Jupiter IV’s gray and hazy surface hid behind a glittering cloud of ice dust. Terraformed more than forty years before, the moon homed several megalopolises, neurons of light hugging the crests of large craters sometimes as old as the Solar System. In the multi-ringed basin of Asgard turned into a deep lake, American settlers had established Callisto City, which years later welcomed the Outer Worlds headquarters of the Marine.
A flying taxicab left the military spaceport outside the sprawl. His forehead pressed against the rear window, Captain Braun gazed uneasily at the steel rotunda of the base sinking into the dark polluted waters below. For his entire future would depend on this meeting with the Techno-Secretary of Defense. He had been ordered to go alone to the fateful rendezvous. The port’s military authorities had put the Noah’s Ark in dry dock and confined the crew to their quarters.
The vehicle left the expressway, and veered to the right towards the overhead exit ramp leading to the shores. Rubber wheels unfolded as the descent began. The gears absorbing most of the shock, the diesel taxicab slipped into the chaotic ground traffic.
The driver—an aged robot wearing an orange Newsboy hat, turned to Braun after a quick glance at the black and white screen on his dashboard. “Your pogue friends think they’re being clever by hijacking my NAVSAT.” he muttered. Sliding a greasy toothpick to the corner of his metal jaws, he pointed to the warning message in flashing white letters.
“We’re not heading to the Techno-base?” Braun asked. Worried, he clutched his fingers to the back-seat’s armrests.
“No. The senators’ home apparently…” the android replied, letting out a glitching sigh. He turned on the radio, pulled the visor of his cap down over his photoreceptors and crossed his arms before settling comfortably. “Half a dozen miles up outside the city. We’ll be there soon enough.”
Braun released his sweaty grip off his armrest’s exposed foam. The marks gradually faded as the autonomous vehicle skirted the Burr Crater’s ridges.
Under Jupiter’s benevolent eye reflecting on the waters, the vehicle quickly left the unpleasant downtown and its tall towers, then the grid, which has been almost abandoned after the new financial crisis. In less than thirty minutes, the yellow taxicab reached what looked like the contrasting country club of an upscale neighborhood in the heart of one of the few planted forests beyond the asteroid belt. Behind the high cast-iron gates, the colonial mansion with its lofty limestone colonnades appeared to be the main residence of the Callistoan Techno-Senators.
Braun got off the vehicle which hadn’t been granted access to drop him directly at the carpeted granite staircase. He paid the driver who, after having vehemently insisted on a gracious tip, took back the controls before returning to the city.
The MP huffed. His anxiety grew.
“The bad boy shows up at last! Two days late!” a woman uttered behind him; the Soviet immediately turned around.
Striding between the gates silently opening, Lieutenant-Commander Myriam Stanišić displayed a bright yet tired smile. Prodigy of the Academy where he had met her twenty-five years earlier, the native of Deimos wore a red-flashy leotard and high white faux-leather boots. Her bleached thin curls fell on her long beige coat’s padded shoulders..
The captain greeted his old friend with a shy nod. “Busy irritating bounty hunters in Oberon’s orbit,” he replied, adjusting his uniform jacket over his chest. “I hope you haven’t been waiting outside all this time.”
Stanišić stopped inches from the Soviet. Despite her high heels, the Yugoslavian barely reached his height. Her nose wiggled, expressing her childish frustration at knowing she would be forever shorter than him. “In your dreams!” she scoffed. “You just happen to hurtle when the Senator is entertaining. Most of the base’s big kahunas have been invited. Sherman and Azimov are already in the senatorial office, by the way.”
Braun’s heart tightened. “Is the Techno-Secretary of Defense here?”
Stanišić chuckled before heading to the mansion with the MP on her heels. “You assume Darth Cheney would come specially from the Red Planet? Get down your high horse. Some DIA big shot showed up instead.”
