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  A yellow light on his forearm just aside the barrel beckoned, so he held it down and made a fist. A trio of projectiles about the size of a low-caliber bullet fired on target for the kite-thing.

  However, the drone responded with three flashes of laser light, warming the incoming rounds to a red glow and nudging them off course. They disappeared into the sky like embers drifting away from a campfire.

  Hawthorne did not have time to fire again.

  WARNING. WEAPONS LOCK DETECTED.

  Before the drone could fire it exploded, leaving a span of wing and half its cylinder body hanging in the air as if pasted to the sky, destroyed by a surface-to-air missile.

  Hawthorne’s savior was a vehicle two meters long and half that wide rolling along at a fast clip on a pair of treads. A big box sat on its hindquarters as well as a cluster of launch tubes mounted on a rotating platform.

  The thing appeared ready to fall apart, as if the tubes, the box, and its treads had been pieced together with rubber bands and glue. It shook and shimmied as it bounced over rocks and debris.

  “Colonel! What the hell is this thing?”

  Curtis glanced away from his work.

  “Oh, that’s Curly, another of Thomas’ friends.”

  Hawthorne thought he understood why this particular lieutenant was sought after; his toys came riding to the rescue at exactly the right moment.

  A rumble from ahead pulled his attention away from the funny contraption. The Russian force neared and its air cover changed into attack mode, strafing the towers and bunkers overlooking the valley.

  Hawthorne retreated to the Colonel’s side.

  “We’re out of time.”

  “So are they,” and he pulled the pod and its electronic poison from the hole and then transmitted, “OPs, Curtis here, you are online.”

  “What’s happening?” Hawthorne asked.

  “We can beat off a cyber-attack easy enough, but this bastard was feeding virus after virus, bug after bug into the system. Our guys couldn’t keep up. With it out of action they just need a minute to—”

  A chunk of concrete fell from the wall within feet of the men and while gravity was lower on Titan, such a slab still managed to cause a tremor and scare the hell out of them.

  “We don’t have a minute!”

  The American cyber teams cleaned the defense grid and the turrets atop the base returned to operation, along with guns built into the valley walls. The Russian armada suffered a buzz saw of attacks with focused lasers, missiles, and cannon fire hitting from three directions.

  Flares, chaff, and interceptors tried to shield the columns from the battery fire, but the volume was too much.

  Two of the lead tanks went up first, their domes blasted open by rockets revealing artificial brains and their treads sliced off by cutting lasers. Airborne drones either fell from the sky or were chased off, and the walking robots with their laser guns felt the sting of EMP warheads and the sizzle of acid-laced bombs that burst like water balloons.

  Either their robotic brains had a built-in survival instinct or their human masters called them home. The Russian columns turned and retreated, losing one out of every five of their number before finally withdrawing out of reach.

  “We did it,” Curtis said and patted him on the shoulder.

  “Until tomorrow you mean.”

  “Yeah, they will bomb the shit out of us tomorrow but we’ll be pulling out by then.”

  Hawthorne asked, “What if you met your quota but stayed here and put up a fight?”

  “Jesus, then we would have a real war on our hands, and who would want that?”

  14. Lieutenant Thomas

  The American outpost was a labyrinth built into the sides of the valley. Dangling bare bulbs lit cramped concrete corridors. Pockets of dry heat and icy cold air alternated every few paces and in some sections, noise from the blowers circulating oxygen was so loud that it was impossible to converse.

  Cave-like rooms appeared at scattered intervals, some filled with computer gear and control consoles, others with cots and coffeemakers. The common theme throughout the poorly organized compound was a readiness to evacuate. Equipment, clothes, food, and ammunition remained packed in crates, boxes, and footlockers, ready for transport.

  As he followed Curtis through the maze, Hawthorne saw Russian equipment, food, and even graffiti. As he had learned, the outpost changed ownership frequently. The entire situation felt like a black comedy that he might find amusing if it was not so damn depressing. He expected to find a chessboard with the Russian player’s move pending.

