“And the colonists.”
“And the colonists,” he replies. “How many people live on that frozen ball of shit again?”
“Ten, fifteen thousand,” Major Carter supplies. “It’s a pretty new colony. Ten years tops.”
“Twenty thousand people at the most, then.” Agent Green sighs. “A quarter of them insubordinate rabble-rousers who thought their oath of service was more of a loose suggestion.”
“And three-quarters of them civilians.”
Agent Green sighs again and puts his data pad onto the table in front of him. “Do you know how many civilians have died on Lanky-invaded colonies, Sergeant?”
“I have a rough idea,” I say. “I’ve done four years of combat drops. Seen an awful lot of dead bodies.”
“Eight hundred fifty thousand,” Agent Green says. “Give or take a few ten thousand. And that count was from two months ago. Mars blew it all to hell. Call it twenty, twenty-one million now. But you know what? That number is a weak piss in a lake compared to the number of people that are going to die when the Lankies show up in Earth orbit.”
I look at the Earth bureaucrat with his neat suit underneath the borrowed overalls, with that badge in his pocket and the data pad in front of him, acting like any of this still matters.
“We have a few weeks,” I say. “Maybe a few months. There are a dozen Lanky ships patrolling between Mars and the asteroid belt. When they’re done settling Mars, they’re going to head this way. Way things stand, I don’t think Leavenworth is going to be a problem for me.”
“Well, aren’t you just the toughest guy on the block,” Agent Green says. “I am, of course, duly awed. Where is your berth, Staff Sergeant?”
“I can’t seem to recall just now. Maybe I’ll remember by the time you get me some JAG counsel in here. I don’t think I should be saying anything else right now.”
Agent Green shakes his head, a mildly irritated look on his face. Then he picks up his data pad again and taps the screen.
“Have the master-at-arms find and unlock Staff Sergeant Grayson’s berth. Secure the data module from his armor and report back to the docking collar as soon as complete. And secure the SRA prisoner.”
“He’s not a POW,” I interject. “He’s the liaison for the Alliance task force we joined up with in Fomalhaut. I thought you debriefed the skipper?”
“And I thought you were done talking without JAG counsel,” Agent Green says.
“We need the Russian to get back through the Alliance node for Fomalhaut,” I say. “He has the access code.”
“This ship is going precisely nowhere right now, Sergeant. Once we have untangled the personnel situation, Indianapolis is going to join the defense of Earth. You may have noticed that we’re down a few ships right now.”
“If we don’t go back to Fomalhaut, thirty thousand people are going to die,” I say. “They’re waiting for us to get back and tell them the way home. It’s what we came back for. We’re the scouting mission for a twenty-ship task force. They can’t make the transition blind without our intel. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“If you go back to Fomalhaut, billions are going to die,” Agent Green replies. “You’d never make it anyway. It’s amazing that you made it all the way here to begin with.” He pushes the chair back from the table and looks at Major Carter. “Let’s gather our things and get off this bucket. Call the SPs in to take Sergeant Grayson into custody for now.”
I don’t know why, but they will not let us leave, and they sure as hell won’t let me get off the ship and talk to Halley or anyone else. For some reason, they want to keep us all quiet. If they replace the command crew and take the ship, we all risked our lives for nothing, and Sergeant Fallon and everyone on New Svalbard are going to be dead in a few months.
I look at Agent Green, who returns my glance with a slight, self-assured smile that makes me instantly furious. Whatever his priorities are, he couldn’t care less that my friends are going to die if he gets his way. If I am about to get locked in a brig for the rest of humanity’s final chapter, I’ll at least get a last lick in, to wipe that smirk off this bureaucrat’s face. It’s not like I have much to lose anymore.
The bubble of barely contained rage that has been floating just below the surface of my consciousness pops, and I let the anger take over. I seize my PDP and throw it at Agent Green. He sees it coming and raises his data pad to deflect my throw, but he’s just a fraction of a second too late. The hard polymer shell of my loaner PDP hits him in the face, right on the bridge of his nose. He yelps and drops his data pad, which lands on the table with a dull clatter.
The major is already out of his seat when I lunge across the table. I grab the front of his uniform tunic and pull hard. He pulls back with force to resist getting pulled across the table. I give it half a second and then turn the pull into a push, letting go of his uniform and shoving him against the chest with both hands. He flies back and stumbles to the floor. The serving counter is too close behind him for clearance, and he crashes into it, arms and legs flailing.
“SP detail to the NCO mess,” Agent Green shouts. The blood is pouring freely from his nose. He backs away when I come around the table. When I am close enough for contact, he hauls off and shoots a surprisingly competent left straight against my cheekbone. I am so full of anger and adrenaline that I barely register the hit. I return the favor with a left straight of my own, which he blocks with his lower arm. Then I follow up with a right cross, and I put all my weight and force behind it. My fist hits him on the nose, almost exactly in the same spot my PDP nailed him just a moment ago. He collapses with a strangled-sounding little grunt.
Behind me, I hear the unmistakable sound of a pistol’s slide cycling and slamming home. I turn around to see Major Carter pointing a gun at me from his slightly crumpled position on the floor. He is aiming with one hand. The muzzle of the pistol wavers more than just a little, but at this range, he doesn’t have to be good, just lucky, and there are thirty rounds in his magazine.
“Move another centimeter,” he says. “Please.”
I freeze in place and hold my hands away from my body. Then I turn sideways, very slowly, until I offer him the smallest possible target.
“You are a logistics guy,” I say. “Carrying with an empty chamber.”
Behind us, the entrance hatch of the NCO mess slams open, and four civilian SPs pile into the room, PDWs at low ready. To my right, Special Agent Green sits up with a groan. He has his hand over his face, and there’s blood seeping out from between his fingers.
“Put this asshole in cuffs,” he says, his voice muffled.
With five guns pointed at me, I do my best to impersonate a piece of furniture. The SPs surround me, and one of them aims his PDW at my head.