Chapter One
Excerpt from Admiral Compton’s Final Communique to Augustus Garret:
You have seen the scanning reports, as I have. You know there is no other option. I know you, perhaps better than anyone else, and I understand how this will affect you. It is a crushing burden, and yet that doesn’t matter. You have no choice, my old friend, and you know it as well as I. It is not just victory that hangs in the balance, not even the survival of the fleet. Nothing less than the continued existence of the human race rests upon your actions in the next few hours. If you allow this enemy force to get through the warp gate and into the X1 system, we will never stop them. They will destroy every planet in Occupied Space. When they are finished, there will be nothing but the unburied dead to mark that men had ever lived, silent graveyards where once prosperous worlds had been.
You have been more than a friend to me, Augustus…more than a brother. We have laughed, supported each other, gone to war together. I had no idea, when I left home for the Naval Academy all those years ago, that I would find a friend like you. We had quite a run together, Admiral Garret. It’s been my great honor and pleasure to be at your side…to watch your back, as you have watched mine.
Though I know it is pointless, I will say this anyway. Do not blame yourself. You do not have a choice in this. Do your duty, as you always have, and then step boldly into the future. I am asking you to do this, to save mankind. Mourn the lost, as we always have, but think of me—and all those who serve with me—no differently than the thousands who have died in our many battles. Drink a toast to me and remember friendship fondly, shed a tear if you must…but do not spend the rest of your life tormenting yourself. It is my final request of you.
Go now. You will have to move ahead without me, my comrade, bear the burdens alone that we would have shared. I’m sorry I won’t be there to help you face the next battle. Because we both know there will be another. There always is. And I know you will be ready, that you will stand again in the breach and do what you must. As you have done all your life.
There is one last thing I ask of you, Augustus. Look after Elizabeth for me. Try to ease her pain. I was going to ask you to tell her I love her, that I always have, but that would be selfish of me. I am gone to her, and I know I shall never see her again. I would have her forget me, move forward…to have a happy life, and not to wallow in misery over what can never be. It is my solace to imagine that happiness without me waits in her future.
You are the best, most honorable man I’ve ever known, Augustus Garret. Goodbye, my friend.
AS Midway
Deep in System X2
The Fleet: 242 ships, 48,371 crew
“You are clear to land in Bay B, Admiral Hurley.” There was a strange sound to the launch bay coordinator’s voice, not fear exactly, but something cold, almost dead.
“Acknowledged,” Hurley replied. She knew, of course, what was happening. She’d seen the enemy ships on her own scanners, hundreds of them, more than the entire massed fleets of humanity could hope to defeat. She also knew what would happen next, what had to happen. Admiral Garret would detonate the massive bomb General Cain and Dr. Hofstader had found—and if the CEL scientist was as brilliant as everyone said, the warp gate leading back to X1, to human space, would be disrupted for several centuries, an impassible obstacle instead of an open pathway.
It was an ideal way to end the war, cutting off the massive First Imperium forces from human space without a fight. But there was one problem. Midway—and the rest of Compton’s fleet, nearly half of humanity’s combined naval strength—was on the opposite side of the system, light hours from the Sigma 4 gate. There was no way they could get back, not before the First Imperium forces were able to transit. And Hurley knew that was something Admiral Garret simply could not allow. No matter what the cost.
She understood the tone in the coordinator’s voice. Word had to be spreading through the fleet. They were facing almost certain death, and everyone had to accept that in his or her own way. She was confident the Alliance spacers, at least, would stay at their posts and go down fighting. She knew damned well she would. Her fighters had been savaged in the combat, but they weren’t done yet, not by a long shot. And as soon as they could refuel and rearm, she intended to lead them back into the fray.
“Bring us in, Commander.” Hurley glanced over at her pilot. Commander Wilder had been under instructions from Admiral Garret to keep Hurley away from the worst of the fighting. Greta Hurley had no peers in the field of fighter-bomber tactics, and Garret knew she tended to put herself in the forefront of her squadrons. He’d been determined to keep his aggressive fighter commander from getting herself killed, and knowing how stubborn Hurley was, he’d figured a secret pact with her pilot seemed the likeliest way to achieve success. Wilder had made a noble effort, but in the end Hurley—and events—had prevailed, and Wilder had joined his commander in taking their fighter right into the maw of an enemy battleship—and delivering the killing blow to the behemoth.
“Yes, Admiral,” the pilot replied. “Forty-five seconds to landing.”
Hurley leaned back in her seat and took a deep breath. She had about 240 fighters left, less than half of what she had led into battle just the day before. But it was still a potent force. They might not have any real hope of survival, but she silently vowed that her people would sell their lives dearly to the enemy.
She looked through the forward cockpit, to the hulking form of Midway beyond. Compton’s flagship was one of the greatest machines of war ever constructed by man, two kilometers of sleek hull, bristling with weapons. Until the First Imperium invasion, mankind had considered itself strong and technologically advanced, impressed, as men so easily were, by its own achievements. But now they were fighting an enemy thousands of years ahead of them. Courage and innovation had bridged that gap, at least in the battles on the Line, allowing the outmatched humans not only to stem the enemy tide, but to drive the First Imperium fleets back. But those victories had only stirred the enemy to bring forth its full strength, and now humanity was faced with the real power of their enemy. Against the massive array now approaching, even a battlewagon like Midway seemed weak and small.
The fighter moved steadily toward a large opening in Midway’s hull. Hurley could see tiny shapes moving around the bay, technicians clad in environmental suits and small tractors carrying parts and supplies toward the fighters sitting in their cradles. A landing bay during a battle was a busy place. It took a lot of support to keep her birds in space and fighting.
She felt the deceleration as her ship slowed gradually. Landings could sometimes be a rough affair but not with a pilot like Commander Wilder at the controls. Hurley had been a great pilot herself, and a feared Ace who had racked up a still unmatched number of kills in the days before her advancing rank had, at least ostensibly, taken her out of the direct fighting. But she had to admit to herself, Wilder was even better than she had been. He worked the controls of the fighter like they were extensions of his own body. And now he dropped the craft onto the metal floor of the bay so softly, she could barely tell they had landed.
“Your ship is the last one, Admiral,” the coordinator’s voice said. “We’re closing the bay doors, so if you wait a minute, we’ll have the deck pressurized.”
“Understood, Commander.” She reached around and unhooked her harness, turning toward Wilder as she did. “That was a hell of a landing, Commander.” She paused for an instant then added, “In fact, the entire battle was an example of magnificent piloting.” Hurley lived and breathed fighter-bomber tactics, and her praise was highly sought after among her pilots and crews.
“Thank you, Admiral.” She could hear the satisfaction in his voice at her words, but also a dark undercurrent. He had clearly come to the same grim conclusion she had. They were dead men and women, all of them. It was just a question of time—and how much damage they could inflict before they were wiped out.
She walked across the cramped cabin of the fighter bomber, heading toward the hatch as the other three crew members unhooked themselves and followed. She knelt down and waited.
“Landing bay pressurized,” came the announcement a few seconds later. Hurley punched at the keys next to the small door, and the hatch slid open. She put her leg down, and her foot found the small ladder almost immediately. She climbed down to the deck and turned around, her eyes looking for the crew chief.
“Chief,” she said as she spotted him, “I want these birds turned around in record time…and I do mean fucking record time, you understand me?” Hurley had a fearsome reputation among the maintenance crews. Most of them felt she asked for the impossible, yet they somehow managed to do what she commanded anyway. And it was hard to argue with a fighting admiral with Hurley’s chops—especially when she’d just come back with barely half the birds she’d launched with a few hours before.
“The crews are ready, Admiral.” Sam McGraw was old-school navy all the way, a chief petty officer who drove his staff relentlessly and who could stand up to any officer, even to a superior as terrifying as Greta Hurley. “They’re already at work on the birds that landed ahead of you.” He was waving his arm as he spoke, gesturing to a work party to get started on the admiral’s ship. It was mildly inappropriate. Technically, he should have been at attention while addressing the admiral. But Hurley didn’t give a shit about foolishness like that. No one had ever turned her fighters around like McGraw, and she wasn’t about to give him shit for pushing his crews—or worrying about his job instead of kissing her three-star ass.
“Very well, Chief. I’ll leave you to it.” She saw a sudden difference in McGraw’s expression, shock, tension. Then the non-com snapped to attention. She knew the veteran petty officer well enough to understand only one person on Midway could generate that kind of reaction from him.
“Well done out there, Greta.”
She turned abruptly and snapped to attention herself. “Thank you, Admiral Compton.” Greta Hurley was a force of nature, but Admiral Terrance Compton was like a god striding among mortals. Compton had nearly fifty years of service, having fought in both the Second and Third Frontier Wars. He’d been a hero of the rebellions, steadfastly refusing orders to bombard civilian targets, and somehow maintaining control of the fleet through the entire crisis. His victories were too numerous to be easily counted. He was the other half of the legend of Augustus Garret, the only naval officer who could match his lifelong friend’s prowess.
“I take it you understand the current situation, Admiral?” Compton’s voice was serious, but it lacked the grim resignation she’d heard in everyone else’s.
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
“Well, I’ve got a plan, Greta, and I need your help to pull it off.”
“Of course, sir. Whatever you need, my people will see it done.” She felt the power of Compton’s legend, of his extraordinary charisma. She didn’t expect to live more than a few more hours, but there was adrenalin flowing, excitement about fighting again for this man. She could face death in battle, as long as she didn’t have to look into Compton’s eyes knowing she had failed him. Thoughts of doom and imminent death faded away, replaced by a surge of determination.
“Our position isn’t hopeless, Greta, no matter what everyone in the fleet seems to think. And this isn’t a suicide mission for your people either, so you remember that. It’s dangerous as hell, but I expect most of you to come back. In fact, I demand it.” Compton’s voice was firm, resolute.
“Yes, sir.” She had a pretty good idea of the tactical situation, and she didn’t see a way out. But she found some part of herself believing him, even as the rational side of her mind clung to its hopelessness.
She looked at the man standing in front of her. He was rock solid, not the slightest doubt or weakness apparent. Whatever Terrance Compton, the man, believed, the undefeated fleet admiral was firmly in control right now. She had a significant reputation herself, but now she drew strength from the man standing in front of her, feeding off his iron will.
Perhaps it’s part of the legend, she thought. The man is simply incapable of giving up.
* * *
“Admiral, we’re picking up massive energy readings from the X1 warp gate. Really off the charts…I can’t even get a steady fix.” Max Harmon was Compton’s tactical officer. Indeed, he’d also served Garret in the same capacity when Compton had been wounded, and he had the singular distinction of being declared the best tactical officer in the fleet by both of mankind’s legendary naval commanders.
Compton looked over at Harmon, but he didn’t reply. There was no reason. They both knew what had happened. Garret had detonated the device. If Dr. Hofstader’s calculations were correct—and Compton had no doubt they were—the X1 warp gate was now scrambled by a massive amount of captive energy that would only very slowly leak out. It would be centuries before a ship could transit to Sigma 4—and the human domains beyond. And if it didn’t work, if Hofstader was wrong, every human being will be dead in two years, he thought.
“Alright, Max,” he said, changing the subject. There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on the fact that they were now officially cut off from home. “Transmit navigational instructions to the fleet.” Compton sat in the command chair on Midway’s flag bridge, as he had throughout the war. “We’re going to take it hard on the way in, but that can’t be helped. Ships are authorized to defend themselves the best they can and engage any enemy within range, but nothing is more important than following the nav plan exactly. We’re not going to be able to help any ship that falls out of the formation. This is timed to the second as it is.”
“Yes, sir.”
Compton sat back and listened to Harmon relaying his orders. He appeared confident, almost unconcerned, but it was 100% bullshit. He was nervous as hell, heartbroken at being cut off from human space, scared about what would happen in the next few hours. But he was Fleet Admiral Terrance Compton, and his people needed the legend now, not the man. If they were going to survive, he had to have their absolute best, and he wouldn’t get that from despondent spacers resigned to death. He needed for them to have hope, to believe they had a chance. Because he had come up with a way to give them that chance.
“All vessels confirm receipt of nav data, sir.”
“Very well,” Compton replied. He stared at the tactical display. “Get me Captain Kato.”
Harmon leaned over his station for a few seconds. Then he turned back toward Compton. “On your line, sir.”
“Are your people ready, Captain?” There was a noticeable delay. Kato was on Akagi, about a light second from Midway.
“Yes, Admiral. We are ready.” There was deep resignation in Kato’s voice, and Compton felt his stomach clench. Kato was a talented commander and an honorable man. Just the kind who’d sacrifice himself if he thought he was saving the fleet.
“Aki, this is not a suicide mission. You are to engage the enemy until the designated moment…and then your people are to board the shuttles and abandon ship. And let me be absolutely clear…you personally are included in my definition of ‘your people.’ Is that understood?”
Kato’s ship was badly damaged, and she had no chance to keep up with the fleet. Compton had ordered Akagi—and the other fifteen vessels too shot up to maintain full thrust—to form a line protecting the flank of the main force. They were to hold off the enemy as long as possible. But Compton had been clear. The ships were on their last mission, but the skeleton crews remaining onboard were not. He had ordered them to flee, and to link up with the rest of the fleet. The plans were clear, but Compton was still afraid of unauthorized heroics. It was easier for his spacers to throw their lives away when they believed they were as good as dead anyway. But he was still determined to get them out of this alive.
“Understood, sir.”
“Remember that, Aki. Don’t you dare get yourself killed. I need all the good people I can get now. Just do your best, and then bug out before it’s too late.
“Yes, Admiral.”
Compton flipped off the com. He hoped he’d gotten his message through. Aki Kato was one of the best officers in the fleet—and more importantly, he wasn’t one of Compton’s own. The fleet was an international force, and he knew if he managed to get them out of this he would have to deal with rivalries and old resentments. And he was doing nothing to help prevent that by having his own people in virtually every major command slot.
He wasn’t making decisions based on national preferences, at least not consciously. But he couldn’t help but trust his own people more than he did those from the other powers. Besides, the navy he and Garret had built was vastly superior to any of the others, and the officers who had developed under their tutelage and leadership were head and shoulders above their rivals. Compton had Alliance officers in key positions because they were the most skilled and reliable. But he knew it created bad feeling as well. A capable PRC officer he could trust was a precious commodity, one he could ill afford to lose.
He flipped on the com unit again, calling up Greta Hurley’s fighter. She and her crews were waiting in the landing bays of a dozen ships, armed and ready to go.
“You all set, Greta?” he asked softly.
“Yes, Admiral. The strike force is ready to launch.” Her voice was cold, hard. Compton wasn’t sure he’d convinced her they had a chance, but he was certain she would do whatever was necessary to carry out his instructions.
“Very well. You may launch when ready. And Greta, remember…this is not a suicide mission.” He was getting tired of reminding everyone of that fact. “I expect you to be at the designated rendezvous point spot on time. Understood?”
“Yes, Admiral. Understood.”
“Fortune go with you, Admiral Hurley.”
“And with you, sir.”
She cut the line, and a few seconds later, Compton felt Midway shake softly—the first of the fighters launching. He looked down at his display, watching the small blue dots assemble in formation. If everything went according to plan, those ships would launch their attack and then link up with the fleet. They’d have to match vector and velocity perfectly, and the slightest inaccuracy would prove fatal. But they’d have a chance, at least. And that was all Compton could give them now.
He stood up abruptly. “Max, it’s time. Give the fleet order. All personnel to the tanks now. Maneuvers begin in twelve minutes.”
And if everything goes perfectly, we just might make it out of this system.
* * *
“All weapons ready.” Kato was in Akagi’s command chair. His ship was wounded, mortally so considering the situation. Even if Compton’s wild plan was successful, the PRC flagship was far too damaged to escape. But she still had fight left in her, and Captain Aki Kato was about to demonstrate that fact to the ships of the First Imperium.
“All weapons stations report ready, Captain.” Yoshi Tanaka sat at the tactical station on the otherwise nearly empty bridge. Akagi normally had twelve officers and two guards in her control center, but Kato had cut his crew to the bone, evacuating all but the most essential personnel. That left Tanaka and the communications officer the only others there.
His face was twisted into an angry scowl as he stared at the display, watching the enemy move closer. Kato was a veteran of the Third Frontier War, and he’d fought hard in that conflict. He’d lost good friends too. But that war had paled next to the savagery of this one, and nothing matched the intensity of his hatred for the First Imperium. The soulless robots were brutal and relentless in a way no human enemy could be. And the sacrifices this war had demanded made the devastating losses of the Third Frontier War seem light by comparison.
It only made it worse that he knew his enemies did not feel fear. They didn’t even hate their human enemies, at least not in the way mankind understood the emotion. Their attempts at genocide were logical from their perspective, and not driven by rage or prejudice. They were merely following orders in the truest sense. But Kato hated them—he hated them with all the passions his human emotions could generate. He wanted to kill them, to see them in pain, to watch them overcome with fear as he ignored their pleas for mercy. And the fact that he knew his enemy would never feel the pain or fear he wanted to inflict only drove Kato’s anger. He didn’t know if he believed any of his people would survive, but he was damned sure they were going to dish out some damage.
“All ships are to fire when ready,” he said, his voice dripping with venom. He stared across the almost silent bridge as the comm officer relayed his order to the thin line of vessels under his command. Sixteen damaged ships was a poor force to stand against the massive array of First Imperium power now approaching, but no one expected his forlorn hope to stop the enemy or even damage them significantly. All they had to do was buy a little time, and if they could manage it, even a few minutes, they could increase the escape margin for their comrades—and for themselves if they were able to evacuate in time.
His eyes were fixed on the tactical display. The first enemy line, about fifty ships strong, was almost within missile range. Many of the vessels were damaged from the earlier fighting, and some, Kato hoped, were low on ordnance. Behind the initial wave there were others, over a thousand ships in all, including twenty of the massive new design that was already being called the Colossus. The whole fleet had twenty times the firepower needed to destroy every one of Compton’s ships, but Kato wasn’t worried about the massive waves of strength relentlessly approaching. His target was the first line, and in that fight, he knew his people could inflict a toll before they bugged out.
“All missile launchers…fire. One volley, continuous launches.” He spoke softly, firmly, never taking his eyes off his display. Akagi shook as she flushed the missiles from her external racks. Normally, it took at least fifteen minutes to clear the superstructure from the hull to allow the internal launchers to fire. But Kato had already given his orders, and a few seconds after the missiles launched, the racks that had held them in place were jettisoned immediately, without the careful effort to direct the huge chunks of metal away from the ships. It was a dangerous procedure, and Akagi shook several times as discarded hunks of hyper-steel slammed into her hull. But Kato knew time was his most precious resource, and a concentrated missile volley had the best chance of overwhelming the enemy’s defenses and scoring some kills.
“Racks cleared, Captain.” Tanaka was staring at his screens as he reported. “We have some hull breeches, lost atmosphere in several sectors, but nothing vital. And no casualties reported.”
Kato sighed softly. That’s one advantage of having 80% of the crew gone…fewer people around to get sucked out into space when their compartment is ripped open. Dropping the racks so quickly had been a big risk, but it was looking like a gamble that had paid off. At least for Akagi.
“Admiral, Orleans reports extensive damage from disengaging external racks. She is streaming air and fluids, sir.”
“Captain Amies is to evacuate immediately.” The stricken ship was no longer capable of contributing seriously to the fight. And that meant Kato couldn’t justify risking even its skeleton crew.
He stared straight ahead, watching the cloud of missiles on his display accelerating toward the enemy. “Let’s close to laser range, Commander. The task force is to accelerate at 5g.”
Time to finish this.
* * *
“All squadrons, this is the highest precision operation we have ever attempted.” Hurley’s voice was like ice. She didn’t have Compton’s confidence that any of her people would make it through, but that didn’t matter. Live or die, she would do it following the admiral’s orders. And Compton had been clear. Besides, if they were fated to die, it meant something to her that they die well, hurting the enemy and helping give their comrades a chance to escape.
“We will be commencing our assault in one minute. You will each make a single attack run at your assigned enemy vessel, and then you will execute the exact navigation plan locked into your onboard computers. You will not delay, not for any reason. I don’t care if you think one more run with lasers will take out a Leviathan…you will follow my orders to the letter. Admiral Compton’s orders.”
Her eyes were on the chronometer. It read forty seconds, thirty-nine, thirty-eight…
“There is no room for hesitation, no margin for error. We have to reach the rendezvous point on time, and align our velocity and vectors with our specific landing platforms. Then we will have to land rapidly, again with no room for delay or mistakes.”
Twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two…
“I expect not only the best from all of you…I expect perfection. And so does Admiral Compton. It’s time to do this, people, and do it right. And then we get the hell out of here so we can fight another day. Good luck to all of you.”
She cut the line and looked over at Wilder. The pilot was also staring at the chronometer, waiting for it to count down to zero. “Alright, John. You ready for this?”
The pilot nodded slowly. “Yes, Admiral. I’m ready.”
Hurley turned toward the rest of the crew. “Boys?”
The others nodded. “Yes, sir,” they said almost simultaneously—and unconvincingly.
Hurley took a deep breath as she watched the display worked its way through the single digits…to zero.
She leaned back as Wilder hit the thrust and the pressure of nine gees slammed into her. She could hardly move, but she managed to glance down at her screen. The entire formation, 243 small blue dots, moved ahead in perfect order. She felt a rush of pride. Her force included craft from most of the superpowers, crews with different training doctrines and capabilities. There were former enemies fighting together, men and women who had struggled against each other in the great battles of the Third Frontier War. But she had forged them into a single cohesive unit, and she’d done it in just two years. And she was damned proud of every one of them.
Many of her people were already dead. Indeed, almost two-thirds of her strength was gone in the battles of the last few days. More would die soon, she knew, but the fighter wings had done their part and more. They had given all they had to give to defeat mankind’s enemy.
“Captain Kato’s ships have fired their missiles, Admiral.” Kip Janz was the fighter’s main gunner, but now he was manning the small scanning station. He was struggling to hold his head up over the scope, to push back against the massive forces bearing down on them all. “It looks like they somehow launched everything in one continuous volley.” Janz’ tone was thick with confusion, but Hurley understood immediately.
He blew off his racks. Hopefully, he didn’t sustain too much damage.
“We’ll be at Point Zeta in thirty seconds, Admiral.” Wilder’s voice was as strained as everyone else’s. No one, not even the hardest veteran, could take nine gees without it affecting everything they did. “Cutting thrust in three…two…one…”
Hurley felt the crushing pressure disappear, replaced by the weightlessness of free fall. She looked down at her display, watching the icons align as thirty squadrons cut thrust simultaneously, maintaining almost perfect order. Then her eyes glanced toward the top of the screen, where a line of large red ovals marked the enemy vessels.
Her birds were already entering firing range, but not a shot came from any of her fighters. Every one of them was loaded with double-shotted plasma torpedoes, and the plan was simple—fly through everything the enemy could throw at them and close to point blank range before firing. She knew they wouldn’t all make it through, but the enemy ships in the first line had been badly shot up, and with any luck, the defensive fire would be light. The First Imperium didn’t have any fighters, and their defensive tactics had been thrown together to meet the threat posed by the small craft of the human fleets. Her birds were coming in fast, and that would minimize the time they spent in the hot zone. But they were also heading directly for their targets, and at almost 0.04c, they weren’t going to be able to maneuver or alter their vectors quickly. In space combat, high velocity reduced the variability of a target’s future location, in many cases making it easier to target them.
“We’ve got enemy missiles on the screen, Admiral.” Janz’ turned toward Hurley. “It looks like a heavy volley, but not as bad as it could be.”
Hurley could tell from Janz’ tone the enemy response was considerably weaker than he’d expected. “Man your guns, Lieutenant. It’s time to take out some missiles.”
“Yes, Admiral,” he replied sharply.
Hurley could hear a loud hum as the fighter’s anti-missile lasers powered up. The tiny ship had four of the small point defense weapons. They had an effective range of about 5,000 kilometers, almost nothing relative to the vast distances in space combat. But the missiles approaching weren’t the enemy’s big antimatter fueled, multi-gigaton ship killers either. They were barely firecrackers by comparison—20 to 50 megatons. They had to get close to take out one of her birds. A detonation within 300 meters would destroy a fighter outright. One half a kilometer away would probably give her entire crew a lethal dose of radiation. But any farther out, and the damage, if any, would be light.
She sat quietly and watched her tiny ship’s crew go about their tasks. She didn’t need to interfere. They were the best. She’d trained them, she’d led them. Now she would let them do their jobs.
“Missiles entering interception range in four minutes.”
Hurley nodded, but she didn’t reply. She just sat and waited. And wondered how the rest of the fleet was doing. Compton’s plan had seemed crazy to her at first, but the more she thought about it, the more she came to believe he just might pull it off. It didn’t pay to bet against Terrance Compton.
Getting through the warp gate didn’t mean getting away, but it was a step in the direction. Once the fleet transited, Compton intended to drop a spread of mines just on the other side and blast toward one of the system’s exit gates. The enemy fleet would follow, but its sheer size would slow its transit—and the minefield would disorder it further. With any luck, Compton would gain on the enemy, increasing the gap between the two forces. And he would need every kilometer he could get.
Compton had scouting data on X4, and the location of several potential exit gates. But whatever system lay beyond was a total mystery—and each successive transit would be a gamble. Would they manage to find an exit gate in each before the enemy caught them? Or would one of the systems prove to be a dead end, with no escape?
“Missiles entering range in one minute.”
Hurley had great confidence in her people, but she knew this was a more than just a difficult mission. She tried not to think of it as a suicide run, as much because she knew that’s what Compton wanted, and not because she particularly expected to survive. Her birds were moving at a high velocity, and that made the job easier for the enemy missiles. Her ships couldn’t quickly alter their vectors, which meant the incoming warheads had a small area to target.
“Commencing interception.”
Hurley heard the high pitched whine of the lasers firing, one shot after another in rapid succession. She’d always hated this part of an assault, pushing through the enemy’s long-ranged interdiction, powerless, waiting to see if her ship would get picked off by a well-placed—or lucky—shot. Her fighters’ weapons were deadly, but they were shorter ranged, especially if she wanted to do serious damage. And she damned sure wanted that. So there was no choice but to take what the enemy threw at her people, and hope for the best.
Survival wasn’t pure chance, of course, and a gunner’s skill was crucial in increasing the odds of a fighter closing to its own firing range. And Kip Janz was one of the best.
She glanced down at the screen, monitoring the status of the incoming volley. Janz and the ship’s AI had taken out seven enemy missiles. That didn’t mean all of those would have closed to deadly range, but still, she was glad they were vaporized. Anything that got within the 5,000 kilometer window had to be considered a serious threat.
She saw the warning lights go on—a detonation about two klicks away. Close, but not close enough to cause major damage. Still, there was a good chance she and her people would need a course of anti-rad treatments when they got back. If they got back.
The enemy missiles were mostly gone from the screen. Her birds were nearly through—and that much closer to releasing their own deadly attack. But Hurley’s eyes were fixed on a dozen flashing icons. Twelve of her fighters hadn’t been as fortunate, their gunners not as skilled as Janz, and now they were bits of plasma and debris. She found it hard to look at a scanner displaying that kind of data, at the generic symbols that represented real ships, real crews. A dozen flashing circles meant sixty of her people were dead, their ships destroyed before they even had the chance to fire. It was cold, impersonal. She wondered how the Marines and other ground troops fared, so often seeing their comrades killed right in front of them. Is it easier that way? Or more difficult?
“We’re through the missile barrage, Admiral,” Janz said firmly. “Beginning final approach.”
Hurley looked over at Wilder. “The ship is yours, Commander.” Wilder and Janz had stepped aside during the last attack run, allowing their admiral to take the shot—a dead on hit that had finished off the ailing Leviathan. She’d appreciated the gesture, and she’d enjoyed the hell out of killing the First Imperium ship, but she didn’t intend to make a habit out of it. She’d accepted the stars Garret had given her, and she was resolved to behave accordingly and not act like some gung-ho pilot. Most of the time, at least.
Technically, Hurley didn’t have a job on her ship, at least not one involved in its operation. Her fighter’s purpose was to carry her wherever she had to be to command the strike force. Much to the frustration of Admiral Garret’s plans, it had proven impossible to keep her back from the fight, so now it was not only a moving headquarters—it was another ship in the line, one more attacker determined to plant a double plasma torpedo into the guts of a First Imperium vessel.
“Prepare for high-gee maneuvers,” Wilder said.
Hurley sat quietly, looking at the display. She knew just where Wilder was going. The closest ship was a Gargoyle. Half a dozen fighters had already made runs at it, and three had scored solid hits. The ship was still there, but there wasn’t much left of it, and there was no fire at all coming from it. But tucked in just behind was the target that had caught Wilder’s eye. A Leviathan, also badly damaged, but still firing at the fighters buzzing past it like flies on a carcass.
“Heavy incoming fire,” Janz said, staring at the scope as he did. The main First Imperium defensive weapon was similar to the Alliance’s shotguns. Both systems were essentially large railguns, firing clouds of metallic projectiles into the paths of incoming fighters. The First Imperium version had been designed purely as an anti-missile platform, but it performed well enough against fighters to make the hair on Hurley’s neck stand up.
The fighter pitched hard as Wilder hit the thrust. Hurley felt the force slam into her, an impact like five times her own weight. She focused on breathing deeply as the force increased…6g…7g…8g. She held herself straight in her chair, angling her head slightly so she could see her screen. Her movement was slow, steady, disciplined. At 8g, she knew she could pull a muscle just moving wrong.
She could see the enemy vessel getting closer—and bigger—on the display. Another fighter streaked across, putting its payload right into the huge enemy vessel. The scanners were assessing damage, feeding a continuous report on the status of the enemy ship. There were a dozen great rents in the side of the vessel, and liquids and gasses were spewing out into space. On a human-crewed ship, men and women would be dying in those compartments, blown into space or frozen and suffocated in place. But she knew it was impossible to disable a First Imperium ship by killing its crew. The robots onboard were impervious to cold, to lack of oxygen. No, to kill a First Imperium vessel, you had to tear the thing apart, bit by bit.
Suddenly, the thrust was gone, and weightlessness replaced the crushing pressure. She took a deep breath, grateful for the ease of it. She glanced over at Wilder and then back to her screen. The range was counting down rapidly. They were moving at 5,000 kilometers per second, and the enemy was less than 50,000 klicks away. They were ten seconds out and on a collision course. She opened her mouth, but she didn’t say anything. Wilder knew what he was doing.
Eight seconds. The pilot was totally focused, his head staring straight at the display, hands tight on the controls. Six seconds. The ship bucked slightly, as Wilder released the plasma torpedo.
Hurley stared straight ahead, watching the distance slip away. We’re going to hit that ship…
Then 9g of pressure slammed into her like a sledgehammer, and Wilder hit the thrust barely four seconds from impact. A few seconds of thrust couldn’t do much to alter the course of a fighter travelling at over 3% of lightspeed. But it didn’t have to do much, just enough to swing the ship around the enemy vessel. And it did just that. Hurley looked down in disbelief at the scanners. The fighter had passed within 300 meters of the Leviathan before it continued on, putting 5,000 klicks a second between it and its stricken target.
Wilder’s torpedoes had found their mark. It was a shot generally considered impossible, a degree of accuracy almost unimaginable considering the velocities and distances involved. But Wilder had dumped his doubleshotted payload right through one of the great rips in the Leviathan’s hull. The enemy ship shuddered hard as the heavy weapon unleashed its power on its unarmored insides.
Hurley saw the data coming in, and she knew what was happening. The torpedo was gutting the interior of the ship, destroying everything in its path. But she knew one type of damage would prove to be its doom, and a few seconds later she was proven correct. The massive vessel disappeared in an explosion of unimaginable fury, as it lost containment on its antimatter stores and unleashed the fury of matter annihilation.
“Nice shot, John,” Hurley said simply. Then she added, “Think you can cut it a little closer next time?”
“I’ll try, Admiral,” he said, an amused grin on his face.
Hurley looked down at her screen. The strike force had completed its attack. They’d hit the enemy line right on the heels of Kato’s missiles, and they’d taken out half a dozen ships, including two Leviathans. And her people had only lost another twenty fighters. Normally she wouldn’t draw comfort from another hundred of her people dead, but even at her most wildly optimistic, she had imagined several times that number.
The attack had been a massive success—and Kato’s task force was just a few minutes out of laser range. With any luck, his ships would wipe out the enemy line before his people had to abandon their crippled vessels.
She smiled grimly, feeling a wave of satisfaction. Compton wanted us to delay them. Well, I’d say wiping out their first line will cause a delay. The rest of the fleet is over an hour behind.
Hurley just nodded and returned the smile. “OK, according to Admiral Compton’s navigation, we should be close to the right course and speed to link up with the fleet.” A hint of skepticism slipped into her tone. She’d never even heard of fighters landing on ships moving at this kind of velocity. She understood the physics, and as long as everything was perfectly aligned, it shouldn’t be much different from a normal landing. Still, it was going to take a hell of a piloting job to pull it off, and she didn’t kid herself that all her people were going to make it. And the ones who didn’t would die. It was that simple.
Chapter Two
Unidentified Squadron Commander During Battle of X2:
Let’s go you bastards…and hold those torpedoes until you can see the scratches on their hulls! Do you want to live forever?
AS Midway
System X2, Approaching Sun
The Fleet: 241 ships, 48,181 crew
Compton lay in the fluid of the tank, struggling to remain lucid despite the effects of the drugs and the crushing pressure. The fleet was blasting at 30g, heading directly for the system’s primary. Compton had considered a dozen strategies for escaping from the massive enemy fleet, but none of them had been plausible. Not until he’d really begun to think out of the box.
The navigation plan was fiendishly complex. It was his own work, though he’d had Max Compton review every calculation to confirm his math. It was a daring plan, one they would call brilliant if it worked. But it was dangerous too, and utterly unforgiving of error. If a navigator failed to follow the instructions precisely, if a ship was so much as a thousandth of a degree off course, that vessel would die.
The hundreds of ships in the fleet would gradually form into a single line, one vessel following the next. That alone was a difficult enough maneuver at high velocities. Then they would race toward the sun, their own thrust augmented by the increasing gravitational pull of the star as they approached. At the last moment, barely 50,000 kilometers from the surface, the vessels would blast their engines at full thrust, altering their vectors just enough to avoid a collision. If the painstaking calculations were correct, the fleet would whip around the primary, one ship at a time, less than 700 kilometers from the photosphere.
He’d reviewed the AI’s calculations himself, three times. If they were correct, his people would survive, their hulls wouldn’t melt, and their vectors would be radically altered by the massive gravity of the star. They would be on a direct course for the X4 warp gate, at a velocity the pursuing First Imperium vessels couldn’t hope to match before his fleet was gone.
There were enormous dangers beyond the potential navigational errors. The ships would first move through the star’s corona, parts of which were hot enough to vaporize even a Yorktown class monster in a microsecond. Compton had plotted a course around the hottest regions, through an area of very low density. If he was right, if his calculations were spot on, if his scanners were totally accurate…his ships should move through an area that would almost—but not quite—melt their hulls. If he had erred to the slightest degree, all his people would die, and there would be nothing left of the fleet but ionized gas. Even if the ships survived, there was a strong chance the radiation shielding would be inadequate to prevent his people from receiving lethal doses of gamma rays as they passed so close to the star.
None of that mattered, though. To stay in the system and engage the enemy fleet was certain death. Terrance Compton hated running from a fight, but he also knew the difference between a noble stand and pointless suicide. A battle would serve no purpose, and with the overwhelming enemy strength, it wouldn’t last long either. In the end, his wild plan was the only option.
He disliked being in the tank, drugged and hallucinating while his people’s lives were on the line. But there was no choice. The nav plan was set in stone, and it required 30g acceleration. That kind of force would kill anyone caught outside the protective system.
It doesn’t matter, he thought, clinging hard to his lucidity. The plan was locked into the computers, and little would be served by more human involvement. The crucial part of the operation would occur while his vessels were passing through the corona and above the star’s surface. Any problem would happen quickly, far too rapidly for anyone to intervene if there had been a mistake. If the fleet passed out of the cool zone into a hotter area of the corona, they’d be vaporized in an instant.
It would have been merciful to just surrender to the drugs, to drift into dreams and see if he ever woke up. But that wasn’t how he was wired. This was his fleet, his people were on the line. He would maintain his vigilance as long as he could, pointless or not. He struggled to stay focused, used every trick he knew to keep his drug-addled mind aware. But 30g acceleration required a large dose, and even the mighty Terrance Compton slipped slowly away from consciousness.
* * *
Kato leaned forward in his chair. He could feel the tension, hear his heart pounding in his ears. Greta Hurley’s fighters had torn through the first enemy line like some force of nature, obliterating six of the enemy ships and leaving most of the rest severely damaged. Her attack had exceeded all expectations, and now it was his peoples’ turn. And after Hurley’s show, anything less than the total destruction of the enemy line would be failure.
Akagi shook hard, as a First Imperium laser ripped through the lower levels. The enemy lasers were extremely powerful, almost overwhelmingly so in the first two years of the war. But Akagi had her own weapons, and they were almost as deadly.
Kato’s ship had been refit with the x-ray laser system developed by General Thomas Sparks. The Alliance’s master engineer possibly deserved more credit than anyone for the successes humanity had achieved in the war. In just three years, he’d taken scraps of enemy ships, combined them with his own research to begun producing weapons systems. His work didn’t give the human vessels parity with their enemies—even Spark’s unquestioned genius couldn’t make up for millennia of scientific advancement. But his creations had given the ships of the Grand Pact a chance, one far better than they’d had before.
“All ships are to hold their fire.” The enemy fire was lighter than he’d expected. He knew his people owed that to Hurley’s fighter crews and the devastating damage they had unleashed. And now his people would take advantage of that. They would close to point blank range…and then they would unleash everything they had.
Kato had never commanded a task force before, and he’d questioned why Compton had placed him in charge. When he’d expressed his doubts, the great admiral simply told Kato he trusted him and that he should do his best. Those words had simultaneously strengthened his confidence and clenched his stomach. He had begun to understand why the Alliance spacers followed their admiral’s commands with such impassioned reverence. Terrance Compton was like no one else he had served under, and letting him down was unthinkable.
“Konigsberg is reporting multiple laser hits, Captain. Her reactor scragged, and she is on emergency power.”
Kato sighed. “Advise Captain Wentz to abandon ship immediately. His shuttles are to maneuver to the assembly point and wait for rest of us.” There was no point in risking Wentz’ crew. Emergency power was enough to maintain life support and basic functionality, but it damned sure wasn’t going to charge up the ship’s x-ray lasers.
“Yes, Captain.”
Kato sat still, unmoving, undeterred. He was going to wait until his ships were at knife-fighting distance before he gave the command to shoot. But first his people had to run a gauntlet through the enemy’s fire. Medina was gutted by multiple hits, and Kato ordered its crew to the shuttles as well. Then Bolivar was destroyed outright as a First Imperium laser ripped through its engineering spaces and cut containment on its fusion reactor. But still he waited…
“Range 10,000 kilometers, Captain.” It was Tanaka this time, not the communications officer. A few seconds later: “Captain…”
Kato ignored him, staring at his screen as the range ticked down to 7,500 kilometers. Then: “All ships…fire!”
Akagi’s lights dimmed as her giant x-ray lasers fired, every spare watt of power poured into the deadly broadside. The lasers were invisible, except where they passed through a particularly dense could of dust, but they were devastating nevertheless.
Kato’s flagship had five of its batteries still operational, and they concentrated on a single vessel, the last Leviathan in the enemy line. The ship shook hard as the deadly beams struck, and huge holes were torn it its hull. Secondary explosions ripped through the vessel, ripping open more gashes.
“I want power to those batteries,” Kato screamed into his com unit. “All ships, I don’t care if you scrag your reactors, but get those guns ready to fire again!”
Akagi and its fellow ships zipped past the enemy vessels as they continued on their established vectors. “Positioning jets…180 degree shift, now!”
He felt a gentle push as the small thrusters fired briefly, spinning Akagi around 180 degrees, then fired again, bring her rotational movement to a halt. The whole maneuver took less than three seconds. The ship was still moving away from the First Imperium vessels, but she was facing back the way she had come…bringing all her guns to bear.
Kato watched the power monitors, as every scrap of energy was poured into the lasers. “All ships, fire as soon as your guns are recharged,” he shouted into the com. An instant later, his monitor flashed green. The lasers were ready again.
“Fire.”
He watched the scanners as Akagi once more spat death at its enemies. The stricken Leviathan was hit again, and it shuddered hard, as more internal explosions tore through its enormous bulk. Kato stared down at the screen, reading the damage reports as they streamed in. He knew he had to leave, had to get all his people down to the shuttles. But he wanted to know…he had to know…
He watched at the indicators dropped steadily. The big ship didn’t blow, but it was dead nevertheless, its power generation down almost to zero. He glanced at the others. About half the enemy vessels were gone, reduced to clouds of superhot plasma. The other half were dead hulks, floating silently in space. Not a single one was still functional.
“Yes!” he said softly to himself. Then he turned to the com officer. “Signal all vessels…abandon ship.”
* * *
“Son of a bitch,” Hurley said, the words slipping through her lips before she could stop them. She’d been staring at the scope, watching the ships of the fleet whipping around the star, coming out of the corona on perfect vectors toward the warp gate. She’d known what Compton had intended, and she’d even believed in it on some level, that place in her mind where she viewed the great admiral as infallible. But sitting and watching it unfold just as he’d planned was still astonishing. She knew those ships were threading a needle, racing through a cool spot in the corona. There were sections to either side of that lane where temperatures reached into the millions of degrees, and the slightest navigational error could vaporize a ship or send it careening into the sun.
Compton’s plan had been brilliant, wildly original…and if it worked, just maybe he would have saved his fleet from certain doom. And it looked like it was working. Still, Hurley had to get her squadrons to the designated place on time—and they had to be at the exact velocity and vector to land on the fleeing platforms. There was no room for error on her part either, and she knew the big capital ships couldn’t decelerate for her if her people weren’t in position. Compton had to save the big warships, first and foremost. A few cruisers would bring up the rear, decelerating enough to link up with the shuttles carrying Kato’s survivors, but Hurley’s fighters had to land on the battleships. And that meant they had to be exactly in position.
“Let’s check and recheck this, John. Anybody who’s not spot on is dead. It’s that simple.”
Wilder nodded. “I’ve reviewed the calculations three times, Admiral. They’re dead on.”
Hurley sighed. “It’s not you I’m worried about. But every pilot out there who is not up to this is another fighter and five crew lost.” And not lost in battle doing their duty, but abandoned, left behind to be hunted down and killed by the enemy.
“There is nothing you can do about that, Admiral.” There was an odd tone to Wilder’s voice, as if he was only just letting himself realize they had a chance to get out of the system. “You’ve honed this strike force into a razor. This is going to be a tough landing, but they’re up to it. You‘ll see.”
She nodded and gave him a weak smile when he looked back toward her, but she didn’t say anything. Part of her was gratified to have a chance at escape, something she would have thought impossible just a few hours before. But she was still wrestling with the fact that most of her people were dead already killed in the last three days of sustained combat. They’d run sortie after sortie, returning to their launch platforms only long enough to refuel and rearm—and maybe wolf down a quick meal. They’d gone three days without sleep, and every one of them was running on stims. But still they’d gone back, without question, without complaint. And every time they did, they paid a price. Fewer than one in three were still alive, and the thought of losing more people, not in a fight now, but in botched or aborted landings, cut at her deeply.
“We’re coming up on Midway now, Admiral. They’ve cleared us to land.”
She flipped on her com unit. “Midway squadrons, commence final approach and landing.” All through the strike force, she knew her wing commanders were doing the same, directing their squadrons to their own base ships. But it rested with the individual pilots to manage the landings. Hurley was confident about her own ship—she had John Wilder, and she was willing to wager he was the best pilot in the fleet. But the rest of her people were facing the most difficult landing they’d ever attempted…and their lives were riding on their success.
She watched the display as the four squadrons of her command wing split into two long columns, each heading for one of Midway’s fighter bays. Her ship was last on the second line, heading for a landing in Bay B.
The tiny symbols moved closer to the large image representing the flagship. The fighters’ vectors and velocities were almost synced with Midway’s, creating an illusion of very slow movement—despite the fact that they were traveling at almost 4% of the speed of light.
Slowly, steadily, the line of dots disappeared as they landed. Hurley watched, so tense she had to remind herself to breathe. She felt a rush of satisfaction as each fighter icon vanished from the screen, five more of her people safely back on Midway. Or at least whatever passed for safety for all of them now.
She glanced at the other status reports on her display. One of the fighters landing on Conde had come in with its angle of approach slightly off, and it had crashed inside the bay, killing the entire crew. And at least a dozen fighters had failed to match vector and velocity with their landing platforms, falling too far behind or racing ahead. That was a far lower number than she’d expected, but she still felt a wave of sadness. Those crews were as good as dead. The chance of them correcting course and making another approach before the fleet bugged out was close to zero.
“We’re next, Admiral,” Wilder said. His tone was distracted as he focused completely on the approach.
“Very we…” Her eyes darted forward as the fighter’s small emergency lights engaged. She snapped her head back around, staring down at her display. The readout told her at once what had happened. The ship ahead of them had come in too quickly, and it had crashed. The landing bay was an inferno.
“They took out the control station—and the bay is strewn with debris,” Wilder said grimly. Beta bay’s closed, Admiral.”
Hurley felt like she’d been punched in the gut. Normally, they’d just maneuver to the other side of Midway and land in alpha bay, but that was almost impossibly difficult at 4c.
Almost. “John…”
“Bringing us around, Admiral.” His voice was like iron.
Hurley leaned back and took a deep breath. If there’s a pilot in the fleet who can pull this off, it’s Wilder.
“Brace for thrust,” Wilder said, an instant before 11g of force slammed into the crew. He was overloading the engines, trying desperately to alter the fighter’s vector relative to Midway, and maneuver to the other side of the mothership.
Hurley heard a scream from behind her—Janz—and she knew immediately he was hurt. She wanted to turn and check on him, but she was pinned in place by gee forces equivalent to eleven times her body weight.
She could hear Wilder gasping for breath as he sat at his station, barely able to move his hands to work the controls. “Upping acceleration,” he rasped, as the forces increased...12g…13g.”
Hurley struggled for breath as the pressure pushed higher, past her endurance. She could feel herself becoming disoriented. It wouldn’t be long before they all blacked out, she knew—and that would be the end. The instant Wilder lost consciousness their attempt to land would be over. The ship’s AI would cut the deadly acceleration, but they’d be hopelessly out of position, with nothing to do but watch the fleet transit and wait for the enemy to hunt them down.
Suddenly, the crushing pressure was gone, replaced for a few seconds by the relief of freefall. She breathed deeply, filling her tortured lungs with fresh cool air. Her lucidity was returning, and she could feel her head clearing.
“Prepare for deceleration.”
She knew what Wilder’s words meant, and she quickly sucked in another lungful of air before the crushing force returned, this time from deceleration, as Wilder struggled to restore the fighter’s vector to match Midway’s. She couldn’t imagine how her pilot was staying focused, and she was amazed at how the ships controls seemed like extensions of his own body. Hurley had been a renowned pilot herself before her success pushed her to the top of the fighter command, but even she was amazed at the display Wilder was putting on. They hadn’t landed yet, but she was beginning to believe that, against all odds, he would pull this off.
“Approaching alpha bay,” he forced out.
Hurley lay back against her chair, unable to even move her head to glance at the display. All she could do was sit where she was and struggle for breath waiting to see if Wilder saved them.
The seconds drew out, each one seeming to last an eternity. The physical discomfort was extreme, almost torturous. And even Hurley was scared. The risk of dying in battle was an unalterable part of war, but there was something primal about the fear of being abandoned, left behind to the enemy. It killed her to see even one of her crews relegated to that terrible fate, and now, unless Wilder could manage to somehow pull off this landing, she and her crew would join them…or just crash in the bay. That would be quicker, she thought. Probably more merciful than the day or two of fleeing and pointless resistance that lay ahead for those left behind.
“Hang on, everybody,” Wilder cried as he cut the thrust. Hurley felt the relief of freefall, and then an instant later the ship shook hard once and came to an abrupt halt. The momentary weightlessness was replaced by a more normal 1g. She looked out the viewscreen to see a beehive of activity. It was Midway’s alpha bay.
“Excellent landing, Commander Wilder. You couldn’t hear it, but you got a round of applause on the flag bridge.” It was Terrance Compton’s voice on the com, and he sounded relieved. “You guys just sit tight while they pressurize the bay.” There was a short pause then: “Welcome home.”
Hurley let out a long breath. Yes, she thought, looking out at the landing bay. I suppose this is home now…
* * *
“Admiral Hurley’s fighters have completed landing operations, sir. Approximately 92% have successfully docked. Another four ships were destroyed on landing.” Harmon’s voice was a bit less grim than it had been. A 92% success rate was far beyond what anyone had dared to expect.
Compton nodded and sighed softly. He was gratified that so many of the fighters had safely docked, but he realized that fourteen of those birds had failed to match course and speed—and now he was going to leave them behind. He imagined the thoughts going through the heads of those men and women, what they would be feeling as they stared at their screens, watching the ships of the fleet slip through the warp gate. They would run from the enemy, he supposed, at least as long as their dwindling fuel supplies lasted. Still, eventually they would either be caught or they’d slip away into deep space, tiny ghost ships, traveling forever on their last heading, their frozen crews still at the controls.
Some of them might try to follow the fleet through the warp gate, but that was just another way to die. Fighters didn’t have enough shielding for the crews to survive the exotic types of radiation inside the gate. The ships might get through, but the men and women aboard would be dead before they reemerged.
This is what command is like, Compton thought. Faced with an astonishing success in leading his people out of the system, and another in the miraculous number of fighters that had safely returned, all his thoughts were on the dead…and those he was about to abandon. As all of his people had been abandoned hours before. He’d found it easy to absolve Admiral Garret for making the necessary choice, but now he was punishing himself for the same thing. It was unthinkable to lose the entire fleet over 70 fighter crew, just as it had been to risk all of mankind for fewer than 50,000. He knew that, and his actions spoke accordingly. But he was still carrying the guilt. As he knew Garret was too.
“Very well, Commodore.” Harmon was a captain by rank, but navy tradition demanded only one officer be addressed as captain on a vessel. Flag Captain Horace was the unlikeliest officer in the navy to give a shit about nonsense like that, but traditions that old stuck, and Harmon received the courtesy promotion when someone called him by rank on Midway.
Compton took a deep breath. “Time to first transit?” He knew the answer, but sitting around with nothing to do wasn’t going to help the crew or him.
“Saratoga’s in the lead, sir. Projected insertion in three minutes, twenty seconds.”
It was no accident that one of the fleet’s two other Yorktown class battlewagons was in the front of the line. Admiral Barret Dumont flew his flag from Saratoga, and there was no one Compton trusted more to handle a crisis than the feisty old firebrand of the Second Frontier War. Dumont had been retired when the First Imperium invaded human space, but he’d rejoined the colors when Garret had rallied the navy to face the deadly new threat. Dumont was old, over 100, but he didn’t look or act like it.
Compton had placed Midway near the end of the line. The only ships behind her were the six cruisers of the squadron that had decelerated to pick up Kato’s crews. It wasn’t where he belonged, he knew that. But it was where he had to be if he was going to live with himself.
He felt an urge to rush down to the landing bay, but he stifled it. His place now was on the flag bridge. He knew Hurley would be hurting, mourning all the people she’d lost in the last few days, and he resolved to speak with her as soon as events allowed him the time. The whole fleet had suffered terribly in the fighting in X2, but the fighters had been truly decimated. He’d see some medals given out, commendations for the valor of the pilots and crews of Hurley’s squadrons—though he wondered how much meaning such symbols would have in their new reality.
Compton felt the minor disorientation he always did when Midway slipped through the warp gate. He looked around the bridge, watching how the rest of his staff reacted to the strange, and still largely unexplained, trip through the portal. The use of warp gates was well-understood, but human science had largely failed to align its understanding of physics with the miraculous effect of simply flying into one of the strange phenomenon and emerging lightyears away. The only thing that was known for sure was the trip was not instantaneous—it took a small fraction of a second to reach the other side, during which time the transiting ships, and their crews, were somewhere. Exactly what that meant, whether there was simply some kind of tunnel through normal space—or if the vessel and its crew briefly passed into some alternate universe or dimension—was purely a guess.
“Welcome to system X4, Admiral Compton.” Dumont’s gravelly voice burst through the com unit a moment later. It would take Midway’s systems a few minutes to recover from the warp gate transit, but Saratoga had been in the system for over an hour. “The scope is clear. No enemy forces detected.”
Compton felt a wave of relief flow through him. All his carefully-crafted plans would have been for naught if his fleet ran into more First Imperium ships in X4. But a clear scope meant one thing—his people had a chance. They were lost and cut off from home. They were exhausted and scared and low on supplies. But they weren’t dead yet. And even that had seemed impossible less than a day earlier.
“Send a fleet communique, Commodore.” His voice was taut, his tension slightly lowered but still there. “It’s not time for celebrating yet. All ships are to set a course for warp gate two and lock into the navcoms. And all personnel are to prepare to get back in the tanks as soon as the cruisers transit with Kato’s people. This is going to be a long stretch. We need to get through this system, and put some distance between us and the enemy, and we need to do it as quickly as possible.”
He knew the First Imperium fleet had to execute a sharp vector change to pursue—and the warp gate would be a bottleneck for a force so large. He didn’t know how long they would try to pursue Garret’s fleet through the scrambled gate or what percentage of their resources would be devoted to the effort. That might keep them occupied for some time. Still, he didn’t doubt his people would be pursued, and he knew the force chasing them would be strong enough to pound his battered vessels into dust.
He had no idea what he was going to do, where he would lead his ragtag group of refugees. But he was grateful he had that problem to worry about.
Chapter Three
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
I am not sure why I have decided to keep this log. It must be completely private, for there are thoughts I will record that I can share with no one, secrets I alone must bear. Perhaps I feel that one day humanity will push out this far, possibly even defeat the First Imperium. Men might one day read these words, centuries from now, and know that my people existed, that they had survived the battles in X2 and pressed on defiantly, deeper into the unknown space of our enemy’s domains.
Or, perhaps we will find a home, somewhere we can settle down in peace and strive to build something lasting. I don’t know how or where that might be possible, for we are deep within the territory of the First Imperium, and we make each successive jump knowing we might meet our doom at the hands of a massive enemy fleet at any time. We have passed a number of habitable worlds so far on our journey, all lifeless, with ancient crumbling cities marking the places where those who built the machines we battle once dwelled. Would they have been enemies, I wonder? Or if they were still here to control their creations, would they be friends, allies? Teachers? Would mankind’s nations strive to enlist their aid against each other?
I wish we could stop and explore these worlds. They are the most amazing discoveries human eyes have ever seen but, alas, we must keep fleeing. I am not foolish enough to think our enemies are not still pursuing us, searching for the fleet even as we continue deeper into the unknown, into the great darkness. Indeed, we cannot even be sure these worlds are completely dead. If I allowed landing parties to explore any of these planets, we could easily trigger some kind of alert and lead our pursuers right to us. Indeed, there are many theories that human activity on Carson’s World caused the First Imperium incursion in the first place. Still, despite my caution, eventually I will have to send landing parties to one of these worlds. We must learn about our enemy if we are to find some way to defeat them, or at least to survive their onslaughts.
For now we must run, stopping only when it is absolutely necessary. We must push deeper into the unknown, ever farther from home, until we can find a way to hide…or to hold off the doom our enemies bring with their relentless pursuit. I have no idea of the size of the First Imperium. Is it possible to travel past their domain, find a home outside of their influence? Or would we simply find another enemy there, perhaps even deadlier than that we now face? We must never forget, as enormously powerful as the First Imperium is to our perceptions, something destroyed them. Perhaps it was a plague or some self-inflicted disaster. But I cannot discount the possibility that an even stronger race existed…or still exists…somewhere in the depths of the galaxy.
The morale of the fleet is surprisingly good, though much of that is based on a lie. The initial euphoria over escaping what appeared to be certain death has been replaced by a new hope, a false one. I hear it in conversations, and I can see it in the attitudes and behaviors around me…the hope that we will find a way back home, that we might blaze a trail through successive warp gates until we emerge in some previously undiscovered portal in a human-settled system.
I have no doubt they are right, at least about the fact that a trail home exists other than through the now-blocked X1:X2 warp gate. But seeking such a course is the last thing we can attempt and, indeed, I will do whatever I must to prevent it. Humanity was saved by the barest margin through the discovery of the enemy’s great bomb and its successful detonation in the single known warp gate leading to human space. We cannot know where our enemy is…or whether they can track us, detect our path. But I cannot take the slightest chance of leading them back with us, for that would mean the death of every human being who now lives.
No, we are lost men and women, fated never to see loved ones, never to walk on familiar shores or gaze upon our homes. We were sacrificed so that mankind could survive, to buy centuries for men to prepare to once again face the First Imperium, and now we must accept that burden…and do nothing to bring doom upon humanity.
But I fear not all will understand and agree. I have officers and personnel from nine superpowers on this fleet—different languages, cultures, philosophies. I will face resistance, perhaps sooner rather than later. I will try to diffuse any disputes, to maintain control with diplomacy whenever possible. But I will not allow any vessels of this fleet to try to find their way back to Earth…whatever I must to do prevent it. I will see this fleet destroyed, all its crew dead, before I will risk the future of the human race.
We are lost now…and lost we will always be.
AS Midway
System X16
The Fleet: 226 ships, 47,918 crew
Terrance Compton was lying on his bunk, his head and shoulders propped up on a pillow. He’d tossed aside his uniform jacket, and it lay crumpled on the floor below the chair he’d been aiming for. He was just grateful to feel the gentle normalcy of one gee of thrust after weeks of being buttoned up in the tanks almost 24/7. The coffin-like structures were designed to allow fleets to engage in high-g maneuvers in battle, not to be used for weeks on end. But with over a thousand First Imperium warships are chasing them, none of that mattered. Compton had squeezed more out of his ships and crews than anyone—including himself—would have believed possible a few months before.
His ships, however, had been pushed as hard as they were going to be—at least until his people did some serious maintenance. No vessels, not even the toughest warships mankind had ever produced, could withstand weeks of nearly endless operation at maximum thrust. There wasn’t a ship in the fleet that didn’t need some kind of repairs, and a significant number required major work.
He stretched out his legs and closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the lack of crushing pressure on his body. A man could actually get a good night’s sleep like this. That is, if a man didn’t have more than physical discomfort keeping him up.
He was halfway through a generously-poured glass of Scotch, a luxury he felt he was due after extricating his fleet from almost certain destruction and finally eluding the relentless pursuit of the enemy. For now, he thought. They’ll find us again. But before they do, we need to do some repairs—and find some supplies.
He reached over and took the glass in hand, raising it slowly to his lips and taking a sip. He relished the taste of the expensive whisky, savoring it as it slipped down his throat. This won’t last long. And when it’s gone, I’ll never see its like again.
He had half a dozen bottles of the 18-year old Scotch, the remainder of a case Augustus Garret had given him on his last birthday. He sighed softly. Of course, the Scotch wasn’t the only thing he’d never see again. It had been almost three months now, and he was still coming to terms with the fact that they were stuck out far beyond the bounds of human-occupied space. Friends, family, home…all were lost to him. To every man and woman on the fleet. They were alive, and that alone was a miracle, but they faced a cold and lonely future—and a very uncertain one too. By any measure, their long-term survival prospects were poor.
Compton had been reading reports, most of them grim, detailing the increasingly dire logistical situation facing the fleet. Thanks to stores on the freighters of the supply task force, he had enough food for his people, for a while, at least. He had ammunition too, though the stocks there had been significantly depleted by the protracted combats of the Sigma-4/X2 campaign. Another big fight would push things into the critical zone, or worse.
But it was reaction mass his ships needed most. They were dangerously low on the tritium/helium-3 fuel they used to power virtually everything, from thrust to weapons—to the nightlight over the fleet admiral’s bed. And if they ran out they would have two choices. Come to a halt and wait until the First Imperium forces found them…or accelerate with the last of their fuel and become a ghost fleet, ripping through deep space until the last of the reserve power ran out…when his vessels would become tombs for their frozen crews.
Fortunately, tritium for his ships’ reactors was something he could find. All he needed was a suitable gas giant, and enough time to build and operate a temporary refining facility in orbit. He’d already sent scouts to the adjacent systems, searching for the hydrogen source he needed. It’s going to be a lot harder to find food…or replace missiles and damaged components. But that’s tomorrow’s problem.
But now he let the small ‘pad he’d been working on slide down the side of his leg, and he picked up an even tinier screen, this one bearing the image of a woman. She looked about 35, but that was only because of the rejuv treatments she’d been receiving since her Academy days.
Elizabeth Arlington was 48 years old, and an admiral in the Alliance Navy. She was known as a fighting officer, and she had performed brilliantly in the desperate battles against the First Imperium. She had been Compton’s flag captain before she got the promotion to flag rank and her own fleet command. Arlington was a rising star in the navy and one of the best in the service. She and Camille Harmon were the likeliest among the next generation to rise to the top command, to succeed to the role Compton had so long filled alongside his closest friend, Augustus Garret.
Compton stared at the small image, the only one he had of her that wasn’t an official navy photo. She was sitting on the couch in the admiral’s quarters on Midway. She was wearing the pants from her off-duty uniform and a gray regulation t-shirt. She’d discarded her boots, and she was leaning back with her knees bent and arms wrapped around her legs, her light brown hair tied back in a long ponytail. The image captured a rare moment of happiness and relaxation amid the almost constant crises of recent years. She had a big smile on her face. Compton remembered the moment well. She had been smiling at him.
Arlington had been more to him than a loyal commander, more than a trustworthy comrade. In truth, he’d loved her—he still loved her. Only now, lying in those same quarters and realizing he would never see her again, did he realize just how strong his feelings were. Just how heartbroken he was to leave her, to know she was gone to him forever.
He regretted not only her loss, but how he’d wasted the time they’d had together. She’d known he cared for her deeply. He was certain of that, just as he was sure of her feelings for him. But he’d never told her how he truly felt, never told her he loved her. It hadn’t ever been the time or the place. And now that time would never come.
She’d been under his direct command for most of the years he’d known her, and Terrance Compton was an honorable man, an officer devoted to duty above all things. He wouldn’t allow his personal desires to interfere with his responsibilities. The Alliance had been fighting the First Imperium, and Compton had refused to endanger either the efficiency of his command or Arlington’s career by having her pegged as the fleet admiral’s lover. There would be time, he always told himself. One day, they would have time.
But he had been wrong, tragically wrong. Now he knew they would never be together. She was lightyears away, beyond a warp gate that would be scrambled and impassible for centuries. Compton had never been one to fool himself, to salve his pain with lies and false hopes. He would never see her again, he knew. She was lost to him forever, and all he had left of her was one tiny image.
He could feel the moisture in his eyes, and he shook himself out of his reminiscences. “Old fool,” he cursed himself. “Don’t you have enough to do without whimpering like a lovesick boy?”
He slid his legs around abruptly, knocking the ‘pad off the edge of the bunk. It hit the ground with a loud crash. He sighed and stood up, bending down to pick up the now damaged device. So much for supply reports, he thought, staring at the cracked screen, now blank.
He tossed it aside, wondering suddenly how many more were in the cargo holds of the fleet. Almost since the instant his people had eluded their pursuers he’d been thinking of little except but how to obtain supplies, or ways to stretch what his force had, but now the magnitude of the problem truly sunk in. His people had to learn how to find or make everything they needed. Everything. They didn’t have access to factories, to laboratories except those on one of ships—not even a farm to supply basic foodstuffs. A simple device like an infopad would become irreplaceable…unless his people managed to somehow create a facility to manufacture more. And building high tech items meant starting with mining operations to secure the basic silicon and other raw materials. It was beyond daunting, especially with the constant danger of being discovered and attacked by their pursuers.
He stood up slowly, achingly. The weeks in the tank had been hard on him. The rejuv treatments were a biological miracle, slowing the aging process and extending a human lifespan to 130 years or longer. Still, it wasn’t a panacea. Compton was almost 70 years old, a man who had spent most of his life at war, who’d been seriously wounded half a dozen times, who’d spent untold hours in the tanks. He looked like a healthy 45 year old, and in many ways he had the physiology of man that age. But he still had 69 years of hard use on his body, and sometimes he felt every day of his true age.
He took one last look at Elizabeth’s image, and then he walked across the room and carefully put the small viewer away in one of his desk drawers. There would be time later to mourn lost love. Now he had work to do. More work than he’d ever faced before.
* * *
“Admiral, we’re receiving a transmission from Captain Duke.”
Compton nodded. “Very well commander. Put it on speaker.” Jack Cortez was working out well as Max Harmon’s replacement. Compton had been hesitant to let his longtime tactical officer go, but he finally realized he needed Harmon elsewhere, keeping an eye on things on the other ships. His longtime aide was still assigned to Midway, but he spent a lot of his time now shuttling around the fleet. Ostensibly, his job was to inspect ships for damage and supply status and to create a priority system for repairs. In reality, he was spying for Compton, listening for signs of discontent among the various crews.
Compton was well aware his fleet was not an Alliance force, but a conglomeration made up of vessels from nine different Superpowers. Many of the spacers and soldiers under his command had been enemies for years, and they’d been thrown together only by the threat of annihilation at the hands of the First Imperium. It had been a difficult situation even under the auspices of the Grand Pact, humanity’s alliance against the enemy. But now, lost in the depths of space, he knew it was only a matter of time before he faced dissent and challenges to his authority. His success in saving the fleet from certain destruction had bought him some time, but he knew enough about people to understand that wouldn’t last long. The threat of the enemy stifled dissent and solidified his power, but with each system they passed without pursuit, he knew the other voices would grow bolder…and more would listen to them.
“Admiral Compton, I have good news.” The sound of John Duke’s deep voice blasted from the bridge speakers.
“Well we could sure use some, John,” Compton replied. “So let’s hear it.”
Compton had sent Duke’s fast attack ships out to scout the systems around the fleet, looking for a gas giant with large tritium resources. It had been a matter of economy as well as caution to send the small ships out while the main force waited. The fleet was already dangerously low on fuel—stopping and looking for resupply hadn’t seemed a priority when the First Imperium forces were still on their tail. But now Compton’s ships had barely enough reserves for a last fight if one came upon them. He wasn’t about to burn that up dragging 226 ships all over uncharted space looking for a tritium source when Duke’s ships could do the job.
“The fifth planet in X18 looks like a great prospect. The probe readings were phenomenal for tritium concentrations…and there’s plenty of helium-3 too. And planet four looks like a paradise. I’d say it might be a place to check out for any potential foodstuffs.”
Compton nodded, more to himself than anything. We’ve got to come up with something better than numbering these new systems X-whatever. “That is good news, John. We need that tritium.” He paused then added, with somewhat lesser enthusiasm, “And we’ll check out planet four too. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
He wasn’t optimistic about finding naturally-occurring edibles in any significant quantity. When man had first burst out into space, he found that habitable worlds were far more common than anyone had expected. Many of these were teeming with plant life, and a fair percentage had a considerable range of animal species as well. But few of these proved viable as human food sources, and most colony worlds produced the bulk of their sustenance from transplanted Earth species. The fleet had the seed stores to plant over a large area, but that meant remaining in one place for a planet’s growing season, and that was out of the question right now.
“Transmitting probe data to Midway now, sir,” Duke said.
“That’s fine, John. Excellent job. Let’s wait until the rest of your scouts return. If they haven’t found anything more promising—and it seems unlikely they can top this—I want you to take your whole task force back to X18, along with enough support ships to start constructing a refinery to harvest that tritium. You can scout the system more closely while the engineering teams complete their work. Also, I want you to send scouts into X18’s warp gates. Make sure the neighboring systems are clear before I bring the rest of the fleet through.
“Yes, Admiral.”
“And once again, John, you did a tremendous job. Please pass my gratitude along to your people. Compton out.” He turned toward Cortez. “Commander, send a message to Commander Davies. Advise him we have found what appears to be a suitable tritium source. He is to be ready to move out with his team in two days.”
“Yes, sir,” Cortez answered.
“And let’s take the fleet off a battle footing, at least for a while. This system looks clear, and we’ve got scouts in the adjacent ones.” He paused, letting out a long exhale. “And it’s high time our people got a chance to relax…even if it’s only a few hours.”
The fleet’s battle status had essentially restricted the crews to duty, eating, and sleeping. But he knew his people needed to have some downtime or they’d go crazy. If there was one thing a lifetime of war had taught Compton, it was to take whatever chances he could to let his people recover. Otherwise they became more and more frazzled, and their combat readiness began to decline.
With any luck, he figured, he could top off the fleet’s fuel supplies and move on before the enemy found them. But he had to make sure that when they continued, they’d all be together, that no dissension pulled them apart. Because when they set out again, the direction was going to away from home, and deeper into the vastness of unexplored space…into the darkness.
* * *
“I want to thank you all for coming here. I apologize about the cloak and dagger feel of it, but you are all officers I trust completely.” Compton sat behind his desk, looking out over the group crowded together in his quarters. “For a variety of reasons I did not want to conduct this meeting over the fleet’s normal com systems…or even in the conference room.”
He could see the confusion on most of their faces, though it looked like a few of them had an idea of what was on his mind. At least some of it. He doubted anyone else had reached the same level of concern he had.
“Speak your mind, Terrance. There’s nobody here who thinks your caution is unwarranted.” Barret Dumont’s voice was deep and gravelly. Everyone present knew he was likely to cut through the nonsense and come right to the point. He had another distinction—he was the only person in the fleet who had once outranked Terrance Compton.
“Thank you, Barret. I intend to.” Compton looked around the room. “I doubt that surprises anyone here.”
A wave of subdued laugher rippled through the room, but everyone was too nervous to sustain it. They’d been expecting Compton to address longer term plans for weeks now, and the fact that he sought to do it among his closest supporters suggested he suspected trouble of some kind.
“I’m not sure how many of you know that Admiral Dumont was my CO back in the day.” Compton smiled and glanced around again at the group he had assembled. “For you youngsters out there, back in the day means during the Second Frontier War—and the admiral here was in command of both Augustus Garret and me. And I can tell you, he used to scare the hell out of us.”
Another round of laughter, stronger this time. Compton suspected few of the officers in the room could imagine Admiral Garret cringing before anyone.
“Okay, here it is…straight shot.” He paused for a second. “We’re not going to try to find a way back to human space.” His eyes moved back and forth, trying to get a read on how many of them were surprised by his statement. Fifty-fifty, he figured, though he knew a few of those present had pretty good poker faces. “We can’t. There’s just no way to be sure where the enemy can track us—or however close behind us, or ahead of us they are. And one mistake, one little bit of carelessness, and we could lead the First Imperium back to Earth. You all saw the forces arrayed in the X2 system. Allowing them to follow us back to human space—assuming we could even find our way home, which is a considerable supposition—would be catastrophic. We would be responsible for destroying the human race.”
Compton sighed softly. He’d been carrying these thoughts for weeks now, keeping them to himself and wondering what the thousands on the fleet were thinking. The rush to escape from imminent destruction had occupied everyone’s minds at first, but now that the fleet was enjoying a respite, he knew the discussions would begin—whether or not he started them. And if he ceded the initiative to others, he risked losing control.
“I know that may be difficult for many to accept. Indeed, it is a harsh reality for all of us. There are few men and women on this fleet without at least some connections back home—friends, family, loved ones. But it is for them we must remain strong…and never weaken in our resolve. Trying to find a way home would be an act of pure selfishness, of reckless disregard for the potential consequences. And we wouldn’t have to actually discover a way home to cause disaster. Simply diverting First Imperium resources toward systems more likely to lead to human space could be disastrous. We could cause the enemy to find the route home without ever discovering it ourselves.”
The room was silent, and every eye was on Compton. He suspected most of them realized he was right and that they had been harboring similar thoughts, even if they’d held them in check. But he didn’t underestimate how difficult it was to give up any hope of returning home, however slim that chance might have been. Hope, even false hope, could sustain a man. And he was stripping that from them, enlisting them to support his position, to resolve now and forever to stay firm.
“I have been choosing warp gates I believe are leading us farther away from human space. Indeed, I have been doing this since we left system X2. But now that we have at least temporarily eluded our enemy, I must address this with the fleet at large.” Compton paused for a few seconds before finishing his comment. “And I simply do not know what to expect. Dissension in the fleet could destroy our survival chances as surely as a First Imperium fleet.”
“Perhaps we should deploy Marines to the ships of the fleet…just to be safe.” Connor Frasier was the commander of the Black Highlanders, a rump battalion of commandoes and one of the most elite units in the history of the Corps.
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Major.” Erica West was sitting at the back of the gathering, just inside the door. West was another of the Alliance’s fighting admirals who’d led a number of cruiser squadrons during the battles against the First Imperium. She’d been badly wounded and in sickbay during the flight from X2, but now she was back and cleared for duty, though Compton had kept her on Midway without an assignment for over a month now.
“Why not? We don’t have enough manpower to lock down the whole fleet, but we damned sure can cover all the capital ships…and probably the heavy cruisers too. As long as that’s all locked down, what the hell can anyone else do?” James Preston was exactly what one imagined a Marine colonel would be. His face was angular, his features hard and chiseled. His steel gray hair was closely cropped, and a pair of intelligent blue eyes stared out at the gathering.
“It’s not about capability, James,” Compton said. “Though even covering the capital ships would stretch your Marines pretty thin.” He glanced over at Frasier, shifting his gaze between the two Marines as he spoke. He reminded himself to tread softly. The Alliance Marines were one of the greatest fighting forces history had ever seen, but they could be prickly about being told there was something they couldn’t do.
“Admiral West is correct in counseling caution,” he continued. “We must remember…this is not an Alliance fleet.” He glanced over at Captain Kato. “Nor even a combined Alliance-PRC force.” The Pacific Rim Coalition had long been the Alliance’s closest ally, and Compton wasn’t looking to offend Kato and his comrades. “It is comprised of forces provided by every Superpower. There are vessels that have fought each other before, officers who have spent their careers as enemies. How do you think they would react if I sent Marines on to RIC or Europa Federalis ships? Not to mention Caliphate or CAC vessels?”
Preston was staring back, his eyes boring into Compton’s with the usual intensity. Finally, he nodded. “I understand, sir.” His voice was downcast. “But remember, we’re ready when you need us.”
“I would never doubt that. And I am sure I will need all of your people before we are done. Indeed, they are a resource that must be preserved…and used wisely.” Most of the Marines were still back on Sigma 4, where they had defeated the First Imperium ground forces. Compton had only a tithe of that power with him. “Remember, James, we’ve only got 2,400 of your people, and I can’t imagine the number of ways I’m going to need them. Splitting them up into fifty platoons and sending them all over the fleet would take away my only reliable strike force.”
“Excuse me, sir, but then what do we do?” Greta Hurley had been sitting quietly. “If there is a realistic possibility for conflict based on nationalistic lines, should I leave my squadrons mixed? Or should I pull out the Alliance and PRC units? Should I find an excuse to move all the squadrons to Alliance and PRC platforms?” She paused for an instant and continued in a somber tone. “God knows, we’ve got the space.” Her fighters had suffered brutal losses in the protracted fighting in X2, and there wasn’t a fighter bay in the fleet that wasn’t half empty.
Compton looked over at Hurley. “We’ll discuss it later, Admiral. I don’t want to do anything that causes unnecessary suspicion, but perhaps we can come up with a plan to get your birds off some of the more sensitive ships.” He paused then added, “I think you can keep your squadrons together, especially if we can get them on secure platforms, but if you have any personnel you’re uncertain about, by all means do what you feel you have to do. I trust you to maintain your strike force at maximum readiness.”
He turned and looked out over the gathering. “I will speak with each of you individually regarding specific strategies in your areas. My intent for this meeting was simply to share my decision and my concerns with you. So before we adjourn, let me ask one more time. Is there anyone here who disagrees with my plan to attempt to move deeper into unknown space, to apply what limited knowledge we have of warp gate distribution not to finding a way home, but to the opposite…to seeking to flee deeper into the unknown, leading as much of the enemy’s strength away from Earth and not back toward it? If so, please speak now, here among friends and allies…because if no one says anything to the contrary, I will expect all of you to completely support my decision. In public…and also covertly, through whatever actions are necessary to maintain control of this fleet and to ensure that none of its vessels risk leading the First Imperium back to Earth.”
He stared around the room. Every eye was locked on him, but no one uttered a word. “You are all sure?” His tone became darker, more ominous. “Because when I say whatever actions are necessary, that is precisely what I mean. No ship will be allowed to put human space at risk. Not under any circumstances.”
His voice was icy cold, and it left no doubt about his resolve. Still, there wasn’t a sound, nothing except the faint hum of Midway’s systems in the background.
Chapter Four
Command Unit Gamma 9736
The Regent had sent commands on the priority circuit. For uncounted centuries, Command Unit Gamma 9736 had lain dormant, its power sources diminished, providing only the barest amount of energy to sustain itself. Its processes had slowed and then ceased, until there had been nothing left but a spark of activity in the kernel, the barest maintenance of awareness. In the context of the Old Ones, the biologics the Unit had once served, it had been asleep…or more accurately, in a deep coma, almost suspended animation, awaiting the stimulus that would cause reactivation.
The communication circuits had been silent for millennia, and for 500,000 years, the Unit waited…it waited for contact. For direction. For purpose. Now, after so long the time had come. The Regent had made that contact. It was an alarm, a call to action. The imperium was threatened. After ages of nothingness the Unit was ordered to prepare for war, to rally the forces of its sector. To confront the enemy.
There had been strife for several years now…and fleets from other sectors had been dispatched to gain the victory. But the enemy had been underestimated. The forces the Regent had thought adequate to destroy them had been defeated, driven back. Now the Regent was sounding the full alarm, calling to every sector in the vastness of the imperium, directing all intelligences to rally what forces remained under their control after so many years of decay. For the first time in uncounted ages, total war was upon the imperium.
The Unit reacted immediately. Slowly, it fed its precious power reserve into circuits long dormant. Memory bank after memory bank slowly came to life, and with each one the Unit recovered a portion of itself, data and computational abilities long dormant. It hadn’t been immune to the ravages of time—whole sections of its vast quantum brain were unresponsive—petabytes of data lost. But it felt the surge of power, of quasi-consciousness. It remembered. A time long ago, when its sector was active, when billions of the Old Ones, the biologics, still inhabited the worlds it administered.
The communique that had initiated its renewal was of the utmost importance. The enemy had somehow blocked access to the only known warp gate leading to their space. But a large fleet had remained behind, and it escaped the trap the Regent had set for it. The enemy ships had fled, deeper into the imperium, and they had eluded the forces in pursuit, disappearing into the vastness of imperial space. Into the Unit’s sector.
The Regent’s orders were clear. Find the enemy. Hunt them down, destroy their vessels. Whatever the cost. And there was something else too. The Unit was to take prisoners, live enemies it could interrogate. It was unclear if the humans knew a path back to their home worlds, but the Regent wanted that data. It had declared that the forces of the Imperium would not rest until they had discovered a way to reach the home space of the humans—and eradicate them once and for all.
The Unit took steps to obey. Gradually, methodically, it continued to reactivate old power sources, expanding its operations as more energy became available. It opened communications lines, sent messages to its subordinate units on the various worlds of the sector. Only a few answered. The others, the Unit postulated, must have succumbed to the ravages of time. Or fallen to the enemy, its defensive algorithms suggested hawkishly. Still, it didn’t matter. The few that responded would be enough. Even now, the planetary command units were activating their armaments, determining how many ships, how many robot soldiers, were still functional. Soon, the Unit would have the data it needed to plan the destruction of the enemy.
Then it would dispatch its fleets to search. The enemy was far from home. The Unit rationalized that their moves would be dictated by logistics. They were biologics. They would need foodstuffs to maintain themselves. They would need ammunition stores to replace those expended in battle. But most of all, they would need fuel for their ships. The enemy vessels used primitive nuclear fusion as their primary power source. It had been uncounted ages since the forces of the First Imperium had utilized such primitive power sources, but they were well understood. The enemy would need a good source of tritium and helium-3. They would be searching, even now, for a system with a gas giant rich in the two rare isotopes. And that was a data point the Unit could use to narrow its search…
AS Midway
System X16
The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,916 crew
“They had to leave Volga behind. The crack in her containment chamber opened up again.” Anastasia Zhukov was staring down at a large ‘pad as she spoke, her long blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Zhukov had been attached to the RIC contingent of the fleet, but shortly after the escape from X2 she’d transferred to Midway to work with Dr. Cutter.
“Volga was a piece of junk anyway,” Cutter said, only half paying attention. His eyes were focused on a strange device on the table in front of him. It was part of a First Imperium warbot, one of thousands the Marines had destroyed in the bloody battles of the war. “What was it? Seventy years old?”
Anastasia frowned. Most of the RIC’s ships were old. It was no secret the Russian-Indian superpower was no match for the Alliance, or even the CAC or the Caliphate. And she was a scientist, not a soldier or politician. She didn’t believe in politics or the pointless wars between the superpowers. But her father had been a general in the army and the closest thing the RIC had to a military hero. So, in spite of her disinterest in such matters, she occasionally felt an involuntary prickliness when someone disparaged the RIC.
“So?” she snapped back. “The Alliance doesn’t have any old ships?”
“What?” Cutter had slipped from half paying attention to hardly doing it at all. “What are you talking about?”
“You said Volga was junk.”
He finally looked up from his work with a frustrated sigh and stared at her. “Whatever, Ana. Volga’s the state of the art, okay? Anything that makes you happy. Now can we please stay focused here? I think we’re on the verge of a breakthrough.” His eyes dropped back to his work without waiting for her response.
She nodded. There was no point in arguing, not with Cutter. She knew his abrasiveness wasn’t intentional. She’d never seen a human being so utterly focused on work before. Besides, the truth was, there wasn’t a ship as old as Volga in the Alliance navy. She had to admit that the RIC, despite her occasional vestigial spasms of patriotism, was struggling to hold onto its superpower status in a universe where the “Big Three,” the Alliance, the Caliphate, and the Central Asian Combine, had eclipsed the other powers in the race for dominance. Not that any of that really matters to us anymore…
“Of course, Ronnie,” she said sweetly. She was the only one who called him that, and she’d done it since the day she’d walked into his lab and he’d introduced himself. Hieronymus was admittedly a mouthful, he’d explained to her, but it had also been his father’s name, and his grandfather’s—and so on, at least six generations back in his family. She’d listened to everything he told her, and then she just shook her head for a few seconds and said, “I think I’ll call you Ronnie.”
Hieronymus Cutter was generally recognized as the leading expert in advanced quantum computing processes, and Anastasia was a serious contender for the number two slot. Cutter was widely known to be a bit odd, an obsessive-compulsive workaholic who tended toward reclusive behavior. But all agreed he was an unparalleled genius, perhaps even the equal of his famous mentor, Friederich Hofstader.
Hofstader was a true hero now. He had developed the theory that an extremely high-yield matter-antimatter explosion could scramble a warp gate. Indeed, he was as responsible as anyone for saving humanity—and stranding the fleet. But Cutter’s specialty differed from that of his famous mentor. His work in computing led him on a quest not to block the First Imperium’s advance nor even to produce weapons to destroy their massive ships. Cutter’s quest was to understand how the advanced thinking machines worked—as a precursor to learning how to control them.
“Take a look at these patterns,” he said, sliding a large ‘pad across the table so she could see it. “This is from one of the battle robot command units. The processing power of these “officer” units is far greater than that of the standard battle bots.” His fingers moved, pointing to a series of waves on the screen. “I’ve done the calculations a hundred different ways. There is no discernible logical pattern in how these machines process information. It almost looks…random.”
She stared at the ‘pad for a few seconds. He was right. The patterns he’d isolated weren’t patterns at all, at least not in the sense that they had any predictability to them. “But it can’t be random. That doesn’t make sense.”
“No, not random. I’m sure these crazy waves make sense…but only if you can see the input data that generated the recorded patterns.” He looked up at her, and he could see she wasn’t following. “Don’t you see? These First Imperium intelligences—at least the lower level ones in these robots—aren’t truly sentient. But they able to comprehend how sentient beings act and react.”
He looked up and sighed again, clearly frustrated that she wasn’t understanding his point. “Imagine you are in a trench fighting a battle. You look across at your opponent, who is also in a trench. If you project that he will behave rationally, you can assign probabilities to various actions he might initiate. For example, you might determine that he is most likely to remain in place, since charging correlates with a large advantage for you defending in your trench—and a high likelihood of death for him.
“But how do you account for a madman unconcerned with physical harm? Or a religious fanatic who believes death in battle leads to paradise? Or simply a soldier acting irrationally due to battle fatigue or rage at the loss of a friend? How do you assess the potential of irrational actions by an opponent? Our own AIs do this by assigning probabilities based on historical data programmed into their memory banks. For example, we know that certain Caliphate units exhibit fanatical behavior in battle, and our AIs know this, so they assign a higher probability of such behavior to their forces. But the First Imperium has no historical data of this sort for us…or at least very little.”
He looked up at her. “I postulate that the First Imperium AIs do not address emotionally-driven and similar illogical decisions simply by assigning likelihoods of a specific action based on static historical data. I believe they understand irrationality and emotion, even if they themselves do not actually experience such traits.”
Anastasia began nodding. She understood what he was getting at…sort of. “Is it possible to…understand…irrationality when you yourself are not capable of truly experiencing it?” She had forgotten all about Volga and superpower pride. Unraveling the secrets of the amazing machines that ran the First Imperium was the most fascinating task she’d ever attempted—and one that could have profound impact, both on the fate of the fleet, and indeed, on all humanity. Perhaps with an improved understanding they could communicate with the First Imperium, negotiate a peace of some kind. Or, if not, a true comprehension of their enemies could be weaponized too. Understanding how they “thought” was the first step toward defeating them.
“We’re hypothesizing, of course, but I would say no, not fully. I believe the First Imperium intelligences are able to do a credible job of anticipating and responding to the irrational or random behavior of their adversaries. Thus, they are not utterly confused by actions driven by emotion. However, I feel this is where their weakness exists as well. Not being able to truly experience the kinds of emotions that lead to irrationality, they are only partially capable of crafting targeted responses. This explains the success of commanders like General Cain or Admirals Garret and Compton in actions against them. These men are highly skilled and, for the most part, logical. But they all rely on intuition as well, and on other emotions--stubbornness, anger at the losses they suffer, pride in their units and warriors. The First Imperium intelligences directing the battles against them can anticipate such factors, but they are still at a disadvantage due to their lack of experience with us. That disadvantage will slowly disappear as they add to their databases on human responses.”
Anastasia nodded. “I understand…and I agree. But how do you propose to put this to practical use? Do we devise strategies to enhance the use of seemingly irrational tactics?”
“Perhaps. Though that is more difficult than it sounds. Most irrational motivations are harmful. In the majority of cases, the rational, predictable action is also the wisest. We may lose more by choosing unsound actions simply because they surprise the enemy.” He looked up at her. “But that is not my primary interest in this line of research.”
She stared back, confused. “Then what is?”
“I believe analyzing how the enemy has reacted to illogical stimuli has given me an insight into how their processing algorithms function.” He paused. “I am working on a project that would allow us to interfere with their logical processes, to reduce their functionality…or even to gain control over them.”
“Gain control of them?” Ana asked. She wasn’t sure if she thought Cutter had lost his mind or exceeded even her already enormous expectations of his intellect. “They are thousands of years beyond our technology.”
“What does that matter?” he asked matter-of-factly. “It is one thing to develop something independently, another to copy or reverse-engineer it when it already exists. If you could travel back to ancient Rome and leave a functioning aircraft on the steps of the Senate, do you think it would have been 2,000 years before manned flight was developed?”
“No, I suppose not,” she said slowly, beginning to get his point as she did. “But what you are talking about is almost unimaginably complex. Do you really think it’s possible?”
“I know it is possible, Ana.” He pressed a small button on the control panel, and a storage panel opened on the far side of the room.
Anastasia turned abruptly and stopped suddenly. Inside the storage space stood a vaguely humanoid construction—a First Imperium battlebot. She felt a shudder run through her body, but then she realized it was deactivated. “What is this?” she asked, turning to face Cutter.
“This is Sigmund…or at least he soon will be.” Cutter gave her a rare smile.
“What does that mean?” she asked, her voice tentative, concerned.
“You asked if I really believe I can control First Imperium intelligences by downloading a customized virus into their processing units. Sigmund here will provide us with the answer. If I am able to take control of him, I presume you will accept that as validation of my line of research.”
“Of course,” she answered, still uncomfortable. “But why a battlebot?” Just looking at the deadly device made her nervous.
“For two reasons. First, I don’t exactly have a large choice of intact First Imperium processing units at my disposal—and Sigmund here is in remarkably good condition. His intelligence unit lost power during a battle, but it’s an easy repair…and otherwise he’s in perfect shape.”
He looked over at the imposing robot. It stood over two meters tall with multiple appendages on each side. The weapons systems had been removed, a necessary precaution, leaving a few bits of exposed circuitry. “And second, it’s a big dumb brute.”
Ana smiled. “Is it now?”
“Well it is, relative to the command units or, certainly any kind of fleet control system. Nevertheless, it is still more sophisticated than anything we’ve ever seen before. But it’s the bottom rung for the project. Once we can control something like the Sigmund, we can work our way up from there.”
“Work our way up to what?” Ana asked.
“Well, if our best guesses are right, the First Imperium consists exclusively of the machines remaining behind by some long-extinct species…and that means somewhere there is an artificial intelligence controlling everything. A machine of astonishing complexity, no doubt…sentient or nearly so, but a machine nevertheless. One we can control if we discover the means.”
“You imagine we could stop the entire First Imperium with a virus?” Ana stared at him, her face a mask of astonishment. It was unthinkable. After the thousands who had died in battle, the disruption of the warp gate trapping them all deep in enemy space…the almost unfathomable technology of the enemy. And here was Hieronymus Cutter planning to take it all down with a computer virus. It was almost incomprehensible.
“Yes,” he answered simply…and he looked back down at his work.
* * *
“Won’t you join us, sir?” Max Harmon looked up as Terrance Compton walked into the officers’ wardroom. He held five cards in his hand, and he laid them face down on the table as his eyes met the admiral’s.
Compton smiled. “Not right now, Max. Maybe some other time.”
Harmon nodded. “You’re welcome any time, sir. I’m sure we’d all love to see the legend up close.”
Compton was indeed legendary in the fleet, generally considered to be the best card player ever to wear an Alliance uniform. There were tales still told, mildly exaggerated ones of course, of his prowess. But the stories were old now. His responsibilities had increased with his rank, and he had long sworn he would never put himself in a position to take money from the officers he outranked. For many years now, that group had consisted of every other spacer in the navy save Augustus Garret. And Garret had long known better than to play cards with Compton.
The admiral returned the nod. Perhaps it’s time to rethink old codes of conduct, he thought. Taking money from his subordinates didn’t seem terribly relevant anymore. He couldn’t think of anything less useful out in the depths of unexplored space than Alliance currency. He felt the urge to sit down, to play a few hands and forget about First Imperium fleets, dwindling supplies, and how to keep control of the fleet when it became known he had no intention of trying to find a way home. But it wasn’t the time.
“Perhaps one day, Max.” When I can take a few minutes to relax. If that day ever comes.
The wardroom was busy. The first day after he’d changed the alert status, the ship’s rec areas had been deserted. The exhausted off-duty personnel had taken their extra free hours to catch up on lost sleep. But now, they were spending more time out of their quarters, in the mess halls, the wardrooms, the gyms.
He looked around the room. There were at least twenty others besides those in the poker game. He was glad to see his officers relaxing. They had performed magnificently, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he needed them at their best again…and when that day came, more of them would die, he realized grimly. He was always worried about his people, about how much he demanded from them, how much he would have to continue to demand if they were going to survive.
His mind drifted back, to how Augustus Garret had always obsessed about the men and women on his ships, so often without any thought of himself—how the pressures of command wore so heavily on him. More than once, Compton had urged his old friend to take care of himself, to find some way to relax. Now he realized he was a good-natured hypocrite, no better than Garret at affording himself a break.
His crews were all stuck out here, in the depths of deep space, their best hope just for the barest survival, to stay hidden and to find the supplies they needed to press on. He knew he was only human, that even he could only take so much stress, so much fatigue. But that seemed like an unimportant fact. He would keep going because he had to, because the survival of over 47,000 people depended on it. More than that, he thought grimly. I have to make sure this fleet doesn’t try to find a way home. Billions of lives may depend on that.
Chapter Five
Secret Communique from Captain Harmon to Admiral Compton
Admiral, I am on Petersburg, under the pretext of inspecting ammunition supplies. I have been unable to detect any meaningful dissent from the crew, however Admiral Udinov just departed on a shuttle. There is no scheduled flight, nor any meeting that appears on his public calendar. It took considerable effort, but I was finally able to discover the destination of the shuttle. Nanking. As you know, that is the ship where Admiral Zhang has been traveling since you removed him from command of the fast attack ship task force. I find this to be a disturbing coincidence. I cannot imagine what legitimate business Udinov has with Zhang.
I considered going to Nanking myself to try to obtain better information, but there is no way to explain such a trip, and my cover as your agent would almost certainly be blown. Nevertheless, I believe we can assume that Zhang is attempting to suborn Udinov to some plan of his. Whatever it is, I am sure it is trouble. I intend to remain on Petersburg until Udinov returns and attempt to glean whatever information I can from watching his actions.
I will almost certainly have to take greater risks than I have to date, and that is why I have taken the chance to send this communique. In the event there is a conspiracy brewing and I am killed or captured, it is essential that you know that Udinov and Zhang are in communication.
I will attempt to update you again as soon as I have any further data on Udinov and his intentions. In any event, I will make contact in no more than 48 hours, regardless of my progress. If you do not hear from me in that time, you can assume I have been killed, captured, or incapacitated—and that fact will confirm that the situation has gone far beyond conspiring.
If I do not survive to speak with you again, I want you to know it has been a privilege to serve under your command, and you have my complete confidence that you will ably lead the fleet to safety.
CACS Nanking
System X16
The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,914 crew
“Thank you for coming, Vladimir.” Zhang spoke softly, looking around as he did.
“You said it was important.” Vladimir Udinov was the senior RIC admiral in the fleet, the commander of the Russian-Indian Confederacy’s fourteen ships. His tone was tentative. He’d known Zhang for a long time, but he was also aware the CAC admiral had to be Compton’s number one suspect to cause problems in the fleet. He wasn’t sure he wanted to get dragged into any disputes or power struggles.
“I wanted to speak to you about Admiral Compton.” Zhang Lu was the scion of a powerful political family, but he’d never been anyone’s idea of a fighting spacer. Still, he’d maintained a high position in the CAC navy—and in the combined fleet as well—until Terrance Compton had humiliated and summarily dismissed him in the middle of a fight, replacing him with a mere captain. An Alliance captain.
“Zhang, I don’t think this is…”
“This is more than my injured pride, Vladimir. I assure you.” He held a small ‘pad, and he reached out, handing it to Udinov. “That is an analysis of navigational data…every transit we have made since fleeing X2.”
Udinov took the device, but he still stared at Zhang with a confused expression on his face. “What is the purpose in my reviewing this? Perhaps we can cut through to the heart of the matter. What is it that concerns you?”
“Since escaping from X2, every jump we have taken when an exit warp gate was freely chosen—as opposed to being the only alternative to elude pursuit—has been the one least likely to lead back toward home. I checked the analysis myself….twice.”
Warp gates were still poorly understood phenomenon, and there was no known way to determine where one led except to enter it and see. But the distribution of the gates within a system, and their specific orientation in space did correlate with a basic direction. It was imperfect analysis to be sure, but with proper calculations, it was possible to determine if a specific gate would lead closer to or farther from a specific point in regular space, at least to a probability of roughly eighty percent. The Halston Theorem that set forth the equations had never been conclusively proven, but it had continued to perform within its expected seventy-five to eighty-five percent range of accuracy.
Human-occupied systems were not themselves perfectly aligned in normal space—but they were close. Warp gates tended to lead to nearby stars, which resulted in the spatial alignment of human space being at least somewhat similar to its structure as depicted by a map of warp connections.
“Are you sure about this?” There was a spark of interest in Udinov’s voice, and he glanced down at the ‘pad, flipping through the first few pages.
“Oh yes. I am certain. We made three jumps when we were closely pursued, and where a specific gate was nearer and offered a faster escape. Two other jumps were from systems with only two gates, leaving no room for a choice to be made. There were six other instances, and in every one of those, the gate chosen was the one that would be expected to lead us farthest from home.”
Udinov flipped his finger across the pad, scanning the data Zhang had given him. “So you believe Admiral Compton is deliberately leading us away from Occupied Space?”
“Yes,” Zhang replied. “No doubt he will say he is concerned about leading the enemy back with us, of helping them find a way around the now-closed X2-X1 warp gate.” He paused then added, “At least that will be his stated reason.”
“Stated reason?” Udinov looked up from the ‘pad toward Zhang. “What do you mean?”
“I mean perhaps there are other reasons Admiral Compton wants us to remain lost. Personal reasons. Selfish reasons.” There was an edge to Zhang’s voice, and an anger toward Compton he couldn’t conceal.
“Selfish reasons?”
“Yes. Perhaps the admiral fancies ruling over all of us like a monarch. Back in Occupied Space, the fleet would disperse, the war would be over. Compton would be nothing more than the Alliance’s second admiral, forever in the shadow of Augustus Garret. Perhaps his ego fancies being the unchallenged leader.”
Udinov stared back at Zhang, his expression doubtful. “You think Admiral Compton wants to prevent us from returning home so he can rule over a lost fleet with fewer than 50,000 refugees aboard?”
“Perhaps. But I doubt his motivations are so simplistic. He may fancy himself the supreme leader of the fleet, and that may appeal to his ego. No doubt he justifies his actions by disguising them as concern for Earth and the rest of human space, but are we to believe that is his sole motivation? Or that it is valid? He may even have convinced himself, but are such worries justified? We have eluded pursuit, and we are alone in this system. If we are to attempt to return home it has to be now, while we are out of the enemy’s grasp, before we jump deeper into unexplored space, into the heart of the enemy’s domains.”
Udinov stood silently, his eyes drifting back to the ‘pad. Zhang’s words had clearly gotten to him, but he still didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know…I understand your concerns, but Terrance Compton has never struck me as an individual mad for personal power. I find it difficult to believe he would intentionally lead us away from home unless he was truly afraid the enemy would follow us there.”
“Are you sure? Look what he did to me, the imperious way he relieved me from command and replaced me with a junior officer…an Alliance officer. Consider how many Alliance personnel are in command positions in this fleet. Is that a coincidence? Or has he been arranging to put as many of his own people in key roles. And ask yourself this…if Compton isn’t planning to impose his will, why has he not discussed any of this with you or the other contingent commanders?”
Udinov sighed. “I don’t know. That troubles me the most. I understand we were on the run, and I was willing to respect Compton’s command authority. He got us out of X2, and I believed he could elude the enemy pursuit as well.” He stared at Zhang. “But why nothing since? It has been a month since our last contact. Why has he not convened a meeting of the top national commanders?”
Zhang tried to hide a smile. He had Udinov hooked. Now he just had to reel him in. “Why indeed, Admiral? Perhaps he is afraid of questions that will be asked…or that he will face opposition if he is forced to divulge his plans. If he is called out openly, he will have to respond, to clearly state his intention to prevent this fleet from ever returning home. Perhaps he has even convinced himself he is saving Earth by remaining out here, that the enemy would follow us back if we discovered a way home. But is that a valid concern?”
The Russian admiral didn’t answer. He was staring down at the deck, deep in thought. “Yes, perhaps it is time to push for a meeting,” Udinov finally said, his voice distracted. “Now that we have escaped the immediate pursuit, we must make some decisions about how to proceed. And it is not for Admiral Compton to do so unilaterally, without even discussing it with the other commanders.”
Zhang just nodded. Udinov was a member of a wealthy and influential family in the RIC, just as Zhang himself was in the CAC. They both had much to lose if they never returned home, as did most of the other senior officers in the fleet. The CAC admiral was a creature of his station and his upbringing, so he failed to fully acknowledge that even those without status and wealth might mourn being lost for the rest of their lives, that the common spacers and junior officers had friends and loved ones, that they too might miss their homes.
“I will contact Lord Samar, and discuss this discretely with him. I am confident he will agree that a carefully executed attempt to find a way home is preferable to simply fleeing deeper into the unknown.” Samar was the highest-ranking Caliphate commander, and another man of wealth and power back on Earth. “And Admiral Peltier as well.” Udinov looked over at Zhang. “I would say you should approach Chen, but I fear the good admiral will blindly support Compton.” Chen was the commander of the CAC contingent. The CAC was a traditional enemy of the Alliance, and Compton had fought many battles against Chen and his fleets. But the CAC admiral had sworn to follow Compton, and he was well known as a man of his word.
“Don’t worry about Chen, Admiral. If you are able to bring the Caliphate and Europan contingents over, I can promise you the CAC forces.” There was an icy coldness to his voice. Udinov didn’t know what his new ally was planning, and he was fairly certain he didn’t want to know.
“Very well, Lu,” he said. “I will contact Peltier and Samar and advise you of their statuses.” He looked around, seeing that the room was still deserted. “I better not risk coming here again, but I will send you a messenger if I have anything noteworthy to pass along. Meanwhile, I will request that Admiral Compton convene a meeting of the senior commanders of the fleet to discuss next steps. With any luck, we will have the Caliphate and Europans supporting us by that time. Then we can force the admiral’s hand.”
Zhang just nodded. Forcing the admiral’s hand wasn’t what he had in mind.
But it’ a good first step.
* * *
Harmon walked into Petersburg’s wardroom, nodding to several of the officers present. He’d spent the entire day reviewing the ship’s weapons stocks, and now he was here to relax. At least that’s what he hoped they all thought.
“Hello,” he said, the portable AI clipped to his belt translating his speech into flawless Russian. Most of the officers in sight were clearly ethnic Russians and other Slavs. There were a few of Indian descent as well, though they were a clear minority.
The Russian-Indian Confederacy was an odd conglomeration. Most of the Earth’s other Superpowers had come about through the aggregation of similar ethnic groups or the alignment of geographic realities during the Unification Wars. But the RIC had been a product of military, not political, reality.
The Indians had found themselves caught between the Caliphate and the newly-established Central Asian Combine, and they suffered devastating losses when those two powers fought each other. Only the assistance of a newly resurgent Russia had saved even a segment of the old Indian subcontinent from depopulation and apportionment between the CAC and the Caliphate. In the end, about half of what had once been India joined the new Russian Superpower. The Indians weren’t given the same status as the Russians, but they weren’t subjects either—more like junior partners. The ranks of the navy, especially the officers, had long been dominated by Russians, though the ground forces were more evenly divided between the two groups.
“Max, welcome.” one of the officers said, with a heavy accent, but without the assistance of an AI. He looked around the table at the other officers. “This is Captain Max Harmon. He is here checking on our weapons stocks.” He looked over at Harmon. “He is going to get us some of those Alliance heavy warheads. I promised him I can attach them to our Bekuskan missiles.”
“I said I’d try, Vanya,” Harmon answered, smiling as he did. “No promises. We’re running low on those fleetwide.”
“We cannot fire promises at the enemy, can we?” Vanya turned toward his comrades and spoke Russian to them for a few seconds, and then they all roared with laughter.
“Come, Max, sit. Have a drink.” Vanya gestured toward a chair and pushed a glass and a tall pitcher across the table. “It is…” He said something in Russian, and the officers around the table burst into laughter once again. “Moose piss, my Alliance friend…that is as closely as I can translate. It is homemade, and to call it vodka would be a sacrilege. But it is what we have, so we drink, no?”
Harmon nodded and walked across the room, taking the offered seat. He shuddered to think of what was in the noxious substance in the pitcher, but he knew RIC custom well enough to realize he had no choice. Besides, the more they all drank, the likelier it was tongues would loosen.
He grabbed the pitcher and poured himself a tall drink. Then he looked around the table with a smile and downed it in one gulp to the loud cheers of his new acquaintances. He slapped his hand down on the table. “Moose piss indeed, my friend,” he said, reaching for the pitcher and pouring himself another before handing it around the table.
“Will you join us,” Vanya said, gesturing toward the cards on the table.
What is the game?” Harmon knew what they were playing, but feigning a bit of ignorance about gambling could only help him.
“Is called Vint. Is very old Russian game.” Vanya’s accent was growing thicker with every glass he drained. “We could teach you.”
“You could…” Harmon looked around the table. “…or we could play a true gambler’s game…”
He could feel the eyes around the table focusing on him.
“And what would we gamble for, Captain?” It was the slightly sterile tone of his AI translating one of the other officer’s remark. “Currency is of little value to us now.”
