Chapter 18

The Alpha Zulu system, with its single G-class star and its two inhabited planets, was, by far, the most populated system in human space. Alpha Zulu Prime, the fourth rocky planet from the sun, was home to more than nine hundred million groundborn, more than a quarter of whom were concentrated in the four major metropolitan regions of Newcal, Zito, Faraway, and AZP Ground. Newcal and Zito were the first and second largest cities in human space respectively, while Faraway and AZP Ground were sixth and eighth. Brittany, the third planet from the sun, boasted a population of six hundred and twenty million and laid claim to the third and fifth most populated cities: Diphen and Brittany Ground respectively.

In addition to having the greatest population of groundborn, the AZ system also boasted the greatest permanent population of spaceborn. Brittany Topside held the record for the most heavily populated topside city in human space, with more than four million calling the huge, congested orbital platform home. AZP Topside was no slouch itself. Two and a half million lived and worked there, many of them members of the bureaucracy that managed spaceborn affairs. AZP Topside was, in fact, the capital city of the spaceborn government and housed both houses of their legislature and their Executive Council, as well as their Supreme Court and most of their federal offices.

Orbiting AZ Prime just sixty kilometers from the outer fringes of AZ Topside, was Belting Naval Base, home to Fleet headquarters as well as two superdreadnought battle groups, three dreadnought battle groups, and countless ninety-nines, destroyers, tenders, and cruisers. The base was the largest such facility in existence, housing more than a hundred thousand Fleet members at any given time and supported by an additional twenty thousand civilian workers who regularly commuted over from AZP Topside. The primary marine training center was also located within the facility, adding another ten thousand or so occupants who were either undergoing training or facilitating it.

All of this population and ship traffic in the AZ required facilities for the production of a lot of hydrogen fuel. Three of the gas giants in orbit around the star Alpha Zulu had huge processing facilities in orbit around them to harvest the hydrogen out of the atmospheres of the planets for use as fusion rocket propellent for the spacefaring society. This all added another million inhabitants per facility—each of which was a virtual orbiting city with all the infrastructure and needs of any other.

At 0564 hours, Universal time, nearly ten metric days after the Magnum had set out from Earth on its unauthorized mission, the ships of the Peacekeeper battle group, which the Magnum was now a part of, began to emerge, one by one, from the Yuba/AZ circuit point that sat at the barycenter between Alpha Zulu and the gas giant Euphrates. First to emerge were the anti-stealth platforms and then the destroyers. Peacekeeper itself came next, followed by Magnum, the replenishment ships, and finally, the cruisers. At Admiral Goon’s orders, the emergences followed Fleet battle doctrine to the letter, coming out two minutes apart and immediately maneuvering to resume a protective formation.

In the combat information center, or CIC, of the Peacekeeper, Admiral Goon sat in the command chair, watching the holographic displays of the board before her. Most of the other seats in the room were occupied as well. There was a communications station staffed with a lieutenant and two ensigns, a detection and acquisition station staffed with two specialists, a weapons station staffed with four specialists, a battle group tracking station, an assault craft command and control station, and a slew of battle advisers including the group’s marine commander, experts in space to space warfare, defensive systems experts, and specialists in exterior assault tactics. This was all in addition to the helm station itself, which sat at the front of the room where Captain Nose Twister, Peacekeeper‘s actual captain, sat with his own staff for control and station keeping of the actual ship.

“All vessels have emerged safely from the circuit,” reported the tracking officer once the last ship had come through. “All have reported engines burning nominally and all are maneuvering back to battle formation.”

“Understood,” Goon said, looking at the formation holograph. “How long until we’re formed back up?”

“Within the hour,” was the answer. “As always, we’re slowed by the replenishment ships.”

“That’s the way it goes, I guess,” she said with a sigh. “Comm, how is the stellar interference?”

“Clearing rapidly,” the communications station answered. “The circuit point was twenty k over the coronal layer so there wasn’t all that much to begin with.”

“Excellent,” Goon said. “As soon as it is clear go ahead and send our position report and movement intentions to STC. We wouldn’t want anyone to get in our way, would we?”

