Molly Fyde and the Fight for Peace
Page 44

“Listen,” Parsona said. The volume on the radio rose, allowing Ryke to listen in to the chatter between the various Underground groups up in the Bern fleet, none of them in agreement on what to do next. As soon as Mortimor’s ship had passed through the rift and crashed into Lok, the leadership of the Underground had fallen apart, everything suddenly in question.
“They’re dithering,” Parsona said, “rather than acting. I’m not being unreasonable, I assure you. I’m heading for the rift, not Mortimor.”
“I don’t believe you,” Ryke said with sadness in his voice. “I don’t blame you, but I don’t believe you.”
“I accept that, but the Underground’s cover was blown the second Mortimor’s ship crashed through. I’ve got targets on SADAR heading down to mop them up and probably garrison the base of the rift. Now that the Bern know it’s threatened from this side, we’ll never get another chance at it. It’s us or it’s nobody. And that paltry fleet above us pales to what will gather if we don’t act now.”
Ryke chewed on that, crunching the odds. He eventually realized she was right. Everything was falling apart all at once, but if they could close the rift, there was at least a chance that future battles could whittle down the Bern ships that had already come through. He wouldn’t be alive to see it, of course, but walling off the galaxy was the top priority, something the Drenards had discovered long ago.
As he thought of them, that old empire he had reached out to so many years ago, Ryke realized how important Admiral Saunders’s mission to Earth had become. Even if the efforts at Darrin and on Lok failed—and it appeared that they would—at least his treaty with Anlyn might provide a long-overdue spark. Maybe Humans and Drenards would stop fighting one another, wasting all those lives and resources, and join forces. And if Ryke and his friends could plug the hole he’d created on Lok, perhaps those future generations, banded together, could eventually win the war.
••••
Ominous black clouds hung low over Washington D.C. They oozed a steady patter of rain, soaking Arlington Cemetery. As Saunders and his two subordinates trudged up the paved walkway, he couldn’t help but be aware of the significance of the national monument around him. He had recently lost enough men and women to account for every tombstone in sight, a truly sobering and depressing thought. But if his mission failed, or if the plan on Lok fell apart, there wouldn’t be enough green grass on Earth to hide the dead. Saunders chewed on that, growing ever more determined to succeed, as they slogged their way up the hill.
When they neared the outer gate, two figures in uniform rushed out of a small guardhouse nestled among the black wrought iron. The soldiers raced down through the rain to meet the trio, nervous hands resting on holstered guns. As they drew closer, Saunders could see the confused expressions on their faces as they struggled to account for the presence of three intruders on the inside of their carefully protected perimeter.
Saunders glanced around and realized for the first time that he and his companions were alone among the sad monuments. Normally there would be one or two family members, even in the rain, their umbrellas domed above their grief. It must’ve been a local Sunday, or perhaps the Drenard invasion had federal properties puckered tight. Whatever the reason, Saunders made sure to reach for his credentials slowly.
“Arms up,” he told Robinson and Sharee, before the guards had a chance to ask them less politely. Sharee reached for her credentials as well, but Saunders assured her his would suffice.
The two guards arrived in a wary trot, their hats encased in clear plastic and popping with large splatters of rain. One of the guards reached for Saunders’s credentials. He waved his scanner over the card, and it beeped cheerily. The soldier’s expression quickly went from perplexed to befuddled as he read the results. He frowned at his machine as if it might be malfunctioning.
Saunders imagined not only his rank showing up, but also his currently assigned quadrant, half a galaxy away. Perhaps the machine was even saying he was presumed killed in action. The guard with the scanner twisted the device to show his companion. Both of their bodies tensed with formality.
“Sirs!” the second guard said. He snapped a salute to all three of them.
“At ease, Soldiers.” Saunders reached forward to accept his credentials back, the rain coursing down from his flattened hair and off his chubby nose. “Now if you would, call for transport and notify the President.” He replaced his ID, pulled out another laminated card, and held it out. “This is my clearance badge. It should patch you straight through.”