The commander’s jokes didn’t stop a dark thought from running through Braun’s mind. With Dick Cheney in holo-call, his own presence on Callisto appeared to be an excuse to have the Noah impounded. As he passed the gates closing behind him, he believed he just walked into the lion’s den. But, while his friend led him on a lane bypassing the building, he pushed this thought out of his head.
“Do you know about Rear-Admiral Pinochet, Myriam?”
Stanišić turned as she continued strolling backward, jumping without looking from stone tile to stone tile. “Comrade K… I work for the Martian Intelligence Agency. My job is to always be on top of everything.”
“Wasn’t your task about monitoring unions and environmentalists in the belt?”
The Yugoslavian sighed as she passed the heavily guarded security post leading to the backyard. “Don’t start me on this…”
On this long Callistoran afternoon, the residence gardens were crammed with people. Dozens of guests were chatting in the shade of blooming trees grown in lesser gravity to give them more fanciful shapes. Buffets and seven-story pyramids of Earth-harvested Champagne had been arranged near popular self-service electric grills. From them flew a sweet smell of braised bio-meat. A true aroma that even nutrigel had never been able to imitate.
“What’s the occasion?” Braun asked as he followed the military woman through the upscale crowd.
Stanišić snuck up next to a barbecue and pilfered a tong from a balding young corpo’s hands. “Vulgar politicians from Saturn have come to sign trade agreements. It’s time to rebuild the Rings after our cruisers reduced the Plastic Fields to dust and nuked Nouvelle Patrie—want a crab hotdog before being crucified?” She passed him the braised sausage in a slice of whole-wheat bread. “Relish?”
Braun declined the snack and a flying saucer’s help.
“No?” his friend resumed, letting the drone spray her organic carrot-fries with hardening chili flakes. “That’s genuine bio-food, you know? Not culinary infamy like your radioactive Chef Boyardee’s. You still eat those, right?”
“Best meatballs in the entire universe—I’ll die on this hill.” Braun smiled as he glanced at the senatorial house, as if to urge Myriam to lead him to the gallows as quickly as possible.
“The backdoor is over there. Good luck!” she said, firmly grabbing the arm of a robot before requesting him to escort Braun. “Catch you later?”
“Will you still be around?” the MP asked as she walked away.
Stanišić winked at him over her shoulder. “I sure will, K.”
Guided by a botler, Captain Braun advanced with a heavy step towards his destiny. At the top of the stairs, on the third floor, the taciturn android in a golden coat pointed to huge wood doors at the end of the hall.
However, the solemnity appeared to be severely marred. In a secluded alcove, a Techno-Congressman from a nearby world was lying in an unseemly position, eating petit fours wedged between the toes of his secretary. Soon after, Braun came across a robotic waiter grasping the hand of a drunken aide-de-camp. Together, the two lovers rushed into a closet. Dropping the folder she had been holding carefully against her chest, the young woman jammed the door behind them.
Braun picked up the documents scattered on the floor. It appeared to be a thick file for the release of emergency support to hospitals in Saturn’s orbit. Angered, he gathered them, rallied them and placed the dossier on a cabinet with a fine gold finish—where they would probably be forgotten.
After taking a deep breath in front of the gates studded with stardust encrusted to form the Milky Way, the PM entered the office. The austere oval room showcased high walls covered with bookcases housing a collection of Earth-printed encyclopedias. A massive real-wood desk with a large empty chair—likely made of real-leather—faced the closing door.
To the right of the desk, Mega-Admiral Sherman and Admiral Azimov stared at the newcomer. Sherman, a dignified woman with bushy sideburns, greeted him with a nod. The testy Azimov—only robot to be elevated to the rank of Admiral—imitated her before dusting his former ice miner’s reinforced forearms. The yellow photodiodes in his eyes glowed in the gloom.
“You may sit down,” Sherman told him, pointing to the eggshell chair emerging from an opening in the floor just in front of the MP.
