“Jon!” the Prime Minister exclaimed with a voice filled with cheer, “How nice of you to finally call! How are you?”

“Oh, pretty good, Prime Minister,” Jon replied as nonchalantly as he could manage. In Augustine’s presence, he always felt like a little mouse looking up at a big snake, “How’s it going with you?”

“Not so good, Jon,” the Prime Minister replied, “Some asshole really stirred things up over here.”

“I like him already.”

“Seriously, Jon,” Augustine said in a warm grandmotherly tone that Jon knew was a dangerous lie, “why did you not come to me with all of this?”

“I didn’t know how far things went or who I could trust,” Jon replied, “I didn’t have a lot of time so I decided that I would ensure that it got out.”

“You didn’t trust me, Jon?” Augustine said with a hurt tone in her voice.

“Prime Minister,” Jon replied, “I had every faith that if you were involved, it would have happened, just like last time.”

“Excuse me?” Augustine replied with a raised eyebrow.

“Nevermind,” Jon smiled. “What I didn’t trust is that the information would get to you. The head of Republic Intelligence was compromised, and he’s not the only one. We both know how far this went. I didn’t even know if my own embassy was safe. I had exactly zero minutes to raise the alarm, so I did.”

“That makes an annoying amount of sense,” Augustine replied.

“While we are asking questions,” Jon asked, “why the fuck did you roast me so bad?”

“I needed to inject some levity into the briefing,” Augustine replied, “the citizens like a good laugh and needed one. Do you realize that people are buying seeds, Jon?”

“Fuck.”

“Well put,” Augustine replied, “I needed to put them at ease, and I could make you funny. I could not make a baby-eating monster on the edge of achieving immortality WITH a bioweapon that, if turned on us, could very well wipe us out funny. Even I couldn’t spin that one. Besides, I felt that humanizing and making you seem less of a threat would be useful after we clean up this whole mess. You are just a regular loyal citizen who found himself in a bad spot and did what he had to do.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” Jon replied.

“That is,” Augustine replied, “if we don’t find any connection between you and the nuclear exchange that took place around Barnard’s Star. Jon, if you had anything to do with that, you need to tell me right now.”

“I swear I didn’t!” Jon exclaimed, “It damn near ruined everything I was trying to accomplish! That was entirely Gloria Samuels. Lord only knows where she got that ship and those nukes in the first place.”

“She got them from Mars,” Augustine replied, “Probably from Uncle Martin himself. It wouldn’t surprise me if the ship was built there as well. It appears Mars might be using this whole mess to make a play. I don’t have to tell you what it would mean if they have more of those ships.”

“They may have the ships,” Jon replied, “but they only have one Gloria.”

“You don’t actually buy into that whole ‘undying’ bullshit, do you?” Augustine scoffed.

“Nobody is undying,” Jon replied, “but she kicked the ever-loving shit out of how many corvettes?”

“And she will pay for that,” Augustine replied, “she and the entire Donovan organization. They aren’t going to make it to trial.”

“Prime Minister,” Jon said after a moment, “duty requires me to inform you exactly how bad of an idea I think that is.”

“I hardly think you are one to discuss duty, Jon.”

“Bullshit,” Jon replied, “I threw everything I hold dear away out of duty to the Republic,” he snarled, “and we both know it. Look, Sheila Donovan isn’t alone. She is part of an organization, the scope of which I had no idea before I became a fugitive. They are incredibly well financed, well equipped, well trained, and masters of asymmetric warfare, something that any established power is ill-equipped to combat, even us. Killing Sheila will alienate a potentially huge asset, people that we desperately need with a skill set that we do not have. We need them, Prime Minister.”

“Nukes were used in Republic space, on Republic citizens, and on Republic Naval Vessels,” Augustine replied, “someone has to go down for that and I think you would vastly prefer it to be Sheila Donovan and her crew as opposed to… other options...”

“Is that a threat, Prime Minister?”

“It’s a simple statement of fact,” the Prime Minister said, any hint of “grandmother” gone. “An actual act of war took place and it must be addressed. Now it will either be a band of dangerous terrorists OR it will be a formerly noble hero of the Republic consumed by madness… and his men. I’m giving you the option to choose, Jon. I would prefer you as a heroic figure who protected the Republic at all costs but if I have to use you as a sacrificial lamb, I will do so.”

“You are making the biggest mistake of your life, Prime Minister,” Jon replied, “If you go down this path, you had better make damn sure you kill them. If they actually go rogue, we will have the kind of problems that betrayals and press conferences won’t fix.”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“The decision has been made, Jon.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter that Helen Mongrave and an innocent civilian are likely still on board their ship?”

“What’s Helen doing there?”

“She was injured during the escape and is in a tube until they get her some new lungs.”

“They can do that?”

“I told you these guys are organized,” Jon replied, “From what I’ve been informed, the lungs have been grown and will be delivered shortly.”

“Salvaging Helen would be ideal,” Augustine replied, “but both she and the civilian are acceptable collateral damage.”

Augustine picked up a tablet.

“Colonel Jon Wintersmith,” she said in an official tone, “you are hereby reactivated and returned to service to the Republic as part of the Terran Marine Corps with the rank of Colonel by executive order under the Emergency Powers Act. Your men are also reactivated and conscripted at their previous rank. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Madame Prime Minister,” Jon sighed.

“You are ordered to remain in isolation,” the Prime Minister said icily, “Do nothing, say nothing, cut off all communications with anyone in the military or government. You are to vanish until this whole mess is sorted out. You obviously are good at keeping yourself hidden. Remain so until contacted.”

“Yes, Madame Prime Minister,” Jon snarled.