  They arrived at an octagonal room with long and thin horizontal windows allowing the twilight glow of a Titan afternoon to seep inside. A squad of soldiers gathered in what was an observation post, most wearing gray BDUs although camouflage held little value on the modern battlefield.

  Curtis introduced, “Commander, this is Lieutenant Thomas,” but Hawthorne noticed Thomas immediately; she stood apart from every soldier he had met in his career.

  Instead of fatigues, the Lieutenant wore a black skin suit, the kind worn under layers of protective gear or when scuba diving. While naturally tight by design, her version was clearly a size too small, although Curtis’ men probably felt it fit perfectly.

  Every inch of her petite frame was on display, from the crack in her ass to her perky breasts, all topped by soft features, green eyes, and a bushel of curly blond hair.

  Hawthorne felt his penis harden as he understood exactly why this was the most coveted officer within five million miles of Saturn.

  “Kelly,” the Colonel summoned his prize, “this is Commander Jonathan Hawthorne.”

  Her eyes widened and a childlike grin beamed across her face.

  “Oh my God! Not the Commander Hawthorne? Ganymede? The Jupiter wars?”

  “Well, yes, that would be me.”

  “Oh my God! Get out of here! I can’t believe it. You know, my father fought in the Jupiter wars; he was a hero, too.”

  “Lieutenant—”

  “Please call me Kelly.”

  He rephrased, “Kelly, your, um, uniform is, not exactly Army issue.”

  “I know, right,” she placed a hand on her hip and rolled her eyes. “I’ve put in three times for BDUs and each time shipping screws up the order. We can send fleets of battleships from Earth to Saturn but can’t ship one darned pair of short-small fatigues. But hey, the guys found me this advanced battle dress prototype.” She glanced around at them, smiled, and waved. She then whispered to Hawthorne, “I understand it’s going to be standard issue soon.”

  He nodded politely and turned to Curtis who refused to make eye contact.

  From the opposite side of the room, in walked a four-legged mechanical beast resembling a dog about twice the size of a Golden Retriever. A featureless sphere served as its head, no eyes or teeth.

  Thomas ran to the newcomer and gave it a big hug, to which the robot responded with a bow.

  Curtis said, “Say, your two drones saved our ass out there.”

  Hawthorne noticed a round metal implant above Kelly Thomas’ left temple, suggesting an advanced thinker chip.

  “You’re connected to them,” he said aloud.

  “Yeppers!” And she stroked the mechanical dog’s metal back as if there might be fur there. “You met Moe and Curly, but can you guess what this big fella’s name is?”

  He looked at Curtis, then back to her, and guessed, “Larry?”

  “Oh my god! You are like psychic or something!”

  Curtis said, “Kelly, you and your equipment will be transferring to Commander Hawthorne’s command.”

  She gave Larry another hug and then snapped straight up, almost to attention, and spoke to her new Commander, “Sir, I look forward to serving under you.”

  “Yes, well, um, you had better gather your things. How long to pack up your gear and your, um, robots?”

  “Ten minutes, sir.”

  “Okay, I will meet you at the transport depot
in fifteen, roger that?”

  “Roger that, sir!”

  Hawthorne turned to Curtis, grabbed his arm, and said, “In the meantime, you and I will pay a visit to the quartermaster.”

  “What? Oh, yeah, okay.”

  While Hawthorne took the lead, Curtis pointed the way, babbling as they walked away from the observation room and down yet another dark hall through alternating patches of warm and cold air.

  “She is a heck of an officer, Commander; great with the robots.”

  “Save it, Colonel, I see what has been going on around here. No marksmanship, weak at hand-to-hand, and barely average on tactics. You have a soldier whose only asset is, well, her assets and you have treated her like a recreational robot.”

  When they came to a four-way intersection, Hawthorne followed an arrow directing them toward the supply depot.

  “That is harsh, Commander.”

  “Well I understand the concept of fraudulent reporting and conduct unbecoming an officer. I think that applies. For Christ’s sake, you have her dressed up in a cat suit.”