“Will do, Admiral,” was the reply.

“Tracking,” she said next. “Report on traffic in the vicinity?”

“We’re just starting to make sense of the fuzz, Admiral,” the tracking officer reported. “There’s the usual heavy civilian traffic making its way between the circuit and AZP. I’ve got six freighters, three hydro shleppers, and nine passenger carrying vessels. All are in the appropriate lanes and will present no collision danger.”

“Understood,” Goon said. “Fleet vessels?”

“Nothing in detection range currently. When the stellar interference is completely gone I’ll send an inquiry to Fleet Ops for a position report on all assets in the system.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said. “It’ll be interesting to see if they respond to it.”

The position report was sent off to the space traffic control center based at Belting Naval Base. Travel time of the signal was four and a half metric minutes. While they were waiting to hear back, Goon used her holo stage to sample some of the media headlines that were floating around in the system. Unfortunately, all she could see were the headlines. In order to read the stories or view the holos, she would have to endure the same nine minute wait period after opening the link. The headlines were enlightening enough. The allegations of the concluding resolution were the top story. The news they were spreading had beaten them here, traveling from circuit point to circuit point by means of the heavily utilized, un-throttled communications probe apparatus of the inner systems.

EXECUTIVE COUNCIL DENIES THAT CONCLUDING RESOLUTION WAS GENOCIDAL, read one headline. SECRETARY OF THE FLEET CALLS ALLEGATION OF GENOCIDE “A GROSS DISTORTION OF THE FACTS” read another. Yet another proclaimed that SPEAKER OF THE LOWER HOUSE VOWS TO OPEN AN INVESTIGATION INTO EVENTS IN THE SOL SYSTEM. Another still proclaimed ADMIRAL ROOKER, CHIEF OF FLEET OPERATIONS, DECLARES THE MAGNUM‘S HOLOGRAPH “PURE, UNADULTERATED PROPOGANDA.”

“Pure, unadulterated propaganda, huh?” Goon muttered.

“What was that, Admiral?” asked Captain Nose.

“I was just reviewing some of the system headlines,” Goon said. “I’m starting to suspect what the company line is going to be on the concluding resolution.”

“That it really isn’t as bad as Stoner and Dripper are making it out to be?” Nose asked.

“Exactly,” Goon said. “And if the investigation ultimately reveals that it really is that bad, everyone will claim they didn’t know, that they didn’t understand what they were putting into place.”

“Convenient,” Nose said.

This suspicion grew when they received a transmission from the office of the Chief of Fleet Operations, sent and authorized by Admiral Rooker, the CFO himself. It was a message that was succinct and to the point.

PEACEKEEPER GROUP WILL ESCORT THE VESSEL MAGNUM AT BEST POSSIBLE SPEED TO BERTHING AT BELTING NAVAL BASE. EN ROUTE, ALL VESSELS OF THE PEACEKEEPER GROUP, INCLUDING THE MAGNUM, WILL MAINTAIN STRICT COMMUNICATION SILENCE. NO TRANSMISSIONS OF ANY KIND WILL BE SENT EXCEPT FOR THOSE NECESSARY FOR NAVIGATION AND INTERACTION WITH SPACE TRAFFIC CONTROL. COMMANDER OF THE PEACEKEEPER GROUP, UPON ARRIVAL AT BELTING NAVAL BASE, WILL IMMEDIATELY PRESENT TO THIS OFFICE TO EXPLAIN WHY THE GROUP LEFT ITS AREA OF OPERATION WITHOUT AUTHORITY AND WHY IT ALLOWED AN ILLEGALLY OPERATED VESSEL TO CONTINUE ON ITS PATH WITHOUT INTERVENTION.

“They’re trying to shut us up,” Nose said.

“They are,” Goon agreed. “And it’s not going to work. Communications, send the following: We respectfully decline to follow your destination order and your order to maintain communication silence. This battle group is operating under authority of Article 718 and Article 724 of the Fleet General Orders Manual, which state, respectively, that no Fleet personnel will follow an illegal order and that all Fleet personnel will actively resist and attempt to correct and report on any suspected act which would constitute a crime against humanity. We will continue on our course to Alpha Zulu Prime Topside and we will contact and interact with any and all media services in this system to clarify and present our evidence that a crime against humanity is, in fact, taking place as we speak in the Sol System. Signed, Vice Admiral Goon, Intermediate Space Commander.”

