium seating that sloped down to a stage. Three men leaned against walls there, what appeared to be a representative from each of the other factions—two men who could be Arab or Turk, and a tattoo-covered white man. Several men were gathered at the foot of the stage. Beniam led the way down the sloped floor, and the other three men fell in behind Meyers’s team.
“The United Nations arrived,” Beniam said. He laughed, and his deep voice filled the vast, open space.
Meyers gritted his teeth and opened his faceplate. Paxton, McNutt, and Zacharowski did the same.
The men at the base of the stage moved forward, much less entertained by the situation than Beniam was. Meyers recognized Mattias, Bey, and Badran. Savoy was harder to recognize. His hair was dyed almost white and pulled back into a ponytail. Each of the men was flanked by two bodyguards. One of Savoy’s bodyguards was Asian; the other appeared to be a multiracial mix.
The Minor Four, Meyers thought to himself.
Mattias stepped away from the others, and Beniam stopped, the smile now gone. “Beniam say you come last night. It is good to see his cut was worth the trouble. You speak for the United Nations?”
“We do.” Meyers extended a hand. “Colonel Lonny Meyers, Elite Response Force.”
Mattias glanced at Meyers’s hand but didn’t shake it. “We been here for nine years. Why is it you come now?”
“Maybe they want something they find up in Ardennen.” That was Bey, the Turk. He looked sickly, shaking. His cheeks were sunken, and his dark eyes were watery, but they were alert.
Badran waved toward Meyers dismissively. “The United Nations always wants something.”
Savoy drew himself up with a deep breath. “And maybe they’re here to make an offer. Let’s hear them out.”
Meyers nodded slightly at Savoy, then turned to Mattias, who seemed to speak with the most authority. “We are here to make you an offer, yes.” Meyers took everyone—even the bodyguards—in with a quick look. “When Reyes arrives—”
Mattias laughed. “Reyes has no reason to hear UN speak.”
“He doesn’t,” Savoy said. He turned so that the left side of his head was better exposed, revealing a disfigured ear and severe scarring along his neck. “But maybe we do.”
Bey wheezed and licked his lips, then said, “Let him talk.”
“We should probably wait for Reyes.” Meyers looked for support from Savoy and Bey, but they both shook their heads.
“He will not come,” Badran said.
Gunfire erupted outside, then shouting. Beniam and the guards who had been waiting out in the lobby ran toward the front, crouching when gunfire came from the lobby, splintering the tops of the door frames. Several men sprinted through the doorways and fanned out along the wall that separated the theater from the lobby. There was more gunfire, and the shouting outside died. Moments later, six men strolled in casually, as if they’d just won a battle. They were heavier armed than the others, with assault rifles dangling from shoulder straps and pistol holsters strapped to their legs. Most of them pointed submachine guns toward the people gathered near the stage.
“Amistades
,” said the man in the front of the pack. Reyes. “I come all this way, and you were meeting without my arrival? That is not how things work in Turning Point, is it?”
Meyers stepped forward and extended his hand. “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Reyes. I was just—”
“You can shut your fuckin’ mouth, United Nations.” Reyes pulled a large revolver and pointed it at Meyers’s head. “Or I think I might just blow your head off.”