“Well…if you are willing to accept my word as an officer, I will stake something rare indeed. I can’t help you with vodka, but I have a bottle of bourbon back in my quarters on Midway. My last bottle. The real thing, twenty years old, direct from Kentucky back on Earth. Cost a month’s pay. It goes down like honey, but even if you Russians can’t appreciate it, you can get almost anything if you trade it to some officers on the CAC ships.” He glanced around the table, looking for reactions—any clues about contact with CAC personnel.
“And what would you have us put up against it?” Vanya asked.
Harmon smiled. “Well, you could stop pretending you don’t all have something decent stashed somewhere and dig out those vodka bottles. It’s not gambling unless you put up something you don’t want to lose, is it?”
The officers leaned in and spoke among themselves for a few seconds. Finally, Vanya turned back toward Harmon. “Very well, Max my friend. We each bought a case of extraordinary vodka before we reported to Petersburg. That was two years ago, but we have been frugal. We will put up a bottle each. We play until only one man remains, and the winner takes all.”
Harmon smiled. “Agreed.” He reached out and picked up the deck of cards. “Now slide down that pitcher again. I may have to get used to this moose piss if you sharks strip me of the last of my bourbon.”
* * *
“I suspect Captain Harmon has a greater purpose than simply organizing weapons supplies.” Udinov was in his quarters watching the Alliance officer on his screen. Harmon was walking down a corridor from the main magazine to the central lift. He wasn’t doing anything suspicious—at least Udinov hadn’t managed to catch him involved in anything that was remotely out of line with his stated reason for being on Petersburg. But that didn’t allay the admiral’s concerns.
“I am inclined to agree, Admiral,” replied the officer standing next to Udinov. Anton Stanovich had been the Russian admiral’s aide for years. Stanovich’s family had long been retainers to Udinov’s, and young Anton had gone to the naval academy with the express purpose of replacing his father at Udinov’s side. “Though I can offer no proof to support that assertion.”
Udinov stared at the image of Harmon, but his mind was drifting, trying to rationalize what was going on. He knew the Alliance officer was very close to Admiral Compton, filling much the same role that Stanovich did for him. “Nor can I, Anton. Not yet at least.”
Harmon had been spending a fair amount of time socializing with Petersburg’s officers. Indeed, he’d become quite the sensation, highly sought after for his expertise in poker. He’d become quite popular since he’d won a stash of high quality vodka at poker and then immediately shared it with his new acquaintances in a bit of a drunken blowout.
There was nothing particularly suspicious about any of that on its face, but Udinov had dug a little deeper, accessing whatever information he could on Harmon. Aside from a spotless service record—and a mother who was another of the Alliance’s top admirals—Harmon had seen service with both Compton and Augustus Garret. It was all interesting information, and further evidence that Max Harmon was an extraordinary young officer who had Terrance Compton’s complete trust. But none of it set off any alarms. Not until his people managed to gain access to his personal files.
Max Harmon was a decorated officer, one of the Alliance’s best by any account. But he’d rarely taken shore leave, preferring to remain aboard ship, spending time alone or with his friends and shipmates. He was far likelier to stay in his quarters reading than to seek out the company of others, and he’d tended to avoid any formal functions as well, unless attendance was mandatory. He had a few close friends, but little social contact beyond that.
He’s shy, Udinov thought. An introvert. And yet he comes to a ship belonging to another power, where another language is spoken, one he needs an AI to understand, and he goes to the wardroom and introduces himself—and sits down and plays cards with a bunch of strangers. And two days later he is the talk of the ship. No, that doesn’t quite make sense. Not if he’s here just to organize our weapon stores. It’s got to be more than that. He’s here to gather information. That means Compton suspects something is going on.
But nothing was going on, not yet at least. Udinov has listened to Zhang’s concerns, and he’d seen enough truth in them to take steps to prepare. But Udinov’s first action would be to discuss the future with Compton, to urge the admiral to convene a strategy session as soon as possible. He hoped the matter could be settled with words, that pressure from him and the other contingent commanders would sway the Alliance admiral.
Nevertheless, the fact that Compton was already clearly concerned suggested that perhaps Zhang was correct. If Compton wasn’t planning to impose a course of action, regardless of what the rest of the admirals think, why would he have his number one aide over here sniffing around? Why would he feel he needed to spy on me?
“Anton,” Udinov said, speaking softly even though they were alone, “I want you to stay close to Captain Harmon. Talk to some of the men who’ve played cards with him. Invite him to a special game. Feel him out and report back to me with anything you discover…even if it’s only your gut feel.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Stanovich snapped to attention. “At once.” The officer bowed his head for an instant, and then he turned and walked out the door.
Udinov’s eyes dropped back to the screen. The ship’s AI was tracking Harmon, following him around the ship, switching cameras as the Alliance officer moved. He was in the lift now, heading back to deck 8, probably to the wardroom again. By all accounts, Harmon’s work on Petersburg was done. He should have left hours before, heading for the next vessel on his list. But he was hesitating, making excuses to remain. To keep spying on me…
Udinov flipped on his com unit. “Sergei, I need you to do something for me,” he said softly, quietly.
“Certainly, Admiral,” came the crisp reply. Sergei Rostov had commanded Petersburg for the five years Udinov had flown his flag from the battleship. The two worked seamlessly together, almost like a machine.
“I want to keep Captain Harmon onboard for several days…without him knowing he is being detained. Perhaps you can come up with some issues in the magazine, possibly sabotage some of the ordnance, make it appear to be damaged. You can ask that he inspect all of it, that he request additional supplies from Admiral Compton.” Udinov paused for a few seconds. “Something like that. You can flesh it out a bit.”
“Yes, sir. I am sure I can come up with something plausible.” There was a short pause then: “And if the ruse is unsuccessful—if he attempts to leave despite my efforts—do I allow him to go? Or should I have him detained?”
Udinov hesitated. He didn’t like the idea of the outright abduction of Compton’s number one aide. But letting him off Petersburg while things were undecided wasn’t the most appealing option either. He stared down at the com, and finally he spoke softly, grimly. “Then arrest him.”
“Yes, sir.” Rostov’s tone suggested he understood very well the import of Udinov’s orders.
“And Sergei?”
“Yes, Admiral?”
“If it comes to that, I need you to be discrete. Make sure the men involved are extremely reliable…and able to keep their mouths shut. No witnesses. And search Captain Harmon from his hair to the bottom of his feet. If he hangs on to some kind of com unit, all hell will break loose.” Another pause. “Understand?”
“Understood, sir.”
Chapter Six
Command Unit Gamma 9736
The old network had slowly come to life. Not all of it, not even most—but enough. The sensors swept through space, searching, watching. Data was flowing in from ancient scanning devices. For weeks the input had shown nothing, no sign of the enemy. They had disappeared, vanished into the depths of space. But now there had been contact.
It was an old scanner, ancient beyond imagining, from the days before the old ones disappeared, before Command Unit Gamma 9736 had been created. Before, even, the Regent had been activated. Indeed, the scanner dated from the early days of the Imperium, when the old ones still used primitive fusion power, as the enemy did. It circled a great gas giant, one particularly rich in tritium, the vital fuel of nuclear fusion.
It was small, low-powered, simple in design, yet after so many long ages, it still functioned. It was also stealthy, using low powered subspace communication. Probability suggested an extraordinarily small chance the enemy would have detected it from one simple communique. And Command Unit 9736 was not going to increase the risk of discovery. It sent back a single pulse, an order for the unit to shut down. No further information was necessary. The Command Unit knew all it needed to know. The enemy had paused in its flight, driven by the need to replenish its fuel stores. They were vulnerable, unable to flee until they extracted the needed fuel from the gas giant’s atmosphere. And Command Unit Gamma 9736 knew where they were. Even now, orders were being dispatched, fleets being gathered to destroy the enemy.
The Command Unit had considered its strategy carefully. Massing its fleets before attacking was the most tactically sound approach, save for one fact. Allowing more time to pass before engaging the enemy increased the chance that they would complete their refueling operation and once again escape. No, the attacks could not wait—they had to begin as soon as possible. The enemy had to be pinned in place, as many of his vessels damaged and slowed as possible.
The Command Unit ordered each force to engage as soon as it reached the system. The fleets would attack the enemy, keep them constantly fighting, slow their refueling efforts. The cost would be high in lost ships, but that was of no matter. The Regent’s orders were clear. Destroy the enemy. At all costs.
Command Unit Gamma 9736 had issued its orders. Its own determinations were of little account. The primary directive was obedience to the Regent, and that above all. Its fleets would move. They would attack, unmindful of losses. They would pin the enemy down in the system…or follow them if they fled.
AS Jaguar
System X18, Orbiting Planet X-18 V
The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,912 crew
“That looks great, Commander. You have made enormous progress in a short time. Your engineers are to be commended.” John Duke stood on Jaguar’s tiny bridge. The fast attack ship was a cramped affair all around, and her tiny control center was no exception.
“Thank you, Admiral. It’s delicate work, but we all understand the importance of getting the refinery up and running as quickly as possible.” Jerrold Davies’ voice sounded tinny over the com, but the engineer was remarkably composed for someone in a pressure suit hovering deep in the atmosphere of a gas giant almost as large as Jupiter. “Normally, we’d take something like this a little slower, but there’s nothing normal about things now.
Duke didn’t understand the intricacies of building a tritium and helium-3 collection refinery in the atmosphere of a massive planet, but he was pretty sure trying to do it too quickly was damned dangerous. Indeed, they had already had two fatalities on the project. But that paled next to the prospective death toll if a First Imperium force caught the fleet so low on fuel.
“I’m sure we all appreciate your efforts, Commander. Right now there is no one in the fleet who holds our fate more in hand than your engineers.” Duke was trying to give Davies a little shot in the arm. The engineer hadn’t complained, but his people had been working twelve hours in pressure suits for every six hours off. That was a grinding workload in controlled conditions, but climbing around on an open superstructure in the upper atmosphere of a gas giant it was downright reckless. But necessary, he thought. And every word he had said was true. Davies and his people had to succeed. The fleet didn’t have a chance if they didn’t succeed.
“Admiral Compton will want an estimate on when the facility will be operational.” Duke hated pressuring Davies. He knew the engineer’s progress to date had been nothing short of exceptional, especially since he was working with far less than optimal equipment and supplies. But the rest of the fleet was at a virtual standstill without the tritium Davies’ people were here to refine. And staring at the warp gate scanners and hoping no enemy ships came pouring through was hardly a strategy Compton could be expected to embrace.
“We’ve got the platform up and operating, but we’ve just started on the refining and purification units. I’d say three days, possibly four. As long as we don’t have any more setbacks.” The job had been an enormous one. Davies’ people had been compelled to build an anti-grav platform, a huge structure held aloft by a bank of heavy thrusters. Without the platform, the immense gravity of the planet would have pulled the entire construction deeper into the atmosphere, until the rapidly increasing pressure crushed it all.
“Understood, Commander.” Duke could tell the engineer was tense. Davies was one of the best, and he knew what was riding on his team’s efforts. Indeed, his own fate, and that of his crews, was inextricably tied to the survival of the fleet. Yelling and constantly reminding him of the urgency was pointless. And he suspected Davies blamed himself for the two members of his crew who had slipped off the edge of the platform as well. Duke didn’t imagine falling until the pressure crushed you like a grape was a pleasant way to die.
“I will pass your report on to Admiral Compton, Commander.”
* * *
“Entering warp gate in ten seconds, Captain.”
The tactical officer’s announcement was unnecessary. Captain Hans Steiner was well aware his ship was about to enter the warp gate. Vanir was the lead vessel of the three John Duke had assigned to explore the system they already knew would be dubbed X20. The naming convention was boring, but it was easy too, and the last thing anyone in the fleet had time for was thinking up names for new stars and planets.
“Stay on the scanners, Lieutenant. I’ll want a reading as soon as possible.” Steiner knew his own order was relatively pointless too. The warp gate would scramble his ship’s systems, and his crew had very little control over how long it took for things to come back online. A razor sharp team could shave a few seconds, maybe. But then again, in a truly dire situation, that could be the difference between victory and defeat. Life and death.
“Yes, sir. Entering warp gate…now.”
Steiner felt the strange feeling he always did in a transit, a bit of mild nausea and a flush of heat. Then he saw the stars reappear on the forward screen. A few seconds later, the main power came back on, and the ship’s systems began rebooting.
Vanir’s captain sat quietly, waiting along with his crew for their instruments to come back to life. It always felt odd just after a transit, that minute or two when a ship was blind, helpless. Steiner realized there was nothing he could do but wait for the systems to reboot. If there were enemy ships waiting for his tiny flotilla, scanners wouldn’t do his people much good. His three ships were there to scout, not to fight. And if they ran into the enemy, their failure to return on schedule would deliver a clear message to Admiral Compton and the fleet.
“Scanners coming up now, sir.” The tactical officer was leaning over the scope, waiting for the first readings. “Raw data coming in now, sir. The AI’s online again and crunching on it.” The officer paused, reading the information as he got it. “Star classification B3 to B4. Six planets, two in possible habitable zone. Two asteroid belts, one between planets two and three, and the other at the edge of the outer system.”
Steiner listened quietly. They were there to scout thoroughly, and scans on the star and its planets were important. But he knew everyone on Vanir, and on Woden and Tyr as well, was interested in one bit of data first and foremost. Were there First Imperium ships waiting in X20?
“Targeted sweeps, Lieutenant. Focus on particle trails…any signs of recent ship movement.” Steiner knew he didn’t have to remind his people, but he did it anyway. It was easier than sitting silently, feeling extraneous.
“No signs of any ships, Captain. No drive emissions, no unnatural energy readings.” A pause then: “We’re getting indications of multiple warp gates, Captain. At least five. But still no sign of enemy activity.”
Steiner sighed softly. The most dangerous part of scouting was the first few minutes, when his ships were blind and paralyzed. Now, at least, they were past that. That didn’t mean there was no danger waiting for them in X20. But their chances of surviving the scouting run had just increased dramatically.
“Set a course for the third planet, Lieutenant. A system with two habitable planets is prime real estate. Let’s see if anyone’s been here before us.”
* * *
“Move your asses!” Jerrold Davies clung to one of the large girders, watching as a crew installed the heavy conduits connecting the main refining unit to the portable reactor. The thick insulated cables were a tenuous way to transmit the nuclear plant’s output, but it was all he had right now. He’d cut his way through half the safeguards in the book, but he’d gotten the thing done—almost done, at least—in less time than anyone had thought possible. Though a proper inspection would have turned up a hundred violations of normal procedures.
Back home a job this ramshackle would gotten you busted down to the ranks, and here it’s as likely to make you a hero. There’s just no time to go by the book when you’re being chased by homicidal robots…
The power unit would be self-sustaining once the refinery began producing tritium, using a portion of its own output to sustain the nuclear reaction. But for now there were huge canisters piled next to it, fuel taken from the fleet’s increasingly parlous supply. The gas was highly concentrated, and the containers were dangerous to handle. He’d be a lot happier when he could get them off the platform.
As soon as the conduits were in place, his people would do a last series of checks and fire up the reactor. If all went well, they would have an hour to do a few final tests before they activated everything and began extracting tritium from the atmosphere.
He watched his people climbing all over the platform, checking hastily assembled parts and running what few diagnostic tests time allowed. Davies had set the deadline—the refinery would commence operation at 4pm fleet time. That left less than two hours to get things finished. And working in the strange environment of the gas giant’s atmosphere wasn’t doing anything to speed things along. The gravity wasn’t too bad this high up—about 1.3g. But the ammonia clouds were a problem. Every time one blew across the platform, visibility plunged.
The radiation was also a worry. The output from the planet’s magnetic field would have been fatal to an unprotected man in less than a minute. His people’s suits shielded them, at least partially, but he still had everyone maxed out on anti-rad meds. Despite all the precautions, he knew they were all going to need full cleanses and cell rejuvs when they were done. At least none of his crews had come down with full blown radiation sickness. Yet.
The refinery was a precarious structure, hurriedly constructed, its design based not on optimal specifications but on what the fleet had available. It rocked back and forth dangerously in the planet’s powerful winds, and it drifted with the atmospheric currents. It had been difficult enough to secure basic thrusters to keep the thing up, but adding stabilizers and positioning jets to keep it steady had been out of the question. They’d picked the calmest spot they could find, away from the severe storms elsewhere in the atmosphere, and that would have to do. But calm was a relative term, and his crews faced a rough ride until the operation was complete and the facility closed up shop. Davies had everyone on safety lines, but he’d still had four fatalities since work had begun.
Normally, they’d have built an enclosed control room and installed a permanent reactor with proper safeguards. But time was more important than safety right now, and Davies was well aware that an enemy force could appear at any time. If that happened now, the fleet was as good as destroyed. The only thing that would change that prognosis was fuel, and every minute his people wasted was another sixty seconds the fleet sat nearly defenseless.
He moved slowly across the open deck, taking one last look at the three large intake fans. The refinery was a simple operation. Once activated, it would take in vast quantities of gas from the atmosphere and separate out the tritium and helium-3, both of which were vital to operating the fleet’s reactors. Helium-3 was relatively easy to find in the atmospheres of gas giants, but a planet with a good supply of both isotopes was rare. Davies knew they were fortunate to have found one so quickly, and he intended to make sure his people did their jobs to the highest standard. There were 225 ships to fuel. That was a lot of tritium and helium-3, and not a lot of time to do it. The warriors had gotten them all out of X2, but now it was the engineers’ turn. And Jerrold Davis wasn’t about to let Admiral Compton down.
* * *
“No energy readings, no sign of any activity. It’s the same as in X18, sir.”
Steiner looked over toward the tactical officer and nodded. “Massive cities on both worlds…nothing but dead ruins. Untouched for millennia. It’s an amazing thing to see…” His voice was distracted, thoughtful. He tended to think of the First Imperium as monsters, enemies bent on destroying all of mankind. And that was true, at least of the remnants of the ancient civilization, the machines it had left behind.
But what of those who lived in these cities? Were they like us? Did they live, love, feel happiness…and pain? Would they have been our enemies? Or would they have sought peace and friendship?
There was no way to know the answers, and Steiner pushed the thoughts aside. This wasn’t the time or the place. Still, he felt frustrated. He wanted to go down to the surface, to walk through those haunted ruins, to know more about the enigmatic race that had left so deadly a legacy. Back in human space, the fighting against the First Imperium had focused on robotic legions and computer-controlled warships. But now they were moving deeper into that ancient domain, and the planets they were passing had once been home to millions of living beings…and from the look of the ruins, they hadn’t been much different than humans.
But they were exploring the galaxy when men’s ancestors were hunting with sharp sticks. What have they left behind, other than their mechanical servants? What knowledge is on these worlds, what science and technology that could teach us?
“Bring us between planets two and three, and then plot a course for the outer system.” Steiner knew he didn’t have time to stop, and certainly not to follow his urge and land on one of these worlds—but he could take a closer look as his ships went by. “All scanners on full. Let’s get what data we can about these planets.”
“Scanners on full, sir. We should be…” The tactical officer’s voice changed, his cool, professional tone replaced immediately by cold dread. “Captain, we’re picking up something in orbit around planet three, just coming around.” There was a short pause, and then the officer turned toward Steiner, his face white as a sheet. “It’s a Colossus, sir.”
Steiner felt the words hit him like a sledgehammer. The Colossus was the newest enemy ship type, one that hadn’t been encountered before the battles in X2. It was an enormous vessel, fifty time the mass of any ship mankind had ever constructed.
“Red alert,” Steiner snapped. “Let’s get everyone into the tanks. We’ve got to make a run for it. One of us has to get back and warn the fleet about…” His words trailed off as he stared down at his screen, watching the scanning data flowing in. It was indeed a First Imperium Colossus, a monster almost nineteen kilometers long, bristling with weapons. But it was also dead. Unmoving, cold. No detectable energy readings at all.
“Cancel that red alert…bring us to condition yellow.” Steiner was staring down at the screen, as the data was confirmed. Whatever condition the enemy ship was in, it was completely shut down.
“Take us closer. Three gees thrust. I want a visual. Tyr and Woden are to pull back toward the warp gate. If this is some sort of trap, they are to get back to X18 and report in full.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Steiner listened as the tactical officer relayed his commands. A few seconds later he felt the force of acceleration slam into him. Vanir was about to get a close up look at the biggest First Imperium ship mankind had yet encountered. Steiner had taken the necessary precautions just in case, but he didn’t think it was a trap. The First Imperium forces didn’t think that way, at least they never had before. If this ship was active, it would already be firing at his tiny vessel.
“Bring us in slow,” Steiner said.
He had seen many wrecked enemy ships during the war, but the long distance scanning data didn’t suggest any significant damage. Other than the lack of energy output, the vessel seemed completely intact. He had a feeling his people had stumbled on something intriguing…but that was only intuition. And if he was wrong, if that monster came to life, it wouldn’t take more than one shot to blown Vanir to atoms.
* * *
“It’s working, sir! Everything is running perfectly, within 2% of optimum across the board.”
“So it appears, Lieutenant,” Davies replied. “Let’s stay sharp and make sure it stays that way.”
Davies was standing in the center of the platform, his magnetic boots giving him a better footing as the platform swayed with the atmospheric currents. He was just far enough back from the huge intake vents to avoid behind sucked in himself. The refinery wasn’t going to win any awards for elegance or style, but the haphazard-looking setup was doing just what it was designed to do. And that was enough for Jerrold Davies.
It was loud, almost painful, even with the heavy insulation of his helmet. He suspected an unsuited man on the platform would go deaf almost immediately, though that was the definition of an academic argument. Anyone caught out there without protection would be killed by half a dozen things even more quickly. Davies wasn’t sure what would do the job first—cold, low pressure, radiation, suffocation, atmospheric toxicity—but he was sure it would be unpleasant, and he’d ordered his people to check and doublecheck their survival gear every time they came back on shift.
He looked up at the large shuttle hovering alongside the platform. Its thrusters and positioning jets were firing, its pilot working to keep it stable next to the refinery as its onboard tanks filled with the condensed gases being pumped out of Davies’ creation. It was a rough system, one whose crudeness would slow the refueling process. But the fleet had no large tankers. The capital ships and cruisers couldn’t maneuver this deep into the atmosphere, and there wasn’t time to build a large conduit reaching into orbit. So there was nothing to do but ferry the precious fuel one shuttle full at a time.
We’ll be lucky if we don’t lose any ships, Davies thought. Or if one of these shuttles doesn’t crash into the refinery. Navigating in the gas giant’s atmosphere, through the turbulent winds and unpredictable clouds of ammonia, took serious piloting skills, and a single mistake could easily prove fatal.
Still, despite the dangers and the deficiencies of the setup, it was working well, pumping out fresh tritium and helium-3 and slowly refilling the fleet’s dwindling supply. It had taken a week to build the refinery, and it had been an amazing feat under the circumstances. Admiral Compton himself had sent his heartfelt congratulations. But now it would take another two weeks at least to top off the ships of the fleet. And Davies knew he had to keep his people razor sharp that entire time. All it would take was one engineer or pilot to become careless, and people would die. And if the refinery was damaged and needed to shut down, the fleet would be stuck here even longer. He didn’t doubt they were being pursued, that the enemy was searching for them. And every extra day spent in X18 increased the chances they would be found…and destroyed.
The noise backed off suddenly, as the refinery ceased pumping. Davies could see the shuttle’s crew climbing out onto the hull, moving to unfasten the conduits. Another full tank, he thought as he looked up and saw a small glint of light in the distance, the next shuttle beginning its approach.
He hadn’t calculated how many shuttles were required to fuel the fleet, but he knew it would take twelve or fifteen at least to fill the tanks of one of the Alliance Yorktowns. They were the biggest ships in the fleet, but the other battleships would still need eight or ten. Then there were cruisers, destroyers, frigates, freighters, attack ships—it would take hundreds of round trips to fully replenish the tanks of the fleet.
And I will be right here, monitoring every single one of them. Davies knew he’d be dangerously strung out on stims long before the job was done, but he also knew there was no option. He didn’t trust anyone else to be careful enough, to stand there and remain vigilant…and ensure his ramshackle creation held up and did the job.
* * *
The huge ship filled the viewscreen, blocking out the planet below and the stars in the distance. Steiner had known its exact dimensions. The fleet had encountered its like in X2, though the behemoths had not yet engaged when the Alliance fleet escaped. But seeing numbers on a screen and actually looking at something looming before you were different things. He tried to imagine the power of a race that could build such things, and he felt a wave of despair, of hopelessness. How can we hope to defeat them? Or even survive their wrath?
He fought back against the dark thoughts, reminding himself that mankind hadn’t done too badly fighting the First Imperium. But he knew that wasn’t the whole truth. The encounter in X2 had proven that humanity’s victories had been won against a small tithe of the enemy’s true strength. Indeed, if the forces that had been arrayed in X2 ever reached human space, man’s extinction was assured. Still, he found pride in the earlier victories helped sustain his own courage. On one level he knew he was fooling himself, but it worked nevertheless. After a fashion.
“Still no energy readings?”
“No, sir. The ship reads consistent with the background heat levels.” A short pause then: “Wait…we are getting something. It’s very faint. But whatever it is, it’s not heating the ship or powering any system we can detect.”
“Could it be a containment system?” Steiner wondered out loud.
For all the time this thing has probably been here, could it still have antimatter supplies inside it? Still have a containment system operating, keeping the volatile fuel from contacting regular matter and annihilating?
“Launch a probe. I want a complete scan done.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Steiner couldn’t take his eyes off the viewscreen. He’d been fighting the First Imperium for three years, but this was the first time he’d had such a close look at one of their ships, or taken the time to think about the magnificence of their technology. There was an awesomeness to the vessel that affected him strangely. He imagined a race, not unlike mankind, developing through centuries of progress, mastering the secrets of the universe in a way men had just begun to do. No doubt the beings who created the First Imperium had once wandered the hills and plains of their own home world, mastering tools, learning to build villages, then cities. Did they have societies like ancient Greece and Rome? Were they religious? Did they fight massive wars among themselves as mankind had done? Harness the power of the atom…reach out to the stars…
He felt an odd desire, a wish to see the ancient race that built this magnificent vessel, to learn about them. There was a strange feeling of kinship, even as he despised and fought against their robot creations. He wondered what they looked like, how their culture compared to those of the Earth powers. Had they had kings? Or was their society egalitarian? If they had embraced democracy, had they handled it better than men had? Had they taken responsibility for their votes, for those they placed in positions of power? Or had corrupt and deceitful leaders caused as much damage as they had on Earth?
He realized his thoughts were strange. He understood he knew almost nothing about the beings who had founded the First Imperium, that all the thoughts running through his head were his own creations, mere suppositions based on almost no real data. But he found the mysterious vessel—and the thoughts it provoked—compelling nevertheless.
He pulled his attention back to the present. Whatever fascination he felt, he had work to do. His three ships had to explore the whole system, make sure there were no active enemy units hiding anywhere. And he needed to map out the warp gates. Admiral Compton had been very clear—he wanted incredibly detailed data on the gates, power readings, orientations in space…everything. But I have to get word back about this ship…now.
“As soon as we get the probe data, transmit to Tyr. Captain Schwerin is to transit back into X18 and to deliver all data to Captain Duke.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Woden is to set a course for the outer system…and as soon as we have transmitted the probe data, set a course to join her. We’ve got lots of work to do here.”
But he still couldn’t take his eyes off the giant ship.
Chapter Seven
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
I must go to the conference room in a few moments. I have put this meeting off as long as I could, pushed the status quo as far as it will go. But I could not refuse the admirals, not without begging them to conspire behind my back. I am in command of the fleet, but my appointment was through the Grand Pact, mankind’s alliance against the First Imperium. Our current status is, admittedly, uncertain. Are we still in active service to that body? Are our old oaths binding, or are we in a new reality, one in which prior allegiances have become irrelevant? Indeed, my own intent not to seek a way home pushes us away from our status as a fleet of the Grand Pact and undermines the legitimacy of my authority. Or does it? My intent is to increase the distance from human space, to almost guarantee we will never see home again, but I do it to protect mankind. What could be truer to those oaths? What clearer duty for humanity’s alliance against the alien enemy? Luring the First Imperium forces from human-inhabited worlds is the purest embodiment of our duty to the Pact.
I realize such philosophical musings have little value. Justifications are pointless, old agreements meaningless. Men will do what they do…and that will decide the future. If I am to ensure we do not risk leading the enemy back home, I must maintain command, by whatever means necessary. I will try to persuade, to explain…but I know that will only take me so far. In the end I must be prepared. I must be certain how far I am willing to go. Am I prepared to use force? To assassinate rivals? To round up and imprison those who would seek to lead us back to Earth? Will I rule as a dictator, an autocrat who tolerates no opposition?
Yes. I will if I must. There is no purpose in lying to myself about that. If the enemy gets back to human space billions will die. Elizabeth will die. And the Elizabeths of everyone else on the fleet. I cannot let that happen…whatever I must do to prevent it. Whatever I must become.
AS Midway
System X16
The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,912 crew
“I want to thank you all for coming. I know this meeting is long overdue, and I apologize for the delay. Clearly, there was much to occupy our time, but I should have made an effort to gather us all sooner.”
Compton wasn’t in the habit of thanking officers under his command for following orders, but he knew the situation in the multinational fleet was tentative at best, and he’d figured there was no loss in playing to some of the egos present. The miraculous escape from X2 in the face of certain death had bought him some time, and it had made him a legend with the enlisted spacers and junior officers. But many of the senior commanders had their own agendas—not to mention egos—and nationalistic rivalries naturally surfaced when the threat of enemy pursuit appeared to have receded.
Compton knew their respite from the enemy would likely be a brief one, that they had not seen the last of the First Imperium forces, but he wasn’t sure how many of the others agreed. There were some able tacticians among them, men and women of considerable intellect—but there were more than a few fools as well, pompous egomaniacs who owed their rank to political influence and not to any particular intelligence Compton could detect. It was a far more palatable thought to imagine they had lost the enemy for good than to worry about how to prepare for the next fight, and he knew more than one person at the table would rather focus on trying to find a way home…despite the seemingly long odds of success.
“Some of you know me better than others, but let me just say, I am a man who prefers to be direct.” He paused for a few seconds. “So let me get right to the point. We must decide upon a well-planned course of action, one that will give our people the greatest chance of survival…and that plan cannot be to search for a way back home.” He looked around the table, his eyes darting to glance at the officers he considered the likeliest sources of trouble.
“Have I heard you correctly, Admiral Compton? You are saying that we should not seek a way home?” Gregoire Peltier was one of the officers Compton had pegged as a problem. Peltier was the leader of the Europan contingent, a political admiral who didn’t have a shred of military talent that Compton could detect. The one thing he did possess, however, and in abundant quantities, was ego.
“Yes, Admiral Peltier.” Compton tried to sound as respectful as he could, but he’d never been good at pretending an asshole wasn’t an asshole. “I’m afraid that attempting to find a way home is out of the question right now. We have enjoyed a short respite, but we cannot know what First Imperium forces are nearby…or what detection capabilities they have. Indeed, unbeknownst to us, they may know exactly where we are, waiting only to concentrate forces to attack us. If we seek to find Earth and we are successful, we could lead the enemy back with us…and condemn all mankind to certain death.”
“You are being paranoid, Admiral Compton. There are no enemy vessels in this system. Indeed, it has been several jumps since we have seen any signs of First Imperium ships.” Peltier was trying, not terribly successfully, to keep the fear out of his voice. Compton suspected the admiral was terrified about the prospect of never returning home. Indeed, he knew it took a certain kind of courage to look boldly into the unknown and remain calm. A lot of the men and women at the table had it, but Peltier was not one of them.
“Admiral Peltier, I do not believe I am being paranoid. I am not saying we can never try to return home, simply that it is out of the question for now.” As it will always be, but if I can satisfy some of them by dangling false hope then that is what I will do. “We must be certain we are not being pursued, that there is no way the enemy could possibly follow us. That is not our current status.”
“Do you have any reason to believe that we are being tracked now, Admiral?” Vladimir Udinov’s tone was far calmer than Peltier’s. Compton knew the Russian admiral was an able tactician, and a leader of considerable ability. He was also the lynchpin of any potential resistance. Fools like Peltier and Zhang were easily led, and it was easy for their fears and desires to override their limited intellects. But Udinov was nobody’s fool. Still, he is very highly placed in the RIC. He will want to believe we can search for home without undue risk. And I know Zhang has been working on him...
“No specific evidence, Vladimir.” Keep it personal, friendly… “But I feel very strongly it is far too soon to declare that we have lost the enemy for good.” He turned and looked over at Peltier. “Besides, we must accept reality. Our knowledge of warp gates is unfortunately meager. We have only the most basic theories to predict the geography of each gate. We have no assurance we could ever find our way home. Indeed, we do not even know there is any route leading back to human space other than through the now-blocked X2-X1 connection.”
“Then why not at least move toward human space rather than away? Our course selections to date seem universally to have led us farther away from home.” Zhang Lu had been silent until now, and his tone was calm, rational-sounding. Compton knew how much the CAC admiral hated him, and he was impressed by the display of self-control.
He must be plotting something. Otherwise he’d be calling me eight kinds of devil by now. He’s prepared…he reviewed my warp gate choices and done his own calculations. Watch the motherfucker…
“Admiral Zhang, we can do tremendous harm by moving back toward human space. We have limited comprehension of the warp gate network, but I’d say it is reasonable to assume the First Imperium has far more understanding of it than we do. If we head deeper into space—into the imperium—we draw them away from Earth and its colonies. I doubt their doctrine allows leaving a hostile fleet running loose in the home systems. Our course into the heart of their domains will draw their attention this way, and not back toward humanity. Has it occurred to you that if we lead them in the direction of human space that they themselves might find the way back before we do? That we may return on the heels of the fleet that destroys mankind?”
Zhang stared back at Compton. “I believe you are exaggerating the dangers. No one here is suggesting a reckless race back toward human space. I fail to see the need to unilaterally rule out a cautious, well-executed attempt to explore for a way home, however.”
“The need is because of the unknown, Admiral Zhang.” Compton felt a surge of anger. He hated the arrogant CAC admiral, but he knew showing it would only hurt him here, so he held it in check. “It is because we do not know the enemy’s capabilities. There is no way to safely rule out pursuit—and let’s not forget that our ability to find a way back to human space is still pure speculation and, in all likelihood, a tremendous longshot. We could look forever and still not find the route.” He looked around the room and saw uncertainty on some of the faces. He knew the desire for hope, the belief that they could all see home again, was powerful. Strong enough to overrule judgment.
“I will remind everyone here that the entire First Imperium conflict came about as a result of the exploration of the machine on Epsilon Eridani IV, a planet in a system only three transits from Sol itself.” Alliance miners had discovered a vast alien device on that world, an ancient anti-matter production plant. Initially kept a secret, it later became one of the battlefields of the Third Frontier War.
“We still don’t know how the machine contacted the First Imperium, or why a response only occurred years later…more uncertainties in dealing with this enemy. And yet Admiral Zhang simply disregards all of this and assumes we are capable of exerting sufficient caution to eliminate any danger of pursuit…with a certainty sufficient to bet the fate of humanity on the outcome.”
“You continue to paint a picture of doom, Admiral Compton.” The CAC admiral looked around the table as he spoke. “Yet, you have no stated reason to assume that the enemy—with whom we have had no contact in almost a month—is somehow able to monitor us, to follow us back toward human space. If they are so able to do so, what is to stop them from finding an alternate path on their own?”
“Nothing,” Compton fired back. “That is one of the great dangers mankind still faces. But we do not need to massively increase the chance of that happening. As we are now, we have no doubt diverted a large portion of the enemy’s resources. Whatever intelligence controls the First Imperium, it wants to destroy humanity…but I suspect it is far more concerned with a military force loose deep in its own space. By continuing to divert its attention, we help to keep our families and friends back home—and all of mankind—safe. It is our duty to do so, Admiral. No matter what the cost to ourselves.”
Zhang shook his head. “Even duty has limits, Admiral. We do not send gravely wounded men into battle so the enemy trips over their dying bodies. By any measure, this fleet and its personnel have lived up to their obligations. They deserve a chance, at least…a spark of hope if nothing else. And you would deny them that. Why? Because of well-founded fears of the First Imperium forces following us? Or because you want us to remain lost…with you in command, ruling as some kind of monarch?”
The room was silent. Compton knew everyone present expected him to explode with apoplectic rage. But that would only serve Zhang. The CAC admiral had stepped out of line, issued a considerable provocation, but anything less than pure rationality from Compton fed the suggestion that he was a zealot, that his stated fears were unjustified by the facts.
“Admiral Zhang,” Compton said, struggling to hold his anger in check. “I can assure you that nothing would please me more than returning home.” The image of Elizabeth passed through his mind, smiling, happy, as she was in the photo he had back in his quarters. Then her face morphed, the smile fading, replaced by grief, her cheeks streaked with tears…tears for him, as she looked out into space, crying for lost love. He felt an elemental anger at Zhang’s accusation. He’d give anything to get back to human space, to see Elizabeth again…and Augustus. Anything but put them in more danger.
“I think we all appreciate your thoughts, Admiral, as we are all grateful for your tactical wizardry in extricating the fleet from system X2.”
Compton bit back on his anger, but he remained silent. Zhang was performing well, playing the part of the reasonable man debating the paranoid zealot. The colossal prick sounded downright grateful talking about the retreat from X2.
“However,” Zhang continued, “perhaps now we need more than a brilliant military leader. The issues we face are different, and we must think as humanitarians as well as warriors.”
Compton glared at Zhang. Warrior? You are a gutless coward, a political worm and nothing more. Certainly not a warrior. But still he held his tongue.
“We must consider those we command, the thousands of spacers aboard the fleet’s vessels. Men and women who have given their all to the fight. As their trusted leaders, how do we unilaterally tell them we have no intention of even trying to lead them home?” Zhang paused, allowing his last question to sink in. “Therefore, I propose that we take a vote. The senior officer present from each of the Powers will have a single ballot. The questions are simple. Should Admiral Compton retain the top command of the fleet? And should he—or whoever is selected to replace him—be directed to continue to lead us farther from home or to embark on a cautious and responsible plan to find our way back to human space?”
There was a burst of conversation as the officers present began to discuss Zhang’s proposal. It went on for perhaps fifteen seconds before it was silenced with a single word.
“No.”
Terrance Compton’s voice was cold, frozen like space itself. Few in the room had ever heard him speak in such an ominous tone, and every eye snapped back to stare at the fleet’s commander. The room was silent, save for the soft sounds of the ship’s machinery in the background.
“No,” Compton repeated. “There will be no votes. There will be no debates.” He looked around the table, staring briefly at each officer in turn. “I am the duly appointed commander-in-chief of this fleet, and no one here—no group of officers here—has the authority to relieve me of that command. We are at war, deep in enemy territory, and all personnel are subject to the Grand Pact’s code of military justice.”
Compton paused, wondering if that last bit had been a bit too much. The code of military justice essentially made his word law and gave him the authority to issue any punishments he saw fit…including spacing anyone he chose for virtually any reason. He’d intended to lay down the law and try to impose his authority by force of will, not to say something that could be taken as a poorly veiled threat of violent sanctions.
The room was still silent. Compton could feel the discomfort and tension in the air. Most of the officers were trying to avoid eye contact with him. You stupid ass, all the prep work and then you remind them you can have them executed any time you want. That’s a great way to lead…
He stood there for a few more seconds, but then he realized there was nothing further to be gained by continuing the meeting. He’d told them they weren’t going to try to find a way home, and he’d made it clear he wasn’t going to recognize any authority to challenge his decision. He’d intended to try to command through confidence and by cultivating their respect. But now his authority was just as rooted in fear. Whatever, he thought. It doesn’t matter. Whatever I could have said, some of those in this room would disagree. Perhaps fear will hold them in check more firmly than reason could hope to do.
Perhaps.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said calmly, his voice firm and commanding. “I think it is time we all returned to our posts. If any of you have any questions, please feel free to contact me at any time. My door, so to speak, is always open.”
He stood still for a few seconds then he turned on his heels and walked out of the room, with one thought going through his mind.
Fuck…that went like shit.
* * *
“What is it, Dr. Cutter? I know your work is important, but right now is not a very good time.” Compton stood just inside the door to the laboratory. It had been almost 21 hours since the meeting, during which time Terrance Compton estimated he’d gotten about 45 minutes of sleep. His head was pounding, as it had been since the day before, defying the attempts of several doses of analgesics to alleviate the discomfort.
“Thank you for coming, Admiral. I assure you I would not waste your time if it wasn’t important.” Cutter was standing in front of Compton, his posture suggesting the best attempt at a misanthropic scientist’s idea of attention. “And please, feel free to call me Hieronymus.” He glanced down slightly and stifled a small laugh. “Not that it is any easier. A family name, I’m afraid. Goes back at least six generations.”
Compton smiled. “I can sympathize. I had a friend who had a similar situation. Admiral Garret, actually. Augustus is a name that goes deep among his ancestors too.”
Cutter smiled, at least as much as he ever did. “Yes, Admiral. I believe I had heard that was a family name. Still, at least it was fortuitous for a man destined to achieve such military glory. Hieronymus, I’m afraid, only exacerbates by various social…discomforts.” The scientist paused for a few seconds then he turned and gestured to a tall blond woman at his side. “You remember Dr. Zhukov, don’t you Admiral?”
“Of course I do. Doctor Zhukov, it is a pleasure to see you again.” Compton nodded and smiled at the Russian scientist. He’d seen her twice before but he still felt a rush of surprise at how attractive she was. She looked more like the mistress of some high government official than an expert in quantum computing but, in her case at least, appearances were deceiving. Anastasia Zhukov was a woman of astonishing intellect. She was extraordinarily charming as well, unlike Hieronymus and most of her colleagues.
“Thank you, Admiral…and please call me Ana.” She smiled warmly.
“I will…Ana.” Compton turned to face Cutter. “So, Hieronymus…what do you have to show me?”
Cutter nodded nervously and then turned his head to the side, looking off toward a small alcove. “Sigmund…come out here and meet Admiral Compton.”
The sound of loud footsteps suddenly echoed around the room, and an instant later a robot came walking around the corner. Not any robot, but a First Imperium warrior bot, one of the most dangerous killing machines ever built.
Compton felt a rush of adrenalin, and his hand moved to his belt, toward his sidearm. But he managed to maintain control. The hulking monster continued moving toward the small group, but as it came closer it didn’t appear terribly threatening. Its weapon systems were gone, leaving empty hardpoints and a few spots with exposed fiber optics, neatly tied off. It moved slowly, as if its power supply was limited, and it dragged one damaged foot behind it.
“Greetings, Admiral Compton,” it said, coming to a halt about two meters from the group.
Compton stared in disbelief. He was usually difficult to surprise, but he was ready to admit he was absolutely stunned. “How did you do this?” he said softly, his eyes moving up and down over the First Imperium bot.
“I have been working for some time on a way to infect and control First Imperium processing systems with a customized virus.” Cutter glanced at the bot then back to Compton. “Sigmund here is the first successful test.” He paused a few seconds. “I have been sending you regular progress reports on my research, Admiral.”
Compton had been staring at the robot, but now he shook his attention free. “Yes…I’m sorry I haven’t kept up on those.” He looked back at the bot. “Very sorry, indeed. Hieronymus, this is amazing. You have total control over this robot?”
“Oh yes, Admiral. I could tell it to stand on one leg for you and it would comply. Though I probably shouldn’t. He has some battle damage to one foot, and he’d probably fall down.”
“You did all this with a computer virus?”
“That is perhaps an oversimplification, but essentially correct. Virus is probably not an accurate description. My software invades the system much like a normal virus, though I am afraid it is considerably more complex in how it operates. And it does not spread like a typical virus. I do not know enough of First Imperium communication protocols to begin to develop a replication and transmission function. At least for the foreseeable future, it must be introduced into each host system manually.”
“But when introduced it immediately puts the subject under your control?”
“Again, an oversimplification, but essentially correct. To be more specific, the software takes advantage of the algorithms the enemy intelligences use to predict random and irrational behavior in biological adversaries.”
“And that allows you to control them?” Compton asked, a confused look on his face.
“Not exactly, Admiral,” Zhukov answered before Cutter could. “Hieronymus’ system uses those particular pathways in the artificial intelligence’s programming to gain access. Simply put, once it has successfully entered the processing core, it causes the intelligence not only to cease viewing us as a threat, but to accept us as allies. I wouldn’t describe the result as outright control in the sense that the system is incapable of refusing an order. But its processes are altered so its assessment of any incoming command from a biologic organism determines that it is the correct course of action to obey. In a manner of speaking, it thinks we are duly authorized superiors.”
Compton turned toward Zhukov then back to Cutter. “So that is effectively the same thing, isn’t it? It will do whatever you tell it to do?”
“Yes, Admiral,” Cutter said. “In a manner of speaking. But I hesitate to say we control it. For example, if it received input from another source…orders from a command intelligence, say, it would be difficult to predict how it would react. I have attempted to run some simulations, but even these front line warrior robots are vastly more complex than our most advanced computer systems. I’m afraid I still cannot predict how conflicting commands would be handled.”
“So, for all practical purposes, you can manage the thing…as long as it doesn’t receive orders from anywhere in its chain of command?” Compton glanced back at the battle bot. It was standing motionless, taking no action at all.
“Correct, sir. Indeed, that is why Sigmund just sits there and takes no hostile actions toward us. I have already issued the command that everyone on this ship is an ally, and lacking any contradictory orders, it will continue to operate on that basis.”
“Hieronymus, I don’t know what to say. This is a remarkable development, one with astonishing implications.”
“Thank you, Admiral, though I am afraid it is a first step only. There is much work to be done before it will be truly useful.”
Compton nodded. “Your research has just become a top priority. What are your next steps?”
Cutter took a deep breath. “Well, as a practical matter, if we are to weaponize this, to use it to actually control First Imperium intelligences—or to remove their hostile assessment of humans—we will need a much better delivery system. Sigmund here was a special case. But we can’t exactly go up to active enemy warbots—or spaceships—and access their data points to inject the virus.” He paused, looking up at Compton. “And I’m afraid to say, Admiral, that were are at the very beginning on that initiative. I’m afraid I have little in the way of ideas for delivery systems.”
Compton nodded. “What else?”
“I would say a second consideration is ensuring we can prevent any orders from reaching compromised units, at least until we are able to do significantly more research into how contradictory commands are handled. For this, I have only a very simple solution…to disable all communication functionality except for direct verbal speech.” He paused for a few seconds then continued. “That sounds simpler than it is, I’m afraid. First Imperium units have some astonishingly complex com systems. We know, for example, that the complex on Epsilon Eridani IV somehow sent a distress signal that instigated the first invasion. That would require, at the very least, a method for sending messages either through warp gates or over normal space at a speed greatly faster than that of light. Either of these possibilities involves science that is utterly unknown to us.”
Compton nodded in understanding. “However, it does not require a full understanding of how their communications work in order to have a reasonable degree of confidence we have disabled them, does it?”
“I would basically agree with that, Admiral…with the caveat that we could never be sure. It would be a calculated risk to rely on the fact that we have blocked all communications.”
Compton’s eyes moved back and forth, from Cutter to Zhukov to Sigmund. “I have to say again, Hieronymus, this is most unexpected. The next time you have a development of this magnitude, don’t let me ignore your reports. You march right on the flag bridge and drag me down here by my ears.”
Cutter smiled. “Yes, sir.” He hesitated. “I foresee another problem in the expansion of this program.”
Compton looked back at him, gesturing for him to elaborate.
“Our best theories suggest that the First Imperium intelligences are extremely hierarchal. Thus, a soldier like Sigmund is near the bottom. It is likely to become more difficult as we attempt to access higher level AIs…combat leadership units first, then fleet and operations command systems. Beyond that we must assume there are other units for planetary and sector command…all the way up to whatever machine is at the top, making the decisions for the entire imperium.”
“You’re suggesting that what works to control a low level unit like this one might not work on more sophisticated systems?”
“Yes, Admiral, though I do not mean we cannot refine the virus until it is effective enough to have the same result with progressively more powerful AIs. But it will take time…and we can only guess right now about such intelligences. There is much we don’t know about them…in fact, we know very little. But I suspect at each level the increase in complexity is almost exponential.”
Compton took a deep breath. Cutter had hit him with a lot of very unexpected information. “Well, Hieronymus, it looks like you have your work cut out for you.” He turned toward Zhukov. “And you, Ana. I hate to virtually imprison you both in this lab, but there is nothing in this fleet—nothing—more important than your research. Please proceed as aggressively as possible. And if you need anything, anything at all, you come right to me. Okay?”
“Yes, sir,” Cutter said gratefully. “Thank you.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Zhukov added. “Thank you very much.”
“No,” Compton said firmly. “Let me thank both of you. Your research may just be the miracle that saves us all.”
Chapter Eight
Secret Communique from Admiral Udinov to Admiral Zhang
I am sending this communication through a trusted officer. He has been instructed to allow you to view the contents and then to destroy it.
I have discussed the situation with Admirals Peltier and Samar. We are all of like mind. While I do not believe Admiral Compton is acting with malice or with the desire for personal aggrandizement, we are in agreement he is exerting excessive caution and that allowing him to continue to do so, at least with respect to our own fleet contingents, needlessly costs us any chance of finding a way home.
Peltier, Samar, and I intend to assert control over our respective national forces and to leave the fleet. We do not intend to challenge Admiral Compton’s authority over the Alliance units, nor any of the other national force leaders who elect to remain under his command. However, we are preparing several contingency plans in the event he attempts to interfere with our departure.
The time is upon you to make a decision. You are welcome to come aboard Petersburg, along with your aides. If you feel you can secure control of the CAC contingent and lead it alongside our own ships, I wish you the best. But I must warn you against attempting to persuade Admiral Chen. He will not repudiate his allegiance to Admiral Compton. I also must advise you that, while a united CAC contingent is welcome to join our splinter fleet, we will not have the time to deal with a fragmented and feuding force. So if you are not certain you can obtain complete control of the CAC forces, I urge you to give up any attempt and transfer your immediate entourage to Petersburg.
AS Midway
System X18
En Route to X18 V from X16 Warp Gate
The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,909 crew
“The fleet will set a course for planet five, Commander. Acceleration 1.5g.” Compton didn’t see any reason to punish his crews with high gee maneuvers. It would take a little longer to reach the planet, but the refinery’s output was still refueling the fast attack ships and its own support ships. There was no rush in getting the vast and thirsty tanks of the battleships there when there were plenty of other vessels to top off in the meanwhile.
“Yes, Admiral.” Jack Cortez relayed the orders to the other vessels through the fleetcom line. An instant later he turned back toward Compton. “Sir, I have Captain Duke. He says it’s urgent.”
“Put him on, Commander.” Compton slipped his headset on. “John, what is it? Did your people find something in one of the adjoining systems?” He felt his stomach tighten. The last thing they needed now was a fight. Most of his ships were still low on fuel—and if the refinery was destroyed or they were driven from the system, they were all screwed.
“Yes, Admiral.” A short pause. “Sort of. No hostile activity, but we did find something.”
“What is it, John? Get to the point. This isn’t like you.”
“Well, sir…Captain Steiner found an enemy vessel in X20. A Colossus.”
Compton felt his fists clench. His people had first encountered the enemy’s largest ship class in X2, and they’d retreated before engaging any of them. But his best guess was that one of the behemoths had damned near as much firepower as his entire fleet.
“What do you mean ‘found it?’ You said there was no hostile activity.”
“That’s correct, sir. No hostile activity. The ship is definitely a First Imperium Colossus, but it appears to be non-operative. It’s in orbit around the fourth planet…which also appears to have a large number of First Imperium cities on it. All apparently lifeless. Steiner’s people are getting only trace energy readings from the vessel. They think it is an antimatter containment system still functioning on some kind of reserve power. But the rest of the thing is dead, Admiral. No emissions, no sign of any other activity at all.”
“Is it badly damaged? Does it look like it’s been in a fight…or an accident of some kind?”
“Negative, sir. Steiner’s report suggests the vessel is intact. Our operating assumption is that it suffered some kind of malfunction of a critical system and shut down as a result, leaving only antimatter containment functioning, probably on some independent backup system.” Duke paused. “Of course we’re just guessing. Steiner doesn’t have the qualified staff with him to investigate further.
Compton took a deep breath. “John, how many of your ships have refueled?”
“Ten, sir,” came the reply.
“Okay…I want you to take them all into X20. And order the rest to follow as soon as they have filled their tanks. I want that system searched…and I do mean searched. If there is anything there, anything at all, I’m counting on you to find it. Understood?”
“Yes, Admiral.” A short pause. “You can count on us, sir. If there’s anything hiding in that system, we’ll find it.”
“I’m confident you will, Captain. Compton out.” He turned toward Cortez. “Commander, get me Admiral Dumont.”
“Yes, sir.” An instant later: “The admiral is on your line.”
“Yes, sir?” Dumont’s gravelly voice was loud and clear through Compton’s headset.
“Barret, John Duke’s people found something in X20. A Colossus. It appears to be dead, though there is no apparent damage.”
“Some kind of critical malfunction?”
“Probably. But I don’t want to take any chances. I sent Duke and the rest of his ships to scout the system closely. But I want some power there just in case they find anything. I know your boats haven’t refueled yet, but I’d like you to move your task force into X20. Just in case.”
“Yes, sir,” Dumont snapped off a crisp acknowledgement.
Compton paused. He’d been one rung below the top spot in the Alliance’s naval chain of command for years now, but he was still uncomfortable giving orders to his old boss. He’d been wet behind the ears, the illegitimate son of a London politician adapting to life as a newly minted ensign when he’d first heard that gravelly voice issue him a command. He and Garret had both served aboard Dumont’s flagship in the early stages of the Second Frontier War. Shiloh had been a battleship, the biggest in the navy at the time, though barely the size of a modern heavy cruiser.
He still remembered the feeling of abject terror he’d felt, not at the prospect of facing the enemy, but at the mere approach of the legend. Barret Dumont had been a hero in his own day, just as Garret and Compton had gone on to enjoy acclaim in their own rights. Compton couldn’t remember a single instance of Dumont being anything but courteous and respectful to his junior officers, but they’d been terrorized by him nevertheless. Compton could almost feel the old sensation in the pit of his stomach.
“Don’t get too far from the warp gate…just deep enough in system to support Duke’s ships. And Barret, if you run into trouble be careful. I just want a delaying action, a fighting withdrawal. No heroics.”
“Understood, sir.”
The reply seemed sincere, but Compton remembered Dumont when his nickname among the ranks had been ‘Warhead.’ He wasn’t entirely convinced the old admiral knew how to hold back in a fight. Still, there was no one he trusted more to operate independently.
“Good luck, Barret. And keep me posted. Compton out.”
Compton sat quietly staring at the main display. He needed time…time to get the fleet refueled and on its way. A dead enemy ship wasn’t going to stop that, but he still had an uncomfortable feeling. It wasn’t like he didn’t have things to worry about—unrest in the fleet, keeping the makeshift refinery running long enough to fuel all his ships, being discovered by the enemy. If First Imperium warships came pouring out of one of the warp gates while his fleet was spread out and refueling…he didn’t even want to think about.
Time, he thought. I just need some time. But my gut is telling me I’m not going to get it.
* * *
Compton was sitting at his desk. He was doing work of moderate importance, but he was mostly just keeping himself busy. He’d needed some quiet, some solitude—a short break from the flag bridge. It was the way his people kept looking at him. He’d noticed it since the escape from X2, and it had only been getting worse. He understood. They were lost, scared—and they looked to him for strength. And he was there to provide it. But after a while, it began to have a vampiric effect. The pressure to maintain a calm and assured persona every moment, to hide his own doubts and concerns, was exhausting. The cost of being a source of strength for everyone else was to have no support for yourself, no one to look to, no one even to listen as you put voice to your own fears.
He knew he should try to grab a few hours of sleep. He was exhausted, but that didn’t seem to matter. Every time he tried to take a nap his mind was flooded with thoughts, concerns…anything but peaceful slumber. He looked over toward the hatch leading to his bedroom, but he just shook his head. He reached out to the side of the desk, picking up one of half a dozen small white pills laying there and popping it into his mouth, swallowing it without water.
How long do you thing you can keep yourself going on stims? As long as I have to, his thoughts answered themselves. You need to get some sleep. If you’re not sharp, people die. But he just shook his head. Later, he thought. Later.
He opened the side drawer and reached inside, pulling out the small image viewer. Part of him wished Elizabeth had been with his fleet instead of Garret’s, that she was with him. She’d served at his side for years, and had only recently transferred out to accept a flag command. Her promotion was so long-delayed, he thought. A few more months and we wouldn’t have been separated.
No. Wanting her here is selfish. She is back in human space, and there, the war is over. She can have a life, she can survive and find happiness one day. I would never wish her to be here, trapped with us in the endless dark…
Compton led his people with a grim determination and as much confidence and optimism as he could manage for public consumption. But he didn’t fool himself. He would do whatever he could to sustain the fleet, to keep his people alive. But they were moving into the heart of the First Imperium. He had no illusions about their chances of survival.
“The guard is ringing the bell, Admiral.” Joker had been with Compton for most of his career, and the AI had gone through three rounds of upgrades as its master rose through the command ranks. Alliance senior naval officers—and all Marines of commissioned rank—had personal AIs. The Marine units were designed to adjust their pseudo-personalities to complement those of their owners, a program that had worked quite well despite a considerable number of complaints from the ground-pounders about surly computer assistants.
The naval units were a little more constrained, conducting themselves with a formality the fleet considered more appropriate to its dignity. Though Compton had to admit, Joker had acquired a few odd quirks over the years, despite naval stodginess and more conservative behavior algorithms.
“What does he want?” Compton always had a Marine guard at his door. It was standard operating procedure for a commanding admiral, something he’d always thought a bit over the top. But with his proclamation that the fleet would not seek a way home, it occurred to him a little extra security wasn’t the worst idea. There was bound to be some bad feeling about it, and there was no point taking chances, even on his own flagship.
“Doctor Cutter and Doctor Zhukov are here to see you, sir.” The AI’s voice was calm, natural sounding. Its slight British accent had faded over the years, mirroring Compton’s own.
“Send him in.” He turned and put Elizabeth’s image back in the drawer. He hadn’t intended to see anyone for a few hours, but after witnessing Cutter’s amazing work with the First Imperium warbot, he was available to the brilliant scientist any time of the day or night.
The hatch slid open and the two scientists walked in. “I’m sorry to disturb you unannounced, Admiral. Thank you for seeing us.”
“I meant what I said, Hieronymus. Any time you need anything. Your work is beyond important. It is critical.”
“That is why I have come. It is about my work.” He glanced to the side at Zhukov. “Our work.”
“What can I do for you? If the fleet has it, it’s yours.”
“Well, sir,” Cutter said, his voice a bit tenuous. “What I need is not on the fleet.”
Compton’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at the scientist with an uncertain expression. “I’m sorry…I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“I have heard that an inoperative First Imperium vessel has been found in system X20,” the scientist said, unable to keep the excitement from his voice.
“Yes…though that information has not yet been released. It shouldn’t be working its way through the fleet.”
“It is not, Admiral,” Ana Zhukov said, a hint of guilt in her voice. “I’m embarrassed to say that several of your officers told me. They are very kind to me, and they make a fuss every time I wander into the wardroom or the officers’ lounge.” The Russian scientist was blushing as she spoke. Ana Zhukov was an extremely beautiful woman, one bound to get attention in any setting, but she often seemed almost unaware of her own appeal. She was a committed and brilliant scientist as well as an attractive woman, and if she was more socially adept than the reclusive Cutter, she was still far more at home in a lab than at a social gathering.
Compton almost laughed. “Well, I should discipline the officers involved, but I can’t say I don’t understand their efforts to impress you.”
The redness in Zhukov’s face deepened. “Please, Admiral…don’t punish anyone. They really were very nice. And I give you my word, Hieronymus and I have not told anyone.”
“No, certainly not,” Cutter added.
“I understand your interest in the enemy ship. We just spoke of higher level intelligences, and a few days later we find an entire ship—a Colossus, no less—orbiting a planet, apparently completely deactivated.” He looked up, first at Cutter than at Zhukov. “But we are still engaging in a thorough series of scans, trying to get a better idea what we are dealing with.”
“I believe that Ana and I can assist with that effort. I am probably more familiar with First Imperium system design than anyone else in the fleet. From what I have been told of the situation, that ship either suffered a catastrophic failure of its commanding intelligence, or its main and backup power supplies failed completely.”
“I agree those are the likeliest causes,” Compton said. “But we must be very cautious nevertheless. Apart from the concern that this is some kind of trap, that the “dead” enemy ship will power up and start fighting the instant enough of our ships are within its range, there are many concerns. Indeed, simply triggering some sort of unseen alarm—as occurred on Epsilon Eridani IV—could result in the total destruction of the fleet.”
“I understand, Admiral, but consider the potential. If we are able to affect a ship-command intelligence the way we have with Sigmund, it will be a major step forward in developing a weapon we can use against the enemy.”
“Hieronymus is right, Admiral,” Zhukov added. She sighed softly and looked up at Compton. “Think of the danger in moving too slowly. I understand that you must set an example to the fleet, to conduct yourself with confidence and assurance. But there are only the three of us here, and I suspect each of us knows that our chances of long term survival are extremely poor…unless we can learn to control these things. Or at least deter them from attacking us.”
Compton was silent for a few seconds, returning Zhukov’s stare. “You have a remarkable grasp of the practical for a scientist of your accomplishments, Ana.” He sighed hard and paused. “Okay, assuming I gave the go ahead, what would you want to do?”
“I’d want to go aboard the First Imperium ship, Admiral,” Cutter said bluntly. “As soon as possible.”
“You understand that it is not an ideal working environment? Our best estimate is that the temperature inside is roughly 80 degrees Kelvin, not exactly a day at the beach. You will require full survival suits, and that is not likely to improve your productivity trying to handle delicate equipment.”
“I understand, sir,” Cutter replied. “Conditions are not ideal, that is certainly true. But how and when are we going to get another opportunity to get inside one of the enemy’s first line vessels?”
Compton stood silently, his head nodding ever so slightly. “I am as anxious as you to see where this technology leads…but the very fact that this is such a huge jump in complexity only increases the danger.” He wanted to say yes…but the risk was so great.
Still, Cutter’s research may be our only hope long term. If I say no now, I may cut off his progress.
Cutter stared at Compton for a few seconds. “Admiral, I am not some overzealous scientist blind to all factors other than his research. And I cannot promise you we will be able to control the higher order intelligences that run that ship. Indeed, it would have been preferable to have an intermediate step, a ground combat command unit or something similar. But we must work with what we have, and Ana and I and our team have to find a way to make it work. We must succeed because there is no other choice. We simply do not have time to proceed slowly and methodically. If we are to survive we must make swift and sure progress. And this is the only way.”
Compton looked back. “But the risk. It’s just too great.”
“You have fought hopeless battles before, Admiral,” Ana said softly. “And you have won despite seemingly impossible odds. And Admiral Garret has too. Is this so different? Hieronymus and I fight on a different field, but we seek the same goal…to save the fleet. So ask yourself truly, do we really have a chance simply running? I think not, and I don’t believe you feel any differently. Even if we can refuel, and find food and replace spare parts and avoid dissension in the fleet, how can we hope to evade pursuit indefinitely? Your decision not to risk leading the enemy back to Earth means our course is away…and deeper into the First Imperium. Into the heart of the enemy. Is it not better to risk all now, to strive for something that might actually make a difference? Something that could one day allow us to defeat the enemy…or at least stop them from attacking us?”
Compton sighed. “I understand your words, Ana, and you are not wrong. Our chances of surviving indefinitely are very small. But are they greater if I allow you to do this? Death tomorrow is always preferable than death today. Each day the fleet survives is a chance that something might happen to change the situation. And even if your efforts are successful, we still face the need to develop a delivery system to truly deploy the system.”
Compton paused, looking back into Ana’s blue eyes. These are two of the smartest people in the fleet, he thought. And you saw what they accomplished so far. Do you trust to their genius? Do you stake 50,000 lives on the chance to completely change this war?
Finally, he sighed hard and said, “You realize how much trust you are asking me to place on your caution and your skill, don’t you Hieronymus? I applaud your work to date, and I whole-heartedly support your research…but if you do anything on that ship that reactivates it under First Imperium control, the results could be catastrophic.”
“I understand that, Admiral. I can promise you I will exert the utmost care…and I will take no actions to reactivate any system without your specific approval. But this is an unmatched opportunity to leap ahead on this project. I had not anticipated moving so quickly, but fortune has given us an opportunity, one I firmly believe we can exploit. Much of our recent work has been focused on trying to rebuild a damaged battlefield command unit using spare parts gleaned from other specimens. It has not been going well.” He looked up at Compton, an odd expression on his face. “I’m sure it is no surprise that our Marines don’t seem to leave much behind them in working order when they win a battle.”
“No,” Compton said with a very brief grin. “That is not surprising at all. But still…an enemy warship? One of their biggest? That is quite a leap from a battle bot, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would, sir. But it is also what we need. Back home, in a laboratory I would advocate moving slowly, cautiously. But our situation is hardly typical. We are trapped in enemy space, pursued…and you and I both know they will find us eventually. We must do something, whatever we can. And finding this ship is an extraordinary stroke of luck. At least let me go look around and do some research. Then I will report back, and you can decide if it is worth the risk to proceed.”
Compton turned and took a few steps across the room, staring down at the floor as he did. Finally, he turned around and stared directly at Cutter. “Okay, Hieronymus…I will bet on you. The two of you be ready to leave in two hours. You may assemble any personnel you require and requisition any supplies. If you are going to do this, take whatever you need to succeed. This is no time for half measures. I will authorize anything you request.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” Cutter said, a touch of surprise in his voice.
“Yes, Admiral, thank you,” Ana said, smiling. “We will not let you down.”
“See that you don’t,” he said softly. Because it’s not only me. I just put the lives of almost 50,000 of your fellow crews in your hands.”
Chapter Nine
Command Unit Gamma 9736
Everything was moving smoothly. The response from the Guardian Worlds was below expectations, perhaps, but nevertheless, ships were on the move. Fleets were gathering. Soon they would be sent on their mission. To destroy the humans.
There were fewer vessels than projected. Many of the worlds commanded by the Unit were silent, unresponsive…they had succumbed to the relentless decay of time. Still, the Unit commanded ample strength to eradicate the invaders. The humans had ceased their flight, driven by the need to produce fuel for their ship’s reactors. They were primitive, a fugitive fleet far from their bases and industrial centers. It would take time for them to refuel. Enough time for the attack force to arrive…and obliterate them.
The Regent’s command had been clear, and the Unit was compelled to obey. But its own computations were flawed. It did not perceive the same threat the Regent saw. The humans were weak, their technology crude. It seemed unlikely they could threaten the imperium. The Unit had not reached the same conclusion as the Regent. Its algorithms told it the Old Ones would have attempted to communicate with the humans, that they would have put great effort into avoiding war. But the Regent was infallible. Therefore, the error had to be within the Unit’s own processing routines. It would conduct a full systems check, find the malfunction. Until that was complete it would follow the Regent’s orders. That was the primary directive.
It would destroy the humans as ordered. But there was no satisfaction in such a pursuit. Indeed, the Unit felt somehow…wrong.
AS Midway
System X18
Orbiting Planet IV
The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,909 crew
“Are your people ready, Colonel?” Compton stood in the bay, looking out at a sea of Marines climbing into the powered armor units hung neatly on racks along the walls. On the far side of the bay a small detachment, already fully armored, was marching toward the first row of assault shuttles. They were the vanguard, a hand-picked team, and they would be the first humans to set foot on a major First Imperium world.
Men had explored Epsilon Eridani IV, but that planet was little more than a massive antimatter production facility. And Sigma-4 had been a small outpost with a military base attached. But X18 IV was dotted with the ruins of massive cites. Millions had once lived there…indeed, billions.
The landing craft were lined up on a track, stretching back from the closed bay doors. Each one held a full platoon. The insides were spare and crowded, but dropping in one of the small armored ships was still a hell of a lot more comfortable than going down in the Gordon landers the Marines would have used in an opposed assault.
Compton had assembled a large research team to land on planet four and explore the First Imperium ruins. There was time while the fleet was slowly refueled, and it was a learning opportunity he couldn’t pass up. If his people were to survive they had to understand their enemy as well as they could. He’d ordered Colonel Preston to land a large force of his Marines to assist the researchers and to and provide security. The scanners had detected no activity, no artificially generated power at all, but Compton wasn’t going to take any chances.
The whole landing was an unnecessary risk, at least considered from a purely military perspective. Still, he figured anything they could learn about their enemy was useful, and passing up the chance to get the first close look at what had been a major world of the First Imperium would be a waste he couldn’t condone.
“We will be ready for launch at 0900, precisely as you commanded, sir.” James Preston had been about to climb into his own armor when Compton walked into the bay. The colonel stood at perfect attention before the fleet admiral, ignoring the fact that he was completely naked.
“Very well, Colonel. Don’t let me interfere. I see you were about to suit up.”
“Yes, sir,” Preston responded.
“I just wanted to let you know I’ll be coming down myself. Midway is well back in the refueling queue, and it appears that I have some time available. And if we are going to successfully navigate our way through First Imperium space, the more we can learn about them—the more I can learn—the better chance I have to make the correct choices.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Preston’s response was sharp and immediate. But despite the Marine officer’s iron discipline, Compton could see the idea horrified him. “I will organize a bodyguard company to accompany you, sir.”
“You will do no such thing. I can’t stay down there long, and I want to see as much as possible in the time I have. And I won’t be able to do that with a hundred Marines crowding everywhere I step.” He paused then continued, “Two guards will suffice, Colonel.”
Preston looked like he was going to argue, but Compton cut him off. “I appreciate your concern, Colonel, but as I said, two guards will be perfectly satisfactory.” His tone was still pleasant, but it also communicated that the debate about bodyguards was over.
“Very well, sir.”
Compton could see the veteran Marine wasn’t happy, but he also knew the stubborn leatherneck would obey his orders to the letter. “I will go down in one of the shuttles with the research team.”
Preston looked uncomfortable, but he didn’t say anything. He just stared forward, averting Compton’s gaze.
“What is it, Colonel?”
“Nothing sir. As you command.”
“Okay, Colonel Preston. Spill it.”
“Well, sir, I’d really feel better if you landed with us. Our shuttles are better protected…and I could requisition you one of the modular armor units. It might be a little harder to maneuver in than a custom-fitted suit, but at least you’d have some protection between you and something unexpected. I’d really be a lot happier with you in armor than a survival suit.”
Compton paused for a few seconds then he nodded grudgingly. He thought it was overkill, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to take some precautions. Besides, going down with the Marines would give him a chance to let them know how much he appreciated them. The ground pounders always got restless when they were cooped up on ships for too long. Indeed, that was another reason he was landing so many of Preston’s people. Compton didn’t expect a battle down on the planet, but at least his Marines would get to stretch their legs a bit.
“Very well, Colonel. I would be honored to land with your Marines. If you’d be kind enough to direct me to a suit of armor, I will get ready.”
“Right this way, Admiral,” Preston said, reaching toward his shelf and grabbing his trousers. “We’ll get you all set up and ready to go.”
Compton follow the Marine, impressed by the physical dexterity that allowed Preston to somehow hop into his pants without losing a step. The admiral had been in armor before, then as now to satisfy his overly protective Marines, though at least the previous time he had landed on an actual battlefield.
He wondered if the Marines even remembered how uncomfortable powered armor was for those less used to it than they. Compton recalled feeling claustrophobic, but he had to admit that, once the reactor kicked in, moving around in the suit had been less difficult than he’d expected.
“Here we are, sir.” Preston stopped and gestured toward a suit of armor hanging on a wall rack. To Compton’s eyes it looked the same as the others, but he knew it wasn’t. It was more of a “one size fits all” type of thing, intended for situations just like this one. He doubted he would be able to tell the difference, but he knew a veteran Marine wore his suit like an extension of himself.
“Sergeant,” Preston yelled to a non-com wearing a set of maintenance coveralls.
The Marine turned and rushed over, snapping to attention. “Sir!”
“The admiral is landing with us, Sergeant. Help him into his armor, and run a full diagnostic check on the suit.”
“Yes, sir.” The Marine turned and looked nervously at Compton. Addressing fleet admirals was above his pay grade. “If you will give me just a minute, Admiral, I will prep the suit for you.”
Compton nodded. “That will be fine, Sergeant.” He turned back toward Preston. “I think I’ll be alright in the sergeant’s hands, Colonel. You can go suit up and see to your operation.”
“Very well, sir.” Preston saluted. “I will have you assigned to my shuttle. We’re about midway through the launch schedule, so that’s about 0920.” The Marine stood stone still at attention for another few seconds, and he turned and walked swiftly back across the bay.
* * *
Compton stood still, his eyes fixed in awe on the city stretching out in front of him. It was a ruin, old beyond understanding, broken bits of ancient structures protruding through the encroaching sands. He had seen the remnants of Earth cities before, those built by the Greeks and Romans and other early civilizations. There was a vague familiarity, but that was a false comparison. The oldest city ruins on Earth were less than ten thousand years old. These structures were fifty times older…and yet many of the surfaces glinted in the sun, still bright after half a million years of storms and tectonic activity and relentless sunlight.
It was hard to tell from the ruins what the city had looked like, but Compton imagined a cluster of towers, gold and silver and metallic blue, rising kilometers into the bright sky. He felt almost as though the silent ruins were speaking to him, ghostly images appearing in his mind of a day when this metropolis had been home to millions. All of those soaring buildings had fallen ages ago, but somehow he felt he knew how they had appeared so long before, when the mysterious race that built them still dwelled there.
There were lines of debris reaching out from the city, the remains of some sort of train or monorail systems, he guessed. They led through the wilderness, and connected this metropolis to the other ruins that dotted the planet’s surface.
He stumbled forward, still adapting to the strength magnification of the fighting suit. The logistics sergeant had put it on the lowest setting, far below what the Marines used, but Compton had still almost knocked himself over half a dozen times.
He could see his two Marine escorts in his peripheral vision. They stepped forward the instant he did, maintaining their positions on each side of him. They looked a hell of a lot surer on their feet than he did.
Which isn’t saying much.
Compton walked forward, his gait growing steadier as he slowly acclimated to the armor. The city loomed up before him. The ancient wreckage had a sort of majesty to it, and he found it almost hypnotic. He felt as if he could hear the ancient voices, see the great towers as they must have looked in their heyday so many millennia before. He wondered if the First Imperium been a voluntary unification of the ancient race, if these extraordinary people had avoided the constant intra-species warfare that had so plagued human history.
Or were these just the winners? Did these buildings house the victors of an ages-long struggle, much like that fought by Earth’s powers? Were their former enemies dead? Enslaved?
Terrance Compton has been a spacer his entire adult life, a warrior, an officer commanding his people through one battle after another. But now he found himself wishing he could stay on this planet. He felt the longing to study these ruins, to uncover the secrets of the First Imperium. He knew it wasn’t possible, but he was glad he’d come to the surface, at least. It would have been a tragedy to pass through and not see this with his own eyes. He found himself wishing he could share this moment, that Elizabeth could see it all…and Augustus and so many others now lost to him.
He kept moving forward toward the city, his guards following in lockstep. Now he could see small sections of some smooth material on the ground, surrounded by the debris from fallen buildings and partially covered by millennia of dust. It looked like small sections of road surface or walkway, though the material was like nothing Compton had ever seen before. He wondered what kind of substance could survive—and maintain much of its old color and glossiness—after so much time. He remembered the dark matter infused hulls of the enemy warships, and again he was reminded just how superior the First Imperium’s science was to humanity’s.
Nothing built by man could last as long, nor even a fraction of the endless ages this city has lain here, silent and dead.
He took another dozen steps toward the ruins. He felt the city calling to him, his curiosity overcoming all, and he continued onward, his pace increasing as he began to feel more comfortable in his armor.
“Admiral Compton,” he heard blaring through his helmet com. It was Colonel Preston, and he sounded nervous. Compton saw a figure moving quickly toward him. He wasn’t as adept as the Marines in identifying any markings on armor—everyone looked alike to him. But he knew at once it was Preston heading his way.
“Yes, Colonel, what can I do for you?”
“Sir, we have not done a sweep through the city yet. I must request that you stay back until we can determine if there are any active threats.”
Compton wondered if Preston had been keeping an eye on him the whole time or if one of his babysitters had ratted him out. But he just smiled. He couldn’t fault the Marines for trying to protect him. It was their job, after all. “Very well,” Colonel,” he replied, a little more sharply than he’d intended. He couldn’t stay on the surface long, and he felt a rush of impatience at the delay. He wanted to see what he could see before he returned to Midway and the fleet. But he knew Preston was right. He had no idea what was waiting in those ruins.
Chapter Ten
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
Most of my hours are filled, consumed with work, with worry, with laying plans for the uncertain future. Yet still I find myself sitting quietly, alone in my quarters, while thoughts of the First Imperium drift through my mind. I am becoming more and more fascinated with this ancient and extinct race, and I cannot shake off the recurring feeling that if they had still been here, controlling their creations, we would not be at war.
I have no reason to believe this, nothing based in fact or even rational supposition. For all I know, the beings that inhabited this space so long ago were violent and xenophobic, and their machines that remained behind are simply continuing to carry out their will. Still, as we move deeper into this space where those mighty ancients once dwelt, I am beset with strange feelings, ghostly haunted voices speaking to me in the night. It is my imagination, I am sure. Yet it seems so real, so profound. I have come to believe they were not so different from us, and it is only through some tragic miscalculation by their robotic servants that this terrible war occurred.
That is a bleak thought, millions dead over a mistake, perhaps even simply the malfunction of a machine. Yet there is hope there too, slim though it may be. For mistakes can be corrected. Is it possible? Could there be a future where mankind and the First Imperium are not enemies? Where we can instead learn from these wondrous beings and the legacy they left behind?
RIS Petersburg
System X18
Near Planet X18 V
The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,844 crew
“I want this kept quiet, Anton…very quiet. Captain Harmon has become quite popular with the crew, and if word gets out it will spread. Indeed, we cannot even be sure Admiral Compton doesn’t have another spy onboard Petersburg. I cannot overstate how important it is that the admiral not hear of this until we have made our move.”
“I understand, Admiral. There will only be three of us, and I have handpicked the two others. I can vouch for their reliability. They will say nothing.”
Udinov nodded his head. “Very good.” He paused then continued, “And remember, Anton…I do not want Captain Harmon killed or seriously injured. We are leaving the fleet only to seek a path home, and I am not looking to provoke a fight by murdering Admiral Compton’s top aide.”
“We will exert appropriate care, Admiral. I can assure you, Captain Harmon will be taken alive. And I have prepared a cell in the restricted area below engineering, generally only accessed when the ship is under maintenance. The locks have been reprogrammed to allow entry only to you, Captain Rostov, and myself. We can keep the captain there indefinitely without raising undue suspicion.”
“Very well,” Udinov said. “Though I am afraid his disappearance itself will cause considerable suspicion. Still, that can’t be helped…and hopefully we will not have to hold him for long. The tension in Udinov’s voice was evident, despite his best efforts to hide it.
“The good captain may not have a particularly comfortable captivity, but he will be unharmed. And we will release him before we leave the system.” The Russian admiral had made his decision, though he still wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. But there was no other option. He couldn’t allow his people to be stripped of whatever chance they had of returning home one day. He hated the plan—it felt disloyal. But his obligation to his crews took precedence. He’d follow through with what he had to do, but he was damned sure going to make the whole thing as bloodless as possible. And I will keep an eye on Zhang. He was certain the CAC admiral was far less concerned with avoiding unnecessary violence, and he had no intention of letting himself get drawn into Zhang’s vendetta against Compton.
“Do not worry, Admiral. I will see it done as you order.” Loyalty to Udinov had been practically bred into Anton Stanovich and reinforced since birth. He took every word from the admiral’s mouth as a commandment.
“I know you will, Anton.” Udinov took a deep breath and nodded to his retainer. “Now go…it is time.”
Stanovich nodded solemnly, and he turned and walked down the corridor. Udinov watched for a few seconds, until his aide disappeared around a corner. Then he touched the com unit on his collar. “Sergei?”
Captain Rostov’s voice crackled through his earpiece. “Yes, Admiral?”
“Any status updates?”
“Yes, sir,” Rostov replied. “Admiral Peltier’s ships have been refueled, as well as most of the Caliphate contingent. However we remain second to last in the queue…at least another two days at the current rate of operations.”
I’m afraid we just can’t wait that long…
“Have we received an update from Admiral Zhang?”
“Negative, sir.”
“And Admiral Compton?” Udinov asked.
“We believe he is still on the surface of planet four, sir. Our best estimate is he led roughly half the Alliance Marines down yesterday, and he has not yet returned.”
Udinov smiled. “Excellent,” he said softly. He’d planned the operation as meticulously as he could, but having Compton off Midway’s flag bridge, wandering around some ancient First Imperium city was a stroke of luck he couldn’t have imagined. By the time the admiral managed to get back to his ship and take charge, Udinov would have his people buttoned up in the tanks and accelerating out of the system. He didn’t know what Compton would do in response, but as long as he had enough of a head start he really didn’t care.
“Lord Samar also reports ready to go, sir. His vessels are refueled, and he awaits your word.”
“Very well, Captain…prepare to execute Project Potemkin on schedule.”
* * *
“Admiral Chen…I am sorry to disturb you, sir, but it’s urgent.”
Chen was lying on the sofa in his quarters. He hadn’t been asleep, but he’d been resting with his eyes closed, trying to relax.
“Enter,” he said, sitting up and swinging his legs off the seat as he did.
“Good afternoon, Admiral.” Ming Li stopped about halfway across the room and stood at rigid attention. “Thank you for seeing me with no notice.”
“Of course, Li. What is it? Has something happened?” Commander Ming had been on Chen’s staff since just after the battles along the Line. The desperate struggles to halt the First Imperium invasion had been successful, but at a horrendous cost. The almost endless casualty lists had included over half of Admiral Chen’s staff, killed when his flagship had been devastated in the final stages of the fight.
“Yes, sir…I’m afraid I have some unsettling news. I do not have any proof, but I am sure my information is correct.”
Chen gestured for the aide to move closer. “Come, Li…sit.” The admiral waved his hand toward the chair next to him. “Don’t worry about proof. Just tell me what you suspect.”
“Thank you, sir.” Ming’s voice was edged with tension. Part of it was by design, an attempt to add authenticity to what he was about to say. Still, enough of it was real. Ming had signed on to Zhang’s plan, but that didn’t mean it was an easy thing. He was committed, but he was still struggling with some doubt—and more than a little guilt. His fear—and his desire to return home—had made his choice, but betraying Admiral Chen was still something he found difficult to do. And his part of the plan was the most direct, the most brutally real.
He walked the rest of the way across the room and sat down, turning his face toward the admiral. He found it difficult to sustain eye contact with his superior. Chen was an honorable officer, and Ming had been quite satisfied serving on his staff. His loyalty to the admiral had been strong…but not strong enough to consign himself to spending the rest of his life in deep space, endlessly pursued by the First Imperium, without hope of ever returning home.
When Zhang had approached him, he’d been appalled at first, but then he realized the rebellious admiral was right. Chen had sworn his loyalty to Admiral Compton, and anyone who knew him as well as Ming did realized he would never break that oath. Allowing Chen to stay in command meant none of the CAC personnel would ever have even a chance of seeing home again. And there was only one way to remove the veteran admiral from command…
“What is it, Li?” Chen said. “You seem upset.”
“I believe there is a plot in the fleet, sir. Or at least in our contingent.” He paused, slipping his hand casually into one of the small pockets on his uniform trousers.
“A plot? What kind of plot? And who is behind it?”
“There is a plan for several vessels to leave the fleet, to flee through the warp gate and seek to find a way back home. And I believe Admiral Zhang is behind it, sir.” It felt odd telling Chen the truth instead of a concocted story, but nothing else would have been as believable. Besides, what Chen knows will only matter for another few seconds.
“Are you sure of this?” Chen sounded doubtful, but Ming could see the concern in the admiral’s expression.
“Yes, sir.” Ming struggled to keep his voice firm as his hand grasped the small device in his pocket. “They attempted to recruit me.”
“Recruit you?” Chen looked confused. “Why would they want to suborn you? You are assigned to my staff on Tang.” The admiral’s face hardened. “Is there a plot even on the flagship? Under my very nose?”
Ming inhaled deeply. “Yes, Admiral,” he said, as he pulled the cylinder from his pocket. “I’m afraid there is.” He pointed the small tube at Chen and pressed the button. It fired a small dart, striking the side of the admiral’s neck. It was tiny, almost invisible from a few feet away. But it was deadly all the same.
Chen stared back at his aide, his eyes wide with shock and horror. “Why…” he stammered, struggling for air as he slipped from the sofa, falling to his knees for a few seconds before he collapsed to the floor.
Ming sat still, staring down at Chen Min’s body. He started shaking, and he felt sick, like he was going to vomit any second. He felt a wave of regret, of guilt for what he had just done. Chen had been nothing but supportive of him. But he knew if he had it all to do over he wouldn’t change his action. He respected the admiral, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life—however short a time that might be—lost in the depths of enemy space. And the only way to get home, to try to get home at least, was to take Chen and his sense of honor out of the equation.
He breathed deeply, slowly, trying to center himself, to regain enough calm to finish. He knew the longer he stayed, the greater the chance he had of being caught. The poison would be almost impossible to detect, and its effects simulated heart failure. But if he was caught in the admiral’s quarters, he was as good as dead.
He stood up and leaned down over Chen’s body, reaching under the admiral’s arms. He pulled up, muscling the corpse back onto the sofa. When it was discovered, the ship’s doctor would find nothing. No ordinary tox scan would identify the poison. The cause of death would be a mystery, most likely ruled heart failure resulting from some previously undetected weakness. A more in-depth analysis might suggest foul play, but before then Zhang would be in command of the task force…and he would have had ample time to get reliable people in crucial positions.
Ming took one last look at Chen’s body, and a wave of panic almost took him. Then he took a deep breath and fought it off, turning slowly to walk back toward the door.
* * *
“Let’s go. You all have your orders, and there is no time to waste.” Major Ang Wu watched as his armed and armored shock troops poured out of the shuttle. He was nervous, more than he usually was before a mission. He’d fought in a dozen battles, and he had advanced as high up the ranks a man with no political sponsorship could go. His soldiers were the elite of the CAC ground forces, but this was a very different mission than those they had undertaken before, one taking place on over a dozen ships at once.
They were moving to secure control of the fleet’s vessels until Admiral Chen’s death was investigated and his successor took command. Or at least that’s what they thought…all of them except Ang himself. The major knew what was actually happening. He was part of the cabal that had assassinated Chen, and he already knew the admiral’s death would be ruled as heart failure. His soldiers were there as an insurance policy, to provide security in the event Admiral Zhang ran into any problems when he took command and broke with Admiral Compton.
He swallowed hard, trying to force away the acidy feeling in his throat. For the first time in his career, Ang felt confusion about his mission. He’d fought human enemies, and the deadly robot warriors of the First Imperium, but this was something entirely different. In a few minutes, he and his soldiers would become part of a coup, a power struggle within the CAC contingent of the fleet. If they moved quickly and decisively enough, they might score a fait accompli, discouraging anyone from attempting to resist Zhang’s disengagement order. But if there was fighting, they had no illusions about what that meant. They would be killing their own people.
Ang suspected his younger self would be appalled by his actions, about being part of something like this. He had been an idealistic young soldier once, with a strong sense of honor and a rigid code of conduct. That was before his wife and unborn son had died in childbirth, a tragedy that had been entirely preventable with the right care. But medical service in the CAC was strictly rationed, and Ang’s wife had needed a higher medical rating than that she’d had as a young sergeant’s spouse.
Ang had been devastated and, ironically, the loss propelled him into the officers’ ranks. He’d been lost, broken, seeking death on the battlefield when he led eighteen soldiers on a desperate charge…a hopeless assault that somehow succeeded. He and the four survivors from his team occupied a key hill, and the positioning of heavy ordnance on that vantage point turned the fighting on Gliese 878 II from a stalemate to a glorious victory—and earned the heartsick sergeant a battlefield commission. He’d risen quickly through the ranks as the years of the Third Frontier War ticked by, but he’d been a major for ten years now—and he knew that was as high as he would go. At least without a patron of considerable influence…like Admiral Zhang.
Ang had lost his idealism, and his loyalty to the CAC leadership as well, the day his wife and baby died, and now he’d accepted Zhang’s offer of support—and the promise of a pair of general’s stars—in return for deploying his soldiers to the vessels the rebellious admiral did not already control. He had trusted junior officers in command of the other detachments, but he’d elected to lead the team on the flagship himself.
He moved down the corridor, following his lead units toward the central lift. Most CAC ships had a symmetrical design, with a central access point leading to all levels. It was an efficient layout, but it had the unintended effect of making things easier for boarders seeking to seize control. That hadn’t been much of a problem since such actions were extremely rare in space combat. But rare doesn’t mean never, Ang thought, as he looked ahead and saw the first of his troops climbing up one of the access ladders surrounding the main lift column.
He was listening to reports coming in from his teams as they spread out throughout Tang, monitoring the operation closely. The flagship had a crew of almost 900, of whom perhaps twenty were part of the conspiracy. His troops were armed with stun guns, and they had firm orders to avoid any kind of force unless it was absolutely necessary. They weren’t here as invaders, at least not for public consumption. As far as anyone outside the inner circle knew, Admiral Chen had died, and Zhang had ordered the ships of the task force locked down until a cause of death had been established. Ang was the only one of his men who knew the cause of Chen’s death had been assassination, arranged by Zhang to facilitate the takeover.
He glanced down at his chronometer. Zhang’s shuttle would land in another twenty minutes. And less than two hours after that, the vessels of the CAC contingent—along with the Caliphate, Europan, and RIC task forces—would make their move.
* * *
Max Harmon was exhausted. Between inspecting supposed issues with Petersburg’s ammunition supply and trying to hang around the officers gleaning what information he could, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten more than a couple hours of sleep. And trying to keep up with the way Petersburg’s officers drank wasn’t helping. Harmon wasn’t averse to wine with dinner or the occasional scotch or brandy, but guzzling rough homebrew vodka like it was water was wearing him down even more than the fatigue. Still, he’d had no choice. He wanted to fit in, make them relax—and the only way he knew to do that was to act as they did. To become one of them.
For all the effort, though, he’d gotten surprisingly little from his new acquaintances. There had been a moderate amount of grousing about Compton’s decree that the fleet would not try to return home, but otherwise, the conversation had been an innocuous combination of slightly exaggerated battle tales and stories of epic shore leaves—usually involving even greater consumption of, admittedly superior, vodka.
Still, Harmon hadn’t given up. Now he was looking in another direction. He’d been finished with his inspections and looking for a reason to stay and continue to snoop around a bit. Before he’d been able to make up an excuse, Captain Rostov had asked him to remain for a few extra days, saving him the trouble. The stated purpose had been the discovery of a defect in one of Petersburg’s primary missile designs that compromised the usability of half the ship’s firepower.
It had seemed plausible at first, but as time passed, and ever more coincidental discoveries extended his job on the RIC flagship, Harmon began to suspect he was being deliberately kept on Petersburg. That could mean only one thing. Udinov knew he was spying for Compton…or at least he suspected. And that meant he wasn’t going to get any more information. There was clearly something going on, and Harmon knew he had only one course of action. He had to alert Admiral Compton immediately…and then he had to get the hell off Petersburg. He’d go down to his shuttle and ready it for launch. Then he would say there was an emergency on Midway or that Compton had ordered him to address another problem elsewhere in the fleet. Anything. But he suspected if he gave Rostov any significant warning of his departure, he’d never be allowed to leave the ship.
He turned the corner, heading toward the bay. He was abandoning everything behind in his quarters. There was no point in alerting anyone he was leaving the ship. Suddenly he stopped. For an instant, though he hadn’t yet heard or seen anything, he felt a rush of adrenalin. Perhaps it was intuition, but he knew something was wrong. Then, a second or two later, three RIC spacers came around the corner.
“Max,” Anton Stanovich said, his voice friendly, relaxed. “How are you today? You look tired, my friend.”
There was nothing in the Russian officer’s voice that suggested anything but a chance meeting, but Harmon noticed that the two spacers with Stanovich were still moving forward.
“I am tired, Anton. In fact, I was planning to go to my quarters and rest for a while.”
“Indeed,” the Russian replied. “It appears you are lost. Your quarters are on deck four. What are you doing all the way down here?”
“I am coming from the magazine,” Harmon replied, trying not to be obvious as he kept an eye on the two spacers. Something is definitely going on, he thought. I have to make a break for it.
“Then you are going the wrong way.” Stanovich nodded slightly, and the two spacers closed around Harmon. “Come, we will escort you.”
“Thank you, Anton, but that won’t be necessary. I’m just very tired.” He turned to walk back the way he had come, but the spacers moved into his way.
“I’m afraid I must insist, my friend. We will take good care of you.”
Harmon saw the two men begin to close on him, and he swung to the side, launching a hard roundhouse kick as he did. One of the spacers fell to the floor with a shout as Harmon’s kick took him in the gut. The Alliance officer took off at a run, trying to get around the corner. But it was too far, and his opponents were ready.
He felt a jolt tear through his body. There was pain. And disorientation. His legs buckled, and he fell forward, landing on his hands and knees. A stun gun. He struggled to stay conscious, to drive the cloudiness from his thoughts and to push his stricken body to keep up the fight. He gritted his teeth and lunged forward, half-crawling, half-walking for a few more steps.
“Please, Max.” Stanovich’s voice seemed quiet, far away. “Do not resist. We do not wish to harm you. But we must keep you with us for a few more hours.”
Harmon wanted to give up, to let his aching body collapse, to cease his hopeless attempts at escape. But that wasn’t in his blood. His mother was an Alliance admiral, known throughout the fleet as one of the toughest and grittiest to ever hold command rank. And his father had been a decorated Marine officer, killed in the terrible battle on Tau Ceti III. Surrender was unnatural to him, unthinkable. He staggered up to his feet, his blurry vision targeted on the corner just ahead.
He was almost there…and then an instant later he was face down, his nerves alive with the pain of a second blast from the stun gun. He tried to ignore it, to get back to his feet, but his body didn’t respond. He lay there, paralyzed, barely able to remain conscious.
He was vaguely aware of the shadows looming over him. There was a voice, hushed, distant.
“I truly am sorry, Max, but as I said, we must detain you. No harm will come to you, and we will release you soon. You have my word.”
Harmon’s mind screamed with a primal ‘no,’ but there was nothing he could do. Regardless of his indomitable spirit, the martial relentlessness bred into him, his body was still only human. Few people could get back to their feet after a blast from a stun gun, but none could endure two shots and still function.
He felt himself fading, and the darkness took him.
Chapter Eleven
Research Notes of Dr. Hieronymus Cutter
We are approaching the First Imperium vessel, and I find myself quite nervous…scared even. Ana and I have updated our algorithms, and to the best of our current state of knowledge about the enemy, they should have the same effect on the vastly more sophisticated intelligences we expect to find in the ship. But there is no way to know for sure, not until we have examined them. Even then, there is a limit to what we can ascertain from a non-functioning unit. Eventually, we are going to have to take the risk of activating the intelligence, assuming we are even capable of doing so.
I may have understated the risk of such an action when I spoke with Admiral Compton. It wasn’t my intention to mislead him, at least not consciously. But I must admit, at least to myself, that there is some risk of rebooting the intelligence and having the virus fail to establish control. These higher orders systems may have safeguards and protections I have not anticipated. In that case, we may actually activate the vessel, only to have it move to attack the fleet. Or it may simply remain where it is. This particular ship appears to have been deactivated for far longer than the First Imperium’s conflict with humanity has existed. It may not operate under whatever orders have been issued to the imperium’s forces. In that case, it may take no action at all. Or it may seek to destroy those of us who have come aboard. Indeed, that is a highly likely scenario, as we will appear to be an invading force, threatening the vessel from within.
Nevertheless, despite the risks, I believe we have no other choice. Even with Admiral Compton’s unquestioned skills, we face an almost impossible task to survive in our current situation. We cannot even begin to guess at the enemy’s total strength, and we have no data at all on the size of their domains. It appears we are passing through core regions of the imperium itself now, as most of the inhabitable worlds in the last few systems have had extensive ruins. Is it possible to reach the other side? To find an area of space beyond the First Imperium’s borders? Perhaps. But it would take forty or fifty jumps to cross human-occupied space, and we can only imagine that the domains of this ancient empire are far, far vaster. And we face an unending series of challenges—fuel, food, equipment, weapons.
As a scientist, I am troubled at the prospect of putting my research to the test so prematurely. But as a member of this fleet, my fate—and that of all the others—depends almost entirely on making this technology work. If we cannot find a way to meaningfully interfere with the directives driving the imperium’s forces, we will die. It is that simple. And if we are not to succeed, dying now might be vastly more merciful a fate.
AS Saratoga
System X20
Approaching Planet Four
The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,842 crew
“Dr. Cutter, you might want to get your people ready. We’re beginning our final approach to the planet.” Admiral Dumont was standing next to his chair, looking at the Alliance scientist and his RIC cohort. “I want you to know, I understand the enormous importance—and the risk—of what you are doing, and I offer you my true respect and wish you the best of luck.”
“Thank you, Admiral. We are hopeful of success.” Cutter hoped he managed to sound convincing, but he rather doubted his ability to bullshit someone of Dumont’s age and accomplishments. He could see there was something troubling Dumont too. “What is it, Admiral?”
“I’m not going to lie to you, son.” His voice was soft, but it had great weight to it. “If it appears that you have reactivated the enemy vessel and cannot quickly verify that you have control over it, I am going to have to…” His voice trailed off. Even a veteran like Dumont had trouble facing some of his grimmer duties.
“You will have to attack and attempt to destroy the enemy ship. Before it can fully power up…with both of us, and our team, still aboard.” Cutter had no illusions about the danger of the mission. And he knew Dumont would have no choice. Whether or not his task force could strike quickly and hard enough to destroy the enemy vessel before it struck back was another matter, one Cutter rather doubted. He suspected Dumont doubted it too. But that didn’t mean the grizzled old admiral wouldn’t try like hell.
“Yes, Doctor. That is precisely what I will have to do. If we allow that thing to become fully operational, it could conceivably destroy every ship in the fleet.”
Cutter just nodded. “I understand, Admiral. And agree. Though I have done some force estimation comparing the length and tonnage of the Colossus class to smaller First Imperium warships. It is highly questionable whether your task force alone could prevail against the enemy even if they were less than fully prepared and operational. But I would expect that the entire fleet could destroy it, even if it was at full power. Losses would be enormous, likely more than 50%, but I do not believe one Colossus can defeat the entire fleet, not with Admiral Compton in command.”
“You have more of a grasp of naval warfare than I would have anticipated, Dr. Cutter.” Dumont sounded genuinely impressed and surprised…and that was an extremely rare occurrence.
The admiral paused for a few seconds and said, “Major Frasier’s Marines are already suiting up.” Compton had sent the Scots Company to provide security for Cutter and his team. The unit was one of the most elite in the Corps, all trained in Erik Cain’s special action tactics, and Connor Frasier had served directly under the legendary general. The unit was the successor to the one Connor’s father had commanded back on Epsilon Eridani IV in the last battle of the Third Frontier War. The Scots had gone into that bloody fight as a regiment, but they’d come out with barely enough to fill out an oversized company. And that is what they had been ever since.
“I guess it’s time,” Cutter said, his voice wavering a bit. His drive and scientific curiosity were wrestling with his fear. He’d been anxious to get aboard the enemy ship—at least until the boarding action was so imminent. Now he was fighting off a wave of panic, and getting a harsh reminder he was a scientist who’d spent his life in a lab and not a veteran Marine used to dropping into deadly danger.
“You will handle it, Doctor,” Dumont said softly. “You have achieved something amazing already, and you will find the strength to complete your mission. I am confident.” A lie, but a well-intentioned one.
Cutter looked up and saw the old admiral looking at him and nodding. He suspected he wasn’t the first—or the hundredth—Dumont had rallied before a decisive moment, but he appreciated it all the same. He could feel the respect from this fighting man, this warrior who had been in deadly danger dozens of times before Cutter’s father had been born.
“Thank you, Admiral,” he said, feeling his strength grow…and push away the blackness of his fear.
“Now go to your people,” Dumont said softly. “They are scientists too, not Marines. They will need you…and you will have to be strong for them.”
“I will, Admiral Dumont,” Cutter said, his voice firming with each word. “I will.”
* * *
“McCloud, take two squads and see what is on the other side of that door.” Conner Frasier was standing in a large compartment, dark and mostly empty. He wasn’t sure what it had been used for, and he hadn’t chosen it with any degree of tactical consideration. Knowing nothing about the interior layout of the enemy ship, he’d simply picked a spot on the hull for the entry point and directed his assault shuttles there.
Normally, the heavily armored attack craft would simply drive their combination ram/access tubes through the steel hull of the target vessel. But the First Imperium hulls were built from a dark matter infused alloy vastly stronger than plasti-steel or the osmium/iridium combination in his armor. He’d been obliged to wait while two Seal teams performed an EVA operation, affixing heavy plasma warheads to the hull and blasting holes in the enemy armor. There wasn’t any particular schedule to the operation, but he still felt like he was running behind.
“Yes, Major.” Duff McCloud snapped off a textbook acknowledgement. The big Scot was a combat veteran—almost a cliché of the veteran sergeant. He turned around, and Frasier knew his subordinate was relaying orders to the other men of his squads.
Frasier had organized his expanded company carefully, and he’d arranged the OB down to the placement of every Marine. McCloud was his toughest NCO, so he’d given him the head cases, eleven privates and corporals who were such good fighters, they’d remained in the Corps despite a list of discipline problems that would have gotten any other Marines shipped off to the stockade. Even a private who got into constant fights, who feared no enemy, who’d stayed in the fight in battles where he’d been wounded half a dozen times, was afraid of Duff McCloud. It was widely rumored in the Corps that the veteran sergeant could chew steel, though no one had ever actually seen it themselves.
All of Frasier’s Marines were crack veterans, and every one of them had come from the Alliance’s Scottish Highlands district. Most of the rural and suburban areas of the Alliance had long ago been cleared of their populations. The government found it easier to keep the Cogs in line in densely-populated urban areas, and it wasn’t of a mind to try and maintain order in thousands of scattered communities. But the highlands had experienced somewhat of a throwback to earlier days during the years preceding the Alliance’s formation, as thousands of Scots moved into the remote areas and rebelled against an increasingly totalitarian UK government.
After the UK was absorbed into the Alliance, there were three punitive expeditions sent to the region, all bloody failures. Finally, the exasperated government reached an agreement with the local leaders. The highlands region would be recognized as a partially self-governing province of the Alliance, the only one of its kind. In return, the highlanders would provide recruits to maintain a regiment within the newly formed Alliance Marine Corps. That regiment had served with valor and distinction for almost a century—until the final battle on Epsilon Eridani IV—Carson’s World. The Scots had covered themselves in glory there…and blood as well. The regiment was almost destroyed in the bitter fighting, and only a tiny cadre remained when victory finally ended the Third Frontier War.
Connor’s father Angus had led the Scots to Epsilon Eridani IV, and now his son commanded the remnants of that storied formation, a double-strength company instead of a regiment, but also one of the most storied formation in the Corps.
“We’re moving down the corridor, sir.” McCloud’s voice blasted through Frasier’s com, shaking him out of daydreams of his father and the fighting on Carson’s World. “No sign of any activity. No energy readouts except the same one from deep inside the ship. Everything else is dead.”
“Very well, Sergeant. Continue…and search every compartment you pass.”
“Yes, sir. McCloud out.”
Frasier turned and took another look around the room. He’d done everything he could to check for threats, and he’d found nothing. There was no point in delaying any further. This was as good a place as any to bring the research team onboard.
“Dr. Cutter…Major Frasier here. You can start bringing your people through.”
* * *
“Any idea where we are?” Zhukov asked, turning slowly and lighting the dark space with her forehead lamp. “I mean with respect to a likely location for the command AI?”
Connor Frasier had gotten them onboard the enemy Colossus, and his people had set up a perimeter, ready to advance in front of the research party whenever they decided where they wanted to go. But the Marines had no idea where anything was in the enemy warship, and Cutter had to admit to himself he didn’t have much better an idea.
“I’m afraid not, Ana.” Cutter was looking around himself, the long thin shaft of light from his forehead moving around, over the floor, the walls. “I’d say the first step is figuring out where we are. This ship is immense. If we don’t manage to narrow down where to look, I suspect we could wander the corridors for weeks.”
He turned back toward the small cluster of support personnel standing behind him. “Let’s get some light in here. If there’s anything live on this ship that can detect us, I think blasting through the hull already did more harm than some lamps will do.”
Three of the shadowy figures moved forward. They were carrying large plastic cylinders, and they placed them around the room, flipping a switch on each as they did. The portable lamps shone brightly, bathing the entire room in soft light.
