by James David Maliszewski

General Derek Fisk put his feet up on the table in front of him and stretched. It had been a long day and he was looking forward to some well-deserved rest. His mind slowly drifted off to other places, other times. It seemed so long ago since he had attended the Academy on Earth. Yet, the things he learned there and the friends he had made remained with him for over forty years. Those were good times and sometimes Fisk missed them.

Not that he was given to nostalgia, mind you. Derek Fisk didn’t consider the past a better time, merely a different one. So many things had happened in the past twenty years -- the destruction of Earth, the ascendancy of GigaCorp, the discovery of the Alephs -- the universe hardly seemed the same anymore.

Even the Iron Coalition wasn’t the same. Where once it had simply been a military force, an agent of the UN’s will, it was now practically a government unto itself. The loss of Earth meant the Coalition had to set its own policies and determine its own destiny. Yet, that wasn’t enough for Fisk. The Coalition had to expand, to adapt, to become something even greater than it was. To do any less was to hand the fate of humanity over to GigaCorp and that was something Derek Fisk was simply unwilling to do.

No, he thought, humanity was better than that. GigaCorp couldn’t possibly fulfill the deepest longings of mankind, especially in the aftermath of the asteroid disaster. What humanity needed was a guiding vision and the discipline to achieve that vision. The Coalition offered that, he thought, but would the human race be willing to accept it?

Lost in these thoughts, he hardly heard the chime at his cabin door. Stirring himself from his reverie, Fisk straightened up quickly and cleared his head. He walked to the door and opened it. Standing outside was Major Robert Terrence. Still dressed in his deep blue duty uniform and carrying his omnipresent hand computer, the young officer stood at attention in the ship’s corridor.

“Still up at this hour?” Fisk asked, genuinely surprised that even his aide hadn’t gone to bed by now.

“Yes, sir,” he offered. “I’ve been going over the latest intelligence reports about the Belters and a couple of things have been bothering me. May I?” He gestured toward Fisk’s living area with his hand.

Fisk nodded and moved aside, allowing the younger man to enter his spartan cabin. Fisk wasn’t a sentimental man and kept few mementos. His living space contained only the essentials and nothing more. With space at a premium -- even on the Coalition’s flagship -- Fisk thought it best to lead by example.

Terrence moved toward a chair and waited for the General to offer it to him. Once he had done so, he sat done and immediately began to access his hand computer. Fisk shook his head mildly. He’d never have stomached intelligence work. It was such dreary work when compared with leading men into battle. All the same, he was glad he had Terrence at his side. Whatever Fisk may have thought of the “new age” that was dawning, the Coalition would need a dozen more officers like Terrence. Unfortunately, there was only one Robert Terrence.

Fisk sat down across from his aide and asked, “So, what’s on your mind?”

“As I said, sir, I’ve been going over these reports and, to be blunt, I’m not sure that you’re going to like the conclusions I’ve come to.”

“Why do you say so?”

“Well, these Belters are extremely independent. They’re not really a faction at all -- at least not as you might conventionally conceive of such a thing. They’re more like . . . anarchy personified.”

Fisk heaved a sigh. This was indeed disappointing. He had asked Terrence to examine the latest intelligence analysis of the Belters in hopes of finding an opening, something that might enable the Coalition to reach out to them. In the ongoing battle against GigaCorp, the Coalition needed all the allies it could find. Fisk had hoped that the Belters might be among them.

“Could you elaborate a bit, please? I’m not sure I follow you.”

Terrence seemed ill at ease. He hesitated for a moment before saying, “They’re not a military force, sir. They don’t think like one or act like one. More importantly, they have no interest in becoming one. They’re more or less content to face GigaCorp alone.”

“You mean they’re rejecting my -- I mean, the Coalition’s help?” Fisk was flabbergasted.

Terrence smiled slightly at Fisk’s slip and then answered, “Not at all, sir. I think it’s more accurate to say that they don’t want our help. The Belters view us with a great deal of suspicion. Many of them consider us only slightly better than GigaCorp. Others consider us just as bad. You’ve got remember that these people value freedom above all else. They --”

“Freedom?” Fisk cried out. “They’re confusing license with freedom. They’re not the same. Freedom comes with responsibilities. Freedom requires discipline. These Belters don’t look to me as if they even deserve freedom.”

Major Terrence wasn’t sure what to say next. He had served with General Fisk long enough to know when the older man was upset, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Fisk was a proud man who viewed the Iron Coalition as an extension of himself. To reject it -- to want nothing to do with it -- was hard for him to take.

Yet, Terrence also knew that Fisk was a flexible man, one willing to take chances when necessary. Fisk didn’t enjoy abandoning accepted procedure; he would do so only if required. He may have viewed the Coalition as part of himself, but he never placed his own wishes above those of his men. Terrence knew this too and decided to be frank with his superior.

Looking up from his hand computer, Terrence said, “Sir, we need the Belters. Without them, our fight with GigaCorp will only drag on longer.”

Fisk grimaced and fell back into his chair. “This is another one of those times, isn’t it, Robert?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“Damn.” Fisk whispered. “You know I hate this sort of thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fisk then stood up and shook his head slightly. “Alright, then,” he began, “give me a few hours to gather my thoughts. Come back around,” he looked at his chronometer, “06:30 hours. You can help me draft a new offer to the Belters -- something more amenable to their way of doing thing.”

The older man was visibly pained to say these words.

“Very good, sir.” Terrence replied, standing up from his own chair. He quickly turned on his heels and made a path for the door.

Before he could reach it, Fisk stopped him, saying, “You know, I’m going to need your help on this one. I don’t enjoy having to throw the principles I’ve lived my life by out the airlock just to appease a band of ruffians and pirates.”

Terrence smiled. “Of course, sir, but you’re not throwing your principles away, you know.”

“Really? It sure feels like I am.”

“Well, you’re not. If anything, you’re sticking to them.”

Fisk just stood there silently.

As if on cue, the younger man explained. “Fidelity, sir. That’s what the Coalition is all about. We’re just loyal servants of humanity. It’s not our place to decide how people should live their lives or what they should believe in. We’re here to protect them -- whatever they choose for themselves. To do otherwise would make us no better than GigaCorp.”

Fisk remained silent. For a moment, Terrence worried that perhaps he had stepped out of line.

“Make that 07:00, Major. We could both use the sleep.” Fisk smiled.

“Yes, sir.”