COUNTERPOINT

CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER

PART 15

By Mya Thevendra



The transport travelled through the blockade of Terran stellar fleets, and through into the heart of Confederate territory. Ian had slept most of the way through, the exertion of his night's tireless watch having caught up with him. In a matter of twelve hours, the transport had left the Widow system far behind, and traversed the atlas of deep space.

Ian stirred in his seat, rubbing the drowsiness from his blinking eyes, and looked out of his view port. Ahead, lay the arresting, golden-green planet that was Sidaris, it's sun a blazing jewel set in the dark distance.

With a moderate military presence, as well as a dedicated volunteer force, the planet Sidaris was the point of origin of a fair number of troops on the front line. Sidaris itself was relatively safe from attack, its distance from the enemy border being its strongest defence, and was used as an administrative focal point for many of the surrounding worlds. Heavily populated, and with a dependable, stable government, Sidaris was a great source of human resources to the Confederacy during what few years of peace there were in the Koprulu Sector, and continued to be so in wartime. It was there that the enquiry would be held.

After gaining clearance, the pilot guided the transport through the bucking descent into the planet's atmosphere. The dense, reaching forests of Jurialica, one of the larger continents of Sidaris, carpeted the land as they broke through the clouds. Ahead, less than a dozen miles, after where the forests had given way to open fields and flat grasslands, was the city of Jan Vara. More than seven hundred thousand people lived and worked there, amid towering grey skyscrapers, gleaming silver domes, and thin, looping freeways, which sprung out of the city and into the neighbouring regions.

It had been almost fifteen months since Ian had been in a city. After they had landed, and been processed through customs and immigration, he found himself wishing it had been longer. The sheer size of the place was the greatest shock; living in the relatively small environments of Confederate bases for so long had acclimatised him to some extent.

Ian was immediately required to produce a report of the events surrounding Harold's death; an interpretation of that day from his point of view, which would be measured up against the "facts" provided by the M.I.D.

It was during this first day, that Brigadier Phillip Watkins, Ian's commanding officer on Farris Minor arrived in Jan Vara. Watkins had been en route to the Juno System, close to the front line, when he had been made aware of Ian's tribunal on Sidaris, which lay close to his transit route, and had detoured to meet up with him. Watkins arranged a meeting with Ian at the Gren Ratha military base, and had been given the use of one of the guest offices.

Ian had realised, after thinking back to their conversation before he had departed for Widow XII, that the Brigadier had known Fort Sunderland had been Harold's command all along. Those three odd weeks ago, when Ian had put forward his concerns about the assignment, Watkins' words: 'Don't worry about it Ian, it's not your problem.' Had stuck in Ian's mind from the very beginning.

Ian walked into the office where Watkins was waiting, and it was clear from the expression on the Brigadier's haggard face, that he had no intention of concealing his involvement in the deception.

"Ian, lad," Watkins stepped forward, and looked him over. "Good lord. What on earth happened down there?" he asked in a hushed voice, shaking his head. Ian simply stood, and said nothing.

"I hope there are no hard feelings, Ian. I'd rather not have led you about like I did, but they don't give you much choice in the matter. Not in this job."

Ian looked at his Brigadier with solemn eyes.

"No, sir."

Watkins stepped back, and perched on top of the heavy-set office desk, and rubbed his forehead.

"Ian, I'm on my way over to Juno Urella, to take command of the Anglian brigades in that area. I'll be here until tomorrow; have you submitted your report to the M.I.D. yet?"

"Yes sir, it's been given in."

"Good, good. I've spoken to them, they've allowed me to take a look at it."

"Why would you want to, sir?" asked Ian.

"Well, I'd very much like to know exactly what happened down there. And, I got the feeling that if I asked you, you wouldn't exactly be forthcoming with me."

The Brigadier was right. Ian didn't know whom he could trust; Watkins had already lied to him once, but Ian had known him for many years and had respected and trusted him. AlthoughWatkins had misled him about the nature of his assignment, Ian felt confident that he wouldn't have had anything to do with the current investigation, or it's likely outcome. Nevertheless, Ian felt compelled to remain conservative with how much he spoke of his own thoughts.