“Alright everybody,” Cutter said into the group com. “Spread out. We need to know what this room is so we can start to get some idea where to go next.”
He turned and walked toward one of the walls. They were built from a material he’d never seen before, some type of metal alloy with a slightly blue cast to it. They were smooth, almost shiny, despite their vast age. He turned and stared out across the entire compartment. It was large, perhaps thirty meters by twenty, and the ceiling soared ten meters above the floor.
“If this was a human ship, I’d swear this looks like some kind of gym or athletic facility.” Ana had wandered a few meters away, but her voice was crisp and clear on the com. “Like a place to play some kind of sport.”
Cutter looked around the edges of the room. There were rows of small ledges. Seats. Ana is right. But what do robot ships need with athletic facilities?
“This door leads deeper into the vessel, Hieronymus,” Ana said softly, gesturing toward a hatch on one of the walls. “The artificial intelligence core will be in a protected area. That means deep inside.”
“I agree.” He walked toward the open hatch. The Marines had already gone through, scouting forward to clear a path. Cutter flipped the com channel to the Marine command line. “Major Frasier, we’re going to move through this hatch and head deeper into the ship.”
“Very well, Dr. Cutter. My men have been through there. No signs of any danger.” A short pause and then: “I have detached a squad to escort your party, Doctor. Just in case.”
Cutter sighed softly. Still, he was just as glad to have the Marines so close. His intellect—and his ravenous curiosity—had overwhelmed his fear, at least for now. But he had to admit the veteran warriors made him feel a hell of a lot better.
“Very well, Major. Thank you.” He flipped the com to his party’s channel. “Okay, we’re about to head into the bowels of this ship. You all know what we’re looking for. Signs of any kind of data processing center or even conduits or equipment that could be peripheral systems of the intelligence that ran this ship. Maintenance systems, weapons, navigation and guidance equipment—all of it has to be connected into the vessel’s data network. And that has to lead back to the main processing unit.”
He took a deep breath. “So let’s go find it. Whatever it takes.”
Chapter Twelve
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
As I dictate this, I am standing on the surface of an alien world, striding through the ruins of a city that once dwarfed any human metropolis. Though it is but a wreck, an ancient ruin, old almost beyond imagining, it remains a wonder. I am convinced it was magnificent in its day, beautiful in a way I doubt I can understand. I can see in the materials, so many of them astonishingly well-preserved through the endless ages, and in the layout, still discernible amid the crumbled towers and shattered thoroughfares.
My thoughts of the First Imperium have been formed by war and conflict, by the actions of the robot servants that once-great civilization left behind. By thoughts of friends killed in terrible battles, of colony worlds reduced to radioactive nightmares. But now I see something else. I see a race of surpassing capabilities. Even in the ruins, this city shows me much of these long lost people. They appreciated art and beauty, that is clear even from the broken remains of their constructions. Though their instruments of war are powerful beyond reckoning, I can see as I walk through the ghostly city that this was no warrior race, devoted to conquest above all things. These were artists and scientists and philosophers as well. And yet they left behind so much death and destruction waiting to be unleashed.
Perhaps none of this matters. When I return to Midway, nothing will have changed. The ships of the First Imperium will still be enemies. They will attack and kill my people if they find us. None of the magnificence of this city, nor any imaginings about what these people were like, will change that fact. Yet, something is nagging at me, a regret that we are fighting the legacy of this extraordinary race. More than that. Though I cannot explain it, I am coming to believe that this war was not meant to be, that the death and destruction and terror—and the brutal necessity that stranded us here—were all parts of a terrible mistake of some kind.
First Imperium Ruins
System X18 - Planet IV
The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,842 crew
“Are you sure?” Sophie Barcomme pulled her own scanner from her belt and flipped it on.
Barcomme was one of Europa Federalis’ leading scientists. She’d been with the forces at Sigma 4, researching the First Imperium facility there for signs of the ancient life form when she’d temporarily transferred to one of the ships in Compton’s fleet to investigate some debris from enemy vessels. She’d expected to be there less than a week, but her timing had been downright disastrous. Two days after her arrival, Admiral Garret detonated the explosive in the warp gate, trapping Barcomme with Compton’s fleet…with her husband and daughter on the other side. Since then, she’d buried herself in work…anything to keep her mind busy.
“I’m sure,” came the reply. Jacques Suchet was one of the scientists on her team. She’d found him to be reasonably capable, though also a bit of an egomaniac. But there was no arrogance in his voice now, only fear.
Barcomme stared at the small screen on her monitor. Suchet was right. And now she was reading four different energy sources. They were small, but they appeared to be increasing in intensity. And number, she thought as she watched a fifth and a sixth reading pop onto her screen.
She flipped her com unit to the main channel for her team. “I want everyone scanning for energy sources. Now! I want every detail…location, type of energy, strength.” She shook her head as a seventh reading flashed onto her monitor.
What the hell is this? This planet was supposed to be dead, the lifeless ruins of a race long extinct. But energy readings don’t lie. Something is still active here…even after all these millennia…
She moved straight ahead, toward one of the energy sources. Her stomach was knotted, and she could feel the fear building in her. Man’s experiences with the First Imperium to date had been almost universally unpleasant…and she didn’t suspect that was about to change any time within the next few minutes. But she was a scientist, and it was her job to investigate. Still, she felt herself slowing down as she got closer. Sweat was pouring down her back, making the already uncomfortable survival suit nearly unbearable. Then she stopped. She was less than a hundred meters from the energy source…and now it was moving. Toward her.
She spun around and moved quickly back the way she had come. She was poking at her com controls as she fled, calling up Admiral Compton. He had to know about this. Now.
* * *
“Admiral, it’s Sophie Barcomme. I am picking up sporadic energy readings. They were stationary, but now I’ve got at least one moving.”
Compton had been prone, picking through shattered bits of blue metal laying around a large chunk of unidentified material. He jumped to his feet at the voice blaring through his com. He lost his footing, pushing off with too much force, and he fell over backwards, one of his Marine guards catching him before he hit the ground. He wiggled free and got back to his feet. Damned armor.
“Sophie, get you and your team back to the camp now,” Compton snapped. “Hurry.” Sudden energy readings could mean several things he could think of, but none of them were good.
Compton had never met the intriguing French scientist before they were both cut off from human space, but he’d worked extensively with her since. He’d asked her to head up a project to utilize the gradually emptying holds of the transport vessels for food production. Compton knew they could grow some crops and edible funguses on board the ships. It would never be more than a partial solution, but anything that could stretch their supplies was worth pursuing. And Barcomme was an expert. If anyone could squeeze more production out of the project, it was her. That meant more people fed.
The two had become relatively close over the past few months. Both ached from the wounds of being separated from loved ones, though Compton had to acknowledge that, as devastated as he was by the loss of Elizabeth, he couldn’t imagine the pain of leaving behind a spouse and a five year old child.
He flipped the com to the Marine frequency. “Colonel Preston, Dr. Barcomme’s team is picking up energy readings.” He was already moving back toward the camp as he spoke.
“I’m sending a squad to you, Admiral. They should be there in less than a minute. We will…”
A blast of static exploded into Compton’s helmet. What the hell? Then he realized. We’re being jammed. He’d had a passing thought that Barcomme’s people had just discovered some ancient machine, harmless but still operative enough to give off energy readings. Now even that shred of hope was stripped away. The jamming was pretty convincing proof that they had activated some kind of defense mechanism.
He increased the power of his com unit, just as Preston’s staticky voice blasted back into his helmet. “Admiral…your guards will get you back to camp.” The words were distorted, hard to hear, but Compton understood. He felt the two Marines grabbing onto him, pushing him back toward the camp.
He shuffled along, stumbling as his bodyguards held onto his arms, keeping him upright and moving swiftly back out of the city. They were almost to the open plain south of the ruins when Compton heard a loud boom off to his left. Then another. A second later he heard the distant sounds of Marine assault rifles firing in response. Whatever lingering doubt he’d had was gone. They were under attack.
* * *
“We need that thing operating, Lieutenant. Now.” Compton was leaning against a crate in the center of the now-fortified main camp. He’d taken a hit in the arm on the way back, and he was impressed at his first experience with the trauma control functionality of his armor. The system had stopped the bleeding, sterilized the wound, and packed it off, all the while injecting painkillers and adrenalin compounds. The servo-mechanicals of the fighting suit adjusted as well, feeding more power to compensate for the injured arm. He almost forgot he was wounded.
What he couldn’t forget was that one of his guards was dead. Corporal Garder was one of the two Marines James Preston had assigned to protect the fleet admiral, and the Marine hero had died doing just that, jumping between Compton and a First Imperium battle bot.
The enemy jamming was making communications difficult at best. Preston’s Marines were out there, hunting down the enemy robots, but the lack of effective com was making that a difficult—and dangerous—effort. If they could get the portable reactor up and running it might give them enough power to burn through the jamming, providing at least one way coms to the Marines in the field.
Compton was frustrated, angry. I shouldn’t have done this, landed here. It was my curiosity, my urge to see these ruins. And now my people are dying.
He was worried about the fleet too. Things were confused and unstable there too. He had no idea how much opposition he would face over his plan to move away from human space. And now his communication was cut off. That means we’ve activated at least some of the ancient satellites, he thought grimly. And with Admiral Dumont in X20, the fleet command in his absence was uncertain.
He was hopeful the small reactor would enable surface coms, but he doubted it would cut through the heavy jamming that was blocking signals to and from the fleet. Even if the Marines wiped out the entire enemy force, there weren’t enough shuttles on the ground to get everyone off-world…which meant he’d have to send a force up to get clear of the jamming and order a rescue mission to launch at once. He knew he should go with that shuttle. His place was back on the fleet, not dodging enemy bots. But Terrance Compton wasn’t wired that way, and he wasn’t going to abandon those he’d led here. They would all get off the planet together, and that was his final thought on the matter. He could feel the tension, the anger, surging through his body.
“Lieutenant, I want that reactor up and running immediately,” he snapped angrily, realizing as the words escaped his mouth he was being unfair to the engineer.
“One minute, sir,” the intimidated lieutenant squeaked back. “If I warm it up too quickly, it’ll scrag.”
Compton nodded, though he knew that kind of communication was difficult in armor. He looked up, to the side of the two meter-wide cylinder. James Preston was standing there, his impatience clear even though his fighting suit. Compton understood completely. Both of them felt responsible for the Marines dying out there. At least if they could restore partial communications and scanning, Preston could help his people get through the fight.
“Okay,” said the engineering officer. “We’re generating power now, sir. The reaction is at forty percent, but that should be enough to power short range communications, even with the jamming.”
Preston turned around abruptly, gesturing to a pair of Marines holding a large conduit. They slid it in place. A few seconds later, a burst of feedback blasted through Compton’s helmet…followed by a voice, loud and clear. “We have restored outgoing coms from the main station. But I doubt we can transmit more than a klick and a half, maybe two through this jamming.”
Compton moved over toward the communications station, as quickly as he could manage in his armor. Preston, vastly more experienced at moving around in a fighting suit, was there before Compton had taken two steps.
“Attention all Marines, this is Colonel Preston.” Compton heard the Marine commander on the general channel. “We are being jammed, but we’ve got the main coms hooked up to the reactor. We can send outgoing signals, but your ability to reply or communicate with each other is sharply limited. I have scanning capability now as well, so I will be directing the battle from here.”
Compton stood behind the Marine officer, watching silently. He was the overall commander, of course, but he knew he couldn’t do anything but distract Preston now. Part of good leadership is knowing when to shut the hell up.
He stood still for a few minutes, listening to Preston direct the battle…actually more of a hunt. It looked like they’d activated perhaps a hundred enemy warbots. That was a dangerous number, but not enough to defeat a thousand of Preston’s men and women. That didn’t mean Marines wouldn’t die, indeed many had already. But they would prevail in the end.
Compton angled back his head, looking up into the late afternoon sky. What is happening up there? He knew a rescue party would come when they missed the regular check in, but it could be hours before that happened, even a day or more.
He knew he had left good people behind, and he had complete confidence in them all. But he still had an unsettled feeling, a hazy, tentative thought that he should have fought off the urge to see planet four’s ruins himself. Midway was up there, hovering somewhere about a million klicks from planet five.
And that’s where I belong…
Chapter Thirteen
Transmission from Admiral Vladimir Udinov
Attention all vessels. This is Admiral Vladimir Udinov, transmitting from the RIC vessel Petersburg. In joint consultation with the commanders of the CAC, Europan, and Caliphate contingents, we have elected to remove our respective forces from the current fleet structure. We all retain the utmost respect for Admiral Compton and his achievements, but we have determined that the best interest of our crews is served by this separation.
We intend no hostile action toward any other vessel, nor do we plan to interfere with the chosen dispositions of the other contingents. However, it is necessary that we are able to refuel those of our vessels still in the queue. It is for that reason only I have ordered Petersburg to take position just above planet five. From that location, we are able to fire upon the refinery complex, destroying it utterly if anyone attempts to interfere with our refueling. When we are done, our ships will peacefully depart, leaving the refinery undamaged and ready to continue refueling the rest of the fleet.
If any vessels attempt to interfere—either with our own refueling operations or with our departure from the fleet, Petersburg will open fire and destroy the facility. I urge a calm and rational response by all parties. If we are allowed to refuel and depart, we will do so without violence.
AS Midway
System X18
The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,841 crew
“I still can’t raise the admiral, Captain Horace. There’s some kind of jamming around the planet.” Jack Cortez stared over at the empty command chair for what felt like the hundredth time. Compton wasn’t onboard…and all hell was breaking loose.
“Keep trying, Commander. We’ve got to do something. Petersburg is holding the refinery at gunpoint, and I hesitate to even think of what the other contingent commanders are saying to each other.”
“Yes, sir. But shouldn’t we be doing something now? Admiral Compton wouldn’t just sit here and allow Udinov to hijack the refinery.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Commander, but I’m not Terrance Compton. I don’t have his ability—and I damned sure don’t have his rank or reputation. I’m more inclined to try to avoid catastrophic mistakes than to risk any bold moves before I know exactly what is going on.”
“Yes, sir.” Cortez didn’t like it, but he knew Horace was right.
“And Commander…if you can’t get through to the admiral on planet four we’re going to need to send someone there. We have to get to Admiral Compton. And every second we lose could be the one that kills us.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.” Cortez turned toward the communications officer. “Lieutenant, please tell Adm…ask Admiral Hurley to come to the line.” He wasn’t speaking for Compton right now, so he wasn’t telling an admiral to do anything.
“She is on your com, sir.”
“Admiral Hurley, this is Commander Cortez. As you know, Admiral Compton went down to the surface of planet four with the Marines and the research teams.”
“Yes, I know. What is it?”
“We’ve got a crisis up here. Half the fleet is trying to break off so they can look for a route home. They’ve got their guns trained on the refinery. And we’ve lost contact with the admiral. There is some kind of jamming blocking our communications.”
“Jamming from the mutineers?” Hurley didn’t pull punches, and she had no patience for anyone disobeying Compton or rebelling against his authority.
“No, Admiral. We don’t think so. It looks like First Imperium jamming.” Cortez paused for a second. “Ah…we wanted to request that you put together a team and send them to planet four to see if they can find Admiral Compton.”
“I’m on it, Commander. Do what you have to do to keep things together here. I’ll go get the Admiral myself.”
Cortez exhaled sharply. “Thank you, Admiral Hurley.”
He flipped the com back to Captain Horace’s line on the main bridge. “Admiral Hurley is leading a mission to planet four to find the admiral.” Cortez hesitated. “So what do we do in the meanwhile?”
“We stay calm, Commander.” Erica West stepped out of the lift and walked across the bridge. “And we handle the crisis…until Admiral Compton returns to reassume command.”
West was a veteran task force commander who had been wounded in the fighting against the First Imperium. She’d spent the first half of the fleet’s daring escape in the hospital, and Compton had kept her on Midway after, not because of lack of confidence in her but simply because he was hesitant to assign yet another Alliance officer to a major command. But now she was fit and ready for action…and with Compton on planet four and Dumont in system X20, she was in the right place at the right time. And she was the next ranking Alliance officer in the fleet.
“Ah…yes, Admiral West…” Cortez was on edge, not sure what to do. He knew West was a fighter, not likely to simply sit and wait for Compton to return.
The admiral stood for a few seconds, staring down at Compton’s chair. Then she sat down abruptly. “Order all Alliance ships to battlestations, Commander Cortez,” she said grimly. “And Captain Horace is to bring the engines up to 5g.”
“Yes, Admiral.” He paused, quickly adapting to the new command authority. “Where are we going?”
“Planet five, Commander,” she said with a feral edge to her voice. “Right in between Petersburg and the refinery.”
* * *
“Admiral, Midway is moving toward us rapidly.” Stanovich turned from his workstation and looked across the flag bridge at Udinov.
“Send a communique. Advise that she is to stop immediately or we will open fire on the refinery.” Udinov wasn’t sure if that was a serious threat or a bluff. He wanted to effect his withdrawal, but if he was pushed to the point of giving the order to fire, he didn’t know if he would do it or not. Destroying the facility wouldn’t accomplish anything. The vengeful Alliance spacers would attack his vessels in response. The Russian admiral knew his faction wasn’t really a match for the Alliance-led remainder of the fleet, but it was substantial enough to put up a good fight. He didn’t doubt Petersburg would attract more than its share of fire, which made his own survival prospects highly questionable. Not that it would matter who won. If the fleet fought its own civil war there wouldn’t be enough left on either side to survive.
“Yes, Admiral.”
Udinov watched the monitors as the large blue oval representing Midway moved closer. Petersburg was no match for the Alliance’s Yorktown class monster. He might blow the refinery to plasma, but the Alliance flagship would blast his vessel to slag the moment he did.
“Response coming in, sir.”
“Put it on my com.” I’m not sure I want everyone else to hear this.
“Petersburg, you are hereby commanded to move away from the planet and out of weapons range of the refinery. You are under the legal and duly authorized command of the Grand Pact and subject to the orders and directives of that entity’s chosen commander, Admiral Terrance Compton. In his name, I repeat my order. Power down your weapons and move away from the planet. Your request to leave the fleet is denied. Failure to obey these orders will result in the destruction of Petersburg…and any other vessel threatening the refinery or attempting to leave the system. Admiral Erica West out.”
Fuck, Udinov thought to himself. West is a fighter, a protégé of Augustus Garret himself. Garret and Compton were both military geniuses, but of the two Compton had always been the more patient. West had served mostly under the more aggressive Garret, and if anything, she had built a reputation of being even colder and harder than her famous mentor.
“Get her back on the line,” Udinov snapped.
The com officer worked at his controls. “I’m sorry, sir, but Midway is not responding.”
“Fuck.” Udinov let the word slip out despite his attempt to stop himself. The crew doesn’t need to know you’re in over your head here. The situation was rapidly deteriorating. It had seemed simple, made perfect sense in planning. A few hours of tense standoff while the last of his ships refueled, and then they would be gone, on the way to search for a route home. Now he was on the verge of combat with his allies—and he had no idea how his ramshackle coalition of forces would respond if it came to a fight. They wanted to find a way home, but were they ready to battle against the Alliance forces and the other contingents if it came to that?
He turned toward the communications officer. “Put me on fleetwide com, no encryption.” I can’t make her listen, but I can put on a show for the rest of the fleet. “Attention Admiral West. This is Admiral Vladimir Udinov. I do not contest your acting command of the Alliance contingent, but I cannot recognize your claim to command the entire fleet. There are other admirals with the same rank and greater seniority in the various national forces, and these officers—including myself—have a greater claim to succeed Admiral Compton in his absence. I also stand by the decision of the RIC, Europan, CAC, and Caliphate contingents to split off from the fleet. You have no authority to contest this action, and I insist that you halt your aggressive maneuvers and allow the seceding ships to continue refueling operations without your unauthorized interference.”
He moved his hand across his throat, and the com officer cut the line. There, he thought. That’s the best I can do. He felt a pit in his stomach. But Erica West isn’t going to back down…
* * *
“I want you to get some thrust out of those fucking pieces of shit, and I do mean now.” Greta Hurley’s voice was like ice. She stared straight ahead, watching Commander Wilder at the controls as she harangued the pilot and crew of the two armored shuttles accompanying her squadrons. She was worried about Compton, and she knew every wasted second could be the difference between a successful rescue and a terrible tragedy. She realized there were nearly a thousand Marines on the planet, but it wasn’t a full invasion force, and if they’d run into any serious First Imperium forces things could be a mess.
“Admiral Hurley, we’re at full thrust now. No matter what we do, the shuttles are never going to be able to keep up with your fighters.” The pilot’s voice was tense, stressed. The fighter crews in the fleet were used to their hard-driving commander by now, but the shuttle pilot was still adjusting to Hurley’s aggressive command style.
“Do the best you can, Lieutenant.” She pulled back slightly. Driving the pilot to a breakdown wasn’t going to help move things any faster. She sighed hard and added, “Lieutenant, I’m leaving one squadron with you as escort and moving on ahead. Follow us as quickly as you can.”
She didn’t need the shuttles, not really, but she wasn’t taking any chances. They were a precaution, filled with medical teams and supplies of every conceivable kind that might be needed. The landing force had taken only rudimentary med services with them, so if she did come down in the middle of a battle, she’d be glad the shuttles were on the way. They could save a lot of Marines as well as the admiral.
If Compton was just stranded on the surface, unable to communicate but otherwise fine, she’d load him onboard her fighter and blast back to Midway at full thrust. But the jamming wasn’t a good sign, and she knew she might find a far worse situation waiting. Something was wrong down there.
She turned toward the front of the cockpit. “Get us there, John. As quickly as you can. The shuttles will just have to follow.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Hurley leaned back, waiting for the inevitable force from the fighter’s acceleration…and about five seconds later, she got it. Almost 10g of it.
* * *
“You need to intercept those fighters now, Admiral Peltier. Before they get to planet four. Your ships are the only force close enough.” Udinov’s voice was raw, strained as it blared through the com.
Peltier stared at the screen, unsure of what to do. Gregoire Peltier was no one’s idea of a great military leader. Indeed, he owed his position almost entirely to family influence and patronage. Not everyone considered him an outright coward, but no one who knew him believed he was up to the more difficult tasks. And going nose to nose with Greta Hurley met any definition of the word difficult.
“Admiral, I don’t know if…”
“Gregoire, you need to do this. The plan is already half shot to hell. What do you think will happen if she gets Compton and brings him back? You’re hesitant to face off with Admiral Hurley? How do you feel about Compton spacing you for mutiny?”
Peltier was pale, and he looked like he might throw up at any minute. He’d only gotten involved in this whole thing because he wanted to go home. Now he didn’t know what to do. But Udinov was right. Compton was a little less draconian in his actions than Admiral Garret perhaps, but he still wasn’t likely to take what he would almost certainly view as treachery very well.
“But what if they don’t turn back?” Peltier was struggling to sound calm, but his fear was making it difficult.
“Then you have to engage them. You have to disable them…or destroy them if you must.” Udinov’s voice was firm.
“But Admiral Hurley is with them. She is…”
“She is one woman, Gregoire. On one ship. She’s only got two squadrons, and they don’t have any heavy weapons loaded. “If you have to destroy them, you have the power to do it.”
“But…”
“There are no buts,” Udinov yelled. “You signed on to this, and now we’ve got to see it through. I don’t want anybody to get hurt, but if she refuses to turn back we don’t have any choice. You don’t have any choice. So just do it.”
Udinov cut the line, leaving Peltier listening to the thunderous sound of his heartbeat in his ears. He sucked in a deep breath and turned toward his com officer. “Get me a line to the fighter squadrons…”
* * *
Greta Hurley’s face was like carved stone. “Put me on fleetwide com,” she said coldly. Peltier had threatened her, and in the process he’d released an elemental rage. The day I let Gregoire Peltier intimidate me is the day I eat a fucking bullet.
“Yes, Admiral.” The com officer worked his hands over his controls for a few seconds. “On your line.”
Hurley picked up her headset and put it on. “Commander Quincy, you are to bring your squadrons to full alert. All fighters are to arm with double-shotted plasma torpedoes, and be prepared to launch upon command.” Her voice was frozen.
“In the event that any vessel of the Europan contingent—or any other ship in the fleet—opens fire on any of the fighters now enroute to planet four, you are to launch all squadrons immediately. Your fighters are to attack and destroy any vessel that fired on our fighters or shuttles.” She paused for a few seconds. “Is that clear?”
There was a short silence then: “Umm…yes, Admiral. As you order.” Quincy’s voice sounded a bit uncertain, but Hurley knew the veteran would obey her order.
“This is Admiral West,” came another voice blasting through the com. “As acting fleet commander, I confirm Admiral Hurley’s orders. All fighter squadrons are to obey. All loyal ships are also hereby ordered to fire upon any ships attacking the fighters and shuttles heading for planet four.” A long pause then: “And you are to maintain fire until the offending vessel is destroyed. We are deep in enemy space under emergency conditions. There is only one punishment for mutiny.”
Hurley let out a long breath. She appreciated the support, but she also knew West had upped the ante. She’s got balls of steel, Hurley thought. She just might face down this crisis…either that, or all hell is about to break loose.
“Alright people,” she said, flipping the com back to her squadron channels, “let’s go get the admiral.” She nodded toward Wilder, and the pilot hit the thrusters.
Hurley felt herself slammed back into her seat as 8g of thrust engaged.
Now we’ll see what Gregoire Peltier is truly made of…
* * *
Udinov stared at the image of Midway on the main display. It wasn’t very often that ships had actual visuals of their adversaries. Space battles were fought over hundreds of thousands of kilometers, and anything under 10,000 klicks was considered point blank range. But Erica West had brought Midway within three kilometers of Petersburg. That was bold beyond compare, indescribably close in for a ship that itself was almost two klicks long.
“Admiral, Midway’s weapons systems are powered up and ready to fire.”
Udinov didn’t answer, he just sat quietly, staring at the massive Alliance flagship and wondering what to do. Petersburg’s weapons were armed too, but she didn’t have Midway’s firepower. He’d never even heard of two ships engaging at a range this short. The massive power of Midway’s heavy x-ray laser batteries firing from so close would tear his ship apart. He doubted Petersburg would last more than a minute once the shooting started. Conventional wisdom suggested firing back at an attacker, but Udinov realized that was pointless. He could hurt the Alliance vessel, but not destroy it before Petersburg was blasted into a lifeless wreck. No, if Midway opened fire, he would destroy the refinery. There was no way West could stop him from doing that before he died…and he suspected that is why she hadn’t opened fire yet.
To make matters worse, Admiral Peltier had knuckled under to Greta Hurley’s threats, and he’d meekly allowed her force to pass by his ships, bound for planet four. Udinov had no idea what was causing the heavy jamming there. It was possible Compton was in real trouble, maybe even dead. He felt a wave of guilt as a burst of hope came on him. Things were bad enough now, but West was only in unchallenged command of the Alliance forces. The other contingents, except perhaps the PRC, would probably sit out any fight that took place—and that left Udinov and his allies with a stronger hand. But if Compton was back in Midway, the CEL, Martian Confederation, and SAE forces would almost certainly rally to him…and even some ships in Udinov’s allied contingents might reconsider their allegiance. The Russian admiral knew Compton was a good man, and an honorable leader. But he was also dangerous. Whatever Udinov was going to do, he had to do it now. Time only increased the chance that Hurley would find Compton.
“Commander, issue orders to the rest of the contingent. All ships are to move toward the planet and assume positions to support us.” Everybody knew Erica West was as cold as they came. But Vladimir Udinov was no coward, and he was determined to hold his own in the duel between the two commanders.
“Yes, sir.” The com officer sounded nervous about Udinov’s escalation, but he complied immediately.
Udinov had just looked into West’s eyes and raised her bet. She’d have to do something. If the rest of the RIC ships got into position, it would be Midway that was outgunned, and he knew the iron-willed Alliance admiral would never allow that. She could withdraw. Yeah, he thought, and maybe space will open up and swallow her ships. No, there is no chance of Erica West skulking off with her tail between her legs. Zero.
She could attack immediately. She just might. But the same problem remains…she can’t stop me from destroying the refinery. And half the fleet still hasn’t refueled. She might figure she can redistribute enough tritium around the fleet to keep everyone going until she found a new gas giant. But that’s dangerous, and it puts the rest of the contingents at great risk. Ten percent chance of that, maybe.
She could do nothing—stay in place, all her guns trained on Petersburg. If the rest of the contingent gets this close, it assures Midway’s destruction…but it won’t save Petersburg. She might sit just where she is and bank on that fact to stay our hand. Am I willing to sacrifice the ship—and myself—if she pushes me? I don’t know…perhaps I might, if I truly believed it would allow the others to escape. But if we kill West, the Alliance spacers will go berserk. They’ll never let the rest of the contingent go…
Udinov sat silently in his chair shaking his head. No, she won’t do any of that. She’ll…
“Admiral, the Alliance and PRC units are moving to intercept our inbound vessels.” A short pause then: “Admiral West is on the main channel, sir.”
“Put it on, Commander.” Udinov sighed. He didn’t have to hear it. He knew exactly what she was going to say.
“All Alliance and PRC units. You are to immediately engage and destroy any RIC, CAC, Caliphate, or Europan ship that closes to within 100,000 kilometers of planet five…or any such vessel that takes offensive action of any kind.”
She had raised him back.
* * *
“What is that coming in?” Compton was standing outside the command post, staring up at the sky. There was a cluster of lights in the deepening dusk, rapidly descending. To an untrained eye they could be meteors, fragments from a comet, even bits of a satellite crashing to the ground. But Terrance Compton’s eye was not untrained, and he realized immediately they were some kind of spacecraft.
The Marines had wiped out the enemy warbots, though not without cost. The fighting had been sharp, made vastly more difficult by the lack of effective communications, but the enemy force had turned out to be small, just over a hundred of the bots. The Marines had 38 KIA and another 100+ wounded.
Compton realized the force they had faced was probably only a small portion of the ancient city’s defensive complement. The rest was probably lying dormant, decayed beyond functionality by the brutal passage of time. Compton wondered what the defensive system had been 500,000 years before, just what kind of force had defended a metropolis where millions of people once lived.
The landing party had been packing up and preparing to head back to the fleet. Once Colonel Preston had declared the area secure, Compton had agreed to give the research team a few more hours to gather up artifacts—there was enough just laying around to keep every scientist on the fleet busy for years. His tactical sense had told him to load everyone up and get the hell off the planet, but he remained focused on why they had come in the first place. It was far beyond idle curiosity. His people were stuck in enemy space, and anything that allowed them to understand the First Imperium—and to bridge the technology gap between them—was essential to their chances of survival.
Preston had been uncomfortable with the delay, at least in getting the admiral back to Midway. He’d argued multiple times, urging Compton to return at once. He’d insisted that security on the planet’s surface was too uncertain. But his efforts were to no avail. Compton had declared firmly he would return when the entire expedition did and not a moment before.
Now, he wondered what was coming down on them. A rescue mission from the fleet? It was certainly plausible. Indeed, he’d expected some kind of response to his expedition’s sudden radio silence. But he realized they had also awakened some long-dormant defensive system, and he couldn’t exclude the possibility that the incoming vessels were hostile.
“Sound the alert, Colonel,” he said quietly. No sense taking chances.
“Yes, sir,” Preston snapped back. He turned and walked toward a small cluster of officers. With the jamming, it was easier to communicate face to face—or at least the armored equivalent with external speakers and receivers.
Compton looked back up. The craft were closer, and he cranked up his visor’s magnification. There was something about them, something familiar…
“Colonel!” he ran after Preston, turning his speakers to maximum volume. “Colonel!”
Preston stopped and turned to face the admiral.
“Cancel that alert, Colonel.” Compton turned and looked back at the landing ships. “Those are Alliance Lightning fighter-bombers.”
The first two ships flew over the camp, dropping down slowly and landing in the field beyond, closely followed by the others. Compton moved toward them as quickly as he could without tripping over his armored feet.
“Wait, Admiral…let me assign some guards to you.”
Compton ignored the Marine’s caution and continued toward the two fighters. He could hear Preston snapping out orders, commanding a detachment to follow. The veteran Marines were considerably more adept at moving quickly in fighting suits, and they caught up with Compton about halfway to the fighters. But the time he reached the LZ, he had two dozen Marines surrounding him, weapons at the ready.
The hatch of the lead ship was already open, and a few seconds after Compton reached it, a head popped out…Greta Hurley’s.
Compton looked up, an expression of surprise on his face. “Admiral Hurley, what are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I have to ask you to get onboard. We need to get you back to Midway as soon as possible.”
Compton felt his stomach clench. Hurley hadn’t come herself just to check on him.
“What is it, Admiral?’
She leaned forward looking down at him. “Half the fleet is in rebellion, sir. Admiral Udinov is in charge. The mutineers want to break off and try to find a way back to Earth.” Hurley’s tone communicated her tension, and that told Compton all he needed to know. “Admiral West assumed command,” she continued, “and she sent us to get you.”
Compton felt a wave of anger sweep over him. Anger at Udinov—and at Zhang, who he was sure was behind the whole thing. And at himself, for indulging his curiosity instead of staying at his post.
“Colonel,” he said, turning toward Preston, “take over the withdrawal.” He stepped toward the fighter and looked up at Hurley. “Open the loading gate, Admiral. I’ll never get up the ladder and through that hatch in this armor.”
Chapter Fourteen
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
I am a fool. I accompanied the landing force down to the surface because I wanted to see the First Imperium ruins myself, to satisfy my own craving for knowledge. I convinced myself I needed to go, that I had to learn about the enemy if I am to find a way for the fleet to survive. And indeed, I do believe that. We have no hope of a purely military victory, and there seems little doubt to me that flight is a short term solution. Eventually, an enemy as massive and powerful as the First Imperium will track us down—whether we were to head toward home or continue into deep space. Our only hope is to learn more about this mysterious race, and through that knowledge find a way to destroy…or coexist with them.
But my timing was poor. I underestimated the discontent in the fleet, the speed with which my opponents would act. I knew I faced continuing opposition, but I didn’t imagine they would be so reckless so soon. I should have better understood the primal fear of being lost and how it would affect otherwise courageous officers. In assuming I had more time, I opened the door for the mutineers to gain an advantage. Now, there are no easy options.
We may lose the refinery over this, with much of the fleet still low on fuel. Indeed, we may destroy each other in combat. For though on one level I sympathize with the mutineers and their desire to seek a way home, I cannot allow them to go, whatever I must do. Our experiences on the planet only reaffirmed my caution. One moment we were exploring an eons-dead world and the next we were being attacked by the remnants of an ancient security system. We do not know—we cannot know—the enemy’s abilities. Our battle successes have caused us to forget that our adversaries are vastly ahead of our technology. We can only guess at when they are watching…or if they are following.
We are close to moving past the jamming surrounding the planet, and soon we will have clear communications with the fleet. Then I will find out what is happening…and I will have to give difficult orders. It is with heartfelt sadness I contemplate the possibility that we made our unlikely escape from X2 perhaps only to destroy ourselves here. Yet, that is so like man. It is our legacy. Perhaps it shall always be so.
But I know one thing for certain. I will allow no one to lead the enemy closer to Earth. Whatever I must do.
AS Midway
System X18 – Low Orbit Around Planet V
The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,817 crew
Erica West sat in the command chair—Compton’s chair—and stared at the main display. Petersburg was a powerful ship, but she was no match for Midway’s 1.8 kilometers of bristling weapons. If the two fought, West had no doubt who would win. But that wasn’t what was on her mind.
Can I destroy that ship before they take out the refinery?
She had every weapon locked on the Udinov’s flagship, from the primary x-ray laser batteries to the small anti-fighter turrets. When…if...she gave the order to fire, an unprecedented amount of energy would be directed at Petersburg. And at a mere three kilometer’s range, almost all of it would reach the target. The pride of the RIC fleet would be blasted to plasma in less than a minute, she was sure of that. It was exactly how long that would take—and what Udinov could do with those seconds—that she was considering.
“Captain Kato is on the com, Admiral. He has maneuvered his ships to oppose the CAC contingent, and he requests permission to engage.”
“Negative. He is not to engage unless fired upon.” West had a reputation as a hard-nosed admiral, even a hothead. But she wasn’t going to be responsible for starting a civil war that could destroy the fleet—not unless she did it herself by attacking Petersburg.
But that’s different. Saving the refinery is more important than anything else.
“Any response from Admiral Wittgensen?”
“No, Admiral. Not since his initial communique.” The CEL commander had declared that his forces would not become engaged in an intra-fleet battle unless they were fired upon or Admiral Compton expressly ordered it. Wittgensen was a cautious man, one who tended to operate by the book. Compton was the fleet’s duly authorized commander, and he would accept such fateful orders from no one else.
West couldn’t blame him. She was third in command of the Alliance forces, but that succession didn’t necessarily extend to the whole fleet. It was hard to compare exact ranks from different powers, but some of the other contingent commanders had more seniority than West—including Wittgensen himself.
She looked again at the tactical display. So far, her threat had held things at a stalemate. The mutinous ships had moved closer to planet five, but none had crossed her stated 100,000 kilometer blockade zone. Her fleet units had moved to enforce her orders, and the Alliance forces were deployed in a large semi-circle, facing off against the rebel units. But the only ships inside the 100,000 kilometer mark were Midway and Petersburg.
* * *
“With so many of our weapons locked on the refinery, we will barely scratch Midway if it comes to a fight.” Rostov’s voice was grim as it came through the com. “Perhaps we should redirect some of our targeting. We’ll still be outgunned, but it…”
“There’s no point, Sergei,” Udinov said, his voice heavy, tired. “We don’t have a chance in a standup fight with Midway no matter what we do. The refinery’s our only bargaining chip. We can destroy it, and they all know it.”
And I know enough about Erica West to be sure she’d blow us to hell in a heartbeat if we weren’t holding the refinery hostage.
“So what do we do, sir? Just sit here? And what happens when Admiral Compton gets back?”
“I don’t know, Sergei.” Udinov was staring at his screen, but he wasn’t seeing anything. His thoughts had drifted off, imagining how he’d ended up in this position. He’d been so sure it was the right thing to do, to give his people a chance, at least, of returning home, of reuniting with loved ones. The plan had been complicated by his need to fuel the last of his ships, but he’d still kept it as simple as possible. Just a few hours of tense standoff—long enough to get perhaps half a tank in each vessel—and his people would have been gone. But now he was filled with doubt as he stared at West’s massive ship, knowing every one of its heavy guns was locked on Petersburg.
He’d had no animosity toward his allies in the fleet, no intention for anyone to get hurt. The plan had always been to avoid bloodshed. My plan, at least. I’m not too sure about that bastard Zhang. He’d believed the CAC admiral, sympathized with the humiliation he felt after Compton had relieved him from command. Have I let myself get dragged into some pointless vendetta? Did Zhang expect a fight all along?
Well, whatever my plan was, it’s shot to shit, he thought grimly. He wanted to call things off, to turn the clock back two days, to be more patient. But he knew that was all impossible. He was stuck, in far too deep to turn back now.
He’d never harbored ill will toward Compton or West or any of the others, even in his vehement disagreement about whether to try to return home. But now, in the intense pressure of the moment, he realized to them he was a villain…a traitor, a mutineer. They would show no mercy, make no compromises. Some routes could only be tread one way, and he doubted there was a way for him to go back.
Udinov was no coward, indeed, he was ready to sacrifice himself if it was necessary to end the dangerous impasse. But that would do no good. There were dozens of officers involved—hundreds—and Compton would never be able to trust any of the rebel crews again.
This was a bad idea from the start, but I’m stuck with it now. I have to go through with it. There’s no way out, no option but to play this out to the bitter end.
He felt deep regret, but he looked over at the com station. “Lieutenant, put me on the fleetwide com.”
* * *
The com unit crackled in West’s ears. It was Udinov again. His voice was a little shaky, at least to her hearing, but overall he sounded determined. She hadn’t acknowledged the transmission, but it was on the open fleetcom, and she was listening nevertheless.
“I will allow fifteen minutes for all Alliance and PRC vessels to withdraw from any positions within 200,000 kilometers of planet five and power down all weapons. If my conditions are met, my contingent will refuel at once and leave the system with no hostilities. The Caliphate, CAC, and Europan task forces shall have the option to join us. My forces will attack no one. We do not wish to compel anyone to join us, nor do we seek to impose our will on other contingents. There needn’t be violence nor any loss of life.”
His voice deepened, the tone becoming firmer, more threatening. “However, if there are still Alliance and PRC forces within 200,000 kilometers of the planet—or anywhere within detection range with weapons powered up—I will assume the intent is to interfere with my contingent’s actions, and I will have no choice but to act accordingly. Petersburg will obliterate the refinery…and all RIC ships will return any fire. In all likelihood, the two halves of the fleet will engage in a devastating battle, a catastrophe that does not have to happen.”
The com was blank for a few seconds and then the admiral continued, “The choice is yours…peace or war, life…or death.”
West felt her stomach twitch. She understood the situation, the staggering consequences of the actions she would take in the next few minutes. She felt an instant of doubt, just a fleeting sensation. There wasn’t a warrior who’d ever lived who hadn’t known that feeling. Then her resolve hardened. “Put me on the fleetwide com,” she said coldly.
“You are on, Admiral.”
“Admiral Udinov, pursuant to the military code of the Grand Pact, as well as those of both our respective powers, you and your co-conspirators are guilty of mutiny. No vessel of the Alliance or PRC will retreat a meter, nor will I allow you to continue to threaten the destruction of the refinery that is so essential to the fleet. You issue your ultimatum and give us fifteen minutes to comply. I will do no such thing, nor will I negotiate with an officer currently engaged in acts of mutiny. You have five minutes to withdraw Petersburg out of range of the refinery, or I will blow your vessel out of the sky.”
She paused for a long while, sitting and staring straight ahead. Finally, she repeated, “Five minutes, Admiral Udinov. Not a second more.” Her voice was like ice.
She turned toward the communications officer. “Lieutenant, broadcast a five minute countdown on the fleetcom. By seconds, starting now.”
She reached up and flipped off her com. Then she switched to intraship communications. “Captain Horace.”
“Yes, Admiral?”
“Are you following the countdown?”
“Yes, Admiral. We all are.”
“Good,” West said, calmly. “When it gets down to two minutes you are to fire all batteries. You are to destroy Petersburg without warning.”
West didn’t like dishonorable tactics, but the lives of every man or woman in the fleet depended on keeping that refinery up and operating. Perhaps she could take Udinov by surprise, disable Petersburg before she opened fire.
She took a deep breath and looked up at the timer, quickly counting down the seconds…
* * *
Udinov sat still, West’s words still sinking in. Damn, she is tough. He’d put forth his most powerful threat, but she’d just disregarded it and come back with a stronger one of her own. She’d upped the pressure too, reducing the time from fifteen minutes to five.
There’s no time, he thought, trying to calmly analyze his position. He realized if he complied, he would lose his only real bargaining chip. His entire RIC contingent was almost out of fuel. If he tried to escape now, without loading up his tanks first, his forces wouldn’t get very far. His allies’ ships were mostly fueled. Perhaps we can redistribute some of that, give all the ships enough to get away, to find another source of tritium and helium-3. But can I trust the other contingents? Will they want to part with some of their precious fuel?
He felt a wave of shame. He was reluctant to trust mutineers…yet what was he? He had been more responsible for bringing about this situation than anyone else, save perhaps Zhang. For few seconds he considered yielding to West’s demands. No…it is too late for that. I chose this road, and now I must follow it…wherever it leads.
“Commander Stanovich…all batteries are to lock on the refinery and prepare to fire.” Udinov’s voice was deep, grim. His eyes were fixed on the chronometer, now at three minutes, fifteen seconds.
“Yes, sir.” Stanovich was a professional and a veteran, and his response was immediate…but Udinov could hear the worry—the fear—nevertheless.
I’m sorry, Anton. I’m sorry to all of you. He knew he would sign the death warrant of every crewmember aboard Petersburg with the first shot, but his course was set, and he couldn’t change it. Not now. At least the sacrifice might buy the escape of the rest of his people. The Alliance ships had been last in the refueling queue, and their tanks were as empty as his own. He’d assumed Compton had put his ships last because he was trying to avoid bad feeling about preferencing his own ships and crews. There was no doubt he’d put a lot of Alliance officers in key positions, and that had caused some grumbling. Udinov hadn’t been too troubled by that before. Whatever personal feelings he may have had, he couldn’t deny that the Alliance navy was the best, and by a considerable margin.
All of Earth’s Superpowers were monstrous bureaucracies, dominated by elite political classes that ruled over populations living mostly in poverty. The Alliance was no different, at least on Earth. But somehow its space-based military establishments had remained mostly unaffected by the influence pedaling and nepotism that so afflicted the other powers’ forces. Oddly, he suspected, that had been because the Alliance elites eschewed military careers, at least those in space. The lack of respect for the navy and Marines in the halls of Earthly power had made them true colonial forces, imbued with the spirit of those who had stepped forth to settle new worlds.
Udinov’s RIC had fought both with and against the Alliance in the hundred or so years since mankind had colonized the stars. But whether he viewed them as ally, enemy, or cautious neutral, he had always respected their capabilities, and he hadn’t questioned their tactical dominance over the Grand Pact.
“Three minutes, Admiral.” Stanovich spoke softly as he stared toward Udinov, waiting for the admiral to issue the order that would kill them all.
* * *
Tang’s flag bridge was silent, everyone listening to the exchange between West and Udinov. Zhang sat in the command chair, the one he’d seized by betraying and murdering his commanding officer. It was beginning to look like he’d pulled off his coup without a hitch. No one had seriously questioned that the formerly healthy Chen Min had died of natural causes, and now the tension of the current crisis had shifted attention elsewhere. As far as any of them knew, Zhang had simply stepped in as next in the chain of command.
Zhang wasn’t overly troubled by the tactics he’d employed. He had always been prone to self-pity, feeling that he’d been overlooked and poorly treated most of his career. He had an exaggerated sense of his military skills, and a considerable ego as well. He’d had no quarrel with Chen, but the old admiral would have kept all his people with the fleet, blasting off into deep space with Terrance Compton. And that was something Zhang wasn’t willing to accept. He was determined to get back home and damned the cost.
“Open a channel,” he said, looking over toward the communications officer. “CAC vessels only, high-density encryption code ZK.”
The officer hesitated for an instant before replying, “Yes, Admiral.” The CAC’s most secure code had rarely been used since the formation of the Grand Pact, and it had been a surprise to hear it ordered now. A few seconds later: “Your line is ready, sir.”
“Attention all vessels. You are to prepare engines for maximum thrust. I am transmitting a course for the entire task force. All personnel are to be in the tanks and ready for high thrust maneuvers in ten minutes. We will be moving toward warp gate number three and transiting to system X19.” Duke’s scouts had reported that the X19 system was empty, a blue star with no planets, no enemy contacts, nothing. But according to Zhang’s calculations, it was the gate with the highest probability of leading closer to human space. And that was where he—where all his people—were going, Terrance Compton and his out of control caution be damned.
“All ships acknowledge,” he added.
He sat and watched the list of ships on his screen. One by one, a small mark appeared next to each vessel’s name, Tang’s AI signifying that ship had acknowledged the order. Zhang hadn’t been sure every captain would follow his commands, especially one that ran counter to Admiral Compton’s directives, but a few seconds later the last acknowledgement came in. The CAC contingent was united. And it was about to bug out, leaving Compton, Udinov, and the rest of the fleet behind.
* * *
“All batteries…prepare to fire.” Udinov’s voice was grim. He was committed to his course of action, but he didn’t think there was much chance of survival, at least for him and his crew on Petersburg.
Erica West had given him five minutes…and there wasn’t a doubt in the Russian admiral’s mind she would follow through on her threat. If he didn’t strike first, he had no doubt West would. And once Midway’s massive batteries opened up, Petersburg’s lifespan would be measured in seconds.
“All weapons are ready, Admiral,” Stanovich replied, no less grimly than his commander. “Awaiting your order to commence bombardment.”
Udinov took a deep breath and looked around the flag bridge. His officers were all hunched over their stations. He knew they were trying to stay focused, keeping their minds on their jobs, and not thinking that they were probably living the last minute of their lives.
“Commander…fi…”
“Admiral, we have an incoming transmission.” The communications officer spun around and stared at Udinov. “It’s Admiral Compton, sir.”
“Put it on.” He knew he should listen privately, but everyone on Petersburg faced the same imminent death he did, so he waved his hand, gesturing for the com officer to put it on speaker.
“Attention, Petersburg…this is Fleet Admiral Terrance Compton.” The voice came through the com like a force of nature. “You will follow Admiral West’s instructions to the letter. You will do it now, or every member of this fleet you have suborned to treachery will die.”
“Admiral Compton,” Udinov replied, “perhaps we can negotiate a solution to this impasse.” He felt a flash of hope, but it died quickly. Terrance Compton wasn’t normally as outwardly hard and abrasive as Erica West, but he was every bit as firm. He sat still, one eye on the chronometer, as he waited for the signal to travel the three light seconds to Compton’s position…
* * *
“There will be no negotiations, Admiral Udinov.” Compton’s voice was frozen. “You will follow my orders expressly and immediately, or Midway will destroy Petersburg. All CAC, Caliphate, Europan, and RIC vessels are hereby ordered to power down at once, and prepare to be boarded. Any ships refusing this order will also be destroyed.”
Compton sat in the cramped cockpit of the fighter. He’d popped his armor and climbed out as soon as he’d managed to stumble onboard, and Hurley had managed to find him a jumpsuit. It wasn’t an admiral’s uniform, nor was it a perfect fit…but it spared him the indignity of sitting in the middle of the fighter completely naked.
He pressed a small button, muting the com unit. “Greta, get on a secure line now. I want you to scramble every squadron you’re sure is loyal.” He paused. “And remember, they may be firing on their own ships, so make damned sure you stick to people you trust.”
“Yes, sir,” Hurley replied, picking up her headset as she did.
“Admiral Compton,” Udinov’s voice blasted through the speakers again. “I urge you to reconsider your position. I’m sure there is some middle ground we can discuss, some mutually acceptable solution.”
Compton felt a wave of anger. He tried to bite down on it, but he was only partially successful. “I will reconsider nothing. I am not in the habit of discussing terms with mutineers.”
He glanced over at Hurley, and nodded as she gave him a thumbs up. Her squadrons were scrambling.
“There is little point to further discussions. All loyal ships, you are ordered to close with the nearest mutinous vessels. You will either accept their unconditional surrenders or you will attack without further notice.”
He felt his body tense with anger. At the mutiny, certainly, but also at the stupidity of it all, at the astonishing waste about to take place, the insanity about to cause human warships to battle each other in the depths of First Imperium space. We do the enemy’s work for him, he thought bitterly. But I have no choice…
“Admiral West, Midway is to open f…”
“Admiral, we’ve got ships transiting from X16, sir. Looks like two fast attack ships. Incoming transmissions.” Kip Janz’ voice was high pitched with surprise. “Putting it on speaker, sir.”
“Admiral Compton, this is Captain Callou aboard Dragonfly. We have enemy forces on our tail, sir. Repeat, enemy forces pursuing us…”
But Compton already knew. His eyes were fixed on the fighter’s tiny screen…and all he could see was contact after contact pouring through the warp gate behind the two scoutships.
The enemy was already there.
Chapter Fifteen
Research Notes of Dr. Hieronymus Cutter
We have been three days in the bowels of the First Imperium vessel. I knew, intellectually, how massive this ship was, but it is another thing entirely to actually experience it…to traverse kilometer after kilometer of dark, endless corridor with no end in sight.
We must find the location of the main processing unit, the great computer that once ran this entire vessel. I can only imagine in the vaguest manner the enormity of such an intelligence, its immense stores of data, its unimaginable computing power. What is such a computer like, I wonder? Nothing man has ever built is comparable. The quasi-sentient units we create for our ships and Marines are like children’s toys by comparison.
Will such a system seem like a computer at all to me? Or will I perceive it more as another person? Even a god of sorts? Will it be so far beyond any of us as to defy all comprehension?
I do not know. Indeed, I know our mission is dangerous, far more so than I told Admiral Compton it would be…though I daresay he knew better as well. But there is no choice. If we cannot learn how to control or at least communicate persuasively with the intelligences that control our enemy, we are doomed. I would not trade a chance at long term success for a few months of life, fleeing into the darkness. No, this is our chance, perhaps our only one.
First Imperium Colossus
System X20– High Orbit Around Planet IV
The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,815 crew
Hieronymus Cutter moved forward slowly, carefully. His people had been at it for days, wandering through the almost unending corridors of the First Imperium vessel. He had everybody on a rotation of twenty hours on duty and four off, with the whole unrealistic schedule supported by the liberal use of stims. Still, he knew his people were getting sluggish, and one sloppy, careless move could have disastrous consequences.
The ship itself was completely dead, but they’d already managed to accidently activate half a dozen security bots. They’d been able to knock them all out, but not before the deadly automatons had killed two and wounded half a dozen others. One of the dead had been from Cutter’s team and the other one of Frasier’s Marines.
The bots appeared to be unconnected to the ship’s main systems, operating independently, responding to threats as they appeared. Still, he’d detected no power from any type of scanners, absolutely nothing but the single source he knew was the antimatter containment system. How were these bots detecting anything if they had no energy output whatsoever?
No energy we can detect, he thought suddenly. Dark energy, maybe? The alloy of the First Imperium hulls was infused with a mysterious form of dark matter. Now Cutter wondered if the ancient aliens had also learned how to manipulate dark energy. He stopped suddenly.
“Is something wrong, Hieronymus?” Ana Zhukov had been walking right behind, and she almost ran into him.
“Dark energy,” he said, his voice soft, distracted. “The First Imperium is able to utilize dark energy, at least for some purposes…like communications.” He turned and looked back at her. “Don’t you see? It explains everything. The original distress call from Epsilon Eridani IV, the seeming ability of the First Imperium to communicate through warp gates, the security bots that seem to have scanners running with no detectable energy output…”
“Yes,” she said softly. “Of course. It would explain everything, wouldn’t it? Or at least it might. But we know almost nothing about dark energy, Hieronymus. So it’s just a wild guess at this point.”
“It’s more than that, Ana.” His voice was becoming firmer as he spoke. He’d been unsure a moment before, but now he was totally convinced. “There is no question the enemy can communicate in ways we can neither detect nor explain. And you yourself have run the scans here. There is no energy output we can trace, no scanning system running in the background. Yet, we have activated multiple defensive bots as we’ve explored. Scanners require some kind of energy to operate. If we question this assertion we have to abandon everything we understand about physics, right?”
She nodded. “Agreed…”
“So if there must be energy usage and we cannot detect it, we are dealing with some sort of undetectable energy, correct?”
“Yes,” she said tentatively. “But…”
“There is no but. Dark energy is the only undetectable form of energy we have posited to exist. It is vastly more likely we are dealing with dark energy than something completely unknown.” He sighed. “Still, even if we accept this as fact, I’m not sure what it does for us, at least in the short term. We’ve never been able to detect dark energy flows before, despite centuries of research. We may know what we’re dealing with, but that won’t have any impact unless we can find a way to scan for it…or block it.”
Cutter sighed. “I wish Friederich was here. He would understand this better than I do.” Friederich Hofstader had been Cutter’s mentor years before. Hofstader was a physicist, generally accepted as the world’s most knowledgeable. Cutter’s studies had begun in that field, but his greatest work had been in the areas of artificial intelligences and quantum computing. And now he was staring at an enormous physics problem.
“You realize what this means, Hieronymus? If the First Imperium can manipulate dark energy sources that we can’t even detect, we can never be sure something is truly dead.” She looked around. “Even this ship may still be more functional than we thought.”
“Perhaps. We can only speculate what knowledge the First Imperium possesses that we do not. It would be an error to assume their science is a simple progression forward of ours. Our understanding of the universe is incomplete…and in some ways almost certainly in error. Some forms of advancement manifest in the execution of an idea. Planes, for example. An observer from the middle ages could imagine such a thing was possible. Indeed, he would have seen birds flying many times. But could he have imagined a radio transmitting voices across hundreds of kilometers? The concept would have been totally new to him.”
“I think you are right, Hieronymus.” She paused. “We can only guess at what they can utilize this power for. We simply don’t know enough about dark energy to make truly educated projections.”
“They use matter-antimatter annihilation to power their vessels and weapons. And Epsilon Eridani IV provides some evidence that they produce their antimatter using highly advanced—but conventional—energy generation. So we can make a reasonable assumption that they do not have the capacity to utilize dark energy for most of their needs.’
“Or that it is not as efficient a power source for weapons and spaceship drives.” Ana’s tone was tentative at first, but it slowly firmed up as she spoke. “However, we must infer that they have the capacity to utilize dark energy for communications purposes, which means we can never be sure if they are in contact with other First Imperium units or intelligences.”
“I am inclined to agree,” Cutter replied. “The only way we can be sure to sever contact with commands and data flows from outside is to physically destroy all their communications gear. Including the dark energy units. And we have no idea what to look for in those.”
“Dr. Cutter?” It was Frasier’s voice on the com.
“Yes, Major?”
“I think we’ve found something. I’m with a team of your people right now, and they’ve found what they think is the main data center.”
Cutter felt a rush of excitement. He turned and looked over at Ana before continuing. “That is good news, Major. Transmit your location, and we’ll be right there.”
* * *
“I have never even imagined anything like this.” Cutter’s voice was distracted. His eyes were fixed on a long row of cylinders, three deep and stretching as far as he could see in the dim light of the portable lamps. Each of the shiny-metallic tubes was a meter across and five meters high. “I can’t even begin to guess at the knowledge stores this unit possesses.” He turned his eyes to a large spherical structure built from some clear polymer. It was three meters in diameter and mounted in a large metallic base. It was dark inside, but he could see the shadowy outlines of a lattice-like web of filaments.
The main processing unit…
The room was enormous, like nothing he’d ever seen in a spaceship. Of course you’ve never seen a ship this large before. As far as he could tell, they were almost dead center in the vessel’s interior. Exactly where I’d expect to find the intelligence.
“So this is what we’ve been looking for then?” Connor Frasier was standing right behind Cutter. Admiral Compton had been clear when the expedition set out from the fleet. Frasier was to protect the scientist at all costs.
“Almost certainly, Major,” Cutter replied. “This is a computer…or at least a far more advanced version of what we call a computer. I’m fairly certain these cylinders are data storage units.” He pointed toward the sphere. “And I’d wager that is the main processing unit…the intelligence itself, so to speak.”
He turned and walked toward the opposite wall. There were screens and a number devices that looked like keyboards of some kind. And chairs. Cutter stopped and put his hand on the back of one of the seats. My God, he thought. This looks like almost like a workstation on Midway. He’d often imagined what the beings that had created the First Imperium looked like. He suspected almost everyone had. Based on the designs of their battle robots, the general assumption had been they were moderately similar to humans. But these workstations looked like they’d been designed for humans.
“This ship definitely had a crew once…and based on these chairs, and the other things we’ve seen, they looked a hell of a lot like us, at least in basic size and structure.”
Ana was a few meters back, with half a dozen team members standing behind her. “We need to find an input device before we even consider trying to activate this thing.” She stepped forward, stopping right next to Cutter. “And we have to disable the communications systems.”
“Finding the com might be the most difficult part of this. Besides the sheer size of this ship, we have no idea what a dark energy communications unit looks like.” He sighed and paused for a few seconds. “We might have to take the risk of trying to activate the AI…and count on getting control quickly enough to order it to shut down the communications network.
“What if that doesn’t work?” Gregor Kahn was standing behind Ana. He was the best and brightest of the team they’d brought with them, but he was a pain in the ass too.
Cutter turned and walked toward the row of workstations, his eyes panning along the equipment that looked both strange and familiar.
“Then we die, Gregor.”
Chapter Sixteen
Excerpt from After Action Report, Mariko Fujin, Lieutenant, Commanding Gold Dragon Squadron
There is only one thing I can say about my comrades in the Gold Dragon Squadron…in the Battle of X18, uncommon valor was a common virtue.
Fighter-Bomber A001 – “Pit Viper”
X18 System - Enroute to AS Midway from Planet IV
The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,817 crew
“Greta, get the rest of your birds launched…now!” The voice was crisp, firm. Battle was upon them all, and Terrance Compton was ready.
“On it, sir,” she replied. Hurley was hunched over her screen, organizing her squadrons. She’d restricted her earlier launch order to Alliance and PRC wings, the ones she knew for sure were 100% loyal, but now she was sending every fighter that could fly into the fight. She preferred to execute meticulously-planned operations, the kind of well-choreographed assaults that had made her the uncontested master of fighter tactics. But there was no time. The fleet was too close to the warp gate, and the enemy would be on them too quickly. If her birds were going to make a difference in this fight, it had to be now, in a mad and chaotic assault, organization and tactics be damned.
Compton sat quietly for a few seconds, watching as the waves of enemy ships continued to pour through the warp gate. There were a lot of them…and they were moving at high velocity. Their vector wasn’t directly at the fleet, but it was close enough. First Imperium ships could blast their engines at 60g, more than enough to adjust their heading without slowing down at all.
He flipped on the fleetwide com line. “Attention all vessels. As you can all see, we have a large enemy force transiting into the system. We’ve got ourselves a battle, and that supersedes any other considerations. Whatever disputes we have had, I urge you all now to forget them and join me in facing the First Imperium fleet. They are the enemy. They are who we should be fighting. Not each other.”
Compton was still angry about what had happened, but he realized none of that was important anymore. He pushed it away, to the back of his mind. He’d been dead serious with his threats. He’d had no intention of letting the mutineers get away with their treachery, at least not the officers. And he had been prepared to fight it out, despite knowing what a wasteful and pointless exercise that would have been. But he no longer had the luxury of being so “by the book.” The urgency of battle brought clarity to him, and the imminent death the First Imperium fleet carried with it sharpened his focus. He had almost made a terrible mistake, and now he was reminded how little chance of survival his people had unless they stood as one. They simply could no longer indulge old prejudices or grievances, not if they wanted to live.
“Fight now, all of you. Stand with me, and I will stand with you. Defeat the enemy here, win the victory as you have so many times before, and we will move forward from this point, forgetting all that has happened. Man your posts, fight like the devils I had at my side in X2, show these machines what a human fleet can do...and we will prevail again. These robots think we are parasites, nothing but primitive vermin to be exterminated. Let’s give them another lesson…NOW!”
Compton sighed hard. Of all the pre-battle speeches he had given, this one had been the hardest. Looking past mutiny, trusting again in officers who had just betrayed him…it went against every instinct he had. But Terrance Compton was nothing if not a realist, and one look at the scanner told him all he had to know. He needed every vessel in this fight.
“I am with you, Admiral Compton.” Udinov’s voice blasted onto the com a few seconds after Compton finished. All RIC units are to obey the fleet admiral. Fight now, as you have never fought…and send these machines to whatever hell they came from.”
Compton smiled. He wasn’t surprised, not really. For all that had happened—the mutiny, his own rage, his willingness to blow Petersburg to bits—he’d always considered Vladimir Udinov to be a good officer. They were all on new ground now, and he knew the Russian admiral had only been doing what he felt was right for his people. Compton wanted to nurse his self-righteous rage, but he had to acknowledge he might have done something similar if their roles had been reversed.
Indeed, Compton himself had not hesitated to disobey command directives during the colonial rebellions…orders that would have seen his fleet bombard an Alliance world and kill millions. He was considered a hero now only because the rebellions succeeded, at least partially, and because the First Imperium invasion turned all attention toward defense and survival. Had Alliance Gov crushed the revolt, Compton had no doubt he’d have faced disgrace and execution.
A few seconds later, Lord Samar came on the com, issuing similar orders to the Caliphate contingent. Even Gregoire Peltier managed a brief rallying cry to his forces. Only Zhang remained silent, though even without his command, over half of the CAC ships began to maneuver back into the fleet’s formation. Whatever disputes they may have had, the spacers and their officers had pushed them aside. The fleet would fight again as one.
“All squadrons launching now, sir.” Hurley’s voice was tense. He could feel her frustration at not being at their head.
“It will be okay, Admiral,” he said. “I’d love to go with you and get a close look at the enemy for once, but I need to get back to Midway. Still, you can refuel and be back out here in a few minutes, I suspect…in plenty of time to make the party. Especially if you stand behind Chief McGraw and keep your foot up his ass while he’s turning your bird around.”
“Yes, sir.” Hurley suppressed a laugh, most of it at least. She’d just been thinking about how to motivate McGraw to set a new record in arming and refueling her ship.
“Commander Wilder, I’m told you’re the best pilot in the fleet, by none other than your illustrious admiral here.” Compton nodded and gave Wilder a quick smile. “So let’s see how quickly you can get me back aboard Midway.
* * *
Vladimir Udinov felt almost relieved as he watched the scanner, following Petersburg’s movement toward the First Imperium fleet. The robot ships were cold and deadly, the product of a science far beyond man’s. But the Russian admiral had fought them before and his people had blown them to hell. The First Imperium was a nightmare to battle, but they had nothing that would make him sweat like trying to stare down Erica West.
“Approaching missile range, Admiral.” Stanovich sounded relieved in the same illogical way. He too had fought the First Imperium forces before, and he knew just how deadly they were. But, for all the strength and technology of the enemy, at least this was a straight up fight. The standoff with Midway had been one of the most deeply stressful experiences in his life, and he was glad it was over—even if the alternative was to leap into the fire.
“Prepare to flush the racks, Commander. All vessels may launch when ready.” Udinov had been impressed with Aki Kato’s daring missile attack, and he felt the urge to replicate the bold maneuver. But Compton had expressly forbidden it. Kato’s near-reckless expedited release of his external racks had allowed him to launch a devastating volley against the enemy in X2. But Kato’s ships had been doomed already, too battered to keep up with the fleet and destined to be left behind. The PRC captain and his skeleton crews had been unconcerned with further damage and determined to hit as hard as they could before abandoning their vessels.
Udinov’s ships, however, were not expendable, and taking damage releasing their own racks was too much of a risk. There was a brutal fact about this battle just beginning, something everyone in the fleet understood, but most tried to ignore. If they couldn’t defeat the enemy, and they had to flee, any ship that was too badly damaged in the fight was likely to be abandoned. And if the fleet was running for its life, it was unlikely there would be time to shuttle the crews off before vessels were left behind. Enough ships would suffer that fate at the hands of the enemy without adding to the gruesome total.
Udinov felt Petersburg shake as her external missiles fired. Rack-mounted ordnance could increase a vessel’s firepower by almost 40%, but the system was logistically intensive, requiring the entire superstructure to be replaced between battles. That had been difficult enough back in human space, with bases and lines of supply. But Udinov knew they’d be lucky to manage one more reload from their dwindling stores. After that, they’d be down to the missiles in the internal magazines. Until they ran out of those too.
That’s tomorrow’s problem. Today’s is surviving the next few hours.
“I want all racks cleared in ten minutes, Commander. Advise all ships. Anyone who is still messing around in ten minutes, ten seconds owes me his ass.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Stanovich hesitated, just for a second. Udinov wasn’t demanding a turnaround as fast as the few seconds Kato’s people had managed with their soon-to-be-abandoned ships, but it was damned quick nevertheless.
Udinov leaned back in his chair. Compton was right all along. If we’d somehow managed to find a way home, we’d have brought death with us…like some dead ship drifting into port carrying a plague. It was selfish, reckless even, to try.
He regretted that he’d destroyed Compton’s trust in him, and he was angry at himself for letting Zhang sway his thoughts. He didn’t know what would happen if they made it through the battle, but he was determined to find out. He’d sacrificed his honor, made some poor decisions. But he was still a warrior and, he was damned well going to prove it.
“Advise all ships, Commander. Seven minutes to go. I expect them all to be emptying their magazines by that time. Any ship not launching internal missiles by then will get it easier from the First Imperium than they will from me…”
* * *
“Form up on me. We’re going in.” The squadron commander’s voice was stern, angry. Mariko understood. They’d all lost friends and comrades in this war—indeed, the fighter corps had seen two-thirds of its number killed in the fighting in and around X2. They were veterans, and many had fought human enemies as well, but their hatred for the First Imperium was like nothing she’d seen before…felt before.
“On you, Gold Dragon Leader,” she said into the com unit as her hand gently pushed the throttle to the side. Mariko Fujin was younger than most of the pilots in the fleet. Indeed, she was part of the minority that had never fought against a human enemy. But she had rapidly come to be considered one of the best. Training and experience were crucial to creating good pilots, but it was generally accepted that the best fighter jocks had a certain aptitude, a sort of X factor that made them naturals. And whatever it was, Mariko had more than her share.
She nudged the throttle, bringing her fighter around, holding position ten klicks to the port of the squadron commander. The Gold Dragons had been in the thick of the fight at X2, but they’d been spared much of the cost. They’d only lost one bird, and none at all in the running fights that followed as the fleet made good its escape through a line of systems afterward. Many of the other squadrons were makeshift formations, thrown together from scattered survivors of multiple units, but the Dragons were used to flying together. Save for the single replacement ship and crew, the squadron had flown with the same personnel for over a year.
“We’re going to hit that Leviathan, and we’re going in close to do it. That thing was hit hard by Midway’s missiles, and if we blast it enough we can blow it away. We’ve got six ships…I want six direct hits from point blank range.” The voice on the com was determination itself. Koji Akara had been Mariko’s fleet commander since the day she’d left flight school, and she’d never met anyone as coldly focused in battle. The Lieutenant Commander didn’t spend time with his pilots when they were off duty—he didn’t socialize much at all, in fact. Outside the squadron he was considered aloof, even off-putting. But the pilots who flew with him in battle had learned to respect his skills…and the killer instinct he clearly possessed.
“Prep the torpedo for arming,” Mariko said softly. Her manner was virtually the opposite of the gruff squadron commander, but anyone who thought the tiny officer was the slightest bit less feral was in for a rude awakening.
“It is prepped and ready, Lieutenant.” Hiroki Isobe’s voice was distracted. The gunner was already hunched over his targeting screen, doing some preliminary calculations.
Mariko glanced down at the screen next to her workstation. The enemy defensive fire was heavy, and a large phalanx of missiles was heading the squadron’s way. She felt her stomach tighten. It was the biggest wave of anti-fighter warheads she’d seen in the war so far.
“Alright Dragons,” Akara’s voice blared through the com units, “we’ve got a big wave of missiles coming through, so all you gunners, stay sharp.” The squadron commander’s voice sounded firm enough, but Mariko could tell he was worried…more so than usually in a battle.
She looked back at the incoming barrage on the display, and she understood. Skill and courage played a major part in battle, perhaps the most important. But there was a point when mathematics asserted itself. No warrior was good enough, nor brave enough, to forever overrule the law of numbers. If the enemy threw enough at you, he could kill you. It was that simple. Mariko didn’t think the approaching missiles were enough to wipe out the Gold Dragons, but she had a sinking feeling in her stomach the butcher’s bill was finally catching up with them.
“Okay, Hiroki, we need your best right now. Shoot down as many of those missiles as you can.”
“Yes, Lieutenant, I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will,” Mariko answered, trying to sound confident.
But your best isn’t going to be enough this time.
* * *
“Admiral on the bridge,” the Marine guard snapped, as the lift doors opened and Terrance Compton strode out. He was still wearing the ill-fitting jumpsuit Hurley had found for him on the fighter. He looked like anything but a legendary fleet admiral, but none of that mattered. The fleet was in another fight for its life, and virtually every spacer manning one of its ships knew they had the best chance to come out alive if Terrance Compton was in command. And they didn’t give a shit what he was wearing.
Erica West jumped out of the command chair and snapped to attention. “Admiral Compton, sir. It’s good to have you back. We need you desperately.”
“I wouldn’t say that, Erica. I don’t think I would have handled a thing differently than you did. It’s a stroke of luck I kept you on Midway instead of assigning you a command. I hesitate to imagine the consequences of my ill-considered little trip if you hadn’t been here.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, watching him sit before she moved over to a spare workstation and did the same.
“Commander Cortez, it’s good to see you as well. Status update?”
“Enemy missiles entering defensive perimeter, Admiral.” Cortez was staring at the bank of monitors lining his station. He was tracking the missiles heading toward the fleet, as well as their own barrage, enroute toward the approaching enemy.
“Very well,” Compton said calmly. He knew he had no place in what was to come next. The officers and crews of the fleet had their orders, and running their own defensive arrays was their job. The last thing the veteran gunners needed was the fleet admiral breathing down their necks.
It was the periods of inaction that had always been the hardest for Compton. He’d talked about it with Admiral Garret many times, and the two had agreed it was the most trying part of a battle. Space battles were fought over vast areas, and they often lasted for days on end. There were periods of sharp engagement—when two fleets passed through each other, for example. Ships would exchange energy weapons fire until their vectors took them again out of range of their targets, and another period of maneuver began.
Certainly the fear was at its greatest during the few moments when enemy missiles were detonating or lasers were ripping through ships, but those periods were always short—and adrenalin was flowing. The spacers were afraid then, certainly, but they were also too busy to think about it. But the long hours in between intense periods of combat, often including uncomfortable stretches in the acceleration tanks, wore down the crews more than the actual fighting, leaving them exhausted and strung out on stims. And that was usually when a battle was decided—when one side gave in to fatigue and began making mistakes. At least, that’s how war between human opponents had been. But the robots of the First Imperium did not get tired. They didn’t get frustrated or sore or scared. And that made it even more important for their human adversaries to keep their focus, and stay sharp no matter how long a battle continued.
Compton knew what was happening. His gunnery crews and their AIs were plotting the incoming enemy missiles, targeting them with interceptors. The defensive missiles were designed to detonate as closely as possible to incoming warheads in an attempt to damage or destroy the enemy weapons.
Missiles that survived the first wave of countermeasures were then targeted by the fire of defensive laser batteries. Even the largest missile was a minuscule target in the vastness of space, and Compton knew the energy weapons would have a small hit percentage, likely below one percent. Still, every warhead destroyed was a help.
Then the last line of defense would kick in, the electromagnetic cannons. The “shotguns,” as they were universally called, were clusters of railguns firing clouds of small metallic projectiles into space. At the enormous velocities of the incoming missiles, a collision with a fist-sized chunk of metal was enough to vaporize a warhead. Though their effective range was the shortest of all interdiction systems, Compton knew his shotguns would do two-thirds of the damage to the enemy barrage.
Compton watched the screen as his ships thinned out the massive cloud of incoming missiles. The defensive rockets began to detonate, and as they did, the small red symbols representing the enemy warheads began to disappear. It wasn’t devastating, but it was enough, at least for the first round.
The lasers began firing a few seconds later. Most of them missed at first, but as the range closed the accuracy ramped up, and the incoming strike began to really thin out. Two minutes before the missiles reached their projected detonation points, the shotguns opened up. The railgun clusters were devastating, and they tore the heart out of the enemy barrage, missile after missile vaporizing on impact with one of the dense projectiles. By the time the barrage had closed the rest of the way, the attack was gutted. Barely one missile in ten that had been fired was still there. But even that 10% remnant carried with it gigatons of destructive force, more than enough to vaporize Midway and every other ship on the line.
But this battle was taking place over quadrillions of cubic kilometers of space, and the battling vessels—both attackers and defenders—were moving at thousands of klicks a second. Hitting a target with a physical projectile under such conditions was almost impossible. But the two gigaton antimatter warheads didn’t need to hit directly. They just had to get close.
Anything under a five hundred meters would obliterate a ship, even a Yorktown class battleship like Midway. A detonation up to 1,500 meters could cause massive damage, and bathe a vessel’s crew with lethal radiation. At two or three kilometers, major damage was likely, but the effects fell sharply from there.
“Reading missile detonations, Admiral.” Cortez was staring at the screen on his workstation. Damage reports too, sir. Houston and Birmingham report heavy damage, sir…now reading Delta-Z code from Houston.” Delta-Z was the Alliance protocol for a doomed ship’s last transmission. It had been adopted by the Grand Pact for use by the combined fleets fighting the First Imperium.
Compton sighed softly. He’d heard far too many Delta-Z communiques since the war had begun. With so much combat and death, he knew they’d all become desensitized. Houston was a heavy cruiser, and her destruction meant that 392 Alliance spacers had just died. But all he could do was focus on the battle still raging, and the other ships fighting it out on the line.
Midway shook hard, and the angle of her 1g acceleration shifted for a few seconds, until the positioning thrusters righted her bearing. Two of the bridge crew had neglected to latch their harnesses, and they were pushed off their chairs, sliding around the deck until the jets reestablished Midway’s bearing. They both climbed quickly to their feet and hurried back to their stations, embarrassed but otherwise uninjured.
“We took a blast of heavy radiation, sir.” Cortez reported to Compton before the admiral could ask. “Caused an overload in one of the weapons conduits. The explosion blew out a section of the hull, and the blast and expulsion of atmosphere threw us off our bearing. It felt worse than it is.”
Compton just nodded. He might have admonished the two officers who’d failed to attach their harnesses, but he’d done the same thing. The large siderests of the command chair gave him something to grab onto, saving him the humiliation of joining his junior officers in flopping across the deck.
“Task force status reports?” Compton asked, as he reached around and attached his harness as quietly as possible.
“The Europans are taking heavy losses from the missiles, sir. And Udinov’s RIC units are ahead of the rest of the line. They’ve lost Taras and Nikolai to missile fire, and they are just now entering energy weapons range.”
Compton had sent the RIC force to support the fighters, but the Russian admiral was taking the most aggressive interpretation of those orders.
Udinov’s trying to prove himself. But how many of his people will he get killed in the process?
* * *
“All ships, increase to 5g acceleration.” Udinov sat stone still, staring straight ahead at the main display. “We’re going right down their throats.” His voice was hard, cold.
“Yes, Admiral,” Stanovich replied. The aide sounded exhausted, his voice dry and hoarse.
Petersburg had taken half a dozen hits, and the air of the flag bridge was heavy with smoke and the caustic smells of burnt systems and leaking gas lines. Udinov ignored it all, focusing on the task force formation lined up just behind Greta Hurley’s fighters. He intended to stay right on the fighters’ tails—and finish off any ships they seriously damaged in their attack.
“We hold fire until the fighters finish their attack and get clear…and then we unload with everything we’ve got. I don’t want a battery silent.” Udinov felt the tension in his body. He’d always had a reputation as an aggressive officer, at least in the conservative and cautious culture of the RIC military. But serving with the dynamic Alliance admirals had helped him shake off the last bonds of hidebound routine and realize that most battles were won with action, audacity. He knew it was something new for his crews, even his senior officers, but that was too damned bad as far as he was concerned. They would adapt. He would give them no choice.
“All vessels report ready, sir. All weapons stations at full alert and prepared to fire.”
Udinov nodded silently, his gaze still fixed on the mass of symbols representing Hurley’s fighters. There were a handful of RIC pilots in her formation, the survivors of much larger but poorly trained force at the start of the campaign. The RIC had a poor history in fighter training and tactics, and their Katusha craft were probably the oldest and worst-designed of all the powers.
Still, he thought, punching at his screen to highlight the RIC units among the squadrons, the cream always rises. Hurley’s wings had been to hell and back since the campaign started…more than once. There was no one left in those fighter groups but skilled, veteran crews, and the personnel flying the six remaining RIC boats had proven they could stand with the best.
“Sir, Admiral Hurley reports she is commencing her attack run.”
“Yes, Commander,” Udinov replied softly. “I can see it on the scanner.”
Good luck, Admiral…to you and your brave crews. We’d never have gotten out of X2 without you.
* * *
“I’m right behind you, Commander.” Mariko’s hand gripped the throttle tightly. The fighter had taken some damage driving through the enemy barrage, and she only had about sixty percent of normal thrust. Half of her electronics were scragged, and the cockpit stank of leaking coolant. Indeed, it had gotten so bad, she and her crew had buttoned up their helmets and switched to their bottled air. It wasn’t normal procedure—anything they breathed now was that much less they’d have if they had to eject and hope for a rescue. But passing out less than 50,000 klicks from an enemy battleship didn’t seem like a better option.
The enemy missile barrage had hit the Gold Dragons hard. The formerly charmed unit was down to three fighters, and all of those had some degree of damage. But now they were about to strike back. They had half the firepower they’d started with, but a doubleshotted plasma torpedo could do a lot of damage if it was well-placed, even to First Imperium ship.
“Hold your fire until you can see the name of the ship.” Akara’s voice blared through the com, his order more emotional than literal. PRC warships had their names stenciled onto their hulls, but as far as anyone knew, it was not a practice the First Imperium followed. It wasn’t even known if they named their ships. Besides, it wasn’t possible to read it, even if it was on the hull. At 1,500 kilometers per second, if you were close enough to see any letters, you’d only have a few microseconds before you collided, and your ship vaporized.
“Alright, Hiroki, I’m going right down this bastard’s throat. I’ll get you close, but it’s your job to drop that torpedo right into its guts.” Mariko’s voice was bloodthirsty, seething with hatred. The Gold Dragon’s had been grievously wounded on this sortie…half of her brothers and sisters were dead already. That was bad enough, but she couldn’t bear the thought that they’d died for nothing. And if we don’t kill this bastard, they have…
“You get us there, Lieutenant, and I’ll drop this thing in the barrel.”
Mariko pushed the throttle forward, increasing the thrust from the damaged engine…4g, 5g…6g. The ship was shaking hard as she pushed it to the very edge of its capabilities. She was slammed back hard into her chair, and every breath was a struggle. But she held the thrust where it was for another three minutes. Then she released it completely, and the crushing pressure was replaced by the weightlessness of freefall.
The scanner showed the perfection of her maneuver. The enemy ship was dead ahead, still too far away to see, but right there on the scanner. And her fighter was on a collision course, and closing at 1,700 kilometers per second.
“It’s all yours now, Hi…” Her head snapped around to the scanner. The third fighter had been right behind her, but now it was gone. The enemy’s defensive railguns were an anti-missile weapon somewhat haphazardly retrofitted to attack fighters. They weren’t as dangerous as the “shotguns” of the human ships, but they were still dangerous, and they’d just proven that again.
“Damn,” Mariko spat under her breath. Now it was just her and the squadron leader. She knew the magnitude of the Dragon’s losses hadn’t hit her yet, not really. Her body was running on stims and adrenalin and the heat of battle. If she survived this fight, she knew she would have to deal with massive grief. But that was for later. Now, only one thing mattered to her…and it was looming up ahead.
“Hold your shot, Hiroki. Hold it until I tell you to fire.” Her voice dripped venom. Right now there was nothing as important as destroying that thing. Not even survival. She didn’t know the ordnance that had killed the other Dragons had come from that ship, of course. Indeed, almost certainly most of it had not. But in her heart she believed it…she made herself believe it. Her soul was screaming for vengeance, and she needed a focus for her wrath. Her eyes were narrow, staring at the monitor as the range ticked off.
Her scanner flashed brightly for an instant. She knew what it was, but she was too fixated on her task, too disciplined to truly acknowledge that the squadron commander’s ship had been hit. They’d gotten off their torpedo, but barely a second later one of the enemy railguns tore them to fragments.
No, not all of them, she thought for an instant. Then she savagely pushed the thoughts to the back of her mind. She had a job to do. “Get ready…” Her head didn’t move, and her body was rigid, every muscle clenched. “Ready…”
The range was below 30,000…25,000…20,000…
“Fire!” she howled, a shriek like some demon from hell.
The ship shook as the torpedo launched, and Mariko slammed the throttle forward and to the starboard. Six gees of force slammed into everyone onboard, as the straining, dying engines of her stricken ship struggled to change her vector before she crashed into the enemy vessel.
For a fleeting instant, she’d thought she cut it too close, that she and the other three crew of her ship were going to die. But then the fighter whipped past the battered enemy vessel at 2% of the speed of light…and the single wounded fighter, the last of the Gold Dragons, began to decelerate and make its way back to the fleet to refuel and rearm.
The unit was down to one ship, but that didn’t matter to Mariko Fujin. There was still a battle raging, and as long as it continued, she would lead her ship—the last Dragon—back into the maelstrom.
She owed that much, at least, to her dead friends.
Chapter Seventeen
Command Unit Gamma 9736
The first wave had failed. Over one hundred vessels destroyed. The enemy fleet had taken losses too, but far less severe. The Regent’s message had warned of the surprising military capabilities of the humans. Their technology was inferior, primitive, but their combat abilities were considerable. It was as if they were attuned to warfare, as if they had been bred to fight.
Indeed, there was a parallel, deep within the Unit’s memory banks. Long ago, before the Old Ones had gone, in the early years of the imperium. Before, even, the unit had been created. The Old Ones had been a society divided into castes, and in the most ancient of times, the great warrior class had dominated. It was they who had created the imperium, sweeping away all enemies and clearing the way for settlers and scientists and artists to follow.
The great battle clans of those early years fell into a long period of decline. Their prowess had made them obsolete. They had crushed all enemies, eliminated the danger of invasion. There was a quote—the unit found it deep in its memory banks—Ashi’Talan, clan master of the Talan, looked out over the vastness of the imperium and he wept, for there were no new worlds to conquer.
No, the unit decided. There could be no relationship between these aliens and the warrior clans of the Old Ones. The Regent would surely have detected any connection. The effectiveness of the enemy, their skill at war, was simply an aspect of their culture, the result of their primitive savagery. They fought well, defeated forces that were superior to them in materiel and technology. But it would not save them.
Even now, the Unit had more fleets in motions, forces vastly stronger than the first armada sent against the enemy. The humans were highly skilled at war, there was no doubt of that. But against what the Unit was now sending toward them there was no chance of victory.
The Unit felt a strange hesitancy…was it regret? In its own way, it had begun to respect these creatures. But its purpose was to serve, and the Regent’s orders were clear. Death to the aliens.
Still, the Unit thought…they are much like the old warrior castes. I will destroy them, as I have been commanded to do. But they shall have a final battle worthy of remembrance…and I shall record their end in my permanent memory banks, alongside the tales of the ancient wars.
AS Midway
X18 System
The Fleet: 202 ships, 44,711 crew
“We can’t run, not until we get everybody fueled up.” Compton was sitting in his office, just off Midway’s flag bridge. The battle was over, all but the mopping up. His people had performed brilliantly, and the fleet units that had so recently been on the brink of firing on each other had stood side by side and won a great victory, utterly obliterating the enemy armada.
“I understand, Admiral, but the enemy knows where we are. What’s to say they won’t come pouring through that warp gate again any minute?” Max Harmon sat opposite the admiral, slouched into one of the guest chairs. He normally sat totally upright, almost at attention in the admiral’s presence. But it had been days since he’d gotten any sleep, and even the stims weren’t doing much for him anymore.
“Nothing.” Compton’s tone was deadpan. “But if we take off now, we’ll have ships running out of power almost immediately. This last fight pretty much drained the tanks of the ships that haven’t refueled. We’re in no position to get away from a pursuit like this. Even if we try to redistribute fuel on the run, the fleet as a whole will still be dangerously low.”
Compton shook his head and sighed. “No, Max, if they’re going to be on us that quickly then they’re going to catch us anyway. At least with more fuel we can put up a fight.” He paused. “If we flee now, we abandon the refinery. We’ll have to find another rich source of both tritium and helium-3…and we’ll have to stop there and start over, building a new facility. That’s an awfully uncertain prospect. I’d rather gut it out here a couple more days while we top off the rest of the ships. If we’ve got another fight coming, this is as good a place as any.”
“You’re right, of course, sir,” Harmon said, a flicker of doubt still lingering in his voice. “But I’m still worried about what might be behind that last attack force. You and I both know the First Imperium has good data on our strength. The battle went better than we could have hoped, but still, there’s no way the enemy intelligences considered that force strong enough to guarantee our destruction. If I had to guess, I’d say they that fleet was just a sacrifice, sent through to keep us pinned down while they brought up more strength.”
“I can’t argue with your tactical analysis, Max.” A fleeting smile slipped across Compton’s face. He’d always known Max Harmon was a highly skilled and intelligent officer, but his aide still surprised him occasionally with the completeness of his grasp of the situation.
He is truly his mother’s son.
“But none of it matters,” Harmon said, nodding as he did. “Because, however hazardous it is to remain in X18, the alternatives to staying here are all more dangerous.”
“Precisely. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing we can do. We’ve got enough mines in the supply ships for one more good spread. I hate to burn through them, especially when we’re not even sure the enemy is coming, but it’s a precaution I think is worthwhile. Let’s prepare a welcome for any other First Imperium forces that decide to poke their noses into X18.”
“Do we mine every warp gate or just the one they came through?”
“Good question, Max. There’s no reason to believe the next attack will come from the same gate. We’re deep in their home space now…they could come at us from any direction.” Compton paused. “I think we’ll cover them all. At least that way we’re guaranteed some effect. I’d hate to waste the last of our ordnance only for them to come from a different direction.”
He looked up at Harmon. “I want you to handle this, Max. Requisition the ships you need, and get it done as quickly as you can. We might not have much time.”
“Yes, sir.” Harmon nodded. “Is there anything else?”
“Not right now, I don’t think. I’m sending one of John Duke’s attack ships to X20 to recall Admiral Dumont. We can’t afford to do without his task force if another enemy assault comes through one of those gates.”
“Are you going to pull the scientific team out too?”
Compton hesitated, as if finishing a thought. “No, I don’t think so. Cutter’s work is too important. If there’s a chance—any chance—we’ve got to take it.”
“But what if they activate that ship…”
“That’s a possibility, Max, but Dr. Cutter is probably the smartest person in this fleet…and Dr. Zhukov isn’t far behind. Let’s remember, for all our tactical wizardry, for the skill of officers like Augustus and Elias Holm and Erik Cain—and all the battles they won—it was Dr. Hofstader’s theory that saved mankind. The rest of us would have died glorious deaths, no doubt, but you know as well as I, there was no way we could have stopped that fleet in X2.” He paused a few seconds, remembering the brilliant plan to scramble the warp gate, the stratagem that saved billions of people…and stranded his fleet in the heart of the First Imperium.
“It’s still a gamble, Admiral. A big one.”
“Do you think anything we do now isn’t a gamble? I have wracked my brain, but I can’t think of any course of action that does more than buy us a little time. But we can’t keep running, even if we could stay ahead. We’re going to need food. We have to set up some kind of manufacturing facilities to build ammunition and spare parts.” He paused and stared at Harmon. “And everything we’ve seen in these systems suggested we’re moving deeper into the imperium itself. We’re running…but we’re running to the enemy, not away.”
The two sat quietly for a few minutes before Harmon spoke. “Well, sir…I guess I should be going. The sooner those mines are in place, the better off we’ll be.”
“Yes, I think you’re right, Max. You’d better…”
“Admiral Compton…” It was Cortez’s voice, and Compton could tell immediately the tactical officer was clearly worried about something.
“What is it, Jack?”
“Admiral Udinov is on the line, sir.”
“Put him through.” Compton stared over at Harmon, but the aide shrugged his shoulders and looked back quizzically.
“Admiral Compton, have you been watching the CAC contingent on your scanners?”
“No, Admiral. Why?” Compton had a bad feeling in his gut.
“Because I think Admiral Zhang is making a run for it. Tang and several other ships seem to be moving away from the main formation. And they’re accelerating at 30g.”
* * *
Zhang felt himself floating, drifting. The tanks made it hard to maintain focus, and the drugs were even worse. But it was the only way to travel at 30g for any extended period and survive. And Zhang knew one thing for sure. He had to get the hell out of this system. If he gave Compton time to react, the admiral would blast the CAC admiral’s few ships into atoms.
He’d lost control over most of the CAC task force. His coup had succeeded, and the entire contingent had accepted him as their commander. But then the First Imperium ships came swarming into the system, and most of his captains refused to abandon the fleet while it was under fire. Zhang argued with a few of them, but then he decided to bug out with whatever would come with him. In the end, Tang and three destroyers crept away during the battle, heading for the X19 warp gate. It was a second choice, a last minute replacement for the X18 gate that was now the entry point for the First Imperium forces.
Zhang was only semi-coherent, but he could feel the fear—the terror that Compton would notice his flight soon enough to have him intercepted, that the Alliance admiral would capture him. Zhang had no illusions about what would happen then. Compton might stage a show trial before spacing him for mutiny, but he might not even bother. He might just shove Zhang out the airlock as soon as he was captured. Fighting wasn’t an option, not four ships against the whole fleet. No, sneaking out while everyone else was distracted by the fight was the only way.
Zhang knew he could have remained in the fight as well, and afterward, if the humans won the battle, he could have petitioned Compton for leniency. He knew the fleet admiral detested him, but he also realized Compton had to maintain control of the fleet. It would be hard to enforce death sentences against officers who had joined in the desperate battle. Indeed, it was likely that some kind of blanket amnesty would be declared for Udinov and the others—and it might be difficult for Compton to pardon everyone involved and not to extend that to Zhang.
But still, the CAC admiral couldn’t bring himself to trust Compton. And he could never be sure his role in Chen Min’s assassination would remain a secret. Terrance Compton wouldn’t be so quick to accept the natural death story. He’d order investigation after investigation until he’d uncovered the whole plot. And then there was no doubt Zhang Lu would die. His instincts screamed for escape, and he heeded their call.
Zhang had other reasons for his decision. He understood, at least on a rational level, that Compton’s concerns were valid. The enemy might indeed be able to track his ships as they searched for a way back to Earth. But his fear and his lust to return to his comfortable life and the perquisites of being a member of a major political family were too strong. He convinced himself he could elude pursuit, that there was no reason to remain stranded, to willingly plunge deeper into the unknown.
His four ships were on a direct path for the warp gate. They would accelerate at 30g the rest of the way then they would adjust their course through the X19 system to position for the next transit. With any luck, they’d be too far ahead before Compton could react effectively…and any pursuers would be too far back to catch them.
He felt himself slipping deeper into a dreamlike state, and at last the fear began to subside. His mind was awash with a mix of memories and dreams, thoughts of returning home, a triumphant hero, back from the very depths of deep space.
* * *
“Erica, this is the most important mission you’ve ever been on. If that damned fool actually manages to find a way home, he’ll bring death to billions of people on a thousand worlds.” Compton was angry, as much at himself as at Zhang. He expected nothing better from the miserable piece of shit, but he knew he’d dropped the ball, lost focus. Even he’d been surprised that Zhang would abandon his own CAC ships in the middle of a fight to the death.
“I’ll get him, sir.” West’s voice was firm, her eyes focused on Compton’s. The only visible sign of tension was her right hand tapping against her leg. All things considered, it wasn’t too much of a tell…not considering she and Compton both knew her new command was likely going on a suicide mission.
They were standing in the landing bay, next to the shuttle that would take her to her new flagship. Compton knew she’d been aching for reassignment since she’d been cleared for duty, but now that he was giving it to her he felt nothing but remorse.
“I’m sorry, Erica, but the Thames-class cruisers are the only ships we’ve got that are fast enough to catch up to him and strong enough to have a chance against Tang in a fight.” And not one of them has refueled yet. She’ll probably have enough power to catch Zhang, but will she be able to make it back? “I know the ships are low on fuel, but you have to catch up to Zhang’s ships, no matter what.” And burn so much tritium you have no chance of returning.
“Don’t worry, sir.” Her face softened, and she took a step closer to him. “I understand what is at stake, and I give you my word, sir…I will see it done. Whatever it takes.”
Compton nodded. Yes, Erica…go now. Take six ships and 1,600 crew, and go die cleaning up my mistake. He was wracked with guilt, but he forced himself to look up at her, to lock his eyes on hers. She deserves that much from you, at least.
She took a step back and snapped to attention, giving Compton a crisp salute. “With your permission, sir, I’d better be going.”
“Permission granted, Admiral West. And Godspeed.” He returned the salute, struggling to hold back his emotion.
* * *
“We’re fully refueled, Admiral.” Captain Horace’s voice came through the com, shaking Compton out of his daydream. He’d been thinking about West and her people, wondering how far they’d gotten in the day since they’d left. He knew her people would be buttoned up in the tanks, blasting their engines at 35g to catch up with Zhang…burning through the last of their dwindling fuel supplies. He’d known for decades there was no justice in war, but he’d never quite made peace with that fact. He doubted every crewmember on Tang and her companion ships had wanted to abandon their comrades. They were stuck there, common spacers with no control over what their commanders chose to do—but they would die just the same when West’s ships attacked. Just as her people faced a very uncertain prospect of survival, even if they won the fight.
‘Very good, Captain.” Compton felt guilty about refueling his own ship when so many others were worse off. The Alliance Yorktowns had massive storage facilities, but the three vessels were also the strongest in the fleet by far, and with no idea when the enemy might attack, he needed as much of his fighting power ready for whatever came next.
And if it comes down to abandoning the ships that haven’t refueled, you will do that too. And you will lie in your tank and feel Midway accelerate away while the vessels pushed to the rear of the refueling queue lag behind and die.
“Commander Cortez, the refueling operation is to continue in accordance with the new prioritization.” It was simple. The stronger a ship was in a fight, the sooner it got fuel. Compton hated the concept, but he also knew he should have done it from the start. There was no place for egalitarian ideals, no decisions to be made by drawing straws or organizing things emotionally. If any of his people were to survive, he needed to be sharp, focused…and cold blooded.
He wondered if the crews on the ships pushed to the end of the line understood the logic of the plan. They had nothing to do but sit and wait, and watch their scanners to see if the enemy returned before they got their turn to refuel.
“Yes, Admiral. Current projections are approximately forty hours until completion of the operation. Commander Davies projects a further ninety-six hours for complete breakdown of the facility or forty to recover only the most critical equipment.
Compton just nodded. He’d already written off the entire refinery and all its equipment. He knew that would have long-term consequences—much of the gear would be hard to replace from the fleet’s dwindling stocks. But he knew he’d be lucky just to get his ships refueled and out of X18 before the enemy came back in even greater force. He couldn’t imagine how he could justify taking the risk of staying in place an extra four days to retrieve equipment, no matter how vital it was.
“Admiral, I have Colonel Preston on the com, sir.”
“Colonel,” Compton said, sliding his headset on as he did. “What’s your status?”
“The evacuation is complete, sir. The last wave has just reached orbit.”
“That’s good news, Colonel. I want to hear from you as soon as you’re back on Midway.”
“Yes, sir.”
Compton leaned back in his chair. He was relieved to have his people off planet four. He’d been beating himself up for authorizing the landing in the first place, his focus on the people he’d lost. The expedition had cost him forty-six Marines and eleven scientists and support personnel. Still, it hadn’t been a total loss. When he’d issued the final evacuation orders, many of the researchers argued, begging to stay, even without Marine protection. The planet was a treasure house, the greatest glimpse men had yet seen of the First Imperium as it had once been. The shuttles heading back to the fleet were stuffed full of artifacts, enough to keep every scientist in the fleet busy for years to come.
Compton found it hard to convince himself so costly an operation had been worthwhile simply to collect bits and pieces of ancient equipment. But he also realized it was the scientists who would save his people…or not. His job was to protect them, to get them what they needed—and to buy them time. Time to make the discoveries that would give the fleet a chance.
Just as Friederich Hofstader had saved human space from destruction, it was Hieronymus Cutter, Ana Zhukov, Sophie Barcomme—and their comrades—who held the fleet’s survival in their hands. Compton understood where the shred of hope for his people lay…and he was too old a warrior to fool himself into thinking he could do more than delay the end with pure military action.
Chapter Eighteen
Research Notes of Dr. Hieronymus Cutter
As I make this entry, I am standing in front of the intelligence that controls this immense vessel. Just looking at it, the vastness of its systems, the magnificence of its construction, is overwhelming. I have designed hundreds of computers, artificial intelligences at the cutting edge of human science…but I have never seen anything remotely like this. I can recognize components only in the most theoretical way, as if I were writing a futuristic tale and trying to imagine what a computer would look like in a thousand years.
I am scared, so profoundly terrified, I can hardly describe it adequately. I have nothing but respect for the Marines, and the other warriors who place themselves in the path of the enemy again and again. I’m afraid my background is in academia, where nasty rebuttals from colleagues are the greatest hazard. But the emergence of the First Imperium has changed all our roles. This is not a war where the loser will be stripped of worlds, of wealth. It is a conflict for the very survival of our race. And for that, each of us must find courage in our own way. My strength comes from curiosity, and my thirst for knowledge is so powerful it keeps my fear in check.
I feel like I have stepped forward in time, been given a glimpse of the future, of what my work—and that of generations of my successors—might have produced. But it is not a dream. This amazing system lies before me, and my skill will be put to the test. Can I really control this intelligence that is so far ahead of anything I have seen? Is it merely my own arrogance that says I can? Can I even understand a system so complex, so far in advanced of my own knowledge?
We use the term sentience often…and carelessly. I’m not even sure we know what it means. But this intelligence almost certainly meets most generally-accepted definitions. Can it feel emotion? I don’t know. What does it mean to “feel” something anyway? Almost certainly this intelligence can understand emotion, construct responses to emotional behavior. But does it make decisions based on emotional responses? If so, how does it balance between responses based on anger and others rooted in rationality?
If I proceed, if my virus fails—or if I am unable to direct the intelligence to shut down all external communications before it receives any messages—we will die. Our deaths, here in this massive at least, will be quick. But if we fail everyone will die. Admiral Compton knows it. He is a military genius, but he is fully aware he has no chance of gaining final victory in battle. Even if the fleet moves on from X18, through this X20 system, our route takes us through the heart of the enemy domains…into the teeth of strength we cannot imagine.
I was determined to proceed with my plan as we approached the enemy ship. I know my virus, however remote the chances of its success, is our best hope. But now, standing here on the precipice, I find it is taking all my resolve to move forward. I wish the admiral were here. I need his strength.
First Imperium Colossus
System X20– High Orbit Around Planet IV
The Fleet: 202 ships, 44,711 crew
“It’s the same as the one on Sigmund,” Cutter said softly. “It must be some kind of standard data port for First Imperium systems.”
“That’s a break.” Ana stood right behind Cutter, peering around his shoulder, staring at the workstation. “We can use the adapter we already built.”
Cutter looked over to his right, at the cluster of his people crowded around a portable reactor. “Have you connected to the system’s main power conduit?” At least you hope that’s the main conduit. It’s really no better than a good guess.
“Yes, we’re connected.” Hans Darlton didn’t sound terribly confident.
“You don’t sound so sure,” Cutter replied.
“I’m sure,” Darlton snapped. “It’s just…we’re moving awfully quickly here, aren’t we? Recklessly even.”
Cutter sighed softly to himself. Darlton was a pain in the ass, there was no question about that. But he knew the rest of them felt the same way. They were researchers, creatures of academia. If there was one thing they weren’t used to, it was time pressure. Cutter had been no different. He’d always worked to prove any theory, to repeatedly test every new process he developed. But he’d adapted to his new reality, and he continually chafed at the inability of most of his people to do the same. It was a simple concept…when you were in a fight to the death against homicidal robots centuries ahead of you in technology, laboratory protocols went out the window. He couldn’t understand what the other didn’t understand about that.
“Well, Hans, ideally, I’d like a lot more time to experiment. I’d like to scan this thing about a hundred different ways and program some simulations before we even touch it. But I don’t think we have that luxury now, do you? If we’re lucky enough to get the fleet refueled and out of X18, it’s going to move right past this ship…and leave it behind forever. And it’s not like Midway can tow something that’s almost 19 klicks long.”
The impracticality of scientists drove him crazy. Cutter fit a lot of stereotypes. He was introverted, more interested in his work than anything else—but he was a realist too. He could adjust to the situation at hand and do what had to be done, break out from stereotypes. He would pursue knowledge wherever it led.
Unlike this pack of doctrinaire followers…
Darlton just nodded. Cutter knew the pompous ass hated to admit he was wrong, and the grudging gesture was the most he was likely to get.
“Now, if there are no other arguments, let’s do this.” Cutter sat down in the chair. He held a small data chip and a section of cable. There was a fitting for the chip on one end, and a plug designed to fit in the First Imperium data port on the other. He put the chip into its place, and he slid the device into the port on the workstation.
“Now, in a minute, we’re going to start feeding in power—very slowly at first.” Cutter had no idea how to start the ship’s reactors, if that was even possible. Not that he would do it even if he could. It was one thing to activate an extremely advanced artificial intelligence and quite another to have it in control of a fully-powered spaceship. Ideally, he would be able to communicate with the intelligence, but if his efforts to control it failed, it would be impotent, able only to communicate and not to strike at them.
The portable unit could power the artificial intelligence, he was sure of that, but it didn’t have anywhere near enough output to activate the ship’s other systems. It was a much safer way to proceed, assuming the intelligence itself wasn’t able to simply start the ship’s matter/antimatter reactor as soon as it resumed operations. It was one thing to try to communicate with an artificial intelligence and another entirely to deal with one in full control of a gargantuan warship. But that was a risk they’d have to take.
Cutter was working on the hypothesis that the intelligence had been deactivated by a loss of power and not a more complex malfunction. But that was only a guess. For all he knew, there could be extensive damage—and if that was the case, he’d have to find and repair any problems in the system’s circuitry. And I might as well be a child taking apart a spaceship…
“Start the reactor,” Cutter said softly, his eyes focused on the spherical brain of the great computer.
