Dark Matter. Ian Douglas

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СКАЧАТЬ Baltimore, and reportedly up in the Manhattan Ruins too. Ashton was grateful for the help . . . but gratitude did have its limits. She hadn’t asked for the government’s help.

      “Whether you like it or not,” the government man said, “the USNA has taken over direct control of the Peripheries. You are citizens of the USNA now, and as such you have both rights and responsibilities. That is especially true of former military personnel such as yourself.”

      She held a middle finger up under his nose. “See this, Government Man?” she snapped. “Sit and rotate!”

      “Lieutenant Ashton—­”

      “I retired, damn it! I put in my time, and I retired, okay? You do not own me!”

      The man nodded toward the downed Jotun. “Looks like you’ve been doing a pretty good job of it since your retirement.”

      In fact, that troop flier had been brought down by a flight of USNA Starhawk fighters. But she wasn’t going to mention that.

      “This is my home, okay? I have a right to defend it.”

      “Granted. And we’re offering you a chance to make sure the Confederation doesn’t try to grab your home from you again.”

      “You can fight your own damned war. I’m not playing.”

      The man sighed. “Well, I’m not going to force you. USNA jurisdiction is still . . . a bit fuzzy out here in the Periphery, and will be until we formally re-­annex it. I will ask you why you won’t help us, though. You were an outstanding Starhawk pilot. Excellent record . . .”

      “Like I said . . . I put in my time. And they need me here. This is . . . home.”

      “Okay. Let’s leave it at this.” He focused a thought, sending Ashton a mind-­to-­mind eddress, which her in-­head circuitry dutifully recorded and logged. “We want you to volunteer for an electronic incursion into Geneva. It’s a no-­risk op; you’ll go in clean and virtual. Your fighter skills are very much needed in this operation, and if you succeed, you will ensure Washington’s freedom from the Confederation. If you can see clear to changing your mind, give me a yell. Fair enough?”

      She nodded, but reluctantly. “Ain’t gonna happen, though.”

      “The USNA is taking back the Periphery, Lieutenant,” the agent said. “Sooner or later, all of this will be under our control, our full control, again. Since the destruction of Columbus, there’s even been . . . talk of bringing the nation’s capital back here. Like it was a few centuries ago. It’ll mean unprecedented prosperity for your ­people . . . medical coverage . . . full access to the Global Net. There are some major advantages for you in this deal.”

      “There’re advantages in staying independent, too.”

      “Indeed. If you can keep that independence.” He didn’t add that to win independence, Ashton and her neighbors would have to fight against the USNA.

      He didn’t need to.

      As he walked away, Ashton wondered if he’d really meant that last unspoken thought as a threat. As far as she was concerned, there wasn’t a decidollar’s difference between the United States of North America and the Earth Confederation. She’d served both when the USNA had been a part of Geneva’s global hegemony, and her loyalties had been to the other members of her squadron and to her shipmates on board the America, not to such abstract concepts as duty, country, or even freedom.

      Hell, what had the USNA done for her or her fellow swampies of late?

      Well, other than showing up at the last possible second and helping to drive off the Confederation invasion three months ago. . . .

      And it was true that the government—­the USNA government, not the ragged committee of swampies who’d been making decisions here for the past few centuries—­had been sending a lot of high-­tech help after the precipitous departure of the Confeds. The old Capitol dome had been freed from the enveloping shrouds of kudzu and tropical vines, water levels were down so far that most of the Mall was now dry land, and three-­meter dikes had been grown along the ancient shores of the Potomac, allowing the standing water to the east to be pumped out. There was even a detachment of USNA Marines in place across the river, now, guarding what to them was a sacred site . . . the ancient Iwo Jima Memorial, which now flew, not the flag of the USNA, but the old U.S. flag under which the Marines once had fought during centuries past. As a side benefit of that deployment, there’d been no more marauder raids on the D.C. Ruin settlements from the Virginia side of the river. Ten years ago, Ashton had led an armed team across the river to avenge Fred’s death, and had wiped out one nest of those snakes, but new marauder clans had shown up during the past few years.

      Maybe there were advantages to having the USNA government renew its claims along the coast after all.

      Angrily, she shook off the thought. The government was the proverbial camel with its nose worming in under the side of the tent. Let it in just a little, and pretty soon the whole damned camel was in there, shouldering you out into the desert cold.

      No. . . .

      Blue Seven, VF-­910

      Saturn Space

      1315 hours, TFT

      Lieutenant Frank Gallagher accelerated at nearly 10,000 Gs, streaking up from the tiny white, icy moon and into open space. Above him, Saturn hung huge and vast and beautiful, filling half the sky, her rings a diamond-­hard and ruler-­straight white scratch across all of heaven.

      “Enceladus Base!” he called. “Blue One clear and accelerating!”

      “Copy, Blue One,” the voice of Enceladus Flight Control replied in his head.

      “Joining formation.” The three other Starfighters of Blue Flight drifted in open formation a few thousand kilometers ahead and he moved to join them. “Okay, Blues,” he said. “Keep it tight.”

      “Blue Two, affirmative.” That was Lieutenant Karyl Joyce.

      “Blue Four, ready to boost.” Lieutenant Dwayne Tanner.

      “Blue Three, ready.” Lieutenant Victor Truini.

      “Blue Flight formed up and ready for formation intercept,” Gallagher announced.

      “Copy, Blue Flight. Unknowns now bearing at one-­seven-­three plus twelve, range two-­niner-­five thousand. Unknowns have fired on Red Flight, and are confirmed hostile. You have weapons free, I say again, weapons free.”

      “Copy weapons free. Coming to one-­seven-­three plus one-­two.”

      “Go get ’em, Frank.”

      “No prob, Salad Bowl. Keep the coffee warm for us back there.”

      “Will do.” The voice hesitated. “We’re reading the hostiles now as twelve Krag-­sixties. Range now two-­five-­zero thousand. The big boys are moving in, range one-­point-­seven-­seven million.”

      Not good. “Copy.”

      The Pan-­European Krag-­sixties—­KRG-­60 Todtadlers, or Death Eagles—­were as fast, as maneuverable, and as heavily armed as СКАЧАТЬ