  They arrived at a long counter behind which stood rows of shelves and piles of boxes. A fat soldier wearing a loose-fitting uniform and reading from e-paper eyed their approach.

  “That is not fair, Commander.”

  “Oh it isn’t?” And he walked behind the counter.

  The fat man protested, “Hey, you can’t come in here!”

  Of course Hawthorne ignored him; he had worked up a head of righteous indignation. While he did not care about much these days, seeing a person taken advantage of in a manner that put lives at risk upset him.

  Curtis held a hand up to the supply officer to ward him off while responding to Hawthorne, “We processed the request for short-small BDUs and nothing ever came.”

  The Commander walked down an aisle with his eyes on the top shelf. After ten seconds of searching, he reached up, grabbed a box, and dumped the contents to the floor, spilling out gray BDUs in small sizes.

  Colonel Curtis tilted his head, offered a sheepish smirk, and said, “We’ll make sure these get sent to your ship.”

  15. Change of Plans

  The Virgil’s heavy-lifter rose vertically from the launch pad, flew west over Camp Conrad, and then climbed into the thick atmosphere at a gentle incline.

  Even under the worst circumstances, a space plane like the lifter took to orbit with far less fuss than a capsule. In the case of leaving Titan’s weaker gravity, the trip felt relaxing, a smooth ride subjecting the passengers to only a minute of strong g-force.

  Horus and a crewmate sat in the pilots chairs at the front of the cockpit while the other five rode in the cramped passenger compartment, split between two rows of seats facing one another.

  Fisk kept eying Lieutenant Thomas. Hawthorne could not blame him; she was an attractive young woman, even in her new BDUs. He suspected Fisk would have fainted had he seen Thomas in the suit Curtis’ men had tricked her into wearing.

  Dr. King occasionally glanced sideways at Fisk, studying the young man. Perhaps she was sizing up their corporate host’s religious bent.

  Of course, Hawthorne had just met Dr. King and only knew what Wren had broadcast to the group while boarding: they had found her preaching New Christianity.

  Obviously, Wren had little use for religion or preachers; he kept glaring at the older black woman as if he were a cop sizing up a suspect.

  Worse, when the ship took to the air he mumbled, “Dear God, watch over my poor, worthless soul and guide us to our destination.” When they hit space, “Praise Jeebus, we have reached orbit.” On docking, he assured his fellow passengers that, “It is God’s will that our journey was successful.”

  Lieutenant Thomas spent the trip smiling at Hawthorne, suggesting a hero worship he had not experienced in years. Better yet, he learned that Lieutenant Kelly Thomas was twenty-two years old, making her less than half his age. He would likely need pharmaceutical assistance to survive the trip to Uranus.

  When the heavy lifter docked with the Virgil and as the passengers unbuckled, Captain Horus addressed the group.

  “There has been a slight change in our travel schedule. We will make a quick stop before leaving Saturn orbit.”

  Fisk protested, “You are being paid to take us to Oberon.”

  “Yes, but someone just paid me ten thousand dollars to deliver a package to another of Saturn’s moons. We will depart for Oberon later than planned but well within our launch window.”

  Hawthorne asked Horus, “Where?”

  “Pan.”

  “Pan?” Hawthorne repeated.

  Wren told them, “It is in the Encke Gap in Saturn’s rings.”

  Hawthorne said to the Captain, “Your special delivery isn’t a package; it’s me.”

  ---

  An astronomer would describe Saturn’s rings as ice and rock particles ranging in size from dust to small asteroids. That astronomer would measure the rings at two hundred and eighty thousand kilometers wide with a thickness fluctuating from a few meters in some areas, nearly a mile in others.

  Reagan Fisk was no astronomer. He did not see ice and rock as he viewed the rings from the Virgil’s bridge; he saw resources that could improve the lives of people.

  They sailed low and fast over the chunks of rock and dust with Saturn to port and the universe to starboard. This quick side trip caused him consternation, but he put aside his angst and replaced it with pride, at least for a minute.