“Which President?” the lead guard asked. He fell in beside the trio as they marched toward the guardhouse and the gate. His partner had already sprinted off in that direction to summon a surface ship.
“The GU President,” Saunders said. “Do I look interested in domestic affairs?”
“Of course not, sir. And what should I tell him?”
“Tell him to put down whatever he’s doing. He’s about to have visitors with very good news.”
••••
The marine Rynx set down in front of the GU building, the craft’s rotors thrumming with the whump whump whump of shuddering air. Saunders gazed out at the great structure. It was a sprawling palace done in the triple-post modern style from the twenty third century. Its grand façade, broken up by ornate columns, overlooked the ancient spread of old D.C.—a perfect vista from which it could watch the monuments of yore dilapidate in time along with their ever eroding significance.
A contingent of Galactic Guards met Saunders and his two officers by the Rynx’s deployed loading ramp. They all wore serious faces and fitted armor that clapped against itself as they hurriedly marched to get in place. Between the two lines of guards hung an anti-grav awning erected against the steady rain. Standing at the base of the ramp was an instantly recognizable figure: Susan Karlton, Secretary of Galaxy and a one-time presidential candidate.
Susan smiled when she saw Saunders. “Griffin,” she said, greeting him warmly and informally. “I asked them to run your credentials three times. I didn’t believe it.”
“The hits are gonna keep on coming,” Saunders said. He stepped close and clasped Susan’s hand. He had seen her as recently as his promotion ceremony a month or so ago, but it felt like a lifetime had passed since. “Just wait until you see what I’m bringing along.” He let go of her hand and patted the chest of his borrowed Navy Regs, feeling the Drenard peace treaty folded up within.
Susan glanced at his companions.
“Oh, I apologize, I’m not sure if you know my senior officers.” He turned to the other two figures huddled under the awning and raised his voice as the rotor overhead continued to thwump loudly. “This is Commander Sharee Rickson and my second in command, Lieutenant Major Robinson.”
Susan smiled and nodded at them, then looked Saunders up and down. “You look like shit,” she said.
“I feel worse.”
“I bet. I’d offer you the chance to shower and rest up, but Marine Two said you wanted to debrief at once?”
Saunders nodded. “It’s urgent.”
“Very well,” Susan said. She waved the trio toward the South wing entrance and continued to talk as they walked, lowering her voice to a reasonable level as the Rynx gradually powered down. “The snippets we’ve gotten from Lok were hard to believe. I—We saw pictures of Gloria nose-down in the dirt. Locals are posting them on the net. I’m—I’m very sorry. What exactly happened?”
“I’d rather not discuss that right now,” Saunders said, feeling on the verge of getting choked up. “I’m not here to debrief on any one battle. I need to discuss the larger war.”
They approached the entrance, and a guard stood ready with a scanner. He tagged Susan’s credentials hanging from her chest. Once again, Saunders waved his junior commanders off and used his own ID to validate the three of them. He let the guards fume over the breach of protocol as he and the others stepped inside and out of the humid D.C. air. Susan picked up the conversation again:
“So, you’re not here to debrief on Lok or the loss of Zebra? The President will want to know—hell I want to know what went down out there.”
“Bad choice of words,” Sharee said.
Susan blushed and continued walking sideways, leading them toward the elevators as she spoke. “I apologize. I haven’t slept in two days. I’m pretty much running on coffee and adrenaline right now. But still, the fact that you’re standing here is the best news we’ve had in weeks. We—Well a lot of your friends had given up on you. All of you. How many survived?”
“Not many,” Saunders said, shaking his head. He stepped into the waiting elevator. “And we’re not here to debrief on that.”
“Then what are you here for?” Susan asked. She stepped aside and waved the other two crewmembers into the elevator.
Saunders reached inside his coat pocket, drawing out a folded document. “We’re here for the President’s signature,” he said. “And we wouldn’t mind something warm to sip on while we listen to his broadcast on the cessation of hostilities.”