The comm specialist read back her words to her for clarification. Goon clarified and the message was sent across space.

“I don’t think he’s going to like that very much,” opined Captain Nose with a smile.

“Probably not,” agreed Goon. “How often do you get to deliberately piss off the highest ranking officer in the Fleet?”

“Not very,” Nose said.

Nine and a half minutes later the pissed off reply arrived.

ADMIRAL BEEBLE GOON IS RELIEVED OF COMMAND, EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY. SHE WILL BE PLACED UNDER ARREST FOR INSUBORDINATION AND MAKING A MUTINY AND HELD IN THE BRIG UNTIL ARRIVAL AT BELTING NAVAL BASE. NEXT IN COMMAND WILL ASSUME CONTROL OF PEACEKEEPER BATTLE GROUP AND FOLLOW THE ORDERS GIVEN IN LAST TRANSMISSION. ACKNOWLEDGE IMMEDIATELY WITH CONFIRMATION OF ADMIRAL GOON’S ARREST AND IDENTITY OF THE NEW GROUP COMMANDER.

“Well now,” Goon said upon reading this. “That was certainly uncalled for.” She looked around the CIC, spotting Rear Admiral Flank Zebruiser, who had been the battle group commander prior to Goon’s assumption of that title back in the Doxy system. “Zeeb? Do you want to place me under arrest and assume command of the group? The CFO says you have to.”

“Tork that,” Zebruiser said without pause. “I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.”

She looked around the room. “Anyone else? I have an order from the CFO here demanding that I be relieved of command. Does anyone here wish to enforce it?”

No one wished to.

“All righty then,” Goon said. “Comm, transmit the following to the CFO: Peacekeeper battle group will remain under the control of Vice Admiral Beeble Goon until the completion of current mission. At that point Admiral Goon, as well as Lieutenant Commander Dripper and Medic Stoner will present themselves to military authorities for arrest and courts marshal. Until then, however, we will remain on course to Alpha Zulu Prime Topside and we will be in communication with the media groups of the system, and we will continue to operate under the authority of articles 718 and 724.”

The comm specialist clarified her words once more and they were sent off. As soon as they left, Goon told the specialist to contact the Magnum.

Ox’s face appeared on the holo screen less than a minute later. “Magnum here, Admiral,” he said.

“I assume you’re getting ready to start contacting the media groups?” she asked him.

“We are, Admiral,” Ox replied. “I got Taz, Gath, and Phlegm over at the terminals right now, looking through the indexes and assembling an order of contact. Of course, we’re not quite close enough for practical face to face with any of the AZ or Brittany based groups, but we’ll at least get the basic releases done and start waiting on the replies.”

“Very good,” Goon said. “You’ve seen the headlines in the system?”

“We have,” Ox said. “Looks like denial and misunderstanding are the key words in their defense.”

“That’s my read on it,” Goon said. “And while they’re investigating and pointing fingers and making their denials and throwing accusations around about who knew what and when they knew it, the concluding resolution will continue back in the Sol. We need to cut through all that ratslag and put a stop to it now.”

“How are we going to do that?” Ox asked. “I caught the FleetComs from the CFO. They’re trying to shut us up.”

“And they’re going to fail at that,” Goon promised. “You present your evidence to the media groups and get your natives ready to talk to the legislature members and the execs. Feel free to pass along those orders from the CFO for us to keep our mouths shut. That will give his office one more thing to answer for and create even more space debris for him to navigate. Meanwhile, I’m going to send a request for review of the concluding resolution to the federal court system and ask for a preliminary injunction against it until it is all sorted out.”

Ox nodded thoughtfully. “Do you think that will work?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “but what do we have to lose by trying?”

“We’re on it, Admiral.”

“Very good,” Goon said. “We’re in the end game now. Time to follow through and pull this thing off.”