"It was a mess, sir. They didn't have a dog's chance fighting in those tunnels."

"Yes, must have been awful; being caught off-guard like that." replied Watkins.

"Yes, sir."

"And did you…did you have any idea that the enemy might have been present?"

It was the same question that would be asked of him during the enquiry. If he told the truth, and said no, they would accuse him of lying. If he went along with Sutton's allegations, he would still face punishment, but perhaps Harold's name might be spared some small blemish; there would be no doubt that Ian was at fault if he admitted the error was his, and Harold would be remembered a hero. If Ian protested, however, there would always be those who doubted the truth of the final verdict, those who suspected that Harold, being the commanding officer, was ultimately to blame.

For Harold's sake, he had chosen to go along with the M.I.D., and had made it clear in his report, that he was responsible.

"I thought that there might be…something." Said Ian, vaguely.

Watkins had known Ian for many years, and knew him about as well as any man might. He knew that Ian and Harold had a history together, and had most likely figured out that more had happened on Widow XII than what was in the report. As it was, however, Watkins knew nothing of the fierce argument between Ian and Harold, and he knew nothing of Ian's growing suspicions, which reached far beyond the matter of this investigation. Ian was aware that Watkins almost certainly knew that he was covering up, although he probably couldn't guess his intentions. However, the seasoned Brigadier said nothing; he simply stood up, and stepped up to Ian.

"Well, I've got a few other things I can attend to while I'm here. I'll probably head out sometime tomorrow afternoon. I'll get to read your report before then. I can't intervene on your behalf, though. I'm afraid that you're on your own for this, Ian."

Ian nodded, and turned to walk out, before Watkins spoke out again.

"Ian, what the hell happened down there?"

Ian turned back slightly, glancing over his shoulder.

"It's all in my report, sir." he said, and walked out.

Over the next two days, Ian became the victim of procedure, as the investigation began. After a board of enquiry was drawn up from established members of the legal branch of the Confederate Military, as well as officials of the M.I.D., a councillor was assigned to represent him. After studying Ian's report, for two days the board was provided with complete details by Sutton's M.I.D. team about Fort Sunderland, and its population, as well as the objectives attached to the base's military force. In that time, Ian was put up in accommodation by the M.I.D., given dress uniform in which to attend the hearings, and had regular meetings with his counsel to prepare his account of the events on the day that Harold was killed.

Held in the monolithic chambers of the Jan Vara Law Courts, the investigation was a sour affair from the start. Ian was exhaustively questioned about the events of that last day on Widow XII, and, as he had already resolved to do, he admitted on record to a limited awareness of the enemy's presence. Ian's counsel, Bianran Feld, a competent, and experienced advocate, had advised him that full cooperation with the enquiry would ensure the best outcome, but Ian suspected that the result of this investigation had already been decided. Evidently, he was right.

At the end of the third day of the investigation, Ian was formally charged with dereliction of duty; the board of inquiry declared that he had indeed been aware of the enemy's presence on Widow XII, which the orbital ComSat scans had failed to detect because of the ionic minerals in the soil. The board speculated that Ian had been reluctant to put forward his findings for fear of ridicule, or of being branded a scaremonger. In the end, his supposed vanity had cost the lives of Harold, and those twenty-six others, who had stumbled upon the enemy unprepared.

Fort Sunderland had now become yet another part of the front line, with each side on the planet now aware of the presence of the other. Those platoons which had been transported in with the M.I.D. team were comprised mainly of newly conscripted or resocialised marines, and had been rushed through basic training at the last minute so that they could be dispatched. Still more troops, as well as mobile armour and air support had been allocated, and would shortly be transferred to Fort Sunderland to assist the marines in driving the enemy from the resource objective.

