S andrew swann hostile.., p.1
S. Andrew Swann - Hostile Takeover 03, page 1
Revolutionary
[Hostile Takeover 03]
By S. Andrew Swann
Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
CONFEDERACY
Pearce Adams—Confederacy representative for Archeron. Delegate to the TEC from the Alpha
Centauri Alliance.
Ambrose—Dimitri Olmanov’s Bodyguard
Kalin Green—Confederacy representative for Cynos. Delegate to the TEC from the Sirius-Eridani
Economic Community.
Francesca Hernandez—Confederacy representative for Grimalkin. Delegate to the TEC
from the
Seven Worlds. Nonhuman descendant of genetically engineered animals.
Robert Kaunda—Confederacy representative for Mazimba. Delegate to the TEC from the Trianguli Austrailis Union of Independent Worlds.
Dimitri Olmanov—Head of the Terran Executive Command. The most powerful person in the
Confederacy.
Sim Vashniya—Confederacy representative for Shiva. Delegate to the TEC from the People’s
Protectorate of Epsilon Indi.
BAKUNIN
Marc Baetez—Captain, TEC. Navigator, survivor of the crash of the Shaftsbury.
Klaus Dacham—Colonel, TEC. In command of the Blood-Tide and Operation Rasputin.
Eigne—Primary representative of Proteus to anyone “Outside.” Bhipur Gavadi—Mercenary formerly in the employ of Proudhon Spaceport Security, survivor of
the crash of the Shaftsbury.
Alex Jarvis—Mercenary formerly in the employ of Proudhon Spaceport Security, survivor of the
crash of the Shaftsbury.
Ivor Jorgenson—Pilot and smuggler. Partner in the Diderot Holding Company.
Tjaele Mosasa—Electronics expert. Partner in the Diderot Holding Company.
Dominic Magnus—Ex-Colonel, TEC. Ex gunrunner. Partner in the Diderot Holding Company.
Kathy Shane—Ex-Captain, Occisis marines. Partner in the Diderot Holding Company.
Kari Tetsami—Freelance hacker and data thief. Partner in the Diderot Holding Company.
Random Walk—An artificial intelligence device. Partner in the Diderot Holding Company.
Mariah Zanzibar—Security expert. Partner in the Diderot Holding Company.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE: Smoke-Filled Rooms
1: Loyalty Oaths
2: Police Action
PART SEVEN: War Games
3: Demilitarized Zone
4: Reasonable Doubt
5: Expert Testimony
6: Internal Exile
7: Third Parties
8: Public Relations
9: Security Breach
10: Damage Control
11: Lines of Communication
12: Media Campaign
13: Casualties of War
PART EIGHT: Space Race
14: Question Time
15: Sidebars
16: Command Decision
17: Extradition
18: Protective Custody
19: No-Fly Zone
20: Casualty Reports
21: Focus Groups
22: Smoke and Mirrors
23: Intervention
24: Missing in Action
25: Impact Statement
26: Agent Provocateur
27: Confirmation Hearing
28: Recovery Operation
29: Salvage Value
30: Delivery System
31: Confirmed Kill
32: Interdiction
PART NINE: Home Front
33: Testament
34: Deficits
35: Attrition
36: Constructive Engagement
37: High Crimes
38: Rules of Engagement
39: Diplomatic Immunity
40: Class Action
41: Hostage Negotiation
42: International Incident
43: Old Boy Network
44: Military Adviser
45: New World Order
46: Geopolitics
47: Domino Theory
FINAL EPILOGUE: Absentee Ballots
48:Peace Treaty
APPENDIX A: Worlds
PROLOGUE
Smoke-Filled
Rooms
“A despot easily forgives his subjects for not loving him, provided they do not love each other.”
—ALEXIS DE TOCQUEVILLE
(1805-1859)
<
CHAPTER ONE
Loyalty Oaths
“Strong emotional involvement rarely makes the job easier.”
— The Cynic’s Book of Wisdom
“Prudence keeps life safe, but does not often make it happy.”
— SAMUEL JOHNSON
(1709-1784)
Dominic Magnus lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. It was his second night out of the hospital. It was his second night without any sleep.
Shadows played across the ceiling, cast from the open window. They were the shadows of the siege: spotlights trying to pick out the enemy forces circling Jefferson City; light from still-burning fires around the perimeter. The wind even brought a taint of smoke, floating on chill air.
The city was still intact. The invaders wanted it intact, and would wait out the underarmed democrats for however long it took.
It was impossible for him not to be aware of the war focused upon him, but that wasn’t what consumed his thoughts, not now, alone in the dark. What consumed his thoughts was the woman asleep next to him.
He wasn’t looking at her, but he could see her perfectly. Straight black hair cut on a diagonal. Deep Asiatic eyes set in a face that held all the corrupted innocence that planet Bakunin was home to.
She was so damn young. Not just young, she was half his age…
Not that she’d know. Dom’s appearance had been permanently fixed ten years ago.