Human Space Fleet Headquarters—colloquially though unofficially known as the “Ultra-white Quarters” by Fleet personnel and spaceborn civilians alike—was a pressurized, artificially gravitated office building that contained one hundred and eighteen levels. Fifty of those levels rose above the common street level that formed the basic anchoring frame of the orbiting Belting Naval Base complex and fifty-eight levels sank below it. Though bloated bureaucracies full of unnecessary offices and designed to employ an army of needless people at government expense had gone out of practice in civilized space back in the early days of the post-Martian revolution, there was still a legitimate need for a large volume of staffing to administer an organization as large and far-reaching as the Human Space Fleet. More than forty thousand people worked daily in the Ultra-white Quarters to keep the Fleet running and to keep its resources allocated.

The head bureaucrat of them all was a one hundred and six year old full admiral by the name of Till Rooker. “Old Rook” as he was known these days—although rarely to his face, certainly not by his subordinates (which included every single human being in a Fleet or marine uniform)—had been a member of the Fleet for eighty years now, having started his career as a common spacer fourth class assigned to clean toilets on a ninety-nine and rising gradually through the ranks through both careers until being appointed Commander of Fleet Operations five years before. In that time he had served in some capacity on nearly every type of Fleet vessel and had spent the better part of his first career attached to Far Space Command which administered the Sol system.

Old Rook’s office space took up the entirety of the negative fifty-eighth level of the Ultra-white Quarters—as low as one could go. In spaceborn culture it was considered more elite and exclusive to have one’s residence or office located in the structures constructed below the main level. The lower down, the more elite one was considered to be. This was a rather odd break from the normal spaceborn cultural practicality as it took longer to get to one’s office or residence from street level that way, thus forcing the so-called elite person to spend much more time in elevators traveling between levels than the common peons who had their offices or residences closer to the street level. This practice was a leftover from the first few centuries of space living when windows were still a part of the structures and the view one enjoyed out of said windows was considered a perk of higher status. The best views of whatever the structure was orbiting would typically be found out the lower levels of the sub-street structures, thus making them the most desired and sought after places to live and work. For the past nine hundred or so years now, however, windows were no longer built in space structures or vessels as they represented unnecessary structural weak points and holographic camera views could be produced on wall sized view screens in every residence, office, or berthing space no matter where in the building, ship, or structure one was housed. Still, the elitism of those lower levels had stubbornly persisted, meaning that the janitors of the Ultra-white Quarters could enjoy a twenty second trip up one level from the street to their office and look out over an unobstructed view of the planet AZ Prime circling below while the CFO had to endure a five minute trip with multiple stops to get to negative fifty-eight to enjoy the very same view, yet the CFO still felt he had the better end of the deal.

Ancient practices of elitism and how they related to his office space were not what was on Old Rook’s mind currently, however. The concluding resolution was at front and center stage at the moment, most specifically, the fact that it was in the process of blowing up in his face and there seemed to be nothing he could do to stop it. He was going to be fired from his command and from the Fleet, that was without question. Unfortunately, he was coming to realize, for that to be the only thing that happened as a result of the damned resolution was the most outrageously optimistic scenario he could even hope to fathom. It was entirely possible that he was going to lose his pension as well and end up living in a public housing building with the dregs of society—those leaches who sponged off the work of others and sustained themselves through the generations by eating their constitutionally mandated food allotments and wearing their constitutionally mandated clothing handouts. And that was only if he didn’t end up in prison for crimes against humanity—the scenario that was actually, he knew in his heart, the most likely to occur.

Why in the name of Whoever had he let himself be talked into this insane scheme? How had he ever thought there were not going to be these kind of repercussions as a result? It all seemed so naïve now, in hindsight. When Doc Bookender and Far Space Commander Zeal had presented him with the plan all those cycles ago, he had realized that there were going to be political and legal consequences for his part in pushing it through and administering it, of course. Back then, however, he had thought the consequences for his actions—once the concluding resolution was taken beyond the point of no return and the story of it came out—could certainly be nothing more than removal from his post and a request to resign his employment with the Fleet. That had been an acceptable trade-off for finally putting into motion the means to the end to a thousand year old problem the Fleet had been saddled with. Purg, he was already nearly twenty years past the point that most people entered final retirement anyway. Wasn’t being asked for his resignation worth the price of going down in history as the hume who finally freed the Fleet from the homebody obligation? It had all seemed so reasonable at the time. He even remembered having thoughts that the most likely thing to happen would be a simple reprimand in his official file and that it might even be possible he would be hailed as a hero and be able to go out in a burst of popular glory.