Ian's fate, however, was to lie along a different path. That night as he slept, he was tormented by nightmares of hideous grinning maws, lined with wicked fangs. The rotting faces of dead comrades named him coward, and died again a thousand times over. And the sounds; the sick, jarring sounds of rifle spikes biting alien flesh, and of human blood being spilt by bladed claws, rang through his twisted dreams. Morning came; clouding the memory of his nightmare as it always did, save for one lingering aspect, which, this time, Ian had managed to recall; the sounds, those terrible sounds which had echoed in his dark dream.

The day that followed on saw another dream; a waking haze as Ian stood in the courtroom, with a score of officers and onlookers who watched as Ian received the board's judgement.

"Ian Patrick Latimer," called out the board's representative, a broad, bearded man with dark eyes and the weight of years on his shoulders, "you have been found guilty of the charge of dereliction of duty. It is with this board's deepest sorrow that a marine of such a high calibre as Harold Bellamy could ultimately meet his end through such a simple failing as inaction, or fear of reprimand, but that appears to be the case. In failing to properly alert Commander Bellamy of the current situation, you signed him, and so many others to their deaths. And so this board finds no alternative but to strip you of your rank and status as a Marine Commander in the Terran Confederate Military Forces, and all the benefits and privileges afforded thereof. The remainder of your brigade, the 141st Spider Monkeys, will be disbanded and reallocated to new units. My wishes go out to Harold Bellamy's friends, and what little family he may have had."

Ian stood still as the representative continued; he went on to speak of Harold's bravery and dedication to duty. All around, a dozen people stared at Ian with accusing eyes; some apparently associates of Harold's, some those he served under whilst parading his talents for the Confederacy. All were supposed friends of his. Even other members of the board silently expressed their respect and bereavement over his loss.

Ian stood, and listened to the voice of a man who had never known Harold Bellamy; he weathered the cold glares of "friends" of Harold's who never knew what sort of a man he was, who only associated themselves with him to ride on the wave of his success. They were people who feigned friendship with a shooting star, so that they could ride in its slipstream. These strangers did not mourn the death of a man, they regretted the loss of a tool, a weapon, a totem who brought them success and prestige.

As Ian stood firm beneath the onslaught of men and women who knew nothing of Harold Bellamy, save his name, his heart withered; his friend was dead, and yet he lived still. Ian had lied in a military court of law to protect Harold's memory, his final gift to an old comrade. There were those, however, who had not died as heroes in the eyes of the Confederacy, those who had slipped away without praise or fanfare. The woman who had been his right hand, his support and defender, was dead; and he had let her go without ever telling her how much she had meant to him. And those brave boys and girls; children who had been forced to mature by the horrors of killing, and danger of death; children to whom Ian had never spoken even a word of encouragement, but who had died as men and women nonetheless.

Part of Ian Latimer died that day, never to be reborn; his fate, his road, was sealed with the final, empty words:

"You are hereby dishonourably discharged from the Confederate Marine Corps. May you find redemption for your misdeeds"

The so-called investigation had ended.

__________________________________

A day passed by in Jan Vera. Ian had been awarded a small sum of money by the courts to tide him over until he could find employment; and since he had been evicted from the lodgings that the M.I.D. had provided for him, the money would have to pay for his accommodation as well.

It was a little after half past eleven in the morning, and Ian sat in the office of his former councillor, Bianran Feld. Feld had arranged to meet up with Ian after the judgement was handed out, to make sure that he was in good stead.

Dressed in casual clothes for the first time in almost fifteen years; Ian wore a cheap pair of dark slacks, black shoes, a T-shirt and a thin jacket, and although he my have looked like almost anyone else in the city, he felt decidedly awkward. It was a sensation, which he expected would pass, given a little time.

Ian hadn't revealed any of what was really going on in the investigation to Feld; there was no need to complicate matters further. In addition, the Confederacy might have considered him a threat to their image if he knew the truth, and as such, might have taken steps to neutralise him; Ian would have to be watchful himself, from now on, although he suspected that they'd leave him alone. He was of little danger to them, he was alone, and without resources or influence; Ian had a feeling that his former superiors would be content to let him go for now. Despite all that had happened, he had no desire to seek retribution, or to attempt to reveal the truth, and perhaps the Confederacy knew him well enough to be aware of this.