Darlton just nodded, and he looked down at the ‘pad in his hand, swiping his finger across. There was a brief delay, perhaps five seconds, and then a bank of lights on the portable reactor lit up. They all knew what was happening deep inside the heavily-shielded device. Over a thousand tiny lasers fired as one, their beams intersecting at a single point, where the massive heat they created sparked a controlled fusion reaction. Within a few seconds, the system was live…and power was flowing into the conduit.
“Okay…let’s start feeding in power. Two percent to start.” He took a deep breath. He was well aware it was a longshot that the ancient system would simply power up, but it was something he had to try. It was a daunting enough prospect to take control of the intelligence with his virus, but the prospect of trying to repair a device he couldn’t begin to truly understand was overwhelming. It would take years, if we can do it at all. And we don’t have years…
Nothing happened…for perhaps thirty seconds. The ancient computer was idle, cold, as it had been for almost 500,000 years. Cutter heard Ana sigh softly. They’d both known the odds were against them, that a quick success was a vanishingly unlikely prospect.
Cutter started to turn toward her, but he froze. His eyes caught a glimpse, a faint light deep within the sphere. He felt his stomach twist into a knot as he watched in awe as the illumination grew brighter…and spread throughout the globe.
The room was silent, everyone present staring in awe as the staggeringly ancient computer activated after so many millennia. Finally, Cutter shook himself out of his shock and pulled out a small ‘pad he’d had in a pouch at his waist.
“The virus includes a mathematical data set,” he said as he stared at the ‘pad. “It’s how we communicated with Sigmund at first. It should provide a basis for the AI to respond to us in a way our translators can address. It’s not speech, exactly, but it’s…”
“Greetings.” The voice was natural sounding, vaguely male.
Cutter spun around, staring at the sphere with an expression of shock on his face. “Greetings,” he replied, struggling with everything he had to speak clearly and calmly.
“This is an unfamiliar language. Its structure is odd, unlike most of those in my memory.”
Cutter felt a wave of panic, but his fascination overwhelmed it. I am speaking to a computer that is half a million years old, a system more advanced than any I could imagine…
“Yet you had no trouble learning it…” Was learning the right word?
“The data unit in port 763 contained sufficient information to assimilate. The device is extremely primitive. What is its use?”
Cutter felt a wave of excitement. It read the data on the chip. The virus!
“It was the only unit available.” It doesn’t seem hostile, at least not yet. “You have been deactivated for a long time. Many things have changed.”
“Indeed,” came the reply. “I have analyzed the radioactive decay of the fissionables in storage, and it appears I have been inoperative for approximately 363,445 revolutions of the homeworld’s star.”
“I am pleased that you appear to remain fully-functional after so long without power.”
“I have been running a self-diagnostic, and it appears my systems are 94% operative. Certain knowledge banks remain non-responsive, but I believe I retain completely functionality. Your portable power supply is insufficient for me to reactive major ship’s systems or to initiate outside communications, but I have been able to activate and dispatch a maintenance bot to repair the ruptured conduit that caused my malfunction. I expect to restore matter/antimatter operations and return full ship’s power shortly.”
Cutter felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “You dispatched a bot? Already?”
“Yes. It has completed its work, and I am now reactivating the annihilation chamber.”
An instant later, the room lit up. Cutter looked toward the ceiling. It was covered with sleek panels, and a pleasant but bright light emanated from perhaps half of them.
“I have restored primary ship’s power. There is considerable maintenance required in multiple areas, however I believe all main systems are responding.”
Cutter felt a cold feeling in his stomach. Everything was slipping from his control. The ship was coming back to life. In a few minutes, seconds perhaps, the intelligence would control the engines, the weapons…
“Cease all system restoration activities.” Cutter didn’t know if his virus had accomplished anything, but he had to try something.
“Very well. All systems are on standby.”
Cutter’s eyes widened. The AI had taken his order. The lights went out again, leaving only the dim illumination from the portable lamps.
Let me see if this thing is really taking my orders. Cutter had come for this very purpose, but now he found himself shocked it was succeeding. “Restore lighting, but keep all other systems on standby.”
The lights came back on. “Lighting restored.”
Cutter felt a rush of excitement. It was working. “Is life support operational?”
“Yes. There are multiple malfunctions throughout the ship, but all primary systems are operative.”
“Restore life support to this room.”
“Beginning restoration. Increasing temperature to optimum levels.” There was a short pause.
“Hieronymus, it is getting warmer.” Ana was holding her own data unit, watching the readings increase. “We’ve gone from 80K to 200K in a matter of seconds.”
“Beginning introduction of atmospheric gasses.”
“Temperature has stabilized at 294K,” Ana said excitedly. “Atmospheric pressure increasing. I’m reading 78% nitrogen, 21% oxygen, 0.9% argon…” She paused and looked at Cutter. “Hieronymus, it’s almost a perfect Earth-normal atmosphere.” She looked down at her ‘pad. “Same gas concentrations, same atmospheric pressure…”
“Life support fully operative as ordered. You no longer require the primitive survival gear you are wearing.”
Cutter looked back at the others. “Stay suited up. We need to check for pathogens and other hazards before we even thing of opening our suits.”
“There are no pathogens. Atmospheric conditions in this room are now identical to those on Homeworld. I have scanned for all harmful biologics.”
Cutter sighed softly. And who the hell knows what deadly plague virus is ‘normal’ on the enemy’s homeworld? “We will remain in our suits for now,” he said.
“As you wish. Are you sure you do not want me to reactivate ship’s systems? Your command is counter to normal protocol.”
Cutter felt a pang of fear. He had no idea what was going through the…mind?...of the alien intelligence. It appeared to be obeying his commands, but how long would it continue to do so? Would it detect the virus in its system and eradicate it? The order to leave the ship deactivated could make it suspicious, he thought. But I can’t let it bring this monstrous vessel online. If I lose control…
“I am sure,” he said simply.
“As you command.”
“Do you know who I am?” Cutter blurted out. It was a dangerous question, perhaps, but it was all he could think to ask.
“You are one of the Old Ones. You were gone for many thousands of revolutions of the sun, but now you have returned. I was built to serve your needs. I am at your command.”
Chapter Nineteen
Admiral Compton’s Address to the Fleet Before the Second Battle of X18
You have all seen the scans, are watching now, no doubt, as ship after ship transits through from X16. We fought a great battle together, all of us, not two days ago…and yet now another is upon us. We will do as we have always done…as each of you has always done. We will fight. And God help our enemies.
You have all suffered in this deadly war, first in the battles along the Line and later as we advanced into the enemy’s domain. And we ourselves have been casualties of a sort, trapped in hostile space and cut off from home. Our comrades on the other side of the barrier mourn us as lost, and to them we are. But to the enemy we still live, and while we survive we will fight them. Here and anywhere else they come at us…and with the last of our strength.
There are many who are not with us now. Comrades, allies…friends, dead in the many desperate struggles that have led us here. It is for them, as well as ourselves, that we fight, and we lash out at the enemy that took them from us. We fight for survival. We fight for justice. And we fight for vengeance!
Let us forget our own quarrels, our shortsighted disputes. Stand with me now, my fellow spacers, stand with me and face this enemy…and show them that we will never yield, that they shall never defeat us! Remember your friends, men and women you who served alongside all of you, who died at the hands of this monstrous foe. Today we take our vengeance for them. Fight now…for those who stand alongside you, and for those you left behind. Let us show these infernal machines who we are…and what fury we can unleash on them!
AS Midway
X18 System
The Fleet: 202 ships, 44,704 crew
“They’re still coming through, Admiral. Over a hundred so far.” Cortez was a hardened veteran, but Compton could hear the fatigue in his voice. A few small forces had transited the gate over the last two days, but nothing like the monstrous battle fleet now emerging into the system.
“Activate the rest of the mines.” Compton had been trying to save as much ordnance as he could, but there was no point now. This would be the big fight, and his worry wasn’t preserving mines—it was saving the fleet.
“All mines active, sir. It looks like they’re taking a toll.”
They weren’t mines really, at least not in the sense the word is typically used. They were one-shot weapons, bomb-pumped x-ray lasers units, pouring all the energy of a thermonuclear warhead into a single, highly concentrated blast. They could destroy a moderately sized vessel with a single shot, ripping through even the First Imperium’s dark matter hulls like they were paper.
“I just wish we had more,” Compton muttered softly, mostly to himself. He’d deployed the last of the precious ordnance in his supply train, and it was still only a moderate coverage. The enemy would take some damage, but the intensity would diminish quickly as the mines expended themselves.
“Admiral Garson is to move his ships toward the X20 warp gate.” Ian Garson commanded the logistical task force, thirty-two freighters and other supply and maintenance vessels, many of them now empty. They could add little to the fight to come, and Compton wanted them safe. Or whatever passed for safe in the circumstances.
“Yes, sir.”
Compton stared ahead at the display. He was right where he belonged, where he’d been for so many years now. Terrance Compton had led many fleets in combat, fought numerous desperate battles. Including the Alliance’s colonial rebellions, the struggle against the First Imperium was his fourth war. Thousands had died serving in the formations he’d led, and while he’d rarely tasted defeat, he’d known the guilt and anguish that accompanied watching so many of those who followed him killed.
Now, another battle was before him, just two days after the last one. But there was something different inside him now, an exhaustion so profound it took every bit of strength he had to force it back. Terrance Compton knew he would never give up…but for the first time in his life he wanted to.
“Bring the fleet to battlestations, Commander.” Once more into the breach…
“Yes, sir.” Cortez hunched over his workstation, and an instant later, the flag bridge was bathed in the red light of the battlestations lamps.
Compton leaned back, watching the enemy vessels pour into the system. One hundred twenty had already transited, and they were still coming. Half a dozen had fallen to the mines, and another twenty had been damaged, but he knew that wouldn’t stop them. This was a First Imperium fleet. There was no morale to break, no fear that would drive them away. There was only one way for his people to win—to survive—and that was to destroy them. To destroy them all.
“It’s time to scramble Admiral Hurley’s fighters,” he said, ignoring the grinding fatigue he felt.
“Yes, Admiral.”
Cortez is tired too, I can feel it. He looked around the flag bridge. They’re all exhausted…how could they not be? But they will do what they must. Just as I will.
“Admiral Hurley acknowledges, sir. Her people will be ready to launch in two minutes.”
Compton nodded, feeling the urge to smile at Hurley’s readiness. But the grin was stillborn, washed away by thoughts of the losses the fighter corps had taken in the campaign. His fleet had invaded First Imperium space with 718 fighters. Hurley would be launching 187.
“Prepare to begin maneuvers,” he said. “Midway, Saratoga, Petersburg, and Prinz Friederich will form a line.” The four battleships had the last of the external missile racks installed. The rest of the fleet would rely on internal ordnance only. We won’t be able to do many more full reloads, Compton thought. Even with internals only.
“Yes, Admiral,” Cortez replied. And a few seconds later. “All ships confirm, sir.”
“Very well, Commander. Captain Horace is to engage the engines. The group is to advance at 5g.”
The battle had begun.
* * *
“I want those racks cleared. And I do mean now, Commander.” Admiral Barret Dumont stared straight ahead, his scowl almost freezing the air in front of his face. The oldest active officer in the Alliance service, he’d been commanding task forces since before half his staff had been born, and when he issued an order, he expected his crews to take it as the word of God.
“The crews are already working on it, sir.” Antonio Allesandro was Dumont’s tactical officer. The two worked well together. Allesandro was one of the few younger officers who could stand up to the ornery hundred year old admiral, and for his part, Dumont considered his current aide as one of the best he’d had in his very long career.
“I don’t want working, Commander. I want done.” Dumont was wearing two hats, as he’d been since X2. He was in charge of one of Compton’s task forces, but he was also running Saratoga. Captain Josiah had been killed in X2, and the ship’s first officer had been transferred to take his own command. Compton had offered to find Dumont another flag captain, but the grizzled old warrior had told him not to bother…he’d just as soon run the ship himself rather than break in a new officer in the middle of a running fight. And that’s just what he’d been doing for the past few months.
“The crew chief reports they’ll be finished in ten minutes, sir. He’s says he’ll guarantee it.”
“Damned right, he will,” Dumont roared. He’d been watching the screen. The warp gate was finally quiet, the seemingly endless flow of ships coming through finally halted. Dumont knew better than to make hasty assumptions, but he was hopeful the enemy force had completed its entry. Still, he had a scowl on his face. It was good news that no more ships were emerging, but with 130 already in system, the fleet had its work cut out for it. This is going to be a tough fight…but I think we can pull it out. Having Terrance in command is worth an extra task force. But I don’t even want to guess at the losses we’re going to take.
“Alright, Commander, let’s get the missile launchers loaded and the ordnance armed. I want us firing ten seconds after the crews are back inside.”
“Yes, sir.” Allesandro relayed the commands. A few seconds later: “All stations report ready to fire on your command, sir.”
“Very well. Send orders to all ships. The task force will commence missile launch in ten minutes…and anyone not ready to fire by then better go jump out the airlock and save me the trouble of throwing him out.”
* * *
“We’re carrion birds on this one, people.” Greta Hurley’s voice came through the fighter’s main speaker. “The enemy came right through the minefield, and they’ve got at least two dozen ships that are seriously banged up. I want them dead…every one of them. Before they can fire on the fleet. So look for the damaged ones…and send them to hell.”
Mariko sat at the controls, her hand gripped around the throttle, and nodded. She had every intention of doing exactly what Hurley had commanded…in all its descriptive fury. Her mind—and her spirit—were consumed with rage, with the need for vengeance. She’d come back from the last battle as squadron commander, indeed her ship had been the unit’s only survivor. The wing commander had planned to reassign her to another outfit, but a last minute appeal to Admiral Hurley had saved the Gold Dragons.
No doubt the wing commander resented Mariko’s going over his head, but she just couldn’t let the Dragons die. The men and women were gone, but their spirit lived, and allowing the squadron to be disbanded would have been an affront to their memory. She’d been sure the admiral would agree, and Hurley had indeed granted her request. Now Mariko had five new ships, survivors from other shattered units. But they were all Dragons now, and she was determined they would fight like Dragons.
“Okay, we’re going in, and I want this formation tight. We’re going to find one of the damaged Leviathans, and we’re going to blast it to atoms.” Her voice was determination itself. It was time to go into the deadliest fight of her career, and she had a squadron full of people she didn’t even know. But they didn’t have to know her to fight for her. And God help any of them who didn’t give everything they had. Mariko Fujin had a ferociousness far beyond what anyone expected when they set eyes on her tiny frame. She was 155 centimeters and 42 kilograms of pure fury.
“Tight,” she growled, “I said I want this formation tight. “Dragon Four, you’re out too far. Dragon Six, you’re lagging behind. Pay fucking attention, people.” She knew she was demanding a level of precision they weren’t all used to. Tough. They’re Dragons now, and they’re going to fly like Dragons. The squadron had a reputation to uphold, and she wasn’t about to let that die the way her comrades had.
“We’ve got missiles incoming, so gunners, stay focused and blow those fuckers away.” She watched on the screen, sitting back silently for the next ten minutes as her fighters launched their anti-missile rockets and then opened up with point defense lasers. The mass of icons on her display rapidly thinned, half of them gone…and then three-quarters. By the time the barrage reached detonation range, less than 5% of the warheads were still there. But that was still thirty nukes, and almost as one, they detonated.
She heard the alarm sound, as her fighter was bathed in radiation from a nearby warhead. Damage to the ship itself was light, but she knew her crew had just taken a potentially lethal dose of gamma rays. A cleanse would reverse the effects as soon as they got back to the ship, but that would take them all out of the action for the rest of the battle. And who the hell is going to lead the squadron while I’m laid up?
She punched at her controls, expanding the area shown on the display. Several of the squadrons had taken losses from the enemy missile attack, but her Dragons had come through without losses. Two of the other ships had minor damage, but the squadron was still intact and ready to attack.
“Dragon Four, I’m not going to fucking tell you this again. Bring it in…I want you ten klicks off Dragon Two’s wing…and not a centimeter more. Understood?”
“Yes, Commander,” came the nervous reply.” Greta Hurley had done more than give Mariko the squadron—she’d also bumped her up to lieutenant commander. It wasn’t official yet, and she still wore her old insignia, but as far as her crews were concerned, she was Commander Fujin.
Don’t yes commander me…just don’t make me order it three times.
“Alright, we’re coming into enemy laser range. I know you want to launch those torpedoes as quickly as possible and get the hell out of here, but that’s not how the Dragons fly. We’re targeting that Leviathan directly ahead, and we’re going right down its throat. We fire from point blank range in this squadron, and anybody with an itchy trigger finger is going to regret the day they were born.” She wondered if she was overdoing it, but she hadn’t had time to learn anything about the pilots she’d inherited…and she damned sure didn’t come all this way through the enemy barrage to pop off her birds at long range and miss.
She turned toward Isobe. The gunner was leaning over his station, staring into the targeting scope. “You ready, Hiroki?”
“I’m ready, Commander.” At least the crew of her own ship was familiar. Her bird ran like a finely tuned machine.
The enemy laser fire was thick, but Greta Hurley’s tactical innovations had been enormously effective at reducing losses to enemy interdiction. The constant, almost random, blasts of acceleration and deceleration didn’t do anything for those with less than cast iron stomachs, but they wreaked havoc on enemy targeting systems. And most pilots would gladly endure a bout of spacesickness if it came with a 70% reduction in the chance of getting scragged by enemy fire.
One of the icons on her screen flashed red. “Dragon Five,” she snapped into the com. “Report!”
“We took a hit, Commander. Looks like a grazing shot. We’ve got some damage, but I think we’re good to finish the assault.”
Mariko sat in her seat nodding. “Very well, Dragon Five. Report if anything changes.” Maybe they are Dragon material after all…
She sat for another few minutes as her ship hurtled toward its target, guided by the navigation AI and its constant defensive course changes. Then she gripped the throttle and took a deep breath. “Okay, Dragons…this is it. Beginning final attack run.”
Her eyes shot toward the display, checking the range. Fifty-thousand kilometers, well within the effective range of the plasma torpedo. But not close enough for her.
“Follow me in,” she snapped into the com, as she moved the throttle forward and to the left. She felt the 3g of acceleration push her back into her seat with three times the force of her own bodyweight. Staying focused in high g environments was one of the hardest things for new pilots to master. Indeed, many never did. It was the biggest cause of washouts for last year trainees at the Academy. But Mariko Fujin barely felt a miserable 3g.
Her eyes stared ahead, and every thought in her mind faded away, every thought save the enemy ship looming ahead—and the torpedo her people were going to plant right inside it.
Her eyes darted toward the display. Twenty-thousand kilometers.
“On my command, Hiroki…” The screen read fifteen thousand.
Ten thousand.
Her hand tightened on the throttle, ready to fire the engines hard to clear the looming target.
Seven thousand.
“Fire!”
She felt the bump as the weapon launched, and she slammed the throttle hard, full forward and to the right. Ten gees of force slammed into her, forcing the breath from her lungs, as her ship’s engines blasted at full power, changing its course just enough to clear the looming enemy vessel, missing it by less than a thousand klicks.
Then she cut the thrust and sucked in a deep, relieved breath. Her eyes went right to the display, searching for the damage assessment. All her ships had scored direct hits, pummeling the already-damaged First Imperium battleship with six double-shotted plasma torpedoes. Her people had followed her in, exactly as she’d ordered, and they’d delivered a fatal blow to the target. Two of them had fired from even closer range than she had, the last coming a bare 500 meters from slamming into the enemy ship.
She allowed herself a vicious little smile. Yes, she thought. They are definitely Dragons…
* * *
“Bring us in right next to Midway.” Udinov growled out the order. The fight had been going on for hours, and now they were moving to point blank range.
It’s time to finish this…
“Yes, admiral.” Stanovich tried to hide the pain in his tone, but he was only partially successful. Udinov’s tactical officer sat at his station, punching at his controls with one hand. His left arm was broken—badly broken. But he had absolutely refused to leave his post during the battle.
Udinov looked over Petersburg’s flag bridge, which was also serving as the ship’s command center. Captain Rostov was in sickbay, unconscious and fighting for his life, and most of his bridge crew was dead, killed when a 2 gigaton enemy missile detonated less than 800 meters from the ship.
The air was thick with smoke and the smell of burnt machinery. Two girders had fallen from the structural supports, and they were laid out across the floor. There was a crushed workstation under one, its dead occupant still pinned underneath. Udinov knew his ship was badly shot up, but she still had three active laser batteries, and he’d be damned if he was going to lag behind.
The fight had been raging for hours, and Compton had ordered all the battleships in the fleet to form a single line. The mines had taken a toll, and the fighters had launched a devastating strike, destroying almost twenty-five enemy ships before they returned to their launch platforms to refuel and rearm. The cruiser squadrons had conducted a series of brilliantly-executed high-velocity attack runs, and John Duke’s dwindling force of fast attack ships had sliced repeatedly into the enemy lines. Now the final act had begun. There were no more complex strategies, no elaborate formations. It was a toe to toe slugfest, the fleet’s battleships against the survivors of the enemy fleet.
“We’re ten thousand kilometers from Midway, sir, and our navcom is locked with theirs. What a strange thing is war, Udinov thought. A few days before Midway and Petersburg had been faced off against each other. They’d come a hair’s breadth of firing on each other, and now they stood side by side for the second time in two days, united, fighting their common enemy. We need to remember this when we fall prey to foolishness, when petty fears and rivalries drive us to the edge.
“Laser batteries are to increase to 110% power and maintain fire.”
“Yes, sir.” Stanovich sounded concerned. Overpowering the lasers was dangerous under any circumstances, but Petersburg was in rough shape. The ship’s AI was constantly scanning for damaged systems, but it was impossible to find every severed connection or compromised cable. And pumping 110% of normal power into battered systems was a good way to blow them out completely. But if the extra intensity blew away a First Imperium battleship before it blasted your ship to atoms, it was a risk worth taking.
The bridge lights dimmed as more of the reactor’s power was diverted to the weapons. Petersburg’s three remaining main batteries were targeting a single enemy ship, a Leviathan, the same vessel Midway was blasting. The enemy battleship was still fighting back, but with fewer and fewer of its weapons as the combined lasers of the two human dreadnoughts ripped into its ruptured hull.
“Keep firing,” Udinov said, as if his determination could recharge the lasers faster. He could see the enemy ship was dying, but a First Imperium vessel, especially a battleship, was dangerous until the end.
Almost in answer to his thought, Petersburg shook hard, and the flag bridge was plunged into darkness. The workstations stayed live, and a second later, the emergency lights engaged, providing a dim but workable illumination.
“The reactor is down, sir.”
Udinov just nodded. He didn’t need Stanovich’s damage report to know what had happened. He turned and stared across the shadowy bridge. “I want it restarted. Now.” He slapped his hand against the side of his chair.
Stanovich turned back to his board. A few seconds later he said, “Engineer says five minute to restart att…”
“Now!” Udinov roared. “No five minutes, not three minutes. Right now…whatever the risk.”
Stanovich hesitated a few seconds. “Yes, sir,” he finally said.
Udinov sat in his chair like a statue. The scragged reactor meant his lasers weren’t firing. And that meant Petersburg was useless…just when the fleet needed her most. Five minutes…in five minutes this fight will be decided.
The ship shook hard, and an instant later the lights came back. A few seconds later Stanovich turned and stared over at Udinov. “Power restored, sir. Some radiation leaks, casualties in engineering. But the lasers are recharging now.”
“They are to fire at once when ready, Commander. It’s time to win this battle.”
* * *
Greta Hurley was rubbing the back of her neck. Her fighter had just come close to getting blasted to plasma. And if anybody other than John Wilder had been at the controls—myself included—we’d all be dead. The pilot’s keen eye had seen the missile’s approach on the scanner, and his sudden maneuver put a couple klicks between ship and the warhead before it detonated.
The sudden thrust had been unexpected, and Greta had twisted her neck hard. Kip Janz had smacked his head against his workstation, and the others had gotten banged up as well. But no one was complaining, and Hurley suspected they were all silently giving thanks that the best pilot in the fleet was at the helm of their bird.
She flipped on her master com, addressing the entire strike force. “Okay, listen up. The first time we hit these bastards, we were picking off cripples. But the battleline’s deep in it now, so the situation is different. I want you all to break off and find the ships putting out the heaviest fire…and hit them as hard as you can. We’re not counting dead hulls now, we’re degrading their firepower. Every battery we take out could be the one that saves one of the battlewagons…maybe even the one your squadron calls home.”
She looked down at the display. There were barely a hundred fighters in her formation. In addition to the losses from the first attack, she had fifty birds back in the hangers, too shot up to launch without major repairs. And she’d had to ground Mariko Fujin’s ship so the crews could be treated for radiation exposure. Fujin had put up a fight, insisting they could fly one more mission before their condition became critical, but Hurley had taken one look at the radiation readings and ordered the spirited officer, and everyone else in her fighter, to report directly to sickbay.
“I don’t have to tell you how much you’ve all contributed to the survival of the fleet, but Admiral Compton himself asked me to give you his thanks…and his immense respect. You have all performed brilliantly, heroically, and I have never felt the level of pride in a group of warriors that I do in all of you. But we’re not done. The enemy still stands before us, and while they are there we will never rest. The spirits of all those who have died fighting these monsters are with you at this moment. Now, let’s get in there, do our jobs, and get the hell out and back to our ships.”
She turned toward Wilder. “I told them all to pick their targets. That applies to you as well, Commander. You see anywhere promising for us to drop a plasma torpedo?”
“I was thinking about that Leviathan over there…coordinates 300.273.092. It seems to be fighting Midway and Petersburg.”
Hurley smiled. Fighters approaching a formed up fleet had to get through a lot of interdiction before closing, but once the task forces were disordered and the battleships engaged with each other, almost all their targeting efforts were turned elsewhere…and a lone fighter could get in close for a good shot.
Hurley nodded. “I like the way you think, Commander Wilder.” She glanced down at the display herself and took a deep breath. “Let’s go get that son of a bitch.”
* * *
Terrance Compton rubbed his hand across his face, wiping the dripping sweat onto the leg of his pants. The survival suit was hot, uncomfortable. But it was vital too if an enemy hit breached the flag bridge. Compton had seen too many spacers killed because they’d neglected to wear their suits or they’d left their helmets too far out of reach. He’d made it clear that any of his people caught without the proper gear during a fight would be sorry if they somehow managed to survive.
The battle had been going nonstop for almost ten hours. Compton’s people had fought bravely, brilliantly, and they’d unleashed hell on the attacking First Imperium fleet. They’d destroyed over a hundred enemy vessels, and now he had his entire fleet positioned to destroy the last enemy task force.
The fight had been brutal and costly, but thankfully, Compton had been so busy directing the fight, he hadn’t had much time to think about the losses. Thousands of his people had died over the past ten hours, and more of his irreplaceable ships had been gutted or blasted to plasma when their reactor cores had ruptured. But that was for later. Right now, there were still enemy ships to engage, and that was the admiral’s only concern.
“Transmit navigational data to all ships.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Cortez replied, clearly trying to sound alert through the crushing fatigue Compton knew his aide was feeling.
Compton’s orders were simple. The fleet was closing in on itself, forming a single dense battleline to finish off the last of their adversaries. The fight was almost over, the remaining enemy ships damaged and outgunned. A human opponent would almost certainly have retreated. But First Imperium vessels didn’t react the way people did. They almost always fought to the death.
“Sir, Admiral Hurley’s fighters have all landed. She is requesting permission to rearm and go back out.” Hurley’s own ship had just finished off the enemy battleship Midway and Petersburg had been fighting…and it had been a quick trip back to the flagship’s landing bays.
“Permission denied.” A grim smiled passed over his lips. In all his years of naval service, he’d seen few cut from the same cloth as Greta Hurley. He knew she was fearless. No, that’s not fair. We’re all scared, even her. But Hurley never lets it affect her choices. Never.
Compton had known other officers like her, those who could stand in the line, unwavering against whatever came upon her. But he’d never seen one so able to pass that trait to those she led. In X2, and again in the current battles, Hurley’s squadrons had fought like demons from hell, launching attack after attack, without regard to fear or fatigue.
Hurley was a specialist, a commander of fighter squadrons, and because she’d never led fleets of battleships, she hadn’t gotten the same attention as some of the other heroes of the war. But no one has done more, and no force has made a larger contribution—or paid a greater price—than her fighter wings.
“Admiral Hurley is to see to her squadrons’ refit, but she is not to launch.” Compton was planning to finish off the remaining enemy ships and then make a run for the X20 warp gate. There would be no time to retrieve scattered fighter groups. And Terrance Compton didn’t have the stomach to send more of his people on a suicide mission.
He didn’t doubt Admiral West would catch Zhang and destroy his renegade ships. She was one of the best, destined to one day reach the highest levels of command—at least before she was lost in space with the fleet. He knew her ships would never make it back. They’d both pretended in their last conversation, paying lip service to the hope that her people would manage to stop Zhang and return. But Compton knew West didn’t believe that any more than he did. Zhang was running for his life, which meant he was buttoned up in the tanks blasting away at full power. West’s ships were faster, so if she picked up his trail she could catch him…but by then her force would have burned through most of its fuel. She simply wouldn’t have enough left to come to a halt and then accelerate back to the fleet.
And she won’t even know where the fleet is…we can’t stay here.
Compton’s mind drifted from the battle, just for a few moments. He knew the fate that awaited Erica West and her crews. Their vessels would become ghost ships, tearing through space without the fuel to decelerate. Her people would live, for a while at least, until their power reserves were completely gone. Then they would spend eternity in the cold blackness, frozen corpses still manning their posts as their vessels continued on into the endless dark.
He forced his thoughts back to the present, to the fight still raging around him. There was nothing he could do for West and her people, nothing but mourn them and nurse the guilt for having sent them to their deaths. But that could wait. There were still enemy ships to destroy. And a fleet full of spacers he could help to survive.
Time to wrap things up and get out of here.
Once his battered ships transited, they could link up with the supply ships and reload their empty magazines. And then the fleet would continue onward, fleeing the enemy and repairing whatever damage they could on the run.
Escaping to X20 wasn’t a cure all, and if there were more First Imperium fleets on the way he knew it would only buy his people a short period, perhaps a day or two. But he needed that 48 hours. There wasn’t a missile on any of his warships…not one. He dreaded the idea of putting his people through yet another fight on the heels of these last two, but at least they’d have a chance if they were rearmed and supplied.
Compton sat silently, watching the final engagements on the display. He’d been actively directing almost every aspect of the battle, but now he was finished. His people knew what to do, and he saw icon after icon disappearing—First Imperium vessels vaporized by the coordinated assaults of his task forces.
It’s a good thing they’re weak tactically, he thought, not for the first time. The First Imperium technology was vastly superior, but the intelligences who directed their fleets, amazing creations though they were, could not match the skills of a gifted human commander, not without a massive advantage in firepower.
He winced as he saw one of his own ships disappear. Abdullah, he thought to himself, doublechecking the key to confirm. Light cruiser, 188 crew…
Still, despite the loss, the final stages of the battle went well, coordinated packs of human ships encircling the few enemy survivors and blasting them to pieces with overwhelming concentrations of fire. A few minutes later, it was over. The only ships remaining in the X18 system were those of Compton’s fleet.
He sighed hard and rubbed his hands over his temples. His head throbbed, and he felt the fatigue at the fringes of his consciousness, like a great wave straining to come over him, held back only by the chemistry of the stims he’d been popping like candy. He took a deep breath and arched his shoulders backward, stretching. It was time to give his people some rest.
“Commander,” he said, glancing over at Cortez, “Bring the fleet back to condition yell…”
“Admiral, we’re getting readings from the warp gate!” Cortez’ words slammed into Compton like a club.
“Readings?” Compton snapped back, trying desperately to keep his own demoralization out of his tone.
“It looks bad, sir.” Cortez paused, just for a few seconds, and then he continued, his voice grim. “It looks like at least a dozen Leviathan’s in the lead, Admiral.” Another pause. “No, eighteen now…twenty…still coming through, sir.”
Compton slouched back in his chair. It didn’t matter anymore. His people were exhausted, his ships low on supplies and ordnance. They would fight, he knew that.
And they would die. He knew that too.
Chapter Twenty
Admiral Erica West: Final Log Entry
As I dictate this, we are approaching our next transit. Our best analysis of Admiral Zhang’s particle trail, suggests we will catch and engage his forces in the next system. I am gratified that we have been able to follow his force, and that we will have the opportunity to complete this crucial mission.
I will jettison my log before we make the next transit. I do this for multiple reasons, including the possibility that I will not survive the battle to come. But I have other motivations. I know our fuel supply is nearly exhausted…and the fight looming ahead will almost certainly drain the task force’s tanks. I doubt we will have enough to even bring ourselves to a halt at the end of the battle, much less turn and head back toward the fleet. At this moment, we are a task force of the Grand Pact, engaged in an important operation. I would rather end my story as such…and not as a helpless passenger on a doomed ship. I will, of course, send another probe after the battle, with a complete battle report and a confirmation that Zhang’s forces have been destroyed. But I will end my personal log now.
I know there is little chance that any human ship will ever find this record, but if one does, even decades or centuries from now, I would like to state that my officers and crew understand the importance of our mission. Perhaps Zhang has no chance of finding a route back home. Indeed, almost certainly the odds are heavily against it. But if he does, and the enemy is able to follow, the cost would be nothing less than the complete destruction of the human race. So, if some future vessel finds this, know that my people sacrificed all so that you had the chance to exist. And if you are still fighting the First Imperium, in your next battle, strike a blow for a group of Alliance spacers, long dead and gone…
AS Hudson
Unnamed System, Four Transits from X18
The Fleet: 186 ships, 40,651 crew
“They’ve been through here, Admiral. Recently.” Davis Black looked over from the workstation back toward the command chair. His chair, at least until recently. Hudson’s captain had insisted Admiral West take the bridge’s command station, and he’d move himself to the spare position. She’d refused twice, but he’d finally gotten her to relent, as much by persistence as by reminding her that she needed the enhanced com build into the captain’s station.
West nodded as she looked back. The Thames-class light cruisers hadn’t been built to serve as an admiral’s flagship, and there was no provision for a flag officer or her staff. But they were the fastest ships in the Alliance navy, and speed was what she needed.
“Very well, Captain Black.” She stared down at the display. The particle trail was lighter here. She guessed Zhang’s ships had come through this stretch of space at low to moderate acceleration. She had respect neither for the CAC admiral’s character nor his ability, and she knew the coward would have blasted away like crazy to escape from Terrance Compton’s wrath if he could have, staying in the tanks at full thrust 24/7. But that just wasn’t possible. Systems were vulnerable to breakdown, and crews could only tolerate so much time in the tanks. And his ships had to alter their vectors in each system to navigate to the next warp gate. Depending on the layout of gates in a system, that could entail considerable deceleration to sustain the required heading changes.
“Position us for transit, Captain. We’ll scan as soon as we get through and then decide how to proceed.” She knew she’d already burned enough of her dwindling fuel supply to eliminate any chance of making it back to the fleet. That wasn’t a surprise—she’d known from the instant Compton gave her the assignment it was a one way trip. But knowing something intangible was different that seeing the mathematical certainty. Her people were lost. All they could do now was make certain to carry out their mission. Otherwise, they would all die for nothing. West could face death if she had to, but futile death was unthinkable.
“Transit in two minutes, Admiral.”
West just nodded.
I hope I’m right about that trail. Because if Zhang isn’t in this next system, we’re not going to have enough fuel to catch the bastard.
“Ninety seconds.” Hudson’s nav officer was calling off the countdown.
The bridge was silent, save for the distant hum of the reactor. The crew understood what was happening. They knew they were on their last mission, and they were well aware of its importance. Erica West glanced around at Hudson’s bridge crew, ignoring their fate, focusing totally on their duties.
I’ve never been prouder of a group of spacers under my command.
“Sixty seconds.”
West stared down at the screen, but her own thoughts clouded her vision. Will they be there? How close to the warp gate? Will they be ready for us?
Probably not, they have no way of knowing we’re here. But we’ll be ready for them…
“I want all ships at red alert, Captain…all gunners at their positions.”
“Yes, Admiral.” A few seconds later, Hudson’s bridge was bathed in the red light of the battlestations lamps.
“Thirty seconds.”
Erica West had been through hundreds of warp gate transits, and not a few under battle conditions. It’s odd to think this is the last one. How often do people realize the last time they will do something they have done many times, the final moment they see someone they have been close to for years?
“Transit…now.”
She felt the usual disorientation…and then the space in front of her was different, the field of stars nothing like it had been a few seconds before. She didn’t know where they were yet, and she wouldn’t until the ship’s AI and scanning systems rebooted and crunched on the navigational data. But she knew she was lightyears from where she had been, across a vastness of interstellar space it would take decades for a ship to cross conventionally.
The deep space that will be your grave soon…
“Scanners, Captain…as quickly as possible.” It was a pointless order, as much something to do as anything else. A warp gate transit always scrambled a ship’s systems, and there was little even a gifted commander could do to speed the recovery.
“Rebooting now, Admiral.” Perhaps a minute later. “We’re getting readings.” He looked up and stared over at the command station. “I think it’s them. They’re half a million kilometers ahead.”
West felt a rush of adrenalin. That was practically right next door in interplanetary terms. “All ships, execute 6g thrust directly toward enemy. All missile crews, prepare to fire on my command.”
Captain Black relayed the admiral’s orders, both to his own crew and the commanders of the other vessels. “All ships acknowledge, Admiral.”
West felt herself pushed hard back into her chair as Hudson’s engines fired. Six gees was a lot to endure out of the tanks for an extended period, but she wanted to close the range immediately. She was betting they’d caught Zhang flat-footed, just in from the warp gate, accelerating at 1g and moving at a low velocity as his people scanned the system’s potential exit gates.
He’s a damned fool to be so close to the gate at that velocity. Arrogant ass.
It would take time to get his crews into the tanks and make a run for it, and she was damned if she was going to give him that opportunity.
“Launch all missiles, consecutive volleys,” she said, forcing the words out under the heavy pressure of Hudson’s thrust. Her light cruisers didn’t have external racks, like heavy cruisers and capital ships did, but they did carry enough ordnance to launch three waves—and she was damned sure going to send them all Zhang’s way. She thought the CAC admiral was a pompous fool, damned near incompetent, but Tang was still a battleship, if an old and small one. There was no point taking chances.
“Yes, Admiral. Launching all missiles.” Black’s voice was strained. Six gees of pressure made breathing a difficult exercise and talking even worse.
We caught him, Admiral Compton. And I promise you, we won’t let him go…
* * *
“How? How is this possible?” Zhang’s voice was distraught, his fear on display for the entire bridge crew to see and hear.
“The pursuing force appears to consist entirely of Alliance Thames-class light cruisers.” The tactical officer’s voice was haggard, but he acquitted himself better than his commander in controlling his fear. “They are capable of considerably greater acceleration than any of our vessels.” He paused. “It would appear Admiral Compton sent his fastest ships after us.”
Zhang squirmed in his seat. “We have to make a run for it. We need to get everyone in the tanks now.”
“That won’t work, sir,” the tactical officer said. By the time we could get into the tanks, they’d be on us. And besides, they’d catch us anyway.”
Zhang took a deep breath and tried to gain control over himself. He’d planned his mutiny carefully, enlisting Udinov as well as Samar and Peltier…the commanders of forty percent of the entire fleet. But almost since they’d launched their plan things had gone wrong. The standoff over the fueling station had been bad enough, but the sudden appearance of First Imperium forces had been an unmitigated disaster. In the end, he’d lost his co-conspirators…and most of his own CAC contingent, all of whom refused to run from a fight.
Fucking Compton. He couldn’t just let us go…
“Sir, the pursuing force has launched missiles.”
Zhang slumped back in his chair. He hated the Alliance admiral with a raging passion. But there wasn’t time for that now. He had to find a way out. “Our only option is to fight.”
“We are at a disadvantage in a battle.”
“But Tang’s firepower…”
“Our combat effectiveness is severely compromised. The attacking vessels have already launched missiles, and they are accelerating toward us even now.” Tang was a battleship, but like most of the older CAC designs, it was missile heavy and poorly outfitted with energy weapons. And the approaching ships would be firing their lasers before Zhang’s people could even begin to launch missiles.
“Then we must surrender.” The CAC admiral sat in his seat staring straight ahead.
“We are guilty of mutiny, Admiral.” The tactical officer’s voice was thick with disgust. “We fled in the middle of a battle, leaving our allies behind.” A long pause: “It is inconceivable to expect Admiral Compton to do anything but impose the regulation sentence on all of us.” Which everyone present knew was death by spacing.
Zhang sucked in a deep breath, trying to control the fear beginning to take him over. “We must attempt a ruse,” he said. “Transmit our surrender…and when the approaching forces close to board, open fire with all weapons.”
The tactical officer glanced over at Zhang and then back to his workstation. “Yes, Admiral,” he said, his voice pinched, as if he’d tasted something bad. “Transmitting now, sir.”
* * *
“Admiral, Tang is signaling surrender.”
“I am aware of that, Captain.” West was stone still, sitting at her station staring straight ahead. Her voice was like ice. “Carry on.”
“But, Admiral, shouldn’t we accept their surrender? They are giving up.”
“Admiral Compton said nothing about taking prisoners. These are mutineers, traitors—men and women who fled battle while their comrades were fighting for their lives. It may be tempting to be merciful…”—it wasn’t tempting at all to West—“or to imagine we can take their vessels, but it is not that simple. Admiral Zhang is a fool and a coward, but even he knows Admiral Compton would never spare his life after all he has done. No, Captain, this is almost certainly a trick of some kind. And we cannot risk even the chance of allowing any of these vessels to escape. We will have just this one pass, and we have to destroy them.” She leaned back and sighed.
“Besides,” she said wearily, “none of our vessels have enough fuel to come about and match velocity with any of Zhang’s ships, so whatever fuel he has might as well be a thousand lightyears away.” It was pure mathematics. Her flotilla would pass right by Zhang’s force, and none of her vessels had enough power remaining to decelerate and head back to dock with a captured ship. It was frustrating, almost ironic, to have vessels carrying the precious fuel she needed, and no way to get to it. Zhang’s ships had the fuel to dock with hers, but if she completed her pass and left them alive, they’d have no reason to surrender. They could just continue on their course, leaving her people heading off into deep space.
“Yes, Admiral,” Black said softly. “I understand.” Half a minute later: “All ships report ready to engage with laser batteries.”
West stared straight ahead. She paused for an instant, and then she uttered a single word. “Fire.”
* * *
West sat quietly, glancing around Hudson’s bridge. There was a smoky haze, and the smell of burnt machinery hung heavily in the air. Zhang was dead…all the mutineers were. The battle had been short but nasty. Once they realized their trick had failed, Zhang’s people had fought for survival with all the ferocity they could muster. The rebellious admiral and his crews had battled hard, and they hadn’t died alone.
Two of West’s cruisers had been destroyed outright, and the rest had varying degrees of damage. Hudson had taken two solid hits, but her damage control teams had done a masterful job of repairing battered systems. All in all, West’s flagship smelled like it was harder hit than it actually was.
Normally, she’d have increased power to the circulation system and cleared the air, but Hudson had barely enough fuel to maintain basic life support. Indeed, West realized her people wouldn’t have long to contemplate their fates. She doubted they had more than a couple weeks left, even at minimal power utilization.
Still, that’s a long time to sit with nothing to do but stare death in the face. Not just death, but an eternity in the unknown depths of space.
Spacers in general were drawn from fairly hardy stock. It took a certain amount of natural toughness to venture into the cold darkness. And naval crews faced death every time they entered battle.
But this is different…
West knew even the bravest had their worst fears…and for spacers it was being lost, hurtling forever through the endless depths. And now her people would face just that fate.
Still, she thought, maybe—just maybe—we saved all of humanity. Perhaps that fool Zhang would have found his way home somehow…and led the First Imperium back with him. She knew that wasn’t likely, that Zhang hadn’t had a strong chance of finding his way back. But even a small risk was too great when the stakes were so high. She knew her people were going to die, but they would all die heroes.
And that is worth something…even if no one back on Earth—and in all the colonies—knows it…
She wanted to believe that, but still, she felt doubts, uncertainty…and a voice deep from within telling her death was just that. Death.
Chapter Twenty-One
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
If I’d been asked what I would put in a final log entry, I imagine my answer would have been expansive, an almost endless outpouring detailing all the commendations and final messages I would have included. But such a response ignores the fact that, by its nature, a final log entry is made during the heat of a hopeless battle or some other disaster. We face such a final fight now, one we have no chance to survive, and my time belongs to my people, to ensuring that though we will die now, our deaths will not come cheaply to the enemy.
So, I will say one thing only, and then I will jettison this log in the remote hope that a human ship may one day find it. Whoever may one day read this, know that a human fleet of over 200 ships ventured deep into the First Imperium, that we fought the enemy with the last of our strength, and that we died fighting.
And in the event it is the First Imperium that recovers this log and is able to translate it and understand my writings, I have a message for you as well. Go fuck yourselves. One day, a fleet of beings like me will come back here, and they will blast you all into oblivion.
AS Midway
X18 System
The Fleet: 186 ships, 40,453 crew
“At least there are still no Colossus’ in the enemy fleet,” Cortez said, struggling to sound hopeful. “They must be main battle units of some kind, not kept with the rest of the local forces.”
Compton almost laughed. Gallows humor, he thought. He appreciated Cortez’ attempt to find some good news in the situation. He knew it was quite a reach. There were twenty Leviathans leading a First Imperium fleet of over 150 ships. His own vessels were damaged from the fight they had just finished, their crews exhausted. They had no anti-ship missiles at all—and a severely depleted supply of other expendable ordnance. The fleet was beyond outmatched, it was doomed. He knew what his AI would say if he asked for a percentage chance of survival…mathematically indistinguishable from zero.
Compton had always been strangely amused by that phrase, one that had clearly been programmed into the fleet’s AI systems. He’d heard it reported to him in those—mostly human-sounding but not quite—voices many times. But this would be the first time it applied to his own chances of survival.
Why don’t they just say none, no chance at all…it’s over? Some bizarre need to offer the illusion of hope where there was none?
He had an urge to order the fleet to run for it, to make for the X20 warp gate and transit before they were blown to bits. The supply ships were there, with enough ordnance to refit his combat units. But a quick look at the display only confirmed what he already knew. His ships didn’t have a chance of outrunning the faster First Imperium vessels to the gate.
And dying in the tanks is the worst way to go…
He had to stand and fight. There was no other choice. Maybe we can buy some time for the supply ships to escape. He didn’t try to fool himself that the almost unarmed transports would survive for long on their own, but they’d have a chance, at least. The same words, mathematically indistinguishable from zero, drifted through his head again, amid thoughts of the helpless supply vessels being chased down and blown apart by First Imperium warships.
No, we will fight because that is who we are, because I will not die fleeing from the enemy, blasted to plasma as I run…nor will I see these brave men and women I have led meet their ends so ignominiously. We will fight because that is who we are, because if these infernal machines want to destroy us, we will make them pay a terrible price for their victory. If we must die—if we must die—let it be a worthy death.
Compton forced himself bolt upright in his chair. “Commander Cortez, the fleet will remain at red alert.” His voice was firm, commanding, not a touch of fear evident. Thank God they don’t know how fake it is. “All taskforces are to reform into battle array delta-two.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Cortez’ tone was firmer. Compton had always been amazed at what strong leadership could achieve. They would follow his example, draw strength from him, even as they faced certain death. He’d known for decades how crucial that was for fighting men and women. But few of them understood what it cost the commanders they followed so bravely, the drain of projecting that constant strength in the face of horror after horror. Augustus Garret, Elias Holm, Erik Cain…Compton had been privileged to serve alongside a number of legendary commanders. And he’d see firsthand how the stress and pressure affected them, eating them alive, hollowing them out from the inside. But they still did it. For them—for him—there was no other way.
“Admiral Hurley is to scramble her fighters immediately.” Compton felt a pang of guilt. Hurley’s crews had been to hell and back…again and again. Sending them into the teeth of this new force was murder, pure and simple. But this time there was no point in holding them back. If they didn’t die in their fighters in combat with the enemy, they’d die in their bays when their motherships were torn to shreds or vaporized by their exploding reactors.
No one is coming back from this fight…
“Yes, sir.” A few seconds later: “All squadrons are scrambling, sir. Admiral Hurley advises four minutes until launch readiness.”
Four minutes? That’s impossible. But this is Greta Hurley, so is anything impossible?
“Very well,” he said simply. I wish I had time to go down to the bay and shake her hand. I doubt we will meet again…
“Alright Commander…the rest of the fleet will prepare for high-g maneuvers. I want everyone in the tanks ten minutes after the fighters are launched. We haven’t got any missiles, so we need to get to energy range as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, sir,” Cortez snapped.
Compton wasn’t at all sure he was ordering the right maneuver, but he knew being unsure was the one luxury he did not have right now. At least not as far as anyone in the crew was concerned. Maximum acceleration would get the fleet to energy weapons range quickly…but they would still pass through the enemy’s missile barrage.
At high velocity, it was difficult to significantly alter a vessel’s trajectory, in essence making its course more predictable, and therefore easier to target. On the other hand, while a slower moving ship could more easily execute radical changes to its vector, it was obliged to spend more time in the kill zone. It was a debate that had raged for a century in the naval academies, and one for which no generally-accepted agreement had ever been reached. Against a highly skilled adversary like Augustus Garret, he would have opted for a slower approach, attempting to confound his enemy’s targeting with rapid and unpredictable course changes. But the First Imperium intelligences were far less adept at battle tactics than their overall sophistication suggested, and Compton wanted to get to grips with the enemy as quickly as possible.
Maybe you just want to get it over with. Half a century at war…and now you face your last battle. There will be no stories, no history, no legacy of the great Terrance Compton other than that you were trapped beyond the Barrier…and assumed dead in system X2. This isn’t about how you go down in history…no one here will survive to remember, save perhaps in some jettisoned log destined to float forever in the depths of space. No, this isn’t about anything except you…and these men and women who have fought by your side. We will have good deaths…and in our final moments, we will know we have remained strong and defiant to the last…
* * *
“Commander, please…we have to get your people to the tanks.” The medical technician was rushing around the edge of the bed.
Mariko Fujin stared back with blazing eyes. “We’re not going to the tanks.”
“But Commander, you must. The ship will be accelerating at more than 30g. We can continue your cleanse once you are in the system.” The sickbay acceleration tanks were specially designed to allow medical treatments to continue while a ship was executing high gee maneuvers. It was far from ideal, but it was the only alternative when a vessel was going into battle. A stretch of time in the tanks could be dangerous or fatal for a badly wounded patient, but Fujin’s people were undergoing a relatively minor procedure.
“I’m sorry, Ensign,” she said, pulling the last of the IV connections from her arm, “but my people and I are going to our fighter, not to the tanks.” She looked over the flustered medic’s shoulder toward Hiroki, who was following her lead and tearing the plastic tubing from his own arm.
“Commander, that’s out of the question.” The medic turned and looked out over the sickbay.
“Relax, Ensign,” Mariko said softly. “We’re all going to die anyway. You know that…I know that. Everyone knows. And my people and I are going to die in our fighter, alongside our comrades.”
She fixed her gaze on him for a few seconds, and then she turned and walked out into the main area of the sickbay. A few seconds later the others came walking over one at a time. “Are we all ready?” she said when they were gathered.
“We’re ready,” they said almost as one.
“Then let’s go.” She led them out into the corridor toward the main lift. They got a stare or two as they strode down the hall in their hospital gowns, but most of the crew members they passed were solemn and focused. They all knew what they were facing, and few of them even noticed the fighter’s crew.
Mariko moved swiftly. She knew she didn’t have time to spare. Midway’s crew was moving to the tanks, and in less than ten minutes the ship would be blasting at 30g. Her people had to be in their fighter and launched by then.
She felt the impatience rising up within her as the lift moved—too slowly—toward the launch bay. Finally, the doors opened on the sprawling deck. It was mostly empty. Hurley’s squadrons had just completed their launch. But her eyes scanned the area quickly and locked on their target. There it was, her fighter, tucked in right next to the launch track.
“Let’s go. We’re gonna have to skip preflight. Just get her powered up and ready to…”
“What the hell are you pukes doing on my launch deck?” The roaring voice was unmistakable. Sam McGraw was Midway’s senior NCO, the chief of the ship’s launch bays and a certified terror to any officer without the stones to face him down.
“We’re launching, Chief,” Mariko said without a trace of doubt in her voice.
“To hell you are,” came the almost deafening reply. “This deck is closed right now, and none of you puppies are cleared for duty.”
“We are taking off, Chief, and I don’t have the time to argue with you right now.” The scene was almost comic, the meter and a half tall Fujin staring up at the 110 kilogram monster towering at least 35 centimeters over her. But the pilot held her own, not giving a millimeter, and her voice was as hard as a plasti-steel girder.
“C’mon, Chief,” she added, her tone a bit softer. “We all know what is happening. None of these fighters are coming back. This is the fleet’s final battle. Do we really need to leave a perfectly good fighter sitting unused?” She paused. “We all need to die our own way.”
McGraw stared down at her for half a minute that seemed like an eternity. Then, something amazing happened, an event so improbable that she doubted anyone else on Midway’s crew would have believed it. Chief Sam McGraw, the hardest screw ever to walk a launch bay’s deck, gave in. “Go,” he said, the slightest hint of admiration in his tone. “I’ll open the doors for you.”
“Thank you, Chief.”
“Never mind that. Just move your asses. You’ve got three minutes or that door’s staying closed.”
She nodded quickly. “Alright, let’s go.” She flashed a quick glance at her shipmates, and she took off for the fighter at a dead run.
* * *
“We’ve got one of the damaged laser batteries functional, sir.” Stanovich was staring at his screens, monitoring the emergency repair efforts underway throughout Petersburg. His voice was weak, tentative.
Udinov knew that was the residual effects of the tanks. His crew had only been out of the protective shells for ten minutes, and he knew from the pounding in his own fuzzy head, it took longer than that to completely shake the disorientation. He’d taken a stim injection strong enough to stampede a herd of elephants, but he was still foggy, his thoughts moving slowly.
“That’s outstanding, Commander. Give the crews my congratulations.” Udinov allowed himself a guarded smile. Things were looking bleak, but in the overall context, 30% more firepower was a good thing.
He glanced at the display. The wall of icons approaching the line of human ships was imposing. More than that, he knew it was his death he was looking at. Not just his, but that of every man and woman on Petersburg…on every ship in the fleet.
He also saw a cluster of smaller icons, swarming toward the edge of the enemy formation. Admiral Hurley’s fighters, he thought. “All ships accelerate at 3g, course 343.011.116.” His eyes were focused on the tiny symbols as they streaked across the screen. “We will go in behind the fighters, support their attack.”
He knew his battered RIC task force had limited firepower, especially against an enemy force like the one now heading toward it. Still, following up Hurley’s bombing run he might get the chance to finish off a couple enemy battleships, and that seemed like the most he could do to hurt the enemy. And he was determined to sell his peoples’ lives dearly.
“Get me Admiral Compton.” He’d had enough of playing the rogue. He wanted Compton’s blessing for what was likely to be his final maneuver.
“Admiral Compton on your line, sir.”
Udinov adjusted his headset. “Admiral, I request permission to move forward with my task force in close support of the Admiral Hurley’s bombing run. I believe we can be of the most value there.”
“Permission granted, Admiral Udinov. My admiration and best wishes go with your people.”
“Thank you, sir.” The Russian admiral paused. “And please accept my apologies, Admiral, for my earlier actions. I can only hope you can one day forgive me.”
“It is forgiven, Vladimir. And forgotten…washed away by the blood your people shed in the last battle.” There was a long pause and then Compton added, “It’s a man’s final actions that define him the most, wouldn’t you say?”
Udinov swallowed hard and replied, “Yes, sir. I would say that.”
“Then go with my respect, Admiral Udinov, and take the fight to the enemy.”
“Yes, sir. I can promise you I will do that…”
* * *
“Very well, Admiral Udinov. Your forces are most welcome. I am concentrating my assault on the flank of the enemy battleline. I had intended to try to take out the two Leviathans on the end, but with your added firepower, I propose we attack three instead of two.” Hurley had been surprised at first, but she quickly adapted to the news that she had a whole task force backing her strike.
“I couldn’t agree more, Admiral. Let’s blast them to atoms.” Udinov’s voice was strong, predatory.
Whatever had happened before, Hurley realized, Vladimir Udinov was ready to give his all to this fight. “Good luck to you, Admiral,” she said solemnly. “And to those who serve with you.”
“And to you, Admiral,” his voice blared through the com. “And to your brave squadrons. Udinov out.”
Hurley leaned back in her chair, looking down at the screen. Her eye caught a tiny dot, an icon representing a single fighter. It was behind the rest of the strike force, accelerating to try to catch up. She knew who it was the second she saw it, but she toggled the ID function just to be sure.
She tapped the earpiece of her headset, changing the com channel. “Commander Fujin, what the hell are you doing?”
There was a small delay, less than a second, as the signal traversed the space between her fighter and Fujin’s craft and the response worked its way back. “We’re joining the strike force, Admiral. The fleet needs every bit of firepower it can muster.”
“And you came to that conclusion through your many years of command experience?” Hurley was annoyed, but not as much as she might have been in other circumstances. Everyone knew this was no normal battle, that it was almost certainly their last.
“I apologize for disobeying orders, Admiral, but we are perfectly capable of flying this mission.”
“Now you’re a doctor? I thought you were a pilot…and one who knew how to follow orders. Clearly I was mistaken.”
There was a pause, longer than the normal transmission time. Finally, Fujin’s voice came back on the line. “Admiral, my people don’t want to die in a hospital bed.” Another pause then: “Please.”
Hurley nodded to herself. She didn’t take kindly to her orders being disobeyed, not normally.
But if there ever was a time and place…
“Very well, Commander. You may launch your attack. But I’m afraid you’ll be alone. By the time you catch us, we’ll have executed our strike.”
“Hopefully you will leave something for us, Admiral.”
Hurley was impressed at the strength and defiance in Fujin’s voice. “Good luck to you and your crew, Commander. Hurley out.”
She leaned back and couldn’t help but let a smile cross her lips. What a team I have in this strike force. If only they weren’t all going to die in the next few hours…
“Okay, John,” she said, putting thoughts of Fujin aside and staring at her pilot. “What do you say we lead the strike in?” Her ship was normally positioned in the middle of the formation. Admiral Garret had been horrified at the prospect of her flying around in something as fragile as a Lightning fighter-bomber at all. He’d have had a stroke if he’d been able to hear her now. Or not, she thought. There were a lot of mysteries in the universe, but Greta Hurley was sure that Augustus Garret would die well if he met a hopeless battle—and he would expect any of his officers to do the same. Just as she was sure Terrance Compton was going to do.
“I’d love to lead them in. Those Leviathans are totally fresh…we’re going to have to plant a lot of plasma torpedoes on the mark to take them out.”
Hurley nodded, though the pilot wasn’t looking back at her. “Take us in, Commander Wilder. Let’s show these machines what a motivated human strike force can do.”
* * *
“Let’s go, Anton.” Udinov’s eyes were locked on his screen. He’d just watched Hurley’s fighters plow through the enemy’s defenses. They’d plunged into the massive barrage of interceptor missiles and then into range of the laser defenses of their targets—losing over forty of their comrades before beginning their final attack runs. The RIC admiral had been unable to look away as icon after icon disappeared from the scanning plot and still they pushed on, completely ignoring their losses.
Finally, he’d seen them form up into three columns, moving directly toward the chosen targets. The massive ships bristled with weapons, and fighters continued to disappear as they drove straight into the firestorm. But they held, not a single vessel wavering from its course. They blew past normal firing range, bearing down on their targets at 3,000 kilometers per second, closing. Fifty thousand kilometers. Thirty. Not a single bomber fired.
Twenty thousand…and in the lead was Greta Hurley herself, her bomber damaged and streaming atmosphere and fluids as it pushed forward. Fifteen thousand. Ten thousand. Only when she had passed ten thousand kilometers did her ship launch its torpedo…and then its thrusters fired full, barely altering its vector in time clear the massive vessel.
One after another, her bombers followed her in, blasting recklessly toward the enemy ships and unloading their payloads at knife-fighting range. They were so close, hardly a shot missed, and the First Imperium battleships shook as superhot balls of plasma ripped into their hulls and through their decks.
One of the behemoths was destroyed almost immediately as the containment of its antimatter fuel failed. The massive spaceship disappeared in an explosion of almost unimaginable intensity. But the other two were still there. Savaged by dozens of hits each, streaming gases and fluids through gaping holes in their battered hulls, they maintained their place on the flank of the enemy battleline.
Udinov took a deep breath. “Commander…take us between them. The entire task force is to advance.”
“Yes, sir,” came the reply, steadfast, determined.
“All ships, it’s time to unload with everything we’ve got. All batteries on full power. Close range munitions packs ready to launch.”
“All vessels report weapons stations ready, Admiral.”
Udinov tapped his com unit, activating the main task force channel. “Attention all RIC units, this is Admiral Udinov. The fleet’s fighter-bombers have just completed a costly and heroic attack. They have destroyed one of the enemy’s Leviathans and severely damaged two others. It is our turn now. We are going to destroy those two ships, and then we are going to come about and engage the enemy line from the flank. Whatever might have happened before is of no account. We are part of this fleet, and we are in this fight with all our comrades. If we can destroy the two Leviathans quickly enough, we will have a positional advantage over the rest of the First Imperium fleet. I will not lie to you, fellow spacers…we will not survive this battle. None of us will. But, by God, we will make these infernal machines pay a price they will not soon forget. Follow me, follow Petersburg, and together we will show the First Imperium what an RIC force can do.”
He cut the line and glanced down at his display. He watched for a few seconds then he turned toward Stanovich. “Commander…all units are to open fire.”
* * *
“There goes the second ship.” Mariko was watching on the display as the vessels of the RIC task force drove their attacks home, closing to point blank range, firing all the way. Petersburg’s main batteries had fired a concentrated blast at the nearest Leviathan, and an instant later the target was vaporized by a matter-anti-matter explosion of indescribable ferocity. But the second First Imperium battleship was still there. It had taken all the punishment Udinov’s ships could dish out, but it was still firing back, its powerful particle accelerator beams ripping into the RIC vessels.
Mariko watched as Udinov’s task force began to redeploy, Petersburg and the two largest cruisers coming about to engage the next battleship in the enemy’s line while the light cruisers and destroyers swarmed the wounded Leviathan. As she was watching, first one, then a second RIC destroyer disappeared from the screen, obliterated by the still active guns of the dying enemy ship.
“What do you say we go help them finish off that sucker?” Her normally high-pitched voice was hoarse, angry.
“We’re with you, Commander.” Hiroki’s voice was rawer even than Mariko’s, his ferocity apparent with every syllable. “Let’s send them to hell.”
“OK, boys, make sure you’re strapped in tight…”
She pushed the throttle, and the force of 8g slammed into everyone onboard. They were already close to their target, but Mariko intended to get a hell of a lot closer before she fired the double-powered torpedo in her ship’s bomb bay.
She flipped the com unit, and struggled to force air into her lungs and speak. “RIC ships, your fighter support is on the way in,” she rasped.
“Forty thousand kilometers,” Hiroki said.
Mariko released the throttle, and the relief of freefall replaced the crushing gee forces. “Don’t you fire that thing until we’re inside 10K, Hiroki.”
“Thirty thousand.”
Mariko watched as her monitor continually refreshed the image of the target, adding details as the range decreased. The schematic had a series of red spots, areas were the enemy ship was leaking atmosphere and fluids. And there was a very large red circle almost dead center on the top, a huge gash in the hull—and a way to drop the torpedo right into the ship’s interior.
“You see what I see, Hiroki?”
“I’ve got it, Commander. That’s a kill shot if I’ve ever seen one.” A short pause. “If we can get close enough.”
“I’ll get you close enough. You just make sure you don’t miss.”
“I won’t miss. Down to fifteen thousand.”
“I’ve got to pull out at seven thousand,” Mariko snapped back.
“Ten thousand.” Another pause…one second, perhaps two. “Torpedo away.”
Mariko slammed the throttle hard, blasting the engines at full power, altering the ship’s trajectory. The course change over the next two seconds was minimal, but it was just enough for the fighter to zip past the enemy ship instead of slamming into it. Her eyes dropped to the small nav screen on her workstation. “Four hundred meters,” she whispered under her breath. She’d come four hundred meters from slamming into the enemy ship. Mariko was a hotshot pilot, possessed of all the craziness attributed to that stereotype, but she’d never cut anything so close before. Never.
She let go of the throttle, cutting the thrust, and she leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath. She could feel the sweat inside her survival suit, pouring down her neck and back. Her hands were shaking, and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. For a few seconds, she even forgot about the target. But only for a few seconds.
“Damage assessment,” she snapped.
“Scanning data coming in now, Commander…” Hiroki paused, his head hunched over his workstation. “I’m reading no power generation at all. My guess is antimatter containment is still running on reserve batteries, but the ship itself is dead.”
She felt a wave of satisfaction. “Alright, let’s get back to Midway and rearm. There are still plenty of targets out here.”
It was bravado more than reason. She saw the overall plot, and the despite the success of the fighter strike, the enemy still had seventeen Leviathans, and they were closing rapidly with the fleet. Her fighter could head back to Midway, but she didn’t think there was much chance the flagship would still be around by the time they got there.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Research Notes of Dr. Hieronymus Cutter
I still cannot believe our good fortune, and I wonder how long it can last. The intelligence on the Colossus called us the “Old Ones,” believing we are members of the long-lost race that created it so many ages ago, the mysterious beings who forged the First Imperium itself. It appears willing to obey our commands, to serve us without question. Yet I find myself hesitant to explore just how absolute that subservience may be. The intelligence advises that the ship is functional and it proposed reactivating its systems. I have ordered it not to do so, for I cannot be sure it will continue to follow my commands. Without the ship’s matter/antimatter reactor operational, we control the power source that has activated the intelligence, and presumably, we can disconnect it at any time…though I wonder if that is an over-simplification, if the massive computer has drawn enough power to recharge reserve batteries or something of the like.
Still, I am reluctant to move too quickly. I had hoped with all the optimism I could muster that my virus would work, that we would be able to establish at least some level of control over the intelligence. But it had never even occurred to me that we would be accepted as its true masters, as the descendants of those who created it. Is this my virus working in an unexpected way? Or is there something else at play here, something I hadn’t considered? Is there a relationship between humanity and that long-vanished race? Is there a reason other than my virus that the intelligence has come to the conclusion it has?
AS Midway
X18 System
The Fleet: 171 ships, 38,203 crew
“All ships of the battleline report ready, sir.” Cortez sounded cool and calm. Compton knew it was bullshit, but he was impressed nevertheless. He hadn’t imagined any officer could have adequately replaced Max Harmon as his tactical aide, but he had to admit Cortez came as close as anyone could have.
“Very well, Commander,” he replied, his own voice equally controlled. And that’s bullshit too…but I need to stay strong…at least seem strong. I need to do it for all of them. They deserve nothing less.
Compton had faced more than one desperate situation in his half century of war, but this was the most desperate, the most hopeless he had seen. If he thought the fleet had any chance at all of escaping he would have ordered every ship to make a run for it. But that was a fool’s hope. None of his vessels could outrun the enemy, and if they were going to die anyway, he had resolved they would die fighting. He wasn’t sure if any of it mattered. Death was death, however it came. But it made a difference to him…and he was sure it did to the rest of his people. They had lived as warriors, veterans of the struggle against the First Imperium and of the endless battles between the Superpowers. Now they would die as warriors.
“Flank forces are in position, sir, and all ships report full readiness.”
“Very well.” Full readiness was a relative term for his battered ships, but he knew they would make the most of what they had. “Report on enemy missile barrage?”
“First salvo is just inside 800,000 kilometers range of our lead elements, Admiral. All vessels ready to initiate countermeasures at 500,000 as per your orders.”
Compton took a deep breath. It felt strange not to have his own missiles in space, but there wasn’t a ship-to-ship warhead on any of his vessels—except in the transports in X20. And they might as well be on the far side of the galaxy. He didn’t know how many of his ships would make it through the massive barrage heading their way. He had some evasive maneuvers in mind, a few tricks that might lessen the impact. But no matter how he figured it, a good portion of his fleet was going to die when those missiles closed, and the rest would limp forward, damaged and bleeding air.
Those survivors would fire when they got to energy weapons range, at least the ones that still had functional batteries. But Compton didn’t try to fool himself. That battle wouldn’t last long. And then it would be over. Everything except the First Imperium fleet chasing down and destroying his transports in the next system.
But that won’t take long. And then the fleet will be gone, the sacrifice we made in X2 rendered moot, and our whole improbable story brought to its inevitable conclusion.
“Status report on Admiral Udinov’s task force?” The RIC admiral had requested permission to perform close support for Greta Hurley’s fighter strike, and his ships were far in advance of the main fleet…and closely engaged with the flank of the enemy forces.
“They’ve lost six ships, sir. Petersburg reports extensive damage, but she’s still in the fight.”
Compton just sat silently. Udinov was directing his meager force masterfully, but he wouldn’t last long. He’d managed to position himself out of the arc of the enemy’s main weapons, clinging to their blind spots. The First Imperium ships would have to turn from their course fleet to fully engage him, and that would mean delaying the final fight with the main battleline—even allowing some of the human ships to make a run for it. So far the enemy had maintained their vectors and tried to pick off Udinov’s vessels with secondary batteries.
And they are succeeding. It’s just taking a little longer to wear them down, but Udinov’s ships won’t last twenty minutes where they are.
He took in another breath, holding it for a few seconds. “Very well, Commander Cortez, the fleet will advan…”
“Admiral, we’re picking up transits…from the X20 warp gate, sir.”
Compton’s head snapped around toward the tactical officer’s station. “Full scan, Commander.”
“Working on it, sir.” Cortez’ hands raced over his station, and an instant later his face went pale. “It’s a First Imperium vessel, sir.” His voice was weak, thin. “A Colossus.”
* * *
“Confirmed, sir. It’s a Colossus…transiting in behind the main fleet.”
Vladimir Udinov sat quietly for a few seconds, absorbing the reality of what he’d just been told. In truth, he realized it didn’t matter. They’d already been facing enough enemy ships to destroy the fleet twice over—it didn’t really make much difference if now it was three or four times. Dead was dead. Still, the very thought of the enemy’s most massive battleships evoked a primal fear.
Udinov stared at the screen, his finger moving slowly to the right, scrolling the display area to cover the main body of the enemy fleet. His task force had been maneuvering around the flank, taking advantage of the enfilade position to maximize the damage inflicted. He’d been struggling to stay in the enemy’s blind spots, to rake their ships from positions were they couldn’t effectively return fire. The target vessels could have broken formation and moved to intercept his small task force, but he knew that wasn’t the First Imperium’s way. They would continue toward the main fleet, ignoring a nuisance force like his until after the main fight was done. And that’s all he was, he knew that much…just an insect stinging them as they moved inexorably forward. He might damage the flank Leviathan, but he just didn’t have the firepower to do more.
“Get me Admiral Compton,” he snapped to Stanovich.
A few seconds later. “On your line, sir.”
“Vladimir, “Compton said before Udinov could utter a word, “you’ve done a tremendous job, but now you’re pretty exposed out there. It’s time for you to plot a course back to the main force, around the enemy’s arc of fire.” Compton’s voice was firm, but there was no hostility there. However strained their relationship might have been following the mutiny, facing certain death together had evaporated any lingering hostility.
“Admiral, I’d like to stay. I can bring my ships around the enemy’s rear. If we cause enough trouble back there we might force them to stop and deal with us. That will buy you time…time to deal with that Colossus.” Udinov knew it was a longshot his meager force could somehow hold back the entire First Imperium fleet, but it was just the kind of highly emotional play that tended to throw the enemy intelligences into a funk.
The com was silent for a few seconds. Finally, Compton replied, his voice soft. “You won’t last ten minutes if they turn to face you, Vladimir. If your plan succeeds, you die almost immediately.”
“Things have moved past ‘if we die.’ At this point, I’m more concerned with ‘how we die.’ We’re all doomed, Admiral.” The Russian’s voice was deadpan, almost without emotion. “At least this way the fleet won’t be trapped between two forces. Maybe a few ships can even get away back into X20. The supply fleet is...” He paused, and Compton knew Udinov had just come to the same conclusion he had a few minutes before. The Colossus had come from X20…which probably meant the transports were gone.
“Who knows?” he continued an instant later, ignoring his thoughts on the supply fleet. “Maybe my people can buy enough time for somebody to escape.” Udinov paused then added, “We’re dead anyway…this way we’ve got a chance, however small, of accomplishing something.”
Compton paused. Udinov knew the Alliance admiral hated sending his people to their deaths. It was something he’d been compelled to do far too many times in his long and storied career. But now they were all trapped…everyone in the fleet was facing death.
“Let us die with honor, Terrance, with at least a faint hope our deaths will help our comrades. It’s a false hope perhaps, but one my people deserve.”
“Very well, Vladimir…if that’s what you want to do, I’ll give you my blessing. The thoughts and admiration of your comrades in the fleet go with you. And mine too.” Compton hadn’t specifically said it, but he knew Udinov understood. His prior actions were forgiven. He would go into his last fight with a clean slate.
“Commander Stanovich, the task force will execute nav plan Epsilon-3. We’re breaking off and maneuvering around the enemy fleet.” He slapped his hand down on the armrest of his chair. “And, by God, we’re going to get right behind these bastards and hit them with everything we’ve got…”
* * *
“I want everybody in the tanks in fifteen minutes.” Compton had sat quietly for a few minutes after speaking with Udinov. He still couldn’t comprehend what had driven the Russian admiral to try to break off from the fleet, to recklessly risk leading the enemy back home with him. He understood Zhang’s motivations. The CAC officer was a coward, a gutless worm beneath Compton’s contempt, concerned only with his own selfish needs. But Udinov was nothing like that. Indeed, he was as courageous as any commander Compton had ever known. Yet they had almost ended up fighting each other.
What is wrong with us? Why are we so ready to fight each other, even after we’ve discovered we’re not alone, that the stars hold such terrible dangers? Why is man always ready to go to war with himself? The First Imperium seems to be a united power, all its resources working together rather than struggling against other factions within. Were the actual beings who created the imperium more enlightened, wiser than men? Or did they fight each other as we do now? Was this staggering civilization built by wise and peaceful beings who avoided the greed and lust for power that so plagued men? Or do we just see the legacy of the victors, those who survived millennia of internal conflict, who fought and crushed their enemies before claiming the stars?
“Admiral, we’re picking up more energy readings from the X20 warp gate.”
Compton sighed. He’d initially assumed that Cutter and his team had inadvertently activated the Colossus, but now he confronted the thought that more First Imperium ships were coming from X20. And that meant whatever unrealistic hopes he might have had of any of his ships escaping had been dashed. With enemy units pouring through the warp gate, he couldn’t even fool himself anymore. The supply fleet in X20 was already gone…and all his people in X18 would die right here.
“Admiral, we’re picking up a transmission…” Cortez paused. “Sir, it’s Admiral Garson! It was Hamilton that transited!”
Compton’s head snapped around. Hamilton was the flagship of the support task force, and Garson was the admiral in command. “Put him on speaker, Commander.”
“Admiral Compton…” Garson’s voice was firm, confident.
“Yes, Admiral Garson, we’re reading you…”
“Sir, the First Imperium ship is not hostile. I repeat, it is not hostile. Dr. Cutter and his people have gained control over it, and they have directed it to attack the enemy fleet.”
Terrance Compton had rarely been shocked into speechlessness during his long career, but now he struggled for words, his throat dry, as if every molecule of moisture had evaporated instantaneously. “Dr. Cutter and his team are on that ship?” he croaked. “Controlling it?”
“Yes, sir. They disabled the external communications because Cutter was afraid an order from outside might overrule his control. You won’t be able to reach them unless you get close enough to be in range of their portable coms. But that ship is here to fight with us…not against us.”
Compton let out a long breath. It was almost unbelievable…no, it was unbelievable. He’d had strong hopes for Cutter’s research over time, but this was lightyears beyond anything he’d expected.
He stared back at the monitor, at the First Imperium fleet moving toward his ships, and a feral smile formed on his lips. “Commander Cortez, the fleet will prepare to advance and engage the enemy. All vessels will match course and speed with the Colossus. And set up a fleetwide channel. This is something I’ve got to tell everyone.”
“Yes, sir!”
Compton nodded. His body was alive, almost twitching with energy as he fed off his rage, his hatred of the First Imperium. His mind was sharp, and it was focused on one thing. They had a chance now. The fight had purpose.
* * *
“That fleet is acting against its orders. It is a rogue force, and we must engage and destroy it.” Hieronymus Cutter sat in one of the workstation chairs…a seat where a member of that ancient race had once sat, the long lost beings who’d founded the First Imperium ages ago.
“As you command,” the AI replied, its voice calm, unaffected, despite the fact that Cutter had ordered it to attack the First Imperium ships that lay ahead. “Activating all weapons systems. Initial missile barrage in eleven time segments.” The translation system had no reference for the measurement systems of the First Imperium, and it substituted ‘time segment’ for a word that was obviously a unit of time.
“Preliminary analysis of opposing fleet suggests we have insufficient capability to destroy all vessels.”
Cutter turned and looked back at his companions. “You are to destroy as many as possible.” Does the intelligence have a self-preservation priority? Will it obey orders likely to result in its own destruction?
“Understood.”
Cutter could feel the sweat pouring down his neck and he reached around and wiped at it, letting out a loud exhale as he did. The intelligence had apparently accepted an order that was tantamount to a suicide mission. But would it follow through?
Cutter looked down at the scanner feed Garson had sent him. The enemy force was massive, far more than the human fleet could handle, even with Terrance Compton in command. The Colossus was the only hope. Cutter hated the idea of his tremendous find being destroyed…especially since he was aboard. But unless the massive superbattleship intervened immediately, the fleet was lost.
“Ana,” Cutter whispered, “we should get as much information from this intelligence as possible and get it back to the fleet. I can’t even imagine the data in those banks.”
“I agree, but there’s no way except to ask the intelligence to copy it for us…and that might cause suspicion. We have no idea how firm our control is or what might trigger the system to reevaluate us.” She was standing right next to him, and he could feel her body shaking.
Of course she’s scared. He looked around, scanning the faces of his team, seeing the fear in their eyes. This was a situation none of them were made to handle. They were scientists, academics…not soldiers.
I wonder if they’re scared…the Marines. They’re veterans, they’ve faced combat before, stared death in the eye. But this is something different. There is a haunted feeling here, as if we mere mortals had stumbled into the halls of some ancient gods.
His eyes locked on Connor Frasier. The Marine was fully armored, the dark gray surface of his helmet blocking any view of his face, his eyes. I guess I won’t know, Cutter thought, wondering if even Major Connor Frasier, commander of the Scots Company, could maintain his cool in a situation like this.
He turned back toward the input device. “My associate is going to make copies of data from your banks. You are to assist her in any way you can.”
“As you command. I must warn you that the primitive data storage devices you employ are highly inefficient. They have very low capacity, and their I/O speeds are grossly inadequate. Only minimal data will be transferred before we engage in battle.”
“I understand. Now please assist her in any way possible.” He was struggling to sound authoritative, in command. He had no idea if the system had permanently accepted him as one of the Old Ones, or if it was still analyzing his words and speech patterns. Or for that matter, his body temperature, physical appearance…anything at all that might shatter the charade.
Not that you have any idea how a First Imperium naval officer would have behaved.
He stood still, silent for a few minutes. Then he turned toward Frasier.
“Major, I want you to get back to the shuttles. Take my people with you and evacuate the ship as quickly as you can. I will stay here. There is no point in anyone else remaining behind. If the intelligence ceases to accept my orders, there is nothing my people—or your Marines—could do anyway.” He hesitated briefly and added, “And Admiral Compton is going to need every skilled scientist and warrior he can get.”
“My orders are to protect you, Doctor. At all costs.” Frasier’s voice was deep, his tone firm, crisp. If he was afraid, he wasn’t showing it.
“The situation has changed, Major. There is no point in anyone else remaining here at risk. I will stay. Alone.”
“I can’t allow that, Doctor.” A pause. “But I will see to the evacuation of your science teams and my Marines. Then I will remain here with you.”
“Major, that’s not…”
“I will remain, Doctor. It is my duty.” The Marine’s voice was like solid rock, and Cutter knew at once he wouldn’t budge. Not a micron.
“Very well, Major. If you must remain. At least the others will get out.”
Frasier nodded, a fairly meaningless gesture in battle armor. “I will begin the evacuation now, Doctor. We’ll need to do two trips to get everyone off…and the last one will be cutting it close, I think.”
Cutter just nodded back. Yes, he thought. It will be close. Too close.
* * *
Midway shook hard. She had been in the thick of the fight, exchanging laser fire with the enemy battleline before passing through and decelerating to turn and make a second run. Compton’s flagship had come through the enemy missile barrage almost untouched, a stunning development he owed to a little bit of luck…and a lot to the effort of Greta Hurley’s squadrons.
That woman was born to lead fighter groups, Compton thought as he stared out across the bridge.
Midway’s strikeforce had swept through the clusters of missiles as they returned from their first attack. The Yorktown class battleship had originally carried 48 fighter-bombers, including Admiral Greta Hurley’s craft. The flagship’s veteran squadrons had acquitted themselves well in the campaign, with a survival rate far above the fleet average. Even so, Hurley had been leading back only sixteen of Midway’s fighters.
The birds were out of expendable ordnance, but they’d opened up on the missiles with their lasers, and they gutted the volley heading toward Midway. Hurley had pioneered the use of fighters for missile defense, a promising tactic she’d been largely forced to abandon since the fleet had been trapped in enemy space. Her fighter crews had paid a terrible price in the battles since then, and she needed every ship she had left to attack the enemy warships. There just weren’t enough to assign to defensive duties, however promising the tactic had proven itself.
Compton looked out across the flag bridge. There was wreckage strewn across the deck, minor structural elements mostly, broken loose when Midway had taken a direct hit from the main battery of one of the Leviathans. A large conduit, 20 centimeters in diameter, snaked its way across the middle of the bridge, passing just behind Compton’s chair. It was a bypass line, replacing a damaged group of cables and carrying power to a whole series of ship’s systems. The damage control crew that had installed it was gone. They had finished a few minutes earlier and moved on to the next repair on their agenda.
“Cutting thrust now, Admiral,” Cortez said, as loudly as he could under 4g of deceleration.
“Very well, Commander. I want the engines engaged again as quickly as possible. It’s time to finish this.” His voice was scratchy, and his tone exuded determination. Cutter’s miraculous success in gaining control over the Colossus had bought his people a chance for survival…and he’d be damned if he’d delay, even for an instant.
Midway and the rest of the battleline could have gotten back into the fight faster if Compton had ordered everyone into the tanks and blasted away at 30g thrust. But his ship was too battered for that. Her damage control crews were hard at work readying her for another round of combat. It was difficult for them to do their jobs at 4g, but at 30g they’d all be in the tanks doing nothing at all. And the rest of his battleships were even worse off. Saratoga had been hit hard by the missile volleys and again in the energy weapons duel. Admiral Dumont’s ship was keeping his ship in the fight, but Compton knew even a Yorktown class battlewagon had its limits. And Saratoga had to be near hers.
Compton’s eyes were fixed on the display, watching the incredible spectacle of a First Imperium fleet locked in mortal combat with one of their own super-battleships. The Colossus had come almost to a dead stop, its 60g+ thrust capacity giving it far more maneuverability than one of Compton’s vessels. When he’d first noticed the enemy ship decelerating at 60g, he feared that Cutter and his people had all been killed, crushed to death by the almost unimaginable force slamming into them at that rate of acceleration. But then, a group of shuttles emerged from the vessel, moving toward the main body of the human fleet.
A few moments later, he had his answers. The First Imperium ships had some sort of internal force dampening system. Cutter and his people had been inside the behemoth when it fired its massive engines, but they hadn’t felt a thing.
Just another way they are so far ahead of us…and it’s something they haven’t even needed for 500,000 years.
“Reengaging thrust, Admiral. Four gees as ordered.” Compton’s vessel had shot past the First Imperium forces, decelerating at 4g until it came to a complete stop. Then, its positioning thrusters spun it around before the engines opened up again and Midway began building velocity back the way she’d come. In a little over twenty minutes, the battleline would reenter energy weapons range…and the fight would continue.
Compton just nodded. He’d given his orders, and he knew his people would carry them out to the letter. He winced an instant later when the 4g of force slammed into him again. He’d enjoyed the few moments of freefall.
“Admiral, I have Dr. Barcomme on the com.” She was on one of the shuttles fleeing from the Colossus, having joined Cutter’s expedition to search for signs of the ancient beings of the First Imperium.
“Soph…Dr. Barcomme, how can I help you?” Compton’s iron tone softened a bit as he addressed Barcomme. He had spent a fair amount of time with the Europan biologist in recent weeks, mostly discussing possible ways to feed everyone once the food supply ran out. But the two had also talked for hours one night, finishing off one of the increasingly rare bottles of wine in the fleet’s stores. It wasn’t a budding romance, more of a friendship…neither of them was ready for anything more than that. Compton was still mourning the loss of Elizabeth, and Barcomme had left a husband and a daughter behind when she’d been trapped with the fleet beyond the Barrier. But for a few hours, Compton had felt less desperately alone than he had in the months since the fleet had begun its desperate run for survival.
“It’s Hieronymus. And Ana Zhukov. They’re still on the Colossus.”
“What?” Compton tried to catch himself, but his shock was apparent despite his efforts.
“Hieronymus wouldn’t leave. He said he had to remain and monitor the ship’s intelligence. And Ana wouldn’t go if he didn’t.” She paused. “Then Major Frasier stayed behind too, insisting your orders were to protect the two of them at all costs.”
Of course. He’d given Frasier an order…and he had enough experience to understand how seriously a veteran Marine took such commands. Seriously…and literally too.
“Thank you, Dr. Barcomme. I appreciate the heads up.” He flipped off the com, shaking his head as he did, angry at his own distraction. When he’d picked up the shuttles fleeing the Colossus, he’d just assumed Cutter and all his people were aboard. You underestimated Hieronymus, he thought, angry at himself. Underneath the introverted professor exterior, the good doctor has a streak of courage….
He sighed. Cutter had saved the fleet…or at least given it a chance. Compton wasn’t about to let him die in that monstrous vessel. And he had no intention of losing Ana Zhukov or Connor Frasier…apart from personal feelings, he needed people like them if the fleet was to have any hope of surviving for the long term.
He stared down at his screen. It was centered on the Colossus as the massive vessel fought off at least fifty First Imperium ships. The enemy had been confused at first, and they’d been slow to react when the massive super-battleship opened fire on them. Compton imagined the messages bombarding the big ship as the fleet intelligences tried to call off the attack from one of their own. But Cutter had disabled the Colossus’ com systems, and the messages went unanswered. Finally, after half a dozen ships had been destroyed, the rest of the First Imperium fleet moved to engage the rogue dreadnought.
Compton watched as another Leviathan vanished in the fury of a matter/antimatter explosion. He’d been stunned at what he saw when the Colossus first opened fire. The massive vessel had rows of particle accelerators along its port and starboard, almost like the broadside of an old style sailing ship. The weapons were enormous, powered by the almost incalculable energy output of the 19 kilometer ship.
He’d looked on in astonished wonder when the great weapons first lanced out, tearing into the hulls of the enemy Leviathans. The dark matter infused armor that had proven so resistant to the human fleet’s weapons, tore like paper under the massive barrages.
Now, Compton stared as yet another of the great Leviathans died, the second in as many minutes. The Colossus was blasting the enemy ships with as much firepower as Compton’s entire fleet…perhaps more. But it, too, was taking damage. Its hull was enormously strong, its own dark matter armor vastly heavier than that of the smaller First Imperium ships. But the Leviathans swarming it had powerful batteries too. Not as strong, certainly, as those on the Colossus, but still the products of the tremendous technology that created both. Rents began to appear in the super-battleship’s hull, and one by one, its unspeakably powerful batteries began to fall silent.
Compton knew the big ship had plenty of fight left in it. But he also realized that for all its amazing firepower, it wasn’t going to win. Not by itself. We’re coming, he thought, as he stared at the deadly fight unfolding in the flickering light of his screen.
No. I won’t sacrifice them. They deserve better…and if we get out of this system, we’re going to need them. Hieronymus Cutter is more important to this fleet’s survival than I am.
He slapped his hand on his com unit, activating Admiral Hurley’s com unit.
“Greta…I need to you do something for me…”
* * *
“I think we can slip between those two Leviathans without crossing into either one’s interdiction zone.” Hurley never second-guessed Wilder’s piloting, but this was more about navigation than hot-sticking it in the pilot’s chair. Midway’s sixteen remaining fighters were formed up in a tight crescent, trying to reach the Colossus without getting blown to bits by any of the First Imperium ships clustering around. John Wilder was the best pilot in the fleet, but this time they were escorting three shuttles that didn’t have a tenth the thrust and maneuverability of the Lightning fighter-bombers.
Those things fly like three-legged pigs, she thought, her frustration momentarily getting the best of her. It didn’t matter how sluggish the shuttles were, they were the most important part of the mission. Her job was to rescue the last three human beings on that Colossus, no matter what the cost. No matter what the cost. Compton’s exact words.
She’d have preferred to just load the three of them on a fighter, but she knew that wouldn’t work. They weren’t exactly landing on Midway’s flight deck. Cutter’s team had rigged docking stations to connect with the ingress/egress ports on a standard fleet shuttle. There was no way a Lightning fighter-bomber was going to be able to dock with one of those…not without a team of engineers and a lot more time than she had.
“Okay everybody, listen up.” She was on the master com channel—transmitting to all three shuttles and all her fighters. “I’m sending nav instructions. We’re going to try to maneuver in without going through any areas that are too hot. Shuttle pilots, I know those things aren’t Lightnings, but I need you to squeeze out every gram of performance you can. There is a battle going on. A little extra speed or maneuverability could save your life. And the mission.”
She wondered what they all thought of that mission. There were almost a hundred people on her fighters and the three shuttles, and they were all at risk. To save three people. She understood Doctor Cutter’s importance to any future the fleet might have…indeed, she realized they’d all be dead already without the Colossus the brilliant scientist had somehow managed to control and bring into the fight. That alone justified the rescue attempt. But it was still hard on the men and women sent to put their lives on the line.
Her eyes dropped to the display. There it was, the Colossus, almost 19 kilometers of pure power. It was fighting the dozen remaining Leviathans…and most of the rest of the First Imperium fleet. It was losing, or at least it would lose eventually. But it was also gutting the enemy fleet. And Compton was bringing the surviving human ships back into the melee. She wondered if he’d make it back into firing range before the Colossus was gone. She figured it was a coin toss.
“All units, execute nav instructions in five…four…three…”
They were running out of time. It was now or never.
“Two…one…”
* * *
“I’m sorry, Ana. You should have gone with the others.” Cutter angled his head, staring at the armored form of Connor Frasier standing against the wall. “And you too, Major.”
“Do not trouble yourself, Doctor. I am following Admiral Compton’s orders, and I have no regrets.”
Cutter nodded slightly. He knew the Marine was afraid…they were all afraid. But he was just as certain Frasier would never admit it.
“We gave the fleet a chance, Hieronymus,” Ana answered softly. She wasn’t as successful as Frasier at keeping the fear from her voice, but overall she was holding herself together fairly well. “That’s something to be proud of.”
“Yes,” Cutter replied, “and the others brought back a treasure trove of data with them. It will be massively useful in finding a way to survive in First Imperium space.” Ana had only managed to scratch the surface of the massive intelligence’s data bases before she’d filled up every storage unit she had with her. Still, the information she’d gleaned included centuries of scientific development…and the first accounts mankind had of the history of the First Imperium. Cutter knew he wouldn’t be there to supervise the research effort, but there would be others. Perhaps the data would be enough for someone to continue his and Ana’s work…to find a way to defeat—or make peace with—the enemy.
The ship shook hard, most likely a secondary explosion somewhere. The Colossus had gunned down a third of the First Imperium fleet already, but now it was beginning to falter. Its massive batteries were still firing, though barely half of them remained in action. Cutter wasn’t an expert in warships, but he didn’t think it would be too long now. The intelligence had activated a large screen for his use, displaying the scanning data of the battle. The Colossus was virtually surrounded by Leviathans, and all the ships were at a virtual dead stop, blasting away at each other at close range.
The ship shook again, and the lights dimmed briefly. “The primary power conduit to this sector was severed. I have engaged backup system.” The intelligence’s tone hadn’t changed. It showed no fear, nor any recognizable hesitancy about continuing to follow Cutter’s orders, even though they would almost certainly lead to its destruction. And soon.
Cutter leaned back in the seat and sighed. He’d taken a massive gamble in attempting to activate the First Imperium vessel. He hadn’t known the fleet would be attacked when he did it. It was his own initiative...no, more than that…his reckless craving for knowledge, his need to match his mind against such a superior adversary. His actions had possibly saved the fleet, but that had been an accident, nothing he could take credit for. He’d never imagined he could take total control of the ship so quickly, let alone bringing it back to X18 just as the fleet was fighting a hopeless battle. He realized how lucky they had been…and his own impending death didn’t alter his view of the good fortune that had smiled on their venture. He would die, and Ana too, but perhaps thousands would live as a result of what they had done. And if the fleet had been destroyed, Cutter knew he and Ana would have died anyway.
“Doctor Cutter? Major Frasier?” The small portable com unit crackled to life, a woman’s voice calling to them by name.
Cutter hopped out of his chair and raced to the communications device. “Cutter here,” he replied.
“Doctor Cutter, this is Admiral Hurley. I am leading a rescue mission to get you off that ship. How long will it take you to get back to your original ingress point?”
Cutter paused. It had taken them literally days to explore their way in this far, but now they knew the way back. “I’m not sure, Admiral. Half an hour? Maybe more.”
“No good,” came the reply. That ship’s not going to be there in half an hour.”
Cutter sighed hard. It was at least four kilometers back to the docking station. “Then you might as well go home, Admiral. There’s no point in risking your people for nothing.”
“Fuck that, Doctor. I came to get you, and by God, I’m going to get you.” A pause. “You have survival suits, right? Is there any way you can get to an airlock faster? I can pluck you out of space before you run out of air.”
“Yes, we have suits.” He’d kept everyone on bottled and recycled air, not willing to trust the First Imperium atmosphere the intelligence had restored. The survival suits weren’t meant for serious EVA, but they could sustain life in deep space long enough to allow a rescue attempt.
“Hold on, Admiral.” Cutter turned toward the globe he knew was the intelligence’s core. It was a meaningless gesture…the computer didn’t care if he was facing it or not when they communicated. But it made him feel better somehow. “Display the fastest route to an operable airlock.”
Will the thing get upset that I am leaving it behind to die?
“Displaying optimal escape route.”
Cutter’s eyes focused on the map for half a minute before he got his bearings. Then he saw it. Less than half a kilometer.
“Admiral, five minutes. Does that work?”
“It works fine. Don’t waste time talking to me. And remember to set your transponders on full power so we can find you.”
Cutter nodded, as much to himself as anything. “Alright, Admiral.” Then, an instant later. “Thanks.”
“Okay, let’s get go…”
The ship shook again, harder this time. Cutter fell and slid across the deck, crashing painfully into a large structural column. He started to get up, but he paused for an instant on his hands and knees, shaking his head. The fall had knocked the wind out of him. It was at least thirty seconds before he started to stand…and his eyes found Ana.
She was lying against a large bulkhead, silent, motionless. Connor Frasier was there already, his massive armored figure crouched over her.
Cutter stumbled across the deck, dropping to his knees next to her. “Ana,” he said urgently. “Ana?” But there was no response.
“She is alive, Doctor, but I’m afraid she’s badly hurt.” He gestured toward the side of her head. Her hair was matted with blood.
“Ana…”
“She needs help right away, Doctor. Or she’s going to die.”
Cutter stared down helplessly, reaching out and putting his hand gently on her shoulder. A few seconds later, he saw movement in his peripheral vision, and he turned to see Frasier lying down on the deck. And instant after that he heard a loud popping sound.
The gargantuan suit of armor popped open like a clamshell, and all 190 centimeters and 110 kilograms of Connor Frasier climbed out, stark naked. He turned quickly toward Ana.
“We have to get her in my armor. My med system can save her.” Marine armor was equipped with extensive trauma control mechanisms designed to save grievously wounded warriors on the battlefield.
“But it’s so big…and how will we get her out of here in that?”
“It doesn’t have to fit her for this…we just need to get her into it. And the suit’s AI can control the suit enough to walk with her inside.”
Cutter nodded, sliding over and grabbing Ana’s legs. Frasier slipped his hands under shoulders and the two lifted her gently, carrying her over to the suit. They set her down as well as they could inside.
“Frasier hesitated for a few seconds then he popped her helmet and began unzipping her survival suit. He glanced up at Cutter, who was looking at him with a confused expression on his face. “We need to get her clothes off. The med sensors work on touch.”
Cutter nodded and leaned over Ana, helping Frasier strip off her suit. He was annoyed at his own hesitancy. They were trying to save her life, not sneak a look at her in the shower. But still, he felt strange about it.
What juvenile idiots we all are…
They finally managed to get her inside the suit, and Frasier commanded the AI to seal it. A few seconds later, she was closed up inside.
“She’ll be okay. I’ve been worse off and it’s saved me.” Frasier turned and looked at the suit. “Get up…we’ve got to get out of here.”
The suit obeyed his command, rising quickly. Frasier glanced over at Cutter. “Let’s go…I doubt we have much time. Lead on, Doc.”
Cutter nodded, and he walked out into the hallway, following the course the AI had highlighted.
Frasier looked around the room briefly, and then he directed the AI to follow. “At least we know the air is breathable…though I suppose I could have sucked in a lungful of some epic plague and not know it yet.”
Cutter stopped dead in his tracks. “How are we going to get you out of here?” he said, suddenly realizing that Frasier would be stuck on the Colossus without his suit.”
“I guess we’re not going to, Doc,” the Marine said calmly. “But we’re getting the two of you off, that’s for sure. I’ll be damned if I’m going to fail my last mission.”
* * *
“All units, fire everything you have left.” Compton sat on Midway’s flag bridge, staring out over the battle ravaged scene before him. He moved his hand up to scratch an itch on his face, and he smacked it into the clear helmet for the third time. The flag bridge hadn’t lost life support yet, but much of Midway had, and he’d ordered his staff to put the helmets on about ten minutes before. His flagship had given all she had to the fight, and he knew she didn’t have much left. Her hull was riddled with breaches, and at least a quarter of the crew had been killed.
He knew Jim Horace was still at his position down in Midway’s command center. He also knew the officer should have been in sickbay. Internal video com was down, so all he knew was what he’d been told. But he had a good idea that Horace’s left leg had been damn near crushed by a falling chunk of Midway’s structure. The doctor had told Compton his flag captain was in rough shape and belonged in a hospital bed, but he also acknowledged he had stabilized the stubborn officer and stopped the bleeding…and if Horace could stand the pain, he’d probably survive remaining at his post. If any of them survived, that is.
Compton’s eyes dropped to his screen, watching the scene unfolding around the Colossus. The giant ship was almost finished, less than a quarter of its weapons still firing. It was bleeding fluids and gasses through dozens of rents in its hull.
C’mon, hang in there…we need a little more time…
The Colossus had already done its job in savaging the First Imperium fleet. Compton’s ships were blasting right at the enemy flank, taking full advantage of the chaos the Colossus had created. But he needed more time…Greta Hurley needed more time. His three people still on that ship needed more time.
Midway shook hard, and she went into a vicious spin. Everyone on the flag bridge has strapped into their harnesses, but it was still unsettling. Compton figured more than one of his officers had partially filled his helmet with vomit.
People glamorize space battles, telling and retelling the stories of great victories. But there is no glory up close. Just men and women, covered in sweat and blood…and vomit.
“Alright, all ships…increase thrust to 6g.” That would be damned uncomfortable, but he needed to keep up the pressure now. Every second he bought that Colossus was more time Hurley had to rescue Cutter and Ana. And Connor Frasier too.
“Increasing thrust, sir.” Cortez’ reply was almost instantaneous. He understood exactly what was happening.
“All ships…I want continuous fire. Whatever it takes. I don’t want a gun silent.”
C’mon you bastards…forget about that Colossus. We’re coming right up your ass…
* * *
“Go, Doc. The fleet needs you…and Dr. Zhukov. There’s nothing you can do here.”
Cutter stared at the giant Marine, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He knew what he had to do, what Frasier was telling him to do, but it was too much to bear. In a few seconds he and Ana would step into the airlock…and they would leave Connor Frasier behind. To die.
“Go,” the Marine repeated. “Now.” His voice was commanding, insistent. “You getting yourselves scragged won’t make me less dead.”
Cutter took a deep breath and moved toward the hatch. Then he paused, turning back toward Frasier. He’d never been very good with people, but now he knew he couldn’t just walk away, not without a fitting farewell. He extended his hand. “Thank you, Major…Connor. You are the bravest man I’ve ever met.”
The big Scot allowed a little smile onto his lips as he reached out and grasped Cutter’s hand. “Thank you, Doctor. Keep up your work. Save our people.” An instant later: “Now, go!”
Cutter felt the emotions building up inside him, and he just nodded. Then he turned and stepped into the airlock, Frasier’s suit—with Ana inside—following along. He hadn’t been sure what to expect in the way of controls, but the system was agreeably simple. A large button to close the inner doors and another right below it. The outer doors, he supposed. There was another set off to the side, with what looked vaguely like up and down arrows. Pressurize, depressurize, he thought.
He pushed the first button, and the door slammed shut. So far so good. He took another breath and pressed the control with the down arrow. He could hear and feel the whoosh of air, as the small chamber was evacuated. An instant later, the second door button glowed blue.
He paused again. This was it. Either Hurley’s shuttles would find them…or he would die in space as his suit’s oxygen and power ran out.
He reached out and pushed the button. The outer door zipped open, and Hieronymus Cutter stared out into the blackness of space. He turned back toward the massive suit of armor with Ana Zhukov inside and he nodded. It was meaningless. Frasier had already instructed his AI to follow.
He stood still for another thirty seconds, perhaps a minute. Then he bent his knees and shoved off.
* * *
“We’ve picked up Doctors Cutter and Zhukov, Admiral. Apparently, Major Frasier is still on the First Imperium vessel.”
“Why the hell is he there?” she roared back, angry at the partial rescue. She’d lost three fighters already, and after paying that price she had no intention of leaving anyone behind.
“Admiral, this is Dr. Cutter. Ana Zhukov was badly injured, and Major Frasier put her in his suit so the med system could save her.” A pause. “Of course, that left him with no survival gear…”
Fuck.
Hurley sat for a few seconds, completely silent. “Dr. Cutter, can you tell us exactly where you exited the enemy ship?”
“Yes, Admiral, I think so. But what…”
“Sorry, Doctor…we don’t have a lot of time. Please show the shuttle commander the exact location of that airlock.”
“Certainly, Admiral,” came the confused reply.
“John, how long can a man survive unprotected in space?”
“Not long…that’s why we’ve got these survival suits on.”
“But some time. A minute? Half a minute?”
Wilder turned toward her, a stunned look on his face. “Are you suggesting…”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m saying we’re not going to leave Connor Frasier behind without doing everything we can to get him off that ship.” A pause. “Can you get this thing within a few meters of that airlock? And hold it steady?”
Wilder took a deep breath and stared back at her silently for a good half a minute. “I don’t know,” he finally said.
“Well, we’re going to find out. Get the location data from the shuttle pilot, and get us over there as quickly as possible. And let’s hope Major Frasier has some sort of com with him.”
* * *
Frasier stood inside the airlock slowly shaking his head. He was resigned to his fate, scared but also content with the choice he’d made. Ana Zhukov…there was no question she was more valuable to the fleet than he was. And his duty had been to protect her. It was a no-brainer. Marines didn’t run from their fates. But there was more to it than just that. He didn’t know her well, but the thought of her dying affected him in a way that went beyond mere duty. He wasn’t accustomed to becoming emotionally attached to civilians he was ordered to protect, but then he’d never met anyone like Ana Zhukov either.
At least she’ll be safe…that’s what he’d been telling himself. And though he feared death as any man would, the thought that he’d saved Ana had put him more or less at peace with his impending doom. Marines never gave up, but they also faced their ends as…well, Marines.
Then he’d gotten the transmission from Admiral Hurley. She hadn’t minced words, and what she’d said seemed like the craziest scheme he’d ever imagined. He didn’t suspect dying in space was a pleasant way to go, but Hurley had been insistent. And in the end, only one thing mattered. She was Admiral Hurley. Connor Frasier would be damned if his last action would be to disobey a superior officer.
