Ian Douglas - Dark Matter

“Lieutenant Ryan—­”

“It’s Ashton, not Ryan,” she snapped. She’d married after she’d returned to the D.C. Ruins, though Fred had been killed ten years later by marauders from across the broad and tide-­swollen Potomac. This USNA government agent wouldn’t understand. To him, taking the name of the person you married was quaint, a holdover from a long-­gone era . . . or, worse, that she was a filthy “monogie”—­a pervert who dared to believe in monogamous marriage.

She saw emotion flicker across the man’s face—­disdain, possibly disgust. But in the lawless territories of the Periphery, cast off centuries ago by the rest of the country, monogamy had carried a certain survival value . . . two ­people so closely bonded that each could watch the back of the other in a way not possible for complicated line marriages, polyamories, or ménages a politique.

Behind her, a city, at once ancient and newly born, was growing skyward from mangrove swamp and muck. The relentless global rising of the oceans four centuries ago had finally flooded the low-­lying regions along the U.S. coast, forcing their evacuation. But not everyone had been willing to leave their home. . . .

For centuries since then, the stay-­behinds, the “swampies,” had inhabited the former capital of the old United States, fish-­farming among the tangled mangrove swamps now growing along what once had been the Washington Mall. When the US had reorganized itself as the United States of North America and as a founding member of the Earth Confederation, the Periphery—­including low-­lying and flooded coastal areas like Manhattan, Boston, and Washington, D.C.—­had been abandoned by a government unable to afford the massive costs and effort of beating back the encroaching sea. The ­people still living in those areas had adapted, as ­people do, living in the ruins without modern technology or medical care, making their own law, and becoming fiercely independent in the process.

The Periphery had become a major political issue, however, when Geneva had attempted to seize those regions, to take them over as a trust. The inhabitants had fought back an assault three months ago; the massive, broken shell of a Confederation Jotun troop flier still lay on its side in the shallow waters of the Washington Mall, partially obscured by the enthusiastic tangle of mangroves around it. Ashton had somehow found herself in command of the ragged band that had defended the Ruins, holding out until USNA aerospace forces had arrived to turn the tide decisively in the defenders’ favor.

Since then, USNA troops and equipment had been pouring into the areas around both D.C. and 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