Trial by Fire
by Charles E. Gannon
Fellow-citizens, we cannot escape history…
The fiery trial through which we pass, will light us down, in honor or dishonor, to the latest generation.
BOOK ONE
Conflict
All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when we are able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must appear inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near.
Part One
November 2119
Chapter One
The maglev began decelerating. As it did, the light seeping in through the overhead plexiglass panel increased sharply: they were now beyond the safety of the base’s tightly patrolled subterranean perimeter. Caine Riordan, newly minted commander in the United States Space Force, glanced at the young ensign beside him. “Are you ready?”
Ensign Marilyn Brahen looked out the even narrower plexiglass panel beside the door, checked the area into which they were about to deploy. There was blurred, frenetic movement out there. “Were we expecting a lot of—company?” she asked.
“No, Ensign, but it was a possibility.” Caine rose. “So we improvise and overcome.” She stood beside him as the doors opened—
—and they were hit by torrent of loud, unruly shouts from a crowd beyond the maglev platform. The group swiftly became a tight-packed wall of charging humanity, their outcries building before them like a cacophonic bow-wave.
Ensign Brahen eyed the approaching mob, news people already elbowing their way into the front rank, and swallowed. “Sir, you think those crazies will stay outside the car?”
“Not a chance.” And given the automated two-minute station stop, they’ll have us pinned in here before we can leave.
“I gotta confess, sir,” she continued, “this wasn’t what I was expecting when they told me I was going on a field assignment with you.”
“Well,” mused Caine as the reporters closed the last ten meters, “we are off-base. And technically, the civilian sector is ‘the field.’” Caine smiled at her, at the charade which was to be his one and only “command,” and stepped out the door.
The moment his foot touched the maglev platform, an improbably shrill male shriek—“Blasphemer!”—erupted from the center of the approaching crowd, followed by a glass bottle spinning lazily at Caine.
Behind him, he heard Ensign Brahen inhale sharply, no doubt preparatory to a warning shout—
But recent dojo-acquired reflexes now served Caine better than a warning. Without thinking, he deflected the bottle, which went angling off to smash loudly against the side of the passenger car behind him.
As Caine sensed Ensign Brahen moving up to cover his flank, he scanned the rear of the crowd for the presumably fleeing attacker. Instead, he discovered the assailant was standing his ground, right fist raised, left arm and index finger rigidly extended in accusation—
—which disappeared behind the surge of newspersons who surrounded Caine as a wall of eager faces and outstretched comcorders. Somewhere, behind that palisade of journalists, the attacker shrieked again. “Blasphemer!” But his voice was receding, and then was finally drowned out by the mass of jostling reporters and protestors who threatened to shove Caine and Ensign Brahen back against the maglev car. Their inquiries were shrill, aggressive, and rapid.
“Mr. Riordan, is it true you’re the one who found the remains of an alien civilization on Delta Pavonis Three?”
“Caine! Caine, over here! Why wait two years to announce your discoveries?”
“Who decided that you’d announce your findings behind closed doors: the World Confederation, or you, Caine?”
A young man with a bad case of acne and a worse haircut—evidently the boldest jackal in the pack—stuck a palmcom right under Riordan’s nose. “Caine, have there been any other attacks like the one we just witnessed, by people who believe that your reports about exosapients are just lies intended to undermine the Bible?” Ironically, that was the moment when one of the protestors waved a placard showing a supposed alien: a long-armed gibbon with an ostrich neck, polygonal head, tendrils instead of fingers. Actually, it was a distressingly good likeness of the beings Caine had encountered on Dee Pee Three, prompting him to wonder, so who the hell is leaking that information?
The young reporter evidently did not like having to wait two seconds for an answer. “So Caine, exactly when did you decide to start undermining the Bible?”
Caine smiled. “I’ve never taken part in theological debates, and I have no plans to start doing so.”
A very short and immaculately groomed woman extended her palmcom like a rapier; Caine resisted the impulse to parry. “Mr. Riordan, the World Confederation Consuls have declined to confirm rumors that you personally reported the existence of the exosapients of Delta Pavonis Three at this April’s Parthenon Dialogues. However, CoDevCo Vice President R. J. Astor-Smath claims to have evidence that you were the key presenter on the last day of that meeting.”
Caine labored to keep the smile on his face. It would be just like Astor-Smath, or some other megacorporate factotum, to put the press back on my scent. But how the hell did they find me out here at Barnard’s Star? Caine prefaced his reply with a shrug. “I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with Mr. Astor-Smath’s comments, so—”
Another reporter pushed forward. “He made these remarks two months ago.” The reporter’s palmcom crackled as it projected Astor-Smath’s voice: composed, suave, faintly contemptuous. “I wish I could share more with you about the Parthenon Dialogues, but the late Admiral Nolan Corcoran prevented any megacorporation—including my own, the Colonial Development Combine—from attending. However, we do have reliable sources who place Mr. Riordan at the second day of the Parthenon Dialogues.”
Behind him, Caine heard a warning tone announce the imminent departure of the maglev passenger car. It would be ten minutes before the next would arrive, ten more minutes surrounded by harrying jackals. No thanks. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you’ll have to excuse me.” So much for my “first command.” He started to turn back to the maglev car.
“One last question, Caine. Who’s your new girlfriend?”
Ensign Brahen started as if stuck by a pin. Caine turned back around, foregoing the escape via maglev. Instead, he searched for the source of the question, asking, “Besides being grossly unprofessional and misinformed, just why is that a relevant inquiry?”
“Well,” explained Mr. Bad-Skin Worse-Hair as he reemerged from the mass of faces and limbs, “we were expecting to see you with Captain Opal Patrone, your personal guard. And, some say, your personal geisha.”
Enough is enough. Caine planted his feet, kept his voice level, his diction clipped. “I feel compelled to point out that, in addition to raising a thoroughly inappropriate topic, you didn’t even manage to frame it as a question.” Caine looked out over the faces ringing him. “If there are any competent journalists here, I’m ready for their inquiries.”