Vienna, Incorporated States of Europe
They sat in a half circle around a polished wooden table, all eyes watching the twelve glowing screens on the far wall. Each monitor showed the attack from a different angle, with a statuesque reporter spouting guesses about the situation. Chief of Staff Jerry Ahmad, along with his aide, stood off to one side and whispered to one another. When the older man was satisfied, he walked over to the large, well-dressed man in the seat of honor.
Alexander Burton, high chancellor of the Terran Federate, barely looked up as his closest advisor approached. He sat hunched forward in his leather chair, hands cupped over his mouth, brow furrowed. His normally crisp suit grew deep wrinkles from the awkward position. The dim light made his brown skin look even darker, but hid the stubble he’d forgotten to shave away. Finally, he managed to pry himself away to look at his friend.
“What is it, Jerry?”
The chief of staff sighed. “Admiral Walker finally made it to Terra Node. The station is secure, and all civilians have been moved to the emergency areas. Sol and Terra Battle Groups are moving in on the enemy as we speak.”
Alexander nodded and swallowed a lump in his throat. “Do we have confirmation? Is it Mars or not?”
“The Unions were never good at keeping secrets, Alec. These vessels didn’t come from any human shipyards.”
“Jesus.”
“We need to draft a speech.” All eyes turned to Jerry’s aide and goddaughter, Adeline Quinn.
She leaned closer to the high chancellor. “Sir, this is first contact with an alien race. Doesn’t matter how this fight turns out—we need to have the first word about it in the morning.”
Alexander scratched his chin scruff. “Why not now? Won’t that make more sense?”
The aide shook her head. “With respect, no one wants to hear from you right now. They’re glued to their televisions, and that won’t change until the cleanup gets underway. Unless one of those ships crashes on your front lawn, you’re not getting in front of a camera until tomorrow morning.”
Alexander made a face. He wasn’t fond of people treating him like a child. Still, the woman made a valid point. “What’s your name, miss?”
“Adeline, sir. Been working for Jerry—sorry, Chief Ahmad—for about a year now.”
“Well, Adeline, why don’t you get with my speechwriter and work up a first draft?”
Her face lit up. “It would be my pleasure, sir.” She walked swiftly from the room, barely hiding her excitement. When Alexander turned back, Jerry had taken the nearby seat.
“Did you read the proposal?” Jerry asked.
“Are you serious? You want to talk about it now?”
“Alec,” Jerry urged.
Alexander’s face darkened. “I don’t like Dr. Ivanovich. We’ve been over this before.”
“He gets results. CROWN may have been a PR nightmare, but it provided enough raw data for the Cove for ten years. And don’t forget Team Hercules. They’re wearing most of his designs.”
“I’ve got sixteen weapons manufacturers with bids to replace all of it,” Alexander said. “Ivanovich is a nutcase, and I’m not going to offer him more guinea pigs to torture.”
Jerry glowered at his boss, his shoulders tense. “Alec, do you remember when you told me you were the wrong man for this job?”
“I remember.”
“Do you remember what I said?”
Alexander nodded slowly. “You told me, ‘Someone is going to be high chancellor. Someone is going to sit on the high throne and decide humanity’s fate. Shouldn’t that be someone who will at least try to do some good?’”
“We had other contenders, Alec. Men and women with plenty of experience. Some were even from the right side of that war. I fought for you because you’d demonstrated the most important aspect of being a leader—you made difficult and unpopular decisions in order to keep people alive.” Jerry tapped the folder on the table. “We’re here to do right by our species. We lose sight of that, and we’re no better than every dictator in history. Markov may not be a popular choice, but his work could give us the tools we need to survive. He’s a necessary evil. A really necessary one. We need to get him on board before a less scrupulous person snatches him away.”
“Stop,” Alexander said. “Shut up and let me think.” He rubbed his temples. “We’re not having this conversation. Not right now. Get Walker on the phone and get an update on Fleet’s positions out there.”
Jerry almost shot back but thought better of it. He rose, reaching for his palm-sized phone from the table. “It won’t be Walker,” he said as he placed the call. “Gilroy was already mobile when this started. He’s running the battle.”
Alexander’s eyes bugged out. “Gilroy.” He clenched his fist and bit his knuckle. “As if my day weren’t already perfect.”
Hostile Front
Lunar Space
“Lock on target.”
“Get him off me!”
“Stay still! I’ve got you.” Cameron blinked a droplet of sweat away from his eye. In zero gravity, moisture built up and hung around until it had enough density to move out on its own. At fighting speed, however, it ran like a river from the pilot’s nose to the back of his head.
“Shit!” McLane’s fighter listed, spewing smoke and sparks. “Port side wing is hit.”
Cameron let his speed drop, sliding his Phoenix behind the Y-fighter trailing his wingman. When the laser lock found the target, he loosed a single missile, a medium-range ship-to-ship Harpy. It tore through space and pierced the alien craft beneath the engine. The Y-fighter burst into three flaming chunks, spewing a nebula of red fuel. Cameron drove through the debris, pinwheeling to knock loose bits of slag. “At least they go down easy.”
“Like a Luna girl.” George opened on the fighters with his twin Kraken gauss cannons. Compressed tungsten ripped into a fleeing vessel, rupturing the ammunition beneath the cockpit. Its back blew out and the ship drifted away, gutted and dead. The enemy destroyed, Cameron and George led their crippled wingman toward their own front. McLane’s Phoenix was chewed up but still flying. Every few seconds a pinch of fuel would hit the burning wing and flash out, rocking the entire body. George dropped back to watch for more aliens, but they seemed to have turned attention on the larger frigates and destroyers.
“How you holding up?” George asked.
McLane checked his instruments. “It’ll keep, I hope. I lost port jets completely, so no right turns until we get back.” He chuckled. “Chief’s gonna take this one out of my ass.”
George scoffed. “How many birds have you lost?”
“Lost? None. I’ve broken three.”
“Pittance,” George said. “Lieutenant Davis over there, war hero that he is, has totaled seven of Sector’s decaying fleet.”
McLane seemed shocked. Cameron was flying alongside and could see the expression register on the young man’s face. “What the hell are you doing to them?”
“Riding ’em hard, and putting ’em away wet.” Cameron grinned. It was something his dad always said, though he only had a vague idea what it meant. He struggled to catch his breath and calm his racing heart. He hoped his wingmen didn’t hear the staccato in his voice. “I’m just stress-testing the girl.” He bit down on his water line so hard his jaw hurt.
George cracked up and drifted off course. He caught himself and corrected, but he was still red-faced and teary-eyed. He realized, after a moment, that the