As Justin made his way off the flight deck, Feldstein came up behind him. “You don’t have to take that crap from him,” she whispered. “Put in a report with Major Wright.”
“No. I won’t be that guy. Whatley thinks I can’t cut it, fine. I’ll show him I can.”
Feldstein nodded. “I respect that, but if it gets out of hand…”
“If it gets out of hand, I’ll challenge him to a one-on-one and kick his ass in a simulator.”
“I’ll pay real credits to see that,” Feldstein replied. She squeezed Justin’s shoulder. “How about some food? I’m famished.”
“Deal. Shower first, though. I think my suit’s cooling unit gave out. I sweated out practically my entire water supply during the last thirty minutes in space.”
“Roger that, sir. See you in a few.”
Justin stalked off, trying to clear the jumble of emotions in his head. Surprised he was still alive on the one hand and pissed off that his commanding officer couldn’t accept that he was doing his best on the other, he forced himself to calm down. Calm, cool, and collected, Dad always said. He was convinced it was the only thing that would see him through the next battle.
Presidential Center
Canaan
28 September 2433
The Presidential Center, home of the executive branch of government for the Terran Coalition and known commonly as the White House, was a beehive of activity. Only twenty-four hours earlier, President Jason Nolan had been a year into his first term in office, dealing with seemingly mundane tasks like sorting through the domestic budget while fighting with the Senate and Assembly. He felt like he’d aged ten years in those twenty-four hours. They all say the job ages you. How true it is.
Six hours ago, the League of Sol fleet had entered Canaan system proper. No response to any of our communication attempts. Random attacks throughout the solar system. Nolan was still numb, trying to process a sneak attack from Earth. I would never have thought other humans would be the greatest threat the Terran Coalition had ever seen.
Every hour, another briefing from the military came. He steeled himself as a member of his protective-service detail pushed the door open to the state-of-the-art command-and-control bunker at the base of the building, fifteen floors down.
“Mr. President, welcome, sir,” Abdul Karimi called. An older man, he had streaks of gray hair, at least where his scalp wasn’t bald. Dressed in a sharp gray suit, Karimi was Nolan’s handpicked Chief of Staff. They had known each other for decades.
Everyone in uniform stopped what they were doing and came to attention, while the civilians stood respectfully.
“Please, return to your duties,” Nolan said. He took a few steps and dropped into his seat at the head of the conference table, which was surrounded by holoprojectors and gigantic screens. “Any major updates?”
“We’ve got General Irvine ready to join, sir. She has some insights on the enemy’s tactical operations,” Karimi answered. He gestured at a corporal who was manning a computer station.
A few moments later, a screen came to life with a vidlink, which was clearly being transmitted from a CDF capital ship. An expansive bridge and a CIC area were in full view, but in the center of the screen was General Gabrielle Irvine. She wore a khaki service uniform with an array of campaign ribbons, and the four stars of her rank insignia denoted her as a top-ranking general. “Mr. President,” she began as the camera captured her glancing between different people with her piercing green eyes. “I have a brief update, sir.”
“By all means, General.” We pin our hopes on whatever genius strategy this woman can bring forth. He was thankful that Irvine’s strategic acumen was revered. She’d been the architect of several anti-piracy campaigns and stared down the Jalm’tar Confederation during several cross-border raids.
“Mostly, the League forces haven’t engaged. They’re sitting there.”
Nolan furrowed his brow. “I’m not a military man, General… but that seems odd, doesn’t it?”
“It’s not what I’d be doing. That’s for sure, sir.” Irvine cleared her throat. “But whatever the reason, it’s giving us time to get our reserve fleet in formation, and every hour we get is one more for our nation-state militaries to arrive.”
As it was a supranational entity, the Terran Coalition’s constituent planets had their own military forces for self-defense. After decades of peace, many of the large nations, including the United States and Great Britain, had retaken control of their vessels a little over eight years prior. It seemed to Nolan that the decision had been in error. Hindsight—always twenty-twenty.
“I’m assured that everything, aside from token forces for home defense, is on its way to Canaan.” He paused for a moment, thinking over what she’d said. “I take it from your turn of phrase that there has been combat in Canaan system proper?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Small actions. They’ve hit a couple of fuel refineries in orbit around our gas giant. I would categorize those attacks as probes. They’re attempting to gain information on our capabilities while inflicting damage.”
“Are we responding?”
“Only if it’s critical infrastructure. The fleet can’t afford to be caught out of position or take losses. As it was, the CSV Conqueror was almost destroyed an hour ago. Luckily for us, a reserve escort carrier—the Zvika Greengold—responded in time, and she escaped.”
Nolan put his hands on the table and stared into Irvine’s eyes—as much as he could through a screen. “General, in your professional opinion, what are our chances?”
“Are you a religious man, Mr. President?”
“I am.”
“Then I’d pray hard to God. Because we will do our best, and I believe wholeheartedly that every man and woman in the CDF will do their duty and then some. But we need those reinforcements. Period.”
In other words: not good. Nolan nodded. “Thank you, General. Is there anything else we can do for you right now?”
“No, sir.”
“I won’t keep you, then.”
“Thank you, sir. Godspeed, sir.” Irvine stood from her chair and saluted.
“Good luck, General.”
The screen went black as the connection was severed.
Karimi said, “Sir, I still recommend we