"Did they give you enough money?" Asked Feld across his office desk.

"Plenty. Well, enough." replied Ian somewhat distantly.

"Are you all right, Ian?"

Ian looked back around at Feld. He was a good man, getting on in life, but with a strong spirit, and years left to him. Ian gave a slight smile.

"I'm fine. I was just thinking."

"Ian, I'm sorry about how all of this turned out for you, but believe me, it could have been worse. Much worse. If you'd made things difficult for them, well, let's just say I don't think you'd be sitting here talking to me like you are."

Ian smirked and nodded.

"No, I suppose not."

Feld looked across the table at Ian, his aged eyes familiar to the suffering of others, but still not hardened to it.

"They took a lot from you, the Confederacy, didn't they?" He asked.

Ian sat back in his chair, and thought about it.

"Well, they…took more than they gave. Let's say that."

For a short while, the two sat, listening to the sounds of traffic coming through the office window; down below, a busy day was in full flow. Ian eventually glanced over at the clock on the wall, and slowly stood up.

"I'd better be going."

"Right, okay. Look, Ian ," said Feld, reaching into his pocket, "do you need a little, you know, a little more money? It's expensive in the city."

Ian shook his head.

"No, no. I'll be fine, really."

The two stood opposite one another, faint smiles crossing both of their faces.

"Well, any last words of advice?" Asked Ian.

"Yes," nodded Bianran, "start getting used to people calling you Mister Latimer."

Ian smiled again, and shaking hands, the two of them said farewell.

The Sidaris sun rode high as noon approached. Ian made his way out of the office, then down and out onto the pavement below; as he walked through the bustling streets, he quietened his mind, and allowed his thoughts to drift.

He was a civilian now; something he had not been since he had joined the marines at eighteen years of age, half his life ago. The M.I.D.'s mockery of justice had drawn to a close, and they had found their scapegoat for Confederate Command; the death of a hero had been explained away. Harold had lived as an icon for the military, and for the people back home; icons never die, and certainly not at the hands of the enemy. By establishing that his death was the result of another officer's error of judgement, the Confederacy had prevented what might have been a vicious assault on public morale. Human error was certainly a much less threatening notion than a swarm of murderous aliens.

The sad part, to Ian's mind, was that little of this would ultimately matter. Harold's death would make the headlines on a few public channels, and a few front pages might bear his photograph; the next day, he would be forgotten. As well respected and as publicised as Harold was, it was doubtful that even a tenth of the Confederate populace were aware of him, or his deeds. It was, after all, a big war, and the Confederacy had other "Golden Boys" to fill Harold's shoes now that he was gone.

And he was gone. They were gone.

What had the Confederacy taken from him, thought Ian as he walked through the shifting throng of people. They had taken his life as an ordinary man, though some might have argued that he had given it. What little opportunity a man such as Ian might have had to become happy during his life, they had certainly taken from him. They had taken his name, and turned it into an entry in a catalogue. They had taken his childish, foolish dreams for the future, and replaced them with the killing fields of distant, war-torn planets. But however much the Confederacy had taken from him, there was someone, something, which had taken far, far more; and they had been waiting for Harold in those shadowed, underground tunnels, beneath the surface of Widow XII. What had they been doing there? Ian cleared his head, and started at the beginning.

The initial intelligence reports had confirmed that no hostile activity had been present in the Widow system for years; double-checking previous long-range sensor sweeps from neighbouring sectors corroborated this. And yet the enemy had been there. The M.I.D. had explained this through the somewhat general term of 'Uniform Sensor Error', suggesting that detection errors allowed a small enemy exploration force to arrive on the planet unnoticed, sometime before construction on Fort Sunderland had began. The M.I.D speculated that they had used the time in between their arrival, and the time of their attack, to move underground, and locate the resources for themselves, which must have only been fairly recently, due to their relatively small numbers. Shortly after, Harold and the Spider Monkeys stumbled onto them, and the enemy responded accordingly.