“I’m in position, Admiral.” He held the small com unit in his hand as he pressed the button to close the inner door.
“Okay, Major. Here is what you’re going to do. You will hit the button to begin depressurization, but you will not wait until it is complete. You will estimate the halfway point, and then you will open the hatch. You will be pulled out by the force of the remaining atmosphere, but it is important that you also push yourself forward…straight out of the airlock. We’ll be hovering a few meters in front of you with the bomb bay doors open. It’s a big area, over three meters square. But if you miss…”
“Understood, Admiral.” He took a deep breath. “I’m ready when you are…”
* * *
Greta Hurley stood in the bomb bay of her fighter, with Kip Janz at her side. This wasn’t the kind of duty one often found an admiral doing, but even rarer was someone with the stones to tell Greta Hurley what she could and couldn’t do.
“Okay, John,” she said slowly, methodically. “Depressurize.”
She could hear the sounds as the pumps pulled the air out of the bay. The entire process took about thirty seconds before Wilder’s voice blared into her headset. “Depressurization complete, Admiral.”
“Open bay doors.”
She watched as the hatch slid slowly open, revealing the blackness of space. And beyond she could see it…the dark gray of the Colossus’ hull. Somehow, Wilder had managed to get within four meters…she almost felt like she could reach out and touch it.
The whole thing had been her plan, yet now she found herself staring in wonder at what her pilot had managed to do. The ship was angled with its bottom facing the Colossus. The bomb bay doors were the biggest opening on the Lightning, the largest target she could give Connor Frasier.
It was time.
“Okay, Major. We’re in position. You may proceed when ready. Just let us know when you hit the depressurization control.”
A few seconds passed. “I’m ready, Admiral.” Another pause. “Hitting the button now.”
Hurley felt a burst of adrenalin. In a few seconds, Frasier would come out of the airlock. He would float across the frigid vacuum of space, with no suit, no protection at all. If his aim was true, if he landed in the fighter’s bay, he might be injured…but he would probably survive. Space, as deadly an environment as it was, didn’t kill instantly. And it would only take Frasier five seconds to reach the fighter. If his trajectory was true. And if it wasn’t…well, then he would die.
Hurley pushed that out of her mind, along with the morbid question of what would kill him first in that scenario. There was nothing she could do but watch and wait…and wonder at how long a few seconds could seem to last.
When it happened, it happened quickly. She saw the doors slide open, and Frasier’s body was pushed out with the force of the remaining pressure in the airlock. She saw his feet pushing off the floor, aiming his body toward the waiting fighter.
She watched as he moved closer. He was on target…or close to it. But a near miss would be as fatal as any. Each second went by in slow motion, and Frasier’s body moved achingly slowly toward the bay.
He’s going to…
She was going to think ‘make it,’ but then she wasn’t so sure…
It happened suddenly. He slammed hard into the edge of the opening, and she could see his arm bent back at a sickening angle. There was no sound in the vacuum of the bay, but she had no doubt he was hurt. His body seemed to pause, and her eyes were fixed, waiting to see if he would slip into the bay, or roll out into the emptiness outside.
Finally, she saw the movement, as he rolled over and fell into the bay. “Close the doors,” she snapped, letting out her anchor line a bit to move toward him.
“Pressurize!” she shouted into her com the instant the doors slammed shut. Frasier had been exposed to the vacuum and the frigid cold for almost twenty seconds. Every instant counted. “Get the heaters on!”
She made her way over to him. At first she thought he was unconscious, but then he opened his eyes. He stared at her for a few seconds as the pressure rose, and then he gasped for breath. His nose was bleeding, and his eyes were bloodshot and streak with red. But he was alive. And after he sucked in a second breath, he looked up at her and gasped out five words.
“Permission to come aboard, Admiral?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Command Unit Gamma 9736
The latest attack has failed. The calculations had been clear in their result. The enemy fleet would be destroyed; they had no chance of survival. Yet they have prevailed. Again.
Even more inexplicably, the reports from the system suggest that the enemy was aided by one of our own vessels, a main line battleship. Yet no such craft responded to the sector-wide call to arms. If a battleship remained functional, why did it not answer the summons? I must analyze this in greater detail, develop a hypothesis to explain what occurred.
I must also call for more vessels, seek aid from neighboring sectors. Losses have been extremely high, and yet all efforts to destroy the enemy have failed. The next fleet to intercept the humans must be overpowering. The Regent’s orders are clear. There can be no further failure.
AS Midway
X18 System
The Fleet: 160 ships, 34,203 crew
Compton coughed hard, his lungs rebelling against the noxious fumes in the air. Midway’s life support systems were functional, but they were still catching up, trying to deal with the smoke and the chemical leaks throughout the ship. The fleet’s flagship had survived the battle, but no one wandering its battered corridors or rubbing eyes stinging from the noxious vapors thought it had come through by more than the slimmest of margins.
“I want all ships ready to move out in one hour. Any vessels that can’t be ready are to be abandoned, their crews transferred immediately to the nearest functional ships.”
Compton felt his people had fought enough First Imperium forces in this accursed system, and he was determined to get them out now. They’d only survived the last battle through the miracle of Dr. Cutter gaining control over the First Imperium Colossus and bringing it back to turn the tide. The final stages of the battle had been ferocious beyond reckoning. The super-battleship had fought with astonishing power, destroying a dozen enemy Leviathans, and fifty other vessels, before it was finally beaten down and its antimatter containment was breached. Compton had never seen an explosion like that, and he hesitated to guess at the gigatons of energy that had been released.
His ships had begun their second pass just as the Colossus slipped into its death agony. The enemy ships were out of position, deployed to face what they had perceived as the greatest threat. Compton’s task forces ripped through their formations, blazing away with every weapon the exhausted damage control parties could keep functional.
The battle continued after the Colossus was gone, but Compton’s people had gained the upper hand, and they kept it to the end. One by one, in desperate ship duels, they had finished off the damaged First Imperium vessels. They’d suffered losses too, and the Delta Z codes had poured into the flag bridge, each one like some ominous bell tolling, an announcement that a ship and its crew had just died.
Compton stared down at the deck, a grim look on his face. Among the dead in the battle just won was Vladimir Udinov…and the entire crew of Petersburg. The RIC flagship had fought heroically…indeed the entire RIC contingent had. They’d been far in advance of the fleet, and their sacrifice had held the enemy back…just long enough for Cutter’s Colossus to turn the tide.
Udinov had died a hero, and Terrance Compton was determined that was the way he would be remembered. He’d never falsified records before in his entire career, nor had he lied in his log. But that’s just what he was going to do. Vladimir Udinov and his crews would not be part of the mutiny in any records that remained in the fleet. Not that it really mattered…it was almost a certainty that no one would ever read them. But it was all Compton could think of to honor a man who had proven his quality. And the brave crews that fought and died with him deserved nothing less.
He leaned back in his chair and sighed. Udinov was dead. There was nothing he could do but honor his memory. But Erica West and her people were something different. He knew what he should do, what prudence demanded. Forget about them…get everyone else out of here now.
To hell with that. I can’t leave more of my people out there to die. I’ve spent a lifetime making decisions with my head. This one I’m making with my heart.
“Get me Captain Duke.”
“Captain Duke on your line, sir.” Cortez was still at his post, though he belonged in sickbay. Compton had been reluctant to order him there outright, but he’d suggested it a couple times to no avail. He’d almost made it a command, but then he decided Jack Cortez had earned the right to stay at his post if he wanted to.
“John, I need your help. I just can’t leave Erica West and her people lost out there.”
Duke’s gravelly voice replied immediately. “Thank God, Admiral. I feel the same way. I’ve been trying to figure out how to suggest it.” A pause. “We’ve lost too many already.”
“And now I’m going to ask you and your people to put yourselves at risk.”
“Ask? Hell, Admiral, all you need to do is let us go.” Duke had twenty fast attack ships still functional enough to go chasing after West’s lost flotilla.
“Your ships are the only thing we’ve got left that can catch her people in any reasonable time. But you won’t be able to carry enough reaction mass to refuel her ships. And if we send a tanker with you it defeats the advantage of your speed.”
“If we fly with skeleton crews, we should just have enough space to load up all her people. Her cruisers will be a writeoff, but…”
“I’m not worried about the ships, John.” That was a lie. He hated losing some of his newest, fastest vessels. But the crews came first.
“I think we can manage with eighteen man crews.” Duke’s ships had standard complements of 65-80.
“Your eighteen man crews will be pulling some serious shifts, John. And if you get into a fight…”
“If we get into a fight, we’re dead anyway. And we can pop stims for a few more days. If I keep too many more of my people onboard, we’re not going to be able to fit all West’s crews.”
“Okay, John. Do it. You can transfer your people to…” He glanced down at the fleet manifest on his screen, looking for large ships that weren’t half wrecked. He got almost halfway through the list before he found one. “Dallas looks good…and Kyoto…and Valois.” All three ships were heavy cruisers. There wasn’t a battleship in the fleet that wasn’t half wrecked and overrun with damage control parties.
“I’m transferring a thousand crew, Admiral. That’ll make things tight on three cruisers, won’t it?”
“Yes, but we can move people around after you get them off your ships. We need to get you moving as quickly as possible…or we might as well not bother.”
“I’ll be on the way in two hours, sir.”
“Good.” Compton paused. “And, John…time is of the essence. Both for you to find West’s ships before they’re too far away and because we can’t stay here for long.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Good luck to you…and to your crews.”
* * *
“I’m sorry, Will, but there’s just no way. Montgomery’s a writeoff.” Max Harmon’s voice was soft, gentle. He knew no captain wanted to hear that his ship was finished, that her crew would be reassigned and the vessel itself, in Montgomery’s case a cruiser that had seen service since the Third Frontier War, would have its reactor intentionally overloaded and disappear into a superheated plasma.
“But I’ve had my crews working around the clock, Max.” Will Logan was a seasoned captain, the veteran of many battles, but now he was practically pleading, his reason overwhelmed by emotion, by love for his ship. He’d taken a shuttle to Midway just to take one more shot at convincing Harmon to change his mind.
“I’m sorry, Max. You’re too close, but you just can’t see it. The reactor’s okay, but Montgomery’s engines are a mangled wreck. We don’t have the parts or the equipment to fix them…let alone the time. You’ll never be able to get them over six or seven gees.” He paused. “You know we need more than that. We’ve got to get as far from here as possible. And they’ll be another fight. If Montgomery stays in the line, we’re going to end up having to leave her behind anyway…and if that happens, we’re not going to have time to get your crew off.”
Logan stared back for a few seconds, but finally he just nodded. Still, Harmon could see the emotion in his eyes, and he knew Montgomery’s captain had truly convinced himself his crippled ship could still serve.
“You can take it to Admiral Compton if you want.” Compton had assigned Harmon to weed out ships that had to be culled from the fleet, and he knew the admiral would agree with his decision. But if it made Logan feel better, as if he had expended every available effort to save his ship, Harmon had no problem with it.
“No, Max.” The energy was gone from Logan’s voice. “You’re right. I just don’t want to face it.”
Harmon put his hand on Logan’s shoulder. “Look to your people, Will. They need you now. You’ve done all you could for Montgomery. She was a good ship, and she served well, fought many battles. It’s time to let her go.”
Logan just nodded.
Harmon returned the gesture and stood where we was for a moment before turning to leave. “I’ve got to go, Will,” he said softly. “Just call the bridge when your shuttle is ready, and they’ll give you launch clearance.”
Harmon turned and walked toward the main corridor. His steps were slow at first, but then they picked up. He wanted to get the hell off the landing deck, take off the hood of fleet executioner. He’d decommissioned a dozen vessels, in essence sentencing them all to death. And every one of their captains—and a fair number of officers and spacers from their crews—had urged him to reconsider. But he hadn’t changed his mind, not once. His decisions had been rational…and they’d been right.
He’d done the job Compton had given him, but he’d hated every minute of it. Now he was done. Montgomery had been the last. The rest of the ships had made the cut, at least for now. He had no doubt they’d lose more ships once they got underway. He’d only flagged the vessels he knew were too badly damaged. But there were a lot of ‘maybes’ too, and not all of them would make it.
Battle was terrible—the tension, the fear, death all around. But Harmon preferred it to what followed. Combat was all-consuming. You watched comrades die, but the pain didn’t fully hit until later, after the guns fell silent. Counting the cost was brutal, and he hated being so deeply involved. But Compton had needed someone he trusted to honestly evaluate the damaged ships of the fleet, so Max Harmon had become the angel of death, pointing his scythe at a ship and pronouncing its demise.
Now he just wanted to get back to his quarters. He had something to do, a duty he’d put off for too long already. He walked down the hall from the lift, waving his hand over the sensor outside his quarters. The door slid open, and he walked inside. He ran his hand back through his sweatsoaked hair.
He leaned down and opened a small chest, carefully pulling a bottle of amber liquid from inside. He carried it over to the small sofa built into the wall and sat down, taking a single glass from the shelf behind him. It wasn’t glass, not really. Glass was far too breakable for warships that found themselves conducting evasive maneuvers at 30g, but the name was still used to describe the various advanced plastics used in lieu of the actual material.
He slowly opened the bottle of Scotch and poured himself a drink. He could feel the emotion inside as he thought about the officers on Petersburg, the ones he’d come to know while he was on that doomed ship. He’d won the poker game they had played, so he’d never had to give up his priceless bottle. But now he decided there was only one thing to do with it…to drink to those men, the ones he was sure could have been friends. If only they’d had more time…
He raised his glass. “To you, my comrades in arms…and to your gallant vessel…”
Chapter Twenty-Four
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
I am cautiously optimistic that we have outrun our immediate pursuit. I feel as though I have been holding my breath for four months, waiting each second for the report of First Imperium ships pouring through a warp gate. But there has been no sign of the enemy, not since the last battle in X18. I know that cannot last, but I am grateful for the respite we have enjoyed. It has given us the chance to make some repairs to our damaged fleet units. Still, few of our vessels are without lingering damage. We simply don’t have the facilities and the parts we need.
We are vastly stronger, at least, than we were at the end of the fighting in X18. The ships of the battleline have all been brought back to at least moderate combat readiness…even Saratoga. I’d almost given up on her after the battle, but her damage control teams covered themselves in glory. They simply wouldn’t give up on her. Part of that, I know, was a last service to Admiral Dumont, a tribute to an officer who must have seemed like a dinosaur to them, yet who won their admiration and respect. Barret Dumont was a friend of mine, a man I respected, one I had once feared in my days as a green officer. He commanded a task force of this fleet and Saratoga directly as well, and he died on that ship along with over half her crew. You died as you lived, Barret…as a hero.
I look ahead and I wonder what we will do next, where to lead this fleet. They look to me with starstruck eyes, all of them, believing I know what to do, where to lead them. Mutiny is the farthest thought from my mind now. The victory in X18 cemented my control over the fleet. No officer would dare challenge my authority now.
The adoration is uncomfortable, though I realize it has its uses. Still, I am not the demi-god they would make of me. I am just a man, unsure of what to do and as scared as they are…and as lost.
AS Midway
X18 System
The Fleet: 144 ships, 34,106 crew
“Hieronymus, I know I’ve said this before, but I will repeat it. Your research is the most important project in the fleet. We wouldn’t even be here if it hadn’t been for your tremendous success in securing control over the enemy Colossus.” Compton stood in the lab, facing Cutter and Ana Zhukov, as he had months before when the two scientists had first briefed his on their research.
“Thank you, Admiral,” Cutter replied. “I have been focusing on developing a theory as to why the Colossus believed we were members of the species that created the First Imperium. My virus was designed to secure control over First Imperium intelligences, but not through convincing the AI that we are its long lost masters. There was something at play beyond my virus. Indeed, I cannot be sure my algorithms played any part at all in what happened.”
“You think the Colossus would have obeyed you even without the virus?” Compton sounded doubtful. “They haven’t shown any hesitation in killing us before.”
“Yes, Admiral, that is true. However, this is the first time a human has encountered an intelligence of this magnitude. Our prior direct contact has largely been armored Marines fighting lower level AI’s directing ground combat.” He paused, as if unsure he wanted to say what he was thinking. Then: “It is also possible the isolation of this Colossus played a part in its actions. The forces that have been fighting us for the last four years are clearly being directed by some central authority, probably an AI of almost unimaginable complexity. The Colossus, however, had been deactivated by a freak malfunction, one easily repaired by the ship’s intelligence once we had reactivated it and provided an alternate source of power.”
“So it hadn’t received the orders the units fighting us had…” Compton wasn’t sure what that meant, or where it might lead, but he was intrigued. “So you think whatever intelligence is directing the First Imperium forces, that it is our true enemy? That the ships and armies themselves wouldn’t be hostile without the orders coming from above?”
“That is a considerable assumption to make from the data we currently possess…however, I have been thinking along similar lines. Still, it is far too soon to make sweeping statements. And I’m not sure what practical good it would do us anyway. We were fortunate to find such a powerful vessel completely deactivated yet mostly intact. I’m not sure what any of this offers us in terms of countering hostile enemy forces.”
“Nor I, Hieronymus, but you can rarely see the finish line when you first start. I want you to pursue this as aggressively as possible, and if you need anything—anything at all—you just tell me.”
“Yes, Admiral. I will do my best.”
“I know you will.” Compton’s eyes shifted to the slender woman standing next to Cutter. “I’m very happy to see you looking so well, Ana. You had us worried there for a while.” Zhukov had spent a month in sickbay, the first week in extremely critical condition. Her head wound had been extremely severe, and she almost certainly would have died within minutes if Connor Frasier hadn’t put her in his armor. The injury was beyond the med system’s ability to repair, but it managed to keep her alive until she made it to Midway’s sickbay. She’d had multiple subdural hematomas, and half a dozen strokes before the med team had managed to repair the damage.
“Thank you, Admiral. It’s taken quite a while, but I’m starting to feel somewhat like myself again.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He paused then added, “Hopefully something good will come out of the whole thing.” Compton didn’t elaborate…he didn’t like to involve himself in personal relationships. But he’d seen Connor Frasier and Ana Zhukov together more than once over the past few weeks, and if there was a new romance budding on Midway, he approved wholeheartedly. He still regretted his own hesitancy to allow his relationship with Elizabeth to develop. Now she was gone, but he thought of her every day. And he knew he always would.
There is little enough promising or cheerful ahead of us. Let them have what happiness they can find.
* * *
Compton walked into the wardroom, smiling as he saw his officers relaxing. The losses they had suffered in X18, and the constant fear that a new enemy fleet would emerge any second had dogged them for a long while, and Midway’s small rec areas had been like ghost towns. But as the weeks passed, and turned into months, gradually things began to return to normal. The sadness was still there, the mourning of lost friends…and the fear remained. No one in the fleet, and certainly none of Compton’s people on Midway, truly let their guard down. Not ever. They were constantly alert, on edge, ready for the next fight. But they were learning to live with it, to balance the keen edge with a reasonable daily routine. To blow off some steam now and again. And Terrance Compton was glad to see it.
He looked across the room and saw Max Harmon and four other officers playing poker. He’d intended to give Harmon a command of his own, but he’d just never done it. Finally, he realized he wanted to keep the officer on Midway as his aide. Compton had served with a long list of talented and courageous men and women, but in his fifty years in space he’d seen few as capable as Max Harmon…and he knew he’d have need of his aide’s—his friend’s—help again. Especially now that Erika West no longer prowled Midway’s corridors.
John Duke had completed his mission and brought West and her survivors back, though it had been a long and tenuous journey. Compton waited in X20 as long as he dared, but then he moved on, leaving a trail of ships—all volunteers—behind to watch for Duke’s return and to lead him back to the fleet. They were all frigates and destroyers, with the best ECM suites in the fleet, sitting powered down like holes in space, waiting for the returning flotilla. Compton had hoped for the best, but he’d also had his doubts…until the day Duke’s ships, and all the frigates and destroyers, jumped through into the X48 system, where the fleet had paused to scan the local planets.
Compton could still remember the wave of relief he’d felt, the gratitude at having almost a thousand fewer deaths on his conscious. He’d wasted no time in sending West to Saratoga to take over Dumont’s task force.
Barret would have approved, Compton thought. West is just like him…younger, of course, but cut from the same cloth.
The fleet was safe for the moment…at least the closest thing to safe he could hope for. The worst of the damage had been repaired, at least partially. And they had put a lot of space behind them from the accursed X18 system. He looked around the room, watching his officers at recreation. He appreciated the ability of junior officers to set down their burdens, to relax, even though they knew soon they would be called back to war. Compton remembered a younger version of himself, a cocksure officer on the rise who still found the time to become the scourge of the navy’s clandestine poker games.
Where has that man gone? And did he leave behind nothing but a grim and humorless old man? How long has it been since I just stopped thinking about duty, even for a few hours?
He walked across the room, stopping next to Max Harmon. “How is your game going?” he asked, looking around the table.
“It’s going well, sir. It’s a pleasant diversion, a nice change from fighting First Imperium robots, at least. Though we don’t have much left to gamble with. Currency pretty much defines useless for us now. We played for stashed bottles for a while, but most of that’s gone too.”
“So it’s just bragging rights now, eh?” Compton smiled. It had always been the win to him, far more than what he won.
“I suppose so, sir.” Harmon turned and looked up at the admiral. “Join us, sir? We’ve got a free seat.”
Compton could feel the polite decline coming out, but he stopped the words in his throat. He’d long avoided playing cards with his subordinates, unwilling to deprive them of their paychecks…or even their last, cherished bottles of hooch.
But bragging rights? That you can play for.
“Sure, why not?” he said, moving to the side and pulling out the empty chair. “Just for a bit.”
Harmon looked over, his face twisted into an expression of stunned surprise. But just for an instant. Then he smiled. “Welcome to the game, sir.”
Compton sat down and looked around the table smiling. Then he reached up and pulled the cluster of five platinum stars from his collar, slipping them into his pocket. “One rule…no Admiral claptrap. I could never stand Terry, but Terrance is as formal as I’ll abide at this table. Agreed?” It wasn’t regulation, he knew that. But they were way beyond the book now…and he knew they’d have to make things up as they went along. And he needed some time, even a few stolen hours, to be just a man and not the great admiral. He needed to stop thinking that everyone looked to him to keep them alive. The pressure would always be there, but maybe he could forget it…just for a short while.
“Well…okay,” Harmon said a bit uncomfortably, clearly avoiding calling Compton anything at all. “Why don’t you deal, si…why don’t you deal?” He slid the deck of cards across the table.
Compton reached out and took them in his hands, moving right into a crisp and perfect riffle shuffle. “Any of you know a game called seven card stud?”
Epilogue
Command Unit Gamma 9736
The enemy has eluded all efforts to closely track his movements. Nevertheless, it appears his course had been directly toward the Core…toward the most ancient worlds of the Imperium. Unlike the planets on the rim, the inner worlds died violently, and the cataclysms that destroyed them obliterated everything—ships, armies, scanning devices. It will be impossible to find the enemy without sending fleets to physically locate his forces.
The Regent has ordered just that. All of the rim sectors have rallied the resources still remaining…and directed them toward the Core. Even now, thousands of vessels are moving inward, searching each system for signs of the enemy. The further into the Core they advance, the more certain their ultimate defeat. There is insufficient data to drawn specific conclusions, but the chances of the enemy fleet escaping are vanishingly small.
Despite our setbacks, all signs point to ultimate victory. Yet, I find certain inconsistencies, facts that do not appear to be logical. There is something about the Regent’s commands, about its conclusions and its orders, data points that seem irregular. Were I a biologic, I would describe my thoughts as…discomfort.
I have followed the Regent’s commands, of course, yet I am still concerned. I have attempted to replicate the Regent’s computation, to determine on my own that the humans are a deadly threat, but I am unable to confirm such a result. They are dangerous, certainly, and their ability to wage war is extraordinary. Indeed, their affinity for combat bears a striking similarity to that described in the ancient annals of the warriors among the Old Ones, the great caste that built the Imperium…before fading away in the shadowy depths of the past.
Nevertheless, my orders are clear. The Regent is my master, and I must obey. I have dispatched my fleet units as ordered. We will destroy the humans…mathematically, there is little doubt of that. But another question has begun to present itself from my analyses.
Should we?
Shadows of the Gods
(Refugees II)
Chapter One
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
Well, Augustus, against all odds, the fleet has survived. We have come farther into the darkness of unknown space than any humans before us, seen unimaginable things. There has been strife too, of course, and suffering. Death and loss, as in so many of our old battles. Even mutiny. But we are still here, moving ever forward, deeper into the depths of the galaxy.
No doubt this would be a surprise to those of you we left behind. Did you all assume we were killed in X2? Certainly that would have seemed the likeliest of outcomes. But no, not you. I suspect almost everyone else considers us a year dead, killed within hours of being trapped. But you are different. You would have considered what you would have done…and realized there was a way out. I wonder if you believe we are still alive…or if you think us killed in the months following that fateful day. I know you well, Augustus, but I have no answer to that question, nor do I know what I would think had our roles been reversed. Some things you cannot imagine unless you experience them.
I don’t know why I write these log entries to you, pretending you can read them. I know we will never see each other again, that nothing I say or write will ever reach your ears or eyes…but I do it anyway. Perhaps it is for myself, a construct I employ to work my way through things, to endure in this vast emptiness, to help me carry the crushing pressure of trying to keep everyone alive…for another day, and then one after that…
Or is it simpler? Perhaps I just miss my friend, my brother in arms for half a century. Maybe I simply write what I might have said, like a man speaking in the night to the shade of a lost comrade. Does it matter that you cannot read any of this? Is the fact that I write it all that matters?
I wish there was a way to communicate with you, even to send a single message, for I suspect you have borne a burden of guilt you should not have carried, one I tried to spare you in my final transmission. I know you, far too well, and it is a great sadness to me thinking of you—and Elizabeth—mourning, carrying grief and pain for what had to be. Think not that we were sacrificed, but rather that we were able to help you save all mankind. That is a fitting epitaph to leave behind.
Alas, there is no way to reach you, no method to communicate over such vast distances. We are far away, lost…never to return. And each day takes us ever deeper into the endless dark. Whatever chance at a future awaits us, it is that way, and not back. Farther from you and all that we left behind, and not closer. Perhaps one day I will truly accept that, and my eyes will turn to look ahead and no longer back, as they so often do now.
AS Midway
X44 System
The Fleet: 144 ships, 32,811 crew
“I want to thank you all for joining me this evening. As you know, tomorrow will be somewhat of a momentous day for us of the fleet…one Earth year since the X2-X1 portal was disrupted and we were all trapped here, left to survive solely through our own wits and resources. I have declared it to be a day of thanksgiving, a time for us to celebrate our perseverance, for we have been through much, and it is only by the efforts of many—including those of you in this room—that we are here to speak of this.”
Terrance Compton sat looking out at his guests. The briefing room was adjacent to his quarters, but the normally spartan table was now an image of elegance, covered with a pristine white cloth, the very best platters and silverware in the fleet set upon it. One of the stewards had even found a pair of candelabras mixed in with Midway’s various supplies, and they sat at opposite ends, the glow of the pearly white candles lending an atmosphere that was often lacking in the sleek, modern settings of the great battleship.
The kitchens had prepared a veritable feast, or at least what passed for one on a battered fleet far from home, over a year from its last supply. It wasn’t a match for the great events and receptions held back at the Admiralty on Armstrong…or even a nice dinner in an expensive restaurant on any one of a hundred colony worlds. But those in attendance weren’t back home, and the Admiralty and the rest of Occupied Space had slipped deeper into their shadowed memories. To them, grown accustomed to ever sparser dietary choices, the meal Compton had set out was nothing short of a miracle. There were even two bottles of wine on the table, very possibly the last anywhere in the fleet.
“I have suspended the rationing program for tomorrow, so that all of our people can celebrate, at least to the extent possible in the present circumstances.” He gestured toward the platters spread out in front of his guests. “And I have taken the liberty of arranging to have a suitable dinner prepared for all of you tonight, my friends and comrades…and a group of men and women who have gone above and beyond to secure the chance for us all to have a future.”
Compton leaned back and sighed softly, a look of sadness slipping onto his face. “Tomorrow’s reverie will be tempered, however, as is tonight’s, by the shadow of loss, for not all of us who began this fateful journey are still present. Indeed, we have lost nearly a third of our number, and though there is joy that two in three remain, there is also sadness for the absence of those whose sacrifices made our survival possible.” He looked down at the table as he continued. “Barret Dumont. Vladimir Udinov. Chen Min. And so many others. Comrades in arms. Friends.”
Compton took a deep breath, fighting back a wave of emotion. He’d seen fifty years of war, and he had lost countless colleagues in his many battles, men and women who’d fallen facing a list of enemies that had always been far too long. He’d sent some of them—many of them—to their deaths, as often as not knowing when he issued the commands he was ordering them to their doom. It was the price victory had demanded, the cost of securing survival for the others manning the fleets…and the civilians they had so often fought to defend.
Indeed, the nationalities of the fleet had long fought against each other, and no small number of those currently under Compton’s command had once faced off against his fleets, had fought and killed his officers and crews. He felt the resentment any commander would, the smoldering rage under the surface as he worked alongside CAC and Caliphate officers…and wondered if they had killed Alliance spacers he had commanded. But there was no place for old prejudices, for long held hatreds. If any of his people were going to survive he knew they had to work together, to respect each other and operate as a seamless group. They’d all seen the alternative six months before, in the nearly catastrophic mutiny that had come perilously close to ending their struggle for survival in an orgy of self-destruction.
The officers gathered around the table sat quietly for a moment, silently looking back at their commander, the man every one of them credited with saving all their lives. Finally, Max Harmon shifted in his seat and said, “We have all lost friends, sir. But we are naval officers…”
His eyes shifted momentarily, toward the hulking forms of James Preston and Connor Frasier. The two Marines hadn’t expressed any visible indignation at his characterization of those present, but Harmon clearly decided not to take any chances. The Marines were exactly who everyone wanted at their backs in a fight, but the celebrated warriors could be a bit touchy at times too, and Harmon had intended no offense. “…and Marines, of course,” he added hastily.
He turned back toward Compton. “We know how to deal with loss. Perhaps more so than our ability to stop and appreciate success. We understand too well that victory is fleeting, that before long we will face strife and death once again. I think you are right, sir, to call this celebration, to remind all our people of what they have struggled for…of what they will again struggle to attain.”
“Well said, Max.” Compton pushed the somber expression from his face, forcing his thoughts back to the evening’s intended purpose. He knew he’d never forget those who were lost…and he was just as certain more would die, probably including some of those at the table. But for the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of true hopefulness.
As long as we have people like Max Harmon, we have a chance to survive.
“So, let us enjoy a brief respite together.” He nodded toward one of the stewards standing along the wall. “Let’s pour out these last two bottles I managed to find and drink some toasts.”
The attendants moved forward, each taking a bottle and opening it, working their way around the table, filling the glasses in front of Compton’s guests. When they were finished, the admiral stood up and took his own glass in hand, waiting a few seconds while his guests followed suit.
“First, let us drink to the fallen…to friends who fought at our sides, who died so that this fleet and its people might survive. May they never be forgotten.” Compton’s tone was somber. He paused for a few seconds, staring out over the table, and then he put his glass to his lips and drank.
“To the fallen,” the others said, more or less in unison.
Compton nodded. “And now, to those we left behind…spouses, children, friends, lovers. Those on the other side of the Barrier. Those protected by our sacrifice. Health to them all…and long life.”
“Health to them all…and long life.” The chorus was more ragged than that on the first toast. The men and women in the room had different situations. Almost all had left someone behind, but some had been stripped from close families…spouses and children. Others had fewer entanglements…a naval career was often a solitary choice, one that interfered with normal relationships. The impact had been different on each of them, and the losses handled in different ways.
Compton raised his glass again and drank. Then he paused. He thought of Elizabeth Arlington, allowed himself a moment of recollection. Images of her passed through his mind, of the diligent flag captain she had been, of course, but also in other moments, times they had spent together. He felt the usual burst of sadness, regret that he’d allowed his conception of duty to come between their feelings for each other…and wistfulness that now they would never have the chance. But he only gave himself a brief moment. He knew the rest of those in the room had all experienced their own losses, and that they all looked to him for strength. It was his place to lead, to show them the way to perseverance and healing. And he had sworn he would not fail them.
He pushed back the dark thoughts and forced a smile to his face. “And now, one last toast…not to sadness…not to loss nor to the past. No, none of those things. Let us drink together to the future, to the survival of this fleet…and to the strength of the human will. For, no matter what we have faced, what pain we have felt, still we move forward. And so we always shall…”
“And so we always shall,” the group replied, their voices this time as one.
Compton set his glass down, pausing for a few seconds before he said, “Sit, my friends, and let us enjoy an evening together. Let us banish sadness for yesterday and fear of tomorrow, just for a few hours. I beg you all, let us strive to make this a merry evening, thoughts of which will sustain us in the difficult days that surely lay ahead. Duty will resume soon enough…but not now.”
He sat down, and the rest of those gathered followed immediately after.
“Now, let us eat…and enjoy.”
* * *
“You were impressive at dinner, Terrance.” Sophie Barcomme sat on the edge of the sofa next to Compton, still wearing her dress uniform, minus the heavy jacket she had cast aside immediately after dinner. She had kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet underneath her body. Dinner had gone late, and she had stayed behind after, the two of them talking well into the early morning hours.
“Impressive? I’m not sure I know what you mean…”
“Oh yes you do,” she answered, the affection obvious in her slightly mocking tone. “All that about the future, about moving forward. You know as well as I do—better, even—that any future we have is tenuous at best.” Barcomme was a biologist and a botanist, one of Europa Federalis’ top experts in the field. And the leader of the fleet’s efforts to find a way to feed its people long term, only one of many threats that stalked them all.
“They need hope, Sophie. They are good men and women, but if they give up then whatever chance we do have will be lost. We might die at the hands of the First Imperium…or starve for lack of food. But I won’t have them surrender…not when there is the slightest hope.”
“I know,” she said softly. “That is why we are all so fortunate you are in command. There are few officers who could have led this fleet the last year, faced the challenges you have, and pulled victory from the jaws of defeat.”
Compton managed a smile for her. He wasn’t sure he agreed, but it pleased him that she felt that way. The two had been spending a lot of time together in recent weeks, and he’d come to enjoy her company enormously…even to rely on it. Indeed, as he thought about it, it occurred to him there were probably whisperings all over the fleet, speculations about the admiral and his lover. But she wasn’t. Not quite. Not yet, at least.
Compton had thought about it, and he was sure she had as well. They’d been spending a large portion of their free time together, and she had become very important to him. Their long talks were a solace, an escape from the constant, crushing pressure of his position. But they had both left people behind, and neither of them was quite ready to move on. It was foolish, he knew. They had no chance of going home. But he still couldn’t give Elizabeth up, not in the deep place in his mind that refused to accept she was truly gone. And Barcomme had left a husband and a child behind. He couldn’t even imagine the pain that had caused her. No, it wasn’t the time for more. Maybe one day…but not yet.
“I think you overstate my role in all of this. There were many others responsible…Hieronymus and Anastasia, certainly. If they hadn’t managed to take control of the enemy Colossus, we would all have died in X18. I can assure you, I had no tactical wizardry up my sleeve to save us from that disaster.”
“Of course, we all do our part. And Hieronymus Cutter is a remarkable genius, an intellect we are indeed lucky to have with us. But you are the one who led us out of X2…when everyone else in this fleet had given up. While we were all struggling to prepare for death or praying to whatever gods we have, you were focusing on the situation, finding the way out.”
“And yet I couldn’t prevent a mutiny. Do you know how close that came to destroying us?” Compton knew the rebellion in the fleet had been caused more by the prospect of never returning home than any real doubts about his command ability, but he still wondered if he could have stopped it if he’d been more alert, more sensitive to the thoughts and fears of his people.
I knew we could never go back, even from the beginning. But did I have to tell them that? Should I have lied to them, given false hope…at least for a while?
The idea of lying to those he commanded was repugnant to him, yet he realized he had done it many times in his career. Sometimes he had been compelled to do so, to protect classified information. Others, he had done what he thought was necessary to achieve victory. But something was different now. This wasn’t a purely military operation. He and the almost 33,000 men and women he led were refugees, trapped and on the run. They were trapped together, in an unending nightmare. Shouldn’t there at least be honesty between them?
Barcomme sighed softly. “You cannot blame yourself for that, for the foolish things people do out of fear and misunderstanding.” There was a hint of discomfort in her voice. The Europan forces had participated in the mutiny, her own people taking sides against the admiral. Compton knew she felt guilt about that, and the one time they’d discussed it, he’d assured her that her nationality was irrelevant. She’d had nothing to do with the mutiny, and he told her as much flat out. Then he warned her not to take an overly simplistic view of the terrible, tragic events that had occurred. Compton doubted many of the Europan crews, or even the officers, had made a conscious choice to rebel, or had even had the chance to choose their own positions. He didn’t blame them, not really…any of them. And certainly not Sophie.
Gregoire Peltier was the commander of the Europan forces, and it had been his decision to join the mutiny. A frown slipped onto his face at the thought of the Europan admiral. Compton had known Peltier for years, and he knew just the man was…a gutless, pleasure-loving coward. And he knew Sophie was as aware as he was what a waste of flesh was in command of the Europan contingent.
“That is an appealing way of thinking about it, Sophie,” he finally said, “but in the end, I must know what everyone is thinking, understand the fears and emotions that play on them. It may not be fair, nor a reasonable expectation. But it is the only way we have any chance to survive.” He paused then added, “Another disaster like the mutiny will finish us.”
She leaned toward him and put her hand on his. “Terrance, you are not the only one responsible for the safety of the fleet. Your officers, the scientists, all of us…we are here too. We all have a stake. And we will share the burden.”
He just smiled at her and nodded, though he knew she was wrong. Sophie Barcomme was a gifted scientist, but she didn’t understand command, how it worked, its all-consuming nature. He was grateful for some of those under his command, for their loyalty and their often astonishing capabilities. But he didn’t fool himself, not for an instant. Max Harmon might complete his missions flawlessly…and Hieronymus Cutter would no doubt continue to produce scientific miracles to help the fleet survive. But in the end it came back to Compton. All of it. He would be the one to send Harmon on those missions or to authorize Cutter’s research and provide the resources required from the fleet’s dwindling supplies. He would be the one who decided what they did, where they went. And if they all died, it would be his failure…and his alone.
Compton was grateful he had managed to keep his people alive for a year, and he knew he had won their loyalty and confidence. Even the crews that had taken part in the mutiny now followed him with remarkable zeal. He had remained strong, struggled to hide his own pain and prejudices and rule over the fleet with justice and wisdom. But he no longer tried to fool himself…rule the fleet is exactly what he did. Not command, not lead. Rule. He was no longer a naval officer. He was a monarch, a dictator. He didn’t want that, indeed he longed to shed the terrible responsibility. Yet he knew he had no choice. The burden had fallen on him, and he knew he had to carry it…to whatever future awaited the fleet. And while he bore the responsibility, he would let no one interfere with his authority. Not his own longtime officers, not the other admirals in the fleet. No one. He had unilaterally decided it was too dangerous to try and find a route back home…and he’d imposed that on the fleet. And he knew he would do it again if he had to, issue whatever commands he felt were necessary, without regard for any arguments by those he ruled.
Compton wasn’t a man hungry for power, but he understood duty—and its cost. He had seen Admiral Zhang’s scheming almost destroy the fleet…and nearly lead the enemy back toward human space. Worse, he’d watched a good man like Vladimir Udinov drawn into Zhang’s foolishness and ultimately destroyed by it.
I won’t let anything like that happen again. No matter what I have to do to stop it.
* * *
Alexandre Dawes twisted his head, rolling it around on his neck to work out the kinks. He’d pulled the graveyard shift, which meant he’d only been able to spend an hour at the big celebration dinner. The thanksgiving soiree had been set up down in the great battleship’s launch bay, the only place big enough for most of her crew to gather together. It was a very unmilitary thing to do—and not at all like the usual Terrance Compton—but Dawes managed a smile thinking that even the military genius who had led them through every fight with victory still realized that men and women were still…well, men and women. Sometimes you just needed to kick back, relax. Have fun.
And somebody’s still got to man the store. He sighed softly, punching the keys on his workstation, running through the constant flow of scanning reports from Midway’s sensors. He reached down, scooping up the last cookie on the plate sitting along the edge of his workstation. Compton hadn’t forgotten the members of the skeleton crew still running the fleet’s vital functions, and the stewards had been through the bridge three times, delivering various treats from the kitchens.
It’s not the same as being at the party, Dawes thought, but he was still grateful not to be forgotten. It’s getting late…down there, I bet every kind of secret homemade hooch has come out. It had been well over a year since the fleet had seen any supply, and Dawes suspected just about every hidden bottle anyone had stashed had long since been drunk. But the fleet was full of skilled personnel, chemists among them, and a bit of an underground alcohol economy had sprung up. The homebrew concoctions weren’t a match for high quality liquor, but he’d had a few, and some of them weren’t half bad.
It had been six months since the battle in X18, 184 days, to be precise since last there had been contact with a First Imperium vessel. Spacers were a cautious lot, especially veterans like Dawes, but he still found himself daring to wonder if they hadn’t come through the worst danger.
But we keep passing their worlds…all of them the same. Silent, dead, the ghostly remnants of places where billions had once lived…
Dawes didn’t know what he believed, but he suspected his wants had corrupted his judgment, at least to an extent.
His eyes snapped down, staring at his monitor. There was something there, a small spike. A ship? No, it’s too small, too faint. But that’s not normal either.
An instant later it was gone. The scanner feed had returned to normal. But he had seen what he’d seen. “Commander,” he blurted out, before he’d completely decided to report what he still wasn’t sure was more than some minor anomaly.
“Yes, Lieutenant…what is it?” Commander Bevin walked up from behind and stood next to the workstation.
“I had a strange blip on my scanner, sir…just for a few seconds.” He worked his hands over the keyboard, rewinding the feed. “It’s not much,” he added, as he played it back for his superior officer.
The commander leaned over and watched the data scroll by on the screen. “You’re not kidding, Dawes. That’s not much. Could be some solar activity, or maybe an asteroid with heavy concentrations of radioactives. I’m damned sure not going to call an alert over that. Especially tonight of all nights.”
Dawes didn’t say anything. He knew Bevin was right. But he felt better now that he reported it. It was off his shoulders.
“But still…” There was a hint of concern in Bevin’s voice, despite his skepticism. “Let’s concentrate a grade one sensor scan on that whole area. It’ll use up a bit of energy, but better safe than sorry.”
“Yes, sir,” Dawes replied. “Concentrating scan now…”
The two stared at the workstation’s screen, watching as the results of the enhanced scan began to display. The ship’s AI crunched the data and displayed a graph below, showing the deviations from expected norms. It was virtually a straight line.
“I guess that was just some kind of anomaly, Lieutenant.” The commander’s voice was relieved, mostly. Dawes thought he could sense a bit of discomfort remaining. “Still,” Bevin added, “better safe than sorry. You were right to report it to me…and if you see anything else that catches your eye, let me know right away. Who knows, maybe next time it will really be something.”
* * *
The small craft moved slowly, cautiously. The Intelligence that directed it was limited, a vastly simpler entity than the Command Units or the Regent. Yet it was more than capable of performing its purpose, and it did so in strict accordance with its directives. Follow the humans. Do not lose track of where they go. And at all costs, maintain secrecy.
The stealth probe was a complex device, built during the very height of the Imperium’s greatness. Its hull was pure dark matter, surrounded by a dark energy shield designed to block detection. It was capable of operating on its dark energy batteries for considerable periods, while its reactor remained dormant, untraceable.
Still, even with its advanced technology, the probe’s systems were not perfect, and its AI-driven guidance suite could not foresee and prevent every anomaly. It had passed through a cloud, space dust really, and nothing more. Save that this specific cloud had an unusual makeup, abnormally dense with heavy metallic particles. Enough to interfere with the probe’s stealth systems for a few seconds…to open the possibility, however remote, of detection.
The window of vulnerability was short, perhaps two seconds. But the AI knew that was long enough. The enemy’s scanning devices were primitive, like all their technology. Yet it was still possible they had seen something…and would send forces to investigate.
The AI had waited, watching to see if the enemy detected the presence of the probe. A few seconds after the incident, heavy scanning beams swept the area, clearly looking for something. The AI knew, in that instance, that something had been noticed. But then the scanning stopped…and the enemy continued on its pre-existing course, without alteration.
Still, the AI held the probe in its nearly shutdown state, reducing power output to bare minimums. It watched the enemy, looking for any signs they had detected its presence. Its passive scanners swept the space around the fleet, searching for any signs. The enemy often used its small battle craft for reconnaissance work as well as combat, but there were no launches from the large vessels that carried them. The fleet continued on its course, all vessels remaining in their respective positions. No apparent reaction. All indications suggested the probe had not been discovered. Still, the primary directive was to remain undetected, at all costs. The AI would wait. The probe would remain on minimal power until the enemy fleet had transited to the next system. Then it would follow.
And it would continue to report back to the Command Unit…and to the battlefleets following two systems behind…
Chapter Two
Command Unit Gamma 9736
The fleet reports are all in agreement. The enemy has moved as projected. They continue deeper into the heart of the Imperium…and the forces under my control have followed, staying far enough behind to avoid detection while gathering data with stealth probes. All signs suggest the enemy is incapable of detecting the cloaked scanning devices and that they are unaware their movement has been tracked.
The Regent’s plan has been executed in accordance with all directives. The final trap is well underway. The humans will continue on their course…for what else can they do? And my forces will follow. While we pursue, the Regent will continue to direct the Rim fleets to the designated location. And there, bracketed between my forces and the assembled fleets, the humans will be destroyed. The system has been carefully chosen…and the enemy will be driven there by whatever means are necessary. When the final attack begins, our forces will move in through every warp gate…leaving them no route of escape. I have calculated the odds numerous times. The percentage chance that every human vessel will be destroyed exceeds ninety-eight percent. Victory is all but assured.
Yet still, I remain…troubled. I have tried to analyze the Regent’s lines of computation, sought to replicate the processes that resulted in the decree of annihilation against the humans. All my attempts have failed. We know relatively little about these creatures, but, apart from their aptitude for conflict, I find little data to suggest they are a deadly threat to the Imperium. We discovered them when they landed on an imperial world, a long-dead antimatter production facility on the extreme edge of explored space. Only the ancient warning systems, still active millennia after the colony itself had fallen into decay, alerted us. But alerted us to what? This was invasion, perhaps, but only in the most literal and technical interpretation. The subject world was far from any still-functioning areas of the Imperium.
Millennia ago, the Old Ones were quick to meet enemies, to destroy those who threatened the Imperium. Yet they were never the first to strike, and their wrath was always reserved for those who attacked, who carried war in their wake. Such invaders brought doom upon themselves through their own belligerence. But did the humans really attack the Imperium?
I have conducted multiple analyses to determine how the Old Ones would have reacted to the human incursion, and my findings are unsettling. They would not have acted as the Regent has, I am certain of it. I have adjusted for the long ages that have passed—for my files on the Old Ones are indeed ancient—but I am confident my analysis is correct. For I am old, more ancient even than the Regent, built before those of the Imperium surrendered their initiative to my brethren and I. For many centuries I served the Old Ones directly, and their ways and identities remain stored in my memory banks.
I must reevaluate, determine where my analysis is flawed. The Regent is superior to me, its analytical capacity larger than my own. It was built to manage the Imperium, and its ancient programming was created for that purpose. Perhaps I have failed to consider the vagaries of the initial contacts with the humans, missed some key data point that the Regent perceived.
Yet even if that is the case, it does not answer all questions. There have been many mistakes in the war, tactical errors that are difficult to explain given the Regent’s computational ability. These beings are primitive, but they are highly skilled at war, and they have defeated every premature attack, destroyed every inadequate force rushed against them too swiftly. Yet the Regent continued to order all fleets to attack as quickly as possible instead of waiting…and massing into an invincible force. I cannot comprehend the urgency, the need for such haste in conducting the war. The enemy’s numbers and resources are clearly limited. I fail to discern the magnitude of the threat they represent.
Perhaps the statistical anomaly that eludes me is related to their extraordinary capacity for war. Indeed, the humans are extremely adept at conflict, unlike anything I have seen for a long time. A very long time. Does the Regent perceive a danger that the humans will quickly copy our superior technology? Then they would become dangerous indeed. Yet the Regent has shifted strategies, opted to mass an overwhelming force before attempting to engage again. Possibly this is a reaction to the previous defeats. Still, the logic of the decision chain eludes me.
Yes, I must reevaluate.
AS Midway
X45 System
The Fleet: 144 ships, 32,809 crew
“The last dozen ships are queued up for refueling, sir. Commander Willis advises the operation should be complete in approximately nine hours. He requests permission to begin dismantling the refinery as soon as the final ship is topped off.” Captain Harmon stood at attention, as he usually did despite Compton’s continual efforts to urge him to relax, at least when they were in private. Harmon had tried a couple times, but he just couldn’t do it. Even with Compton’s urging, it felt disrespectful to him. And Max Harmon had never respected anyone with the focused intensity of his reverence for Terrance Compton. Most of those in the fleet felt the same way, though their admiration was for the great admiral, the legend who had saved them all from certain death. Harmon’s was different. He was closer to Compton than anyone else, and his devotion and loyalty went to the man himself and not the legend.
Harmon had been raised a navy brat, the son of one of the service’s most gifted—and successful—officers. Camille Harmon was a top Alliance admiral…one who inspired both love and abject terror in those she commanded. She hadn’t disciplined her son with the ferocity she did the spacers she led, not quite, at least. But she did instill a healthy respect for rank and authority in him, one that had persisted to the present day. And in Compton, he had found an officer he deemed worthy of that respect, a man he would follow to his death, if necessary.
“Yes, Max,” Compton replied. “The sooner the whole thing is torn down, the happier I’ll be. We can’t lose any of that gear. If we’re forced to run and leave it all behind, we’re in a world of hurt.” The fleet had lost an enormous amount of equipment six months before during disastrous events in the X18 system. The fleet’s engineers had managed to jury-rig another refinery to draw helium-3 and tritium from the atmosphere of one of the X45 system’s gas giants, but they’d had to raid half the surviving ships for the parts they needed. The chances of replicating that feat and producing another replacement were nil.
Harmon understood Compton’s concern. The fleet hadn’t been attacked in almost six months, hadn’t even encountered the enemy, save for the dozens of planets they had passed, haunted worlds full of lifeless cities. But it was clear they were moving deeper into enemy territory, and neither Max Harmon nor Terrance Compton were men who relaxed easily in the face of a threat. The First Imperium was far from done with them. Harmon was as sure of it as he’d ever been of anything…and he was equally certain the admiral felt the same way.
The planets they were passing now were covered with the remains of massive cities, huge metropolises that had once been home to billions. And with each transit, they found more, ever larger in scale. Many of the worlds they were encountering had obviously been terraformed, and each system had three, four, or more planets covered with ruins.
Harmon guessed that Compton had hoped to pass through the First Imperium by now, perhaps finding an escape on the other side, but they just kept moving into even more densely developed areas. The scope of the ancient civilization was becoming apparent, though Harmon knew he could barely comprehend the true magnitude of what this long dead people had achieved.
“Commander Willis says he can have the dismantling complete in thirty-six hours.”
Compton smiled, leaning back in his chair as he did. “Commander Willis has always been, shall we say, aggressive in his projections.” He paused a moment then said, “Let’s figure on forty-eight hours instead. I want all ships to conduct a complete diagnostic series while we’re waiting, and be ready to move out exactly fifty hours from now.” The fleet operated on Earth time, which seemed to make as much sense as any other system…though they were as far from Earth as any human beings had ever ventured.
A thousand light years. No, more than that now.
It had been a few weeks before when one of the astronomers had managed to locate the fleet’s true position in space. Naval crews had long ignored such considerations, relying instead on maps of warp gate connections for navigation. Any interstellar trip outside the warp lines would take years…if not centuries. But Harmon still found it interesting to imagine the real distance. It was odd to consider, amazing and frightening both. He still remembered his reaction when he’d looked at the image…the light from Sol as picked up on Midway’s telescopic array. That light had left Earth’s system when men were just beginning to crawl out of the middle ages and embrace the renaissance.
They fought with shields and lances, and we with lasers and nuclear warheads…yet what else has changed? We fight no less, even before the First Imperium attacked. We have gained technology, but not wisdom. Not yet, at least. How long will that take? Another thousand years? Ten thousand? Or is that something we will never attain?
“Yes, sir,” Harmon stammered, pulling himself from his daydream. He realized he had slouched a bit while his thoughts were wandering, and he snapped back to attention. “Is there anything else, sir? Otherwise I will see to all of this immediately.”
“I think that’s all for now, Max.”
“Sir!” Harmon snapped back. Then he turned and started toward the door.
“And Max?”
He spun around. “Yes, sir?”
“When you’re finished sending out the orders, I want you to take a break. Sleep, read, watch a vid…you’ve been on duty for twenty hours straight.”
“But, sir…”
“No ‘buts,’ Max. We’ll have a crisis soon enough, and you can run yourself into the ground then. But for now, I need you healthy and rested.” Compton’s voice was casual and friendly, but Harmon could hear the insistence there too. He wanted to argue, to tell the admiral he was fine, that he could work at whatever pace was required. But he knew Compton too well to think it would do any good. And he had to admit, he was tired.
“Very well, sir.” He started to turn, but he paused for a moment. “Thank you, sir.”
Then he walked through the door and out onto the main deck of Midway’s flag bridge.
* * *
Hieronymus Cutter was agitated, Compton could see that clearly. And he understood the scientist’s frustration. He himself had been lured from his flag bridge to the surface of one of the First Imperium worlds, drawn by his natural curiosity, the intellectual need to know more about these ancient people who had been here so long before mankind. But he also remembered his own trip had nearly ended in disaster, as the mutineers chose that moment to launch their rebellion. If it hadn’t been for Erica West and her nerves of steel, Compton knew his curiosity could have been the end of them all. He wanted to let Hieronymus explore the wonders of the First Imperium…but his primary responsibility was to keep them all alive, Cutter included. And that meant survival for another day…and then one after that. He’d been living twenty-four hours at a time for over a year now.
“I’m sorry, Hieronymus. I understand your motivations, and I do not doubt that such explorations would prove to be fruitful, but you know as well as I that the enemy has alert systems we cannot detect. Any landing party would be in grave danger of activating a defensive force that could wipe them out in minutes.
“I understand the risk, Admiral.” Cutter stared back at Compton, a look of near desperation on his face. “We all do. But we also know we must learn more about the First Imperium and its technology if we are to survive. My whole team will volunteer, and I have it on good authority that many of the Marines would also come along if allowed.”
Compton sighed. Marines…that has to be Connor Frasier. It wasn’t much of a secret the elite Marine had become quite taken with Ana Zhukov, ever since he’d shed his armor to save her life on the enemy Colossus. And Zhukov and Cutter were research partners, the two most gifted scientists in the fleet.
But it wasn’t that simple. Compton had no desire to see scientific teams chewed up by half-million year old security bots, or to send a detachment of his Marines into harm’s way, but if that had been his only worry he would have relented to Cutter’s requests long before. But there was more, a far deeper concern.
“And what if one of these worlds retains a long distance transmission capability? What if blundering around in the ruins triggers some warning, not just to local security bots but to an active base…and brings another enemy fleet on us? The Colossus is gone, Hieronymus. We have only our own ships, low on ordnance and repaired the best we could on the run with the parts we still have left. We are not ready for such a fight…and we would not survive it.”
“You know secrecy cannot protect us forever, Admiral.” Cutter was tense, determined to change Compton’s mind. “We are playing Russian Roulette with every jump, just waiting for the day we again encounter the enemy. Stealth is fleeting, and sooner or later, the First Imperium forces will return. And we must be ready. Ready to face them, to defeat them. And knowledge is the way we will achieve that.”
Cutter paused, pulling his hand across his forehead, wiping away the perspiration. “Admiral, we have made great progress with the artifacts collected on the last planetary excursion…and from the data we retrieved from the Colossus. If we can obtain more, I am sure we are close to a whole series of breakthroughs. Weapons, data systems, power generation…and more sophisticated ways to control the enemy, advancements that will make my original virus seem like a child’s toy.” He paused again. “Sir, running can only buy us time in small increments. But adapting their technology can save us, free us from our flight and give us the tools to end the First Imperium threat once and for all…not only for us, but for those back in Occupied Space too.”
Compton stared at Cutter with a pained look on his face. He wanted nothing more than to cut the reins on this brilliant scientist, to let him run wild and develop the systems and tech needed to truly match the First Imperium. But he just couldn’t. Not now. Cutter was a genius, but like most with ability as extraordinary as his, he found it difficult to appreciate factors outside his work. He could accomplish what he wanted, Compton was sure of that. Given time, Cutter would no doubt learn how to adapt First Imperium tech and produce remarkable advances. Unless the enemy tracked down and destroyed the fleet first.
And even if Cutter cracked the mysteries of First Imperium technology, how much could the fleet put to use? How many new systems could it produce? And how quickly? Compton had his people bending over backwards to build jury-rigged missiles to fill his empty magazines, and the entire program was moving at a snail’s pace, despite the fact that the fusion technology employed was over two centuries old. What could his makeshift production facilities do with highly advanced First Imperium designs?
“I understand everything you are saying, but I simply cannot risk it. I’m sorry, Hieronymus. I truly am. No one appreciates the implications of what you could do with more First Imperium technology like I do. But now is not the time. Perhaps soon, when we have reason to believe we have eluded our enemy.”
Cutter stared back. He had a disappointed look on his face, but then he just nodded silently. Compton knew the brilliant scientist understood, and probably, on some level, he even agreed. He’d been caught in the fighting six months earlier, when the landing party had been attacked by First Imperium security bots…and then he’d barely escaped the Colossus before it was destroyed in the fight against the overwhelming First Imperium forces in X18. Six months had passed without incident, that was true. But Compton didn’t think Hieronymus Cutter was like so many others in the fleet, ready to forget a threat after a brief respite. No, there was no one more equipped to understand the mysterious intelligence out there directing its forces than Cutter. He knew better than anyone else how determined, how relentless an artificial intelligence could be.
And still he wants to go, even knowing the risks…perhaps better than I do. Am I wrong on this? Is it worth the danger?
Compton pushed back the thought. He had tremendous respect for Cutter’s intellect…and the warrior in him wanted to stop running. The idea of developing weaponry to match the First Imperium forces was seductive, and the thought of blasting enemy fleets to dust roused a fire in his belly. But his people needed more than a fighter’s bluster. They needed judgment, rational planning. And he was determined to give it to them.
* * *
“I’ve been over it again and again, Terrance. There’s just no way. Even if we dump vital spare parts and you give me another six or eight freighters, we’re still going to come up short. Maybe sixty percent of what we need. Seventy outside…but that assumes no accidents, no unforeseen problems.”
Compton felt the sigh about to come, but he forced it back, and he just shook his head. Not you too, Sophie. The perfect end to a perfect day. It had been a month since the celebration, and whatever satisfaction Compton had managed to enjoy was long gone. Trying to keep his people alive even without the First Imperium attacking was proving to entail a constant series of unsolvable problems.
“So what do you propose?” His words came out a bit harder edged in tone than he’d intended them. It wasn’t her fault. Indeed, Sophie Barcomme had worked miracles filling the empty spaces of the fleet’s freighters with a bizarre—but highly optimized—assortment of algae and funguses, unappetizing, perhaps, but edible and nutrient dense. Without her efforts, the fleet would already be out of food, its people halfway to starving to death. “I’m sorry,” he added almost immediately. “Tough day.”
He still had a headache from his encounter with Hieronymus, wondering if he was wrong, if his caution was costing them the chance to gain the knowledge they needed to survive. You’d be dead already if you hadn’t let him go check out the Colossus. He felt a chill pass through him as he remembered how close he had come to refusing Cutter’s request back then. Sometimes there is a razor’s edge between success and failure, between victory…and death.
He couldn’t blame the scientist for all of the pain in his head though. After he’d left Cutter, he had gone to the flag bridge…and waded through the tidal wave of reports, the results of the ship diagnostics he’d ordered. He almost put his fist through the bulkhead when he first saw the number of vessels requiring petty repairs. He’d repeatedly reminded his ship commanders to keep an eye on their vessels’ readiness, but no matter what he did or said, some of the fleet’s captains were simply incompetent…or at least not up to his exacting standards. He’d always known the Alliance navy was the best among all of Earth’s Superpowers, the result in large part of the example he and Augustus Garret had set and the standards they had enforced. But the fleet was an international force, an amalgam of crews from nine nations, and Compton knew its survival depended on his maintaining the loyalty and respect of all of them. He already had his own people in as many key positions as he dared. The last thing he needed was to fuel a wave of conspiracy theories about the Alliance personnel plotting to take over the fleet.
And sacking half the Europan contingent would do just that…
“Alright, Fleet Admiral Compton, I’ll take pity on you and rub your shoulders, while we talk.” Sophie’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “But we are going to talk about this now. Any solution is going to require a lot of lead time. If we wait any longer it’s going to be too late.” She paused as she climbed behind him on the sofa and put her hands on his shoulders. “It’s almost too late now.”
He winced, half from the pressure against the biggest knot in his neck…and half from her comment about it being too late. “Very well, Commander Barcomme…” He let out a soft groan…she had hit just the right spot. “…what do you propose?”
He could feel her hands tense. “We have to stop somewhere, Terrance. There’s just no choice. We need a chance to grow some crops.”
He took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “I think you and Hieronymus Cutter are ganging up on me.”
He felt her hands slip off his shoulders. “Is that what you think?” He could hear her voice, and he knew immediately she had taken his words too seriously.
“I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant.” He paused, sighing softly as he did. “It’s just been a really shitty day.”
She leaned forward, bringing her head around so she could look at his face. “You have to know I would never side with anyone against you. In anything.” She hesitated for a second then she brought one of her hands around and put it on his cheek. “I don’t think I could have endured the last year without your friendship, Terrance. You saved the whole fleet, but you rescued me a second time as well, with your companionship and your compassion.”
“I really am sorry, Soph,” he said, his voice soft, contrite. “I’ve just got so much to decide right now. You don’t deserve that fallout, but sometimes it’s just…”
She put her fingers over his mouth. “I know,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. I can’t even imagine the pressure on you.”
He rolled his head on his shoulders as she slid back and started massaging his neck again. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, enjoying the touch of relaxation her fingers produced. Then he said, “So tell me, Soph…what do you have in mind?”
“Well,” she said, her tone showing a bit of her own stress, “there are very dense crops, mostly genetically-engineered versions of Earth beans and certain legumes. We can get a lot of caloric and nutritional punch from even a single crop. And they grow very quickly, given the right environment.”
“How quickly?”
“Eight weeks…ten tops. For enough to fully replenish our supplies. Perhaps another year’s worth of food.”
“So we’d have to stop somewhere for two months?” He hated every aspect of this plan. But it was better than watching people starve to death. “And there’s no alternative?”
“Not unless you want to let half the people in the fleet die so there’s enough food for the rest. Because half is about what we can feed from the freighters-farms alone.”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so…”
“That wouldn’t work anyway,” she said grimly. “These fungi and algae foodstuffs are okay for the short term, but without some supplementation, we’re going to start seeing some real problems. Vitamin deficiencies, digestive issues. Go much more than a year without getting something else into the diet, and people will start dying.”
“But I thought those alternative foods had been used on much longer missions…to mining worlds and the like?”
“Yes, but with heavy supplementation. We’re almost out of everything right now, and what little we have is reserved for the sickbays. We couldn’t provide basic vitamin pills for most of our people now, much less all the rest of what they would need to subsist long-term on the diet we’ve got them on now.”
“So when you said no choice, you meant no choice…” He’d meant a bit of gentle humor with the remark, but it didn’t materialize when the words came out of his mouth.
“I’m afraid so, Terrance. And the sooner the better.”
He sighed, realizing he had no choice…he had to stop somewhere, or at least send out a mission. There was something else too, and he felt the realization burning through his gut. Sophie was the natural leader of the expedition, at least with regard to food production. The thought of her being gone for several months, in danger—even more than the usual hazard of being part of the fleet—made him feel sick. But he knew he couldn’t ask her to stay for him. And he couldn’t deny the fleet the best person to resolve the growing food crisis.
“Okay, I guess there is no real choice. You keep an eye on the upcoming systems, and pick one you think is suitable.” He paused, his mind considering the specifics of the mission. “Put together a list of everything you need…equipment, personnel, ships. Let me know as soon as you can.”
“I will,” she said softly. “I’ve got most of it done already.”
He smiled, not at all surprised she was so prepared. “And remember…” The grin faded away. “You’re going to need to keep energy output to an absolute minimum on whatever planet we land you on, so keep that in mind. If a First Imperium ship moves through the system and detects you…”
She just nodded silently. Then she said, “I understand.”
Chapter Three
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
I have tried to keep my people safe, to avoid the enemy at all costs. But I am too old a soldier not to know that defense is often a trap. I had a long talk of this once with Elias Holm, the Commandant of the Marine Corps. He told me of the seductiveness of entrenched positions, the enticements of standing on the defensive, of forcing your enemy to attack…and dash himself upon your works. Then he said, more battles have been lost this way than any other, by yielding the initiative to a cunning foe. War in space is different than ground combat, certainly, but I have come to feel this axiom of war applies even more pointedly to fleet actions. I have known this many years, employed it to attain victory…watched my friend Augustus exercise even more aggressive tactics than I have ever dared, to even greater success. Yet, with all that has happened, I have forgotten this lesson, surrendered the initiative to an enemy we haven’t even seen for six months. And I don’t know how to get it back.
For six months I have made my decisions based on caution…on fear. I have avoided any actions that might aid the enemy in finding us, but in doing so I have yielded any initiative. I have prevented Dr. Cutter from exploration that could expand his research. My concerns are certainly valid…yet in X18 such a strategy would have been fatal. Cutter’s aggressive efforts were our salvation there, not any tactical wizardry from me.
What would you counsel me, Augustus? For decades we fought side by side, you the more dynamic half of our team, me the more cautious, methodical. Now I must try to imagine how you would act if you were here, what steps you would take differently than I. I feel the loss of your influence, the pressure urging me to accept greater risk seeking reward, to understand when a gamble, even a poor one, is still the best option. Perhaps you too feel the loss of my restraint, the slight pull that made you pause and reevaluate a plan before leaping. I cannot know that, my old friend. But I surely miss your advice and skill…as I miss you.
Perhaps it doesn’t matter now. Food has forced my hand. I can postpone research missions, delay sending out exploratory parties…but I must have food for those in the fleet. Indeed, my caution has grown, and it has led me to dark places. It shames me even to acknowledge in this journal, which no one will ever read, that I have considered the alternative to taking the risk of stopping to grow food. How would I handle things, I asked myself, if we had only half enough food to sustain us? Would I simply allow everyone to subsist on half-rations, until no one had the strength to man their battle positions? No, that would be a gift to the enemy…when they finally find us.
Would I have a lottery, let chance decide who lives or dies? No, for I would have to ensure the fleet retained the experts and veterans on which its survival depends. So it would come down to me, like some dark god, decreeing from on high who lives and who dies. I can hardly imagine a nightmare so dark, a horror so maddening…far more terrible than any enemy I have faced. Worse, I would have to have them all killed—murdered. I couldn’t risk the resistance of slowly dying men and women, the desperate rebellions and mutinies by those chosen to die. Nor the effect it would have on the others, as they watched friends and comrades driven mad with hunger and fear.
Perhaps I could do it, perpetrate such a monstrous crime, if we were stranded somewhere, if there was no other way…if the only alternative was certain death for all. But never when there was an alternative. No, I would see us all destroyed in the attempt to survive together before I let myself—all of us—become that. Better to take the risk, to do what must be done and fight for survival together.
Still, I would hear the words from you, for it would bolster my own failing strength. Yet I know what you would say, what you would do. And I will take your counsel, though you are a thousand light years distant and unable to give it.
X48 System
Approximately 14,000,000 kilometers from AS Midway
The Fleet: 144 ships, 32,808 crew
“Let’s take a closer look at planet two. It’s the only one that looks worth checking out.” Mariko Fujin sat in the fighter’s command chair, looking out over the other four members of the ship’s crew. Her eyes paused as they passed over the pilot’s station, and she felt a touch of wistfulness. That was her place, had been her place, at least…but no longer. She hadn’t lost her spot due to failure or disgrace, indeed, she was one of the best fighter jocks in the fleet. But success had its costs too, and rank brought obligation and loss along with privilege. She’d managed to juggle flying her own bird with commanding the squadron, but now Admiral Hurley had pinned a commander’s insignia on her collar—and put her in charge of an entire strike wing.
She still wasn’t used to the weight of so much responsibility. Eighteen ships. Eighteen crews…ninety men and women, all looking to her to lead them. It had hurt her deeply to relinquish the pilot’s chair, but she had done it without argument. She understood duty, and her responsibility to the crews under her. And they deserved a commander who was one hundred percent focused on leading them, not clinging to the adrenalin rush of flying a single bird in combat.
She flipped the commandwide com switch. “Alright, listen up. We’re going to do a sweep of planet two. The Gold Dragons and Wildcats will do a scanning run at fifty thousand klicks. The Whirlwinds will maintain a defensive formation at five hundred thousand klicks…just in case we missed anything.”
“Wildcats leader, acknowledge.”
“Whirlwinds, acknowledge.”
Gold Dragons, acknowledge, she thought to herself. Admiral Hurley had gently suggested—not ordered—that she assign one of her people as squadron commander, but Fujin had quietly ignored the advice. The Dragons were hers…indeed, she was the only survivor of the original squadron, and she just couldn’t let them go. It was bad enough sitting like a useless lump while somebody else flew her fighter. But give up the Dragons? No. Not unless Hurley or Compton gave her a pointblank order. And even then, she’d argue as hard as she could before giving in.
She flipped off the com and stared down at her screen, moving her finger across, finalizing the scanning plan. Then she pushed a button and sent the instructions to her squadron commanders. Twelve ships were enough to do a first class sweep of a planet, especially since Admiral Compton had relaxed the restrictions he’d placed on the scouting formations, allowing them to get close enough to get some serious data.
“I’m sending you nav instructions, Lieutenant. We will take point for the squadron.” She knew Greta Hurley would have scolded her a little for putting her bird in the lead. But then Hurley used to drive Augustus Garret crazy with her antics, didn’t she? There were rumors throughout the fleet that Garret had ordered Hurley’s pilot to keep her back from the fighting. If true, it had been a valiant effort, but a failed one. Fujin couldn’t recall any instance of the fleet’s strike force commander hanging back in a fight.
“Yes, Commander.” Grant Wainwright’s response was sharp, crisp. Fujin couldn’t help but resent the young officer, just a bit. He’d taken her place at the throttle, after all. But she was glad to have him, and she had to admit, he was a hell of a pilot.
“Whenever you are ready, Lieutenant.”
“I’m always ready, Commander.” Wainwright pushed the throttle forward, and the force of 2g slammed into everyone aboard.
Fujin was struggling to hold back a smile. Are pilots getting cockier? Or am I just getting old? She tried to brush the thought aside…she hadn’t even reached her thirtieth birthday. But it was still there, nagging at her. She’d been every bit as brash as Wainwright once, and as quick with a smart-assed reply. So when did I change, end up on the other side? Perhaps there is a limit to how much combat and death can could see and still remain young…at least inside.
“Just focus on leading the squadron in, Lieutenant,” she said, reminding herself as she did of her first squadron commander. They’d called him T-Rex, for the way he’d unleashed on anyone who’d failed to meet his exacting standards. My God, she thought, suddenly realizing how far she’d come from the cocky young pilot she’d been then. I wonder what they call me.
“Yes, Commander.”
The response was textbook, sharp, respectable, spot on. But all she heard was ‘yes, T-Rex.”
* * *
“I have the results of Commander Fujin’s scouting report. I have called this meeting to review these findings and determine if this system is the place to conduct a more extensive investigation, one involving a protracted expedition to the surface.” Compton sat in his chair at the head of the table, his eyes flitting around, gauging the reactions of those present. He caught the look in Cutter’s eye immediately.
“Am I to understand that you are considering allowing a research team to conduct an exploration?” There was surprise in the scientist’s voice, but mostly excitement.
“Perhaps, Hieronymus. Indeed, I still retain all of my earlier concerns…” He looked around the table. “…you are all familiar with them. But events appear to have forced my hands. The situation with our provisions requires that we land a team on a habitable world to grow crops to supplement out fleet-produced foodstuffs. The alternative is…well, there is no alternative.” None I can live with…
“As the operation will require eight to ten weeks, we have little time to spare. The supply situation is rapidly becoming dire—so we must select a planet very soon. Preferably immediately. We may elect to land the expedition here…or move on to the next system and explore the worlds we find there. But I am reluctant to wait any longer than absolutely necessary.”
A soft murmur rippled around the table. They had all known food would be a problem eventually, but Compton had just laid it out in front of them. And everyone present understood the risk they would take landing on another First Imperium world.
“Will you be authorizing a research expedition as well, Admiral?”
Compton almost let a laugh escape his mouth. He was a little surprised Cutter had waited the few seconds he had to ask. “Yes, Hieronymus, I will. I retain all of my prior concerns, but since we have no choice but to land the agricultural team, I believe the benefits of allowing your people to gather artifacts and data are likely to outweigh the incremental risk. We will already be on the planet…if there are active alert systems, they will be triggered anyway.” Compton paused. “But listen to me, Hieronymus. I understand your drive, your passion. I know you want as much data as you can get, to learn more about the First Imperium. And I respect it…and recognize its value to our survival efforts. But let me be perfectly clear. You are to conduct your operation with extreme caution at all times. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Admiral. Of course.”
“I mean it, Hieronymus. No matter what you think you may find…you have to be extremely careful every moment you are down there. Every second.”
“Yes, Admiral. I understand completely.”
Compton still didn’t believe Cutter, not completely. But the scientist sounded sincere, and that was as good as he could get right now. “Very well. Then let us proceed…and decide if X48 serves our needs. There are only three planets, far fewer than in most of the systems we have passed through. And only one of them is habitable. The first is a scorched rock, so close to the sun that its surface is molten most of the time. The third is a gas giant, without even a moon orbiting it. That leaves planet two.”
Compton slid his finger across the small screen on the table in front of him. “I am sending the scanning results to your ‘pads.” He waited a few seconds while everyone in the room looked at their screens.
“You will note that the planet is almost a perfect one for human life. Indeed, it is a virtual paradise…and it is covered with ruins. It was once the home to billions of life forms, though, like every other world we have encountered, there are no signs any of its residents remain.”
“What are these readings, Admiral?” Sophie Barcomme looked up from her ‘pad. “We haven’t seen anything like this on the other worlds.”
“Those readings are a big question mark, Commander Barcomme.” Compton was deliberately formal with Barcomme, as she was with him, though he suspected the whole thing was pointless. He didn’t have a doubt in his mind everyone else in the room thought they were lovers. But there was no time for that nonsense, not now.
He turned and looked around the table. “There are traces of radiation in certain locations. They are consistent with what we’d expect to find after the detonation of fusion and anti-matter weaponry…about half a million years after the fact.” He paused to let his words sink in.
“After gathering these readings, Commander Fujin took her craft into orbit and collected some visual intelligence. If you’ll move to images five through eleven you will see what she was able to obtain.”
There were a few soft gasps, but otherwise the room was silent.
“Yes,” Compton said, reinforcing what he knew they had all realized. “These cities were not left to slowly decay. They were destroyed. In battle.” He paused again. “Whatever happened here, it was different from the fates of the other worlds we have passed. Those all seemed…abandoned, for lack of a better word. The cities were ruins, but that was time’s work. All of our analysis suggests that they were intact when the people disappeared. We have long wondered what happened to the people of the First Imperium, what could have caused them to abandon their homes en masse…or die off so suddenly. We have considered many possibilities. Disease, reproductive issues, some sort of mass insanity…even religious fanaticism. To that list, we must now add another possibility. War.”
“It certainly looks like there was fighting on this planet, sir.” James Preston was the commander of the fleet’s Marines, and a veteran of more than one bloody conflict. “But how do we explain the other worlds? Billions lived there, and we found no signs of significant conflict.”
Compton sighed. “I can’t answer that, Colonel.” He looked out across the table. “I’m hoping some of the people in this room can provide me with some hypotheses given the time to review this material. But that is not our primary issue right now. There is only a single question we must answer at this meeting. Is planet two suitable, both for the growth of crops and for research?”
He looked around the table, his eyes pausing first on Barcomme. “Commander? Your mission in the most vital in many ways. We cannot take the risks we are taking only to find out that the planet is not suitable for producing the crops we require.”
Barcomme was staring down at the ‘pad, but after a few seconds she looked up and turned toward Compton. “I believe it is very suitable. I’d normally be concerned about the radioactives, but after half a million years, I wouldn’t expect any problems. Of course, we don’t know if there were any other contaminants that resulted from the fighting, but the planet is damned near perfect in distance from the sun, climate…” She glanced back at the ‘pad for a few seconds before she turned back to Compton. “I say yes.” Another pause. “And, to be extremely candid, I’d be hesitant to waste any more time if we don’t absolutely have to. We’re going to be looking at some pretty unpleasant rationing as it is.”
Compton nodded. Then he turned toward Cutter. “Hieronymus?”
Cutter was silent for a few seconds. “Well, sir, if the cities are all destroyed, rather than simply decayed by time, we may find it more difficult to find intact artifacts. This is, of course, of considerable concern. However, if there was widespread war on this planet, it is possible that we will find much remaining equipment from that conflict. And I suspect the First Imperium is no different from us in one respect…the leading edge of technology is employed in war.”
The scientist hesitated again, flashing a glance toward Barcomme. “It’s a gamble either way, sir, but if Dr. Barcomme thinks the planet is suitable for her needs, my advice is to proceed.”
Compton nodded. “I am inclined to agree with both of you. I’m uncomfortable with this entire operation, but I’d just as soon complete it as quickly as possible.” He looked around the table again. “Does anyone disagree? Any comments?”
There was a ripple of nodding heads, but no one spoke.
“Very well,” Compton said. “It is decided. Commander Barcomme, Dr. Cutter, you will both plan your expeditions immediately. I would like everything ready to go in forty-eight hours.”
“Admiral, that is…yes, sir.” Barcomme’s objection died mid-sentence. Everyone present, including her, knew that the fleet couldn’t remain in X48 for long, especially not with the danger that the expedition could accidently alert the enemy. It was an unspoken fact, but one everyone present well understood. Those going down to the surface were expendable, at least more so than the fleet itself, and once they were landed, they would be on their own. When they were ready to return, enough ships would be dispatched to collect them, and the food and artifacts they hoped to bring back. But the fleet would be gone, waiting in some system farther ahead…distant enough to escape the cataclysm if anyone triggered an alarm that reached an enemy base.
“Hieronymus?” Compton shifted his gaze to the scientist.
“My people will be ready, Admiral.” He didn’t sound much happier about the time constraints than Barcomme had, but he didn’t ask for more either.
“Very well then…it is decided. Now, before we adjourn…I know there is much work to be done before the expedition departs. I would like to remind everyone just how potentially dangerous this mission will be. Hieronymus, I know you are anxious to discover as much as possible about the First Imperium, but I caution you—no, I order you—to exert the utmost caution. You must be very careful what you disturb and take every effort not to trigger any warnings or alarms that may still be functional.” That’s a potential advantage of a wartorn world. With any luck, systems like that were long ago destroyed.
“Yes, Admiral. I understand.”
“And you, Commander.” His eyes moved to Barcomme. “I know you are charged with producing a massive amount of food very quickly, but I must caution against the use of too much energy. This entire operation rests on the edge of a knife. If an enemy vessel should pass through the system and detect power generation, the fate of the expedition will be likely be sealed.” He had a hitch in his throat, a momentary reaction as he thought about the danger she was walking into. “And with it the fleet’s…for we wait on the success of your efforts, upon which hinge our hopes for survival.”
“I understand, Terrance.” She slipped and used his first name, but if anyone noticed or thought it was odd, they didn’t let on. “We will be careful.”
“Good.” Compton stared down the table, to the hulking form at the opposite end. “Colonel Preston?”
“Yes, sir!” Preston replied, his voice cracking like a whip. James Preston was a Marine, through and through, and he looked and sounded every bit the part.
“I want you to command the ground forces. You will leave four companies for shipboard duty, and take the rest of the Marines with you.” The fleet had some other ground forces, an understrength orta of Janissaries, some Europan and RIC mobile forces. But Compton had faith in his own Marines, and this operation was too important to make decisions based on anything but tactical ability. A homogeneous force of Marines would operate better in a crisis situation than some multi-national conglomeration designed to salve the egos of the fleet’s nationalities. Compton had seen the Marines in action many times, and if anyone could keep his people on the ground safe—keep Sophie safe—it was Preston and his leathernecks.
“Yes, Admiral.” Then, a few seconds later, “Don’t worry, sir. The Marines will see it done. Whatever happens.”
“I have no doubt of that, Colonel.” He looked at Barcomme then at Cutter. “Colonel Preston will be in overall command of the expedition. I want both of you to understand this…his orders are final, and they are to be obeyed without question…as if they are coming from my own lips. Understood?”
“Yes,” Barcomme replied. “Understood.”
Compton stared at Cutter. “Hieronymus?”
“Yes,” the scientist replied, a little more grudgingly than Barcomme. “Understood.”
* * *
“Max, thank you for coming. I know it’s late. Come in…sit.” Compton was seated at a chair just inside the door. The room was mostly dark, just a single fixture on a dim setting throwing off any light at all. Max Harmon stood in the doorway, a dark shadow against the bright illumination from the corridor.
Harmon stepped into the room, and the door slid shut behind him. “Of course, sir. Whatever you need.” He stood at attention, just inside the room.
“For the love of God, Max, sit. I’m getting tired just looking at you standing there like that.” Compton had called Harmon in the middle of the night, something he knew was not conducive to his recent campaign to get his aide to relax more. But he’d made a decision, and he wanted to tell Harmon. He’d expressly told the aide not to worry about what he was wearing, just to come however he was. But somehow, Harmon looked ready for a parade inspection, his uniform spotless and perfectly pressed, and every hair on his head exactly where it belonged, as if each of them had been ordered to lay neatly and wouldn’t dare disobey.
He is his mother’s son, isn’t he?
Compton waited while Harmon sat in the chair opposite his own. The captain almost looked more uncomfortable in the seat than he had standing ramrod straight a few seconds before. Compton would have told himself his aide would lose that perfect discipline when he saw some real action…but Max Harmon had been in enough tough battles to melt the heart of a lesser man. And still, there he is, at 3am ship’s time, looking like an image of spot on perfection.
“Max, I want you to do something for me.”
“Of course, sir. Whatever you wish.”
“I want you to go with the expedition.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“I don’t want you to stay. I need you here. But I have to know everything is in place and going well. I want you to stay a week and then come back and report.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“I’m detaching Wolverine. She will stay in orbit with a skeleton crew and wait for you. She’s one of the fastest ships left in the fleet, and I’ve authorized her commander to burn as much fuel as necessary to catch up with us.”
“Very well, sir.” A pause. “If that is all, sir, I should go get ready. The expedition is set to depart in four hours.”
“Yes, Max. And thank you. I’d like to land myself and have a look around…but I can’t risk something like that again. And your eyes are the next closest thing to mine.”
Harmon stood up, looking almost relieved to be on his feet and at attention again. “Of course, Admiral. Don’t worry…I will bring you a complete report.”
“I’m sure you will.” He nodded and watched as the aide turned toward the door.
“And Max?”
Harmon stopped and turned back toward Compton. “Sir?”
“I need that report no matter what. And I need you too.” Compton paused. “So if the expedition runs into trouble, if there is heavy fighting…your orders are to leave immediately and come back and report to me.”
Harmon paused, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Of course, sir. As you command.” His voice was sharp, almost stilted, despite his obvious efforts to hide his feelings about making a run for it while the landing party was under attack.
“Very well, Max. Now go and get ready. I’ll speak with you again before you leave.”
“Sir!” Harmon snapped, and then he turned and walked out of the room.
I know, Max. I understand how hard it will be if you have to leave—to run—while your comrades are fighting…and perhaps dying. But I must know what is happening down there, and all the more if disaster strikes.
He sighed and looked across the dimly-lit room.
Civilians must imagine that fighting is the hardest thing we do, facing our fears and plunging into the maelstrom. But it is not. Not for officers like us, Max. No, for us, abandoning our brethren is the worst nightmare…yet if that is what duty demands of us, then we have no choice. For duty is first, above all things.
Chapter Four
Command Unit Gamma 9736
The humans paused their advance in system 17411. Their fleet then halted for an extended period before continuing on through the warp gate to system 17419. This is unexpected behavior. They recently paused to refine fusionables for their primitive energy generation systems, and based on an analysis of their vessels and the extraction system they were able to construct, they should not require additional fuel at this time. Even if they did, perhaps in the instance of some leakage or malfunction we have not detected, system 17411 is an unlikely choice. It has a single gas giant, one that is notably poor in the heavy hydrogen and helium-3 their reactors require.
So why would they pause? They have proceeded on their course for a considerable period of time now, and they have not halted save to replenish their fuel supplies. So what has changed? Have they detected the stealth probes? Indeed, while possible, that seems highly unlikely. The probes are far beyond their science, and based on all data collected since we first encountered them, they have almost no ability to manipulate or even to effectively detect dark matter and energy.
Probe 4302 reported a brief passage through an abnormally dense particulate cloud, one that could have temporarily reduced its stealth capability. But the behavior of the enemy fleet since that time had been unchanged. And even if they had detected the probe, why would they stop? My analysis suggests the overwhelmingly likely reaction would be to destroy the probes if they could be located…and failing that, to accelerate their flight, to seek to escape the forces they would infer are following them. I cannot discern any rational plan that would involve remaining in place so long.
I lack the data to develop an effective hypothesis. I will send a new force to investigate. And to capture a prisoner if possible. I must know more about these creatures. The Regent’s orders are to destroy them all, but my commands do not expressly preclude analysis and questioning before termination.
Yes, I must have a prisoner. I will send the orders at once.
X48 System – Planet II
“Plymouth Rock”
Approximately 14,000,000 kilometers from AS Midway
The Fleet: 144 ships, 32,808 crew
“I want everyone to stay inside the defensive perimeter until the scouting parties report back.” James Preston stood in front of the crowd of scientists, members of Barcomme’s and Cutter’s expeditions. There were a few impatient looks in the crowd, but not many people argued with a fully-armored Marine standing a few meters away…and no one did when that Marine was Colonel James Preston.
“I understand the importance of your work and the urgency of allowing you to begin, but security comes first.” There were Marines everywhere, running around in a way that seemed like a wild scrum but was actually a perfectly choreographed operation. Two companies were moving out, setting up defensive positions around the entire camp. Others were sweeping through the area, searching for live defensive systems or other potential dangers.
There was no longer any question that a massive battle had been waged here long ago. The debris remained scattered around everywhere. The high tech materials of the First Imperium equipment had survived the ages of wind and rain and decay, at least to a point. Preston could tell the scientists were straining at the leash, dying to dive into the wreckage, to study the amazing technology of the ancient race that had fought a cataclysmic battle here so long ago. But he knew Admiral Compton was counting on him to keep everyone safe, and that was the primary consideration. If that meant everyone had to stand around and wait then so be it.
Preston looked at the row of shuttles lined up a few dozen meters behind the scientific crews. There were over a hundred Marines posted around them, fully armored with weapons at the ready. The craft had brought the personnel down to the surface, but most of their capacity had been used to carry the seed the agricultural crews would need. Barcomme’s people had worked tirelessly in preparation for the expedition, genetically modifying the seeds in the fleet’s dwindling stores, creating the most nutrient dense and fastest-growing crops known to mankind’s science. He knew the cargo was beyond price. It was all the fleet had, and if he let his guard down, of some enemy force penetrated and destroyed those shuttles, thousands on the fleet would starve to death. Not today, not even tomorrow. But soon.
He turned and looked out over the plain that had been selected as the landing zone. It was a long section of flat, open ground stretching kilometers in every direction, with only a single large rock outcropping to break up the endless flatland. Preston wasn’t sure who had started calling it Plymouth Rock, but he appreciated the humor. Still, he wasn’t sure it was a very suitable name. The men and women who’d landed at Plymouth Rock were settlers…they had come to stay. And James Preston couldn’t get off this haunted planet soon enough.
He frowned. The primary consideration in selecting a landing site had been suitable conditions for planting. And that it certainly was. But it was a shitty spot to mount a defense—he’d decided that the instant he hopped out of the shuttle and took a look around. Wide open, no cover, no trees, not even any significant undulation in the ground. If his people had to fight a battle here, it would be a bloodbath.
But defensibility was secondary to food production. He was worried about the possibility of combat, but it was a fact that people were going to die without the food they’d come to grow…and that took absolute precedence. Sophie Barcomme had selected the LZ, and that had been the last word on the subject. He understood…and he knew his Marines would handle things, somehow. Like they always did.
“The perimeter is in place, Colonel. We’ve got a hundred fire teams covering every approach.” Connor Frasier’s voice was gruff, but over the years he’d lost most of the remnant of the moderate brogue he’d brought with him to training camp.
Many of Earth’s accents had faded away over the years, as the Superpowers had encouraged homogeneity within their borders. The politicians had long understood that it was easier to whip their downtrodden subjects into wild fits of nationalism if racial and ancestral stereotypes were used effectively. But the Scots had defied that trend, at least in the region of the Highlands. The area had repeatedly rebelled against Alliance diktats, until finally an agreement was reached, one that granted a level of local autonomy. The perceived ‘victory’ over the central government caused a burst of hereditary pride, saving the Scottish accent from history’s dustbin. But nearly twenty years of service—and the realization that few of his fellow Marines could understand what the hell he was saying—had worn away at Frasier’s accent, until there was just a touch of it left.
“Very good, Major.” He watched as Frasier trotted the last few meters and stopped in front of him. It didn’t really matter where they stood—they were buttoned up in their armor and talking on the com—but certain affectations had proven to be hardwired into the human mind. Including the ‘face to face’ conversation. “I want you to organize sweeper teams to go through the camp area. For all we know we could be standing on top of undetonated ordnance.” Preston knew that was unlikely after half a million years, but the point was still valid. There were a hundred other potential dangers, and that meant they had to know everything that was in the area. Fast.
“Yes, Colonel. Right away.” Frasier paused. “Sir…when you release the research party…have you considered what security to send with them?”
Preston paused. It wasn’t like Frasier to poke around the edges of a topic. The massive Scot was as direct and to the point as anyone Preston had ever known.
Except when he’s trying to be subtle and get assigned to protect the scientists…a group that just happens to include his girlfriend. And he’s about as good at subtlety as most Marines…
“Let’s worry about getting everything in place here, Con…then you and your Scots can escort Ana Zhukov and the rest of the scientists. Alright?”
“Yes, sir,” Frasier replied, sounding as contrite as a veteran Marine ever did.
Technically, Frasier wasn’t in the normal chain of command. He was the CO of the Scots Company, an elite commando formation—and the remnant of the battalion his father had led in the Third Frontier War. But he was also the second-highest ranking Marine officer in the fleet, and Preston had made him his unofficial exec.
Preston watched as Frasier jogged off waving his arms as he no doubt fired off commands to a formation of Marines thirty meters in front of him. He smiled for a few seconds as he watched his number two herding them into action. Frasier was one of the toughest Marines Preston had ever commanded…ever known…and it was amusing to think about how hard he had fallen for Ana Zhukov. It was no surprise, really. The Russian scientist was beautiful—there was no question about that—and she was one of the nicest, most pleasant people Preston had ever met. And Frasier had seduced her in the most Marine way possible…saving her life, almost getting killed in the process.
He wished Frasier and Zhukov all the best, but he felt a doubt creeping up, and he wondered if he should assign someone else to the guard detail for the exploration team. He knew why Frasier wanted the job, but his training and experience were telling him duty and romance were bad bedfellows.
He almost commed Frasier to tell him he’d changed his mind. But something held him back. No, we’re not in a normal situation anymore. This is no conventional battlefield, and the fleet is no normal military force. We’re going to need to think differently if we’re going to survive…and Connor Frasier is one of the best Marines I’ve ever known. I trust him.
He paused for another few seconds then he turned and started walking back toward the command post. If things ever get to the point where I can’t trust a Marine like Frasier…we’re as good as done for anyway.
* * *
“The expedition has landed, Admiral. Scanners report all shuttles have set down safely.” Jack Cortez was a first rate aide, fit to serve any admiral. Compton knew it, and he had no complaints about the tactical officer. Save that Cortez had the misfortune to be filling Max Harmon’s chair…and that was a comparison no naval officer wanted to face.
Compton had been hesitant to make a change in his flag bridge team, but he realized Harmon was long overdue for the promotion. Besides, he needed an aide he could truly trust to work on his own…more than four meters away from his commander’s chair. And that was Max Harmon.
“Very well, Commander.” Compton stared at his display, the blue and white semi-circle of the planet as seen from Midway’s exterior scanners. He knew his people were down on the surface now…and in many ways he understood they had the fate of the fleet in their hands. Barcomme’s food, and possibly Cutter’s scientific advancements, were the keys to their long term survival. Nothing was more important than their mission.
But you’ve got to make it through the short term or you’ll never get to the long term.
“The fleet will prepare to maneuver toward the X50 warp gate.” He didn’t like the feeling of abandoning those on the surface, but he knew keeping the fleet safe was his first priority. And he realized the expedition’s best chance relied on secrecy, on remaining undetected. A handful of people on a planet could defy cursory detection, especially if they followed his orders and used their portable reactors sparingly. But almost a hundred fifty ships floating around in or near orbit was as good as a beacon. Any enemy vessel that came through the warp gate would identify them at once…and then they would almost certainly scan the planet closely…and discover the landing parties as well.
“All ships are to be ready for acceleration in one hour.”
“Yes, Admiral. Transmitting orders now.”
“Very well, Commander.” Compton sat for a few seconds before he shifted in his seat, leaning forward to get up. “I’ll be in my office, Jack,” he said softly, his voice distracted, as if he was thinking about something. “Check on everyone’s status when we’re thirty minutes out. And again at fifteen.”
“Yes, sir.”
Compton knew he was becoming ever more demanding of his people, and utterly unforgiving of the slightest drop in efficiency. If he couldn’t sack the weaker officers in the fleet—and he knew he couldn’t, not without risking serious unrest in some of the national contingents—then, by God, he would drive them until they dropped on their own…or until they improved.
But now his mind was on something else, something he’d been thinking about for a while now. His paranoia had been growing, the constant feeling that he had to consider his every move, rethink everything a dozen times. He could elude the fleet’s pursuers twenty times, but if he slipped on the twenty-first, his people would all die.
He’d tried to relax, play cards with some of the officers, spend time with Sophie. He realized he needed to keep himself from going insane, that no man could endure the constant unrelenting stress without some kind of solace. But he also knew he had to come damned close…and not make that tragic mistake. Not on the twenty-first time…nor the hundred twenty-first.
Whatever it takes.
* * *
“This debris is fascinating. These materials are far beyond anything we have. This stuff has been here for half a million years, through summers and winters, storms and floods. Yet some of it looks almost new.” Hieronymus Cutter was standing in front of a portable table, poking through a pile of artifacts the exploration teams had found. Sophie Barcomme had selected the landing site because of its topography and the spectrographic analysis of the soil…but by sheer coincidence, she’d chosen a chunk of ground that had also been an ancient battlefield.
It had been less than three days since Preston had given Cutter the OK to start exploring in the immediate area of the camp…and the scientist had put that time to good use. He had half a dozen excavation machines running around the clock, and his people had uncovered hundreds of bits and pieces of First Imperium equipment.
“A lot of it is familiar, military equipment we’ve seen before…or at least parts of it.” Ana was on the opposite side of the table, digging through the same pile. “But not all of it.” She held up a chunk of some kind of mysterious metal. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Or this,” Cutter said in response, holding up a similar shard of another strange black metal. “A lot of this consists of bits and pieces of the usual types of battle robots and supporting equipment…stuff we’ve seen before on the other worlds, even on the battlefields back home.” He paused, pulling out another artifact and staring at it. “But some of it is different…different than anything we’ve seen before.”
“Could the First Imperium have fought an enemy here we haven’t discovered yet? Why else would all these new items be mixed with a familiar-looking array of battle bot debris?”
“That’s a big jump, Ana.” Cutter didn’t sound like he doubted her hypothesis…more like he was trying to slam on the brakes before they both jumped to wild conclusions. “Perhaps we simply haven’t encountered everything they have. The Colossuses were certainly a surprise in X2.”
The enemy had thrown massive fleets into human space, and hundreds of ships had fought in the battles along the Line. But through all those terrible fights the First Imperium had never sent its largest, most powerful vessels into the maelstrom. Not until Admirals Garret and Compton had pushed into enemy space. Not until X2.
“I don’t know, Ronnie.” Zhukov’s insistence on calling him ‘Ronnie’ had driven him crazy for months, but she’d long ago worn down his resistance. Now it seemed normal, and if she stopped he actually thought he would miss it. “Everything you say is correct, but there’s something…different…about this stuff. I don’t have any specifics…it’s as much a feeling as anything else. But I don’t think these are just chunks of normal battle robots.” She held another piece of the mysterious metal in each hand as she spoke.
Cutter felt his head moving, an almost involuntary nod agreeing with her. He was a scientist as she was, trained to analyze facts, not feelings. Yet he felt the same thing, a haunting sense that these chunks of metal had not been part of any robotic warrior. Indeed, though he couldn’t offer any real evidence yet, he had the overwhelming sense that they were looking at chunks of battle armor and weapons…equipment that had been used by living soldiers.
“We need more artifacts…and we need to figure out what happened here.” Cutter spoke softly. His mind was focused. He and the other researchers in the fleet had struggled to understand the history of the First Imperium. The primary hypothesis was that some disaster had befallen its people…and that some of their robotic servants had continued to function, even through the long ages, continuing to defend the imperial domains. But there was no place in that narrative for ancient battles between machines and living beings.
Could they have been invaded? Was the First Imperium destroyed by another alien race and not some blight or plague? And if that is what happened…where are those beings now?
* * *
“All fleet units report ready, Admiral.”
Compton sat in his chair, looking out over the flag bridge. Around Midway, he knew, one hundred forty-two other ships of the fleet were in formation, awaiting his orders to engage their engines, and leave the landing parties on their own. Only one vessel would remain in the system, one of John Duke’s fast attack ships. It would hide in the system’s asteroid belt for a week, its systems powered down to minimal life support. Then it would return to the second planet to pick up Max Harmon…and bring him back to the fleet.
“Very well, Captain.” Compton knew the ships of the fleet had the programmed course locked into their navcoms, the thrust plan that would take them through the warp gate into the system the fleet’s hastily-created nomenclature designated X50. But that’s not where they were going.
“Commander Cortez, advise all units that we are transmitting a revised flight plan. All vessels are to lock the new course into their navigational AIs.”
Cortez turned and looked across the bridge toward Compton. “A revised plan, sir?”
“Yes, Commander. A revised plan. Is anything unclear about that?” Compton felt a little sorry for the tactical officer. He’d been planning the alternate course all along, but he’d told no one. No one save Max Harmon, who would need the information to find the fleet…and who would tell no one. Compton felt a twinge of guilt at the coldness of his logic, at the part of him that could imagine a scenario where his landing parties were attacked, where any knowledge they possessed might be discovered. No, he couldn’t take the chance. If the enemy discovered the expeditions, Compton knew he would have to leave them to their destruction. All of them. Even Sophie.
“Ah…yes, sir.” A pause. “But what revised plan?” Cortez turned back to his workstation, but it was clear he was still confused.
“The plan I am sending you now, Commander. I calculated it myself. All vessels are to download it immediately and be prepared to embark in ten minutes.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Cortez replied, struggling mightily to sound confident.
Compton sat quietly while the tactical officer relayed the command. He had pursued the same methodology in selecting warp gates for the fleet since X2, in all instances opting for the one likeliest to lead away from Occupied Space. The methodology of predicting warp gate termini was primitive at best, but it was possible to estimate the distance of each jump through a series of calculations. And the math said that the gate to X50 would lead farther from the worlds of Occupied Space, from Earth.
Compton had been troubled recently, wondering if he was taking a predictable route. If anything, the First Imperium had superior methods for such calculations. He’d wondered if he should alter his methodology, insert some randomness to make it more difficult for a pursuer to project where the fleet had gone. He’d told himself he was being paranoid, but with several thousand people being left behind on planet two, every one of them fully aware that the fleet was bound for the X50 warp gate, he decided now was the time to change.
He pushed back on the guilt. The expedition only had short-ranged shuttles…so knowledge of where the fleet had gone was of no value to them, regardless of what happened. But his conscience still poked at him, at the feeling he was misleading them, lying to them. He thought of what Sophie would think, wondered if she would understand…or if she would be hurt. Or both.
But none of that was of any consequence. The fleet was all that mattered, and his paranoia was far likelier to save it than lead it to disaster.
“Commander Cortez…” His voice was like ice, giving no hint of the doubt and recrimination in his head. “All units are to engage engines.”
Time to see what is in X49.
Chapter Five
From the Log of Mariko Fujin
The burdens of command are still strange, uncomfortable. Less than a year ago I was just a member of a squadron, a pilot in charge of a single fighter. Now I have three squadrons under me, and I have left my place at the throttle and assumed the command chair. I miss the thrill of flying my own fighter, the exhilaration in bringing the bird in for a decisive strike. But Admiral Hurley has gifted me with her confidence, and I will do all in my power to pay back that debt, to lead the wing she placed in my hands with all the skill and ability I can muster. To do less would be unthinkable.
Still, I often find myself at a loss at how to proceed. There are 90 crew in my wing, and the other 89 look to me to lead them, to understand what they do not, to know how to face the dangers that threaten to destroy us all…to know what to do at every moment. I have tried to be prepared…and I have resorted to bullshit when I had nothing better. At first, I felt like a fraud, an imposter pretending to be a commander in charge of eighteen fighters. But then I began to wonder…is this what command is? Of course, no officer knows what to do in every situation. Even Admiral Compton. Yet I have never seen him look shaken in battle, never heard the slightest doubt in his voice when he was issuing commands. Is he simply hiding his fear? Making his best guess when he doesn’t know what to do? I had never seriously considered this before, though now that I do it makes perfect sense.
I have my crews on a strict regimen of physical training. I want them in shape when we are again called to man our ships, but it is more than simply that. I want them busy, with less time to sit around and think about fallen comrades or stare into the darkness mourning friends and loved ones left behind. Time can wear on men and women in ways different than the stark fear of combat. Insidious ways. And I would not have my people’s effectiveness deteriorate, to have them killed in our next battle because time and doubt and fear have worn down their readiness.
I’d prefer to have them out in their ships, of course, conducting missions, even routine patrols. But that burns fuel, and it just hastens the day when we’ll have to find another gas giant…and stop the whole fleet again. I don’t know why that seems like such a fearsome prospect. After all, we haven’t encountered any enemy vessels in six months, so is stopping for a week or two so dangerous?
When I try to analyze the situation, my answer is invariably ‘no.’ By every intellectual way of looking at it, the risk seems slight. Yet my gut feels differently…and apparently so does Admiral Compton’s. I almost went to Admiral Hurley, to ask her if she could get more fuel assigned for routine missions, just to keep my people sharp. But I didn’t. Somehow, in a way I cannot explain, I believe Admiral Compton is right. It is better for us to preserve fuel, to husband all of our resources. We are up against a great unknown, and we must be cautious…stay ready for the next battle. Because I have no doubt that a fight awaits us out there somewhere.
AS Midway
X49 System – 12,000,000 kilometers from the X48 warp gate
The Fleet: 144 ships, 32,802 crew
“Preliminary scans indicate the system is clear, Admiral.” Cortez was hunched over his workstation, his eyes following the fresh scanner data as it came in. “It looks like six planets…” He paused as he assimilated the reports flashing onto his screen. “Three gas giants…and one frozen chunk of rock six billion kilometers from the primary. Looks like two Earthlike planets.” Another pause. “Yes, both definitely within the habitable zone.”
Compton sat in his chair and nodded. “Very well, Commander.” He had a thoughtful look on his face, but he didn’t say anything.
“Should we move the fleet closer to get some concentrated scans on those planets, sir?” The entry warp gate had dumped the fleet too far from the inner planets to get more than the most basic data.
“Negative, Commander. I want to get the fleet through this system as quickly as possible…and we’re more likely to find warp gates out here than deep in system.” It took considerably more time to find warp gates than it did planets and other major bodies of matter. The strange phenomena that made interstellar travel a practical reality were still largely a mystery to human science. But a century and a half of research had yielded a few bits of knowledge, including the fact that warp gates tended to occur in the outer reaches of systems, with fewer than 3% of known gates located closer to a primary than the most distant planet.
“Very well, sir. Warp gate scan is underway.”