Braun cleared his throat. “Thank you, ma’am. But I’ll stay up.” And the seat disappeared again.
Sitting cross-legged on a tacky couch in the opposite corner of the room, another man had also been gauging Braun since he arrived. The MP recognized the Martian by his thick blond mustache and impressive build. The eight-foot-tall colossus appeared to be Colonel Gaylord Graves of the Defense Intelligence Agency.
Without formally introducing himself or even greeting the newcomer, the sinister Colonel Graves snapped his muscular fingers. A second later, a red blurry frame took shape in the empty chair.
“Captain Braun Kamirov is here, Mr. Cheney,” the DIA envoy uttered, turning to the ghostly figure. His voice was so deep it made the air in the Soviet’s lungs tremble.
“Captain Kamirov…” rang out from the speakers hidden around the room. Several holographic capture lenses below pointed at the Soviet.
The Earth-born politician’s hologram took on a final form from his Martian office. The crimson reflections faded, replaced by a full-color recreation of a hunched figure with a hairline that had fled his spotted forehead as far away as possible from his brown arrow-shaped nose. The latter supported a large pair of glasses with square lenses.
“Mister the Techno-Secretary of State,” Braun said, straightening.
The one-hundred-twenty-year-old man blew his swollen nose after a brief delay, and didn’t waste a single second in courtesy. “You are making a lot of noises recently, Captain.”
“Mars may have noticed the Rings are upside down, sir…” Braun justified himself awkwardly, which earned him a reproachful stare from both Sherman and Azimov; but not from Graves, who remained as impassive as the Secretary of State. “The war caused dreadful damages and—”
Dick Cheney cut him off, shooting him a black look that pierced, in low definition, the millions of kilometers separating them: “The feud should already be disregarded, Captain. Peace has been signed. United Solarians want to draw a line under this chaotic and regrettable situation.”
“Sir—” Sherman tried. She had lost thousands of soldiers and hundreds of ships in this war. She didn’t intend to forget them, and had always supported Braun in his recent investigations.
But Dick Cheney’s croaky voice quickly buried her interruption: “Techno-President Bush made it clear during his last address at the Black Haven, Mega-Admiral. You know that. You were there.”
Braun intervened, again: “Yet, criminal activities which flourished during the conflict are still going on, Sir. Some perpetrators are Techno-Marines. Using their ranks and military resources, they—”
The old Earth-born huffed once more, before hawking. “You would define Admiral Pinochet’s service, a war hero in the Rings and Kuiper, as ’criminal activity’?” he managed to say through a chesty cough.
“I stand corrected on my last statement. My team and I gathered solid evidence Admiral Pinochet sold nuclear warheads to the rebels still hiding among the Dwarves. In pirate territory.”
The old man scratched his forehead, and ran his tired eyes over a report someone had just handed him outside the holographic capture field. A diode flashed on his glasses’ frame.
“We understand, Captain.” The Techno-Secretary of State paused. His hologram froze for a brief moment before transcribing the politician’s last movements in rapid succession. Back on line, the latter slowly swallowed before continuing: “The President hoped to appoint the late Rear-Admiral Pinochet as Techno-Governor of Kuiper. To keep under control the New Worlds. Of course, that was before you smashed his skull wide open on Uranus IX. His skills and connections would have come useful against the pirates gathering around Pluto. Pirates, Callisto seems to be unable to contain.”
His last words struck the two admirals like daggers. As they crawled back in their corner, Braun understood he was fighting alone.
“Admiral Pinochet deliberately tainted the Corps’ reputation, sir,” the MP declared. Accidentally stepping out of the hologram’s field, he decided to play one of his ultimate cards: “I learned on Cressida that he would have acted under the cover of people much more highly placed.”
Colonel Graves of the DIA glanced at stone-face Dick Cheney. “There was no one directly above the Rear Admiral but the people in this room, Captain,” the colossus said. “Who are you pointing to? And according to what source? This accusation is very serious.”