Susan’s eyes widened with curiosity. Her gaze drifted down to the documents in Saunders’s hand.
“What is that?” she asked.
“This one is a formal registration of ambassadorship between the Galactic Union and the Drenardian Empire.”
He teased apart one of the sheaves, holding it to the side and watching Susan’s stunned expression follow.
“It’s a mere formality, of course, but necessary to assure that this one is official.”
“And it is—?” It came out a squeak, all Susan seemed able to muster.
“This one is the immediate and complete surrender of all Allied armed forces and a call for peace, accepted by a member of their War Council, the new ambassador to the Terran forces, and currently the second in line to the throne of the Drenard Empire, one Anlyn Hooo. It’s also been ratified by their council member specializing in alien relations, and you wouldn’t believe who he was if I told you. Combined, these documents demand an end to a war that’s been raging longer than you and I have been alive.”
The elevator dinged as they arrived at the President’s residential wing, and the doors opened on a sophisticated array of security stations and guard booths. Susan exited and waved the trio forward, her gesture meek and subdued as she seemed to reel from the bizarre claims of her old acquaintance.
Saunders strode out confidentially, relishing having had the opportunity to practice his delivery before seeing the President—not to mention the chance to shock an old friend into stunned silence. What he hadn’t explained was that the cessation of hostilities with one enemy would just be the beginning, a chance to root out the traitors in their midst and align forces for the true threat pouring into the galaxy. Still, the end of a war that had raged for generations was near at hand, a monumental and historical moment. Saunders walked toward the final guard station between himself and that slice of history, his mind spinning with the implications, his mood giddy from being so close to fulfilling his portion of the mission.
Beside him, Commander Sharee strolled with a likewise bounce in her step, her erect posture and loping gate letting him know that she too was taking no small amount of delight in the significance of their actions.
••••
Behind them both, Lieutenant Robinson brought up the procession’s rear, preventing the three Humans from glimpsing his dark expression. The Bern agent felt along his ribs as he walked, comforting himself with the presence of his internal munitions.
He imagined for a moment that he could feel the warmth of the suicide bomb inside his chest as the two powerful fluids flowed from their lung-shaped sacks to mix together. What once could’ve passed for two benign organs in any x-ray were slowly coalescing, forming in their coming together a new and deadly mixture potent enough to level an entire city block.
As much as the Bern agent had loathed to watch his fat boss gloat over the end to a meaningless squabble, he had to remind himself that such celebrations were premature and ridiculous. In reality, the true mission to Earth had only begun. And it would not be a call for the end of violence by their pathetic President. It was very soon to become a bright, gory plume of fire and shrapnel. Another spark in the great conflagration that was destined to consume this damned and pesky spiral galaxy for good.
43 · Crash
Cat followed the Wadi’s scent trail to a bank of elevators as the weak odors thinned out to a vaporous nothing. She pressed all the buttons arranged on the shiny column between the lifts, the symbols as meaningless to her as the jabber she’d squeezed out of the guard at the last station. Doubt crept up inside, making her feel stupid for jumping off to orbit all half-cocked like she always did. Of all the things she’d expected to find when she jumped after Molly and Walter, she hadn’t been prepared to find nothing.
She looked down at her emerging toes while she waited on one of the lifts to arrive. So focused was she on her healing wounds, Cat missed the silent swish of the opening doors. There was just a soft ding, and by the time she looked up, two stunned Bern had already drawn their guns.
One Bern got a shot off before Cat could slice them both in half. The blast went through her chest, right by her shoulder. Cat staggered inside the lift, reeling from the physical impact of the blow, her nostrils tingling with the smell of burnt self.
The doors closed, snapping shut across a new stream of Bern blood. Cat looked for buttons to press, her pursuit having become mad and completely blind. The dizziness from her blood loss worsened with the new wound, filling her with despair but very little pain. She blinked away the cloudy thoughts and realized there were no buttons in the elevator to press, just a badge scanner and four massive knobs beneath it, each of which was ringed with more Bern symbols.