The conference call takes place in the admin center’s meeting rooms. From the efficient and routine way everything gets set up and prepared, it’s pretty clear that everyone involved has had plenty of practice since Indy set out for Earth. I take a seat on the long side of the big conference table in the room, next to Sergeant Fallon. The COs of the two HD battalions, Lieutenant Colonels Decker and Kemp, are sitting across from me, along with their senior NCOs. On our side of the meeting, the civilian administrator and Dr. Stewart round out the group. The far wall of the room is set up with a large holoscreen that is split ten ways to show the feeds from all the other participants. I see Colonel Campbell on one of the screen segments, standing in the well-familiar CIC pit on Indy, with Major Renner by his side and slightly behind him, and I feel a vague sense of abandonment.
“Let me open by stating that if there’s still a military administration when we get back to Earth, I am recommending you for the Medal of Honor, Colonel Campbell,” Colonel Aguilar says over the feed from Regulus’s CIC. “You and your crew have pulled off an impossible mission, and we are all indebted to Indianapolis for your skill and bravery.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Colonel Aguilar. But we scouted out the solar system as ordered, no more and no less. And considering the way we left, they may give me a firing squad before they hang that medal around my neck.”
“We will sort out that situation when we show up in Earth orbit with a three-carrier strike force,” Colonel Aguilar replies.
“Our supply situation is critical,” the senior SRA officer says. General Park looks tired, and the shadows on his face make his angular features even more prominent. “Our fuel is not so bad, but our rations are low. We are at fifteen percent of reserves. That is a week and a half at best.”
“We aren’t doing any better,” Colonel Aguilar responds. “Ten thousand troops to feed on the ground every day without bleeding the colony dry. We’re down to sweeping up the crumbs over on Portsmouth. A week at the most. Then we’re down to emergency rations.”
“Then it is in our best interest to set the agreed-upon plan in motion as soon as feasible.”
“We agree, General Park. If you have no objections, we will prepare for departure and initiate the return to the solar system via the Alliance node within twenty-four hours. If you wish, we can level out the supply situation prior to departure and redistribute whatever is left among the Alliance and Commonwealth ships as needed.”
“That would be most appreciated,” Brigadier Park replies.
A new spirit of cooperation and courtesy, I think. Amazing how civilized we can be when there’s nothing left to shoot each other over.
“With the airlift capabilities we have left, we’ll need six to eight hours to get all the SD troops off the terraformers and onto the carrier,” Lieutenant Colonel Decker chimes in. “And that’s if the weather doesn’t shut down flight ops.”
“Then get those birds in the air as soon as you can,” Colonel Aguilar says.
“I want to unload my Homeworld Defense troopers on Regulus, sir. I know we came here on Midway, but they’ll need their space for the Spaceborne Infantry regiment from Camp Frostbite. I think it’s best if we don’t camp out on the same flight deck with the SI boys, considering what happened before you got here.”
“I have no issue with that. Regulus has the bigger flight deck anyway, and we’re short on drop ships. You’ll have lots of elbow room.”
“What about you, Administrator?” Colonel Campbell asks. “How many civilians are you sending home with us?”
“Any that want to go. But I’ll tell you that it won’t be very many. We’re sort of set in our ways down here.”
“If the Lankies find you again, you may regret having passed up the chance.”
“If the Lankies find us again, we are going to ground and hope they’ll find the place too cold for their taste. From what info you brought back from Earth, I’d say we wouldn’t be any better off there right now.”
“That’s your decision to make, and we have no right to try to tell you otherwise. Make sure that any evacuees are ready for airlift up to the carriers by 1800 tonight at the latest,” Colonel Aguilar says.
“Understood,” the colony administrator says. “They’ll be there on time, whoever’s going.”
The commanding officers hash out details of our departure while I listen and try to ignore the throbbing pain in my temples. Apparently, the brass have started planning our return while Indy was still on her return leg to New Svalbard, but I have no idea how they’re planning to get past the seed ships on the other side of the Alliance node, and it’s not my place to ask in this particular meeting. All I know right now is that we are leaving for good within forty-eight hours, and that we are heading for unfriendly space again.
“You can stay, you know,” Sergeant Fallon says to me when we leave the conference room and walk back down to the ops center.
“Here? On New Svalbard?”
“The COs are giving the Homeworld Defense grunts the option to stay here and be a permanent part of the defense. Way we see it, the Commonwealth dumped them here for good. They have the right to decide for themselves.”
“What about you? Are you staying?”
“I thought about it,” she says. “Briefly. Very briefly.”
“But no.”
“But no,” she confirms. “None of my guys want to stay here on Ice Station Bumfuck, and I’m not going to leave my troops. Besides, I’d run out of shit to do here really fucking fast.”
“The recreational opportunities are limited,” I agree.
“It has its good sides. Clean air, lovely scenery. Peace and quiet, if you’re into that sort of thing.” Her tone makes it clear that she isn’t into that sort of thing, as if I needed the clarification.
“You’ve not been on a spaceship when the Lankies are nearby,” I say. “Down here, you get to hold a rifle and shoot at them. Run, hide, fight. Up there, you have nothing. All you can do is hold on to the nearest handrail and hope that the people in command know what the hell they’re doing. Most scared I’ve ever been in my life, and that’s no lie.”
Sergeant Fallon says nothing for a few moments. We walk up to the ops center door, and she puts one hand on the door handle.
“You’re scared because you still have something to lose,” she says. “That’s the main difference between us. And I really hope that we make it back through again. So you get to marry your sweetheart and stop sticking your idealistic neck out for the greater good. You don’t want to keep doing this soldiering shit and then find one day that you’re not scared of dying anymore.”
“You got no fear of dying, you got nothing to live for, either,” I say.
She rolls her eyes at me and shakes her head. “Spare me the motivational-calendar quotes, Andrew. Every time I think you’ve learned a thing or two, you get all un-jaded on me again. You are such a babe.” She wrenches the ops center door open. “T-minus eight,” she says. “Pack your shit and enjoy that clean white snow one last time. I’ll see you at the airfield at 1800 Zulu.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “See you there.”
I walk up to Dr. Stewart’s office to find it an even bigger mess than usual. Janet is going through the drawer of her desk and tossing things into a pair of open shipping containers in the middle of the office floor. She looks up when I step into the open doorway.
“It’s the most intoxicated soldier in the world,” she says. “From a science point of view, I am surprised you are walking around.”
“With some difficulty,” I say. “Packing for something?”