Now, however, the story had broken before the point of no return had been reached, thanks to some pious, snot-nosed ninety-nine captain that Rook had never even heard of and some obscure groundie medic. They were not the only two to dump a load of waste into his propellent tanks, but they were the ringleaders. Now, one of his immediate subordinates—torking Bebe, his hard-as-rivets Intermediate Space commander—had jumped on the anti-resolution battle group and was openly defying his direct orders. No, things were not looking good here at all. Media reps were comming his office continuously now, demanding to know if the concluding resolution was real, how much he knew about it, when he knew about it. So far, he had been able to hold up a front with a wall of half-truths, innuendo, denials, no comments, and the occasional outright lie. But now that Bebe was disobeying his order of silence, that wall was starting to crumble.

His commer buzzed, indicating an incoming attempt to talk to him. His secretary and his adjacent had both been ordered to not put any comms through, which meant that whoever was attempting to speak to him now had the importance to bypass that blockade. There were not many who met that qualification. Taking a deep breath, he looked at the display on the holo, seeing that it was Trickster Fallon, Lead Councilperson of the Executive Council, arguably the most powerful human in civilized space, who wanted to chat right now. He and Fallon had been speaking a lot over the past two days. None of the conversations had been pleasant and this one would undoubtedly be no different.

He opened the comm link and beheld the head and shoulders holograph of a late second career aged female. The expression on her face was not one of amusement.

“Hey, Trick,” Rook greeted her, putting an artificial smile on his face. “How are things going over in the capital building?”

“Oh, about what you’d expect under these rather unsettling circumstances,” Fallon replied. She then got right to the point. “Why am I seeing live reports on the media channels coming from that mutinous captain’s ship? Why is he still telling our citizens about that Whoever damned concluding resolution? Didn’t you order that admiral of yours to shut that little waste rodent of a captain up? I distinctly remember giving you a direct executive order to do so.”

“I gave the order,” Rook told her. “Admiral Goon chose to disobey it.”

“Relieve her of command immediately!” Fallon barked. “Do I have to tell you how to do everything, Rook?”

“No, Trick,” Rook said patiently, “you do not. I did order that Admiral Goon be relieved of command. That order was disobeyed as well.”

“They can’t do that! You gave them a lawful order as commander of all Fleet resources! That order must be obeyed immediately!”

“Yes,” Rook said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, “I really hate it when a mutinous battle group commander doesn’t listen to my order for communication silence. What is the Fleet coming to?”

“Don’t you get impertinent with me, Admiral,” she yelled. “Don’t forget who appointed you to that position.”

“Forgive me,” Rook said, sounding anything but sincere. “In any case, the Magnum is continuing to broadcast their accusations. They are even releasing copies of my order to maintain silence. The situation is quickly getting out of control here. I don’t know how much longer we can maintain any sort of plausible deniability about the details of the concluding resolution.”

“I don’t give a waste rodent’s slagger about plausibility,” Fallon told him. “We will continue to deny that genocide was the goal of the concluding resolution. Genocide wasn’t the goal! You told us that it was simply a plan to reduce the birth rate of the Earth natives! That was what we voted on!”

“With all due respect, Trick, you’re full of slag and you know it.”

Fallon’s face turned red as she heard this. “How dare you talk to me like that!”

“I said, ‘all due respect’ first,” Rook reminded her. “In any case, how long do you think that excuse is going to stand up to scrutiny? You and every other member of the Executive Council were presented with a complete text of the concluding resolution plan and you voted unanimously to sign it into law. The text plainly spells out the details of the plan, specifically stating that the short term goal is to produce one hundred percent sterilization of the childbearing age males on the planet Earth in order to rapidly bring about a drastic reduction in population over the next generation.”