“In addition, you will assist in the location and elimination of Gloria Samuels, Sheila Donovan, and anyone currently in their crew. You will use your connection to them and their trust in you to achieve this.”

“That is an illegal order, Prime Minister,” Jon replied, “while they are criminals, they deserve due process and there are civilians on board. You are telling me to be an accessory to an assassination.”

“They have all been classified as insurgents and, as such, are a valid military target,” the Prime Minister replied, “that includes that ‘civilian’ as well. We have it on good authority that she is no angel and is, in fact, responsible for the upgrades to Gloria Samuels’s weapons that allowed her to not only evade capture but inflict serious losses to the fleet. I cannot go into any more details, but that thing is a menace several times over. If she were to accidentally meet her end as part of an insurgent force, so much the better. You aren’t cleared to know the details, but it is quite preferable if she winds up… sanitized.”

Jon said nothing.

“You have your orders, Colonel,” the Prime Minister said coolly. “Do you acknowledge and understand them?”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Jon replied as if he was chewing on a turd.

“Good,” the Prime Minister replied. “handle this, and I can assure you a full pardon, benefits and retirement intact… for you and your men.”

“I acknowledge and understand my orders,” Jon replied. “On a personal note, ma’am, one day you are going to run up against something you won’t be able to garrote, and I truly hope with every fiber in my being that I’m there to see it.”

“Maybe,” the Prime Minister replied, “but as long as the Republic endures I don’t give a fuck. You have your orders, Colonel. Follow them.”

The line went dead.

***

In the cargo hold, Jon held a briefing.

“You know that part where I said I liked her,” Skippy said after a moment, “I take it back.”

“We aren’t going to actually do this, are we, sir?” one of his people asked.

“We have our orders,” Jon replied grimly. “I’ve reviewed the documentation. It’s legit. Sheila and anyone on the Paper Tiger at the time of the nuclear strike are all officially insurgents, insurgents armed with weapons of mass destruction, and are, therefore, a clear and present danger to the Republic. As such...”

Jon trailed off with a snarl.

“You guys don’t have to do anything but cool your heels a bit longer,” Jon replied. “I will… I will do what is required to resolve this situation.”

The room fell silent.

“Dismissed,” Jon said after a few moments.

Then he turned and, without a word, walked away.

***

Skippy quietly entered their shared cabin.

“Are you ok?” she asked.

“No,” Jon replied. “That… bitch… is throwing away a potentially huge asset, not to mention I’m not fond of stabbing friends in the back, especially to suit that snake.”

“But radish sprout,” Skippy said as she slid next to him on the bunk. “they are insurgents. They attacked their own people and killed what… thousands of them? They brought this on themselves.”

“Do you think Momma Augustine cares about that?” Jon replied.

“What do you mean?”

“The Republic isn’t… well, it’s complicated,” Jon said, “Mars in particular. Mars is technically a sovereign state within the greater Republic and controls a shell of space within the Sol system that includes the inner asteroid belt. Occasionally there has been… friction between them and the Republic as a whole, and after the Great War, tensions have been high. A lot of resources that they believe are ‘theirs’ are being tapped to fuel our military build-up, and they feel that they aren’t being properly compensated for it. It goes a lot deeper than that as well. Mars is basically an entirely different civilization than Terra, and many on Terra don’t particularly care for Mars’s corporate state. There have always been issues.”

“Oh,” Skippy replied.

“Augustine believes that Gloria’s ship and her arsenal are Martian and are a demonstration of their military power. That’s why she really wants to take it out. She’s willing to vaporize whatever Gloria has developed in order to preserve the status quo… There’s some other reason why she wants them vaporized in space… something about ‘sanitizing’ some problem or another. I think it may involve that frog girl.”

“Really?” Skippy asked. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

“There is a lot more to this than just them being insurgents and her needing someone to take the fall for the nuclear exchange,” Jon said grimly, “not that having a convenient dead scapegoat isn’t also a plus.”

“But one way or another, my love,” Skippy said, nuzzling him, “You are a marine, and you have your orders. You don’t have to like them. You just have to follow them.”

“Just following orders,” Jon smirked, “That phrase has been used in our history before. Legal or not, these orders are wrong, very wrong. I can’t explain it, but I feel it in my bones that this is a huge mistake, and there is a lot more in play here than I can see.”

“So what are you going to do?” Skippy asked.

“I’m going to try to see it,” Jon replied, “I was ordered to stay invisible and quiet, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. However, I am not going to blindly follow orders that will hurt the Republic to the point that it won’t ‘endure’.”

“You honestly believe that could happen?”

“I’m certain,” Jon replied. “I don’t know why, but I am absolutely certain. It’s like I can almost see it. All I know is that every time I refuse to listen to my gut, I’ve bitterly regretted it, and this time, my gut is screaming.”

Skippy nodded and wrapped her arms around him.

Jon smiled as he sank into her fluffy embrace.

“You know,” he purred, “for being as smart as she is, Momma Augustine is kinda stupid.”

“Oh?” Skippy said as she nibbled Jon’s ear.

“She just told someone who has already demonstrated that he has no problem going rogue and becoming a ‘traitor’ to be a good boy and follow orders. It might happen. It might not.”

“This looks like it’s going to be fun!” Skippy exclaimed happily. “So, what’s our first move?”

“I have no fucking idea,” Jon replied.

***

An untold million years before, a withered old Plath sat in front of a glowing pool and smiled as she watched probability tangle and untangle.

One image of a Plath in the distant future, her face twisted with pain and rage, was replaced with another image of a Plath in the distant future, her face twisted with pain and rage.

She shrugged. She did what she could.

She took a sip of a powerful neural stimulant.

She didn’t have much longer and so much left to do.