  He was playing a part in what might be man’s biggest step forward. If he managed to keep Wren from pissing everyone off and Commander Hawthorne pointed in the right direction, he might just earn a promotion and a raise.

  Just as important, Reagan Fisk understood the potential space represented. Those balls of ice and rock drifting in Saturn’s rings below the Virgil were the perfect example.

  Pan orbited inside those rings, a so-called shepherd moon converted into the most important data and communications hub in space. The tiny satellite hosted the Laser Communications Relay, built jointly by three corporations to facilitate high-speed communications across the solar system. Construction involved lassoing dozens of asteroids in Saturn’s A-Ring into a network spanning a hundred square miles with Pan at the center.

  When completed, the corporations created an independent entity to operate the relay. Fisk thought that a grand gesture of placing the public good ahead of profits.

  He recognized that some people saw corporations as faceless entities full of corruption and excessive political influence. In contrast, Reagan Fisk saw UVI as a big family working to improve the human condition. Profit was the reward for success; greed a word used by shortsighted people who felt a sense of entitlement and did not understand the concepts of hard work and personal investment.

  Reagan Fisk was familiar with those concepts. When he was five years old, his father lost his job as a loan officer, replaced by algorithms capable of accurately predicting an applicant’s breakfast three years into the future, let alone the ability to repay debts. Applying for a mortgage or lifestyle loan required thirty seconds at a computer kiosk, no human interaction required.

  Like so many transitioning from the devastation of the Great Atlantic Tsunami to a world of space stations and nanobots, Reagan’s dad was lost to technology and lived the rest of his days on corporate relief.

  With his family nearly bankrupt, Reagan started work at thirteen, writing dialogue files and personality profiles for companion robots, a job he did online from home while helping to care for an ailing grandmother.

  Many of his peers applied for assistance when they turned eighteen as if it were a rite of passage. Reagan Fisk, however, took a transcript of academic honors into a corporate apprentice program. That meant long hours and no vacations but it paid dividends. Recognition from his superiors led to employment in UVI’s Space Resource Exploitation Division, a tough assignment for a young man afraid of orbital launches, but a boost to his career. His father had nearly cried with p
ride when he shared the news.

  So when he heard complaints about the seven major corporations or capitalism in general, he saw it as ignorance and selfishness. Ironic how someone would call a corporation greedy for earning profit but campaign for taxes that took from the producers and gave to those who had no ambition, no desire to succeed. Watching news videos of anti-corporation protests made him so angry he wanted to scream.

  So when he looked at Saturn he saw the resources that could power mankind into a bright future and he saw the producers making it happen, while the lazy sat home and collected a handout.

  From the window he spied Pan, a walnut-shaped rock orbiting in an open gap in the rings. As it moved, the moon’s gravity sent gentle waves to either side, playing its shepherd’s role in clearing a path through the clutter.

  Commander Hawthorne came to the bridge carrying an unopened bottle of liquor and spoke to Horus, who sat at the navigation console on the starboard side.

  “Captain, how big is the package?”

  “Smaller than a briefcase. I have no idea why someone would pay to have something that size delivered on a cargo ship when robotic couriers are available.”

  “It’s not about the package; it is about a friend who wants me to visit.”

  Horus started, “A friend? You know Lazarus?”

  “When I knew him his name was Gerald and this is something he would pull.”

  “I’ll give the package to you once we dock.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Hawthorne retreated from the bridge.

  Fisk glanced out the front window again as they closed on Pan. To him, it resembled a flying saucer: a flat disc with a ball in the middle measuring forty kilometers across at best.

  What a strange thing, running around in its private space between the rock and ice of the rings.

  A friend? Lazarus?

  A friend should not know Hawthorne’s whereabouts and this ship should not be diverted on a whim. It was one thing when Horus explained the ten thousand dollars he would collect for this detour—Fisk understood that motivation. But now he suspected there was more afoot.