The war correspondents stumbled out of the cabin trailing the sour reek of vomit, and what awaited them was a long tunnel. The gray-black alloy ceiling and floor each held three rows of bright white light tubes that ran from the entrance deep into the interior, and the heavy airlock doors were sealed tight, keeping them utterly separated from the cold vacuum. The protection wasn't perfect, though. The pressurized, heated artificial air was full of the ozone stink from sterilizers, but after an hour of extreme buffeting, every correspondent agreed it was far better than the sour, murky air in the cabin.
They were used to riding aircraft all over the globe, but this time in a windowless craft was a completely different experience: at first the craft's acceleration pinned them into their seats so hard they couldn't move; then the steep climb made everyone's stomach lurch. The ascent was so blunt that no one could take it. By the time they began to float up out of their seats, some couldn't stand it and vomited violently. That triggered a chain reaction; even with the pressure and air-circulation systems working hard, the smell wouldn't clear.
Someone was so mortified by the mess that they burst into tears.
When gravity returned and they dropped into their seats again, everyone looked awful, like stray dogs soaked in the rain and matted with trash. Some took the trip as an insult—the resistance's attitude toward the press, a humiliation done on purpose. Others thought they'd found the truth: the gravity at their destination after this hour-long journey felt a hair lighter than Earth's, and even after physical torment they could step lightly down the ramp (not all of them left by choice; a few did so only when a guard's muzzle touched their forehead).
Outside the ramp, five soldiers in black ballistic armor, gas masks, and deep-red goggles were waiting, carrying the same high-tech laser weapons the correspondents had seen in the resistance's hands. Everything they thought they knew seemed not to apply here; as they neared the answer, their ingrained habits pulled them away again—no religious frenzy, no ethnic or language barriers. Everything hinted at a thoroughly modern organization, a world apart from the CIA-propped groups in the Middle East or Afghanistan. One of the black-armored soldiers spoke first to the escorts. His voice, flattened by a full-face mask, sounded impersonal, yet his tone was playful, a jarring combination. "Sergeant Fabian, did you get in a fight with a stray cat in a garbage heap?" he said. "You know, you don't have to be a vagrant to get a decent meal."
"Shut up. They're yours now," the escort snapped—whether at the jab from his friend or the abuse of the flight was unclear. He still completed the handover. "Send a couple people to clean the cabin. If ground logistics sees the inside of that thing, they might kill me."
"Good luck, brother. But don't get too happy. Once we refill their stomachs, they might decide to share with the cabin again. I'm sure you'll get your share. With me, you curious, filthy, half-drowned strays." The lead black-armored soldier waved the sour press pack forward. The other four fell back a step, silently boxing them in. Even the slowest among them understood what that meant, and panic began to ripple through the group, though a few kept their composure, which pleased the soldiers.
"Relax. Your lives are worthless to us. Your only use is to carry our lord's words to the world. Before that, hand over your cameras. We don't care what you shot, but we're going to sterilize your outdated gear. As you can see, you are in outer space now. Yes, obedience is loyalty. Come on—you're going to see what you came to see, whatever that is."
"How should we address you?"
"I can't believe I forgot to introduce myself!" the black-armored soldier said with theatrical surprise. "But I don't mind indulging your first question. Children need encouragement to grow, don't they? I'm Sergeant Luis Salvador, 1st Assault Squad, 3rd Company, Fimbulwinter 1st Covert Regiment—your guide for this tour."
"We're on a space station, right?"
"Yes, Mr. Ramish," Luis Salvador said as he walked, without looking back.
"You're not actually the Latovinian resistance, are you? I mean, you're not entirely a local force. No anti-government outfit has this level of tech and money. Hell, even nation-states don't fly a single craft from the ground to space. Who are you really, and what do you want?"
Ramesh Díaz's barrage came on a little strong, and some correspondents, however curious, worried he'd be shot on the spot. Luis Salvador, however, seemed to have endless patience. "Patience, patience. First, take a shower, change clothes, and get a hot meal. You'll have time to learn what you want to know—but only if you've got the strength to keep up. Our lord doesn't want you starving here."
"Your lord?"
"Yes, yes—our lord. You and your boss, you and the bank that holds the mortgage on your home—you're already in master-servant relationships, aren't you? Our lord isn't like yours; he's not scheming to wring every last drop of blood out of you. To your lord, you're a cash cow. Our lord wants only our loyalty—wants us to give everything for his grand ideal. That's all. And we gladly give it, because we don't want anyone to draw wealth from people like you anymore; because we want everyone to realize their own worth and bear their own social responsibility—to give everything for the survival of the human species, to forge every person into steel instead of letting them wallow in fake freedom fed by hollow news and a culture of amusement." Luis Salvador stopped in the curved corridor. "Take your access cards. One room per person. You have thirty minutes to wash up and change. My men will feed you and then bring you back to me. Don't get too curious. Cremating bodies in space is not pleasant. Don't make work for us."
"Why tell those war correspondents so much?" Hammurabi asked, cocking his head. Opposite him, the lord of the Undying City sat in a seat sized for a man of his stature, just like his Honor Guard, and wore no safety belt—his power armor's mag-boots locked him to the deck. "Don't you think dumping too many secrets at once lets the enemy learn us?"
The assault transport jolted. "Even if we can decapitate their command instantly, Latovinia can't afford that price," Solomon said. Unlike his fiery tone during the speech, in the transport he sounded like an ordinary man. Victor von Doom, seated beside him, nodded and picked up the thread.
"We need deterrence," he said. "Information deterrence is as important as force. When that deterrence manifests at the moment we begin striking, its effect will multiply. That's also why we're rushing to the northern line—we'll open hostilities against NATO right after the press hits. Our moles inside the Council on Foreign Relations will help us set the time, and a U.S. military lieutenant general will feed us every NATO movement. The initiative is ours. Nothing makes our cause's justice clearer than a sweeping, irresistible war."
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