While this was an entirely plausible, and perhaps even the most likely explanation, Ian had seen enough not to be convinced. The notion of sensor error, for example: such malfunctions, although unlikely, had occurred before, and previous results had been just as dire. Ian, however, simply couldn't buy into it.

Then there was the M.I.D.'s explanation of how the ComSat survey had missed the enemy presence; they had concluded that the same minerals and compounds in the soil that had obscured communications between the marines and the base, had shielded the enemy from the ComSat probe. Again, this was plausible, but there was a strong argument against this theory; the same probe which had failed to detect any of the enemy, had still managed to find pockets of mineral and vespene resources in those same caverns. It could have been argued that the disruptive compounds were more concentrated in some areas than they were in others, allowing rough glimpses of resources to be recorded, but preventing any sign of their malignant inhabitants from escaping. Once again, though, Ian wasn't convinced; at orbital range, a ComSat scan should have cut through any ionic interference, through soil and rock and gas.

The last aspect of the affair, which Ian was suspicious of, was that after the marines had been killed, the enemy had made no attempt to follow the vulture riders back to the base, and attack. It was true, they would have been at a disadvantage on the open plains, but past encounters had shown them to attack with an almost reckless fashion; consumed by some alien bloodlust. Given their apparent numbers, why hadn't they attacked?

There were too many questions, but there had to be answers for each of them. A rough theory began to form in Ian's mind. Suppose that the preliminary surveys were right, and there really hadn't been any enemy movement into the Widow system since the start of the war. Suppose those enemy units in the caverns hadn't arrived at any time since the war began; but had instead arrived before it. Long range and soft sensor scans had been conducted on the Widow system for the past nineteen years; suppose the enemy had landed on Widow XII prior to that time? To Ian's mind, it was the only logical explanation. As for the enemy being overlooked by the ComSat scans, Ian's mind was drawn back to the night of Harold's death; why had they only attacked the marines once they had entered that resource chamber?

There had to be a reason, a connection. What if they had only been inside that one chamber, and had only been alerted to the marines' presence once they had entered. What if they had been there, for all of these years, before the war had even started, anticipating that their enemies would come, waiting, always waiting? Ian's mind struggled to find an answer to the puzzle. How? How could they have waited for so long, and never have been detected?

There was more here than Ian could figure out; his mind wrestled to solve the conundrum; his instincts, on the other hand, gave him the same message as they had given since this whole horrific affair had started, the message that he was at last beginning to accept; that something was very, very wrong. The whole affair with Harold and the M.I.D. was of little consequence; it added up to little, other than one of the more ill-conceived designs of Confederate Command. This new puzzle, however, was something more, something far more. The enemy had waited for them, they must have done; they must have waited. Waiting for so long implied forethought of some kind; it implied planning, a skill generally not associated with the mindless butchering creatures that they were supposed to be fighting.

Ian's instinct was inescapable. Something terrible was happening; a dire course of events had been set in motion, and perhaps no one could see it coming. He had stumbled upon something dreadful, and perhaps greater than he could imagine. He had to find out what it was; he simply had to. Ian was indeed a civilian now, and his military career, which had taken him from one end of the Koprulu sector to the other, and which had brought him face to face with the Great Enemy, was now over; but he wasn't finished with them, not by a long shot.

They had taken more from him than he could ever hope to recover, but they had left one part of him intact, one piece, one aspect that would always remain. There was a single thing that Ian Latimer would always be. A soldier.

Around in the city streets, the people whom Ian had signed away half of his life to defend, stirred ceaselessly in the Sidaris sun. Commuters, businesspeople, workmen, parents, police officers, children; it was the 'real' life, which Ian might have been a part of, once. Small boys and girls tugged at their parents' arms, brandishing plastic guns with childish glee. One buzzed around Ian's legs as he walked silently through the busy streets, and pointed his toy at some invisible foe.

"Bang!" he shouted, and ran off back towards his scowling mother.

Ian walked on. It's funny, he thought to himself, as he disappeared into the crowds; it doesn't sound like that, it really doesn't sound like that at all.



END OF CHAPTER ONE