The kidnappers themselves were long-term sleeper agents, intended to remain in reserve until the United States finally attacked Iran. Steve listened to their conversation carefully; one of them seemed genuinely repentant, the others seemed more sorry they’d been caught than anything else. But the repentant one had had the wife and children in the United States.
Steve shrugged. Even if he were freed, it was unlikely he would ever see his wife and children again. They’d be interrogated once more, than probably put into a witness protection program. They hadn’t known about what was coming, but it wouldn’t stop people blaming them for it.
He turned and strode out of the room, back to the CIC. After a moment, Mongo followed him.
“Iran is going to be destroyed,” he said, flatly. He activated the interface, bringing the ship’s weapons online. It wouldn’t be too difficult to destroy Iran. A handful of large kinetic warheads would smash most of the cities, while smaller missiles would take out the military bases and oil installations. “They’re all going to die.”
“No,” Mongo said.
Steve blinked in surprise. It was Kevin who would have argued for mercy — no, not mercy, a more subtle revenge than mass destruction. But Kevin was light years away.
He leaned forward. “Why not?”
Mongo met his eyes evenly. “Do you remember Jock Hazelton?”
Steve nodded, puzzled. Jock Hazelton had been a young lad living near the ranch, only a year or two younger than Mongo. He’d been a quiet, withdrawn child, so no one had suspected him of being responsible for a series of thefts and pieces of vandalism all over the countryside. Steve still recalled the angry interrogation from his father when he, as one of the rowdier children, fell under suspicion. It hadn’t been until he’d been caught in the act that everyone had realised that Jock Hazelton had been to blame for all of it. His embarrassed family had left the region soon afterwards.
“Do you remember,” Mongo demanded, “how we were all blamed for it?”
“Yes,” Steve said. It had rankled; the threats, the sharp eyes following them wherever they went, the awareness that their father had come far too close to thrashing all three of his sons on suspicion. By the time the truth had come out, distrust had seriously damaged the community. “I remember.”
“So tell me,” Mongo said, “how you can hold the entire population of Iran to blame for what their leaders have done?”
Steve took a breath. “They didn’t overthrow the government,” he protested. “They…”
Mongo snorted. “I seem to recall you spending most of your time bitching and moaning about the feds,” he said. “But you didn’t take up your rifle and go Henry Bowmen on them.”
He pushed on before Steve could say a word. “You know that life in Iran isn’t comfortable,” he said. “But you also know that Iranians are held in terror by scumbags like that lot” — he jerked a thumb towards the holding cells — “and any resistance is severely punished. How can you blame them for not rising up when resistance seems futile?”
Steve glared at him, trying to think of a response. Nothing came to mind.
“I hate those bastards as much as you do,” Mongo snapped. “But is it right to destroy their entire country, taking out millions of innocent people, just because you’re angry at the fuckers in charge? You have the power to punish those who are truly guilty, to hold them to account for their sins, yet you intend to flail around like the idiots who never suspected poor little Jock!”
He took a long breathe. “Steve… you’re building a government here,” he said. “The last thing you want is to convince everyone that you’re a power-mad monster on a scale worse than Hitler. Because that’s what you will be, if you slaughter everyone in Iran.”
“Our Great-Grandfather died fighting Hitler,” Steve said.
“And what,” Mongo demanded, “do you think he’d make of you?”
He sighed. “Steve, you need to think about more than just revenge,” he said. “I know you’re hurting, I know you’re angry and I don’t blame you for being either. But you have to think about the future too. What sort of impression does it give the rest of the world if you commit genocide?
“The tech monopoly will slip, sooner or later,” he added. “There are already plans to produce more superconductors with purely human technology. Then there’s the guys who think they can produce a primitive fusion reactor. Antigravity might not be too far away, thanks to the theorists — and if they do manage to master superconductors, they can probably produce antigravity too. What will happen if the world governments fear and hate us instead of agreeing to work with us? Your dream will die!”
Steve fought to keep himself calm. His love for Mariko demanded revenge; his love for what he’d created agreed with Mongo and insisted that something more subtle had to be done, instead of mass slaughter. But would it be enough to make the point that acts of terrorism would not go unpunished?
“Yes,” Mongo said, when he asked. “Kill a few thousand soldiers and evil bastards like the theocrats of Iran won’t give a shit. They’re just chattel to them. But kill the leaders, show them there’s no place to hide, and they will be scared. And, while you’re at it, destroy Iran’s nuclear program once and for all. Let the world see what we can do without bombing a country into radioactive dust.”
Steve took a long breath, suddenly feeling very tired. “Make the target selections,” he ordered. “I want the entire government wiped out.”
“I was going to suggest taking them as prisoners,” Mongo said. “We can find some hard labour for them to do, once we’ve finished interrogating them. God alone knows what else we might find out along the way.”
He paused. “And who knows what Iran will become without the Mullahs holding them back?”
Gunter Dawlish had spent most of the afternoon trying to get a read on just what had happened in New York. There had been explosions, he knew, and over a hundred people were dead or wounded, but there were also thousands of rumours flying around. A ship had been boarded, the crew had been captured, and Iran was involved somehow. The internet, source of millions upon millions of rumours, had even suggested that the explosions in New York were the first steps in a war between America and Iran. But there had been no other military moves as far as he could tell.
His cell phone rang. “Mr. Dawlish,” Steve Stuart said. “Would you care to join me?”
“Of course,” Gunter said. He might be a lunar citizen now, but an invitation to Mr. Stuart’s flagship was still a rarity. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m bringing you up now,” Stuart said. “Brace yourself for teleport.”
Dawlish closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was standing on a teleport pad, facing Stuart. The man looked as if he had aged ten years overnight, although Dawlish wasn’t sure where that impression came from. It was hard to be certain, but Stuart had always looked to be in his late thirties.
“Come with me,” Stuart said.
He didn’t say another word until they were in his cabin, looking at a holographic image of Earth. Small icons moved around, each one — Gunter realised slowly — representing a ship, an aircraft or a satellite. He couldn’t help admiring the sheer detail of the image, even as it started to focus on Iran.