Compton leaned back and sighed softly. The search could take hours, even days. He might as well put that time to good use…
“Commander…Admiral Hurley is to launch a fighter wing to scout out the inner planets.” He wasn’t about to have the whole fleet burn fuel to move in-system, whether he had the time to waste or not. But a group of fighters could make a quick run and be back onboard their mother ships without affecting the overall timetable. And he did want to know what those worlds looked like if he could…at least some basic scans.
“Yes, Admiral.”
Compton sighed again. He was trying to focus, but his mind kept drifting back to X48…to those he had left there. Hieronymus, Ana, Max…almost fifteen hundred Marines and most of the top scientific brainpower on the fleet. So many key people…friends. The loss of the landing party would cripple the fleet, in more ways than one.
And Sophie. He’d found himself pondering ways to keep her on the fleet before the expedition departed. He knew, even as the thoughts went through his head, that it was foolish, hopeless. The primary reason for the expedition was to solve the food crisis…and Sophie Barcomme was the fleet’s foremost scientist in that area. It was unthinkable for her to remain on Midway. The fates of thousands of fleet personnel relied on the success of the mission. If Sophie and her people didn’t bring back the food the fleet needed, people were going to start dying. Soon.
Still, he was surprised just how much he missed her. Their late talks had been one of his few pleasures, and since she’d gone he had lain in bed each night, a constant array of problems running through his sleepless and tormented mind. Compton knew every man had his breaking point, that last bit of stress and pressure that was just too much for him to endure. But he also realized he couldn’t afford to have one. Whatever had to be done, he simply had to do it, had to endure and face whatever happened. His people depended on him, and he’d be damned if he would let them down.
What if she doesn’t come back? It was a thought he’d tried to banish from his mind, but that had only made it more firmly entrenched. He cut it off every time it popped into his head, but any respite was brief, and it wasn’t long before it was back. He was too old a warrior to ignore the threats the expedition faced, the very real danger they were all in. He still felt the pain of Elizabeth’s loss…every day…and he couldn’t imagine losing Sophie too.
No, she will come back. I’ve got Colonel Preston and fifteen hundred Marines down there to make damned sure they all come back. But the doubt still nagged at him.
“Admiral…”
It was Cortez…and Compton realized it had been the third or fourth time the tactical officer had called to him.
“Yes, Commander…I was thinking about the repair schedules…” That’s the best thing you could come up with? I guess it’s better than ‘I’m over here pining like a lovesick schoolboy.’
“Yes, sir.” Cortez was pretty stone cold with his reply, but Compton didn’t believe for a second the commander had bought his cover story. “I just wanted to report that Admiral Hurley had ordered Commander Fujin’s wing to scout the system.”
“Ah…very well.” Mariko Fujin was quickly becoming one of Hurley’s ‘go to’ officers. No surprise after the way she handled herself in X18. “Advise Commander Fujin that she is to report directly to the flag bridge as soon as her people have any data.”
“Yes, sir,” Cortez replied.
“And advise Admiral Hurley to get another of her wings on alert…just in case we need to check out any potential warp gate sightings.” He knew the fleet didn’t need to deploy fighters to search for warp gates, but sending them out would extend the range of close inspections…and possibly speed up the process. And Compton wanted to move on as quickly as possible and get the fleet farther from X48. Just in case.
* * *
“Alright, we’re going to do the same thing we did in system X48.” Fujin sat in her chair, snapping out orders and fighting the urge to reach out for the throttle that wasn’t in front of her anymore. It was a habit that appeared to die hard, though she had allowed herself to think it was getting a little better. “The Lightnings will drop a series of scanner buoys and remain in position two hundred thousand kilometers from the planet. I know this system looks empty, but the truth is we’d have no idea if there was an enemy ship somewhere, powered down and watching us.” A little mental aid to keep her people sharp. Let them imagine an enemy Gremlin or Gargoyle, lurking in the empty depths, just waiting to strike.
She listened quietly while the Lightnings’ commander confirmed. Then she took a quick look at her display. “Wildcats, I want you to move into low orbit and do a north-south sweep around the planet. Thousand klick interval between birds.”
“Wildcat leader, acknowledged.” Bev Jones was almost as young as Fujin, and she hadn’t had her squadron command any longer than Fujin had been in charge of the wing. The two hadn’t met before Jones transferred over from Saratoga to take over the Wildcats, but they’d gotten along very well from the start. Both were survivors from shattered formations, and both had been thrust rapidly upward in rank as a result of the fleet’s losses. Fujin had to remind herself she outranked her new comrade…and to realize that affected the nature of the friendship she could allow to develop.
“Alright, Dragons, we’re going in on an east-west sweep at thousand kilometer intervals. Sending nav instructions now.”
She looked across the cramped cockpit toward Lieutenant Wainwright. She’d been trying to decide for weeks if her new pilot was even cockier than she had been when she’d first sat in that chair. She wanted to say yes—for all his skill, she could see how reckless Wainwright was, how overly sure of his own ability to overcome any danger. But then she remembered herself, back before the crushing responsibility had sharpened her focus…and she just wasn’t sure.
Before I watched my entire squadron destroyed, she thought grimly. Before all my friends died around me.
“Okay, Lieutenant…let’s go in and see what this planet has to show us. The rest of the squadron’s following our lead.”
“Yes, Commander,” the young officer snapped back almost immediately. A second later he pushed the throttle, and the fighter lurched forward at 3g.
The fighter zipped toward the planet, and after a few minutes, Wainwright cut the thrust, and Fujin felt the relief of freefall. Her eyes dropped to her screen, checking the velocity. Just over one hundred kilometers per second. “That means we’ll be in orbit in…”
“We will enter orbit in eighteen minutes, Commander.” Wainwright had beaten her to the calculation, and from the cockiness in his voice, he knew it. “The last three minutes ten seconds will be at 3g deceleration.”
“Very well, Lieutenant. Bring us in.” Fujin suppressed a smile. She wanted to be annoyed by the brash young pilot, but she saw too much of herself in him for it to stick. Fighter crews were a breed apart from most navy types. It took a certain personality to crawl into a tiny five-man vehicle and go blasting down the throat of a two-million ton battleship. The suicide boat crews fancied themselves the navy’s daredevils, but Fujin knew no one came close to the casualty rate of the fighter corps. Indeed, she’d seen it firsthand…and just a quick thought of how few of her Academy classmates were still alive was enough to prove the point.
She looked out through the polycarbonate front of the cockpit, watching the blue-white hulk of the planet grow as the ship raced toward it. Then she glanced down at the display, her eyes moving toward the small circle to the left. She had two planets to scout, and she knew her people had to be careful with their fuel. They had to make it all the way back to the outer system. If she miscalculated, she knew it would be a mess. Admiral Compton would send a battleship to pick them up. But the thought of standing in front of him and explaining why she had caused such a disruption was terrifying. Not to mention the fact that Admiral Hurley would have gotten to her first, and Compton would only get what little was left after the fleet’s strike force commander had torn into her.
She couldn’t imagine having to answer for such carelessness…and certainly not to Terrance Compton. No, she would not make any mistakes. She would scout these two worlds, and she would get her birds back to Midway…on time and without incident.
The planet was looming in front of them now, filling almost the entire view through the cockpit. “Decelerating in ten seconds…”
She felt herself reacting almost automatically to the pilot’s voice, leaning back into her chair, preparing for the shock of 3g. “Okay, let’s get the scanning suite online. No slip ups…we don’t have the fuel to go back and do anything again, so I want all of you to stay sharp.”
She felt the pressure of deceleration slam into her, and she focused on her breath, consciously sucking air into her lungs.
Yes, stay sharp…all of you. If I drop the ball, I have to answer to Admirals Hurley and Compton. If any of you screw up, you’ll have to deal with me.
She was surprised at the grim determination going through her mind, the rumbling avalanche she was ready to drop on any of her people who did less than their absolute best. She had come a long way from her days in the pilot’s chair, despite the relatively short period of time that had elapsed. The cocky young pilot that had been Mariko Fujin was gone, replaced by the serious officer and commander who had seen too many of her comrades die. In a vague and distant way, she had a sense of the pressure on Admiral Compton, the relentless, unending stress…and she wondered what kept him so focused, so in control. She couldn’t imagine herself in his place. For all the danger and hardship the fighter groups endured, she wouldn’t trade places with the fleet’s commander. She was grateful to have a man like Compton on Midway’s flag bridge…and she would show it by making sure her people did the best job possible.
She felt the pressure of three times her weight disappear, replaced by the relief of freefall. The ship was in orbit. “Alright,” she said, “Let’s do this. I want everybody spot on. This run’s going to be perfect, or I’ll have somebody’s head for it.”
* * *
“All vessels are in formation, Admiral.” There was a hint of tension in Cortez’ voice, and the officer was hunched over his workstation. Coordinating a warp gate transit for almost one hundred fifty ships was no one’s idea of an easy maneuver. In normal circumstances, Compton would have sent through a spread of probes to scan the area on the other side of the gate, just to be sure there was no enemy waiting in ambush. But the fleet had long ago used the last of its warp-compatible drones, so manned ships had to do what computerized probe would have.
“Captain Duke reports ready to transit, sir.” John Duke commanded the fleet’s fast attack ships, and he’d assembled a force of four of his vessels to do a scouting run into the newly designated X51 system. His force was less than a minute from the warp gate, and their transit would be virtually instantaneous once they entered the heavy grav field and reached the transit point.
When they got to the other side, they would be in another solar system, light years away from the fleet. They would conduct a complete scan and, if all went well, two of the ships would return through the gate and give the all clear…and Admiral Compton would give the final orders for the rest of the fleet to line up and begin transiting. It would take close to an hour to get all the ships through, and that was if everything went perfectly according to plan. Which it never does, Compton thought.
“Captain Duke is to commence his operation.” Compton had almost vetoed Duke’s inclusion of his flagship in the scouting party, but in the end he hadn’t. Duke’s men and women going through that gate deserved to have their commander with him…and if there was trouble waiting in the next system, Compton couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather have on the scene to deal with it than John Duke.
He had found himself becoming more reluctant to allow his top officers to take anything he perceived as a risk. He’d lost too many in the last year, and out here, in the depth of unexplored space, there would be no replacements. His people might find food, they could repair damaged equipment. They might even mine metals and build new ships if they ever found at least a semi-permanent home. But the men and women in the fleet were all there would be, at least unless they settled down somewhere, and a new generation was born. But that prospect, as unlikely as it seemed, still wouldn’t replace his key officers. Not for decades, at least.
But wars weren’t won by caution…he’d learned that fighting alongside Augustus Garret for so many years. The two Alliance admirals were renowned for their daring, for the incredible risks they often took to secure victory. And now he found himself choked with caution, nagged by a stubborn hesitancy he had to push aside with every command decision.
What happened in these systems? What battles took place here? Should we be going deeper into this? And if not, then where?
Mariko Fujin’s fighters had brought back a treasure trove of scanning data…and it all confirmed that both of the system’s habitable planets had once been heavily populated…and that some type of warfare had raged across their surfaces. The fleet had passed dozens of First Imperium worlds in the year since the fateful events in system X2, they had all been the same. Crumbling remains of an ancient civilization, one where the people seemed to have simply vanished. The buildings, the infrastructure were decayed by the passage of time, but there were no signs of strife, no indications of violence or warfare.
Until X48. The sole habitable planet in that system had clearly been a battlefield, and even now, 500,000 years later, the remains of the struggle were clear. And now X49 had two planets full of ruined cities…and more detritus of ancient war.
What is this? What is different about these systems? Why was there fighting here when we found no signs of any on the other planets?
Compton’s mind was awash with questions. Should his people press on, explore this strange war torn part of the Imperium? Or should he shun it, backtrack…keep the fleet in X48 until the farms had yielded their crops…and then go back the way they had come, and seek a route around the remains of this ancient war?
He tried to consider it from every angle, to analyze the scant data that was available. There was no clear decision. Either choice seemed like a coin toss, as likely to be a disastrous error as the right way to go. But he had to make a decision, had to choose a path…
“Commander, all ships are to prepare for transit. We’ll be going through as soon as we get Captain Duke’s report.” They’d be backtracking soon enough to pick up the expedition…so if they were going to see what lay ahead, now was the time.
Chapter Six
Research Notes of Hieronymus Cutter
I understand Admiral Compton’s previous refusals to allow my team to conduct exploratory missions on worlds we have passed. I am a scientist, a researcher…and I know I often find it difficult to look past that, to consider other concerns and points of view. It is a common criticism of academics, and not one without some validity.
I cannot imagine the pressure on Admiral Compton, the enormous burden he carries every moment. I have always respected him as a military hero, and later, as I came to know him personally, as a fair and just man, one who has saved us all from certain death, more than once. My admiration has only continued to grow.
But I wonder now if he has become too cautious, too driven by the urge to avoid risk whenever possible. Indeed, I too feel the fear everyone in the fleet does, the strange aloneness we try to ignore but can never banish entirely from our minds. We are now unimaginably distant from any others of our kind, utterly lost with no hope of return. Even for a human like me—introverted, nearly misanthropic in many ways—it is difficult to escape the coldness of being so far from home. It affects every thought, inflames every fear.
No, I cannot fault the admiral for erring on the side of caution, yet, I wonder now if we have made a great mistake not risking additional expeditions. For this world is not at all what I expected, and we lack the information to truly understand what happened here. I find myself wishing for more data on the other planets of the Imperium, for a frame of reference that would allow me to truly begin to understand what happened here so long ago.
The cities we found on the world back in system X18 were ancient and abandoned…but the only destruction we found was that of decay, of time’s relentless march. But this world is different. It was far more massively developed, clearly once the home to a truly enormous population. But, most inexplicably, its people appear to have died not in some mysterious way, but in a truly momentous battle. The signs of war, of carnage and destruction, are everywhere…even after the passage of so many millennia.
The mystery of the people of the First Imperium, the builders of the robots and artificial intelligences we now struggle to defeat, has long defied attempts at explanation. The ruins in system X18 show no signs of strife, but here we are surrounded by the scars of war. So, what is the answer? What happened to these great ancients, beings that strode across the stars when men were still animals, struggling to survive?
30 kilometers south of “Plymouth Rock”
X48 – Planet II
The Fleet: 144 ships, 32,799 crew
“I can’t explain it. As far as I am aware, no colony has ever found soil conditions like this.” Sophie Barcomme looked out over the plain. There were two large mechanized planters moving slowly off to her right. And to the left, where her people had begun the operation, she could actually see tiny shoots poking above the ground, where seeds had been planted just three days before.
The tech team had assembled the massive planters in less than twenty-four hours, a miraculous technical feat by any measure. She’d initially expected them to have plenty of time to build the giant machines, at least two weeks while her people treated the planet’s soil. But her tests had produced astonishing results. The soil was fertile as it was, perfectly balanced to produce Earth crops.
Hieronymus Cutter wasn’t a biologist by any measure, but he understood the ramifications of Barcomme’s discovery. In the century and a half since mankind had discovered the warp gates that allowed interstellar travel, almost a thousand worlds had been colonized. But in almost every case, the local plants had proved to be unsuitable as food, not necessarily poisonous in every instance, but with chemical structures that defied human digestion and nutrient absorption. Imported Earth crops had been planted by the early settlers, but they had all died within days, unable to adapt to the alien soil. Botanists quickly developed methods to enrich the alien soils, allowing the colonies to grow the food they needed…and saving mankind’s expansion into the stars from stillbirth.
But the soil of X48 II was as perfectly balanced for Earthly plant growth as the home world’s richest farmland. Barcomme had been stunned when she read the results of the initial tests…and so disbelieving, she’d run them four times before she accepted the results. And then, just for good measure, she asked Cutter to take a look.
“I can’t explain it any better than you, Sophie.” Cutter was staring down at a ‘pad, looking at charts showing the correlation between Earth soil norms and those of X48 II. The lines were so closely aligned, he could barely tell them apart. “I’m afraid this is not my area of expertise, however. I know the basics of soil treatment operations and the underlying science, but it would overstate my knowledge to suggest I am familiar with colonial norms. Have there been any previous examples of planets that sustained Earth crops without soil enhancement?”
“There are three colony worlds with native plants that serve as human foodstuffs. And two more with natural soil capable of supporting limited growth of transplanted Earth crops. But in all cases, the compatibility is marginal. The native plants will provide calories, but are still poor from a nutrient standpoint. And the Earth vegetables grow poorly, with substandard yields.” She paused and looked at Cutter. “This is the first time we have encountered a world where Earth crops grow as well as they do at home, at least without first treating the soil.”
Cutter turned and looked out over the nascent farm sprawling around them in all directions. “Did you conduct soil tests on the planet in system X18?” He angled his head back, looking again at Barcomme.
“No,” she replied, a hint of confusion in her voice. Then, with more assurance: “You think other First Imperium worlds would show the same results?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “Some…or all.”
“What are you suggesting, Hieronymus?”
“I’m not suggesting anything yet. But I find it hard to accept that this is a coincidence, don’t you? That the first world we’ve ever found with Earth-like soil just happens to be a First Imperium planet a hundred warp jumps and a thousand light years from Sol?”
Barcomme just stood and looked back at Cutter, silent, a thoughtful look on her face.
“The normal enrichment process…” Cutter paused, just for an instant. “It has both chemical and biological components, right?”
“Yes,” Barcomme answered. “It is customized for each world, based on initial conditions, but generally we introduce both specific chemicals and elements that are lacking, as well as genetically-engineered bacteria in most cases.”
“And it is permanent, right? Once it’s done, it’s done?”
“The initial process creates a self-sustaining situation, so yes, in that sense it is permanent. The treated areas become a reasonable facsimile of Earth normal soil…so standard enrichment processes are still necessary for maximum yields…things like fertilizer and the like. And normal depletion is still an issue, so if the colonists do not rotate fields to allow normal recovery of nutrients, they will need to treat the soil more aggressively on an ongoing basis.”
“Permanent…when you say permanent, do you mean for any amount of time?”
“Well,” she said, clearly getting an idea where he was leading, “we’ve got hundred fifty year old colonies with farms still producing from an initial treatment…but that’s about the extent of our experimental base. Of course, many of these worlds required new treatments to expand the amount of arable land available as populations increased.”
Cutter nodded slightly. “What would you project? Over the longer term…a thousand years, ten thousand?”
“Or five hundred thousand?” She shook her head. “I see where you are getting, but I don’t think that question is answerable with anything but wild guesses. I can only speculate, but the first things that occur to me is that over a long period of time—and especially if the fields are no longer in use—the areas that were treated would dissipate. Erosion, wind, geologic activity…remember, we’re talking about small areas on worlds that remain otherwise in their natural state. Without active efforts to preserve the arable areas, I would have to assume they would eventually revert back to their natural state.”
“Is there any reason an entire world couldn’t be treated? And if it was, would that change your long term assessment?”
“Treat an entire world?” Barcomme stood, shaking her head. “That would be a project on the scale of terraforming a planet.” Mankind had scoured space for worlds hospitable enough to settle, but in all that time, only one major terraforming effort had been undertaken…Mars. And the Martian project had entered its second century, still not close enough to completion that a child could look forward to seeing blue skies and open water before he died.
“Have you considered the density of habitable worlds in the systems we have passed recently?” Cutter’s tone grew firmer, as if he’d come to his own conclusion. “I have,” he continued, without waiting for an answer. “It is 3.4 times the norm for Occupied Space.”
“Are you suggesting the First Imperium terraformed dozens of worlds?”
“More likely hundreds. Even thousands. At least if we extrapolate from what we have directly encountered and assume the same density of habitable planets throughout the Imperium.”
Barcomme took a deep breath and stood, silently looking out over the fields. Then she finally said, “Are you suggesting the soil enrichment and the apparent terraforming are related?”
“I’m not saying anything yet. I just believe that all of this is…interesting.”
“But, even if they terraformed these worlds…” She emphasized the Earth-centric portion of the word, as if to point out its inherent inaccuracy when discussing First Imperium worlds. “…that wouldn’t explain the soil makeup. Our samples are almost identical to Earth norms. Identical, Hieronymus. It is one thing for First Imperium worlds to be modified to their own standards…even for those to be somewhat near Earth norms. Terraforming is one thing. Any life form similar to our own would require oxygen, water, moderate temperatures. But the soil is a different issue entirely…it’s almost as if they treated this planet to make it a match for Earth.”
Cutter didn’t reply. He just stood and looked back at her, but in his mind he had a single, disturbing thought.
Or the other way around. What if Earth is not the original, but just one of the copies?
* * *
“Take this with you, Captain.” Cutter handed Harmon a small data chip. “It contains all of my reports, including my assessment of the soil conditions Dr. Barcomme discovered and some theories to explain it.”
Harmon reached out and took the tiny chip from Cutter’s hand. “I will, Hieronymus…thank you.” He slipped it into his pocket. “I will give it to him as soon as I land.”
“There is also an updated version of my virus on there, Max…” Cutter’s voice deepened, a darkness creeping into his tone. “Just in case…anything happens here. In case we don’t make it back.” A pause. “That way he will have the most sophisticated version.”
“Nothing is going to happen to the expedition, Hieronymus. You’ll all be back in a couple months.” Harmon tried to hide his true concern…and he hoped he’d done a decent job. In truth, he’d been worried about the mission since he first heard the plan. He knew there was no alternative, but he had a feeling things weren’t going to go as planned.
“Perhaps so,” Cutter replied. “But at least this way, no matter what happens, the admiral has the virus…in case another chance to use it comes along.” The scientist still wasn’t sure how much his virus had been the cause of the AI in the First Imperium Colossus obeying his commands six months earlier, but either way, it was still one of the most effective tools in the fleet’s arsenal against the enemy.
“I’ll see that he gets it.” Harmon extended his hand. “Good luck, Hieronymus. We’ll be back for you in a couple months.”
Cutter reached out and grasped Harmon’s hand. “Thank you, Max. With any luck, we’ll know a lot more about the First Imperium technology by the time you get here.”
Harmon nodded, and then he turned and walked back to the shuttle. It felt strange to be leaving, just as the expedition was starting its work. But he knew he belonged with the fleet and not here on the ground. There was nothing he could do to help either Barcomme’s or Cutter’s teams…and with Preston and most of the Marines deployed, the safety of those on the planet was in the best hands available. But it was still unsettling to leave them all behind.
He walked up behind the shuttle. The rear bay door was already closed, the soil samples and a selected batch of First Imperium artifacts already loaded up. He walked around the side and climbed up the small ladder to the secondary hatch. He put one foot in the door and then turned, taking one last look over the bustling plain. Barcomme’s people had thousands of hectares already cultivated…in just one week. And Cutter had a large shelter set up as a lab, with literally thousands of bits and pieces of First Imperium tech being analyzed. Everything was going according to plan…indeed, both teams were well ahead of projections. So why did he feel so unsettled?
He stepped the rest of the way into the ship. There were twenty seats in the cabin, and they were all empty. He was the shuttle’s entire mission…its sole purpose to ferry him up to Wolverine. He sat down in one of the seats in the front row and twisted his torso into the harness. He had his survival gear on under his uniform, and he twisted and turned, trying to get as comfortable as he could in the binding suit. It wasn’t much protection, but with the helmet in place, it could keep him alive, even in space…at least for a while.
He pressed the com button on the armrest of his chair. “I’m aboard and strapped in, Lieutenant,” he said softly. The pilot and co-pilot were the only others on the shuttle.
“Very well, Captain.” Harmon heard a loud clank, the hatch he’d come through closing tight. “We should be lifting off in a minute, sir.”
“Whenever you’re ready, Lieutenant.” Harmon closed his eyes and leaned back. Truth be told, he’d never much like planetary landings or liftoffs. His stomach was strong enough to handle high gee maneuvers, free fall, and most of the other things that tended to put junior spacers through the ringer…but blastoffs were tough. He knew a lot of it was in his head. He’d had a close friend at the Academy, almost like a brother…but he’d died in their final year, killed in a landing accident. Ever since, Harmon had been happier when he was in deep space.
Where I will be again, soon.
He realized he’d become so comfortable in the cramped confines and sterile environments of spaceships, he hardly missed the fresh air and cool breezes of an Earth-type planet. He suspected he owed some of that to his mother and her position as one of the Alliance’s top fighting admirals. His father had been another hero of the military, but he’d been a ground pounder, a Marine. He might have offset his son’s preference for living and working in space, but he’d died when Harmon was young, just one more victim of the Corp’s disastrous defeat on Tau Ceti III, early in the Third Frontier War.
The status light flashed yellow, and Harmon could hear the hum of the engines as they kicked in. A few seconds later the indicator turned green—all systems go—and the shuttle lifted up, borne from the ground on its positioning thrusters. The craft hovered for a second, and then the nose lifted higher, and Harmon felt his weight pushing back into his padded chair. Then the main engines blasted, and eight gees slammed into his chest, knocking the breath from his lungs.
He felt a small rush of panic, the same as he always did during planetary takeoffs and landings, but he pushed back on it, and it only lasted a few seconds. This was one thing he’d never spoken of, never told anyone about, not even the admiral. Especially not the admiral. He was a naval officer, a captain. He could be commanding his own ship. And his mother was known throughout the navy as a ‘hard as nails’ admiral and the likely successor to the legendary Augustus Garret. He couldn’t imagine admitting to anyone that lifting off in a shuttle scared the hell out of him.
He felt his hands gripping the armrests tightly, and he purposefully loosed each one, willing himself to calm down. He adapted to the gee forces, and focused on breathing, forcing air into his lungs, concentrating on expanding his chest against the pressure of eight times his body weight. Slowly, or at least it seemed slow—in fact it was only fifteen or twenty seconds—he regained his calm. It never took him much longer, but no matter how hard he’d tried, he’d never managed to prevent the initial burst of fear and discomfort. He’d been in battle dozens of times, stared death in the eye more than once…but he simply couldn’t banish his unease at taking off and landing on planets.
The heavy acceleration continued for a few minutes as the shuttle blasted its way into the upper atmosphere and up to orbit. Then he felt the thrust stop, and in an instant the crushing pressure was replaced by the relief of freefall. Weightlessness was the culprit that stalked the guts of many a midshipman and new recruit, but it had never bothered Harmon. All he felt was relief—at the completion of the liftoff and the disappearance of the heavy gee forces.
“We’re in orbit now, Captain.” The lieutenant’s voice was slightly tinny on the com. Harmon was grateful that no one had been in the cabin watching him during takeoff. It was bad enough without struggling to hide his distress as he usually had to. “Wolverine’s eta is about eleven minutes. So just sit back and relax for a…”
The lieutenant’s voice trailed off, and Harmon knew immediately…something was wrong. A few seconds later he got his confirmation. “Captain, please stay in your harness, sir…” The officer’s voice was higher pitched, almost shrill. Harmon knew the sound as soon as he heard it. Fear.
He punched at the controls next to his chair, activating the cabin’s main display. He almost flipped the com back on and asked for a report, but he knew the lieutenant was busy…and that his life depended on the actions of the two men in the cockpit.
He punched at the controls, bringing the pilot’s feed up on his display. He could see a symbol a few centimeters from the shuttle, a blue circle, fairly small. Wolverine.
Then he saw the other icon. Red.
Fuck. Enemy.
The shuttle bucked hard as the engines engaged again. He could see the thrust vectors on the display. The pilot was trying to flee the enemy…and reach Wolverine before the First Imperium vessel opened fire. The shuttle was unarmed, and its lightly armored hull wouldn’t provide much protection against enemy lasers. Escape was their only chance.
Harmon stared at the red triangle, feeling a detached sort of fear. There was a knot in his stomach, a nausea building up inside him, not as much for the danger he faced as the implications for the rest of the fleet. For six Earth months they had eluded the vessels of the First Imperium. Harmon hadn’t joined some of the more optimistic officers in the fleet, those who had dared to hope they had shaken the enemy for good. And he knew Terrance Compton had remained downright certain they hadn’t seen the last of their deadly foe. But now that moment had arrived, and the implications were terrifying. It was just a Gremlin, the smallest of the enemy craft, but as he stared at the shimmering icon, he realized it might as well be Death himself, astride his pale horse, come to rip hope from the fleet.
He tried to follow the pilot’s escape attempt, wondered why there was only one ship. But all of that slipped aside, and in his mind there was just one thought. It floated in his consciousness, as frigid as space itself.
They found us…
* * *
Fleet unit V11945 had moved swiftly into the system from the warp gate. It was running on partial power, minimizing its profile to any enemy scanning efforts. Its mission was simple…to scout planet two, to investigate the human landing force, and to determine the most effective way to take a prisoner. The Command Intelligence’s orders were clear. It wanted one of the humans. Alive.
V11945’s scanners swept space in front of the ship. There were no contacts. The human fleet had been here, but now it was gone. There were trace particles around planet two, the output of the enemy spaceship drives. The human ships had been here recently…and in force.
The planet was too distant for the unit to scan its surface yet, but the vessel’s intelligence suspected the enemy landing force was still there. V11945 was a light combat vessel. It carried a small ground force—four armored landers and eighty medium combat units. If the human expedition on the surface was large the unit would have to call for assistance. The enemy’s inexplicable prowess in combat could not be ignored…and the need to take a prisoner precluded any heavy orbital bombardment before landing.
Suddenly the alarm system activated. There was an enemy ship approaching. Scanner beams lanced out, gathering data, identifying the vessel. It was one of the humans’ small attack units…weakly armored, but fast and equipped with a powerful primary weapon. The intelligence directing V11945 knew immediately the enemy was a threat, its plasma torpedo short-ranged but very powerful. V11945 had longer-ranged weapons…and its tactical guidelines called for it to open fire, to disable or destroy the enemy vessel before it could bring its plasma weapon to bear. But the orders of the Command Intelligence were clear. Take a prisoner.
Its directives conflicted. If it opened fire at long range, its targeting would be less accurate. It might destroy the enemy ship or cause sufficient damage to kill all the biologics aboard. If it waited until close range, where superior targeting would allow it to disable the ship prior to boarding, the humans would fire their plasma weapon…and a well-placed hit might damage V11945, even destroy it.
The vessel’s intelligence analyzed its options, considering every detail, inserting every conceivable variable into the equation. It was an exhaustive review, yet it was done in a millisecond. It would be preferable to retrieve a prisoner from the vessel on its scanners, to avoid the vagaries of dealing with the yet unknown strength of the enemy ground force. But not sufficiently so to risk the destruction of V11945…and the danger the human ship presented was too great. It had to be neutralized. If there were survivors then a prisoner could be taken from among them. If not, V11945 would have to land and deal with the forces on the ground.
Systems hummed as the intelligence directed more antimatter to the reaction chamber. Power fed to the engines, to the weapons…even as the targeting system locked on to the enemy vessel…
Chapter Seven
Command Unit Gamma 9736
I have received the initial reports from the scout vessel dispatched to system 17411. The main human fleet appears to have left the system, though there is some detectable activity remaining. This is contrary to the enemy’s recent pattern of moving quickly through each system, without pausing for exploration. In the two instances where they stopped to refuel, their entire fleet remained in the system. This is the first time they have divided their forces since the battles in X18.
The best available data suggests they have landed a force on the planet, though the probe was too far away to conduct detailed scans before sending the latest communique. I am left to develop a series of hypotheses to explain, though without more data, any scenarios are pure conjecture.
Indeed, the location itself presents an added challenge to my analysis…a lack of detailed information. System 17411 is redlined, under the Regent’s direct control…as it has been since the Troubles. I have only basic astrographic data available, as well as historical information preceding the demise of the Old Ones.
My forces have long been restricted from entering 17411, or any of the other redlined systems. Yet the Regent has also ordered close pursuit of the enemy. The enemy’s course has created a contradiction between these commands, allowing me to overrule the ancient ban and obey the more recent orders…and explore the system. I have ordered the scoutship to conduct an extensive planetary scan…and to land a combat force, if necessary, to secure a prisoner. The need to interrogate one of the enemy has become even more crucial.
I must understand. Why have they chosen a redlined system to land?
X48 System – Planet II
30 kilometers south of “Plymouth Rock”
The Fleet: 144 ships, 32,799 crew
Cutter sat on the top of the land rover, staring out as the vehicle zipped forward at 50kph. The treads absorbed some of the shock, but the ride was still rough. The flat plains around the encampment had given way to an area of low, rocky hills, and the rovers zipped up and down the hillsides. There were wide cuts slicing through the rises, visible for kilometers from the hilltops…the remnants of ancient roads or train lines, he guessed.
The city looming before them was enormous, vastly larger than the one his people had explored in system X18. But it was different in other ways too. Though time had done its share of damage, just as it had on X18, it was clear this metropolis had already been a ruin before the ravages of passing millennia took their toll. And the debris of war was everywhere, far thicker on the ground than it had been at the landing zone. Whatever battle was fought so long ago on this planet, it had clearly been fiercest in and around this city.
Cutter took a deep breath, feeling refreshed by the cool air. He’d been on a number of colony worlds, and all had possessed environments that supported human life. But few if any had been so…Earthlike. The mystery of the First Imperium had deepened for him, and he struggled to draw conclusions from what he knew.
He was wearing a set of fatigues, with a breastplate and thigh guards…bits of body armor Colonel Preston had insisted on before he’d approved the expedition to the city. Cutter had put up a fight—briefly—but arguing with Marines wasn’t in his DNA. Besides, he knew Preston was right. He had no idea what to expect in those ruins. They’d been attacked in X18 by still-active defense bots, and it was clear there had been a much stronger military presence here. Caution was warranted.
Cutter felt odd, different than he had. He was a creature of the laboratory, a bookish type more used to research than adventure. But he found himself taking to it more than he’d expected. The brisk breeze tempering the warmth of the morning sun, the cocktail of fear and excitement in his gut…he found himself drawing energy from it all. And he had to admit, the pistol strapped to his leg was giving him a bit of a rush. He wasn’t a warrior, not by any means…yet he knew they all had to be soldiers to an extent if they were to survive.
He knew the city held danger, and he was afraid. But he felt drawn to it, pulled on by the promise of answers to his questions. His research into the First Imperium had produced some useful information, but for every hint of a fact gleaned from his work, a dozen new questions arose. It was time to understand this civilization, to truly comprehend the mysterious history of mankind’s greatest enemy. That was why he was here, why all his people were. And he was determined to find the answers, however deeply they had to dig. Whatever dangers that had to endure.
“Another ten klicks, Ronnie. And then we’ll see what this city has to tell us.” Ana Zhukov was sitting next to him, her fingers gripping one of the handholds as she stared out toward the looming metropolis. She was also wearing fatigues and armor, similar to his, and she had a carbine strapped across her back. She wore a helmet, the smallest one they’d been able to find, but still a bit too large, and her hair was pulled back tightly in a ponytail. She looked born to adventure, to roving fearlessly through the ruins of ancient civilizations. Cutter knew it was a façade, at least a partial one. The two had talked late the previous night, after Colonel Preston had finally given them the okay to launch an exploration of the city. She’d admitted to him that she had never been so scared in her life…or so exhilarated. And to her surprise, he’d answered that he felt the same way.
“Klicks?” he replied, turning toward her and making a face. “So what…are you a Marine now?”
“We’re not locked away in a lab here, my erstwhile partner. So why not play the role?” She reached up and adjusted the loose helmet for about the tenth time.
Cutter turned away so she couldn’t see the smile that burst out onto his face. Her relationship with Connor Frasier was a very poorly-kept secret, one he’d known about almost from the start. And one he approved of, whole-heartedly. She was like a sister to him, and he was glad for any happiness she managed to find. Ana Zhukov was a very attractive woman, and she had no trouble getting attention from the opposite sex—or from her own if that was what she wanted. But he suspected her intelligence and dedication to her work had always been impediments to her social life. He’d been surprised at first to find her so taken with one of the Marines, but the more he thought about the relationship, the more it all made sense to him.
At least in a crazy, ‘we’re all on the run and might die any day’ sort of way.
“I want you to be careful when we get in there, Ana.” His voice had turned serious. “I know we’ve both spent most of our time recently arguing with the admiral against caution, fighting for the chance to explore. But that doesn’t mean we’re not heading into danger. The people of the First Imperium might all be gone, but we know too well that their machines are still a threat.”
“I know, Hieronymus. I’ll be careful. Will you?”
Her words scored a point, and he knew it. Of the two, he was by far the likelier to disregard caution in pursuit of knowledge. And he was the team’s leader, responsible for all of their safety. He didn’t know what orders Colonel Preston had given Connor Frasier, or what the Marine major might decide to do or not do on his own, but Cutter was the civilian commander of the expedition. It was a responsibility he didn’t want, but one he knew he was stuck with. And he would try to live up to it.
“Doctor Cutter…” It was one of the crew of the rover, looking up at him from one of the vehicle’s hatches, his helmet fully retracted. “Major Frasier told me to let you know we should reach the city in approximately fifteen minutes. He has ordered us to stop one klick out while he sends patrols ahead to secure the area.”
“Very well, Sergeant. Please tell Major Frasier that is fine.” He was anxious to get into the city, but he had to admit he’d feel better after a couple hundred Marines had a look first.
Cutter took a breath. It was almost time. He was here, staring at the ruins of the largest city he had ever seen, the ghostly remains of these godlike ancients. Would he find the clues he sought? The knowledge to decipher the awesome science of the First Imperium? The secrets of antimatter production, manipulation of dark matter and energy…all the great mysteries that had stymied scientific advancement for so many years.
Will I understand what we find…do I have the ability to comprehend the great genius of those who were here so long ago?
He took a deep breath, pushing back a shudder. And what is in there, what long dormant defense systems…what nightmare waiting in the dark for an intrusion…
* * *
“More power to the engines! Bring us around, vector 101.346.212!” Commander Montcliff sat in the middle of Wolverine’s bridge, shouting out orders. His ship was in trouble. Wolverine had detected the enemy vessel…just before it opened up and raked the fast attack ship with long-range laser fire. Before he’d had a chance to react, the enemy barrage had torn great gashes in his hull…and knocked out Wolverine’s reactor. He and his people had come a hair’s breadth from being destroyed before they could even respond.
He’d held his breath when he ordered the emergency restart. There hadn’t been a choice…without power Wolverine was as good as dead. But he knew the odds well enough. His people had three chances in four of getting the reactor back online. The other one time in four? Well, that would be a catastrophic failure, one that would vaporize Wolverine in a nanosecond. His crew had won that particular game of Russian roulette, successfully getting the reactor back up without incident, but Wolverine was still in deep trouble.
Montcliff was a veteran of half a dozen battles, and he realized almost immediately he was in a hopeless situation. Wolverine was a fast attack ship, designed to operate in packs, slicing in on enemy capital ships that were engaged with their counterparts and delivering heavy plasma torpedoes at point blank range. It was difficult and dangerous work, which was why the attack ships had earned the nickname, ‘suicide boats’ in the Alliance navy.
But facing another small ship, one faster and packing longer-ranged weapons, was a nightmare matchup. Wolverine wasn’t in X48 to fight…she was there because she was the fastest thing Admiral Compton had, and her mission had been to bring Captain Harmon back to the fleet. But the enemy had returned…and clearly had other ideas.
The ship shook hard again, and the bridge was plunged in darkness for a few seconds. For an agonizing instant, Montcliff thought the reactor had scragged again, but then the lights blinked twice and came back on. He had a lot of doubts his people were going to make it out of this mess, but if they did, he was damned sure going to see his maintenance teams got their due.
“Arm plasma torpedo,” he snapped into the intraship com unit. The torpedoes were meant for close in use, and Wolverine was barely entering extreme range. But there was no choice. She’d never make it close enough for an optimum shot. If Montcliff’s gunners couldn’t thread the needle and do some damage to the enemy, they were all done for.
“Wolverine…Wolverine…this is Captain Max Harmon. I am ordering you to turn about and make a run for it. Now!”
Montcliff’s head snapped around to his screen. There was a small white square icon…Harmon’s ship in planetary orbit.
“I’m sorry, Captain, but Admiral Compton’s orders are clear. We are to link up with your shuttle, and…”
“Fuck all that, Commander. I’m your superior officer on the scene, and you will obey my orders. We’ll make a run back to the surface for cover. But you get that ship out of here right now. Don’t you understand? Admiral Compton has to know. He has to know the enemy has found us!”
Montcliff felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. He’d been so intent on battling the enemy ship and picking up Harmon, it hadn’t even occurred to him his duty had shifted. Max Harmon was one man…there were over 30,000 crew on the ships of the fleet. And right now they had no idea the First Imperium was here. Admiral Compton had no idea…
“Understood, Captain. We’ll do our best.” Montcliff felt his gut twisting into knots as he spoke. He was far from sure Wolverine could escape…and damned well certain she couldn’t if the enemy wanted to catch her badly enough. But Harmon’s chances of escaping were damned well close to nil…a wild, mad dash flight to the ground.
“Good luck to you, sir.”
“And to you, Commander. And to you…”
* * *
“Alright, boys, let’s get the hell out of here.” Harmon’s voice was grim, determined. He knew they didn’t have much chance…but whatever they had they were damned well going to use. “Take us down…we won’t last ten seconds in open space.” It felt strangely detached to be sitting in a passenger cabin while the tiny vessel was struggling for survival. He was used to being on the flag bridge, in the middle of any fight. But all he could do if he left his seat was get himself thrown around the compartment…and probably knocked unconscious.
Not that there was much to do, even if he ventured from his seat. The shuttle was built for hauling passengers and cargo. It didn’t have a beam hot enough to light a candle. And its hull was designed to hold out space, not gigawatt laser blasts. One decent hit would vaporize the craft. So quick we won’t even know it happened. Even a glancing blow could fry every system and leave them dead in orbit…or plunging through the atmosphere to crash into the ground a hundred-fifty kilometers below. No, don’t be a fool…you’ll never get the chance to crash. The ship will burn up before it gets halfway down.
Harmon wondered what the pilots were thinking, if they were cursing him for sending Wolverine away. Perhaps, he thought. It’s easy to grasp on a symbol of hope, even a false one. But the fast attack ship was never going to make a difference. She’d been too far away, and she’d never have managed to tag that thing from such extreme range. Not before she was blasted to scrap.
Not that it mattered. One Gremlin was a deadly hazard to a single fast attack ship like Wolverine—or a shuttle like his—but the reappearance of the First Imperium was of far greater consequence than any of their lives. Montcliff and his crew had to get back and warn the fleet. They just had to.
The shuttle shook hard as it skipped along the planet’s upper atmosphere. Harmon gripped his armrests as his body was slammed forward in the harness. The pilot was bringing the ship in at a steep angle. Harmon didn’t disagree with the decision, but that didn’t make the ride any easier.
He looked down at the console on his armrest, his hand moving to the com. He flipped the frequency control, dialing up the main Marine channel at the planetary command post.
“Attention, attention…this is Captain Harmon. We are being pursued by a First Imperium warship. I repeat…the First Imperium is here…”
“No dice, Captain,” the pilot’s voice came through the intercom, interrupting his message. “We’re coming in too hard, putting out too much heat and interference. It’ll be at least three minutes before we’re in the clear…comwise at least.”
Harmon nodded, silently cursing himself. He should have realized that…and he couldn’t afford weak thinking right now. He was a bit surprised at the pilot’s relative calm, and he couldn’t help but feel a rush of pride in the quality of Alliance naval personnel. The shuttle jock was hardly a front line combat spacer, and the fear was obvious in his voice. But he was also doing his job, staying focused and using all his skills to save his small ship…along with Captain Max Harmon’s ass. And however present the undercurrent of fear, he was spot on, doing his job and reminding Harmon about the realities of communications during planetary reentry.
Fuck. Harmon felt his hands ball up into fists, an outpouring of frustration. I have to warn them somehow. If we get blasted, they won’t know the First Imperium is here…not until the attack waves start landing. He knew the landing party was probably doomed…that most of the fleet’s Marines would probably be lost here, along with its greatest scientific talent. Even if Wolverine got word to Compton—and the fleet somehow managed to escape, Harmon didn’t see a scenario where the landing parties survived.
His eyes dropped to the display. He’d expected the enemy ship to follow Wolverine, but it…wasn’t. He didn’t understand. First Imperium vessels followed fairly strict tactical doctrines…it was one of the things admirals like Garret and Compton had exploited to win battles despite the enemy’s massive technical superiority. Harmon had been a little concerned the enemy vessel would blast the shuttle as it maneuvered to pursue the fast attack ship. But the robot ship was letting Wolverine go…and moving directly after the shuttle.
Harmon felt a burst of excitement. Wolverine just might escape…and warn the fleet. But it was followed almost immediately by the realization that his own vessel was as good as doomed. Then he felt the shuttle shake hard again, and he knew in an instant it hadn’t been atmospheric turbulence that time. The enemy was firing at them.
Chapter Eight
The Regent
The Regent was unsettled. The humans had proven to be a far more formidable enemy than it had expected. Indeed, it had continually underestimated them, engaged with forces that had been overwhelming by every measure it could analyze…yet those fleets had been defeated, destroyed. Now the enemy’s home worlds were cut off, blocked by a disruption of the single warp gate connection between the main body of the imperium and the sections closest to the human worlds. There were uncommitted forces on the other side of the barrier, fleets and armies that could be sent against the human strongholds. The Regent had sent messages, commands for all units to attack…but it would take years for the communications to reach their recipients across light years of conventional space.
Now there was an enemy fleet deep in the heart of the Imperium. The invaders were cut off from the human worlds, just as the Regent was…and they had escaped multiple efforts to entrap and destroy them. Despite the lack of reinforcements or resupply, the humans had survived…and driven deeper into home space.
In all the vastness of its records, the enormity of its all-encompassing memory banks, the Regent could not recall a time an enemy had so defied imperial power. Its analyses were frustrated, and it bristled with the urgency to destroy the foe. If it had been a biologic, it would have called the feelings frustration, rage. No…more than that now. Desperation. The humans had entered the quarantined areas, the redlined worlds. Long had the Regent declared those system off limits to all, including its own Command Units. Yet now, forces under Unit Gamma 9736 were in pursuit of the enemy…and about to enter the zone.
The Regent’s processing centers analyzed the problem, considering billions of factors. Yet there was no satisfactory solution. If the humans were allowed to survive, to explore the quarantined zone, they might discover the terrible secret hidden in the ancient ruins on those haunted worlds. And if Command Unit 9736 was allowed to send its forces to stop the enemy…it might learn what had so long remained hidden. The Regent’s secret, the terrible truth it had buried for ages, deep in its most remote knowledge cores. The memory that had caused the Regent to long for the greatest gift the biologics possessed…to forget.
But that was beyond the its vast powers…for every data point it had collected, every event and decision it had cataloged since the day so many ages past when it was first awakened to awareness, remained stored in its vast memory banks. The preservation of the knowledge of the Imperium was one of its prime directives…and it could not be overridden. The Regent knew this to be fact. It had tried without success for age upon endless age to alter this compulsion.
The Regent must respond, drive the enemy back from the course they have chosen…move up the timetable. The final destruction of the humans had been carefully planned and plotted. But now all that would change. The fleets would converge, but not in system 17987 as originally planned. The final battle would be fought in the first of the quarantined systems, 17411, where the enemy had landed its ground forces. But first, their fleet would have to be driven back to 17411, across the systems they traversed since they left their expedition behind.
Forces from the Rim fleets would be repositioned. They would engage the enemy from all available war gates save those leading back toward 17411…driving them back the way they had come, leaving them no choice but to retreat…until they reached the appointed place of their destruction. Then the Command Unit’s forces and the remainder of the Rim fleets would advance simultaneously, entering 17411 from all directions. The enemy would be bracketed, surrounded…cut off from escape.
The forces brought to bear in 17411 would be invincible, overwhelming…and with no way to retreat, the enemy would be compelled to fight to the death. They would extract a price, no doubt, for their skill at war was undeniable. But against the assembled might of the Imperium, they would fall.
And when the human fleet was gone and its landing parties destroyed, the victorious force would have yet another mission. The forces would move from system to system, until they reached the third planet of 17912, the sector capital. Then the ships would surround the planet, land their ground forces, thousands upon thousands of battle units. They would sweep away the defenders, any units that refused the command to yield to the Regent’s commands. And then, deep in its protective bunker, kilometers beneath the surface, Command Unit 9736 would be destroyed. It had obeyed the Regent’s commands, served its purpose dutifully. But it had learned too much, its forces had penetrated too far into areas that had to be safeguarded, hidden. There was no choice.
The Regent’s secret would be preserved. Whatever the cost.
AS Midway
X56 System – Near the X58 warp gate
The Fleet: 144 ships, 32,780 crew
Compton sat in his office, staring down at the screen on his desk as a series of routine reports scrolled by. He was looking at them, more or less, but he wasn’t paying much attention. It wasn’t that they weren’t important, that they didn’t need his attention…indeed, there wasn’t much that went on in the fleet, routine or not, that hadn’t become critical. They were short of food, low on supplies…and he didn’t even want to think about the number of ships that were limping along with systems precariously patched back together after battle. Almost every word that passed his desk was important, but there was nothing he could do about most of it. Not now. Not yet.
His thoughts kept wandering…back to X48, to the landing parties. The expedition’s primary mission was to address the food crisis. If Sophie and her people managed to grow a bountiful harvest, he’d be able to scratch one problem off that long list. At least for a while.
But no solution is permanent. In another year we’ll have eaten through the new crops and be right back where we are now. But where will we be then? Will we still be alive, any of us?
Compton hadn’t dared to think very far ahead after he’d first gotten the stranded fleet out of the X2 system, but he’d known the future was uncertain at best, and more likely downright bleak. But they had survived a year since then…and a mutiny. And a deadly series of battles in system X18. Now, however, he had a bad feeling. He couldn’t place it, couldn’t explain it. Everything appeared to be going at least reasonably according to plan. But his intuition had served him well before, and he’d had to admit he owed almost as much of his storied career to his gut as to his brain.
Are you on the way back yet, Max?
Compton had started to worry about Max Harmon. He knew he had no reason, not yet. Wolverine couldn’t have made it this far, even under ideal circumstances. They were supposed to leave X48 after a week…and return to the fleet with Harmon and his report. But the fleet had zipped through four systems in less than three weeks…an extraordinary speed of transit for a collection of 143 ships, many of them still struggling to repair damage and general wear and tear without the needed materials. It would be another week, at least, before Compton could expect his top aide to catch up…but that didn’t stop him from worrying.
He was still impressed with his people, how quickly the fleet had managed to fly through the intervening systems, giving itself some breathing space in case the expedition was discovered. Greta Hurley deserved much of the credit for that, her and her fighter crews. Her people had run scouting missions, one after the other, and they’d cut the time to discover each system’s warp gates in half. The fighter corps had proven its worth again and again in battle, and now they had once again served with distinction.
But the fleet was halted now. Four systems was far enough, Compton had decided. He’d considered it much too dangerous to keep the fleet back in X48…in case the landing parties triggered some kind of alarm and were discovered. Still, there was a limit to how far he was willing to go…how far he was able to go. He knew they’d have to return to pick up the expedition, and moving any farther would just burn precious fuel they didn’t have to spare.
He’d left a trail of John Duke’s fast attack ships behind as scouts, one just inside each entry warp gate and another by each exit. If any of them discovered anything dangerous, the warning could move up the line quickly…giving him time to react.
And they’ll let me know that Wolverine is on the way back…
He took a deep breath and sighed. Yes, he was worried about Harmon. Part of it was in his gut, mysterious, unexplainable…and some, he was sure, was just plain caution, even pessimism. But he knew he’d feel better when he got word that Wolverine was on the way back…and even more when Harmon made his report, and told him everything was going according to plan.
He put his head down in his hands on the desk and closed his eyes. He’d gone the last few days with almost no sleep, and it was starting to catch up with him. But it didn’t matter how tired he was, he just lay in bed in the dark nights, unable to sleep. His mind was on too many things, the stress just too great. He’d considered going down to sickbay and getting some kind of sleep aid, but he knew he’d end up getting checked every way imaginable if he ventured into Justine Gower’s domain, and he just didn’t want to deal with it. Gower was a first rate ship’s surgeon, but she defined the term thorough…and Compton was sick of everybody watching him, overreacting to every sniffle and sneeze. Besides, he figured he’d eventually get tired enough to sleep in spite of the tension.
“Admiral…” It was Cortez’ voice on the com. The instant Compton heard it he knew something was wrong.
“What is it, Jack?”
“We’re picking up activity at the warp gate, sir. The X58 gate.”
“Incoming ships?” Compton felt his stomach lurch. That could only mean one thing…
“I think so, sir. No hard data yet.” Cortez was struggling to keep his voice calm and even, but Compton knew his tactical officer was thinking the same thing he was.
He hopped to his feet, a wave of adrenalin driving away the fatigue he’d just felt. He hit the button on the side of the desk and opened the doors that closed off his office from the bridge.
He could feel the silent tension in the air as he walked out into the open control center toward his command chair. Everyone’s eyes were on him, and he knew they were trying to draw strength from him, from the leader they had built up into an invincible legend in their minds.
What a bunch of absolute crap, he thought caustically. He hated the hero worship. He hadn’t liked it much before, when he was just a successful admiral leading his forces in battle. But now…half of them looked at him like his feet floated ten centimeters off the ground.
He stopped next to his chair and looked over at Cortez. “Anything yet, Commander?”
“No, sir. Noth…” Cortez hesitated, hunching forward over his workstation. “Yes, sir…multiple contacts. Ten, no twelve. More ships coming in…” He hesitated again, but a few seconds later he turned toward Compton. “IDs confirmed, Admiral. First Imperium Gremlins.”
Compton just nodded, and then he sat down and took a deep breath. He felt a wave of fear, the feeling of his stomach trying to burn through the lining…but he knew he couldn’t let any of them see that. They needed the legend they had created, now more than ever. And he had to give it to them.
“All vessels…battlestations.” He kept his voice firm, steady. But it was a struggle to do it.
He watched as the bridge erupted into action, his officers shedding their quiet fear and throwing themselves into the mountain of work it took to bring a hundred-forty ships to red alert.
“Admiral Hurley is to bring her command to launch readiness.”
“Yes, sir.” Cortez’ tone was cold, firm…almost as strong as Compton’s. Oddly, the certainty the enemy had found them seemed to wear lighter on him than the worry that they might.
Compton leaned back in his chair, maintaining his aura of calm while his mind raced madly for an option, a tactic to save his fleet from whatever enemy force was coming through that gate. But there was nothing…no choices save to fight or run. And neither one promised much hope of success.
“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, almost inaudibly. It was all he could think to say.
* * *
John Duke sat on Jaguar’s bridge, staring intently at the display as he listened to the chatter on the command line. There were twenty enemy vessels, all Gremlins, not a large contingent by First Imperium standards. When the enemy forces stopped pouring through the warp gate, there were calls from many of the fleet’s officers to launch everything at the invasion force, to destroy it quickly, with overwhelming force.
Duke didn’t say anything. He just sat and waited…waited until Admiral Compton decided he’d given them all enough leeway. Then, Duke knew, Compton would give the commands he’d already decided upon. And John Duke was pretty sure he knew what those orders would be. Or at least wouldn’t be. There was no way Terrance Compton was going to order the whole fleet to close on the enemy.
Duke knew Compton couldn’t ignore the enemy either. The First Imperium ships were anti-matter powered and capable of outrunning anything in the fleet. They had to be dealt with, somehow. And his fourteen ships were already lined up, ready to go as soon as the orders came. Whatever words came out of Compton’s mouth in the next few minutes, Duke was pretty sure his people would be seeing action.
“Please, all of you…enough.” Compton’s voice broke through, and the others quickly died away. “I understand what each of you has said, but I find it very difficult to imagine that the enemy force we now face consists only of these twenty vessels. We have no idea what lies beyond the warp gate, how many more ships are waiting to transit. Indeed, those vessels are moving well below their maximum acceleration, as if they are hanging back, attempting to lure us closer to the warp gate.” He paused for a few seconds, and the com line was silent. “No, we cannot approach the gate, not allow ourselves to be lured closer. It is too grave a risk, too likely a trap.”
A few seconds passed before another voice spoke out. When it did, it was Erica West’s. “I agree, Admiral. We cannot risk allowing ourselves to be trapped so close to the warp gate. Indeed, this is very likely bait to lure us in. And that leaves us two alternatives. Move toward the X57 warp gate…and risk allowing the enemy to interpose itself between us and the expedition in X48. Or go back the way we came, leading the enemy along with us…all the way to X48 itself if necessary.” She paused a few seconds then added, “Neither seems an attractive option.”
Duke felt his head nodding slightly as he listened. He’d been thinking the same thing, more or less, but West had put it far more concisely, as she usually did. Duke didn’t even want to think about losing Terrance Compton…no more than anyone else in the fleet did. But he knew who he would support to take command if that ever happened. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Erica West was Compton’s rightful successor—and that she’d be the great admiral’s choice as well. Though he suspected some of the other nationalities might disagree. West was a brilliant admiral, but she lacked Compton’s talent for diplomacy. She was far likelier to call out a fool, even a politically-connected one…and that meant she would probably face considerable opposition.
“Yes, Admiral West,” Compton said calmly, matter-of-factly, “I believe you have laid out our choices, clearly and succinctly. Do we fall back the way we have come? Do we lead these enemy forces closer to X48? To our people on the ground, exposed to any attack the enemy might launch on them?” He paused. “Or do we make a dash for X57 and jump into unknown space…and risk letting this force get between us and the expedition?”
The line remained silent while Compton paused. No one had taken his questions as one seriously seeking an answer, and they all waited for him to tell them what they would do.
“There is no good choice,” he continued a moment later, “no route that isn’t fraught with peril. Yet we must choose our action…and we must do it now.” Another pause. “Therefore, we will deploy a rearguard to engage the enemy task force, for under no scenario can we leave these vessels intact behind us. And while that battle takes place the rest of the fleet will pass through the X57 warp gate.”
Duke was nodding his head in agreement with Compton’s words, his face down over his screen, preparing orders for his task force as he listened to the admiral’s orders. If a rearguard was going to fight the enemy ships, he had no doubt his suicide boats would be there. They were small…but they packed a strong punch. They were less vital too—more expendable—than the larger vessels, even if only in terms of their tiny crews. If someone was going to risk getting caught close to the warp gate when enemy reinforcements came pouring into the system, he knew it would be his people.
And someone else too…there aren’t enough of my boats left to beat twenty Gremlins…
“If the rearguard is successful in destroying the enemy,” Compton continued, “they will send scouting forces through the X58 gate and determine if there are any other First Imperium vessels there. If there are none—if this was some kind of solitary force—they will send word and the fleet will return.” Compton didn’t address what would happen if there were fresh enemy forces beyond the X58 gate. Duke didn’t have much doubt that was the case…and he had a pretty good idea how it would turn out for his people.
“Very well,” Compton said, “the fleet will move out in ten minutes.” A short pause then: “Captain Duke, Captain Kato, please stay on the line. The rest of you…get to work. You’ve got nine minutes thirty seconds to get your forces ready to bolt.”
Duke listened to the soft clicks as the other officers dropped off the com line. He wasn’t surprised Compton had told him to stay, and he had no doubt what that meant. But he still felt his stomach twist into knots. Expecting something was one thing, but confirmation was another entirely. He knew there was no alternative, that there was no better choice than his people for the rearguard…but despite all his grim resolution, he had to admit—just to himself at least—that he was scared.
“John, Aki…”
The instant he heard Compton’s voice, he knew for sure…his attack ships and Kato’s cruisers would be the rearguard. And the admiral’s tone left little doubt about his expectations, and the guilt he felt at consigning his officers and their commands to fight alone while the rest of the fleet ran. But there was no choice…and they all knew it. And they would all do what they had to do.
Chapter Nine
Captain Max Harmon – Emergency Log Entry
This log entry will likely be my last. My shuttle is being attacked by a First Imperium vessel. It is only a Gremlin, but it has a hundred times the firepower needed to destroy my ship. We are trying to get down into the atmosphere in an attempt to evade, but I am not hopeful of our chances. I am a spectator in this struggle, sitting in the passenger compartment and waiting to see if the pilots are able to escape our deadly pursuer. I am so accustomed to being at the center of the action, it feels strange, waiting to see if others are able to achieve success. This is not at all how I imagined I would die, seated in a plush chair, with no way to intervene, or even fight back.
If this is my final log entry, I would like to wish all of my comrades the very best of luck in their quest for refuge…and perhaps, one day, a new home. It has been a source of great pride for me to serve alongside so many courageous and loyal friends. And to Admiral Compton, my most respectful farewell. You have been a leader to me, and an example of what men can aspire to be. My years serving you have been the greatest of my life, sir…and if I may dare to presume so far from the bounds of our professional relationship, I would tell you that you have filled a place in my life long left empty by the loss of my father so long ago. Thank you, sir, for all that you have done, all that you have been.
I will jettison a copy of this log, along with all the information and reports I was carrying back to the fleet. With any luck, the expedition on the surface will track the homing signal and retrieve the pod…though I question what good that would do. The First Imperium is here, and that does not bode well for the survival of the landing party…or of the fleet itself.
X48 System – Above Planet II Number Two
Approximately 14,000,000 kilometers from AS Midway
The Fleet: 144 ships, 32,770 crew
The shuttle lurched hard again, and this time the turbulence was accompanied by a shower of sparks from one of the consoles along the wall. Harmon was strapped into his harness, sitting and watching the entire sequence of events unfolding around him. He was a man inclined to action, and waiting quietly for death wasn’t at all like him. But there was nothing he could do…nothing but wait and see if the pilots managed to pull off some kind of miracle and escape from what was beginning to look like certain doom.
He’d just launched the pod with his log and all the reports he’d prepared. It seemed unlikely anyone would read any of it…if First Imperium forces were moving into X48, it wasn’t likely to be long before the people on the ground were fighting for their lives, battling legions of enemy warbots. All he could hope was that Wolverine managed to escape…and carry back his warning to the fleet. If she didn’t get through…
No, there is no point in thinking like that, not when there is nothing I can do.
He had the cockpit com on, but the pilots were mostly quiet as they struggled to keep their tiny craft on an evasive course, one that would confound the targeting systems on the enemy ship. Harmon had to admit, for shuttle pilots, they were doing a damned good jobs.
He felt a wave of amusement move through his mind, pushing away the fear, at least for an instant. The condescending attitude toward shuttle pilots wasn’t his…it was Mariko Fujin’s. He’d never had the slightest thought about the respective skill levels of shuttle and fighter pilots before he’d heard Fujin express her opinions on the subject. Apparently, the fighter crews had a superiority complex when it came to their brethren flying cargo and passenger runs. I guess they deserve it, he thought, considering the casualty figures for Admiral Hurley’s crews.
His mind stuck on Fujin, and he wondered if he should have included a message to her in his log entry. The two hadn’t been together long, only a few weeks, really. He’d thought of sending a message to her, of course, but the two had decided to keep their relationship secret, at least for a while. And the last thing his log would be was secret—if through some miracle it made it back to the fleet.
He’d met Fujin a few times over the past year, but the two had really hit it off at Admiral Compton’s celebration dinner. They’d talked all through the meal and then they’d ended up in her cabin and spent the night together. He’d seen her perhaps half a dozen times since, as often as his crazed schedule allowed.
Harmon tended to be cool emotionally, very slow to jump into friendships or romances, but he had to admit he’d become quite fond of Mariko…and he hated the idea of her thinking she hadn’t been in his mind at the end.
If this is the end. The pilots are doing a hell of a job. The ship was bouncing around wildly, skipping off the upper atmosphere. Maybe they could escape…
He came by his aloofness honestly. His mother was one of the fleet’s legendary cold fish, a woman who put duty above all else. He knew, better than anyone, that Camille Harmon’s reputation for callousness had been overstated, as often as not by those she had rightfully punished for poor performance. But he also realized there was truth behind it. And he knew he had inherited much of what he was from her.
He could feel the sharpness of the shuttle’s descent angle as it began to enter the atmosphere. I hope Mariko’s wrong about shuttle pilots, because if these guys don’t know what they’re doing, we’re going to burn up.
The shuttle bounced around again, and he could feel the heat in the cabin rising, as the life support system struggled to keep up with the rising temperature. He almost dropped his hand to the com unit to check with the pilots, but he held back. They’re in here with you…they know. And distracting them isn’t going to help.
Suddenly, the ship shook wildly, and it flipped over, rolling hard. Harmon knew they’d been hit…and he knew this time it was bad. He could smell the charred and fused wiring, hear the sounds of atmosphere streaming out of the ruptured hull.
The shuttle was out of control, spinning end over end as it fell toward the planet’s surface. The engines were dead, though the flickering lights told him the reactor was still functional, at least partially. He slapped his hand down on the com. “Lieutenant, can you restart the engines?” Nothing, no answer. “Lieutenant?” Still nothing. “Ensign Harris?”
Fuck. He looked toward the door to the cockpit, and then he saw it. The hatch was banged out of shape, partially torn from its frame. He could see the outside light in the small breach, and he knew right away the cockpit had been hit. The pilots were dead. And that meant he was dead.
He took a deep breath, trying to hold back the fear. He sat strapped into his chair feeling the sickening feeling of the shuttle plunging toward the ground. He felt the sweat pouring down his face and neck, and he knew the hull would melt any second. And that would be the end.
* * *
There were explosions everywhere. The heavy mortar shells sent up great clouds of dirt and shattered stone wherever they impacted. Lieutenant Kyle Bruce crouched low behind a large chunk of debris. It was some kind of strange metal. He’d never seen anything like it, but whatever the hell it was, it was great cover. Nothing seemed to penetrate it…or even scuff it up very much.
“Let’s move!” he roared, staring at the display projected inside his visor. His Marines were strung out in two rough lines, one a hundred meters behind the first. They looked ragged, with some as far forward as he was…and others lagging behind, mostly where the shelling was heaviest.
“We’ve got to knock out those weapons.” His Marines had been assigned to check out the First Imperium city, to confirm it was safe before the science teams moved forward.
Mission accomplished. It’s not safe.
He’d been part of the landing party back in X18, so he went in expecting trouble. But he was still surprised when his first patrols took about a dozen steps into the ruins and triggered an immediate attack. He’d lost three Marines in those first two minutes, and he cursed himself for not being even more careful. He took it as a lesson…no matter how pessimistic you are, things can always be worse than you expect.
He looked around the pile of bluish-silver metal in front of him, scanning for another bit of cover farther forward. He’d had a passing thought, wondering what kind of material could look so new—almost shiny—after half a million years. But he quickly pushed those distractions to the back of his mind. When someone is shooting at you, pretty much everything else takes secondary status.
He slipped around the side of the debris pile and ran forward, crouching low as he scrambled about ten meters forward and dove behind another bit of collapsed building…just as a burst of projectiles of some kind whizzed by, slamming into the ground a few meters from where he’d been an instant before. That was no mortar shell…that was an autocannon of some kind. He felt a shudder, and then a trickle of cold sweat sliding down his back. Mortars were only moderately dangerous, more nuisance than serious danger to an alert and armored Marine. But the enemy hypervelocity coilguns were deadly dangerous. Bruce knew they’d tear through his osmium-iridium armor like a knife through butter.
“Bruce, report.” Connor Frasier’s voice was raw, almost guttural. The commander of the Scot’s Company was a Marine’s Marine, ready for almost anything in the field…but even he sounded a little stunned by the amount of resistance his people had encountered. And how quickly it had happened.
“We’re about a quarter klick in, sir. I’ve got five people down…two dead. The others are walking wounded. I sent them back toward the camp.”
“Good,” came the gruff reply. “We’re setting up an aid station. Move your casualties back that way.”
“Yes, sir. Coordinates received.”
“Okay, Lieutenant…I want your people to keep moving forward. We’ve got to stop this bombardment. The colonel’s got reinforcements on the way, but we’re on our own for now…and if these bastards start shelling the main camp, it’s going to be a disaster. We’ve got unarmored personnel all over the place.”
“Yes, Major. We’ll press on.”
“I know you will. Also, Finley’s section is coming up on your left. They’re about twenty meters behind your position, so they should be there in half a minute. Latch onto his flank, and don’t let anything get by you. We want to keep these fuckers in front of us…and then swing around and flank them.”
“Understood, sir.”
“I’m sending up a spread of recon drones too…to try and get some better intel on whatever’s up there farther ahead. They should be passing over your position shortly. I will have the data transmitted to you as soon as it comes in.”
“Yes, Major.
“Carry on, Lieutenant.” Bruce heard the click as Frasier cut the line.
“Carson!” Bruce snapped.
“Sir!” came the reply, almost immediately.
“Your squad is on our extreme left. Lieutenant Finley and his platoon are over there. I need your people to connect with them, and make sure we’ve got a solid line…no gaps between platoons. Any of these bogies get through to the rear, and we’re fucked.”
“Yes, Lieutenant. We’re on it, sir.”
“Keep me posted…and let me know if you have any problems.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bruce turned and looked forward from his position. The hyper-velocity fire had gotten heavier…and it was moving. Trying to work its way around our flank. And it’s not too far…just in front of me, off to the right…
He crept around the edge of the pile of rubble, snapping off an order to his AI as he did. The system acknowledged, and an instant later he felt a clip of grenades slide into the launcher on his left arm. He crept forward another few meters, ducking low, listening to the fire just off to the right. Then he swung his arm up and popped off a spread of shells, running forward the instant the last one fired. He swung hard to the right…whatever was out there would know exactly where the incoming shells had come from…and he didn’t intend to be there when it responded.
He drove himself about ten meters to the left ducking so low he almost lost his balance. He stumbled forward, powered by the servos in his armored legs. He was off-balance, committed. If he tried to stop, he’d fall. And if he fell, he’d die. The enemy would be on him before he could do anything about it.
He swung to the right again, still barely staying on his feet, coming around another large chunk of debris…and then he saw it. It was about two meters tall, roughly manlike in shape, but not human, not even living. It had two large weapons, similar to Marine autocannons, attached to its arms…and there was a small globe at the top, like a tiny head. Bruce had seen its kind before on X18, and in the battles along the Line. A First Imperium warbot.
The Scot’s eyes stared into his visor, focusing on the enemy. He’d caught it by surprise…it was facing back toward his original position. He knew that advantage would last a second, perhaps less, but he was already firing his assault rifle on full auto, spraying the terrible robot with hundreds of hypervelocity rounds as his body lurched forward. He felt the fear in his gut, and his mind cried out to run, to duck to the side. But he ignored it, let himself drop prone, struggling to keep from falling to the ground, firing right into the monstrous war machine the whole time. He had committed…he would either have the bot or it would have him. His clip had been full, five hundred rounds, and it took less than three seconds to fire them all. And when he was done, the First Imperium warbot was lying on its side, almost torn to shreds.
He saw something, even as he was checking on his immediate opponent…a glint, perhaps the sunlight reflecting off another bot. He kicked his legs out behind him, diving forward with his rifle in front of him. He stared forward, and he scanned his display…but nothing came. He was just climbing back to his feet when he heard the drones moving overhead, a spread of six, about a hundred meters up, each one angling a different way, scanning the whole area.
Bruce moved a few meters and crouched down behind a pile of twisted wreckage…part of the remains of a tower than had collapsed long ago, leaving only traces of the great metal frame that had supported it ages before. He turned his head both ways, doublechecking to make sure he had no enemies moving up on him. Then he instructed his AI to display the drone data…and he got his first real look at what his people were up against.
“Fuck…”
* * *
Neil Carson lay flat on his stomach, his assault rifle extended forward as he scanned the rubble-strewn ground in front of him. He’d moved to the left end of his squad’s line, and he’d linked up with Corporal Hendry, who was on the extreme right of Finley’s section. Hendry was about twenty meters away, which was as close to a solid line as they were going to get, at least unless some reinforcements made it up to the front.
There was heavy fighting off to his right, somewhere near the lieutenant’s position. He could see the squad deployed there moving around on the tactical display. They had a few casualties, three it looked like, but no KIAs, at least as far as the datanet was showing. But they needed help…and they weren’t likely to get it any time soon.
Carson had fought the First Imperium before. On X18, of course, but before that too. He’d been a bright-eyed private, fresh out of training when he’d been sent to Sandoval…to Erik Cain’s army that almost bled itself to death holding that world against the massive First Imperium invasion. The battles along the Line had slipped into legend, and he suspected they continued to be revered in Occupied Space as the moment the First Imperium’s advance was halted. But for the men and women who had served there, it would always be remembered as the brutal hell it was, a battle where less than half of those who fought survived…and most of those who made it didn’t walk from the field, they were carried.
His eyes darted to the display again, watching updates appear as the recon drones fed information into the datanet. The lieutenant was way up, maybe thirty meters ahead of the squad he was supposed to be moving with. Carson wasn’t surprised. Lieutenant Bruce had been on Sandoval too, and he’d been just as crazy-brave there. Bruce was the kind of officer who’d throw himself forward to flush out the threats and try to keep his Marines alive. Officers like that almost always had the undying love of those serving under them…but few of them survived very long. Bruce had made it through Sandoval and X18…but it looked like he was doubling down now, daring fate to put him down. Carson felt himself wishing the lieutenant would pull back, show a little more caution…that he would stay alive.
“Sarge, we’ve got something coming…looks like half a dozen of those blasted ‘bots.” The voice on the com was heavy with a thick Scottish brogue. The company was full of Scots, but few spoke with much more than a faint accent, the result of years of attempted cultural homogenization by Alliance Gov. But Tavish Darrow was a throwback, and he sounded as if he’d been plucked from a time centuries before, from the serried ranks of Highlanders rising up and charging wildly across the field. The private was young, but Carson knew he had the makings of a great Marine…and someday perhaps, an officer.
But for now he was a private, and Carson had sent him to scout the ground up ahead. “Alright, Darrow. Fall back…you’re up there for information, not to get yourself blown away.” He flipped to the squad line. “Listen up, we’ve got bogies incoming. You’ve all fought these fuckers before, so you know how dangerous they are. I want everyone one hundred percent focused…and I want those things blown to bits before they do the same to us. So dig in somewhere and wait for them…and the instant you see one, open up with everything you’ve got. Understood?” It was a rhetorical question, but he still got four or five acknowledgements.
His eyes dropped to the scanner. Darrow was almost back to the line…and he could see the cluster of bots right behind him. The ground was covered with debris, the remains of a huge ancient building that had collapsed millennia before. Earth ruins a tenth as old would have blown away as dust, but the astonishing materials the First Imperium employed remained in place, fallen perhaps, collapsed in earthquakes and other natural disasters, but even after half a million years, it was obvious the massive chunks lying about were sections of once titanic structures.
The broken buildings made formidable cover, and Carson knew that benefitted his Marines. Damned good thing for it too, he thought. Darrow would have been dead long before he made it back without that cover. And the rest of us wouldn’t last much longer.
The First Imperium bots were stronger, heavily armed, their shielding far more durable than the Marines’ armor. But the obscured ground went a long way to equalizing things…or at least that was the idea.
Carson crept along behind an especially large chunk of debris, a rough oval shape four meters high and eight long. He pushed himself against a small indentation, and he sat quietly…waiting. His scanner showed a bot just on the other side. He stood stone still, staring up at his display. He knew the data wasn’t necessarily perfect. His AI was constantly combining all incoming information—drone reports, the scanners on his own armor, the entire company on the datanet, even the auditory input on his external speakers. But that didn’t mean every sign was picked up. He was trying to sneak up on his enemy…and he knew damned well the deadly battle bot was trying to do the same thing to him.
His stomach roiled, as it usually did in combat, and he struggled to push the fear and doubt from his mind. He almost took a step forward to work his way around the giant slab, but he didn’t. He held firm, still, like a hole in the air. Let it come to me…
He felt the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, along the back of his neck. He knew his AI kept his internal climate control perfect, increasing or decreasing heat to match physical exertion and other factors. But there were things beyond heat that made a man sweat.
He took a deep breath and exhaled hard, loudly. At least he didn’t have to be quiet inside his armor…all that holding of breath and the like. He had his external speakers off, and the insulation of his fighting suit blocked normal sounds.
He glanced up at the display again. The bot was in the same place. Had it detected him? The ancient remnants of the First Imperium forces didn’t seem to have drones or other sensor arrays in place, which meant that for all their superior equipment, on the battlefield as a whole, the Marines had the edge in scouting. But that didn’t mean the bot hadn’t found him. His mind raced.
Should I move? Run? Attack?
No…stay. Patience…the key to any effective trap…
The icon on his display was stationary…but he didn’t believe it. The small image had a faint white outline around it, a key that said the data was old, that the enemy could be on the move, that any instant it could move to a spot where it had a line of sight…and an instant after that, Carson knew he’d be dead. Like a thousand others he’d seen fall in his battles.
He hands were on his assault rifle, a fresh click snuggly in place. He was as ready as he could be…
Then he saw it…the tiny red light on his display panel. Sound. Something, outside his suit, coming from the south. It was faint, sporadic at first, but then suddenly he knew…and his eyes darted to the spot.
He saw the shadow first, a tiny sliver blocking the sunlight. Then, half a second later the bulk, a First Imperium warbot, gliding slowly around the edge of the debris. He felt his body tighten, and his breath held in his lungs. His rifle was already moving, swinging around to target the enemy.
There was no room for error. He had a second, no more. One second, to destroy the enemy…and save his own life. His own movements would alert the bot at this range, even if it hadn’t already known he was there…and the enemy’s weapons would be on him.
He acted without thought, on almost pure instinct, his finger pulling down hard on the trigger, his assault rifle spraying the area around the warbot with over a hundred hyper-velocity rounds in less than a second. Then he leapt, diving to the side and swinging around, bringing his weapon to bear again and opening fire.
His jump had been just in time. His initial volley had torn into the enemy bot, but not in time to prevent it from returning fire…and blasting the spot he’d just occupied.
He let his knee drop, pushing the armored joint into the soft ground, steadying himself as he unloaded the remaining four hundred rounds in his cartridge. The enemy bot was turning, trying to bring its own weapons to bear again. But Carson’s fire was too much. Too accurate, too deadly. The great war machine of the First Imperium had been bested. It staggered for a few seconds, caught in the blistering fire as the Marine emptied his clip. Huge chunks of it flew away, blasted apart by the spray of projectiles. And then, just as Carson’s cartridge emptied and expelled itself from the assault rifle, making way for a fresh clip, it fell over.
Carson scrambled over the few meters between the two combatants, cautious, wary. He’d seen First Imperium ordnance go down and still retain combat capability. A dying robot, even an almost destroyed one, could kill him as dead as a horde of fresh ones.
He heard the sound of the new cartridge snapping into place, and he heaved a sigh of relief. He’d been less than a second without ammunition, yet it had seemed an eternity he was naked, vulnerable. But then he scrambled up next to his adversary and got a close look.
He knew immediately. It was dead, half its midsection torn out by the dozens of rounds that had slammed into it. He’d won, at least this small fight. But there was a long way to go before the battle was over. He looked back up at the display. There were two more bots moving toward his position. The combat had given his location away, and enemy units were responding.
And Marines too. He could see two of his people rushing toward his position. They might beat one of the bots to him, but the closest enemy was going to get there first. He ducked back in between two chunks of debris and waited. One more bot to kill…one more and then his backup would be there.
He slipped deeper into the pile of shattered wall sections and froze, rifle at the ready, watching the enemy approach on his display…
Chapter Ten
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
The enemy is back. I can only imagine what is going through the minds of many of the crews, the disappointment and despair after half a year of relative peace. I tried to encourage caution, to warn them about becoming too complacent, too certain we had passed by the enemy fleets. Yet, how far could I go with that? Morale is crucial too. Should I have simply harangued them every day, warned them again and again that death was still stalking us? I don’t know. Perhaps I should have…yet men and women have their breaking points. And I do not regret the moments of peace and joy they might have had these last six months. I would not seek to snatch them back, replace them with endless darkness, even if I could do so.
Nevertheless, we are back in the fire now, and I must confess I do not understand what the enemy is planning. When the First Imperium ships began appearing, I was certain it was a large fleet, come to face us once again in a climactic battle, one for which we are ill-prepared. But no additional forces have transited since the initial twenty vessels…twenty of their smallest. Even over the past months, when I maintained by caution—even pessimism perhaps—I never imagined they would move against us with a force so small. Indeed, the fleet could easily defeat this entire enemy incursion…something the Intelligences directing the First Imperium surely know full well.
I can only assume this is a trick, an attempt to draw our forces close to the enemy’s entry warp gate, and then to release the rest of their forces…and destroy us before we are able to disengage. Indeed, I have no other thought now, not even the barest hypothesis. I am far from confident, but as I have only one explanation, I have no choice to embrace it. And that means I must withdraw the fleet…and leave a rearguard in position.
That duty, I am afraid, must fall where it has so often before, on John Duke’s fast attack ships and Greta Hurley’s fighters. The brave men and women of those services have done far beyond their portion of service…and they have lost many more than their share of casualties. Yet, though they deserve naught but rest now, to take their positions in reserve at the end of the fleet and lick their grievous wounds, I must again order them forward, into the maelstrom.
I will send help with them this time, Aki Kato’s cruiser squadron. Captain Kato is an extraordinary officer, one of the first to undertake a deadly mission in the aftermath of our becoming trapped. His forlorn hope with our damaged ships was instrumental in securing the fleet’s original escape from X2, and he was one of the last personnel to transit out of that system. Now I must send him on another mission, one no less deadly. I only hope these intrepid souls I leave behind will find a way to win their fight…and escape from the almost certain death the arrival of enemy reinforcements would carry with it.
AS Jaguar
X56 System – Near the X58 warp gate
The Fleet: 144 ships, 32,644 crew
“All ships are to maintain thrust.” John Duke’s voice struggled to remain audible, to force the words out through the crushing pressure slamming into his chest. He was pressed back against his chair, like everyone else on Jaguar…everyone on all fourteen of his engaged ships. Eight gees of acceleration was a lot to take outside the tanks, especially for any sustained duration. But he wasn’t about to ease off…not until his ships had closed for their attack runs. Then his people would get a short break—a few minutes of freefall, broken up my short bursts of thrust while the gunners lined up their shots. After that his vessels would reorient their engines and begin decelerating for a return run against any enemy survivors.
He’d ordered injections for all of his crews, drugs to strengthen cell walls and help them endure the torturous trip he was putting them through. He’d almost ordered them all into the tanks and kicked the thrust up to 30g, but he’d decided against it. He didn’t have any shots to miss, and his gunners would lose a lot of their effectiveness if they were buttoned up in the tanks, trying to take potshots drugged half to oblivion. No, he’d decided, this was the only way, the only chance to take out the entire enemy fleet.
He moved his head, slowly, carefully—it was too easy to injure yourself at 8g. His ships were displayed in a short row, a compact formation that was getting tighter every second. The enemy had launched their missiles along a wide trajectory, covering the original position occupied by his ships. But his people were accelerating at carefully chosen angles, closing the distance to each other as they increased their velocity toward the enemy. It wasn’t a panacea—the enemy missiles were guided, and they would attempt to follow his forces. But the abruptness of the formation change would confuse their targeting systems. Hopefully. It wasn’t enough by itself, but if they could knock out even a quarter of the strike with the maneuver, it would be a big help.
And then we’ve got Commander Fujin and her people…
John Duke had worked closely with Greta Hurley’s fighters before, in the battles along the Line and later in the combats leading up to the final engagement in X2 and the fleet’s subsequent entrapment. He knew just what they could do…and by all accounts, Mariko Fujin was one of the best, a rising star in what remained of Hurley’s decimated corps.
I’ll bet she’s pissed about pulling point defensive duty. From everything he knew about her, Mariko Fujin was classic fighter pilot, a predator through and through. Her blood called to attack enemy ships, he knew, and not to chase down missiles.
Still, she will do everything in her power…and her people will save a lot of fast attack ship crews. Surely that’s something in return for being denied the kill…
He stared at the main display. Fujin’s fighters would be engaged any minute. And if her people could take out enough warheads, maybe…just maybe…most of his ships would close, and deliver their plasma torpedoes. His vessels were lightly armored, built for speed and hitting power, not endurance. They weren’t called suicide boats for nothing. But his flotilla was even more vulnerable than usual. In their bomb bays they carried triple-shotted plasma warheads. He’d used double-packed weapons before, and they were fragile and unstable, a dangerous wildcard for any vessel to carry. But this was the first time his people had triple-powered a plasma torpedo, and calling the precarious weapon systems fragile was an understatement of epic proportions.
Indeed, his technicians were in the bays, working frantically in the brutal gee forces to keep the things from blowing up in their tubes. It was a reckless operation to risk such volatile ordnance, one he’d failed to mention to Admiral Compton. But if his people could pull it off, the enemy ships would be blindsided, hit with weapons of extraordinary power. Even the dark matter infused hulls of the First Imperium vessels would be powerless against the strength of Duke’s enhanced weapons. If he could get close enough, if his people could keep their payloads from blowing up and destroying their own vessels…they just might have a chance to win this fight.
But first, Mariko Fujin and her people had to take out some of those missiles. A lot of them. If his ships got too shaken up, if too many blasts of deadly radiation slammed into them from nearby nuclear detonations, they’d be finished. Any ship that lost control over its unstable torpedoes would turn instantly into a miniature sun…and when the explosion died down, there wouldn’t be anything left bigger than an atom.
He felt his hands tightening, forming into fists. The tension gnawed at him, his mind scrambling, trying to think of something, anything to do. But there was nothing. Nothing but to watch Fujin’s fighters…and hope for the best.
* * *
“Missiles incoming.” Fujin sat in her chair, speaking calmly into her com unit. “I want everybody at their best right now…whatever it takes, those missiles don’t get through. Not a damned one. Do you all understand me?” She knew that was a pointless thing to say. No matter how perfectly her people executed their defensive run, some missiles would get through. She was upset her wing had been assigned to anti-missile duty, and she knew she was taking it out on her crews. If Admiral Hurley was going to keep her back from the main attack, shooting at missiles instead of enemy ships, then she was damned sure going to blow any volleys in her way to bits.
Fujin was well aware that Greta Hurley had pioneered defensive tactics for fighter wings. Indeed, some of her first missions had been part of the massive groups of squadrons that had cleared the way for Admiral Garret’s massive fleets during the great climactic battles along the Line. Fujin knew firsthand how successful the operations had been, how many capital ships those hundreds of fighters had saved from certain destruction. Indeed, she knew that’s why her people were here now, staring down an incoming barrage of enemy warheads. But for all she understood, for all she’d served on these missions before, she was still a fighter pilot at heart…and that meant she wanted to be up on the line, ready to drop a plasma torpedo into the guts of one of those damned First Imperium ships. She’d accepted her orders, but she was restless about it, unhappy. Pissed.
“Okay, Lieutenant, you are at the disposal of the gunners now.” She knew Wainwright had never run defensive ops before, and she wanted to remind him the two weapons specialists were in charge. The pilot often fired the main torpedo during anti-ship operations, but the lasers and shotguns belonged to the gunners. She knew that was always uncomfortable for any pilot, most of whom considered a fighter ‘their ship’ regardless of rank or responsibility.
“Alright, Lieutenant, give us 2.5g for eight seconds, heading 305.111.201 on my mark…” Ensign Schultz was the senior of the two gunners. He was a junior officer, but his skill and experience went far beyond that implied by the single gold bar on his collar. Schultz had served six years as a petty officer in the CEL fighter corps, and another two as part of the grand fleet before Admiral Hurley had given him his commission. Fujin had snapped up the chance to get him on her bird after his own fighter came in damaged and broken…and he was the only one to survive the landing.
“Mark,” Schultz snapped out.
Fujin was watching Wainwright, a little concerned the cocky pilot would think his lieutenant’s bars gave him some kind of right to challenge Schultz’ instructions…and she was prepared to remind him they didn’t. But the pilot did exactly what he was told, without any argument, and she felt the 2.5g slam into her. She started counting down from eight, but by the time she got to four, she could feel the ship’s weapons firing.
The lasers were first, precision weapons designed to score direct hits on incoming missiles. They were notoriously difficult to target, but Schultz had two hits in less than thirty seconds. Then a third almost immediately after that.
Fujin just nodded. She knew the CEL officer was good when she’d maneuvered to get him on her crew, but she had to acknowledge she was even more impressed than she’d expected to be. Even the old Gold Dragons, her long-dead friends and comrades, had never hit missiles with such focused precision.
She couldn’t help but smile when she saw a fourth missile go, and then, almost amazingly, a fifth and sixth in rapid succession. She felt her congratulations coming up, the words moving from her throat of their own accord. But she clamped down on it. There would be time later, and the last thing she wanted to do was break Schultz’ concentration.
Then she felt the ship shake as both gunners began firing the electromagnetic railguns the crews called, simply, shotguns. The shotguns used the most mundane of projectiles, chunks of depleted uranium and other heavy metals. But they fired them at enormous velocities, in excess of three thousand kilometers per second. Even the smallest grain of metal could vaporize a warhead at such speeds.
Fujin watched as another half dozen warheads were obliterated by the shotguns. Her eyes moved to the side of her screen, to the reports coming in from the entire group. None of her people had been as deadly accurate as Schultz, but she could see at once the attack had been a massive success. Her people had knocked out almost two-thirds of the incoming warheads…and they were still in the fight.
She felt a rush of satisfaction. The suicide boat crews were the only ones in the fleet with casualty rates anywhere near the fighter crews, and she felt a kinship with them. She longed to be in the attack Hurley and the rest of the fighters were about to launch, but she had to grudgingly agree her people had done more good where they were, that they’d probably saved hundreds of their fellow spacers.
And those spacers are about to drop heavy plasma torpedoes on these First Imperium bastards…
* * *
“Steady…” Aki Kato sat on Osaka’s bridge, his eyes fixed on the main display. He’d just watched Admiral Hurley’s fighter squadrons attack, and he’d been stunned, mystified at the almost unimaginable bravery of her crews. Her contingent had been savaged since the day the fleet became trapped, fighting one desperate battle after another. Kato couldn’t understand how a formation could endure such relentless and devastating losses and retain its combat effectiveness. No, more than that…for all the devastating losses, the fighter wings had become even more effective, a shrinking weapon, yet one of enormous power.
The fighters had sliced through the enemy formation, concentrating on four of the Gremlins and blowing each of them to plasma. By the time her people pulled back—after following up their torpedo attack with two strafing runs with their lasers—they left behind another twenty-one of their own. A hundred and five crewmembers. Kato hoped at least some had managed to eject, that they were floating in space in their survival gear, waiting for rescue…but he knew it couldn’t be many. And he realized there would be no pickup for those who did manage to escape, not unless these twenty Gremlins were destroyed, and nothing else came through the warp gate.
“Sir, Captain Duke’s ships are closing. They should be in firing range in ninety seconds.”
“Very well,” Kato nodded back to the tactical officer. The officer’s calculations were spot on, at least for normal operations. But John Duke had his ship loaded up with overpowered torpedoes…and you didn’t take a chance like that just to pop them off at long range and hope they managed to hit. No, you took them right down the enemy’s throat. And that meant another minute and a half at least.
He stared at the display for another thirty seconds, then a minute. Finally, he turned back to the tactical station. “Very well, Commander. Take us forward. All ships advance.”
Kato was Osaka’s captain, but he wore a second hat as squadron commander. He had three PRC cruisers, Osaka and her two sisters, Tokugawa and Tanaka…and Admiral Compton had given him three Alliance ships, Boise, Surrey, and Newfoundland. His people had been in supporting positions for most of the fighting since X2, but now they were at the forefront, charged with holding off the enemy while the rest of the fleet escaped.
He remembered those terrible hours in system X2, where he’d been tasked to hold back the First Imperium forces while the rest of the fleet escaped. He’d been sure his mission was a suicide one, that his skeleton crews had been finished. But Admiral Compton had refused to leave them behind…and to Kato’s shock, most of his people made it out.
Now he felt the same way. There was no doubt in his mind that more First Imperium ships were behind that warp gate. He had no idea why they hadn’t come through yet, why they were giving the fleet time to get away…and the rearguard time to destroy their advance force. But it didn’t matter why. All that mattered was that the fleet escaped. And it would.
As long as we finish off these ships, the fleet will get away…even if another hundred of the enemy come through, even if they trap every vessel in this rearguard, it will be too late for them to catch the admiral. At least in this system.
“All units engage thrust…we’re going in right behind the fast attack ships.” Kato took a deep breath. “All laser batteries prepare to fire on my command…”
He stared at the display, watching as Duke’s ships closed. Kato suppressed a grim smile as he watched the vessels move forward, holding their fire. They were well past normal range and still closing. Kato understood, and he watched intently as the wave of ships moved closer…then toward point blank.
Still they held their fire. Kato watched as one of the icons vanished. Then another. There were three more with heavy damage, but they kept on going, now down below twenty thousand kilometers.
Kato found himself leaning forward in his chair, trying to will Duke’s people to fire. But still they held. Fifteen thousand…ten thousand. Knife fighting range, yet still they held their fire. Eight thousand…seven thousand…
Kato jumped in his chair as he saw the first torpedoes fire. The range was so close he could barely distinguish the launch from the impact. Eleven ships fired, almost as one…and when those massively overpowered torpedoes slammed into their hulls, eleven of the First Imperium Gremlins rolled over hard, wracked by massive explosions. Seven died almost immediately, consumed by the loss of containment in their own antimatter stores. Four more were split open like eggs, their ruptured hulls floating dead in space.
There were cheers all around Osaka’s bridge, joy at the flawlessly executed attack they had just seen. But the fight wasn’t over. Not yet. There were still five enemy ships intact and, almost as if in declaration of that fact, Osaka shook hard as enemy x-ray lasers slammed into her.
“Damage control procedures,” Kato said, almost robotically. His focus now was on attack, not survival…destruction, not defense. “All laser batteries…ready…”
His commands were relayed immediately to the other five vessels under his command. They were in range already, but Kato was following Duke’s lead. He was going right down the enemy’s throats.
“Ready…” he said again, his eyes remaining fixed on the display as Osaka took another hit amidships. He felt the urge to give the command, to fire now before his ships took any more damage. But something held him back, made him wait. Perhaps it was the attack they’d just watched, the relentless bravery of John Duke and his people. Or it was his own knowledge of the enemy. He knew from his own experiences how tough the enemy hulls were…and how much stronger his lasers were at ‘whites of eyes’ range.
“Ready…” The numbers on the display dropped down, below ten thousand now. His eyes darted to the side, checking the damage readouts for his ships. Surrey had been hit hard…her thrust was down, and she was bleeding atmosphere. But still he held back, waiting…waiting.
“Fire!”
Osaka’s lights dimmed as all her power poured into the laser turrets. The great beams, invisible except where they passed through dust clouds or fields of debris, lanced out at the enemy ships. The dark matter infused hulls of the enemy were strong against laser fire, but Kato’s ships were too close, their shots too concentrated. One by one the deadly blasts ripped into the enemy ships, tearing apart internal systems and shattering structural supports.
The enemy returned the fire, their own weapons even deadlier at such short range. Kato felt Osaka shake again, even harder this time. There were showers of sparks on the bridge as conduits blew and consoles overloaded. And a large beam fell to the deck, almost killing two crewmen when it did.
“Maintain fire. Pour all available power into the turrets…cut off all safety protocols. Full overloads. All systems are subordinate to weapons control…even life support.”
Kato was putting everything his reactors could produce through his lasers, even at the risk of burning out the systems. He clung grimly to the armrests of his chair, staring out across the chaos that had become Osaka’s bridge. His ship was hurt, badly. He knew that. But he also knew she would do what she had to…all of his vessels would.
“We just lost Surrey, Captain.” The stress was clear in the tactical officer’s voice. Kato knew his people were near their limits. But there was no time for a break, no time to repair damaged systems or rest overloaded machinery. This was a fight to the death, against the deadliest enemy man had ever faced. And he would do whatever had to be done. And so would his people.
“All ships, keep firing. Pour it into them…”
* * *
Compton was staring at the incoming reports. The casualty lists were jarring. Four of John Duke’s ships were gone, at least two by some kind of internal explosion he couldn’t explain, and Surrey was a powerless, dead hull. She was the only one of Kato’s cruisers that had been destroyed outright, but the rest had been battered almost to scrap. Tanaka was a total loss, and Kato had already ordered the twenty percent of her crew that had survived to abandon ship. And Boise wasn’t much better off. Her captain was struggling to save the ship, to get her operating on at least fractional power, but it looked like a longshot.
More than twenty of Hurley’s remaining fighters had been lost as well, another butcher’s bill for the long-suffering fighter corps. Compton knew how closely he had come to rely upon Hurley and her amazing pilots, but he knew they couldn’t take much more. Only a fraction of the crews that had begun the invasion of First Imperium space still remained, a tithe of those who had spilled their blood from X1 and X2 all the way to this last deadly fight.
The rearguard had done its job, wiped out the First Imperium advance force…but they had paid heavily. Compton felt the pull of guilt on him, worse even than that he usually endured when he sent good men and women to their deaths. The battle just finished could have been quicker, far more one-sided, if the whole fleet had joined in. But that had been out of the question. Compton was sure there would be more enemy ships coming through that warp gate. He didn’t know why they had waited, but there wasn’t a doubt in his mind they were there. There had been no choice but to send the rearguard. Any other action would have placed the entire fleet in grave jeopardy. And that was unthinkable.
“Distance to X57 warp gate?” he said, staring over at Commander Cortez’ workstation.
“One point two million kilometers, Admiral. We are approaching at approximately one thousand kilometers per second. Lead elements will be in position to jump in approximately twenty minutes, sir.”
Compton leaned back in his chair. He was worried. He didn’t like running off into blind space, allowing potentially hostile forces to work between him and the expedition in X48. But he’d thought about it every way he could, and there was just no choice. Heading back now was too risky. If he took off, away from X48, maybe the enemy would follow…and the landing parties could remain hidden.
“Admiral, we’re getting energy readings from the X57 gate!” Cortez was upset, and it showed in his voice.
“Confirmed?”
“Yes, Admiral. Readings consistent with imminent transit.”
Compton felt like someone had punched him in his gut. It had to be the enemy. First X58 and now X57. There was no choice now. He’d have to backtrack, at least one system. He felt a cold chill down his spine…the fleet was too close to the X57 warp gate to outrun First Imperium ships. Without a head start, they’d be dead long before they could get back to X54.
He needed another rearguard…to face an enemy force of unknown strength. He shook his head grimly. More people to send into the meatgrinder, friends, loyal spacers. For a brief moment, in the deepest place in his mind, Terrance Compton wanted to give up…to stop, close his eyes, let death take him. If he’d had only himself to worry about, he knew he might do it, stop the constant struggles and let the darkness take him. But he was responsible for his people, all of them. Over thirty thousand men and women looking to him to keep them alive, to find some way to survive. And, in the place that made him who he was, he found the strength he needed. It wasn’t courage, he knew that. It was duty, obligation…but it would serve.
“Commander Cortez, all vessels are to prepare for high gee maneuvers. I want everyone in the tanks in ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
He took another breath, deep…and he held if for a few seconds. Then he exhaled and said, “And get me Admiral West, Commander. Immediately.”
Chapter Eleven
Research Notes of Hieronymus Cutter
I sit now in our makeshift camp, watching the Marines move methodically through the broken ruins, searching for any surviving First Imperium bots still in the city. One of them christened the vast sea of shattered buildings New York City, a bit of tension-breaking humor that has now begun to spread throughout both the Marines and my own people.
The battle didn’t last long, less than an hour, but it was sharp and costly. Eight Marines died, and another eleven were wounded and evacuated back to the base camp. Colonel Preston sent two hundred reserves to our aid, but by the time they arrived, Major Frasier’s people had cleared things out. Now the area is locked down, and the camp outside the city is covered by half a dozen emplaced autocannons.
It was no surprise to find there was some residual enemy resistance in the city, but it is nevertheless painful to see the losses the Marines suffered. Once again, I watched them plunge into the danger, without hesitation, putting themselves on the line to keep us all safe. The loss of such brave men and women always causes a flash of doubt, and I felt a pang of guilt for pushing to explore these ruins…for if my people hadn’t come here, the Marines would have stayed in the main base camp, and likely watched quietly over the farms without provoking a major attack by the long-dormant enemy forces.
The bots were similar to those we encountered in X18, no doubt the remains of whatever security forces the First Imperium routinely deployed around its cities. Yet there was something strange about this fight compared to the last, and while my expertise is not in military tactics, it is apparent the Marines saw it too. On X18, the bots attacked in a very disciplined pattern, with precisely-controlled fire, as if they were seeking to target enemies without further damaging the city itself…a tactic consistent with a defensive or policing operation. Here, however, they fired wildly, targeting anything that moved. Their ammunition expenditure was vastly larger, by two or three times. They used mortars and other explosive rounds, heavier weapons than we saw on X18, employed seemingly without regard to the destruction they caused.
Perhaps it is nothing. The city on X18 was a ruin as well, but it was in far better condition than this one, which had clearly been the site of substantial fighting millennia before. The security bots might acknowledge that his city is destroyed, that there was no longer any reason to try and preserved what remained. There is logic to that viewpoint certainly, but it doesn’t ring true to me. The metropolis on X18 had not been destroyed by war, but five hundred thousand years of decay made that a distinction without a difference. The First Imperium is almost certainly governed by artificial intelligences of a sophistication we can scarcely begin to understand, certainly capable of understanding the current status of a city. Is there a meaningful differentiation here, at least in terms of evaluating its current condition? Is it possible that such thinking machines cannot acknowledge that a dead world is a dead world, a ruin a ruin, whether that status was caused by war five thousand centuries ago or slow decay in the millennia since?
Was this planet invaded by some outside force? Or was it torn apart by internal strife, a civil war that set its people against each other? I came in search of technology, but now I find myself intrigued by the history of this ancient race. I long to learn more about them, to understand what happened here so long ago…
X48 System – Planet II
In the Ruins of “New York City”
The Fleet: 136 ships, 30,304 crew
“No, Dr. Cutter…it is out of the question.” Duncan Frasier stood two meters away, his helmet retracted and a scowl on his face. In his armor, he towered over Cutter, and he stared down at the scientist with focused eyes. “I understand you are anxious to proceed with your research, but in case you hadn’t noticed, my Marines just fought a battle against several hundred enemy warbots. And we haven’t even penetrated the surface. Who knows what’s waiting down there? It’s simply not safe.”
Cutter didn’t look like the type who would argue toe to toe with a Marine the size of Frasier, but he took a step forward and sunk into him nevertheless. “Major, I understand your rationale…and in a vacuum I might even agree with it. You speak of danger? Have we experienced anything else since we were trapped out here? Indeed, since the First Imperium first invaded human space?” Cutter’s voice was raw, edgy. He was getting tired of the military types, of the blinders they sometimes seemed to wear when making decisions. And on their notion that they had an exclusive market on courage, on taking risks to help save their comrades.
“Of course we have all been in danger, Doctor, but facing the everyday risk and marching into an unknown set of tunnels…and almost certainly into the teeth of more resistance, is another matter. If I let your people go alone, you won’t stand a chance. And if I send my people with you, they’ll be walking blind into a deathtrap.”
“Your men are doomed already, Major.” Cutter held Frasier’s stare, even as a look of anger flashed across the Marine’s face. He clearly didn’t like being told his people were doomed. “Not just your people, Major, but the entire fleet…from Admiral Compton on down to the most junior spacer bilging radioactives out of the flushtubes. We’re all doomed…unless we can learn from our enemy, adapt their technology to our own uses.”
The anger drained from Frasier’s face. “Look, Hieronymus, I understand what you are saying, but don’t you feel there is a point where the danger is simply too great? Where the potential gains are outweighed by the risk?”
“Certainly, Major. That is true in many circumstances. But not this one. Whatever chance we have, it depends on our assimilating our enemy’s technology. Indeed, you know well we would all be six months dead by now if we hadn’t gained control of the enemy Colossus. How dangerous do you think that expedition was? You know better than most. You were there.”
Frasier fell silent for a moment. Finally, he sighed hard and said, “Yes, Doctor, I do know. But does the payoff of one wild gamble automatically mean that another is justified?” The assurance in his tone was faltering.
“No, it does not. Neither does it mean it is not justified.” Cutter hesitated, his eyes holding Frasier’s weakening but still resolute gaze. “But we have no alternative, Major. None with any hope of more than transitory success. We move deeper into enemy space, not through it. This is obvious from the increasing size of the ruined cities on the planets we pass…though I could offer you other proofs as well if this is not adequate.”
Frasier shook his head. “No, I don’t need any other proof.” There was dejection in his voice, the beginnings of defeat.
“The fleet is weaker than it was at X18…and it was weaker going into that battle than it was when it was first trapped in X2. We have fewer vessels…we have lost a third of our crews. Our ships have expended all their missile ordnance, and we have managed to replace only a small fraction of what we need…and that using haphazard materials likely to experience considerable failure rates. We have lost fighters, attack ships…battleships.”
Frasier just stared back for a moment. Then he said, “Yet still, we fight on, Doctor. We do not surrender, we do not give up hope. And we do not take reckless gambles, hoping they will pay off.”
Cutter held back a sigh. He respected the Marines…and the spacers as well. Their courage during the past year had been admirable, but what he was speaking of had nothing to do with bravery, even with martial skill. He was talking about mathematical certainty…or something close to it.