“We didn’t understand that was the goal!” Fallon told him—with a straight face no less. Rook had a holographically clear memory of briefing the council on the plan back when it was initially suggested. There had been no misunderstandings about what the short term and long term goals were.

“Well, somehow you’re going to have to convince the media reps and the citizens of that,” Rook told her.

“That won’t be hard to do,” Fallon said confidently. “The actual text of that resolution is never going to be released to the public. It has been deemed classified material under the constitution. Our position here in the Executive Office will remain that we agreed to a simple reduction in the homebody birth rate and that you in the Fleet high command are the one’s who decided to interpret the resolution more aggressively.”

Rook felt a burst of anger flooding through him. “So, you’re throwing me and my people into the plasma stream.”

“That is not the way to look at it,” Fallon insisted. “Someone has to take responsibility for this clustertork when all the details finally come out. We on the council must remain insulated to keep the government functioning. You have the ability to spread the responsibility far and wide so that no one person or group can be deemed completely responsible. We do not have that ability. Furthermore, you are the people who came up with this asinine plan in the first place. All we did was agree to it.”

“Unanimously, as I recall,” Rook said.

“We were misled!” Fallon insisted yet again.

The admiral sighed. “We’re starting to get into that whole circular argument thing again. How about we move on? How are you going to handle the legislature?”

Fallon shook her head angrily. “Both houses of the legislature are presenting the same argument that we on the Executive Council are making: that they did not understand exactly what the concluding resolution entailed. They say they voted on a bill to simply reduce the birth rate of the Earth natives, not to eliminate them as a species. They are already talking about opening official investigations into the resolution.”

Rook nodded. The two houses of the legislature—particular the lower house, where nearly half of the representatives were conscripts serving mandatory government service—really had a legitimate argument there. Rook and his people really had misled them in their briefings into believing they were just giving the go-ahead for a gradual birth rate reduction to reduce population. None of them had the time or the inclination to read every bill they voted on, particularly when it was being presented as an emergency measure. “I’m sure they will get quite pious now that the resolution is becoming common knowledge.”

“Hypocrites!” Fallon opined. “They went along with the plan and even kept it secret—that alone should tell people they knew there was something wrong with it—and now they’re going to act like innocent little schoolkids who got scammed by the teacher’s coalition.”

“Undoubtedly,” Rook said. “The question remains however: How are you going to handle them?”

“By letting them do their little investigation and form their little committees and continue to deny, deny, deny, and shift responsibility for the resolution over to you and your people. I suggest you pin everything on those slagholes who came up with this idea in the first place: Zeal and Bookender.”

“That is exactly what my intentions are,” Rook said, “but we need to draw this out as long as possible to buy time.”

“Buy time?” Fallon asked. “What are we buying time for?”

“For the concluding resolution to get through Phase One at the very least.”

Fallon looked at him as if he were mad. “You’re suggesting we continue with the resolution? Keep sterilizing those homers now that word has been released and it has been called genocide.”

“Naturally we need to keep it going,” Rook said. “If we stop now, it will all have been for nothing. If I’m going to lose my career, my pension, and possibly end up in prison for putting this all into motion, I’m damned sure going to see to it that we at least get that population reduced down to a manageable number over the next thirty years. If we can do that, all is not lost, you understand? Wiser, more reasonable minds can make the decision to carry on with the plan once that population level is down. They can either finish it off then or forcibly evacuate that planet somehow. We may be condemned and vilified now, Trick, but when seen through the eyes of history in the future, we will still be hailed as visionary for bringing the damn homebody problem to an eventual end.”

“You think we’ll be hailed for genocide?” Fallon asked, aghast.

“It is not genocide!” Rook insisted. “Just because some misguided Fleet flunkies and headline seeking media reps call it a genocide does not make it true. We’re not killing anyone, we’re simply preventing natural reproduction. And the homebodies are not a race. None of what we are doing rises to the level of being compared to a genocide.”

“Do you really think that is going to thrust when it comes time for your trial, Rook?”