When the doctors had reconstructed his body, they had left him looking in that indeterminate range between late twenties and early thirties, and pseudoflesh didn’t age.
Not that she’d know …
He knew all about her. From her parents’ death in a corporate war, to her job as a freelance corporate hacker, to her adopted father Ivor Jorgenson. He knew because he’d always made it his business to know.
By comparison, Tetsami knew almost nothing about him.
His right hand clenched on the sheets beneath him. He heard the sheets tear. Dom cursed and sat up.
His right hand was tangled in shredded bedding. The hand was new, the Jeffersonians’ attempt at reconstruction. Unlike the rest of his body, the hand and leg he had lost five Bakunin days ago were unquestionably artificial. The olive-toned pseudoflesh ceased abruptly below his elbow, where his hand and forearm became a chrome-metal approximation of his natural-looking left. His body, despite being largely cybernetic before the accident, was still unused to the clumsy metal invader.
Dom tightened his fist and more sheets tore.
“Dom?”
“Go back to sleep.” The tension he felt didn’t seem to make it to his voice.
“What’s the matter? Are you okay?”
If you knew me, really knew me, you’d know that I’ve never been “okay.” Dom felt a hand touch his shoulder, and he almost flinched from the contact. He shook his head. “I can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?” Tetsami’s hand drifted down his arm until it reached metal. Dom drew his hand away and stood up. He walked over to the window. A false dawn painted the southern horizon red. Dom could picture the fires just over that horizon. Fires marking the remains of communes the invaders didn’t see as economically important.
The cities mattered, the communes were just in the way.
“Dom?”
The destruction had long passed the attack on his own person. The loss of Godwin Arms and Armaments wasn’t even a significant battle in terms of the planetwide war that gripped Bakunin. The attack on GA&A was only significant in that it was first, and it had been Dom’s company.
“I’m still tied to this,” Dom said.
He could hear sheets rustle as Tetsami sat up. “You’re being obtuse again.” Uncharacteristically, her voice didn’t carry a tone of sarcasm. The questioning note made Dom feel worse.
“Everything about this war is connected to me.”
Tetsami sighed. “Sometimes you scare me.”
“I should.” Dom leaned out the window, staring at the few lights marking the city. He adjusted the photoreceptors in his artificial eyes until he had a monochrome light-enhanced view of the city. The only people out on the streets were Jefferson City’s militia—the blue-uniformed minutemen.
“You aren’t the center of the universe, Dom. Just because Klaus—” At the mention of his brother, Dom’s right hand, the new metallic one, clenched on the windowsill. There was a pop as the plastic sheathing gave way. The sound was loud enough to stop Tetsami in mid-sentence.
Klaus, Dom thought, are you here on your own agenda? Or someone else’s? Will anything short of my death ever satisfy you?
“Not the universe. But this war—” Dom shook his head as if to clear it. However, inside a metallic skull, his brain was augmented by an onboard computer. His enhanced memories could not be cleared. “Random has even cast me in the role of a resistance leader. Wherever I go, I’ll be sucked back….”
Dom walked away from the window and began to gather his clothes.
&
“I think I should get my own room.”
Tetsami flung her arms wide in a gesture that would have been comical if she weren’t so angry. “Mother humping Christ, what the hell’s your problem?”
“You don’t know anything about me,” Dom said.
“Whose fault is that? You shithead!” She picked up his pants. “God, I thought there was a little more to you at least. So this is it? ‘Thanks for keeping my dick warm, good-bye’?”
Dom stood there, understanding more of Tetsami’s feelings than his own. “I can’t pull you through whatever’s going to happen to me.”
Tetsami threw his pants at him. “Fuck you, Dom.” Tears were streaming down her face. “All the shit we went through for each other, it doesn’t mean anything, does it?”
“I’m headed for something irrevocable—” Dom began.
“Damn straight you are. Get the fuck out!”
“Tetsami—”
“You want to leave? Out. Now!”
Dom backed to the door, clothes in his arms. Tetsami marched after him, screaming,
“You’ve got five seconds to get out of my hotel room or I’ll rip your balls off! Maggot!” Dom backed all the way into the hall, and the door whooshed shut on him, leaving him outside and alone.
He heard Tetsami crying even through the allegedly-soundproofed door. He hated himself for hurting her. But on the list of his personal crimes, it was relatively minor. It was outweighed by the conviction that, before everything was over, anyone close to him was going to die.
<
CHAPTER TWO
Police Action
“There is no such thing as a secret.”
— The Cynic’s Book of Wisdom
“Better pointed bullets than pointed speeches.”
— PRINCE OTTO VON BISMARCK
(1815-1898)
Jonah Dacham waited.
Nearly a decade had passed since he had divorced himself from the passage of time. Nine years spent in isolation, on a barren strip of cold Martian wilderness not too far from the artifacts gracing Cydonia. Nine years he had waited on Mars.
Now he was on Earth, in a dingy little hotel room, millions of kilometers removed from Mars, lightyears removed from Bakunin, and again he waited.