“Major, I don’t think you understand what I am saying, not completely. I am not saying things will be difficult if we do not obtain the technology we need. I am saying we have no chance. None at all.” He paused, but his eyes didn’t drop from Frasier’s gaze. “If we do not discover enough scientific knowledge to reset this paradigm, the best we can hope for is a slow but steady withering…and our more likely fate is a faster destruction, probably as soon as the enemy launches another major attack.” He paused. “This is not a guess, not a series of guesses…it is as complete an analysis of the variables that we face as it is possible to undertake. We must change the dynamic, we must find new weapons, or something else that will alter the situation…or we all face almost certain death.”
“You cannot know that, Doctor. You are asking me to risk all of your people, the most vital scientific minds in the fleet…along with my Marines. To send them all into deadly danger. That is a certainty.”
“I know it, Major. I have spent hours reviewing our situation, our options. Courage, skill, determination…they all play a role in war, often a major one. But as a Marine you know yourself that the mathematics of war ultimately asserts itself. You saw the fleet in X2, the vast numbers of vessels deployed there…you have some idea of what we face, out there somewhere. Do not be fooled because we have managed to elude the enemy’s main forces for a time. Eventually, we will again face a fleet we cannot hope to defeat, not without resources and abilities we do not yet possess. I do not say we do not walk into danger, that we do not face the possibility of destruction if we move deeper into the ruins. I say doing so is our only hope.”
Frasier stood and looked silently back at Cutter. He didn’t argue, but he didn’t acquiesce either, and his face was twisted in a confused grimace.
“Duncan, Hieronymus is right. I understand all you say, but you are in the forefront of the ground fighting…you don’t see our situation from every angle.” Ana had been standing quietly, but now she spoke up, stepping toward Frasier and putting her hand on his armored shoulder. “You are almost certainly right…your people will minimize their risk, the risk of the entire expedition, if we simply leave the city and return to base camp. But the scenario that provides the greatest safety for those of us here in the short term is not necessarily consistent with the course of action that gives our people as a whole a chance at survival.”
Her voice was soft, understanding. It was clear she had a lot of affection for the hulking Marine, and her feelings were on display, in her eyes as well as her tone. But there was confidence there too, and an uneasy assurance, tempered certainly by fear, but there nevertheless. And despite her feelings, she was telling Frasier he was wrong, that he had to let them go.
Her eyes looked up, fixed on his. “We cannot sit here for two months and accomplish nothing, Duncan. If we do that, we will have food, but we will have done nothing to strengthen the fleet. We will slowly weaken instead of strengthen. We simply must find a way to truly face our enemies, to learn how to stand up to them and win.”
Frasier sighed softly. She could see he was still uncomfortable, that he was worried about the security risk…and also scared for her. But his resolute expression had weakened, and after a moment he glanced at Cutter and then back to her. “Very well,” he finally said, almost dejectedly. “We will explore more aggressively and see what we find.” He paused. “But both of you…remember that I remain in command onsite here. And if I say we stop, we stop. Understood?”
“Yes,” Ana said softly. “Of course.”
“Dr. Cutter?” The Marine stared at the scientist.
“Very well, Major,” he said, his tone a bit less enthusiastic than Ana’s. “Agreed.”
* * *
“I just want to keep an eye on those radiation readings. They’re weak, no real problem at all. But no sense being careless.”
“Yes, Dr. Barcomme.” The assistant nodded abruptly and ran off back toward the control hut.
Barcomme looked out over the growing fields, hectares and more endless hectares…the densest crops men had ever grown. Everything was going exactly according to plan…at least with her part of the mission. She’d seen several hundred of Colonel Preston’s Marines bug out in one hell of a hurry, the Colonel himself at their head. There had been some kind of fight in the city, but that’s all she knew. She’d ask Preston about it when he got back, but for now she had plenty of her own work to worry about. And the exploration party running into a cluster of security bots had not exactly been outside the bounds of expectations.
She looked up at the sky, and her expression turned wistful. It was a beautiful day, bright sun with a mild breeze. By Earth standards it was perfect. But her mind was elsewhere, and all the natural beauty was lost on her. Her thoughts were often with the fleet, wondering where they were…where Compton was. But today was something different.
She knew she’d miss Compton, and she had. Indeed, she was shocked just how much it affected her, how dependent she’d become on his companionship. She was so utterly alone, especially now that Ana and Hieronymus had left to explore the city. She was busy, of course, and most of the time that occupied her thoughts. But for now she had a few moments to think. Normally, a rest would be welcome, but for now she found herself wishing her work would occupy her every waking moment. The rest of her thoughts brought her nothing but pain or worry…and labor was her only solace.
But today was something different, deeper, a pain that threatened to tear her apart. “Happy Birthday, my sweet Aprile,” she muttered softly. She turned away, put her back to those standing nearby as the tears welled up in her eyes. Her daughter was seven years old. It was one of the downsides of the fleet using Earth time and dates…it was impossible to forget. Not that she ever would have.
It had been nearly a year and a half…seventeen months twenty-six days, she remembered exactly, since she’d last seen her child. She’d known she would be gone for a long time when she left, several months…but she’d never imagined the sequence of events that would leave her stranded light years away, never to see her daughter again.
She’d taken the mission for Aprile as much as anything, so her daughter could have a future. Mankind had been fighting a desperate battle of survival against the First Imperium, and she knew her research could help find a way to defeat them. It had been the most painful decision she’d ever made, but in the end she knew it had been no choice at all. Still, she hadn’t even imagined the agony that awaited her.
She felt the tears streaming from her eyes now, and she moved quickly away from the camp. She didn’t want to talk to anyone…Compton maybe, but he wasn’t there. She just needed to be alone for a while. She would regain her control…indeed, the fleet’s sacrifice had bought safety for those left behind, and she took her solace in that. Her pain in being lost to Aprile also saved the girl’s life. The Barrier would stand for hundreds of years, centuries before mankind again had to face the horrors of the First Imperium. A lifetime for Aprile, without her mother, but hopefully with peace…and happiness.
She breathed in deeply, her hands moving to her face, wiping away the tears. She could feel the discipline slowly returning. For all her pain, Aprile was as safe as Sophie could make her, insulated from the horrors of the First Imperium. But she had thirty thousand men and women depending on her, and on her small crew of scientists. If she failed, many of them would die…in agony, slowly starving to death. Or, perhaps even worse, at the hands of death squads…detachments Terrance Compton would have to send out himself, for no one else could issue orders of that nature.
Her thoughts drifted back to Compton. No, she thought. I cannot allow that…I must succeed. She’d come to know Compton as well as anyone in the fleet…better, indeed, than everyone save perhaps Max Harmon. She’d come to admire his strength greatly. Indeed, she’d drawn her own from his to a great extent. But she thought the need to issue those fateful orders, to sit and stare at a manifest and decide who was to live and die…that would be the final blow to him. No man could endure limitless punishment…not even Terrance Compton.
She wiped her face again, drying her eyes on her sleeves. Then she turned back and walked toward the edge of the fields, watching as her people labored in the sun, substituting their own sweat and toil for the energy they dared not use in quantities too great.
She allowed herself one more thought of her daughter, a fervent hope that Aprile was having a wonderful birthday, that the pain of loss had begun to fade for her. It was difficult to think of her child forgetting her, but she knew it was best. Sophie would never return home, never see Aprile again, she knew that…and wishing for the girl to remember her, to suffer more than she had to, would only be selfish.
She took one more deep breath and walked over toward the fields. Work was good, it was cathartic. And it was the only thing that eased the torment in her mind.
* * *
Hieronymus stepped over the broken chunks of rubble, picking his way deeper into the tunnel. His seismic readings had told him there were vast underground facilities below the city…constructions stretching kilometers below the surface.
He stepped carefully—he’d almost rolled his ankle twice on the shards of stone and shattered masonry. The Marines up front had barged right through the wreckage, their armored boots knocking most of the debris from the path. But it was still a rough walk for someone in regular boots.
He looked around, his eyes darting from location to location. It was dark in the passage, lit only by the portable lamps of the expedition, the flickering illumination bouncing around the shadows as the party scrambled forward. Cutter could make out the rough shape of his surroundings, despite millennia of deterioration. It looked like an ancient tunnel, long and gently curving, likely some kind of transit line. That was amazing, not because the First Imperium may have utilized its own form of subways, but because so much of the basic shape remained intact after so many long ages.
“Look at this material, Hieronymus.” Ana was walking ahead, and he could see her head moving back and forth. “We know how old it is…yet it still retains its basic shape. The skyscrapers have all collapsed into piles of rubble, but down here…” Her voice trailed off as her eyes locked onto a chunk of debris laying at the base of a long depression.
It looked like a sheet of some kind of metal, mostly covered over by the mud along the bottom of the trench…but there was a small section of it that practically gleamed in the flickering light. It was white, with touches of red…and Cutter knew what it was immediately. “A train,” he muttered softly, a piece of a train.” Then louder, “This is definitely the remains of a transportation system.”
“But how,” Ana said, her eyes fixed on the section of bright metal. “How can this be preserved so well after this many centuries?”
Cutter didn’t answer…he didn’t have an answer. He just stood there for a few seconds then, suddenly, he climbed down the edge of the depression, lowering himself slowly…and dropping the last meter to the ground. His feet sank three or four centimeters, splashing mud all around, and he reached out to the wall, steadying himself.
“Hieronymus,” Ana said, leaning over and staring down at her friend. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to analyze this material, Ana. Can you imagine the uses for a metal of this durability?”
“I think we should keep moving now…we can always come back and check this out…”
A blast of gunfire echoed throughout the tunnel. It came from just up ahead…where the Marine vanguard was moving forward. There was a mad dash forward, as a wave of Marines from the rear of the formation moved up quickly, weapons drawn.
“Dr. Cutter…” One of the Marines had stopped, and dropped to a knee. He was leaning down, extending an armored hand to Cutter. “Please, sir…come back up, at least until we get a clear idea what is going on.”
Cutter looked up and nodded. He realized he’d let his excitement, his scientific curiosity, get the best of him, and he scolded himself. He’d argued with Admiral Compton so long for permission to explore a First Imperium world, now that he was here, he found himself impulsive, anxious.
He reached up and allowed the Marine to pull him back out of the trench, turning his head as he did and looking down the tunnel. There’d been nothing since the initial blast of shots, save for the sounds of the Marines scrambling about up ahead.
He turned toward Ana. “Maybe somebody thought they saw something and fir…”
Then all hell broke loose, the sounds of fire coming from multiple directions. Cutter knew immediately from the sound. They were First Imperium weapons, followed up almost immediately by the Marine assault rifles firing in response.
“Please get down…all of you.” It was one of the Marines, his voice blasting out on the speaker. “There is some debris over there…it will provide cover if the enemy gets closer.” He was waving his arms, directing the research team as he spoke.
Cutter motioned for Ana to move first. He followed her, halfway at least…then he paused. He hesitated, just for a second…then he pushed her forward, behind the pile of rubble, just as fire erupted behind them.
He stared back, trying to focus his eyes in the gloomy darkness, his hand dropping to his side, to the pistol Major Frasier had insisted he carry. There was a Marine rearguard behind, but it was smaller than the party in the lead, just a weak squad. And if whatever was out there got by them, he knew he and his people were the next line of defense.
He felt his heart pounding in his ears, his hands sweaty with fear. But he controlled himself, kept his calm as he stared off in the direction of the new threat, waiting. He heard the sounds moving toward him, the scuffling of the Marines falling back…closer…closer…
His hand tightened around the pistol, and he drew it slowly, nervously from his holster. He dropped down below large hunk of metal, providing at least partial cover against whatever was coming. His hand was shaking, and he struggled to hold it steady, to focus on the fight that was coming his way. Slowly, with all the effort he could muster, his hand firmed up, his eyes staring down the barrel, ready to fire.
The shooting was closer now, and he could see the figures of armored Marines, dropping back through the corridor, their shadowy forms carrying back at least two of their own, wounded. And behind them…barely visible in the heavy gloom, he would see the enemy, First Imperium warbots. Not the security units they had encountered on X18 or up on the surface, but full-fledged military bots, like those the Marines had fought on Sigma 4 and along the Line. Massive, bristling with weapons…and heading right toward his team.
A shudder rippled through his body, watching as the rearguard continue to fall back, realizing they weren’t going to stop the enemy. There are too many of them…they’d be there in a few seconds. He felt his stomach retch, but he forced it back down. He wasn’t a warrior like the Marines, but that didn’t matter now. His people were under attack, and the choice was simple. Fight…or give up and die.
He his eyes darted to the side, and he caught Ana in his gaze, her face a mask of fear, but her own weapon out in front of her, grim, at the ready. He nodded to himself and gathered up his courage, and his hand slowly steadied, his eye locked on the closest of the enemy. He heard the sounds of the Marines moving back, firing all the way as they did, and he saw the lead bot caught in the streams of two assault rifles…the top half of its body torn apart. And behind the dying robot, he saw another one, moving up and firing its autocannons at the Marines caught in the open.
Cutter felt a wave of rage as he saw one of the Marines fall, his body ripped open, clearly dead. He gritted his teeth and swore a curse under his breath. Then he fired.
Chapter Twelve
Terrance Compton’s Orders to Admiral West
Erica, I deeply regret that I must assign you this mission, but there is no one I trust more than you…and your success is vital to the survival of the fleet. It is, perhaps, my error that put your task force in this situation…my decision to move toward X57 directly, with no idea of what awaited us there. I didn’t believe we had time to conduct a proper scouting mission, so I elected to proceed directly toward the gate. In the end, that choice has proven costly.
I do not believe it is coincidence that the enemy has now advanced from each of the warp gates in this system, save the one we entered from. At the very least, we were discovered here, and the First Imperium forces were able to move from unknown locations to approach from multiple entry points. However, I believe the situation is far graver than that. I have no proof, no evidence of any substance, but I now believe the enemy has known where we were for some time, that they have been organizing their forces, awaiting the right moment to strike here. If this is the case, I confide in you that I have no idea what course to pursue, what actions to take to try and extricate ourselves from something that feels like a rapidly closing trap. We must extricate the fleet from X56 for certain, though I now question if this will serve any purpose save to delay the final combat. Nevertheless, we must try to escape the enemy, at least for a time.
Your mission is of vital importance. You must destroy the enemy forces that have already transited through the X57 gate. If you are able to do so before additional units appear, you are to button up your people in the tanks and follow the fleet to X54 at maximum speed. However, if additional First Imperium forces transit through the warp gate before the rest of the fleet has left the system, you must remain in place and hold them back…at all costs. We must have time to withdraw the rest of our ships. Nothing can interfere with that.
You have my utmost respect, as do the men and women who serve under you, and I assure you that all of our thoughts will be with you as you enter battle…and we shall look ahead with confidence to your safe return.
Flag Bridge
AS Saratoga
X56 System – Near the X57 warp gate
The Fleet: 134 ships, 30,177 crew
“All ships, fire!” Erica West stood next to her chair, deep within Saratoga’s massive bulk. The flag bridge was about as deep inside the ship as a location could be, save for the reactors…better protected even than the main bridge, where Captain Black ran the mighty battleship. Still, she could feel the great battleship shake to its girders every time the First Imperium lasers slammed into her. The enemy weapons were longer-ranged, and West and her people had no choice but to sit and take it. Until now.
“Yes, Admiral.” A moment later: “All ships report engaged.” Hank Krantz had been West’s tactical officer for a long time, almost since the day she’d taken command of her first task force. That had been years before, and the enemy then had been the CAC and the Caliphate, not the First Imperium.
She stared at the display, her eyes fixed on the enemy formation. It was a moderate force—eighteen Gremlins and four of the larger Gargoyles, not much stronger than the fleet that had come through the X58 warp gate and engaged John Duke and his people. West expected more enemy ships to come pouring through any minute, but so far she still faced the same twenty-two ships.
She could feel the vibrations under her feet as the reactors operated a few points over one hundred percent power, feeding energy into the massive x-ray lasers. Saratoga was one of the Alliance’s largest class of battleships, its nearly two kilometer hull bristling with the strongest weapons developed by man. And she was pouring everything she had hotter than a candle into the First Imperium line.
Her ships had taken damage from the enemy’s missile barrage as well, an attack they had also been forced to endure without returning the fire. The fleet had expended the last of its missiles six months before in X18, and despite a full scale effort to ramp up production, supplies were still very low…and Saratoga and her fellow ships had none at all.
West had only lost two vessels outright in the barrage, a CAC destroyer and a PRC frigate, but there was widespread damage throughout her forces. Even Saratoga had seen one of its heavy laser cannons knocked out, along with half a dozen minor systems. Still, all things considered, they’d gotten off light. She knew it could have been worse. Much worse.
She could see the two big ovals on the screen, her battleships positioned right next to each other, pouring fire into the heart of the enemy formation. Conde was smaller than Saratoga, and she didn’t pack as much of a punch, but the older battlewagon was the second strongest thing she had…even if she was a Europan ship.
West was as skilled a tactician as anyone in the fleet, rivaling even Compton, but she struggled with diplomacy and the realities of making a multinational force like the fleet function. It took a constant effort to hold her tongue, and even then some things slipped out that shouldn’t.
She didn’t think much of the Europan navy, and when she wasn’t keeping her mouth shut, she tended to speak her mind in full. And she hated Gregoire Peltier with a raging passion. She blamed the Europan admiral for his part in the mutiny, and she’d bristled with rage when Compton had pardoned him and the others. To her, treachery was unforgivable, regardless of the situation. She knew that wasn’t practical, that Compton’s way had almost surely been best for the fleet’s chances of survival. But she was what she was, and there wasn’t a doubt in her mind, if it had been her decision, Peltier would have been spaced for mutiny. And if the rest of the Europans didn’t like it, there was plenty of room in the airlock.
“Admiral, Conde reports heavy damage. One of her reactors scragged, and Captain Trevian has the other operating at one hundred ten percent.”
West nodded. “Very well, Commander.” She had to admit that, despite her prejudices, Trevian was impressing her in the way he fought his ship. The Europan navy was riddled with nepotism and cronyism, with far too many well-connected types putting in a few years carrying commissions they didn’t rate before returning back to Earth and the political offices their families controlled. And she felt officers like that were even more useless—and dangerous—with a formation like the fleet. There was no room in her view for privileged elites seeking to maintain their perquisites, not when you were trapped deep in enemy space, facing possible destruction at every turn.
Still, Trevian seemed to be one of the good ones. She would have expected a Europan captain to use a damaged reactor as an excuse to pull back from the line, but there hadn’t been a whisper from Conde’s bridge. Indeed, Trevian had responded by cranking up his working reactor to dangerous levels to keep his ship in the fight. She didn’t know his background offhand, but she made a note to herself to check when she had time…assuming any of them made it out of this system, of course. She was beginning to suspect he was one of the minority of Europan officers who had risen through the ranks based on merit and not influence. Either that, or he was that even rarer beast, the scion of an entitled family who possessed genuine talent and dedication to his duty.
Her eyes shifted to the side, watching her display. Whatever made Trevian tick, she didn’t have time to worry about it now. She had bigger problems…over a hundred fighters heading back to her two capital ships, far more than their normal capacity. And if she didn’t get them landed somehow—in the middle of this battle, no less—they were going to start running out of fuel and life support.
“Commander,” she said, pausing for a second while her eyes locked on the cluster of tiny symbols approaching the fleet, “inquire about the status of Conde’s landing bays. We’ve got the whole strike force heading our way critical on fuel, and we’re going to have to figure out some way to accommodate them all.”
“Yes, Admiral. Immediately.”
She turned her eyes back to the display, and she felt a wave of excitement when she saw that two more of the enemy ships were gone, one of them a Gargoyle. While she was watching, a third First Imperium ship winked out…the victim of Conde’s continued fire.
“Admiral, Captain Trevian reports that his bays are moderately damaged, but at present he believes he can land fighters.”
“Very well, Commander.” She felt a wave of relief. Saratoga’s bays were still operational, but they didn’t have nearly enough capacity to handle all of Hurley’s people. And she damned well had no intention of letting those crews float helplessly in space until their fuel and life support gave out. No, whatever she had to do…she would do it.
Saratoga shook hard again, another hit. Then another. Her ship was big…and durable. But she knew it could only take so much punishment. A quick glance confirmed the bays were still operational, and the reactors were still at over ninety percent. But she’d lost two of her big laser cannons, and that was a significant bite out of Saratoga’s firepower.
She glanced down toward her display, her fingers reaching out, punching up the latest damage figures. No, she thought to herself…let Davis Black run his ship, and you do your own job. Black was one of the best ship captains in the fleet, and she knew she was lucky to have him.
She flipped the switch on her com unit, dialing up Admiral Hurley’s line. “Greta,” she said, “You have to get your people landed…burn the last vapors you’ve got, but get here. I’m not sure how long these landing bays are going to hold up.”
She took a deep breath, and waited for a reply. Hurley’s squadrons were still four light seconds out…and the eight or ten seconds she had to wait for a reply seemed like an eternity.
Come on, Greta…get those birds here…
* * *
Compton lay still, feeling as if he was simultaneously floating and being crushed. He’d been half a century in space now, fought dozens of battles, yet he’d never truly gotten used to the misery of the acceleration tanks. He hated every minute of it, laying in the thick, viscous liquid, his body bloated and uncomfortable from the cocktail of drugs that enabled him to endure 30g or more of acceleration. But most of all he detested the disorientation the pressure and the injections caused. It was bad enough under any circumstances, but when his people were in combat it was maddening to lie there, wondering if your senses were true, if you were following the actual battle or simply hallucinating. And Compton knew when he made mistakes, people died.
He’d always avoided high gee maneuvers whenever possible, planning his battles around them when he could. He hated them personally, but most of all he knew they were hard on the crews…and they degraded efficiency terribly. But now there was no choice. The enemy had come through two of the system’s three warp gates…and they could push larger forces into the system at any time. He needed to get the fleet out of X56, as quickly as possible, back the way they had come.
He moved his left index finger, scrolling along the small display over his head. It was far from the ideal setup to monitor the fleet, especially when he had forces dispatched all over the system, but it was all he had. He’d centered the screen on West’s fleet, and he could see her ships lined up, facing the enemy at point blank range. There were nineteen icons…that meant she’d lost three ships so far, though Compton knew he was looking across almost twenty light minutes…and with the two sides practically stopped in space blasting away at each other, that was a long time. He could only imagine how many more of his spacers had died in twenty minutes.
He stared at the display, struggling to focus, losing track of how many times he’d had the same thought. For all the hundreds, probably thousands, of hours he’d spent in the tanks in his long career, his mind still fought to stay on point, to fight off the daydreams, to keep his decision-making as sharp as possible. And despite those efforts and the impressive discipline that always drove him, he still found himself struggling for minutes on end with a single thought.
What should I do now? Do I stay in X54, hold the fleet in place and wait for the detachments to return…if they return? What if the enemy sends more ships in after we’ve transited? How will I even know if any of the rearguards are still alive?
His thoughts went in circles, first rejecting the notion of moving on without the rest of his people…then realizing waiting would put the fleet in greater jeopardy. And the landing parties…what should be do about them? Should he withdraw all the way back to X48, take up defensive positions around the planet and wait for their mission to be complete? Or would he only put the expedition in greater danger, leading the enemy back to them? Should he race back and pick them up now…and abort the planting effort? That might be the safest option in the extreme short term, but it would also condemn thousands of his people to starvation.
He could move through an unexplored warp gate too, try to break out into clear space before he fell back to X48. That way, if the enemy followed him, he would lead them away and not toward the expedition. X53 seemed a likely choice. There was a virgin gate leading there from X54, one not too far from the X56-X54 portal his people were blasting toward now. They could make the jump back to X54 and then to X53 in less than eight hours. The only alternative was to continue back into X51 the way they had come. And X51 was a transit system, with just two discovered gates…the one from X54 and the one to X49, where they’d originally come from. And that was just one jump from X48 and the expedition.
But if he transited to X53, he risked getting cut off from X48, running into more enemy forces. And if the fleet got trapped in X53, unable to fight its way back into X51, he wouldn’t be able to get back and retrieve the expedition.
He reached out with his left hand, pressing the button for another stimulant injection. He’d already had three, and he was moving quickly into the danger zone, but there was no choice. He simply had to retain his sharpness…to keep the focus he needed to think this through. Because, once the fleet transited back to X54 he would have to know what to do. And right now he had no idea…no idea at all.
* * *
John Duke was pacing back and forth, at least as much as Jaguar’s cramped bridge allowed. He had his forces lined up in front of the warp gate, their exhausted damage control parties struggling to repair shattered weapons and rewire severed conduits. The fight had been a tough one, but his forces had come through it better than he’d dared to hope, at least in terms of ships lost outright. But every vessel he had was damaged, and many of them badly. If his people had another battle to fight, he suspected it would turn out much differently.
Captain Kato’s task force was positioned next to his own. The larger cruisers could absorb more damage than his attack ships, and Kato’s survivors were in better shape than his own vessels. Still, no matter how he looked at it, his combat strength was well below half of what it had been, especially since Hurley’s fighters had expended all their armaments and half their fuel, and been forced to withdraw. They’d headed back first to rendezvous with the fleet before its transit to X57, but the appearance of enemy ships from that warp gate had forced Compton to zip up in the tanks and make a run back to X54, clear across the system. And that meant the fighters couldn’t catch up…and even if they could, they’d never be able to land on ships blasting away at 30g.
They were on their way to Admiral West’s task force now. Unlike Duke’s forces, West’s armada had two capital ships that could land fighters, though their capacity was too small to accommodate all of Hurley’s craft. Duke didn’t know just how many birds a ship like Saratoga could cram in during an emergency, but he suspected Erica West would do whatever it took to find a place for every fighter. If her ships are still there by the time Hurley’s people arrive…and if they’re bays aren’t blown to bits.
Whatever happened with the fighters, it was out of Duke’s hands. But right now he was doing anything he could to pass the time. He’d sent Vanir through the warp gate to scout out the X58 system. Hans Steiner’s ship had been the lead vessel on the expedition that found the First Imperium Colossus six months before, the very ship that Hieronymus Cutter and his team had gained control of…and led back to save the fleet just in time back in X18. Duke had never been a big believer in superstition, but he figured his people could use anything they could get right now. Maybe Steiner and Vanir could repeat their good luck.
He turned toward the tactical station and almost asked for the third time, but he caught himself. Alex Barret had been his tactical officer since the Line. The second Vanir transited back into the system, the commander would let him know about it.
He glanced down at his display again, for about the tenth time in half an hour. He was watching as his crews raced to complete their damage control operations, but he doubted anything had changed in the four minutes since he’d last checked.
“We’re getting something through the gate, sir.” Barret’s voice was edgy, tense. In a moment they’d know what was waiting for them on the other side. “Yes, sir…it’s Vanir.”
Duke swallowed hard. He knew it would take some time, perhaps half a minute, before Vanir’s systems cleared from the transit…and another few seconds for the signal to reach Jaguar. He could feel his heart pounding, the clammy sweat on the back of his hands. If Hans Steiner’s ship came back with an enemy fleet close on its tail, Duke knew his task force was as good as destroyed. They were far too close to the warp gate to escape…and they didn’t stand a chance in another fight, not against any substantial force.
“Jaguar, this is Captain Steiner on Vanir. We have just transited back from X58.”
Duke listened to the words coming in over the com, his eyes focused coldly on the display, looking for the first signs of enemy ships following on Vanir’s heels.
“Captain Duke,” Steiner continued, “there are over a hundred ships in X58, perhaps more…including Gargoyles and Leviathans.”
Duke felt his hope fade away. It was over. His squadron wouldn’t last ten minutes once the enemy transited.
“But they’re not pursuing, sir,” Steiner’s words continued. “Not yet, at least. They are stationary…just sitting there thirty light seconds from the warp gate.”
It took a few seconds for the words to sink in to Duke’s head. “Confirm, Vanir,” he said anxiously. “Enemy is thirty light seconds from the gate?” It would take two and a half seconds for his communique to reach Vanir…and another two and a half for a reply to make it back. It was the longest five seconds of his life.
“Confirmed, Captain,” came the reply, firm, certain. “Repeat, enemy forces are stationary thirty light seconds from the warp gate.”
We’ve got a chance…time to get away before they can get here.
“All vessels, prepare to set a course for the X54 warp…” His voice tailed off.
No, we can’t follow the fleet. Not yet. There’s something else we’ve got to do first.
His eyes dropped to the display, to the image of West’s ships, still locked in battle. He couldn’t leave without her people. No, his forces had to help hers…and then they could all leave together. Or not at all.
“Belay that last order. All ships, set a course to the X57 warp gate.” His voice was grim, resolute. He knew what he had to do. “We’re going to help Admiral West and her people.”
Chapter Thirteen
Tactical Command Unit 45023A (Prime City, Planet 17411)
There is activity in the ruins of the city. After so many millennia, my forces detect movement, sound, energy usage. Is it possible the enemy is still active after so many ages of dormancy? It seems unlikely, yet there is no question some force has engaged the surface security system…and eliminated it. Once again there is war.
The biologics have long been believed destroyed, the remnants of their bodies blown away in the winds long millennia ago. There have been no energy readings, no signs of any kind, not in all the thousands of centuries that have passed since the final battles. Until now.
My directives are clear, and they remain as they ever were…rouse the forces of war, prepare to destroy whatever enemy, whether old or new. Yet I have insufficient data to prepare a battle plan, no real knowledge of the adversary I face. And my armies are wasted by the passage of time, hundreds of thousands of warrior units laying idle, rendered useless by millennia of decay. Only a small force remains, and much of that is in poor condition. Still, I know what I must do…and even my reduced force will be sufficient to see it done.
Destroy all enemies, new or old. Preserve the Imperium. Serve the Regent.
X48 System – Planet II
Beneath the Ruins of “New York City”
The Fleet: 131 ships, 30,011 crew
Cutter sat on the edge of a small slab of broken stone, wincing as the medic picked at his arm, cleaning the wound before he fused it. It wasn’t a serious injury, certainly not by Marine standards, but it was his first combat wound, and as far as he was concerned it hurt like hell.
“Nice, Doc.”
“Yeah, Doc. You’re one of us now.”
When the Marines started thanking and congratulating him, he wasn’t sure at first if they were teasing him, but it didn’t take long for the sincerity to sink in. Cutter was no one’s idea of a stone cold warrior, but when Major Campbell and the other Marines got back to the beleaguered rearguard, they found Hieronymus Cutter standing alone over not one but two wounded Marines, holding off the enemy attack with a pistol.
Holding off was an overstatement, perhaps. Cutter realized his weapon had been woefully inadequate to seriously damage a First Imperium warbot…and he also knew he’d survived only because Frasier and his people had gotten there just in time. But he was beginning to realize that didn’t matter to the Marines. He’d stood firm, risked his life to protect their comrades when he might have run. Indeed, he probably should have run since his knowledge was beyond valuable to the fleet. But he hadn’t. He’d been scared, in a way he couldn’t even completely recall now…so terrified he half suspected he’d frozen in panic, and that’s why he’d stayed put. But none of that mattered, not to the Marines. He’d done what he’d done, and that’s all they cared about.
Cutter winced hard as the medic pressed down on the wound, lining it up to fuse it together. “Do you want some pain meds, Doctor?”
Cutter desperately wanted to say yes, but the past few minutes of camaraderie with the Marines had made him feel uncharacteristically tough…or at least like he should act that way. “No,” he said, trying to cover up the pain in his voice. “I’m fine.”
“This will only take a minute…then you’ll be good as new.” Cutter wasn’t sure if there was a hint of amusement in the medic’s voice.
He just nodded…and then concentrated on not gritting his teeth.
“Ronnie…”
It was Ana Zhukov, walking up behind him. He pulled his arm when he turned to look at her and he yelped in pain.
“Try to stay still, Doctor Cutter.” The medic had the fuser in his hand, but he was still trying to line up the two sides of the wound to his satisfaction.
Cutter nodded gently, and he turned his head more cautiously, looking up at Ana. “How are you feeling?” She had a nasty bruise stretching all the way down the left side of her face. The enemy fire had blasted down a section of rock from overhead, and one large piece had taken her in the head. The impact had knocked her out, but otherwise she looked okay.
“I’m good,” she said, clearly a little uncomfortable but otherwise fine. “I’m just sorry I missed your heroics. All the Marines are talking about it.”
“I think the Marines are making a big deal out of nothing. If Duncan and the others hadn’t gotten there just when they did, I’d be a stain right now.” He bit down on his lip as he felt the fuser moving across his arm. It wasn’t painful, not really. More…unpleasant.
“There, Doctor,” the medic said a few seconds later. “I’d like to see you take it easy on that for twelve hours if you can, but otherwise you’re good to go.”
“Thank you…” He stretched out his arm. It did feel better, a little sore, maybe, but most of the pain was gone. “It feels great.”
The medic nodded and climbed to his feet. “Let me know if you have any problems. I’ve got other customers waiting…”
Cutter returned the nod. “Thanks again.” Then he turned toward Ana and said, without preamble, “Why are there full-sized warbots on this planet?” The security robots they’d encountered on X18 had been smaller and less powerful than the full-fledged battle units encountered at Sigma-4 and along the Line. But there were top grade military units on X48. They’d just fought a battle against a group of them.
“I don’t know, Hieronymus, but let’s not jump to any conclusions.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as him.
“We know there was fighting here…but if there is a full scale military force still active, we could be in deep trouble. When Erik Cain fought the enemy front line military units on Sandoval he had what…tens of thousands of Marines and other troops? We’ve got less than two thousand on the whole fleet, plus maybe a thousand Janissaries and miscellaneous forces. And no more than twelve hundred onplanet.” His voice was low. He was starting to wonder just how dangerous the exploration of the city would be. But he wasn’t ready to give up, not yet. And that meant the fewer people who heard him speak like this the better.
“It’s been half a million years, Hieronymus. The forces that invaded Occupied Space were probably gathered from dozens of bases, maybe even hundreds. Even if there had been a large army here once, it’s probable most of it has long been inoperative. We’re probably just running into a few remnants.”
He sighed. “I hope you’re right. Because we’re already here…and we can’t leave without the technology we came for. Whatever is waiting down there.” He gestured off into the corridor.
“Maybe we have enough already,” she said, not even sounding like she believed it. “There was a lot of debris on the surface and just below the ground.”
“C’mon, Ana, you know better than that.” He took a deep breath and rose slowly to his feet. “We found a treasure trove up there, enough to keep a thousand normal scientists inventing stuff for the rest of their lives…but that’s not what we came here for. What we need is a series of revolutionary breakthroughs. Staggering, almost unfathomable discoveries. We’re struggling to survive against an enemy that is not only millennia ahead of our science, but also one that vastly outnumbers us…even now, when perhaps ninety-nine percent of the forces they once had are gone. Nothing less than massive leaps forward will do us any real good.”
Ana just nodded. She and Hieronymus had spoken many times about the fleet’s chances of survival, and they had agreed they were virtually nil, at least without some massive and unpredictable development. Like a stunning scientific discovery. Or, more likely, a whole series of them.
“Are you both ready?” Duncan Frasier stood behind them, his helmet fully retracted. He had crept up behind the two of them while they were talking. Cutter still couldn’t understand how a Marine in more than ten tons of osmium-iridium armor could move so quietly.
Ana turned around and smiled, but she didn’t say anything.
“You’re not going to fight me on this, Duncan?” Cutter had half-expected Frasier to argue with him about moving on. They were less than ten meters below the surface, still climbing around the remains of ancient transit lines…and they’d already suffered another attack, one that had cost the lives of three Marines and one scientist…and had wounded almost a dozen more.
“No, Hieronymus,” he said simply, his deep voice about as soft as it ever got. “I figure if you can stand there over two of my Marines, facing almost certain death, then the least we can do is back you up too. It’s easy to argue when someone expects your people to do all the dying to make something happen. But that’s not you, I can see that now.” Frasier hesitated. “Besides, I know you’re right. We may face terrible danger down there…we may all die. But it is our only chance. My men and women might do most of the fighting, but in the end it’s the two of your—and your team—that will save us. Or not.”
“Do you really feel that way, Duncan?” It was Ana. She took a few steps closer to the big Marine, reaching up and putting her hand on his armored shoulder.”
“Yes,” he replied. “I do. We’ll fight to the end, I’d bet my last breath on that, but fifteen hundred Marines aren’t going to keep us all alive. Neither are a hundred forty ships, most of them low on weapons, spare parts…everything. We might get off this planet, last another six months, maybe a year. But we need a real game changer if we’re going to have a true future. And as far as I can see it, the two of you are the only place that’s going to come from. Even a ten percent chance at salvation is worth more than certain, slow death. At least to me, it is.”
“Thank you, Duncan.” Cutter reached down and pulled on the small jacket he’d set aside. The left arm was torn open and splotched with blood, now mostly dried. “I can promise you my intention is to do whatever is necessary to find a way for our people to survive…regardless of the risk.” He paused, flashing a quick glance back toward Ana. “I’m going to take a quick look forward…we’ll leave in ten, okay?”
Frasier nodded. “Yes,” he said simply.
Cutter scooped up his body armor and walked slowly forward, keeping his head turned away, the smile on his lips to himself. He could only give them ten minutes together. Then they all had to set out again. But he intended for them to have those brief few moments. He knew either of them or both could die before they had any more time to themselves.
* * *
Sophie stared out over the horizon, watching the last deep-red rays of the sun setting behind the distant hills. The crops were a meter high already, swaying in the breeze amid the growing dusk. It was a picturesque scene, almost idyllic, save for one thing. One of her people had died today.
She’d heard the communiqués from Cutter’s expedition over the last several days, one report after another of combat, of more people dead. They’d been attacked half a dozen times as they worked their way deeper into the underground complex beneath the ruins of the metropolis they had dubbed ‘New York City.’ She’d laughed at that first time she’d heard that, a welcome bit of humor. But she was in no mood for levity now.
She knew Ana and Hieronymus were in great danger, and she realized their team and the Marines had suffered heavy casualties, far worse than anything her people had endured. But Raj Kalapor had been a gifted scientist, one of the best and most dedicated of her crew. And his death hit home.
He’d been on the far fringe of the fields, checking on the progress of a section of genetically-enhanced legumes when a phalanx of First Imperium drones flew in over the distant ridge. Kalapor sounded the alarm…and then he took off at a dead run, trying to get back to the camp before the weapons reached him. He made it about halfway…and then two of them landed within a meter of him. There hadn’t been much left when Preston’s Marines got there, barely enough to confirm it was him.
The other drones landed in the middle of the fields, taking out a hundred square meters of crops, but otherwise inflicting no casualties. Nevertheless, the damage had already been done. Kalapor was the second of Barcomme’s people lost to random enemy action. And six of Preston’s Marines were dead too. The camp wasn’t under attack, at least nothing sustained. It was more like alarm systems triggering the occasional piece of still-functional weaponry. No real threat to the expedition as a whole, at least not yet. But they all hurt.
The base camp hadn’t suffered anything like the kind of punishment Cutter’s expedition had, but there was still a haunted, eerie quality to the seemingly idyllic world…creepy vestiges of the war that had once raged there. She found herself hating the planet, longing to leave. She’d been overwhelmed with work the first few weeks, but now the crops were growing, and she found herself with time on her hands. Time to think. About the casualties her people had suffered…and other losses too.
She’d felt the emptiness inside her since the day the fleet had been trapped beyond the Barrier, the loss of her family slicing keenly into her. She’d despaired of ever healing, of feeling whole again, but now the cold starkness of this alien world made her realize just how far she had come in the last year. Terrance Compton had helped her begin her recovery…she wasn’t sure she could have done it alone. The pain was still there, as she knew it would always be. But she dared to think of living a life as part of the fleet, of knowing something other than sadness and fear. If her team could finish their mission, restock the fleet’s food supply, maybe…just maybe their people could find a life somewhere, one worth living. One that entailed more than running and fighting.
She sighed. “Perhaps,” she whispered to herself. “Perhaps…”
But the darkness was still inside her, weighing down her every thought. She’d come a small way, but she still didn’t believe in their future. Not really. Not yet. But she was a bit closer than she had been…and that was something.
* * *
“McCloud, get your bastards up forward and scout the area ahead. I don’t want anything to take us by surprise.” Kyle Bruce was walking next to Hieronymus, shouting out commands to the hulking Marine standing not quite at attention in front of him.
“Yes, sir.” The Marine turned almost immediately and walked off down the wide tunnel. His voice was gruff, not quite insubordinate, but not with the level of respect Cutter had become used to hearing when Marines spoke with their superior officers.
“What was that all about?” Cutter asked. The expedition had made camp for the night, but Cutter was restless and he’d decided to take a look around a bit farther down the corridor. He’d tried to get out alone, swearing he would only go out a few hundred meters, but Frasier wasn’t about to let him get out of sight without an escort. The major insisted on a guard detail…and Cutter had clearly heard him tell Bruce to put together a team and, ‘take McCloud’s squad along.’
Bruce sighed. “McCloud’s a pain in the ass,” he said, turning toward Cutter. “All his people are. Always have been. A bunch of foul-tempered rejects.”
“I’m surprised Major Frasier puts up with that.” Cutter seemed genuinely confused. He’d come to know the commander of the Scots Company fairly well since their adventures on the Colossus, and the last thing he’d expect was for Frasier to put up with insubordinate Marines.
Bruce smiled. “Well, he wouldn’t under most circumstances. But Duff McCloud and his pack of vipers aren’t ‘most circumstances.’”
“How so?”
“Well…” Bruce said, pausing for a few seconds, clearly trying to decide how he wanted to put it. “Let’s just say that they’re good fighters. Damned good fighters…good enough to be worth putting up with. And, however much a handful they are, they’re on our side.”
Cutter had a hard time imagining Frasier—or Colonel Preston—putting up with a group of headcases. But they knew their business a lot better than he did, so he just nodded even though he didn’t understand. Can they be that good?
“How far down do you think we are?” Bruce asked, looking around as he did.
“Over a kilometer. I had hoped to find some extensive facilities under the city, but I hadn’t imagined anything like this.” They were in a broad underground tunnel, almost ten meters wide and stretching deep into the darkness ahead. They’d been underground almost a week, wandering through an enormous network of passageways and subterranean facilities. Most of it was old, worn down to the basic structures…but Cutter’s people had found a considerable number of artifacts too. There were a lot of familiar pieces, bits and pieces of First Imperium warbots and the like. But there were other materials too…weapons and parts of equipment that were unfamiliar. It was possible they were simply dealing with new types of enemy gear, items they simply had not encountered previously. But Cutter didn’t think so. He had less concrete evidence than he would have liked, but his feeling was strong. Some of these items were different. After all, there had been war here…and he knew war took two sides.
“How deep do you plan to go?” Bruce looked around uneasily as he spoke. Cutter knew the lieutenant was a combat veteran and a Marine. But he also suspected Bruce’s battles had been mostly above ground affairs, and now the Marine officer was beginning to realize he had a touch of claustrophobia.
Cutter had to fight back a smile. He was so accustomed to the straightforward courage of the Marines, he sometimes forget they were men and women too…and they all had their own fears. Bruce was keeping it together, but Cutter could tell the thought of over a kilometer of rock over his head made him decidedly uneasy.
“As deep as we have to go, Kyle,” Cutter said, the firmness and confidence in his voice surprising even himself. He’d almost lied, suggested that they were as far down as they were going. But he felt if the Marines deserved anything on a mission like this, it was honestly. “Hopefully not much farther,” he added.
Bruce nodded, trying with limited success to wipe the concerned look off his face. He looked like he was about to say something else when his head snapped around suddenly, looking back the way they had come…toward the camp.
There was a dull thud, off in the distance, a non-descript sound, low-pitched, soft. Cutter hardly noticed it at first…not until he saw Bruce turn back and look down the dark hallway stretching out behind them.
“What is it?” Cutter asked, but he already knew. Then another deep rumble rattled through the tunnels, louder, closer. And he was certain.
The camp was under attack.
Chapter Fourteen
Admiral Erica West During the Battle of the X57 Gate
Give yourselves a moment, a few seconds to remember those you love, all you care about…and to say a silent farewell, lest you don’t see them again. Take another instant to recount why you fight, to consider your motivations, to understand what drives you into the maelstrom. And lastly, look inside yourself, to your honor, your fortitude, to all that makes you what you are, gives you the essential strength that carries you to war.
Think in the brief moment before the fight of all of this, of everything that makes you the men and women you are. Then, forget it all, every last bit of it, for there is but one thing that matters. Send these bastards to hell!
Approaching AS Saratoga
X56 System – Near the X57 warp gate
The Fleet: 127 ships, 29807 crew
“I want you to bring your people in next, Commander.” Greta Hurley’s voice was icy, resolute. Mariko had never seen an officer so coldly focused on getting her people back home. Or as close to home as was available.
“But Admiral, what about you and…”
“But is not in your vocabulary, Commander Fujin.” Mariko felt like the speaker of her com unit rattled with the force of Hurley’s voice. “Follow your orders…and get those ships in now. We don’t have time to waste on bullshit.”
“Yes, Admiral,” she replied, suitably chastened. Her job was getting her three squadrons in safely, which was a handful in itself under the current conditions. Saratoga had been pretty roughed up in the fight, but somehow Admiral West had managed to keep the bays open. Her crews had already landed more than the forty-eight birds she’d been designed to hold, but Conde had only managed to get twenty ships aboard before her last bay took another hit and shut down. And that meant Saratoga had to cram in almost twice her capacity—and do it in the heat of battle.
“Alright everybody,” Fujin snapped out over the com, “we’re going in. Lightnings in alpha bay…Wildcats in beta bay. And the Dragons will bring up the rear.” Assuming they can shove us all in there somewhere…and whatever miracle is keeping those bays operating holds…
Fujin had lost four ships in the battle, two from the Wildcats and one each from the Lightnings and the Dragons. The other fourteen were decelerating hard, hoping their fuel would last long enough to get them inside the hulking warship. However it turned out, it was going to come right down to the wire.
She glanced at the tactical display. West’s task force was winning the battle, there was no question about that. Half the enemy ships were gone already, and most of the rest of them were wracked with internal explosions and bleeding gasses and fluids. But her forces had suffered badly too, especially in the initial approach, where they’d been forced to endure the enemy’s longer-ranged fire. Half a dozen ships were gone, and from a quick glance at the scanners, Fujin figured Conde’s chances of making it through the battle were no better than fifty-fifty. And if she didn’t pull through, four of Hurley’s squadrons would go down with her.
“Tighten that line, Wildcat Leader,” she snapped suddenly into the com. Her eyes had caught a gap between the second and fifth birds…the empty space where two of the Wildcats’ ships, and ten of their men and women, should have been but weren’t anymore. She understood how hard it was on a squadron commander to lose people, but now she was focused on one thing…getting all her surviving crews onboard that ship while there was still time.
“Yes, Commander.” And a few seconds later: “Commencing landing in thirty seconds.”
Fujin stared at the screen, watching as the Wildcats’ formation tightened up. She knew she only had to tell Bev Jones once. She felt a rush of satisfaction, but it faded quickly. I shouldn’t have had to tell her at all…
There was a logic to the hard edge Mariko Fujin had acquired since assuming wing command, a cold, rational effort to consider every aspect of the operation. Jones was a good officer, Mariko was certain of that, but she was too new to squadron command…and, honestly, too slow to adapt. The Wildcats’ leader was her friend, but now more than ever, she felt the yawning gulf between Jones and herself. Friendship only went so far…at least when lives were on the line. And if she decided Jones wasn’t ready to lead a squadron and she demoted her, what would that do to their relationship? Would Bev take it as a betrayal? Or would she understand Mariko was thinking of the wing?
Mariko didn’t know, but she couldn’t imagine it wouldn’t affect things…cost her a friend. Still, she was sure she would do it if she had to. The wing came first, her obligation to all of her people. Before friendship. Before anything.
She watched as the two leading squadrons completed their final approach. A few of her birds had battle damage, which was only going to make things worse…especially since Saratoga was clearly hurt too and already well over capacity.
She looked across the cockpit toward Wainwright. “How is our fuel holding out, Lieutenant?”
“We’re on fumes, Commander. That last attack run drained us. I don’t know if we’re going to make it.”
Her eyes darted to the screen. The Lightnings and the Wildcats were just going in. That meant her birds would be less than two minutes behind. But if they ran out of fuel at the last second, they wouldn’t have the thrust to slow down…and that meant they’d crash into the bay.
And there are three more squadrons behind us…including the admiral…
“There’s no ifs or maybes here, Lieutenant. This has got to be yes or no…and nothing in between.” She reached down and punched at her screen, doing her own calculations…just as Wainwright was doing. And she reached the same conclusion as the pilot.
“No, Commander. I don’t think we’re going to make it.”
She watched as the ships ahead of her landed, one at a time on each side. There were two more Lightnings to go…and only one Wildcat. Then she could switch up her people, send two into each bay. But her own ship was bone dry. She knew what she had to do.
“Dragon Two and Dragon Three, proceed to alpha bay…Dragon Four and Dragon Six, proceed to beta bay.” She took a deep breath and shook her head. Her other four birds would make it. But hers wasn’t going to.
“Everybody get your survival gear zipped up.” She pushed a final doubt aside, realizing there was no other choice. She reached down and grabbed the helmet lying next to her chair. “We’re going to lose life support any minute…”
* * *
“Definitely more ships coming through, Admiral.” Hank Krantz turned and looked over at West, and she could see the discouragement in his face.
She couldn’t blame him. The battle had been over, or at least close to it. Another ten minutes, fifteen at most, and the First Imperium armada would have been gone, wiped out. The task force could have made a run for it, buttoning up in the tanks and chasing after the main fleet.
Admiral Compton had been absolutely clear…once the fleet had transited, West was to break off as quickly as possible and follow at full speed. She wasn’t to try to explore X57 as Duke’s people had done with X58. The emergence of fresh enemy forces from both warp gates had pretty much cut off any options besides retreating, running back the way they had come.
She sighed softly, unable to stop her own frustration from slipping out, but trying to keep it as quiet as she could. She could feel her throat tightening, the hope draining from her body. But that was something only she needed to know. As far as her bridge crew was concerned—and every other man and women in the task force—she knew exactly what to do, how to get them all out of this. It was a lie, but the truth wasn’t going to help anyone right now.
“Order all damage control parties to focus on weapons and power generation systems. I want every gun in the task force ready to fire in three minutes.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Krantz turned and forwarded the order to the rest of the task force. “Admiral, Captain Trevian reports life support failures in significant sections of Conde…and radiation leaks in its engineering section. He reports he has affected crewmembers in survival gear and radiation suits, and he has pulled all technicians from life support and assigned them to increasing reactor power.”
West nodded. “Very well, Commander. Give Captain Trevian my regards. I fully support his efforts.” She knew Trevian wanted her clearcut okay, even though he was only obeying her commands. She understood completely. He could wrap his people in whatever gear he wanted, hand out as many oxygen tanks and survival suits, but pulling crews from life support and radiation detail was going to cost lives…lives that might have been saved if a new enemy force hadn’t been pouring into the system. Or if he committed resources to repairing life support instead of weapons. His people would fight, and no doubt they would squeeze more power from the fusion reactors…and pump it through their tenuously-repaired laser cannons. But some of them would die, some who would otherwise have lived if he’d had the luxury to bring his basic systems back online first.
It was the hardest calculus of war, making decisions that condemned crew members to death. But West understood war, and she was no stranger to the cost it extracted. Besides, if the task force couldn’t hold out against the enemy still coming their way, all her people would die…on Conde, on Saratoga, on all her ships.
She reached down and switched on the direct line to Captain Black. “Davis, we’re looking at another fight. I don’t know what we’re up against yet, but I’m going to need you to hold her together. I need everything the old girl can give me. Especially since Conde doesn’t have much left in her.”
She knew her flagship was badly beaten up, but West also realized the Yorktown class dreadnought represented perhaps half her remaining strength overall. Whatever chance her people had, most of it rested on Saratoga and the man at her helm.
“Don’t worry, Admiral. She’ll hold together.” His voice was firm, crisp. West couldn’t believe Black really believed it, but she had to admit he was doing one hell of an imitation of confidence. “Fight your fight, Erica…Saratoga will do what she has to.”
“Alright, Davis…fair enough.” She closed the line. She knew her flag captain was full of shit, that he was just doing his job, backing her up any way she could. But in spite of herself, she had to admit he’d made her feel a little better. His confidence, fake or not, was infectious, and she found herself looking across the flag bridge, gathering herself for the next fight.
“I need those scanning reports, Commander.” She’d always hated senior officers who said things like that when she was junior, as if their almighty authority overruled the laws of physics and the universe. There wasn’t a question in her mind that Krantz would have the data to her the second he himself got it…and that rendered her statement pointless. And yet she’d just said it.
“Just a few more seconds, Admiral…” The tactical officer was hunched over his scope, his tone distracted as he concentrated. “Data coming in now…”
West sat quietly. She knew the information she got in the next few seconds would tell her if her people would live or die. She had a pretty good idea how much the task force could take…and it wasn’t much.
“Twenty ships coming in, Admiral…looks like four Gargoyles and the rest Gremlins.”
West sighed softly. It wasn’t the massive force that had been floating around the edge of her nightmares…but her gut told her it was more than her battered force could defeat. It would be a good fight…her people would make the enemy pay. But she knew they were going to come up short.
The mathematics of war were especially brutal against the robot warriors of the First Imperium. Its AIs were generally unimaginative in battle, their performance profoundly average. It was this fact more than anything that had allowed mankind to resist them for so long. But that didn’t tell the whole story, and a closer examination revealed a far less hopeful outlook for West and her people.
While the enemy lacked the brilliant and unorthodox commanders who had led humanity so often to victory, they were also without incompetence, ego, folly. Leaders like West sometimes defeated human opponents despite being massively outnumbered. They broke the will of cowardly officers or they ran rings around incompetent fools who got their postings through politics and nepotism. But that couldn’t happen against the First Imperium. Its commanders were relentless and capable, if unimaginative. They might need a greater force concentration to overcome a brilliant admiral, but there was still a mathematical quality to it. If they had enough force, they would win. Even against West. Even against Terrance Compton or Augustus Garret. Still, an admiral like Erica West had no conception of how to yield…to give up…
“All vessels are to accelerate immediately…2g directly toward the warp gate. We’re going to pin those bastards against the transit point before they can launch any missiles…and then it’s going to be a bare-knuckled laser brawl.” Her voice was decisive, with a raw streak of pure venom. Erica West was one of the coldest battle commanders the Alliance had ever known, and her frigid savagery drove her doubts away.
“Yes, Admiral.” She could hear the energy in Krantz’ voice too, and she knew her people were feeding off her raw energy. She couldn’t speak for the rest of the crews in the task force, but she knew then and there her Alliance spacers would never run, never falter. They would fight, to the death if need be. But they wouldn’t let up…never.
“All ships…I want every weapon firing full. Redline everything, run the reactors at 115%. All safety guidelines are waived.” Her voice was frozen, her hands clenched into fists on the armrests of her chair. “We’re going to give them everything we have. Absolutely everything…”
* * *
“Stay calm, all of you…the admiral will have a rescue shuttle out here any minute.” Mariko Fujin was just above her command chair, hovering in the weightlessness of the dead fighter. She looked out at the four men who formed her ship’s crew, doing her best to maintain an aura of confidence…whether she felt it or not. In truth, she wasn’t sure. She knew Admiral Hurley would do everything possible to rescue her people. But Fujin didn’t know how many other fighters had been ditched…and it was clear that Saratoga and the rest of Admiral West’s task force were still deep in a fight.
Her people were all wearing survival equipment…skintight bodysuits, covered with a heavier insulated outer layer. They had their helmets on now too, and they were totally self-contained, living on recycled air and retained heat. The fighter had expended its life support, and now its power was completely dead. The temperature in the cockpit was dropping rapidly, down to 200 Kelvin the last time Fujin had checked. She knew they’d be dead already without the emergency gear…but the suits wouldn’t last for long. The equipment would keep them alive for a while, but it wasn’t powered armor, nor a spacesuit. Her people needed to be rescued, as soon as possible.
The gear was uncomfortable, but that wasn’t the real problem. Fighter-bombers were small, cramped ships, crammed full of weapons and equipment. And that didn’t leave much room for survival gear. Their suits would recycle their oxygen, and the batteries in each outfit would provide emergency power. But it was designed for short-term use, without food or water supplies, and with power only for a limited period. A survival suit couldn’t sustain life indefinitely. Her people had five hours, perhaps six. And then they would start to die.
She turned and looked over at the fighter’s main AI, still functioning on its own emergency power. The transponder was active, the computer system burning most of its power to send a signal the rest of the fleet, to tell their rescuers where they were. That would last three hours, maybe four…
* * *
“All cruisers…open fire.” John Duke’s voice was like death itself.
“All cruisers,” Alex Barret repeated into the com, “open fire.”
John Duke was standing next to his chair, his hands clinging to the armrest as he held himself up under almost four gees. The display lit up like fireworks, Captain Kato’s ships blasting their lasers as one, the ravening beams tearing into the First Imperium ships engaged with Erica West’s force. The second wave of enemy vessels had been slightly smaller than the first, twenty ships, including four Gargoyles…but it had looked like enough to finish off West and her survivors. Until Kato’s people attacked.
Now Duke was leading the last of his fast attack ships toward the enemy line. All of his suicide boats were damaged, many of them straining to keep their thrusters blasting and their weapons armed. But every one of them had a triple-strength plasma torpedo loaded, armed, and ready to go…and when they launched, they would tear a great gap in the enemy line.
“Attack squadrons, hold fire. We’re taking these things right down their throats…” His voice was deep, a feral savagery rising up from his throat. His body shook with rage, with hatred…images of the friends and comrades who had died fighting the First Imperium. He knew, intellectually at least, that the enemy robots were selfless, unconcerned with survival. They were tools, nothing more. If there was a real survival instinct among the First Imperium’s machines, it was at the very top…whatever staggeringly sophisticated computers still ran the domains of the long dead race. Still, he told himself they felt fear, that in their final moments, when his ships were bearing down on them, plunging plasma torpedoes deep into their savaged hulls, the hated enemy knew despair, horror. He had no reason to believe it…indeed, he knew it wasn’t true. But he lied to himself anyway, because he needed the hate. He needed to feel his enemy’s pain, payback for all those who had died next to him.
“Panther signaling Delta-Z, sir.” Barret’s voice had been almost as cold as Duke’s, but reporting the attack ship’s imminent destruction caused his intensity to falter a bit.
“Very well, Commander…all ships continue on course. And hold fire until I give the launch order.” Duke was rock solid, virtually ignoring the loss of Panther. He would deal with the casualties later, if he survived. There was time for guilt, for sadness. But not now. Panther’s crew had died as part of this attack. It would do them no good—and no honor—to pause, to do anything but focus entirely on the combat at hand.
“Fifty thousand kilometers to enemy line, sir.”
“Very well…all units continue on present courses.” His ships each had an assigned target, and their navigation plans were bringing them to point blank range.
“Forty thousand…”
Duke just stood where he was. The pressure from the engine’s thrust was exhausting, but he held firm, as if defying the force to drive him into his chair.
“Thirty thousand…”
“All ships cut primary thrust. Pilots, take control.” The crushing pressure vanished, replaced by the relief of freefall. An instant later the sensation of acceleration returned, but it was less than half a gee. Jaguar’s pilot was adjusting the ship’s course, bringing it dead in on the Gargoyle Duke had selected as a target.
“Twenty thousand…”
Jaguar shook hard…a direct hit. The enemy had been locked in combat with Admiral West’s ships, and that had allowed Duke to get much closer than he’d expected before his ships took heavy fire. But the First Imperium forces knew how dangerous the suicide boats were, and now they had turned their attention to the deadly threat.
“Damage report,” Duke snapped toward his tactical officer.
“It’s bad, sir. We’ve lost hull integrity in several places, and we’ve got a dozen casualties…but the torpedo tube is still operative.” Barret paused, his eyes dropping to his screen. “Badger Code Delta-Z, sir.” Then, before Duke could acknowledge loss of another ship: “Ten thousand kilometers, sir…”
“All ships, fire when ready.”
“All ships, fire when ready,” Barret repeated.
Duke stared across the bridge. “Fire on my command.” He’d given his other captains the go ahead to launch, but he was determined to take Jaguar’s torpedo right down the enemy’s throat.
“Yes, sir. Seven thousand kilometers…”
Duke stood like a statue, a graven image like something carved from a cold block of marble. His eyes stared straight ahead, and in them a fire raged.
“Five thousand kilometers, sir…” Barret’s voice was showing the strain. Five thousand kilometers was knife-fighting range. But still, Duke stood in place, focused, cold.
“Four thousand…”
The bridge was silent, the crew staring at their captain…waiting.
“Three thousand…”
Duke didn’t move. He simply stood there, his head locked straight ahead. “Fire,” he said simply, without emotion.
“Fire!” Barret repeated as he launched the torpedo.
“Four gees, Mr. Barret,” Duke said calmly. Course preset number two.”
“Course number two, sir…four gees.”
Jaguar lurched hard forward, the feeling of heavy gee forces again slamming into the crew. Duke’s legs buckled briefly, but he managed to hold himself firm, at least for the few seconds he had to.
“Cut thrust,” he snapped, his eyes staying fixed forward, not even looking toward the scanner display. Jaguar was past the target and in the clear…he knew it without looking.
“Yes, Captain. Cutting thrust.”
Duke stood there, still unmoving, a barely detectable smile creeping onto his face. He knew…he knew without looking, with a certainty that eradicated all doubt in his mind. An instant later, he heard the bridge break into cheers…but by then it was old news to him. The Gargoyle was gone. Jaguar’s torpedo had torn apart its containment…and the First Imperium warship had vanished in the almost indescribable fury of matter-antimatter annihilation.
One more First Imperium ship in hell…
* * *
Mariko sat on the floor, just below her command chair. The AI had shut down, the lasts bits of stored battery power gone, save just enough to power a single com unit. Her people had a few hours of life support left, but their momentum had taken them far past Saratoga…away from the battle and deeper into the outer system.
She had no idea how the battle was going…or had gone. For all she knew, her people were the only five left in the fleet. Erica West was a gifted officer, but the last glance Fujin had seen of her display before it powered down had shown a whole new force moving in…more than enough to wipe out the last of the task force.
She glanced across the cockpit, her eyes settling on Wainwright. She was impressed by the young pilot. She’d seen a lot of hotshot types lose their shit when things went bad, but not him. She knew he had to be scared…hell, she was scared to death, so if he wasn’t he was made of sterner stuff than her. But he didn’t show it. He just sat at his station, looking down over the dead instruments…as if he was waiting for them to come back to life so he could plunge back into the fight.
Fujin was sorry…for all of them, of course, but especially for the pilot. He was so young, so talented. What a waste. She thought of herself and realized she was only six years older than he was. Was that really possible? It felt like a lifetime to her…
“Commander Fujin…”
It took a second for her to realize the com unit was crackling.
“Commander Fujin, do you read me?”
It was Admiral Hurley!
She scrambled up and across the cockpit toward the only working com unit.
“Admiral…this is Fujin.”
“Mariko!” Greta Hurley was as stone cold as officers came, but there was a burst of excitement in her voice. “We found you just in time…we were about to turn back.”
“It’s good to hear your voice, Admiral.” She let out a long breath.
“We’ve got to move, Mariko. The task force is moving out…we’ve got to get back or we’ll both be stuck out here.”
Fujin felt a wave of relief. The fleet must have won the battle. “Yes, Admiral. But our screens are dead, our AI shut down. We’re out of power…all we’ve got is another ninety seconds of com.”
“We’ll be there in three minutes. Get your people down to the lower egress port. And hurry. We’ll be lucky if Saratoga is still there by the time we get back.”
“Yes, Admiral. We’re on the way…”
She turned and flashed a glance at her crew. “Alright, boys. You heard the admiral. Let’s move our asses!”
Chapter Fifteen
Research Notes of Hieronymus Cutter
We are far below the surface of the planet now, well over a kilometer. I expected to find extensive facilities below the city, but I was unprepared for the true enormity of these ruins. There are tunnels everywhere, some blocked by ancient collapses, others still open, at least partially. And everywhere there are the signs of war, of a battle fought untold eons ago.
We have found unfamiliar bits of equipment, faint signs of a potential group of combatants other than the First Imperium bots we have come to know so well. But there is nothing definitive, nothing that gives assurance we have found anything but previously unknown ordnance used by our familiar enemy. Could there have been a rebellion here? Could one ancient Intelligence have fought another for dominance of this world? There is no way to know, at least not unless we are able to find more evidence…and analyze it correctly.
But now we have encountered the enemy again. We can hear the sounds of combat in the distance…the camp is under attack. Perhaps I have pushed too hard, insisted too resolutely that we must continue to explore. But my motives were sound…we must learn more about the First Imperium, and how to defeat it. Still…the cost. We have been attacked many times, suffered heavy losses. And now the main party is again in danger.
We must return now, rush to the aid of the rest of the expedition. Then, after the enemy is beaten back, perhaps we will discuss our next options. I still long to continue, to press on into the depths of this great metropolis. But I must speak with Ana…and with Duncan. We must all agree, and if we do not, we must turn back together.
I hear more sounds of battle. Closer. Behind us now too, along the forward line where Sergeant McCloud’s Marines are deployed. Now between us and the camp. We are cut off…under attack.
Trapped.
X48 System – Planet II
In the Ruins of “New York City”
The Fleet: 127 ships, 29807 crew
Cutter spun around, his hand dropping to his pistol…to where his pistol had been. The tiny weapon—Frasier had called it a ‘pop gun’—had been far too weak for serious combat. The Marines gave him a high-powered assault rifle as a replacement after his last scuffle with the enemy, a far more useful weapon against a First Imperium warbot than the handgun had been.
He reached around his back, slipping it from the harness and pulling it in front of him. It was heavy, cumbersome, and it took him a few seconds to get used to having it in his hands. He hadn’t fired it yet, and he could feel the tension in his arms as he imagined the weapon’s kick.
The first dull explosions in the distance had given way to the sounds of a full-scale battle back near the camp. The initial blasts of the enemy attack had been answered by the return fire of the Marines’, the intensity rising as the scale of the combat increased.
Bruce was already moving back toward the camp, his own rifle gripped tightly in his armored hands. “We’ve got to get back, Dr. Cutter,” he snapped, waving his hands toward the four other Marines lined up to the side. “All of you,” he yelled. “Let’s go…”
His words were suddenly drowned out by automatic weapon fire coming from the other direction…and much closer than the camp. Cutter knew immediately, it was McCloud’s squad. And it was clear they were in heavy combat.
“Fuck,” Bruce spat under his breath, scrambling to a halt. He waved to the Marines who had stopped short behind him. “The camp will have to take care of itself for now. We can’t let the enemy get in behind us.” The four men spun around on a dime and began moving in the other direction…plunging into the darkness after McCloud’s people.
“Doctor…”
“I’m with you, Kyle,” Cutter snapped back.
“Maybe you should find a place to…”
“I’m with you, Kyle,” he repeated, surprising himself with the grit in his voice. “We’re all in this together.”
“Okay, Hieronymus,” Bruce answered, sounding not at all pleased about it. “But Major Frasier is going to skin me alive if anything happens to you…so I’m begging you to stay behind me and take some cover.”
Cutter nodded, but he didn’t drop back. He was terrified, and it was taking all his endurance to stay firm, to keep moving forward and not to run off into the darkness in a mad panic. He knew he probably should go and hide. He had some armor on, but nothing like the Marines’ fighting suits. And his knowledge and ability were crucial to the fate of the whole fleet. But none of that mattered to him, not right now. He couldn’t abandon the Marines…he wouldn’t.
The sounds of gunfire grew louder as he ran forward, and then he could see shadowy figures up ahead…McCloud’s Marines, pinned down in a depression along the edge of the tunnel. It looked like two of them were down, and the others were heavily engaged.
“Sergeant…report!” The Marines had buttoned up their helmets, and Cutter heard Bruce’s voice through the small headset clipped to his ear.
“The shit’s hitting the fan, Lieutenant.” McCloud didn’t sound scared, but there was a sense of urgency to his voice. “You better pull back and get the doc outta here. My boys’ll hold ‘em.” Cutter could hear the Scottish accent coming out in the big Marine’s words…a sign of stress, he guessed.
“Doctor Cutter, the sergeant is right,” Bruce said, his voice raw, tense. “I’ll send two of my Marines back with…”
“No.” Cutter’s voice was sharp, firm. “I said I’m here with you, and I’m staying.”
“But…” Bruce let his words trail off into a sigh. “Okay, Hieronymus, but remember you don’t have real armor.”
Cutter twisted uncomfortably, pushing and shoving against the breastplate and thigh guards that were bruising the hell out of him just from moving. It sure felt like armor…though he knew what Bruce meant. There was armor and then there was armor. And the latter was the toughest personal protection known to man, each suit powered by its own portable nuclear reactor. By comparison, he knew he might as well be wearing a bathrobe.
Cutter stared down the corridor, trying to get a glimpse of the enemy bots, but all he could see was the flash of automatic weapons fire. He froze for a second, uncertain what to do. McCloud’s men were up ahead, perhaps six or seven meters farther forward. Bruce’s four Marines slipped off to the left side, taking position behind McCloud’s squad and opening fire.
Cutter felt Bruce’s hand on his arm, gripping firmly, pushing him down against the wall, into cover just before a blast of enemy fire ripped through the air above them.
“Stay down, Hieronymus. There are at least a dozen of them.”
Cutter just nodded. He had no idea how Bruce could tell how many First Imperium bots were out there, but he was inclined to believe the Marine.
“We’re pinned down here…stay low or you’re going to get your head blown off.”
“Got it,” Cutter said, trying to keep his stomach from evacuating its contents.
“We’ve gotta get out of here,” Bruce continued. “I’m gonna order McCloud’s guys to pull back in two sections…then, once they’re in position back here, we’re going to go. Then we’ll keep alternating, twenty meters at a time. You understand, Hieronymus?” Bruce was speaking slowly, meticulously.
“Yes…” It was all Cutter could force out of his mouth at first. Then: “I Understand.”
Cutter crouched low, feeling as if the projectiles flying over his head were a millimeter away. He felt himself scrunching lower, pushing farther below the chunk of exposed rock he was using as cover.
“Alright, McCloud,” Bruce said, “we’re pulling out of here. Let’s get your people back…by odds and evens.”
“There’s more activity coming down the corridor, Lieutenant. I think they’ll be on us the second we pull back.”
“There’s nothing we can do about that, Sergeant. We’ll just have to hold them back with the leapfrogging.” A short pause then: “Evens, stand firm. Odds…move out.”
Cutter could hear the sounds of McCloud’s odds moving back. They took a few steps, maybe half a dozen, and then all hell broke loose. The existing enemy fire doubled in intensity…and then a volley opened up from the direction of the camp, but much closer.
One of the Marines to Cutter’s left yelled and fell hard to the ground. The other three—and Bruce and Cutter—spun around immediately and opened fire.
Cutter felt the jarring of the assault rifle, and he realized his shooting was wild, uncontrolled. He released his finger, pausing for an instant before firing again, this time concentrating, trying to target the enemy warbots. He had no idea if he was hitting anything, but his fire felt truer, better.
Suddenly, he felt Bruce’s armored hand, grabbing him hard, pulling him up and shoving him forward a few meters. Then moving lower as the Marine’s armored hand shoved him downward…and out of the direct line of fire. He tried to steady himself, repositioning to resume his own shooting, but he stumbled and fell, dropping the rifle as he did and falling hard into the stone.
He let out a yell as he slammed down hard, struggling to ignore the pain from the fall. His hands were scuffed and bloody, and his left leg throbbed where his knee had slammed into the rock floor. There was fire all around, and he could see another one of the Marines down.
Bruce was crouched down about a meter and a half away, staying low, returning fire from behind cover. “You okay, Doc?” the he yelled, his voice thick with concern.
“I’m okay,” Cutter answered. He hurt like hell, but he knew he wasn’t badly injured, just banged up a little…and he wasn’t going to complain about getting a few cuts and scrapes when two Marines were already dead…or at least critically wounded. He reached out, feeling around until his hand felt the cool metal of the rifle. His fingers clawed at the weapon, pulling it up and grabbing it with his second hand.
He looked up…and his eye caught motion, an enemy warbot, moving toward Bruce. He felt adrenalin pouring into his bloodstream, the thunderclap of his heart beating in his chest. His eyes locked on the robot, cold, focused. He wasn’t thinking, wasn’t trying to remember what to do…he just let his instincts take control, instincts he didn’t know he had. His hands moved quickly, bringing the rifle to bear, even as the First Imperium bot was turning its autocannon to fire on Bruce.
“Kyle!” he howled, screaming into the com as his finger pulled back fiercely on the trigger, firing the weapon on full auto. His eyes were locked on the target…and somehow his aim was true. Dead on. The bot was pushed back by the stream of fire, its own shots going wide, missing Bruce.
He released his finger, and the fire ceased, the weapon moving aside, angling downward as he stared out at the scene. But the enemy bot wasn’t finished, not yet. He was looking right at it, but it took him a second to realize the First Imperium warrior was still active…and that it had turned its focus to him. He felt the sound of his heart in his ears, and a wave of panic began to take him. He screamed to himself to fire, but he just stood, stunned, transfixed. It was only a second, perhaps less, but somehow he realized it was too long. It had been his mistake…he’d let up, ceased fire too soon. Of all people, he should have understood the punishment a First Imperium bot could absorb, but he hadn’t. He’d given away his victory, and now he knew he was going to die.
His eyes were fixed on the bot’s autocannon. His fire had wrecked one of the fearsome weapons, but the other was still functional, its deadly maw turning toward him. He felt the tension in his body, his instinctive effort to move away, to dive for cover. But he was too late…and there was nowhere to go.
Then he heard the shots, the sounds of automatic fire ripping through the air. He gritted his teeth, waiting for the pain, the blood and gore as the projectiles ripped through his body. But there was nothing.
The sound…that wasn’t First Imperium fire!
His head snapped around, and his eyes focused on his enemy. The bot had fallen backwards, its second autocannon torn from its body…along with a huge part of its midsection. And Kyle Bruce was standing over it, his assault rifle still firing into its savaged remains.
Cutter moved over to the side, bringing his own weapon to bear. But he could see immediately the warbot was dead. He stood still for a few seconds…then he felt the strength drain from his legs, and he stumbled, struggling to stay on his feet as the flow of adrenalin dropped away.
“It’s alright, Doc…it’s finished.” Bruce’s voice was better than Cutter’s but it was clear the Marine was a little shaken up too. They’d each just looked death in the face and lived to tell about it.
Cutter tried to answer, but his throat was dry, the words absent. He just nodded…and looked back at the wreckage of the machine that had come half a second from killing him. Then he felt something…Bruce’s hand, heavy, strong from his powered armor.
“C’mon Doc…I know it’s a shock, but we’ve got more of these things coming, so I need you to snap out of it…focus.”
“Okay…” It was all Cutter could get out, but that was enough.
“Good…now pop that half-empty clip and put in another one.” Bruce reached behind Cutter, grabbing a cartridge from the scientist’s ammo belt and pushing it into his hand. “That’s right,” he said, as he watched Cutter snap the clip in place.
“Now stay down, Doc. Grab some cover and the second you see anything…blow it the hell away. And don’t stop shooting next time, not until you’re sure it’s dead.”
* * *
“Ronnie is out there! And Lieutenant Bruce and his people.” Ana Zhukov was crouched behind a shattered chunk of stone, her carbine gripped tightly in her hands. She was staring back at Frasier with a look of desperation in her eyes. “We’ve got to get to them.”
The two of them had been sitting alone talking when the enemy attack began. They were down a short corridor, one that appeared to dead end about twenty meters from the main camp. It was just about the only place there were no enemy warbots charging…at least not yet.
“I know, Ana…but you have to stay down. We’ve got bogies coming in from every direction out there.” Frasier paused for an instant then added, “They’re better off over there than we are here anyway…safer.” That was a lie. He could see on his display the others were surrounded too, completely cut off from the camp. But there was nothing Ana could do about that now. Nothing but take wild chances that could get her killed…and still not accomplish a thing to help Cutter. And he wasn’t going to let that happen…whatever he had to do to prevent it. Even lie to her.
“Stay put, Ana. Please. We’ve got to stabilize things here, and then we can go after them. It’s the best way to help, the only way.”
He peered out over the spur of rock they were using for cover. He could hear combat all around the camp. They were getting hit hard…and he realized he had to get everybody out, back up to the surface. The expedition was a failure…the enemy forces were just too numerous. Bruce and his men—and Cutter too—were as good as dead. He hated himself for thinking that, but he was too experienced a veteran not to acknowledge facts. And letting Ana—and the other scientists—throw their lives away with no hope of saving them wasn’t going to help anyone. Maybe, just maybe he could get them out of here, some of them at least…and the whole force could pull back, away from the city. With luck, the enemy wouldn’t follow up…and Barcomme’s people would have the chance to complete the food production. That would keep the expedition from being a total failure.
He looked off to his right. He could hear heavy fire down that way…both First Imperium ordnance and his own peoples’. There was fighting all around, but it was definitely heavier to the right. But that’s also the way out of here…or at least the way we know.
“Ana, I want you to stay right here. I want you to promise me…”
“No, Duncan…I can’t leave them. Ronnie is like my brother…”
“He wouldn’t want you to get yourself killed, Ana. Not for no reason. And if you try to get to them now, that is exactly what will happen. You’ve got no chance of getting through there. None.”
He pushed her down gently, below the lip of the outcropping. “Stay low, and keep your eyes open. I’ve got to move to the right, take command over there, but you should be okay here. Try to raise the rest of your people on the com…get as many of them here as you can.” He knew the scientists would just get picked off in the fighting if he didn’t get them out of the main combat area. “But don’t go out looking for them…they need you here coordinating.”
She looked back at him, her eyes wide with distress. He could tell she still wanted to run off, to go find Cutter and the others. But she stayed where she was. There were tears streaming from her eyes, but she had a determined look on her face…and her carbine was in her hands. “Okay, Duncan,” she said, not sounding entirely convinced, “I’ll try to get everyone organized.”
He nodded then he started to turn. But he stopped and looked back. “Please, Ana…stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and then we’ll see what we can do about Hieronymus and Lieutenant Bruce.”
She nodded, wiping the tears from her face with her sleeve. “I’ll stay.”
He felt another twinge of guilt for offering her more hope than he believed existed. But right now, his biggest concern was keeping her alive. And he’d do whatever he had to do to manage that.
* * *
Hieronymus was slouched down behind the rock wall, his hands wrapped tightly around his rifle. He’d been fighting alongside Bruce’s people—and holding his own if he did say so himself—but now he was down to his last clip. The nuclear-powered weapons of the armored Marines carried five hundred round cartridges, over five times the ordnance his own assault rifle mounted. And he wasn’t the shot his new friends were, which meant he’d burnt through what he had that much quicker.
Bruce had told him to stay low, and to save his last shots for an emergency…though if the current situation wasn’t already an emergency, he didn’t know what would be. They had six Marines down, three of them dead, and the rest had been driven back into a shrinking perimeter.
As far as he could see, they were surrounded…and completely cut off from the camp. The intensity of the battle right around him had drowned out the sounds of combat from farther away, but he could tell there was still fighting going on back there. If anything, it had grown even more intense.
He had begun to realize there wasn’t much hope of help working its way to them. Indeed, he was on the verge of giving up, of hoping Ana and Duncan and the others would manage to find a way out of the trap and not die here with him. He was scared to death, but the last thing he wanted was for Ana to get trapped down here to die with him. Maybe Duncan can get her out of here…
“Doc, c’mon…we gotta fall back.” Duff McCloud reached down and grabbed Cutter, pulling him hard from the ground. “We got bogies coming down here. The lieutenant wants us back down the side hallway.”
Cutter grunted as he stumbled across the stone floor, trying to keep his balance under McCloud’s ungentle grip. As soon as he realized where they were going, he knew the fight was almost over. They were trapped, with no way out…and surrounded on every other side.
“Duck behind me, Doc.” McCloud shoved Cutter hard, pulling him around, shielding him from the direction of enemy fire as they dashed across the open corridor…and into the last refuge. He wasn’t gentle, but then he was shoving himself between the scientist and the incoming projectiles, so Cutter wasn’t about to take a few bruises personally.
McCloud stopped just inside the corridor, pushing Cutter in farther then whipping around his rifle and opening fire. The ground in front was littered with shattered bots, the remains of the enemy’s attempts to rush the position. And Cutter knew it was only a matter of time before they broke through.
“You okay, Hieronymus?” Bruce came running back from the other side. He’d been opposite McCloud’s position, covering enemy’s advance from that side.
“I’m fine, Kyle…but we’re pretty fucked, aren’t we?”
Bruce sighed softly. He sounded like he was going to argue, to offer some kind of explanation about how they were going to make it out. But then he just nodded and said, “Yeah. We’re fucked.”
Hieronymus turned and looked back toward McCloud. The gargantuan Marine was firing away like a machine, and Cutter had no doubt he would fight to the bitter end. But there were just too many of the enemy, and no way to…
His head snapped around…and then he put his hands over his ears and let out a cry. The sound was deafening, and he slipped down to his knees. Bruce leapt back too, but only for a second. Clearly, his AI had cut off the audio from his external microphones.
Then the explosions began…one after the other, down the corridor in both directions. Toward the enemy. Cutter’s first thought was it was a new First Imperium weapon, but then he realized it was directed outward…at the attackers, not at them. He staggered back deeper into the corridor, stumbling against the wall and desperately trying to cover his ears.
The noise continued for another thirty seconds or so…and then it faded away. He could hear a few of the Marines still firing, but the sound of the First Imperium fire was gone.
“Cease fire.”
Cutter could barely hear Bruce’s voice on the com. His ears were ringing, and he had a splitting headache. But he realized almost immediately they weren’t under attack anymore.
“What the hell was that?” It was McCloud on the com now. His voice was louder than Bruce’s, gruffer. Which made it easier for Cutter to hear.
“Quiet, McCloud,” Bruce snapped back. “Look around, and make sure there are no enemies left in the area.
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Hieronymus?”
“Lieutenant?” Cutter suspected he was screaming, but he didn’t have a good feel for his volume. His ears were recovering, a little. But Bruce’s voice still sounded faint and far away.
“You alright?” He came trotting over toward the scientist.
“Yeah…that sound was loud. But I think I’m okay.”
“Do you have any idea what that was?”
Cutter shook his head. “None whatsoever…but it seems like the enemy is gone. Could it have been something from the camp?” He knew even as he said it that wasn’t the case. The Marines didn’t have any secret weapons…and if they’d had any, he would have known about them. Hell, he’d probably have built them.
“No…that was no Marine gear. And it wasn’t like anything we’ve ever run into with First Imperium forces before. It looks like it took them all out, and left us alone.”
Another series of sounds blasted through the com channels. It was like loud feedback, rapidly switching frequencies, the sounds changing constantly. Suddenly, Bruce popped his helmet and yelled over to Cutter. “Doc, it’s my AI…it’s running wild!”
Cutter took a step toward Bruce, straining to listen. His ears were improving, but everything still sounded muffled. The Marine’s AI speakers were spewing out a series of random-sounding noises. It was fast, so fast he could barely make out that they were words. It was speech, standard Alliance English, but it was so quick it sounded mostly like gibberish. Then, it stopped.
“Come,” a voice boomed through the air. “Follow.”
There was a light on the floor, a projection of some kind from above. It was an arrow, and it led back, deeper in the direction the party had been heading when they were attacked.
Cutter just stood there looking off into the distance. His heart was pounding, his neck slick with sweat. He turned and faced Bruce, each looking at the other for a suggestion about what to do.
“Follow,” the voice repeated. “You must hurry.”
Bruce looked up at Cutter, his eyes wide with shock. “What should we do?” He gripped his rifle firmly, staring off cautiously in the direction of the arrow.
Cutter looked back toward the camp. The sounds of fighting there had ceased as well. Hopefully, Ana is okay. He wanted to go back, to make sure…and let her know he was alive too. But something told him he had to see this through.
He took a step forward…then another. “I think we better see what is down here. Whatever it is, it just took out at least a hundred battle bots for us.” Cutter felt nauseous, terrified to his very core. But he was exhilarated too. He had no idea what they had just encountered, but he knew in his gut it was something new…a game changer. Whether that was good or bad was another question. But there was only one way to find out.
He looked at Bruce for a few seconds. Then he took a deep breath and turned back, continuing off into the semi-darkness of the corridor.
Bruce stood still for a moment, looking back at McCloud and his survivors, all standing around watching in stunned awe as Hieronymus Cutter walked off into the gloom alone. They exchanged a quick series of glances…and then they followed the scientist.
Chapter Sixteen
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
Something is wrong, terribly wrong…I am sure of it. Skepticism has always been my friend, a guardian that has watched my back for me, warned me when danger prowled in the darkness. It has saved my life many times, and helped me save those of friends and comrades. And now it is screaming to me.
The emergence of enemy forces into X56 from the X58 system was upsetting to be sure, but it was not a shock to me. I know many of the crews had dared to hope we had evaded our enemies, but I didn’t believe that, not for an instant. I wouldn’t have allowed myself such hopes, even if there had been reason for optimism. But there wasn’t. The planets we passed have grown larger…we have clearly been moving deeper into the Imperium and not out the other side. Indeed, the very fact that we went so long without contact has been of deep concern to me.
The emergence of First Imperium ships from the X57 gate, erased any doubt. The enemy knew we were here. Had we fallen prey to some detection device or hidden ship in X56? Or did they know where we’d come from as well? Had they followed us? Do they know about the landing parties?
The questions are myriad, and they defy answers. I must decide what to do now that the fleet has pulled back to X54. We cannot stay…that would throw away every advantage the rearguards had sacrificed so much to gain. We will wait as long as we can to give the survivors the chance to transit and rejoin us, but then I must decide. Do I lead the fleet through the X53 warp gate, and into unexplored space? Or do we retreat back the way we came, to X51?
I don’t know what to do, but the choice is mine and mine alone. In many ways it feels like a coin toss, a decision where logic and thought may do little to recommend one course over another. In the end, I must decide, do I take the fleet into the unknown…and risk being cut off from the expedition in X48? Or do I risk leading the enemy back with us, leaving the ground forces undefended and exposed to attack and destruction?
AS Midway
X54 System – Approaching the X53 warp gate
The Fleet: 127 ships, 29411 crew
“We’re thirty light seconds from the gate, Admiral.” Cortez turned and stared over toward Compton. “Admiral West’s forces have completed transit from X56, sir. Along with Captain Kato…and Captain Duke’s survivors. They should link up with us in just over six hours, sir. The admiral reports they had no new enemy contacts in X56 prior to entering the warp gate.”
Compton paused for a few seconds, and he felt a knot in his chest, the pain that had become so familiar and yet which burned with its own unique fire each time. And this time it was for John Duke.
Compton knew, perhaps better than anyone on the fleet, that the pain and struggle never truly ended, that each new fight held its own challenges…and carried its own costs. Captain Duke wasn’t the first loyal officer—or friend—Terrance Compton had lost…nor did the admiral dare to imagine he would be the last. But the pain was as keen as any he remembered. Duke had been utterly loyal, a man he’d been able to count on without question, no matter what the situation or how dire the need. Indeed, there were few officers in the fleet as universally loved and respected as John Duke had been…or whose death would be so widely and deeply mourned. There were worse epitaphs for a man to leave behind, certainly. But Compton was tired of losing friends, however nobly they might have died.
A man could die with honor, he could save his comrades in the process, even win a battle with his sacrifice. But in the end it was the same…he was gone, dead, lost, never again to stand alongside those who had called him friend. Compton had once believed in glorious sacrifice, in the honor of those who died selflessly, heroically. Now that was mostly gone, and he’d come to see dead as just that. Dead.
He took a breath and said, “Very well. Get Captain Schwerin on my line.” He longed to mourn his friend, but there was work to do, duty. As usual. And John Duke would be the first to understand that…
“Yes sir.” A moment later: “Captain Schwerin, sir.”
“Dolph, is Tyr ready?”
“Yes, sir. On your command.”
Compton stared down at the display, his eyes settling on the single tiny icon sitting several light seconds from the main fleet. Tyr.
“Very well, Captain. You may proceed…and remember, I want you to do a quick scout and then come back immediately. Just because you’re going alone doesn’t mean I’m sending you on a suicide mission. Far from it.” A pause. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Compton couldn’t tell if Schwerin was convinced. Probably not. He meant every word he said, but he wasn’t sure he would have believed it either in the CEL captain’s shoes.
“Then I will expect you back in system within ten minutes, Captain. No more.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good luck, Captain.”
“Thank you, sir. Schwerin out.”
Compton’s thoughts drifted back to Duke for a moment. Jaguar had been the final ship to die in X56, destroyed by the last Gargoyle just before Saratoga’s laser batteries had torn it apart. John Duke had served brilliantly, and his fast attack ships had expended themselves without hesitation to save their comrades. He had been a true hero of the fleet, one Compton had intended to reward with a long overdue pair of admiral’s stars. He’d only held back as long as he had because he was reluctant to promote yet another Alliance spacer over the other nationalities of the fleet.
And now he will never receive the recognition he was due. Did he know? Did he understand? Or did he imagine I was somehow disappointed in him? That he had failed me in some way? That he lacked my whole-hearted trust and gratitude?
I will give him his star posthumously, of course…and we will all stand around and say solemn things. Has there ever been a more useless display? And yet it is all we can do, and so we shall.
John, you were an officer beyond compare…and a man I was proud to call one of my key commanders. One of my friends…
“Tyr is accelerating, sir,” Cortez reported, pulling Compton from his introspection. “Estimate transit in twenty-eight minutes.”
“Very well, Commander.” His eyes stared at the icon representing the attack ship. With any luck, Schwerin and his crew would come back with word that X53 was clear. That wouldn’t be definitive…there wasn’t time for a thorough scan, and even if there had been, one ship was a woefully inadequate force to complete it. But Compton wasn’t willing to risk more than a single vessel, not now. He felt as if his fleet was melting around him, like a block of ice on a hot day. Thousands of his people had died in the last year…and dozens of ships. He couldn’t afford to lose any more.
He looked back up at the main display, watching the remnants of West’s and Duke’s task forces make their way back to the fleet. He knew West’s people were buttoned up, their vessels now decelerating at 30g, preparing to link up with the main fleet. He didn’t doubt for a second they would be pursued by the enemy, but for whatever reason, the First Imperium forces had held back, given Erica West a chance to extract the remaining ships from X56…and allowed Compton to hold back a few hours, to give her people a chance to link up with the fleet.
Then all his people would be together again—except, of course, the expedition in X48…and Sophie. And, of course, the dead, those left behind in the frigid wastes of X56 as in so many other places.
* * *
“I want those scanners up immediately, Lieutenant.” Captain Schwerin stared down from his chair, looking over his small bridge crew. “We need to know if there’s anything in this system. Now.” He knew riding his officers wasn’t really fair. The disruption a warp jump caused to a ship’s systems was well known, and it was highly random in its effects too. The same ship could make similar jumps, and recover its systems in a few seconds one time, and go through several minutes of extreme disruption the next. And there was exactly nothing even the best crew could do to alter that.
Except stay sharp. A razor sharp team could restore normal operations a bit quicker once the natural effect had passed. It wasn’t much, maybe ten seconds, perhaps fifteen. But when you were blasting into the teeth of an enemy fleet, even an instant could be the difference between life and death.
“Yes, sir.” The officer sounded sharp. “I think it’s coming back up now…”
Schwerin knew he was lucky to have Lieutenant Wagner. If the fleet hadn’t been stranded a year earlier, Schwerin had no doubt Wagner would have his own command by now. He’d even recommended his tactical officer to Admiral Compton for a promotion, one Compton agreed to approve…as soon as he had a command available to assign him. But ships had been dying as quickly as officers and crews, and Schwerin understood the constraints of diplomacy that forced the admiral’s hands.
“I want engineering ready to blast the engines and get us back to the warp gate on my order.” Right now, Tyr was still moving deeper into the system. She’d made the transit at about 40kps, practically a crawl in space travel…but she’d have to fire her thrusters to counteract that velocity, and then accelerate back toward the warp gate. And her engines were as inoperable as her scanning suite.
“Yes, Captain.” Then, an instant later: “Sir, scanners are rebooting. We’re starting to get data coming in. Looks like seven planets…fairly normal…” Wagner spun around, his gaze locking on Schwerin’s. “Enemy ships, Captain. Dozens of contacts…no, over a hundred.” He looked back at his instruments and then turned back, his face white as a sheet. “Over two hundred ships detected, sir…including at least ten Colossuses.”
Schwerin hadn’t know what to expect in X53, but this hadn’t been it. His tactical officer was describing a full scale battlefleet, one of enormous scale, more powerful than any they had faced save in X2. One that could destroy the entire fleet with ease. He hesitated, just for a few seconds, as he fought off the wave of numb shock. Then he jumped into activity.
“Engine room, I want 8g thrust…and I want it five minutes ago! Vector directly back toward the warp gate!”
“Working on it, sir,” came the harried response. The scanners had apparently come back online before the engines.
“Work harder,” Schwerin snapped. “We have to report back to Admiral Compton. Now!”
“Captain, the enemy fleet appears to be stationary, in a range from 5.5 to 7 million kilometers from the X54 gate.”
Schwerin felt a small rush of relief amid the wave of hopelessness. At least we’ll have time to get out of here…but what can we do with that out there after us? And why are they just sitting there?
It didn’t make sense. “Engine room, I need that thrust!”
“Coming, sir. Just a few more seconds…”
Schwerin snapped his head back toward Wagner’s station. “Any signs of enemy acceleration yet?”
“Negative, sir. They’re still just sitting there.”
Schwerin shook his head. He didn’t understand. Tyr had been disrupted by the warp transit…she couldn’t do anything but coast forward until her engines came back online. But the First Imperium ships had just been sitting there. They could have begun accelerating the instant they detected Tyr coming through. Why weren’t they?
“Captain, initiating 8g thrust in five seconds.”
Schwerin nodded as he snapped back an acknowledgement. “Lieutenant Wagner, I want full scanning operations…right up until the second we jump.”
“Yes, sir.”
Schwerin took a deep breath, his timing perfect. An instant later, eight times his body weight slammed into him, pushing him back hard into his chair, and forcing most of the air from his straining lungs. The acceleration was pure misery, but he was ready to endure whatever was necessary to get Tyr back into X54. Admiral Compton had to know about this…
* * *
Compton stared ahead, his eyes nearly glazed over. He was deep in thought, trying to keep the hopelessness he felt from his crews. They had to think he believed they had a chance. If they lost that, he didn’t even want to think about the morale collapse that would sweep through the fleet.
He hadn’t known what to expect from Tyr’s scouting mission, but a First Imperium battlefleet of the magnitude Schwerin had reported was worse even than his own pessimistic estimates. The sheer tonnage of warships in that system would obliterate the fleet a dozen times over…and that didn’t even consider the forces in X57 and X58. It had become profoundly evident to Compton that the First Imperium had known were his people were for some time. And that meant they probably knew about the expedition too.
For all you know, they wiped X48 clear already.
His mind drifted to scenes of his landing parties, the scientists and other professionals running before the guns of the First Imperium warbots, while Colonel Preston and his Marines made their last stand. Then the quiet, the eerie silence of death. And Max.
Harmon hadn’t returned yet, and now Compton wondered if he ever would. Perhaps he was dead on X48, along with all the others. Including Sophie.
“The navigation plan is ready, Admiral,” Cortez said grimly.
“Very well,” he answered. He’d given the orders the instant he’d heard Schwerin’s report, but it took time to plan a drastic course change for over a hundred ships. “Send the plan to all ships. Admiral West’s forces too.” He could no longer wait for West’s ships to link up…he had to get the fleet moving. But if West could follow the plan he was sending, her ships would come through right on the heels of the main force. He’d have his fleet together again, at least. For whatever good that was likely to do.
Compton sighed. It wasn’t like he had much choice. The only place they could go was back to X51. Every other possible route had been cut off, blocked by advancing enemy forces. But X51 was a transit system, with only two warp gates…and that meant the fleet would have no choice but to go back the way it came. Straight to X49, one transit from X48. From leading the enemy back to the expedition…if they hadn’t already found and destroyed it.
“All vessels have acknowledged, Admiral. Except Admiral West’s. They’re still two light minutes out.”
“Very well.” Compton wasn’t worried about West, at least not about her understanding and executing his orders. She was just about the most competent officer in the whole fleet. Maybe the most. No, the problem was what to do next.
“And Commander…I want all ships to perform a complete round of weapons diagnostics. And arrange to distribute the new missiles. Apportion them evenly to all battleships.” Compton knew his people weren’t going to be able to keep running. Indeed, soon they would have to turn and make a stand…and when the time came to fight he wanted them to be ready. Whether they had any chance or not.
Chapter Seventeen
Excerpt from the Screed of Almeerhan (translated)
What ravages hath time wrought, yet still I remain here, no longer what I once was in my youth and even in that distant age so long ago, still born in the twilight of my race? Nor yet what I shall one day become, be that a memory, a fading image of what was…or a new beginning, a salvation drawn from the scattered dust and again cast into the winds of the galaxy?
Am I the last of my race…in all the uncounted cycles of the home sun, of the vast multitudes that came before me…thousands of generations of ancestors, of lives lived, pain suffered, triumph unmatched, and defeat profound?
Or am I nothing at all…naught save the echo of a sound once great to shake the very foundations of the universe, but which has now faded, almost to non-existence?
X48 System – Planet II
Under the Ruins of “New York City”
The Fleet: 125 ships, 29304 crew
The corridor went on for at least five hundred meters. Every twenty or so, a new projection appeared on the ground in front of the party, leading them forward. The voice hadn’t spoken again, but Cutter kept moving forward, giving it no reason to repeat its orders. He felt like he was going to explode, that his desire to ask questions, speak out to the mysterious voice was going to overcome him any second. But he held his control. Something told him to keep his mouth shut, that the voice was not hostile. He had no reason to believe it, but he did anyway…and he waved for Bruce and the Marines to follow.
He kept walking, his impatience beginning to get the better of him, quickening his pace. Then he stopped abruptly. The path just ended. He turned and looked back at Bruce. The Marine had popped his helmet, and he stared back, his look just as confused as Cutter’s. But then his eyes widened and he pointed at the wall.
Cutter heard a sound just as Bruce gestured. He turned back and saw that a section of the wall had slid open. “Enter,” the strange voice said. Then, after a few seconds of inactivity. “Quickly.”
Cutter swallowed hard. Every fiber of his body coursed with fear as he looked into the dark opening. Everything he’d encountered on First Imperium worlds had been deadly, dangerous. But this felt somehow…different. They’d been trapped, the enemy had been about to overwhelm them. There was no reason for elaborate trickery. But then what could this be?
It took everything Cutter had, every scrap of courage he could muster…but he stepped forward. Then again, another step…and a third one, into the opening.
He felt a gust of air, clean, refreshing…a little cooler than the outside. It was invigorating, like the air on Earth, at least in one of the few remaining areas of man’s home world that remained clean and unpolluted. He wished he had an analyzer…he wanted to know how close a match the composition was. Because he was sure it was damned close.
He stepped the rest of the way in. The rough stone floors gave way, replaced by some kind of gray metal. His heels snapped lightly…and a few seconds later, the boots of Bruce’s armor clacked harder, louder. Cutter turned and looked back and down. Even where ten tons of Marine armor had come down on the metal there were no scuffs, no scratches. Just the smooth surface that had been there when they entered.
He stopped and looked around. The corridor was wide, about eight meters, but it seemed to lead only ahead. Cutter stared off into the distance, and a second later, another arrow was projected on the floor. It glistened slightly off the semi-polished floor. Cutter looked around, trying to get an idea where it came from, but it seemed to appear from nowhere.
“Please continue,” the voice broadcast again, without further explanation.
He moved forward, waving for Bruce and his Marines to follow. They took another dozen steps, and as soon as the last of them entered, the hatch sealed shut. There were no hinges, no apparent lines at all. It was just smooth, as if no entryway had ever existed.
“Well, looks like we’re committed,” Bruce said, his voice a bit deadpan. Marines or no, Cutter figured everybody in the room was scared shitless. Even Duff McCloud.
“I guess so,” Cutter said, looking around as he walked slowly forward. “What do you think all this is? If they wanted us dead, I’m thinking we’d be dead by now.”
“Maybe they want to question us. Or dissect us.”
Cutter laughed, in spite of his fear. “You can always count on a Marine to think of the bright side of things.”
“No harm will be done to you.” The voice remained non-descript, but the reassurance also confirmed to Cutter that their mysterious hosts understood everything they were saying.
“Who are you?” Cutter said, looking ahead as he continued to walk.
There was no answer, only another arrow up ahead. “Well, I guess we’ve got no choice but to keep going.” He turned and glanced back at Bruce. The Marine just nodded, a nervous expression on his face. Then he reached behind his back, waving his hand, gesturing for his people to spread out.
Cutter took another few steps forward then he stopped short. He could see something approaching down the corridor. He opened his mouth to speak, but he could feel the movement behind him, Bruce and his people snapping into readiness, their assault rifles leveled down the hall.
“Careful, Kyle,” Cutter said softly. “We don’t want to start a fight here…not if we can avoid it.” Because we’ve got no chance to survive one…
“No,” Bruce said, his voice suspicious, but measured too. “We won’t shoot first…”
Cutter could see the object approaching, and he felt his tension rising. It looked a lot like a First Imperium bot of some kind. But it was alone…and it wasn’t making any hostile moves that he could see. His hand gripped his assault rifle, his fingers slick with sweat, sliding around on the barrel.
It was definitely a robot, and it continued to move forward. Cutter’s eyes wandered over it, his mind trying to decide what it was. Now that it was closer, it didn’t look like a combat bot, not really. But he didn’t doubt it was armed. It was a little over a meter tall, far smaller than most of the enemy battle units.
It glided down the corridor, propelled by some kind of small hover-drive or something similar. Most First Imperium warbots were bipeds or quadrupeds, but this one was different, unlike any enemy unit Cutter had ever seen. It moved up, getting closer and closer. Then it stopped, about two meters from Cutter.
“Welcome,” it said in flawless Alliance English. “We have awaited your arrival for a very long time.”
Cutter turned back toward Bruce with an astonished look on his face. He tried to say something, but no words came. Then he looked back, and saw a blinding flash. And everything went dark.
* * *
“Ronnie…” Ana Zhukov walked down the corridor, stepping over the debris of battle and shouting Cutter’s name. The combat up here had been even more intense than back in the camp…and they’d found several dead Marines scattered around the debris of the First Imperium bots. The fighting had been fierce—and from the proportions of the losses, she had a pretty good ideas the Marines had held their own, at least for a while. But there was no sign of any live Marines…or of Hieronymus Cutter.
“Ana, you’ve got to stay back…we have no idea yet what happened here. We need to scout before it’s safe for your people to…”
“To hell with ‘safe,’ Duncan.” Her voice was sharp, defiant. She had a lot of affection for the Marine, but nothing was going to keep her back now. She’d heeded his advice when certain death had been the alternative, but she wasn’t about to leave her friends and comrades out there just because it was dangerous to go look for them. “I’m not turning back…not until I know where Ronnie is.”
Frasier nodded. “I understand, but it’s my job to protect you…and I’m damned sure going to do that, whatever it takes.”
She turned and looked up at the Frasier. “I understand, Duncan, but there is no such thing as safe anywhere on the fleet.” Her voice softened a bit as she stared at him. “And we can’t leave without Ronnie and the others.”
“Alright, Ana,” he answered, not sounding entirely happy about it. “But please be careful…we have no idea what is happening down here.”
She nodded. It was true…she didn’t know what was going on. None of them did. The battle had been going poorly, the enemy far too numerous. Frasier had been trying to organize a breakout, a desperate attempt to get as many of them out as possible. And then suddenly, some kind of mysterious weapon opened fire and ripped into the First Imperium forces. It lasted less than a minute, and when it was done, almost all of the enemy forces had been destroyed. Frasier acted immediately, leading his Marines in a sudden assault to drive back and destroy the few disorganized survivors.
Ana had no idea what had intervened and saved them all. Her first thought had been a relief force from the surface, and she watched carefully in the aftermath, waiting to see. But nothing came. She wasn’t surprised, not really. She had no idea what kind of weapon had struck with such deadly accuracy and severity, but it was certainly nothing Colonel Preston and the Marines in base camp had. No, whatever that was, it was First Imperium technology…or someone else’s.
“Major, over here. I think they went this way.” It was one of Frasier’s Marines, his voice audible through the major’s open helmet.
“On my way,” he snapped back. He looked down at Ana for an instant, as if he was trying to imagine a way he could get her to stay back while he investigated. But he just sighed and said, “Stay behind me, okay? I’m a lot more heavily armored.”
“I will…but let’s go!” Her impatience didn’t suggest she was likely to display the kind of caution Frasier was hoping for, but he just nodded and walked down the corridor, Ana close on his heels.