Braun remained silent, cursing himself. If the man in Patton armor appeared to be telling the truth—and it was a big if—he had signed his death warrant judging by Graves and Cheney’s reaction. If not, he had just covered himself with ridicule and dishonor.
“Be reassured, Captain, that your investigation has enlightened us on recent mischievous negligence. And for that, we are grateful to you. Truly…” Cheney continued, turning to the two admirals. “Thanks to your hard work, we will start on a new ground—a healthy basis. Burying this story for the common good and building a brighter Solarian future on top of it. As for now, the case should not be made public. This is not the time.”
Braun startled. “Burying? You can’t handle the truth!”
“We’re done with Rear-Admiral Pinochet’s darkened legacy for today, Captain!” Cheney slammed him. “Let’s proceed with yours, instead.”
There was a pause, as the Secretary of State froze in the reading of another paper folder.
“Mine, sir?” Braun resumed after he was sure he had heard correctly.
“We also thank you for your incredible service in the Corps during the Troubles, and later as an investigator in the Military Police,” the old man continued, passing the file with a shaky hand. “The Techno-President Bush shall award you the Tellurium Heart.”
First honored, Braun clenched his fists, fearing what remained to come.
“But by your reckless actions on Ceres, Saturn’s moons and three months ago on Uranus IX, you have slowly become rogue. A menace to both Solarian security and the Techno-Marine. After such a disastrous conflict, the Solarian people want peace. Calm. Order. Not a vengeful crusade and messy scandals. The—”
“Sir, I—” Braun surprised himself saying.
Azimov silenced him with a wave of his hand.
Dickey Cheney continued: “The General Staff—and myself—decided that, leaving this office, you will be honorably discharged, Captain Kamirov.”
“Discharged?” quietly raised the MP, looking down.
“Honorably. That will be all, Captain. Godspeed to all of you.”
The hologram pulsed as it turned red again. It dissipated for good as a robotic techno-secretary appeared in the field with a new stack of files.
Sherman cleared her throat. “You may go home, Yossef. Take some time. I know this is not easy to—”
Braun was lost in thought. His gaze went to Colonel Graves, still silent in the chair, then to the coward admirals. “Easy?” he uttered at last.
“Careful with your tone, Captain.” Graves stepped up.
“My apologies,” Braun said immediately, before saluting him. He turned again to the two admirals: “Mega-Admiral Sherman. Admiral Azimov… It was a pleasure serving you all those years.” Then he left with his head held high. But with his shoulders down.
With a sinking feeling in his stomach, and his mind filled with bitterness, Braun walked for a long time along the richly decorated corridors. Back in the main hallway leading to the stairs, he stopped by a large square window framed by newly installed riot-proof iron curtains.
In the blue grass garden, the party was in full swing. Whether under the silk canopies housing the cold and hot buffets, on the mini-golf or near the deckchairs of the artificial black sand beach, Jovian and Cronian politicians, industrial profiteers and high-ranking military personnel were still enjoying their Champagne and dessert punctuated by fake but sonorous laughter.
“Those meetings are like slowly removing a band aid, aren’t they?”
The Yugoslavian Marine waited for Braun at the top of the stairs. A martini glass dancing between her fingers, she was leaning against a priceless pink marble statue of a Greek courtesan.
“It sure felt that way,” Braun sighed. Not without one last glance at a group of young girls boarding the Senator’s yacht, the ex-captain of the military police walked towards her.
“Been there. Done that…” The Lieutenant Commander straightened up to toss him a soda can that she had wedged between the sculpture’s bare breasts. “Diet Coke?”
“Vodka,” Braun replied as he instead grabbed the glass from the woman’s hands. He emptied it in one gulp. “Plenty…”
Stanišić smiled, crushing the full can flat between her subcutaneous-reinforced phalanx. “That’s the Comrade K I remember!”