The time was coming when he would discover whether that decision he made, nine years ago, would mean anything. The same decision that he was about to make again, thirty-eight standard days from now, if he had not changed anything by his presence.
I haven’t changed anything, it started before I landed here. Jonah rubbed his temples, as if he could push the paranoia away. But nine years of isolation, avoiding any brush with humanity that might warp events away from the path he remembered for them …
His room was in a dirty little hotel in Sydney, the Terran capital, a cheap little flat far from the center of town, far from the center of the Confederacy government. It was the least significant, most isolated place he could room and still be near the Congress, near enough to be able to do what he had to do.
The room wasn’t out of sight of the Confederacy spire, though. The kilometer-tall tower was difficult to escape.
His right hand was cold against his forehead. The dull, pitted metal sucked the heat from his skin. He had come to Earth over a month and a half ago, three months before it would have been absolutely safe. Jonah could have waited until the event thirty-eight standard days from now. If he had held off until then, he would have been certain not to skew events on Bakunin.
But then there’d be no time for him to do anything.
Even now, as events followed the paths he remembered, the Blood-Tide and accompanying fleet had been in orbit around Bakunin for close to a week standard. Or, to use the more familiar units, four and a half Bakunin days.
The invasion had begun on the surface of the planet, and all of Bakunin’s major cities would be under siege. The cities had, maybe, the ability to hold out for forty days standard.
Jonah did not need all nine years to determine that waiting out his exile until there was no risk would render his sacrifice completely meaningless. So he had long ago decided on the three-month margin. Time for him to do something, with the minimum acceptable risk that he would upset the timeline.
He told himself that he had not altered events on Bakunin, and that the cities had forty days to hold out. Subtracting the transmission time, that meant that he had a single Terrestrial month left to make his difference.
The contradictory aims running through his head would have made him smile, if he hadn’t had nine years to bleach the humor out of the concept. If he hadn’t had the opportunity to bury a man whose life illustrated the danger of trying to change a history that wasn’t your own.
“Thirty-eight days, and this history will be mine again,” he whispered at the holo. After a pause, “Or. perhaps it will be mine for the first time.” His or not, history was making itself felt to Jonah. The opening day of the Terran Congress couldn’t pass by unnoticed. If Jonah had missed the event flooding the comm lines, the fireworks would have told him about it.
Yet another mark indicating the passage of time.
Two thirds of the time he had left, two-thirds of the month he had before Bakunin would slip unconditionally into the hands of Klaus and the Terran Executive Command, he was going to spend waiting for the Tau Ceti delegation to arrive. The Grimalkin representative, Francesca Hernandez, the only representative the xenophobic Seven Worlds had deigned to send to this Congress, didn’t have the authority to commit to anything.
Jonah had to wait while people with the authority flew in from Tau Ceti in a too-slow tach-ship.
Fortunately, by now, he was used to waiting.
The opening night fireworks sounded like gunfire outside his window. Jonah had maxed the volume on the holo to try and drown out the sound. He stared at the screen, but wasn’t really watching it.
The holo was a gaudy model, taking up an entire wall. The color was distorted toward the red. It gave him a choice between an endless news summary and hard-core pornography. He had it on the news.
Right now the data stream was dominated by the endless opening day speeches in the Congress. The voices of politics and diplomacy were slightly less disturbing than the sound of gunfire.
Most of the speechmakers had probably never heard of Bakunin—-man or planet.
As he watched the holo, something caught his attention out the corner of his eye. A shadow had passed in front of his window.
“Mute.” Jonah whispered. The holo obeyed.
Instinctively he was already on his feet and backing away from the outside wall. He was five stories up, and the shadow had been vaguely man-sized. He cursed silently. His sudden move had probably just alerted whoever it was that he’d been seen.
After a moment, Jonah whispered, “Lights.”
Again, the room obeyed, killing the lights in the small one-room flat. Now the only light was given by the red-tinted holo and the polychrome flashes of the fireworks outside his louvered window.
Another shadow, definitely the size and shape of a man, passed by outside. As he watched, Jonah adjusted the artificial photoreceptors in his eyes to compensate for the darkness.
He edged his way toward the door to the room, the only exit he had. As he closed on the door, his enhanced ears picked up noise from outside. Four or five people were out there.
They had him cornered.
Crouching, to present as low a profile as possible, he darted to the edge of the window and glanced through the louvers. Stroboscopic flashes from the fireworks illuminated nothing but an empty street. However, from this angle he could see nothing of the hotel’s exterior surface. The walls could be plastered with commandos and he wouldn’t see a thing.
The TEC?
If the Confederacy’s secret police were after him, he was in trouble. Not just him, but his entire reason for being here. His presence on Earth was critical to Bakunin’s survival as an independent planet, and all that could be destroyed if the wrong people knew why he was here.
No one out on the street.
It was a cheap hotel room, windows not designed to open. Even if they did, it was still five stories to the ground. Jonah flexed his metallic right hand. He would survive a fall like that. His rebuilt body had survived worse. But it wasn’t an attractive option.
