Slavish adherence to a piece of paper or pragmatic good sense in the face of an unprecedented challenge to our authority, a challenge that will see us all dead if we fail to meet it?'
'What is it you propose, Chief Councillor?' Jones asked.
'A new unitary command authority, responsible for all military operations against the NRA, to which would be tasked all PGDF forces in the McNair theater of operations along with Marine Forces 3, 6, 8, and 11. I believe-'
Whatever else Polk had wanted to say went unheard as the room erupted in violent protest that engulfed all present, voices rising as everyone struggled to make his point. It took repeated hammering of his fist on the table before Polk could restore order.
'Gentlemen,' he said. 'This is no way to conduct Defense Council business. I do not know how often I have to say the obvious: The NRA poses a serious threat, the most serious in the Worlds' history, a threat that will see us all hanging from lampposts if we do not crush it.'
Polk paused for a second. 'You do all understand that, don't you?' he demanded. 'That this may be the end for us? Kraa knows, the unwashed scum that infest our cities would kill us all without a moment's hesitation.' His finger stabbed out at the nearest councillor, making the man flinch back. 'You! Councillor Kando! Do you understand how close we are to losing this?'
'Yes, Chief Councillor,' the man admitted. 'I do.'
'Good? Anyone here think we're on top of things? No… well, I hope not, because one thing's for sure. The heretic filth that run the NRA and Nationalists know how much trouble we're in every bit as well as we do. You'd just better pray that the rabble out there'-he hooked a thumb at the wall behind him-'doesn't work it out any time soon. We're dead if they do.
'Right. Let's move on,' Polk said, his voice easing to a conciliatory softness. 'Now, I understand many of you want to make sure the marines stay focused on external defense, but the current crisis demands changes. So changes there will be… and why not now?' He paused, wondering if he had the numbers to force the matter to an in-principle vote and win; he stifled a curse as he counted heads. When too many councillors refused to look him in the eye, he knew he did not. 'Under-Councillor Kaapsen,' he continued, resigned to a long fight. 'You are the councillor responsible for the PGDF. Your views?'
'Well, Chief Councillor,' Kaapsen said. 'It is clear to all that…'
A long hour later and with heated argument still raging, Polk gave up the fight. So far as he was able to determine, all the debate had achieved was to solidify the PGDF's position, and he knew the matter was lost. He cursed his own stupidity; deciding to take the matter head-on had been a spontaneous decision, one made to deny the PGDF's supporters the chance to lobby the rest of the Council. It had been a mistake. All they had done was argue more loudly and passionately than everyone else until they had ground the resistance to dust.
So they were back to square one. The PGDF would always need the marines' support. Thanks to the paranoia of the people who wrote the Constitution, only the marines were permitted to operate heavy armor and ground- assault landers. That meant the PGDF had to ask the Defense Council to approve their requests for help each and every time. It was no wonder the NRA was doing so well.
'Enough,' Polk said wearily, worn out by the endless squabbling. 'I will defer this matter for further discussion. Councillor Jones.'
'Yes, Chief Councillor?'
'I want a draft report looking at the feasibility of a unified command structure before next week's meeting. Now, moving on. Admiral Belasz. Your report on the week's operations against the Feds.'
'Thank you, sir. If you would look this way, you will see that Fleet has had a busy week, and as usual the Feds have struggled to respond. Here, here, and here we mounted…' Tuesday, October 9, 2401, UD Sector Golf, Branxton Base, Commitment
It had been a long, grinding week, and Michael was exhausted. Like all the Feds except those involved in Leading Spacer Sasaki's court-martial, he had been working long hours getting the microfabs purloined from the three dreadnoughts operational. If the Feds were to make a difference, the damn things needed to work. All things considered, the NRA was doing well, but Vaas and his commanders had admitted that it had to do better, and to do better, the NRA needed more of everything: ordnance, secure comms gear, real-time decrypters, portable electronic intercept systems, battlefield trauma equipment…
Michael abandoned his attempt to itemize all the things the NRA needed. He would be itemizing all night; the list was endless, and everything important was scarce. Thanks to a library of microfab production templates, the machines had the smarts to turn out much of what the NRA needed using only basic raw materials, geneered bacterial feedstock, and lots of power. Nothing they produced would be state of the art-after all, the templates had been bought from an information broker based on one of the Rogue Planets-but what they did turn out would be a hell of a lot better than nothing.
Best of all was something that Chief Chua had discovered during the setting-up work: Microfab machines carried microfab templates. In theory, given the right raw materials, they were able to turn out copies of themselves.
Which meant-
Michael's dreams of hectares and hectares of microfab plants busy churning out everything the NRA needed were rudely interrupted by a call from Anna.
She wasted no time on niceties. 'Court-martial's wrapping up. Sasaki's been found guilty, and they're about to sentence him. Patch your neuronics into channel 36. It's the live vid.'
'Okay.'
Michael's neuronics filled with an image he never forgot: the face of Leading Spacer Sasaki, pale, sweating, his fear betrayed by a trembling lower lip.
The president of the court-martial panel looked just as unhappy. He peered at the piece of paper in his hands; he was clearly having trouble believing what was written there. 'Leading Spacer Jon James Sasaki,' he said finally, voice wavering. 'It is my duty as president of this court-martial to announce that the court-martial, all members concurring, sentences you to death by firing squad.'
The tiny court-martial room was silent. 'Oh, shit,' Michael murmured as he dropped the holovid feed.
Michael's hopes of a full night's sleep were shattered by a priority call from Adrissa. 'Yes, sir,' he mumbled, trying to shake off the bone-numbing fatigue of a long, hard day.
'My office, now!' she snapped, dropping the comm before Michael responded.
'Yes, sir,' he said to the empty nothingness of a dead comms link. What the hell, he wondered as he slipped out of his bunk, fumbling around to find his shipsuit and boots, careful not to wake Anna.
Michael hurried through the silent corridors connecting the Feds' quarters. The sparse lighting did nothing to help him shake off a dreadful certainty that something bad was about to happen. Knocking on the flimsy door to Adrissa's office, he went straight in.
'Yes, sir?'
'Sit, Michael,' Adrissa said. She looked tired, her face gray with fatigue. 'I need you to do something for me.'
'Of course, sir. Anything.'
'I'll remember you said that,' she said with a fleeting half smile. 'You know the result of Sasaki's court- martial?'
'Yes, sir. Seemed right to me.'
'Yes. Yes, it was right. There's no doubt Sasaki tipped off the Hammers just before we left Point Lima, none at all, so the sentence is right. This is war we're in, not a bloody back-alley brawl. He betrayed us-for money and a safe-conduct pass off-planet, for chrissakes-and it came close to costing us. Backstabbing scumbag! We had our suspicions back in 5209 but not the evidence to do anything about him. Shit! We were lucky he only managed to contact the Hammers at the last minute. Otherwise…'
Michael nodded. If Sasaki had been able to contact the Hammers an hour earlier, even the demoralized officers in charge of the Hammer's PGDF could have organized something more useful than a single missile battery.
'Anyway,' Adrissa continued, 'I'm not here to debate the rights and wrongs of the court-martial. I'm confident the posttrial review will dismiss his appeal. No, it's the sentence that's my problem.'
'Oh?'
'Mmmm,' Adrissa said, forefinger tapping her lips, eyes defocused for a moment. 'Yes, the sentence. I've made sure we've followed the Court-Martial Manual every step of the way. The extraordinary-circumstances provisions
