The terse reply from the fleet comes over the emergency channel well before the minute is up.
“Hold your fire, Indianapolis. All fleet units, stand down. I repeat, all fleet units, stand down. Airborne units, disengage, disengage.”
Within moments, all gunfire in the city ebbs. Across the intersection, the SI troopers withdraw into the warren of residential domes and narrow alleyways behind a rapidly thinning smoke screen. We track them with our rifle sights until they are gone from view. Someone turns off the fire-control system on the autocannon, and its electric servos stop humming. The sudden silence feels a bit surreal after the din of battle.
Sergeant Fallon slaps my shoulder pauldron and leaps over the concrete barrier into the road.
“The day’s looking up, Andrew. Let’s get some medics out to First Squad. Keep a watch, in case they change their minds.”
CHAPTER 21
“I want that general in the brig. Then I want him in front of a court-martial. And if they have the good sense to put him up against a wall, I want to stand behind the firing squad and wave good-bye.”
Sergeant Fallon isn’t speaking with a raised voice, but I know her well enough to tell that she’s implacably angry.
“That might be a bit difficult,” Colonel Campbell says over the vid link from Indianapolis. “He’s the ranking officer in this boondoggle of a task force. And if you come down on him, we also have to come down on the button pushers who executed his orders.”
“You say that like it’s unreasonable,” Sergeant Fallon replies. “We have thirty-nine dead and seventy wounded down here. We’re down a Dragonfly, a Shrike, and four Wasps, and those hothead attack jocks put a thousand rounds of cannon shells into a civvie settlement. If the houses down here weren’t built like fucking bunkers, we could probably add fifty or a hundred civilians to that tally. The idiot who ordered that strike mission needs to walk the plank, Colonel.”
“Look, Sarge, I’m not greatly troubled by the prospect, but it’s not like I can send my sergeant-at-arms over there to put cuffs on the general,” Colonel Campbell says. “What do you suggest?”
“Tell them that there will be no food or water replenishment from the colony unless they relieve the general of command and put him in the brig pending a court-martial.”
“I’m not sure they’ll respond well to that, Sarge.”
“They’ll come around when their water recyclers run dry,” Sergeant Fallon says flatly.
“Your show down there. I’ll send it on to the task force.”
“Have they been poking around for you at all, Colonel?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah. Nothing aggressive, but the whole task force is running with their active sensors cranked all the way up. Even with this stealth boat, I have to keep my distance.”
“How’s your supply situation?”
“Well, this is an orbital combat ship, not a deep-space combatant. We have enough water and food for a few more weeks. But I want to work out a schedule for water replenishment and crew rotation as soon as practical. This thing isn’t really built for month-long deployments, and I don’t want my crew to go stir-crazy.”
“Absolutely, Colonel,” Sergeant Fallon says. “And if you can pencil yourself in some dirtside time, I’d love to sit down for a drink with you. The locals make a fierce moonshine, and there’s plenty of ice around all over the place.”
“That sounds pretty good, Sarge,” Colonel Campbell says. “I’ll take you up on that offer as soon as we have the situation here in orbit unfucked and I can put the safeties back on my nuclear launch tubes. Indy Actual out.”
The briefing room on the bottom floor of the admin center has all the charm of a military mess hall, albeit with nicer furniture. A large holographic panel takes up the wall behind the head of the conference table. The colony is new, so all the communications gear is state of the art, more advanced than even the stuff in the CIC of the brand-new Indianapolis. Sergeant Fallon has been using the room for a while now to talk to the captains of Indianapolis and the Gary I. Gordon without fear of eavesdropping.
“Not exactly an impressive navy,” I say. “One orbital combat ship and an ancient freighter. Those fleet units still outgun us fifty to one in ordnance.”
“Yeah, but thank the gods for the nukes on that ship,” she says. “That’s the only thing keeping the fleet off our asses right now. That and the fact that the one captain defecting to our side has the stealthiest ship of the bunch.”
There’s a knock on the door, and one of the colony’s administrators sticks his head into the briefing room.
“Sergeant Fallon, there’s someone here to see you.”
“Military or civilian?”
“Uh, civilian, ma’am. She’s the head of our science mission.”