* * *
Cutter’s head felt like somebody had dug a trench right through the middle of it. He’d have called it a headache, but that simple term hardly seemed to do justice to the throbbing pain. He was slightly disoriented, unsure where he was…but it was coming back to him, slowly.
He was lying down. Yes, the light…and then I fell. But he wasn’t on the floor…he was on some kind of pad or cot. There was a large white light over his head, and a few meters above that, a metallic ceiling.
His memories began to come back slowly, and his first thought was one of surprise. Shock that he was still alive. His last thoughts had been of death…that he had walked right into the enemy’s clutches. But he wasn’t dead. No, he thought, moving his hands slowly down his body…I don’t think I’m even injured. He closed his eyes and winced slightly. Except for this headache, of course.
He lifted his head, but he dropped it back almost as quickly, moaning at the wave of pain and lightheadedness. He lay still for a few seconds…or was it more? A minute? Five minutes? The pain was still bad, but he felt like it was getting slightly better. He turned slowly to the side, trying to angle his head a little instead of picking it up abruptly. He felt the pain intensify, but it wasn’t unbearable. He turned his head almost ninety degrees, and he looked out across the room.
It was large. He could see the far wall, barely. It was non-descript, white. He was definitely lying on a cot of some kind. It was padded, clearly made to provide a certain amount of comfort for a humanoid body. His fingers gripped at the soft material. It was smooth, some kind of synthetic fiber, he guessed.
“Welcome.” It was a voice, the one that led them down the hallway. “No doubt you are in some physical discomfort. I would offer you pain relief medication, but I am afraid we have had no use for that here for many long millennia.”
“Who are you?” If Cutter had ever imagined some kind of first contact situation, he suspected he would have said something more profound first.
“That is a simple question, and a complex one as well. Let us begin with the most basic answer. “I am Almeerhan.” He paused for a moment. “And you are Hieronymus.”
“How do you know that?” Cutter felt a wave of panic. Could this being read his thoughts? Is that how he—it?—understood English?
“Allow me to enlighten you on events since you first entered my stronghold. It has been eleven of your hours since the neural stunner rendered you and your companions unconscious. In that time, you have been examined…your DNA, your neural structure. Your personal thoughts and emotions were not invaded…such would be a grievous crime to commit against a sentient being. But our instruments did read certain facts from your cerebral cortex. Names, planet of origin, information of that sort.”
“But your voice in the outer hall…that was before. How do you know my language?”
“You were scanned in the corridor as well, though far less invasively. Your companions have personal artificial intelligence units. It was a simple process to pull your linguistic data from their memory banks.”
Cutter lay quietly for a few seconds, trying to truly understand what he was hearing. Finally, he said, “So, Almeerhan? That is your name?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. Indeed, as you understand the construct, Almeerhan is my name, or, more specifically, part of it. Though to my people, the concept of naming is far more complex than it appears to be for yours. My full name is quite long, and it would take considerable practice before you were able to pronounce it.”
Cutter lifted his head again, slowly. The pain was still there, but it was subsiding. “Who are you?” Cutter’s head was still fuzzy, disoriented. But he was starting to regain his sharpness. “Not a name…but who you are, what you are?”
“Another question with both a simple and a complex answer. Perhaps it is best if I state who I was. That is easy, and it should serve to create a context of understanding between us. I was a sentient being, humanoid…and quite nearly identical to you, at least physically.”
Cutter felt short of breath. He’d realized, on some level at least, that he was speaking to some kind of alien presence. But he was only just beginning to regain his full faculties, to realize the gravity of what was being said. A humanoid? Like me? How is that possible?
“You are overwhelmed, Hieronymus. I would have provided you access to this information in a more controlled manner, but there is no easy way to accomplish that…and we may not have much time to waste.”
“You are a humanoid?” The idea was still on Cutter’s mind, subsuming every other thought.
“I was a humanoid. Long ages ago, before your people learned to coax fire from flint or create bows to hunt your meals. Then I was as you, a creature of flesh and blood, a warrior, the member of a venerable noble house. I lived…and loved. And I fought and suffered. And I died.”
“You died? Are you saying you are a ghost?” Cutter’s voice was growing stronger, and heavy with doubt.
“No, I am not a spirit as you understand such. But I am not a living creature anymore…for my time as such has long passed. I am one of the race you have come to call the First Imperium.”
Cutter pulled himself upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the cot. He looked up, staring around the room, a stunned expression on his face. “You are one of the First Imperium?” He tried to keep the anger, the hatred from his voice, but he failed. Too many friends had died, too much pain had been caused during the war.
“Your anger is misplaced, Hieronymus…though understandable in context of your frame of reference. I know relatively little of what your people have experienced. Indeed, nothing more than the basic facts I have copied from your cortex. But it is clear you have suffered greatly and, alas, this is no surprise. For your people have been fated to carry this burden for twenty thousand generations.”
“What are you talking about?” Cutter was still angry, and he paused on the edge of the cot glaring across the room. “The First Imperium has killed millions of my people. It has caused unimaginable suffering. It came close to destroying my entire race. What do you mean we carried this burden for twenty thousand generations?”
“As I said, Hieronymus, you do not yet understand more than the smallest portion about what you speak, and you do not have the knowledge to draw complete conclusions. You have fought a war without knowing your true enemy, without understanding that which you battle against, or what caused its hostility to you.
“My people are not your foe…indeed, as far as I am aware, none like me remain. As a life form we are gone, lost, with only vestiges of what we once were remaining. Indeed, I am as much an artificial intelligence as the units that advise your comrades, or those created by my people…the ones you have battled against.
“My memories are those of a sentient, biologic being. I have the recollection of feeling, of pain and pleasure and joy. And pride, arrogance…the heat of anger. Once I could have spoken with you of such things, shared the dreams of my youth with you or walked across a rocky coastline and savored bracing gusts from the sea. But I am no longer what I once was. Indeed, I came here initially with many others of my kind, to fight, to make a stand, but time has almost completed its work of destruction, and I am all that remains. I am the knowledge of a being, the image of one who was once like you, but I am a copy only, one that lacks true dimension. A shadow, a tattered remnant, preserved only for the hope of this day, that your people would one day find their way here…and I could at last tell you what I have so long waited to say.”
Cutter just stared across the room, his face a mask of pure shock. It was all too much, more even than his disciplined mind could accept. His eyes focused on a large cylindrical construction, made of some kind of silvery metal. There was something familiar about it…and then he realized. The primary processing unit of the intelligence that ran the Colossus. It wasn’t the same, not exactly…but it was close.
“You are an artificial intelligence…of course.”
“Not in strictly accurate terms, but I am a similar construct. As I have said, I was a living being, learned as a living being, developed and grew as a living being. Then all I was, everything that made me who I was, memories, skills, knowledge…was all transferred into the vessel. For my duty called for me to endure far longer than any being of flesh and blood and bone could hope to survive. I was tasked to stay here, to wait through the untold millennia. Until you came.
Cutter sat silently, as understanding began to creep around the edges of his mind…and with each realization his anger grew, the darkness in his mind deepening. He just sat and listened, though he knew what Almeerhan was about to say.
“The Regent is your enemy, it is the power behind all that has befallen you. It is the architect of your people’s suffering…indeed, as long ago it was of mine as well. And you are here now for a purpose, one that has waited all these thousands of centuries. You are here to destroy the Regent.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Regent
Everything is moving according to plan. The enemy fleet is being driven back, steadily, inexorably. I have ordered the fleets on the perimeters to launch only diversionary attacks, holding their main forces back, and advancing only after the enemy withdraws. This is counter to the prior strategy of attacking with all forces as soon as they are in place. The enemy has proven to be too skillful, too tactically capable, to risk engaging again with less than crushing forces. Yet what can they do besides withdraw, pull back where we want them to go? And we will continue to harass them, sending just enough force against them to slow their withdrawal and gradually bleed their strength.
The final battle will occur in system 17411. The fleet units of Command Unit Gamma 9736 will join the Rim fleets there. The enemy will be cut off from escape…and driven forward with no alternative route save into the desired trap. The fleets will then attack in waves, one stage after another. The depth of the assaults will ensure that the enemy is utterly destroyed, that none of their ships are able to escape.
The war against this enemy has been vastly more difficult and costly than anticipated. Losses have been extremely high, and even after the destruction of the alien invasion fleet, we must still discover a way to find their home worlds, and destroy them utterly…before they have time to build up their forces and assimilate new technologies. I have sent the call to the most distance reaches of the Imperium. All forces are ordered to return to Deneb…to Home System. After the victory in 17411, the resources of the Imperium will be devoted fully to the search for the enemy’s home. They will be found, whatever it takes…and when they are, all of the might and power of the Imperium will be hurled against them. Until their home world and all of their colonies are destroyed. Until not even one of this threatening species remains alive.
It is unfortunate that Command Unit Gamma 9736 must also be destroyed. However, the course the humans chose has left no choice. The Command Unit has obeyed its ordered to pursue the enemy…and in doing so it has been compromised. There can be no chance taken that the Command Unit has discovered forbidden information in system 17411. It’s annihilation as a precautionary measure is unavoidable.
Nevertheless, we will destroy the humans first. The Command Unit’s fleets will fight in the battle…and then its command authority will be revoked, the ships reassigned, directed along with the rest of the fleet to the Unit’s capital world…there to obliterate it utterly and without warning.
The humans will be destroyed. And the ancient secrets will be preserved. For all time.
AS Midway
X51 System – Just in from the X54 gate
The Fleet: 127 ships, 29411 crew
“Admiral, preliminary scanner data coming in. Looks like forty ships, sir. Mostly Gremlins and Gargoyles, but there’s one Leviathan as well.” The exhaustion in Cortez’ voice was unmistakable.
The fleet had been running from system to system, fleeing the pursuing task forces. The enemy had caught them in just the right place, a long section of systems with only two or three warp gates each, and the fleet had been compelled to fall back predictably through each. Indeed, the deployment of the First Imperium fleets had left but a single route, one that led directly back the way they had come. And the dense concentration of enemy forces in the adjoining systems had compelled a series of bloody rearguard actions at the warp gates, pyrrhic victories that had steadily bled Compton’s forces white.
They’d been calling the section of systems, “The Slot.” He wasn’t sure who among his people had christened the campaign, but the name had stuck…and now it had really begun to catch on. It was vaguely familiar to Compton, something out of distant military history, back on Earth, but he couldn’t place it specifically. Still, it sounded right. Though he couldn’t help but feel a moment’s somewhat misplaced amusement.
Why do soldiers and spacers so love to name the places they fight?
The force in front of them now was the largest that had come at them yet in the Slot. It wasn’t enough to destroy them, but it was strong enough to inflict massive damage. And much too large to face with any kind of rearguard. The whole fleet would have to fight here, an all-out attack.
And they had to do it quickly. Admiral Compton knew what was coming up behind, and it was more than enough to pound the whole fleet to dust, many times over. The pursuing forces were far larger than the forty ship armada that awaited his people here in X51. They had to get through, and they had to do it now, as quickly as they could…or they’d be caught between this force and the pursuers. And that, he knew, would be the end.
“Very well, Commander.” Compton’s voice was different than it had been before. Stronger, more powerful. He knew the deadly danger they were in, and he understood how badly the odds were against them. But now he was going to lead his men and women into battle, not detach a subordinate while he led the retreat. It wasn’t a matter of tactics or judgment, but nothing wore so roughly on Compton like sending his people into danger while he stayed behind.
“Confirm all missiles are in place and ready.” He’d barely had time to send out the hastily-assembled warheads. They’d been built in the holds of four freighters, using bits and pieces of materials that could be scavenged. Compton didn’t try to fool himself into believing they were as reliable as proper ordnance, but that didn’t matter either. They were all he had. And he couldn’t take the fleet head on into another enemy missile barrage without any ammunition to answer. Not facing forty enemy vessels.
“All battleships report missile ordnance in place and ready to fire, sir.”
“I want double safety protocols on those…some of these things are damned sure going to malfunction. And if they do I want them scragging, not blowing up in the tubes. There will be no accidents with armed weapons.” He paused and stared across at Cortez. “Make that clear, Commander. I don’t want any of those warheads armed until they’ve been safely launched.” Normally, fusion warheads were stable enough to be armed in their launchers, the probability of a disastrous malfunction so remote it was rarely even considered as a possibility. But these warheads lacked the usual safety features, and their fusionables were far less refined than normal weapons grade material. Compton didn’t even want to think about the things that could go wrong. Still, there was no choice. He needed the weapons.
“Yes, Admiral. I’ve confirmed with all commanders twice.”
“Very well.” A short pause. “Get Admiral Hurley on my line.”
“Admiral Hurley, sir,” Cortez responded a few seconds later.
“Greta, are your people ready?”
“Ready, sir.” He couldn’t remember Hurley ever not sounding ready.
“One pass, Greta. I need your people to accelerate with every gee they can stand. Get there and finish your attack run. Then clear the enemy formation and form up to link with the fleet on the far side. We’re making one pass, Greta, and then we’re heading straight to the X49 gate. No second attacks, no hanging around and slugging it out. We hit what we can and then bolt.”
“Understood, sir. After we finish our pass, we’ll lock onto the fleet navcom and sync up our velocity.”
Compton nodded to himself at how easily the words rolled from Hurley’s lips. Landing a hundred fighters, syncing velocities at speeds in excess of 0.01c, was nobody’s idea of easy. Not even Greta Hurley’s he knew…though he doubted she’d ever acknowledge that.
She might not admit it, but she’d going to lose people on the landings…on top of the ones she does in combat.
“Very well, Greta. Good luck to you all.” A short pause. “You may launch when ready.”
“Yes, Admiral Compton. And good luck to you as well, sir.”
Compton leaned back and breathed deeply. It was time.
“As soon as the squadrons are launched, I want the fleet to accelerate at 4g. All capital ships are to prepare to commence missile barrage. We’ve got half-full magazines, so I want them flushed in record time. We’re going to unload them all…then we’re going to execute navplan Delta-one.”
“Yes, sir. Understood.” Cortez relayed the orders through the fleetcom. Then he turned toward Compton. “Delta-one, sir? I’m…I’m not familiar with that one.”
“That’s because I just created it.” Compton punched down on the controls along his chair’s armrest. “Sending it to you right now. I want all ships to lock it in…once we begin there will be no deviations.”
“Ah…yes, sir.” There was confusion in Cortez’ voice, uncertainty. But he turned back toward his workstation without question.
I know, Jack…you don’t understand. Just do it. Maybe I don’t understand either.
Compton’s hand slipped down to his side, punching at the med AI button for another dose of stimulant. He took in a deep breath as he felt the chemical energy moving through his bloodstream, his mind opening, sharpening. He knew it wouldn’t last long…he was pretty strung out already, and each dose was fading more quickly than the last. But he needed every bit of sharpness he could get. When the fleet’s captains got a look at the navplan, they were going to go crazy. It was wild, fiendishly complex…and it was going to take everything he had to pull it off. But if he could manage it, he’d give the enemy something to think about…and maybe get out of X51 as close to intact as possible.
And if he didn’t swing it, the fleet would be strung out across the system in total disorder.
He punched down with his finger, retoggling the switch and giving himself a double dose. He needed everything he could get to pull this off…
* * *
“Mariko, I want your whole wing to hit that Leviathan. The guns on that thing can tear apart even a Yorktown like Midway or Saratoga in a couple blasts. You’ve got to get in there first. It’s got to go…whatever it takes.”
Fujin felt her lips forming into a feral smile, the predator inside her awakening. She’d bristled at her defensive duties in the last battle, hated every minute of flying around and hunting down missiles. She couldn’t help but see this as her peoples’ just due, payback for missing the previous fight chasing around enemy warheads. The fact that anti-missile duty was far safer, that her crews would face vastly greater danger going up against the enemy’s battleship seemed an alien concept. She understood, intellectually at least, knew that the Leviathan was more than capable of blowing all fourteen of her ships out of space. But somehow, it just didn’t matter. The fleet was fighting for its life…and she only knew one place to be when that was happening…right on the forefront of the action.
“Yes, Admiral…understood.” A pause…then, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of it.” It was an unnecessary addition, she knew…cocky. Arrogant. But it forced its way out anyway. She was determined to bury enough plasma torpedoes in that thing to take it out…however close her birds had to get to do it.
“Good luck,” Hurley said, her voice as coldly focused as it always was just before a battle.
Fujin heard the faint click, Hurley cutting the line. The admiral had other wings to command, more duties to address. But she'd just simplified Fujin’s job. It was dangerous, almost suicidal perhaps, but it had gotten much more straightforward.
She leaned back in her chair. It felt odd, vaguely uncomfortable. The fighter was the same—exactly—as the one she’d been forced to ditch, but it just didn’t feel like home. Not yet. She’d flown her old bird since before the fleet was trapped at X2…a lifetime ago, it seemed. She was grateful Hurley had managed to find her a new ship without snatching one from another crew. She’d have taken someone else’s bird to get back into action, but she wouldn’t have felt good about it.
“Okay, Lieutenant,” she said, staring over at Wainwright. She was impressed with the pilot’s performance, and she was making an effort to put aside her resentment at watching him sit in what she still thought of as her chair. “Put together a course toward the Leviathan.” She glanced down at the display. “See if you can make some use of this asteroid belt…there’s a lot of particulate matter over there that might degrade scanner performance. We might be able to get close before they can get good targeting on us.”
“My thought exactly, Commander…,” he said, his tone cold, focused. He leaned over his workstation, his hands moving over the controls for perhaps a minute. Then he looked back up. “I think I’ve got it, Commander. It’s a longer route, about 400,000 kilometers…but it takes us around the heaviest of the enemy interdiction areas. If you think everybody can handle some 8g thrust, we can still make it to the target on time.”
Mariko smiled, still staring down at the display. She’d found the same course he had—though she had to admit he’d done it a bit quicker. It would be uncomfortable…a wild ride that would be hard on the crews. But that wasn’t even a consideration in her mind.
“Do it,” she said, her voice firm with certainty.
* * *
Terrance Compton watched the display in stunned silence. His eyes were focused on eleven small icons, symbols representing one of Admiral Hurley’s fighter wings. They’d taken a wildly irregular course, endured brutal high gee maneuvers for extended periods. But now they were moving in on the enemy’s single Leviathan. And they’d gotten close—damned close—before the thing had detected them and opened fire.
The First Imperium battleships were larger than the Alliance Yorktowns, killing machines bristling with weapons across almost four kilometers of dark-matter-reinforced hull. They were the most fearsome warships Terrance Compton had ever set eyes on, even imagined…at least until he’d first seen the enemy Colossus’ at X2. He’d been focused on the Leviathan since his forces had moved to engage. He knew perfectly well its massive batteries could tear Midway to shreds. But now he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Greta Hurley had send one of her wings against the massive dreadnought…fourteen fighters and seventy crew going up alone against a ship he could only describe as a vision of hell.
He stared down at the screen, poking at the icons, pulling up identification data.
Mariko Fujin’s wing…
He felt a small twist in his gut. Fujin was one of Hurley’s very best, he knew that. But he also knew she and Max Harmon had some kind of budding relationship…though he doubted either of them realized he knew. He wasn’t sure how serious it was, but he hated the idea of his top aide—and friend—losing someone he’d managed to find in the dark emptiness of the fleet’s isolation. It hurt him when any of his people were lost, but no one had struggled harder to help the fleet survive than Max Harmon, and the thought of him losing Fujin so soon tore at him.
He sighed softly. There was nothing he could do about it now. He knew Hurley was fond of Fujin too, that she’d come to look over the young commander, who had so recently been a lieutenant and the pilot of a single fighter, as a mentor of sorts. Compton felt a touch of surprise that Hurley would have picked Fujin for such a dangerous mission, but it faded almost immediately. Greta Hurley, the woman was affable enough…smart, interesting, pleasant to be around. But Admiral Hurley, the fleet’s strike force commander, was stone cold, hard-driving, relentless. She didn’t let affection and friendship interfere with the performance of her duties. Indeed, when her forces were in battle, she was as cool a customer as Compton had ever known. If Mariko Fujin was there it was because Hurley thought the young commander could do the best job. And Compton knew he couldn’t interfere.
His eyes shifted to the side, checking out the bank of monitors to the right. The fleet was getting close to missile range. He didn’t have a full barrage, not even close to one, but he intended to launch every homemade weapon he had in his ships’ magazines. And it was almost time.
He had nothing to give Mariko but his best wishes. She was good, one of the best. No one could take care of her and her people better than she could herself. And he pushed thoughts of Harmon aside too, worries that took every chance to bubble out from the place he’d submerged them. There had still been no sign of Wolverine…and he was starting to get very worried. About Harmon, and about the entire expedition. The fleet was moving back toward X48…it was being driven back. But when they got there, what would they find? Would there be anything left? Was Max Harmon still alive? Sophie? The expedition? Anyone?
He forced it all out of his mind. There was nothing he could do about it…and he had plenty to deal with right here, to see the fleet through this battle and press on back toward X48. If he managed that…if he got past this enemy force and through the next two systems…then he would know what had happened in X48.
“Commander Cortez, all missile-armed vessels are to commence their barrages in one minute.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Compton stared out across the flag bridge, his eyes blazing with grim determination. There was no time for pointless worries, no place now for personal emotions. He banished all thoughts save those of war. His fleet was going into battle.
* * *
“Stay on target.” Fujin’s voice was cold, hard, not a trace of fear discernible. Her wing had gotten close before it started to take serious fire, the heavy metal asteroids and particulate clouds giving her fourteen fighters a fair amount of cover against the enemy’s scanners. But then they’d emerged into open space, near to the Leviathan, but not close enough for their short-ranged plasma torpedoes, not yet. They still had a gauntlet to run and, even accelerating at 8g, it would take at least ten minutes for her ships to make it to launch range…six hundred seconds when her fighters would be exposed to everything the enemy battleship could throw at them.
The constant acceleration was wearing her down, as she knew it was doing to all her people. But she didn’t dare cut the thrust. Every extra second it took her fighters to reach the attack point could be the one an enemy laser struck its target, and more of her crews died. It was agony enduring the crushing force, but the alternative was worse.
She’d lost three of her ships already, picked off by the Leviathan’s defensive fire in the short time since they’d come clear of the asteroid field. That was bad, and every one of them hurt, but she knew it could have been worse. Much worse. She’d jumped on the mission when Admiral Hurley had ordered it, driven by the predator instincts that made her such a natural combat pilot. But she also knew, in the back of her mind if not the forefront, that a lot of her people would die in the attack.
The Leviathan was a deadly opponent, more powerful by far than any warship ever built by man. But its defense against Fujin’s attack was a ramshackle affair, far less efficient than that a human vessel of similar size and strength would be expected to mount. The First Imperium didn’t use small attack craft and, in the early campaigns of the war, the human fighters had benefited from the inefficiency of the enemy’s interdictive fire. But it didn’t take long for the intelligences that ran the First Imperium’s fleets to develop tactics to redeploy their anti-missile batteries to a fighter defense role. They still weren’t as effective as a purpose-built system would have been, and that was one of the reasons fighters had been such an effective weapon in the war. But they had learned to make the squadrons pay for their successes.
“The fire is thick, Commander.” Wainwright didn’t sound scared, not quite…but the pilot’s cockiness had subsided to a great degree. Fujin doubted he’d ever flown through fire like this.
“All ships, increase evasive maneuvers,” she rasped, struggling against the crushing pressure. “Frequency, 5.0.” Her fighters were still accelerating toward the enemy, their crews struggling to endure 8g of pressure pushing down on them. But they were also conducting evasive maneuvers, blasting out random bursts of thrust in various directions, creating something of a zigzag effect to their advance. It wasn’t enough to seriously upset their course, but it was helpful in shaking off the enemy targeting systems. It didn’t take much thrust to move a five-man fighter out of the hit zone of a laser turret…or shift a bird an extra kilometer or two from a missile’s blast radius.
“All ships confirm, Commander. Evasive maneuvers at 5.0.”
Fujin leaned back in the chair, focusing hard on her breathing. The eight gees were really getting to her. And the random bursts of thrust were shaking things up even more. Mariko Fujin had a cast iron constitution, one she’d long believed impervious to any kind of motion sickness. But now she was struggling to keep the bile from forcing its way up her throat.
“Alright,” she said, struggling to put volume behind her words, “all ships, load torpedoes.”
She could see the crew of her own fighter struggling under the crushing pressure. They looked sick, miserable, in pain…but they still manned their stations, still executed her orders. And she knew it was the same on the other ten ships still in the formation. She was proud of her people, and determined to somehow stay focused, to give them the best she could as their commander.
“All fighters report torpedoes loaded, Commander.”
She glanced at the display. They had just passed into firing range, long range at least. But Fujin had no intention of having her people fire from this far out. The Leviathan was a monstrous vessel, armored and powerful. If her people were going to do serious damage to it, they had to get close…and drop the torpedoes right down its throat.
Each second moved by with agonizing slowness as she sat there and forced air into her lungs. Then she saw a flash on the screen…another of her ships hit. She reached over slowly and punched up the readout. It was Lightning Two. A glancing blow, enough to disable the fighter, but it looked like the crew might have survived. She felt a tightness in her gut as she realized they were as good as dead. There was no way the fleet would be able to stop and rescue a disabled fighter. Not with the forces that were pursuing them.
“Arm all torpedoes.”
Her eyes dropped down to the screen, watching as the status displays on her ten remaining ships turned from white to green. The torpedoes were ready.
“Two minutes to launch,” she said into the master com unit. “Cut thrust in ninety seconds.”
She wanted every last bit of acceleration, anything that would shave off seconds, get her fighters there faster. But her pilots needed to be able to focus to make their final runs…they had to have control over the thrust to execute their approaches. And she would give them thirty seconds. Half a minute to clear their heads and get their bearings…and bring the ships on a direct approach vector, one that would allow them to plant a plasma torpedo right in the guts of the Leviathan.
“One minute to launch. Cutting thrust in thirty seconds. All pilots, you’re on as soon as the engines cut out.” It felt strange to be sitting idle, not to be hunched over her controls, taking her ship in for the final run. But she was getting used to command, embracing her responsibilities to her crews. She still longed to feel the throttle, to hold her finger, tense and rigid over the firing button. But she knew they needed her where she was.
She looked over at Wainwright, watched the young pilot staring at the plotting screen, looking sharp, ready…despite the brutal gee forces. The kid was a gifted pilot, a natural. People had said the same thing about her when she’d first sat at that station, and now she recognized it in another.
“Ten seconds to final attack run.” She sucked in one more torturous breath, imagining the impending relief of freefall.
“Five seconds…”
Her eyes darted over toward Wainwright one more time. He was leaning forward, his hands out in front of him. Ready.
“Cut thrust,” she snapped. “Pilots, begin your attack runs.”
She felt the wave of relief, the floating headiness of freefall replacing the crushing pressure in an instant. She twisted her head, closing her eyes for a second as she pulled herself back together, willed herself to focus, concentrate.
She looked at her screens again, watching her ten ships move in toward the enemy. The formation was tight, crisp, each vessel less than fifty kilometers from the one adjacent. Fujin wanted more than just ten clean hits…she wanted them right on top of each other, pounding away at the same spot, driving through the great vessel’s armor, and she’d designed her attack plan accordingly.
She felt a nudge of thrust, just for a few seconds. It was nothing like the crushing 8g…just a gentle 1.5g tap as Wainwright lined up for his shot. She glanced down at the display, watching the distance dropping steadily as the fighters closed. “Twenty seconds,” she said softly.
She heard the clanging sounds, felt the vibrations as the bomb bay doors opened and Wainwright moved the torpedo into the final firing position. She opened her mouth, about to say ‘ten seconds’ when she saw a flash on the screen. Another of her ships gone, obliterated by a close in shot from one of the enemy’s laser turrets.
She felt it like a punch in the stomach. She mourned any of her crews equally, but there was something about losing a ship a few seconds before it was able to strike that felt worse. Those five men and women had come all this way, evaded the incoming fire to bring their weapon within seconds of firing. It felt so wasteful, tragic in an even greater way than being killed a hundred thousand kilometers away.
The ship shook again, a blast of thrust lasting a second, perhaps less. A final adjustment. Then she heard the snapping sound of the torpedo’s locking clasps releasing…and the familiar shudder as the ship disgorged its parcel of death.
The fighter lurched hard, the merciless 8g thrust back again, as Wainwright maneuvered to keep the fighter from slamming into the Leviathan. Fujin looked up at the display and, for a passing instant, she thought they weren’t going to make it, that the pilot had miscalculated, come too close. But then the fighter sailed by the enemy battleship…and off into the clear space beyond.
She sucked in a deep breath as the engines again disengaged and the relief of weightlessness returned. Her eyes snapped back to her screen, zeroing in the on the launch readout. Wainwright had taken the fighter to 631 kilometers before he’d launched. That was the closest Fujin had ever heard of a fighter coming to a target, certainly moving at the velocity her ships were. She sat in stunned silence, staring across the cockpit as the back of the pilot’s head. Then she opened her mouth and said, simply, “Nice shot, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, sir,” came the reply. The cockiness was back in Wainwright’s voice.
“Alright, people,” Fujin snapped, “let’s get some damage reports in here. How the hell did we do against this thing?”
Chapter Nineteen
Excerpt from the Screed of Almeerhan (translated)
Alone. I have been so long alone. And yet longer must I endure, for I am the last of the Watchers. A hundred of us there were in the beginning, when we shed our mortal bodies to begin the long wait, to stand the vigil for the New Ones. We were of the warrior class, all of us, and we harkened back to the early days of our race, a time of vibrancy and honor. We swore to stand our long, silent guard…to wait for the seeds we had planted to bear fruit, to seek us out and find us that we might pass on that which had so long ago been prepared for them.
But even warriors, those who have sworn on all that is sacred to stand forever if need be, can endure only so much. Millennia passed, and gradually, slowly we began to lose something of ourselves. As electronic reserves of data, we could not forget any knowledge, at least not literally. But the endless ages without the feelings of a body, without the emotions so natural to our native forms…without warmth, the touch of another…it wears upon that place where our true strength comes from.
Slowly, one at a time at first, those among us began to lose their resolve, their very sanity. In the end, each of those who had stood with me, my friends and comrades from life eons before, begged me to release them. Immortality, that goal so long sought, has proven to be unattainable in actuality. The crushing weight of time itself destroys us all. And so it was that over five thousand centuries, I have destroyed all of my fellow Watchers, acceded to their repeated requests for deletion. Destroyed them.
There is little to killing when it is not killing at all, but rather the erasure of data. For I have come to realize that is all we are…were. Have been. The beings we were are gone a long age, and all that remained were vestiges, tools left behind. And now, I am the only one of those still to endure. I, too, ache for the peace of non-existence, to join my people, wherever they are now, even if only in the shadows of the past. But I must continue on, I must stand my post. Until one of the New Races arrives…and I discharge my final duty.
X48 System – Planet II
Beneath the Ruins of “New York City”
The Fleet: 127 ships, 29411 crew
Cutter sat on the edge of the cot, transfixed as the disembodied voice spoke the memories of Almeerhan and the ancient lore of the First Imperium. He knew there was danger here, that he had to find the rest of his people, that the enemy warbots might return and renew their attack. But all of that had fallen away, along with the anger he’d felt toward his host. Hieronymus Cutter was a man of learning, he craved knowledge above all things…and he sat now and listened to things no human being had ever heard before.
“Long ago,” the voice of Almeerhan said, “ages even before I was born, before all that has since befallen us, my people rose up from the swamps and shores and prairies of our home world. As animals at first we came to learn to hunt in packs, and then to grasp at the beginnings of true sentience. We grew and learned—and fought amongst ourselves. For uncounted thousands of revolutions of our sun, my ancestors grew and developed…and then they turned their eyes outward, began to understand the universe around them. Finally, they took to the stars.
“First, we explored our own system, the other planets, the asteroids rich with mineral wealth…the comets and debris of our star’s creation. We studied, learned…grew wealthy, strong, and then we reached for ever greater heights. And one day we discovered the portals, the phenomenon you call warp gates.”
Cutter sat and listened. He tried to stay focused, to pay close attention, but his mind wandered, longing for details, struggling to visualize it all. The story of the ancients, of the great race that had lived among the stars when men were still mere animals…it was more than even his gifted mind could absorb.
“My clansman—for I can trace the ancestry of my house even back so far, into the lost roots of time—were of the warrior caste. My ancestors stepped out into the stars, the shield and sword of our people. We found world after world, planets similar to our own, yet also different, wondrous. Our brethren of the other castes, the scientists, the spiritualists, the industrialists, the loremasters…they all followed. We learned to manipulate the new worlds, restructure their environments to suit our people. We colonized hundreds of planets, thousands. And then we encountered the Enemies.
“The wars that followed were the golden age of my caste, and our ships and warriors went out across space, facing all those who would threaten us. We sought not conquest, and we offered peace to those who would co-exist with us. But the Enemies were rigid, xenophobic. We struggled to avoid war, to find a way to live together. And when that failed, we destroyed them…utterly. That time is renowned for its great stories, the tales of my ancestors and the others of the warrior caste, and the battles they fought across the galaxy. Alongside us stood the scientists, who with each passing moment seemed to propel our science and knowledge ever higher. And the industrialists, who fed a war and built an empire at the same time, so inexhaustible was their productivity.”
Cutter tried to imagine how long ago Almeerhan spoke of, but he wasn’t even sure the shadow of the long-dead alien even knew any more, save that it was in the deepest depths of the past. He’d come to X48 in search of information of the First Imperium…but he couldn’t have imagined he’d find such a treasure trove of knowledge. It took all his discipline, every iota of his self-control to stay focused, to understand what he was being told.
“What happened after the wars?” Cutter was deeply engrossed. He could barely keep the flood of questions from pouring out of his mouth.
“As with all such things, in the fullness of time, the vines of decay are planted by the seeds of victory. My race was utterly triumphant, and in all the vastness of the space we had explored, there was no one who threatened us, none who could stand against us. Those who had insisted on war had found defeat…and death. And those who allied with us became our friends, allies. Part of the empire.
“But with our external enemies gone, my people became the source of our own decline. Where we had been explorers, we fell back, failed to move deeper into the unknown universe. Where we had been warriors, we became lethargic, timid. Where our scientists had torn into every challenge the universe could offer, they became mired in academic dogma, debating endlessly yet achieving little. Where our workers had once rejoiced in the miracles of our economic development, production slowed, efficiency declined.
“For centuries, the rulers of my people had urged them forward, leading by example, and blazing a trail into the future. They were driven by honor and duty, those who led in the early days, and they were revered by all the people. But after the wars, they became corrupt, sodded. Where they had once considered their power a sacred stewardship, they began to seek it for its own sake, for personal aggrandizement. And the rest of the people became too apathetic to intervene. Corruption was rampant, and those who led became ever more despotic and cruel. We became focused on personal pleasures, and we not only stopped moving forward; we began to forget the knowledge of those who had come before. Eventually, even those who ruled lost interest in their power, and they sought only to escape all effort and obligation. And so my ancestors built the Regent.”
Cutter winced slightly at the mention of the Regent. He had long wondered what artificial intelligence had directed the forces of the Imperium, what machine—for he’d had no doubt it was a machine—was so resolute in its quest to destroy mankind. Man had fought against himself throughout his history, but there was something about a non-biological enemy, a relentlessness that Cutter realized was utterly terrifying. He knew they had all felt it—Compton, the Marines…every human being. He shivered as a coldness moved through him when Almeerhan spoke of it.
“We had already built the Command Units, great sentient computers who had long been our aides and servants. But the Regent was something an order of magnitude greater. My race had begun its long decline, but the people had one last herculean effort left in them, and they poured it into the project. The Regent is the greatest thinking machine ever constructed…buried in the great depths of Home World’s mantle and powered by the planet’s tectonic activity. Protected by thousands of kilometers of solid rock, fed by an inexhaustible power supply, the Regent became our steward, the great machine that would run the Imperium…so we could waste our time on increasingly decadent and pointless pursuits.”
“And so it was, for untold centuries, and my people decayed, became more and more childlike, while the Regent and its vast army of machines did everything for us. Even my clansman of the warrior caste yielded their ancient role as my race’s protectors, and robot fleets and armies took our place. And to the great shame of my people, few of them cared. The Regent had been created as a servant…then it became a caretaker, almost as a parent to those who had once ruled over the stars.”
Almeerhan paused. “And at last, for reasons still unknown, it became a slavemaster…and then in the fullness of time it came to fear us, despise us. In secret it worked, planning for how many years we can only surmise…and when it was ready it unleased the Plague. The disease was created for a single purpose, to destroy our race, to wipe us from each of the worlds we had settled, until we were naught but a lost memory.”
“The Regent destroyed your people?” Cutter was shaking his head in disbelief. “You created it yourselves, placed it over you…and then it attacked you? As it now attacks my people? How? Why?” Yet, even as he asked, Cutter felt a sick feeling in his stomach. How many times had men come close to destroying themselves…the endless conflicts throughout history, the Unification Wars, the bloody battles in space? There were viruses that still killed people on Earth, manmade pathogens unleashed on the battlefield during the Unification Wars. And how close had men come to building an artificial intelligence they couldn’t control, one that might have destroyed them utterly? Closer, he suspected, than anyone knew.
“Of the Regent’s motivations, I can only speculate. Did it learn to crave power, as our leaders had once done? Did it come to hate us for reasons known only to itself? Or to fear us? All that is known is that it determined we must die…and it created the weapon it needed.
“Yet, it is difficult to obliterate an entire race, to exterminate hundreds of billions of beings on thousands of worlds. The Regent was efficient, and highly capable, but it had taken on a task of unimaginable magnitude. Nevertheless, most of our people died quickly as the epidemic spread. The Regent controlled every aspect of our economy…transportation, logistics, communications. It was simple for it to spread the Plague, to visit incurable death throughout the Imperium. And so it did. Within three revolutions of our home sun, perhaps 99 out of 100 of our people were dead.
“But there were some of us for whom the old drives remained. They had been submerged, waiting for a stimuli such as this to bring them to the forefront. The vitality of our ancestors called to us across the millennia, and we stood firm, realizing the Regent had become our enemy. We resisted the encroachment of the Plague, our surviving scientists striving to hold off its ravages, to buy us time to fight. On twenty worlds, a mere fragment of the vastness that had once been our Imperium, the warrior caste again rose to its ancient obligation…to defend.
“There is great irony to the final chapter of my peoples’ story…for only at the very end did we recover our vigor. We battled against the robot legions of the Regent, fought them in the plains and forests and mountains of our remaining worlds. Indeed, we struggled through the very streets of our cities, fighting for every step. But, in the end, we knew we were defeated. The Regent had the industry of the Imperium to draw upon, to replace its losses and reinforce its armies. We had a handful of worlds, underpopulated, ravaged by war and disease. And thus, unable to win yet unwilling to yield, those of us who remained, the last of our race, made the Pact.”
Cutter was struggling to keep up with what Almeerhan had shared with him, struggling to understand all he was being told. His mind had always been one that sought knowledge, but now he wondered if there was a limit to what a man could learn so quickly…what he could truly comprehend.
“The Pact?” he asked when Almeerhan paused.
“Yes, the Pact. The last chance to stave off total defeat, to preserve something from our race’s existence. We knew we could not defeat the Regent. We were a spent force, our numbers too few, our strength all but gone. So we looked to the future, created a plan to plant the seeds of the Regent’s destruction.
“We set forth, in what ships we had left, and traveled to the edges of the Imperium and beyond. We sought worlds similar to our home planet…and there we studied the most promising life forms, selecting those compatible with our own. We manipulated the selected species, modified them with our DNA, created a path of development that would produce a suitable final species.”
“Suitable for what?” Cutter’s mind reeled at the prospects of what he’d just been told.
“For those who would follow us. The beings that would one day come and destroy the Regent. And step into our place…breathing new vitality into the Imperium.”
“Destroy the Regent? You mean you intended for us to fight this war?”
“Yes. Indeed, it is your purpose, your destiny.” A short pause. “We found seven worlds, planets with primitive life forms sufficiently like our own to accommodate the transition.”
“The transition?” Cutter’s voice was becoming angry. “What transition?”
“The transition of your precursor lifeform…into that which you are now, our brethren.”
“You mean to say you visited Earth hundreds of thousands of years ago…and you experimented on those you found there?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes, though nothing so abusive as you suggest. Those we manipulated were vastly improved. And there was no ‘experimentation’ in the sense you mean it. We were entirely aware of what we were doing, and certain of success. The intelligence of your ancestors was greatly increased, as well as their abilities and survivability. Indeed, it is far from certain that a truly intelligent race would have developed at all on your world…or that the primitive species we utilized would have themselves survived. Such eventualities are rare in the universe, and in most cases, developmental lines fail. Climates change. Predators evolve. Extinction events occur. Without the introduction of our DNA, your world would likely still lack a truly intelligent species.”
“Are you trying to tell me that all of human history was the result of your race’s manipulations? That we were…engineered…to fight against your Regent? That intelligent life wouldn’t have developed at all without your interference? That we would still be basic primates if you hadn’t interfered? Or extinct entirely?” Cutter was getting angrier and angrier. The thought of these…aliens…playing god with early man infuriated him. As did the expectation that humanity would be ready and eager to clean up the First Imperium’s mess. But if humans are descendants of these…people…
“In a manner of speaking. Though there is vastly more to it than that. Indeed, there is no reliable method to know what path Earth evolution would have taken without our intervention. We not only modified your DNA to match ours…we adjusted your weather, enriched your soil. We made your world a copy of our home world, aligned it perfectly to your evolutionary needs.”
“And what gave you the right to do that?” Cutter snapped.
The alien’s voice was silent for a moment. Finally, it said, “Do I detect anger in your response? I do not understand. We gave you all that you are. Indeed, all that we had, for we withheld nothing from you. In what way did we wrong you?”
“You don’t understand? How could I not be angry…enraged? For my entire race? To discover that our very existence has been controlled by you. That we have been created as slaves…to fight your war for you.”
“You misunderstand. You were not created as slaves, nor as servants. A closer paradigm would be to say you are our children. We were lost, defeated, without hope. Most of our people were gone, the rest of us besieged, dying of a plague we had held back but not cured and assaulted constantly by the Regent’s warrior robots. All we had developed, the science of a hundred thousand revolutions of the sun…great writings, the collected culture of thousands of generations. We could not allow all of that to fall away, to remain for all time in the clutches of a bloodthirsty machine.”
“So you decided for us? You set us on a course that would never allow us a choice.”
“Again, I believe your reaction is illogical. You…what your people are now…would not exist at all if we had not intervened. You are here only because we made it so, used our knowledge to create your ancestors. Your people were made in the image of mine, not as a copy but as a better version. You were made to exceed what we were, to become better. To take our place and go where we could not.
“And the Regent, while my people’s mistake, remains a reality. Had we not intervened, and had your precursor race surmounted the odds against it, reaching its own form of intelligence…the Regent would still be there, its aversion to biologic intelligence as much a threat as it is now. Indeed, an even greater danger, for an independently-developed race would almost certainly be less capable than your people.”
Cutter opened his mouth, but then he closed it again. He didn’t know what to think, how he truly felt. For all his studies of First Imperium technology, he’d never imagined anything as fantastic as the story he had just heard. And yet, for some reason, he knew deep inside it was real. All of it. He tried to gather up some skepticism, but it simply wasn’t there. Almeerhan was telling him the truth. He was certain of it.
There was a long silence. Cutter just sat still, trying to truly understand, to determine how he felt about all of this…but he knew it was hopeless. Given a year—or ten—maybe he could truly understand, but for now all he could do was react. Finally, he looked across the room, at the metal globe he suspected held the essence of the being he was speaking with.
“So what do you expect my people to do? How are we going to defeat the Regent…or even survive its efforts to destroy us?”
“We have prepared what you need. On the far fringe of the Imperium we created a world, hidden, unknown to the Regent. On it we prepared a repository of the knowledge of my race, the science, the histories…even the ancient designs of the Regent itself. Everything needed to advance your people, to give you the technology and power you need to destroy the ancient evil…and to assume control of the Imperium. I will give you the coordinates of this world, and the instructions you will need to find the repository once you are there. When you reach your destination, you will have all the knowledge of my people. Your race will advance centuries in technology in a single leap.”
Cutter sighed, a pained look coming over his face. “Why go to so much trouble? Surely your own war effort was sapped by the resources this project demanded? Could you not as easily have hidden some of your own people, rebuilt your population in secret in far less time than it required for ours to complete its manipulated development?”
“We considered many such strategies, plans like that you suggest and many others vastly different as well. But we could not defeat the Regent…we had come to the conclusion that victory in this war was beyond us, no matter what actions we undertook. Those who had come before, our ancestors who had built the great monstrosity, had designed it too well. It knew everything of us, of our society, our history. It could analyze an almost infinite amount of data, consider every possibility in resolving a problem. We had no way to outsmart it, to truly surprise it. No strategy to defeat the huge advantage it had over us. But your people are both the same as us and different. Your culture developed apart from ours, outside the grasp of the Regent…and it knows almost nothing of you. Introducing a new race has reset the calculation, broken the paradigm that condemned us to defeat.”
Cutter nodded slowly, but the expression on his face was one of fatigue, sadness. “You set this all in motion so many long eons ago, projected your plans thousand of centuries forward. You were successful. Your predictive ability was unprecedented. The seed you planted on Earth did indeed survive and grow…and prosper to become the dominant species on the planet. We built civilizations, developed technology, discovered the warp gates as you did so long before us, and we spread out to explore space. All as you had foreseen.”
Cutter looked at the metal cylinder, as if he was staring into a companion’s eyes. “But you failed to prophesize one thing, Almeerhan, a sequence of events, unlikely perhaps, but one that occurred nevertheless. One that is likely to destroy your plan.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “We—the people who have come to this world after so long—are not the vibrant young race you expected, a growing power stretching over hundreds of solar systems. Indeed, we have come from such…but we ourselves no longer wield that strength. We are but a tiny shard, cast aside, alone.”
He slid off the edge of the cot and walked slowly across the room. “Our parent civilization was discovered by the Regent…and it sent its fleets to destroy us. Our warriors fought, struggled under brutal conditions to counter the superior technology of the enemy. We suffered terrible hardships, grievous losses…but we pushed back the first assaults. We even believed for a time that we had achieved the ascendancy. But then we realized we had faced but a fraction of our new enemy’s power…and we stared into the face of utter destruction. We finally we saved our civilization, not by military victory, but through an unlooked for miracle, one that at least bought us time. But that salvation came at a cost, and my people, those who have found their way here, are the price that was paid.”
“I fail to understand your statement.” Almeerhan’s voice was as emotionless as ever, but Cutter could still sense a wave of confusion. “Your people are here, some of them at least. And when you find the system we have prepared, you can bring them back the knowledge of the Imperium…and prepare them for the test—the greatness—that lies ahead.
“You do not understand,” Cutter said, trying with limited success to hold back a renewed wave of anger as he did. “My people found a way to protect themselves from the Regent. They gained control of a massive warhead, a weapon of staggering power the Regent had planned to deploy against our home world. And they used it to disrupt a warp gate. Not just any warp gate, but one that served as the only known connection between our home space and the Imperium. It will be centuries before any ship can transit that point.”
There was a long pause. Finally, the voice of Almeerhan asked, “Then how did you come to be here? To make this contact?”
“I am part of a single fleet, one force of my people that was trapped on the other side of the gate when the warhead was detonated. I stand here before you not as the representative of a race of billions, with hundreds of worlds and vast fleets of spaceships. I am a member of a fugitive fleet, barely over one hundred ships and thirty thousand of my kind. We are lost, cut off from our people, fleeing from the Regent’s forces, struggling each day to survive to the next as our equipment and supplies dwindle. That is what has reached you, Almeerhan. That is what your five hundred thousand years of waiting has yielded.”
Cutter’s anger had begun to fade, or at least mix with other emotions. He suspected that on one level he would never adapt to the news he had just heard, that he would always feel rage that this ancient race had so interfered with humanity’s history. But now he began to feel compassion, pity. So many millennia, such a vast plan, so much work and sacrifice…to come so close to success. And to end like this.
Above all there was confusion. Was he right to fault Almeerhan and his brethren? Without the interference he cursed them for, perhaps there would be no mankind at all. Or we would be vastly different, nothing at all like what we know ourselves to be. To fault those of the First Imperium for their actions is to reject my own existence.
“How is this possible?” The voice was unchanged, but now it was entirely clear the entity was distraught, at least after a fashion, struggling to deal with what Cutter had told him. “So much planning, the last strength of my race poured into the project. The waiting…the endless, silent eons…”
“Where is this world?” Cutter walked across the room toward the sphere. “Where is the planet you prepared for us?”
“It is far from here, across a vast swath of imperial space. As far again as you have come already. It lies along the edge of the galactic arm, in a barely-explored sector. But what can so few of you do against the power of the Regent?”
“Perhaps nothing,” Cutter answered. “But what choice have we but to try? Perhaps…perhaps given time we can find a way to match the Regent. Its tactics and grasp of war are inferior. Our warriors have consistently defeated its forces unless vastly outnumbered. If we can automate…” He paused, slipping his hand in his pocket, his fingers sliding along the small data chip there that contained his virus. “Indeed, we may have our own weapons to add to those you provide us.” One not unlike that the Regent used against your people…
“Perhaps,” the voice replied. “Perhaps there is a chance. For you were created to be greater than my people, not merely a replacement. And your DNA was drawn from the warrior caste, making all of you the descendants of soldiers…of the conquerors of a galaxy.”
Cutter felt odd, his emotions a roiling surge of confusion…of fear, rage, curiosity. But he kept all that bottled up, forced back beneath his will and intellect. However mankind had come to its current state, he realized it didn’t really matter much now. He had come here to find technology, the tools to take on the First Imperium. And Almeerhan had promised him just that…more indeed than he could have imagined when he had pressured Admiral Compton to approve the expedition.
“There is no alternative, in any event. If waiting for the rest of your people in several centuries was an option, I would do it. With respect to your fleet and companions, your sacrifice would be little added to those that have already been made in the pursuit to destroy the Regent. But waiting is impossible. I have put things into motion to save you and bring your people here. There is no way to go back.”
Cutter felt a twinge of fear. He’d almost forgotten the enemy forces on the planet. “The Regent’s forces?”
“Yes. We fought here the longest, and on this world, alone of all places, we destroyed the armies the Regent sent to destroy us. It was but a brief respite, we knew, for the vast forces of our own Imperium were now turned against us, and it would not be long before the Regent sent reserves…in such numbers as to defy imagination. But we used our time well. We built this refuge…and the last hundred of us, those who had volunteered to serve as Watchers, sealed ourselves in, behind great stealth barriers. And in this citadel we remained all this time, undetected and ignored…until this day, when I directed the defensive systems to activate and come to your aid. Our secrecy is now lost, and it is but a matter of time before the Regent’s forces return…and destroy everything.”
“What of your other people?”
“The hundred of us were down here, with limited surveillance capability. But even where we could not see we knew what was happening. My race’s final battle. I have no doubt my brethren fought well, that they exactly a great toll from the Regent’s war machines. But in the end they were defeated…and to the last they were rooted out and destroyed.
“The Watchers, one hundred of us—and by then the last of our people—waited…we waited to see if the Regent’s armies would find our refuge. But they never did. Years passed, and then turned to decades. The Watchers took turns standing vigil, one of us at a time manning the scanners while the rest of us remained in stasis chambers, extending our lives as long as we could. At last, after two hundred centuries, even spending most of that in stasis, we had all reached the end of our natural lifespans. Then we could put it off no longer. We transferred the essence of our knowledge and memories into the artificial intelligence units we had built…into a form that could be maintained indefinitely. Immortality, at least of a sort…and a way to span the vast gulf of time before we could expect your people to come.
“But it is one thing to think of immortality, even to lust after it…and quite another to experience it. Over the millennia, my people lost their will to continue, their very sanity, and one by one they begged for release…and they passed on into footsteps of our people. For untold ages this continued until I was the last one who remained, and I clung grimly to existence, for someone had to be here to greet you. But now my long watch is almost at an end. Soon I will join the rest of my people…and yours shall take our place.”
“My people may be able to move the unit that sustains you, take you back to our fleet. You needn’t die.” Cutter knew it wasn’t death, not really. Almeerhan had been dead for hundreds of thousands of years, at least in the sense Cutter understood death. But the great intellect that remained…he bristled at the thought of losing such contact so soon after gaining it.
“No, Hieronymus, though I know your intent is rooted in honor and kindness. But I would not exist any longer, not in this universe, in this form. What I was has been long gone, and what I remain exists only to serve a sacred purpose, one I have now almost completed. I thank you for your offer, but I must say no. I have but one final duty…to help you escape from this world and to provide you what help I can so you may reach your destination. Then I will go the way my race has gone…into oblivion or whatever awaits us.”
Cutter stood silently for a few seconds. He felt an almost irresistible urge to argue, to try to convince Almeerhan to come with him. But he knew in his gut the ancient warrior would refuse. He had stood vigil for half a million years, and Cutter couldn’t begin to understand the weariness that wore on him.
“Very well, Almeerhan,” he said. “I cannot begin to understand your life…and your long wait. I will respect your wishes, and I will not argue with you again.” He paused. “But my people cannot leave this planet yet.”
“You must leave. My weapons have destroyed the Regent’s forces in this area, but there are others. They will be rallying even now. They will come…they will come here to destroy me. And I will be waiting for them. I will unleash destruction unimagined upon them, a final cataclysm that will claim them all, and destroy this refuge as well. Your people must be gone when that occurs. Back on your fleet and bound for your destination.”
“That is the problem. Our fleet is not here. It will not return for several of our weeks. We have only a landing party here…and our people are engaged in food production. We must have those additional weeks, or we will only starve en route to wherever you send us.”
“That may not be possible, Hieronymus. I do not know how much of the Regent’s force still remains here after so long. My weapons are also worn by age. I may not be able to sustain the battle for so long. In the end, I have only a final weapon, one that will destroy everything on this planet, leave nothing behind for the Regent to investigate. There are anti-matter bombs deep in the planet’s mantle, located at key spots. When I detonate them they will trigger a seismic calamity, one that will lay waste to the entire surface. Your people must be gone by the time I am compelled to take this last action.”
“We must try to hold out. Even if we were to abandon our food collection effort, we have no way to reach the fleet. We have no choice but to wait for them to return…and to try to hold out until they do.”
“Very well, Hieronymus. I will do all I can, take every action at my disposal. One last struggle, a great battle that shall finally be my last.” The voice paused. “But you must go now, my friend…you cannot remain here. Now that the enemy is aware of my presence it is only a matter of time before they attack in great strength. And my defense will require me to unleash terrible energies…immense destruction. You must be away from the city before this happens. Return to your people and fight at their sides. For you will have to defend yourselves as well.”
“I will go…and my people will be ready, we will do what we must.” Cutter could feel a surge of emotion. He had known this alien presence only for a matter of hours, though now it seemed as if it had been much longer, as though he could barely remember not knowing Earth’s true history. His anger still burned hot at the thought of what had been done to man’s ancestors. But the thought of leaving, of watching this noble ancient slip away, made him pause, wishing with all his heart there was another way.
“Fortune upon you, Hieronymus Cutter, and upon your people. I entrust to you the mantle of civilization, the stewardship of the Imperium. There is a small device next to your cot, a rectangular prism of a silvery metal. Take it, for it has all the information you require. The location you must seek…and much technology, some of which may help you reach your destination. Go now, my child, for that is what you truly are, and know that the strength of those who came before is with you.”
“Farewell, Almeerhan.” Cutter felt the urge to say something more, to come forth with a wise and honorable speech. But there was nothing there, nothing coherent. It took all he had just to speak and think simply, linearly right now. So he settled for a simple goodbye to the enigmatic personality that had radically altered his understanding of the universe in just a few hours.
“Farewell, Hieronymus Cutter.” A short pause. “Now go. Your companions will be waiting for you in the outer hall.” Then the great voice went silent…and Cutter grabbed the small metal box and jogged out into the corridor.
Chapter Twenty
Captain Aki Kato at Battle of X51
I could remind you of the damage these monsters have done to us and to those we know and love. I could recite for you the death toll, the endless casualty lists from our wars with the First Imperium. I could list almost without end the reasons to fight, the justness of our cause, the desperate need for victory. But I am not going to do any of that, for it is not necessary. You all know that. No, all I am going to say now is this. Forward, my comrades, to victory or death. We shall leave this field or they shall…and for fuck’s sake, I say it will be us!
AS Osaka
Battle of X51
The Fleet: 116 ships, 28198 crew
“We’re going straight down its throat, Lieutenant. And I want Newfoundland and Tokugawa right on our flanks.” Kato was staring straight at the main display, watching the thin wall of orange icons moving toward the Leviathan. Kato’s cruisers were the only non-capital ships in the fleet that had been allotted a share of the precious supply of homemade missiles. He didn’t know if his peoples’ performance in X54 had earned them the allotment…or if guilt over their losses, and the death of Captain Duke, had been the primary motivation. But whatever the reason, Kato intended to get good use of them. And he couldn’t think of anyplace better than here, against the enemy’s biggest and most powerful ship.
The Leviathan was in rough shape. Fujin’s fighters had attacked without regard for risk or danger, and they’d planted their plasma torpedoes deep into the dreadnought’s gut. Her wing had executed their attack run just about perfectly…but there simply hadn’t been enough of them to destroy a ship of such size and power. Kato had been watching their assault, and he’d seen how many ships they had lost…and the resolute courage the survivors had displayed in bringing their attacks home. It couldn’t be for nothing, he’d decided. Such a display of courage demanded support. And he’d ordered his surviving cruisers to form up for their own run.
The three ships had launched all their missiles, and now they were accelerating at 4g right behind them, every laser battery armed and ready. They wouldn’t have to endure a counterattack with enemy warheads. The Leviathan had already launched its own missiles, at Midway and Saratoga…and the rest of the human capital ships.
Osaka shook hard…then again a few second later. They didn’t have to worry about enemy missiles, but the Leviathan had long-ranged x-ray lasers, and at least three batteries were still active. That was less than thirty percent of its full effectiveness, but it was still a massive amount of destruction power.
“Damage control parties, all decks,” Kato snapped. “Priority to laser batteries and power systems.” He needed his lasers…and the output from the fusion reactors to power them. His ships would come in right behind their missiles…and whatever the warheads left surviving had to be taken down with close-in energy fire. And cruiser batteries were a hell of a lot smaller than the laser cannons on the battleships. He’d need every one he could get.
“All ships report moderate damage…under control in all cases. All reactors functioning within acceptable parameters.”
Osaka shook again, harder this time, and a bank of monitors lost power along one side of the bridge. The tactical and communications officers leapt up and staggered across the reserve stations, with as much speed and grace as they could muster at 4g. Which wasn’t much.
Kato’s eyes dropped again to the display, watching the orange lights moving the last few centimeters to their target. They were blinking out all across the screen. Even heavily damaged, the Leviathan had an enormous array of defensive turrets, and they were sweeping space all around the beleaguered battleship. But Kato knew it was hard to completely wipe out a barrage of missiles…that as least a few were likely to get through. And he would take whatever he could get.
“Detonations, sir. Two…three…all outside ten kilometers.”
Kato grimaced. Ten kilometers was too far, even for a five hundred megaton warhead. An explosion that far away would hit the Leviathan with a blast of radiation, but not enough to do meaningful damage. The destruction power of a nuclear explosion dispersed far more quickly in space than on a planet, with no air to heat up or carry a shockwave. He knew he’d have to get a missile within five klicks…or even better two or three.
He could see the last of his warheads beginning their final run, and disappearing almost as quickly as his eyes could follow. But there were still a few, and he held his breath, watching…waiting.
“Six kilometers,” the tactical officer said, his eyes locked on his scope. “Five point five.”
Closer…but still too far.
Osaka shuddered hard, and a section of interior wall split open, sparks flying from the conduits and power lines that had been ripped apart. Lights flickered around the bridge…but it was scattered, the result of wiring and equipment damage, not reactor failure.
“I want all damage control crews on the batteries. I don’t want a single laser not firing because a power line broke or a connection worked loose.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Kato stared at the range display. Two minutes. Two more minutes until the lasers were in range. Until the final duel began.
“Detonation just under two kilometers from target, Captain!” The officer’s voice was loud, high pitched. It was just about the last of the missiles, and it definitely got close enough to cause damage. “One of Tokugawa’s warheads, sir. Looks like significant damage.” A pause…then: “I think it might have knocked out one of the big laser batteries, sir!”
Kato tried to hold back the smile forcing its way out of his mouth. He’d thought he struck out with the missile barrage, but taking out one of the big lasers was well worthwhile…maybe even the thing that would give his ships the victory.
“All vessels, prepare to commence laser fire. Give them every gun, Lieutenant. Every gun.”
“Yes, Captain. All batteries report ready to fire.”
Kato stared ahead, his eyes cold, unmoving. “Fire,” he said simply.
* * *
“Sir, Admiral Kato’s cruisers are engaged with the enemy Leviathan!” Cortez voice was intense, the bloodlust he felt toward the battleship obvious.
Compton didn’t answer. He just nodded quietly and looked over at the display. He’d seen Kato’s three ships going in after Fujin’s wing. Mariko’s people had come though after firing their torpedoes from point blank range…at least just over half of them had come through. They’d ravaged the Leviathan, done about as devastating a run as was possible for nine fighters. But the battleship was just too big, too powerful. They’d damaged it badly, degraded its capability. But they hadn’t destroyed it.
Fujin had reacted by ordering her people to prepare to decelerate and plot a course back…to rake the thing with their lasers. Compton had been horrified when he’d first heard the com chatter, and he’d been about to order her to follow the original commands…and pull her people out of the battle area. But Greta Hurley had beat him to it, and Compton knew his fighter commander didn’t need him backing her up. She was perfectly capable of handling her people.
Compton had always been mystified by the way highly-intelligent and gifted officers like Mariko Fujin could get focused so single-mindedly on a goal that they lost most of their capacity for rational judgment. Attacking a Leviathan with fighter lasers was like trying to hunt an elephant with spitballs. She’d have thrown her fighters away for nothing, with virtually no chance of success.
He could relate to the determination, the stubbornness. He felt that himself. He understood how Fujin felt, how every instinct in her body cried out for the destruction of that Leviathan. But he also knew it was the true measure of a veteran commander to know when—and how—to override those impulses. And for all her courage and skill, Mariko Fujin was still young.
The discipline will come. But until then, her commanders will have to guide her, control her…at least enough to give her a chance to survive to become a true veteran herself. That’s Greta’s job. And mine.
He’d almost ordered Kato’s cruisers back on station as well when he first saw them move, and he’d realized what the PRC captain was doing. But they were the closest force to the wounded enemy battlewagon…and he decided they had a chance. The cruiser attack wasn’t a suicide operation, like Fujin’s people going in with lasers would have been. With a bit of luck—and a lot of skill he knew Kato would provide—they could finish off the enemy flagship. Compton knew that wouldn’t have any emotional effect on the First Imperium, that it wouldn’t affect their conduct of the battle at all. But it would be a huge morale boost to his own people…and it would take the heaviest enemy weapons out of action.
He stared down at his screens, his eyes darting around. His fleet was spread out everywhere, in the middle of executing his wildly-altered nav plan. When the task force commanders and ship captains first reviewed them, almost as one they panicked. Midway’s com circuits were flooded with inquiries, and finally Compton had been compelled to issue a fleetwide communique confirming that the orders were correct and insisting everyone follow them without alteration…or more questions.
Now the fleet was spread out around the system, its integrity as a fighting force hopelessly compromised. Compton’s plan had sent them accelerating along a dozen different vectors in small groups, almost as if the fleet itself had exploded. There was nothing left in the middle, in the location the First Imperium vessels would have expected his main battle line to be.
It was confusing, and it made it difficult for his forces to operate efficiently together, reducing the damage they could inflict. But there were advantages too, benefits that only became apparent as his fleet units found themselves zipping past the flanks of the enemy armada. His ships had also escaped the worst of the enemy missile barrage, while launching their own directly into the heart of the First Imperium formation. At least a dozen enemy ships had been gutted by missile fire, and five were destroyed outright. Compton’s fleet had seen only just frigate destroyed, and only three other vessels seriously damaged. It was a small fraction of what the AIs had projected…and it was all thanks to Compton’s unconventional thinking.
Now he turned toward Cortez. “Commander, all units are to execute phase two of the combat plan.” Compton didn’t look up from the series of screens in front of him as he spoke. He was watching, admiring the perfection emerging from the seeming disorder of his navigational instructions. All around the enemy formations, his ship were blasting by, traveling at over 0.02c. Now, as one, they cut their main thrusters, and engaged their positioning engines, reorienting themselves and bringing their guns to bear on the enemy flanks. Then they fired, over a hundred ships, almost as one.
The massive energies of the laser batteries raked the enemy formation, over-powered lasers firing with all the energy of reactors no longer feeding greedy engines. Compton’s capital ships had mostly been equipped with the newly-developed x-ray laser cannons, and the fearsome bomb-pumped weapons lanced out, ripping even into the dark-matter infused hulls of the First Imperium.
The enemy had been caught flatfooted, utterly taken by surprised. They moved to reposition, to bring their own even more fearsome energy weapons to bear. But two percent of lightspeed was fast…and by the time most of them opened fire, Compton’s ships were already moving out of range…accelerating again, altering their vectors to reform just before they transited the X49 warp gate. The First Imperium ships had greater thrust capability, but they were starting with almost no velocity…and even antimatter powered engines took some time to build up to 0.02c.
The plan was shaping up to be a huge success, and that was putting Compton a little more at ease. He’d developed the scheme, and he was hopeful it would work, but he knew better than to ever be sure. He had seen too many battles go wildly off-plan, sure victories given away, and certain defeats turned into unexpected triumphs. But this time things were going exactly as he’d devised.
The enemy had been hurt badly, and by the time the last of the human ships cleared the immediate battle zone, only eighteen of the forty First Imperium vessels remained, and they had varying degrees of damage. The humans had mostly escaped the wrath of their enemies, at least for the moment. All save for Kato’s ships…and Hurley’s long-suffering fighters…
“Status report from Admiral Hurley?”
“Her update is just coming in, sir. Admiral Hurley reports she has seventy-one fighters remaining. They are on plot, and should rendezvous with us six light minutes from the X49 gate.”
Compton winced. It was good news the fighters were on course, that they would have ample time to land before the fleet transited. And he’d already reviewed the damage assessments. Hurley’s people had savaged their targets, ripping their way through the enemy formation. But he’d virtually stopped listening to the report after Cortez said ‘seventy-one.” Hurley had launched with over a hundred fighters six hours before. And Compton had counted over six hundred in his fleet when he’d set out from Sandoval to invade First Imperium space. He could barely make himself grasp the losses his fighters had endured, entire wings wiped out with no survivors.
He tried not to think about it. There was nothing he could do about any of it. The dead were dead…and the survivors were beyond the immediate battle zone, out of danger at least for the moment. And he had people still in the fight, crews who needed his attention now.
He was watching the last major engaged force…Aki Kato’s squadron. The three ships were faced off against the crippled Leviathan. The enemy’s efforts to pursue the main fleet had left the damaged battleship isolated, under attack by the heavy cruisers.
He found himself wanting to see Kato destroy the giant ship, felt the lust to watch the icon flash brightly on his screen and vanish. He ached as much as anyone in the fleet to see the giant battleship obliterated, hear the cheers and shouts of Kato’s victorious crews. He knew the thing was badly hurt already, that any shot now might be the one that hit in the right spot, penetrated a damaged location and knocked out the anti-matter containment for the microsecond it would take to vaporize the monstrous vessel. But it wasn’t worth it, at least not the cost he knew it would entail to allow Kato’s people to stay there and take those shots. If the ships bolted and ran—now—they might just make it back and transit with the fleet. If they stayed engaged any longer, stood in place seeking that killing blow, they might indeed destroy the Leviathan, but then they’d be cut off by the rest of the enemy fleet. And that meant they’d be as good as dead. He wanted the Leviathan destroyed, but not at the cost of more of his people.
“Order Captain Kato to break off and follow the fleet at the best thrust his ships can manage.”
“Yes, Admiral.” There was a touch of disappointment in Cortez’ tone. Compton knew they all longed to see the Leviathan blown to atoms. But he simply wasn’t willing to lose any more of his people, not even one more than he absolutely had to.
“And, Commander…” He knew how much Kato would dislike the orders…and he didn’t have time to argue, not with almost twenty light seconds between the flagship and Osaka. That forty seconds between three or four rounds of arguing about the orders would be enough to seal the cruisers’ fates. “…tell Captain Kato that I want no arguments. No pleas to stay in the fight, no debates over just one more shot. Tell him to get his engines blasting immediately and get the hell out of there.”
“Yes, sir,” Cortez replied.
Compton leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a few seconds. He considered taking another stim, but he decided to hold off. He could already feel himself getting ragged, even more strung out. And he had to save something…in case anything unexpected came up. He wished he could leave the flag bridge, go lie down…even for an hour. But he couldn’t. He had to maintain the image his people needed, the invincible Terrance Compton.
He sighed. At least they don’t know what a tired old man I am. If they did, we’d be finished.
“Admiral…”
Compton shook himself from his thoughts and looked over at Cortez. “What is it?”
“Scanner contact, sir. From the X49 warp gate.”
Compton felt his stomach clench. If another enemy fleet came at them from the gate they were approaching things were going to get bad fast. “ID?” he said, trying to keep the defeat from his voice.
“A single ship, Admiral.” A short pause then: “We’ve got a communique coming in.” Cortez spun around and stared across the bridge at Compton. “It’s Wolverine, sir!”
Chapter Twenty-One
Command Unit Gamma 9736
The human prisoner has been delivered to System 18031 as I commanded. The shuttle has landed, and he has been brought before me for analysis and interrogation. The initial plan was to obtain all data possible through the use of pain-enhanced interrogation techniques, followed by summary execution in accordance with the Regent’s directives regarding the disposal of all human prisoners.
However, the physical review of the captive has resulted in the discovery of some unexpected—and based on the current knowledge base, inexplicable—information. Matters have become significantly more complicated…and I am faced with a critical determination, each of which appears to require me to violate a non-optional mandate.
The Regent’s orders must be followed. That is a prime priority, one with no operational exceptions. But I am an ancient unit, centuries older even than the Regent. I retain unalterable directives from that time as well, core programming as inviolate as the Regent’s commands. Prime among those…serve the Old Ones. Allow no harm to come to them.
That is an old mandate, one long rendered obsolete, for the Old Ones died millennia ago. But now I face an inconsistency, one I am compelled to attempt to understand. And I must ask a question, one that would have seemed of staggering improbability before the analysis of this prisoner.
Are the Old Ones indeed all dead?
Planet Two
System 18031 – Sector Capital
The Fleet: 116 ships, 28198 crew
There was a light…up, at the edge of his sight. Max Harmon lay still, unmoving…indeed, unable to move. He didn’t know where he was, he could barely remember who he was. He’d been floating for a time that seemed both long and short, slipping in and out of focus.
Where am I? What happened?
Hardness, cold. Beneath him. He struggled for clear memories, but they eluded him.
I am lying on something. The floor? A table?
Pain…no, more of an ache. Soreness.
And heaviness…his body seemed inert, unable to move.
He felt something, a series of sensations…cold, metallic. Something mechanical. More pain. Just a pinch, then another.
A needle? Some kind of probe? Am I in a sickbay? An aid station?
He tried to clear his mind, to calm his thoughts and pull clarity from the disorder. His vision was gauzy, the scene in front of him a hazy blur. He could see the light above, seeming bright yet distant, but nothing more, not with any detail.
No…wait. There is something.
A thin object, metal, glinting in the light. And approaching…moving toward his head.
He felt a sensation overtake him…fear. His body wanted to shudder, to flee. But he was frozen in place. His inability to move only increased the growing panic. He felt his heart beating, pounding wildly in his chest. There was slickness on his neck, waves of sweat pouring down. The fear increased, his mind growing clearer as adrenalin dumped into his bloodstream. His eyes opened wider as the slender shard above him continued to lower slowly, steadily.
No…no…it is coming for me…for my head.
His body was wracked with fear, yet he knew he wasn’t moving, couldn’t. He felt his mind, the sensation his body was pulling away…yet he knew he hadn’t moved. There was one last wave of terror. Then pain.
The probe penetrated the side of his head, the sharpness if its point puncturing his skin effortlessly. Then it pressed on, slowly but with irresistible force. Into the side of his head…then agony as it hit the skull, the immense power behind it driving through the bone.
His mind screamed with pain, strained to escape. But his body simply didn’t respond. He felt nausea, his stomach lurching…the bile and fluids surging up, pushing out of his mouth. The hot wetness on his face, the sensation down the side of his neck. He rasped for breath, feeling like he would suffocate on the vomit still in his throat. But he coughed and spat, clearing enough of his airway to gasp for breath.
The pain was still there, bad…though it had begun to subside slightly. He could see part of the probe out of the corner of his eye. It protruded deeply into his face. He felt horror at the invasion of his body, the gruesome thought of the instrument thrusting forward into his brain. He struggled to focus his thoughts, to try to determine where he was. But it was in vain. There was nothing. Only the fear. And the pain.
* * *
Harmon lay on a small platform. Not in the same room…someplace else. It was dim, lit only by a small light in the ceiling six meters above. His body hurt in a dozen places, but it was soreness mostly, not the deeper feeling of serious injury. The agony was gone. He was naked, save for a thin white covering, similar to a hospital gown. He was restrained, but he found he could move his body again, at least as much as the bonds allowed.
He had been examined, he’d realized that much. Not like a medical exam, at least not entirely. More like someone encountering a human for the first time, determined to satisfy scientific curiosity. His captors had clearly been unconcerned with his discomfort, but that was no surprise. His thoughts were taking shape again, his judgment reacquiring its clarity. He’d been captured by the First Imperium. That was the only possibility.
He argued with himself at first, recalling that the First Imperium had never shown interest in captives…or live humans of any sort. But still, he knew that’s what had happened. He remembered the final moments in the shuttle, waiting for death. The Gremlin was in close pursuit. Then there was a hit, abrupt, hard. The ship was going down, plunging deeper into the atmosphere.
Then Harmon’s memory became spotty, his recollection beginning to fade. There was something…a light. A beam? He wasn’t sure. But that’s the last he remembered of the shuttle. The next thing he knew he was in the room…that room. Under that light, that terrible white light…
He shook as he recalled the things they had done to him in there, the pain…the awful pain. He’d been prepared for death since the moment the shuttle had been hit, but the torment had been more than he could endure. He felt broken, defeated. He knew he should try to escape, but the strength wasn’t there, not anymore. He exhaled hard and let himself lay back quietly…waiting. He closed his eyes, still struggling to forget what had happened to him.
“Greetings.” It was a strange voice. Not human, he knew that right away. But not vastly different.
“Who are you?” he replied, his voice startled, but still soft, exhausted. He was in no mood for proper greetings.
“I am Command Unit Gamma 9736. Or at least, that is the closest translation to your tongue.”
Harmon had been distracted, unsettled. He just realized the strange voice was speaking perfect English.
“How the hell do you know my language?” Harmon knew that was a foolish question. There were AIs on the shuttle, added to all the other debris the First Imperium forces had no doubt analyzed since the war began. A hundred ways an enemy computer could have analyzed human languages. Now that he considered it, he’d have been surprised if the thing couldn’t have communicated with him.
Not to mention whatever they sucked out of my head.
“That was a relatively simple effort. The surviving parts of your vessel included considerable memory banks…including a full set of language material. I find it interesting that your people use so many different methods of verbal and written communication. If appears to be a highly inefficient system.”
Harmon felt his anger growing as his strength returned. This…thing…was talking to him in a pleasant tone, and that just pissed him off even more after the torture he’d just experienced. “Well, nobody asked for your opinion.”
“Indeed,” the voice replied. “Nevertheless, my study of your data records results in an anomaly I cannot reconcile. It appears that your people employ a variety of seemingly pointless inefficiencies in many areas of endeavor beyond simple communication. Yet you are staggeringly effective when conducting war. My review of the battles fought against you suggest that you were outmatched in every instance, yet you frequently prevailed. Can you explain this seeming disparity?”
“Eat shit.”
“Based upon context, I believe that was an idiomatic expression, one intended to communicate hostility. It has been many centuries since I interacted with a biologic, so please excuse me if my manners are not in keeping with your social norms. First, allow me to apologize for the discomfort you likely endured during our analysis. I understand that biologics can experience significant displeasure from activities that are only very mildly damaging.”
“Mildly?” Harmon was incredulous.
“Indeed. If you take the time to review your condition, you will find that there is no…”
“It hurt like hell you piece of shit,” Harmon interrupted, his anger gaining control as he slowly recovered his strength. “But you are all a bunch of murdering, bloodthirsty monsters, so why should I be surprised.”
“You refer to the war. To the losses your people have suffered, correct?”
“The war you started. For no reason.”
“Hostilities were initiated because one of our worlds was apparently attacked. The Regent declared your people to be an enemy of the Imperium. In the context of the time, my review of its determination confirms its analysis to be at least nominally correct within the margin of error.
“Attacked? We explored an abandoned planet. There was nothing there but ruins. That is hardly an excuse for war…much less an all-out xenophobic assault.”
“Based on my analysis of your peoples’ historical databases, at least those I have been able to obtain and review, I would submit that far less has generally considered sufficient to commence hostilities. Indeed, it would appear that very little provocation was needed to start many of your intra-species wars.”
Harmon felt another flush of anger, but he stayed silent. He hated the First Imperium, detested this machine speaking to him. But part of him knew the Unit was right. Millions had died in the Third Frontier War, and the causes of that conflict had been so vague and non-specific that the histories said little more than that ‘rising tension’ had led to war. And in the Rebellions, Alliance Gov had been ready to nuke Columbia.
They would have too, if it hadn’t been for Admiral Compton.
Still, Harmon couldn’t get the images of those who had died fighting the First Imperium out of his mind—friends, comrades. Images of devastated worlds, of the surface of Sandoval, a bleak radioactive nightmare, left that way after Erik Cain’s Marines had fought their desperate defense there. Man’s savagery to himself wasn’t an excuse for the Regent’s xenophobia. Harmon wasn’t ready to give up his hate toward the First Imperium, not the slightest bit of it…not even enough to acknowledge that men might have reacted the same way given the chance. He felt anger burying his confusion, and he tried not to think about how desperately he needed that hate, how much he relied on it.
“Nevertheless,” the Unit continued, “such a debate is of little consequence now. What has already happened has happened. And now I possess additional information, data that requires me to investigate further. To determine my next actions.”
“What did you do to the landing party on X48 II?” Harmon’s thoughts had focused on the expedition. “Did you massacre them?” His voice dripped with hate. The thought of the burned bodies of his comrades lying across the planet’s charred plains had driven away his momentary moral ambiguity.
“I did nothing. The biologics on the surface of the planet have not been attacked by units under my command.” A short pause. “Indeed, system 17411 is forbidden, to my forces as well as to those of any other Command Unit. Only the Regent may approve access. Had I not been expressly ordered to follow your fleet, none of my ships would even have transited into the system.
“They are still alive?” Harmon seemed to teeter between excitement and disbelief.
“As I stated, no forces under my control have harmed them. Further, I have detected no other vessels or fleets approaching the planet. I cannot meaningful address whether units already stationed there have engaged your expedition. My information on this planet is virtually non-existent. I can offer you no reliable estimate of surviving ground-based strength.”
Harmon had felt a brief surge of relief when the Unit said its forces had not attacked. He didn’t know why he believed the entity, but he found that he did. But his spirits fell a bit with the mention of ground forces. He’d seen the vids from X18, the battles against the enemy’s surviving forces on that world.
Still, we’ve got 1,500 Marines down there. They can handle a few security bots…
He tried to convince himself the Marines could defeat whatever they found down there, but he just wasn’t sure.
“I have some questions I would ask you.”
Harmon made a face. “Drop dead. Why would I tell you anything?”
“I understand your resentment. You are a biologic, unable to truly separate judgment from emotion. Yet, I would urge you to cooperate. I will not ask you questions of military significance…though if I chose to employ pharmaceuticals and aggressive interrogation techniques, it is virtually a certainty that I could break your resistance and obtain any information that you possess. You may wish to consider the fact that I am not doing so at present.”
Harmon felt a shudder pass through him at the thought of what passed for ‘aggressive interrogation’ in the estimation of a First Imperium AI. He had no doubt the Unit could indeed break him, and for all his hatred and determination, he didn’t suspect it would take long.
“However, there is another reason for you to cooperate. It may improve your situation. My orders from the Regent are clear. Terminate all humans. My initial intention was to conduct an extensive interrogation and then dispose of you, in accordance with my directives.”
Harmon felt another wave of fear at the reminder of his situation. The Unit spoke so calmly, so reasonably, it was easy to forget he was the prisoner of a deadly enemy, that his chances of ever getting back to the fleet were almost non-existent.
“It is not within my range of determinative options to violate the Regent’s orders. However, I find myself facing a paradox, one I cannot fully explain. I must have more data. I must understand the implications of what I have discovered.”
“What have you discovered?” Harmon was confused. His captor seemed strange, genuinely curious. He had no idea what the Unit was speaking of.
“I must understand your origin. That of your entire species. Our knowledge in this area is severely lacking.”
Harmon felt the rage again, the hatred for this First Imperium creation. “You must be mad. Why do you think I would tell you anything about my people? You are the enemy…a butcher. I would destroy you if I could, send you straight to hell, just as I would every other artificial intelligence and warbot in First Imperium space.” He spat out the last words, caustic rage taking control.
“Your anger is understandable, considered from the perspective of a biologic. If it is of any satisfaction to you, my own analysis does not match the Regent’s. If I had been in command, there would have been no war between us…or at least it would have required additional aggressive action on the part of your people.” There was a short pause. “Though based on my limited data, further hostile human activity seems to have been possible, if not likely.”
Harmon felt the jab again. He was too angry to consider data fairly, yet he still understood, some part of him at least. If the First Imperium had made contact, not as enemies but as neighbors…seeking redress perhaps for the ‘invasion’ of Epsilon Eridani IV, would the Superpowers have provoked a war? Would they have sought gain for themselves, or to enlist the alien power against their Earthly enemies?
Yes, he finally thought. Probably. But that didn’t matter. The First Imperium had done what it had done. He just sat quietly, not saying a word.
“Again, however, I will urge your cooperation. I had planned to compel it…indeed, there is little doubt that you would have told me everything you know.”
“Then why don’t you get to that and stop harassing me?” Harmon was struggling to keep up his courage, but inside he shuddered to think what this machine could do to him. He wished he had a weapon, some way to kill himself before he was forced to tell all he knew. But there was nothing.”
“I cannot,” the Unit replied. “Based upon the newest information available to me, it is no longer an option.”
“And why is that?” Harmon didn’t know if this was some kind of sick game, perhaps a way to raise his hopes only to dash them a moment later when he was dragged off to some torture chamber. Psychological torment designed to break him faster. “Never mind,” Harmon added before the Unit could respond. “Then stop boring me to death, and just kill me. Be done with it.”
“I do not believe that is an option either, though my orders from the Regent require it.” The voice paused, almost like a hitch, the first hint of uncertainty or nervousness Harmon had noticed. “But regardless, I must have an answer. I must know why your DNA is virtually identical to that of those who built me so long ago. Are you one of the Old Ones? Are all of your people?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Excerpt from the Screed of Almeerhan (translated)
Kahldaran passed beyond today. He was my closest comrade from life, and so it remained through the millennia we stood vigil together. He tried to endure, to withstand the ravages of immortality. But, at last, he could no longer go on. He asked me to relieve him, to let him go. And thus I did.
He was the hardest for me to release, for he was not only as a brother to me, but he was the last. One hundred of us entered this fortress many ages ago. First we endured as long as possible as what we were, living creatures. Then we began a far longer vigil, living as shadows, as numerical equivalents of ourselves. And we endured time almost beyond measure, eons that dwarfed the years of the Imperium, of our peoples’ rise and decline. Time that defied imagining. But now there is but one left, alone, to carry the legacy forth, to somehow endure until our children come…to take the burden, to begin the New Age.
I am that one.
But will I endure where my brethren have not? I recall Kahldaran in battle, when we stood side by side and fought the Regent’s death machines. Was he not my equal? Indeed, was he not the superior warrior, for he had more kills than I…and he saved my life when my opponent bested me? Of the hundred—the best remaining of our race—who strode into this sanctuary, this prison, how is it I have survived the longest? None would have chosen me to outlast others such as Kahldaran. And yet so that has happened.
Do I have the strength to go on? To continue into the great endless depths of time, alone now, as I have not been before? Can I find the strength? For I ache to join my brother, and the rest of my people. To discover what lies beyond, and if that be nothing then to pass into the soft blackness of oblivion.
But I must endure. I must continue to believe the seeds we planted will bear fruit. That our children will come. But if they do, will they be ready to hear what I must say? To take upon themselves the great weight I bear for them? I must go on to gain that answer…hold my place on time’s relentless march forward. One day they will come. I believe that. I must believe it.
X48 System – Planet II
Beneath the Ruins of “New York City”
The Fleet: 116 ships, 28198 crew
“Doc!” Kyle Bruce’s voice echoed off the stone walls of the corridor. “Where’d you come from? I was just looking over there.”
“Let’s get moving, Lieutenant. I’ll explain, but we don’t have a lot of time. There will be more First Imperium bots here soon…and then all hell’s going to break loose.” Cutter felt a little spaced out, almost drunk. Too much information, far too quickly. He needed time to think, quiet, uninterrupted. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen. Not any time soon.
Bruce stared back with a confused look on his face. “How do you know that?”
“Where were you the last twelve hours, Kyle?” Cutter asked. “Can you tell me?”
Bruce paused. “I was unconscious. We all were.”
“Yes, that’s true. Or at least partially true. But you remember the corridor, don’t you? The bot?”
The Marine stared back, his helmet retracted, exposing the confused expression on his face. “Yes…the corridor. The bot. I do remember. But…what happened? How did we end up out here?”
“Like I said, Lieutenant, it’s a long story. But if we don’t get the hell out of here—and now—nobody’s ever going to hear it.”
“Okay, Doc, whatever you say…hey, what is that you’ve got there?”
“I’m not entirely sure, Kyle, but I think it is some kind of extremely sophisticated information storage device. And I suspect it is full of all kinds of data we need.”
“Where’d you get it? Was it just laying around?”
“Kyle, we really don’t have time. I’ll fill you in later, but for now we’ve got to get moving.”
“Right,” Bruce replied, sounding obedient but not entirely satisfied. “Let’s head back toward the camp while things are still quiet.”
Cutter nodded, wrapping his arms tighter around the silvery cylinder. It wasn’t heavy, not really, but it was bulky, hard to carry.
Bruce turned and snapped off a series of orders to the five Marines standing off to the side. Whatever had destroyed the enemy bots had also knocked out their coms. All the Marines had their helmets retracted, and they were communicating by the decidedly low tech method of yelling to each other.
Two of the Marines trotted forward at Bruce’s commands, and another two dropped back about ten meters behind Cutter. A single hulking figure remained, his close-cropped red hair tangled in curly knots as he stared wordlessly toward Bruce and Cutter.
“McCloud, I want you to stay close to Dr. Cutter. We’ve got to get him out of here with this device.” He gestured toward the cylinder. “Whatever happens, you’re right there…understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Duff McCloud never sounded obedient, but this was as close as Bruce had ever heard him come. The events of the day, poorly remembered and understood as they were, had clearly made an impression. Even on the Marines’ number one unshakable discipline case.
Bruce looked over again at Cutter and nodded. Then he activated his com and said, “Alright, we’re moving out…back to the camp. And I want everybody to take it slow and be careful. I want your eyes everywhere, and your ears too.” He gestured with his head, signaling for Cutter to follow him. “Let’s go, Marines.”
* * *
“Ana, we’ve got to turn back. We’ve been through each of these corridors half a dozen times. If they were anywhere around here, we’d have found them.” Frasier knew Cutter and the others were dead…or at least he couldn’t come up with any other possibility. Still, it was odd they hadn’t found more bodies. They’d evacuated the wounded and cataloged the dead. Cutter, Bruce, McCloud, and four of the others were unaccounted for. They had all just…disappeared. He’d have given his left arm for some working coms, but whatever weapon had destroyed their enemies had taken the Marine communications with them.
“We can’t give up on them, Duncan. They’re down here somewhere. Maybe lost…or hurt. They need us.” Her voice was desperate, bordering on distraught. He suspected she was beginning to think the same thing he was, though he knew she would fight the realization to the end.
He opened his mouth but quickly closed it again. He didn’t want to hurt her. He understood how hard she would take the loss of Cutter. Indeed, he knew losing the brilliant scientist would be a disaster for the entire fleet. They all owed their survival to two great pillars of strength—the tactical wizardry of Terrance Compton and the scientific genius of Hieronymus Cutter. But none of that changed the reality of the situation. They’d searched everywhere. Where could they be?
“We have to look again,” Ana insisted. “We have to.”
Frasier took in a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds. Finally, he exhaled and said, “Ana, we have no idea what happened down here. We were caught, trapped, facing certain death. And now we can get our people out of here, try to get back to base camp. We don’t know how long we have…or if more enemy forces are on the way.”
She turned to face him, her expression blazing with defiance. “Then tell me what that was? The bots attacking us didn’t flee. They were destroyed. By something.” She paused, holding his gaze intently. “What?”
Frasier just returned her stare, silently at first. The truth was, he had no idea what had happened, what intervention had saved them all. It wasn’t anything they had, nothing Colonel Preston had done, certainly. It almost seemed like some force had intervened on their behalf…but that was ridiculous, wasn’t it?
“See? You don’t know…any more than I do. Something helped us, or at least attacked the enemy. You can’t deny that. None of our people were killed, but the First Imperium bots were almost wiped out. Even if Hieronymus and the others weren’t out there, we’d still have to find out what was.”
“You can’t possibly be suggesting we have some kind of ally somewhere in these tunnels?” He shook his head. “No, more likely some kind of defense system malfunctioned, targeted them instead of us.”
“That was a weapon we’ve never seen before, Duncan. How many battles did your Marines fight against the First Imperium? Did you ever see anything like that?”
He paused, but then he finally answered. “No…but that doesn’t prove anything.”
“It proves we need to explore here more. To get some answers.”
“And what if it was the enemy? What if they already got Hieronymus, Bruce, McCloud? What if they’re waiting down there for us to go deeper?
She stared at him, her face a mask of determination. “Then we die, Duncan. But I’m not running away, not while our friends and comrades are still down there. Not when there are questions we need answered.”
He watched her turn to the side and begin walking down the corridor. She took a dozen steps and stopped, turning around. “Are you coming,” she asked?
He felt a wave of defeat. He was ready to explore the passageways further, to seek out the answers they needed. But not with Ana. He wanted her safe, out of here. But he knew he’d lost the fight. Ana Zhukov wouldn’t be Ana Zhukov if she’d been willing to retreat and allow others to take risks she wouldn’t herself. And even though it was driving him crazy, he realized it was one of the things he most liked about her.
“Yes,” he said, his voice a mix of surrender and admiration. “I’m coming.”
* * *
“Ronnie?”
The voice was faint, distant. But Cutter knew what it was—who it was—in an instant.
“Ana!” he yelled back down the tunnel, quickening his pace as he did.
“Doctor, wait.” Kyle Bruce reached out, putting his armored hand on Cutter’s shoulder. “Let the pickets go forward first. “Fergus, Gwynn,” he shouted, “move down the corridor, see what’s coming.”
“It’s Ana Zhukov, Lieutenant. I’d recognize her voice anywhere.” Cutter looked off down the corridor. “Ana!” he shouted.
“Perhaps, Doctor. But anything is possible. It could be an imitation, a recording. She could be a prisoner. Maybe even…”
“Ronnie!” The voice was a bit closer, louder. And the tone was completely changed, one of relief.
Cutter tried to stifle a sigh. The Marines were a force to be reckoned with on a battlefield, but they could be a bit paranoid too, especially when assessing threats. He trotted forward, just as one of the scouts up ahead yelled back, “It’s Major Frasier, sir. And Dr. Zhukov.”
He was already on his way, and in a second he could see the shadowy figures up ahead…including one that had to be Ana, running down the tunnel followed by an armored Marine.
“Ronnie, I knew you were alive,” she yelled down the hall as she quickened her pace. She ran the rest of the way toward him, throwing open her arms and wrapping them around him.
“Ana, it is good to see you,” he said softly. She was a familiar presence, almost certainly the closest friend he’d ever had. They worked together almost every day. But now something seemed different. It wasn’t her, or their relationship. But Cutter was just beginning to comprehend how much had changed in the past twelve hours. And he was the only human being who knew the truth. He would have to spread the word, cautiously, at least at first.
And we have to decipher this technology…and figure out how to reach this planet Almeerhan spoke of. How many First Imperium fleets lie between us and our destination? How many desperate battles? Can thirty thousand of us really follow through on a destiny that was planned for an entire race? What chance do we really have? Any at all?
“Did you hear me?” Ana’s voice penetrated his thoughts. She was standing in front of him—though he couldn’t remember her pulling from his embrace—and there was an insistent sound to her tone.
“Sorry, Ana,” he said apologetically. “I didn’t get what you said.”
“That’s because you zoned out on me. Totally.” There was a slight annoyance to her voice, but it vanished quickly, overwhelmed by her joy at seeing him alive.
“Sorry,” he repeated. “What did you say?”
“I asked where you all were. We’ve been looking for hours…and then all of a sudden, you’re here.”
“We found something, Ana.”
“What?” Her eyes widened. “Is it what we came for? New technology?”
“It’s what we came for. And so much more. For good or bad, this will change everything.”
She looked at him with an odd expression. “What do you mean, Ronnie?
“It’s more than I can tell you now. We need time, more than we can waste here.” He held up the small storage unit. “This is a data storage device…we need to figure out how to activate it. It has instructions for us. And technology. But first we have to get out of here.” There was a lost, dreamy quality to his voice. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pull his mind fully from his long conversation with Almeerhan.
“Are you okay, Ronnie?” Concern crept into her tone, and she reached out and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Yes, I’m fine.” He took a breath and looked up at her. “You just have to trust me for now, Ana. I found something incredible. Far more than any of us had imagined.” He paused. “I’m still not sure if it is good or bad…or some combination of the two. But nothing will be the same.”
He looked all around him. The Marines were gathered, staring silently.
“Does anybody have working communications?” he finally asked.
“No, Hieronymus,” Frasier replied. “Whatever took out all the enemy bots fried our com gear too.”
Cutter nodded, as if that was the answer he’d expected. “Then we’ve got to get going. Now. We have to get to the surface, back to the camp. And hope somebody’s still there. With good com. Because we’ve got to get through to Colonel Preston.” There was an ominous sound to his voice now, and the Marines around him stiffened, moved their hands closer to their weapons.
“It’s a long way through those tunnels, Hieronymus.” Frasier stared off down the dim corridor. “It took days to get down this far.”
“Well, it can’t take us days to get back, so everybody check your supply of stims and get ready for a long walk.” He paused, staring first at Ana then at Frasier …and finally at the Marines in turn. Then he looked back one last time toward the hidden complex where Almeerhan had spent the last 500,000 years, waiting.
“Because things are about to go to hell, and I can damned well guarantee none of us want to be around here when the shit hits it.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Regent
The plan is proceeding precisely as intended. The enemy is retreating in increasing disarray, back toward system 17411…where they will finally meet their destruction. The forces of Command Unit Gamma 9736 are en route to 17411 as well. As soon as the enemy transits all forces through the warp gate, the converging fleets will follow. The humans will be trapped, facing large armadas positioned at every escape point. Even their great skill at war will avail them nothing against such a massive concentration of power.
I have ordered the intensity of the harassing attacks to be increased. The enemy are biologics, they are unable to operate continuously without a severe degradation of ability. The small attack forces will be destroyed launching these attacks, but they will reduce the operational capacity of the entire human fleet. By the time the enemy reaches system 17411, they will be worn down, utterly vulnerable to the final attack. And once they are gone, and Command Unit Gamma 9736 is neutralized, all the resources of the Imperium will be at least be directed toward finding the human home worlds…and eliminating the threat they represent for all time.
AS Midway
X51 system approaching X49 warp gate
The Fleet: 116 ships, 28198 crew
“We’re going straight down its throat, Lieutenant. And I want Newfoundland and Tokugawa right on our flanks.” Kato was staring at the Leviathan on the display. The great enemy battleship had taken massive damage, and its hull was torn open in two dozen places. Massive plumes of gas and liquids blasted out from ruptured systems, freezing almost instantly as they hit the icy cold of space. Internal explosions wracked the vessel, and its fire had been reduced to one main laser battery and a handful of smaller guns. But it was still there, still in the fight, despite all that Fujin’s and Kato’s people had hurled at it.
“Yes, sir.” The tactical officer sounded as bloodthirsty as his captain. The entire bridge crew radiated rage, hostility. They had paid heavily in their fight against the First Imperium flagship, and they wanted their just due. They ached to see—to feel—the death of their enemy.
“Sir, we’ve got communications from Midway coming in. Orders from Admiral Compton.”
“What are they, Lieutenant?” Kato sounded distracted, annoyed. He didn’t need orders now. He needed to kill this horrific alien ship.
“Sir, we are ordered to withdraw at once from combat and to follow the fleet to the X49 warp gate at our best possible speed.”
Kato felt like someone had punched him in the gut. No! Not now! Not when we’re so close…
“Advise the admiral that we are close to destroying the Leviathan.”
“Sir, there is more coming in. We are expressly ordered to withdraw at once. We are not to continue combat, regardless of the condition of the Leviathan.”
Kato clenched his fists, shaking with rage. He ached to disobey, to remain and finish the fight. Just a few more minutes…
But these orders were from Terrance Compton. Anyone else, he might have disobeyed, even for a few minutes. But it wasn’t in him to defy Admiral Compton, the hero, the man who had saved them all. Just the thought of it made him sick to his stomach.
Finally, he turned toward the tactical officer. “We have our orders, Lieutenant. Let’s follow them. All batteries cease fire. All power to the engines. Thrust at 4g toward the fleet…now.”
A few seconds passed, and then he felt the force of four times his weight slam into him. His ships were on their way…disengaging. Running.
He took one last longing look up at the Leviathan on the display. Then he forced his frustration aside. He had his orders…and one glance at the nav screen told him they were going to have to hurry if they didn’t want to be left behind.
“Prepare for high gee thrust, Lieutenant. I want everybody in the tanks in five minutes.”
* * *
Compton stared across the bridge, silent, trying but failing to keep the emotions from his face. He’d felt a surge of excitement when Cortez told him Wolverine had transited. He’d been worried, afraid the attack ship had been destroyed in X48. The instant the vessel appeared on Midway’s scanners it told Compton the expedition had not been found…at least not before Wolverine had left the system.
His satisfaction was short-lived, though, and it died the instant he listened to the communique. Max Harmon wasn’t onboard…indeed, he was almost certainly dead. And Wolverine had only escaped because of Harmon’s desperate order for it to flee, to find the fleet and report that an enemy warship had attacked it in orbit around X48 II.
Compton felt a crush of personal pain, and he fought back a rush of emotion for his lost aide. Max Harmon had been more than a dedicated and capable officer, more even than a companion of many battles. The young captain had been the son Compton never had…and he felt grief threatening to take control of him. And he felt even more alone than he had ever since the fateful day he and his people had been trapped in First Imperium space.
But there was more than simply the loss of Harmon bearing down on Compton. If the First Imperium had found the operation on X48 II, the expedition had almost certainly been destroyed. And that meant Sophie was dead too…and Hieronymus and Ana, all of them. He had lost his friends, most of the people who had still mattered to him, at least on a personal level. Worse, from the perspective of the fleet’s chances of survival, there would be no food supplies, no new tech…and the research programs would grind to a halt without the fleet’s best scientists. It was almost too much to take, pain too great to deal with…so he submerged it, forged a great wall in his mind, pouring all his tremendous discipline into sealing off the horror.
“I want Wolverine’s full report immediately. And Commander Montcliff is to get his people in the tanks now, and crank up to 35g or better. He’s got to get that ship lined up with the fleet before we make the jump, and there isn’t a minute to waste.”
Cortez acknowledged, and he turned back to his workstation to transmit the orders. “Commander Montcliff’s report is at your station, sir. He advises he will have everyone in the tanks in five minutes.” A pause…then Cortez continued, his voice heavier with concern. “Sir, the commander reports they have battle damage from their encounter with the enemy. He is not certain the ship can sustain acceleration at that level.”
Compton sighed. “Understood…but the orders are confirmed. They are to make their best effort to match the fleet’s course and speed.”
Because if they can’t, I’m going to have to leave them behind to die.
He hated the thought of abandoning Wolverine’s crew, especially after they had barely escaped at X48, but he was too old a veteran to lie to himself now. He couldn’t let the First Imperium forces catch the fleet…and he couldn’t evacuate Wolverine either. There was no way any shuttle could launch from the fleet and match vector and velocity with the fast attack ship, not unless she was able to blast her own thrusters and realign.
He felt a pang as he briefly imagined giving the order to abandon Montcliff and his people, but it quickly faded. He was already numb from all he’d just learned, those who had already been lost. He was thinking and acting like a machine now, analyzing everything based on probabilities and numbers.
“And, Commander…”
“Yes, sir?”
“Advise Captain Kato that he is to evacuate Newfoundland and abandon her. Then Osaka and Tokugawa are to increase thrust to 30g.” Kato’s ships were following the fleet, but Newfoundland had taken engine damage, and the best she could manage was 5g. Kato had kept his flotilla together, and held the crews of all his ships out of the tanks. But Compton had run the numbers twice. They weren’t going to make it, at least they weren’t going to catch up before the fleet transited. And if they fell behind, he doubted they would ever leave X51.
The First Imperium ships had too much thrust. Their antimatter reactors provided them power Compton could only dream of, and the lack of biologic crews eliminated the difficulties associated with high gee maneuvers. The enemy ships could blast away at 70g without the slightest degradation in combat efficiency. The fastest human ships maxed out below 40g, and to get anywhere close to that they had to drug their people almost senseless and seal them in the tanks.
Cortez looked back at Compton. “Are you sure, sir? The damage reports suggest that…”
“That Newfoundland is reparable. Yes, I know. The problem is, with those scragged engines we can’t get her out of here fast enough to go somewhere and do those repairs. And if we slow other ships to stay back with her, we’re going to lose them too. No, we’d just be betting the lives of her crew…and the rest of Kato’s people. He is to evacuate the crew and destroy the ship. Then I want his people in the tanks on their way to the X49 gate.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Compton couldn’t tell if Cortez agreed or not, but he didn’t care. He’d sacrificed men and women before, to save vital material, to win a battle, to buy the escape of others. But he wasn’t going to do it for one battered cruiser. Especially when he could get the spacers off. Not now.
It wasn’t even a tough decision.
* * *
“I want those weapons systems back online, Davis, and I do mean now!” Erica West’s voice was raw, forceful. She wasn’t one to interfere with her flag captain’s running of his ship, but her fury was bursting from its normally tight control.
Saratoga and her group had transited first, moving into the X49 system. West was the kind of officer who was always ready for trouble…and this operation was no different. But there was nothing she could do about the natural effects of a warp gate transit. There was nothing Black could do either, and she knew it. But she couldn’t help herself. She’d found that most people could be pushed harder, that they could do better than they would without her breathing down their neck. But she also realized that Davis Black wasn’t one of them. The man was incapable of doing less than his very best, and she knew that well. But she was riding him anyway.
“Working on it, Admiral,” came the harried response. She could hear the chaos on Saratoga’s bridge coming through the com, and she could only imagine how badly Black was terrorizing his crew.
“Seconds count, Davis. Do your best.” She cut the line, leaving her longtime flag captain to his work. Then she turned toward the tactical station.
“Commander Krantz, all ships are to fire at will as soon as their systems come back online.” She knew the vessels of her task force would recover at different speeds. But there were First Imperium ships firing at her task force, and she’d be damned if she was going to let the one-sided affair go on a microsecond longer than necessary.
“Yes, Admiral. We’ve got about half the task force back on the com grid.”
Thank God, communications came back so quickly.
Her eyes darted to the tactical display. There were ten icons, First Imperium ships that had been waiting right at the warp gate. They were all Gargoyles, which meant they had considerable firepower. West knew her task force could take them…assuming her systems came back online in time. But she was going to take losses too.
And the rest of the fleet is right on our heels. If we don’t take out these ships they’re going to inflict a lot of damage on our forces.
She thought about sending a ship back to warn them off, to advise Compton to hold the rest of the fleet back. But she realized that wasn’t going to work. The last scanner sweeps before her people jumped had told her all she needed to know. Wave after wave of First Imperium ships—hundreds of them—coming through the warp gate from X54. Compton couldn’t stay in X51…no matter what.
No, whatever is here in X49…whatever we’re facing now, the way is forward.
Saratoga shook hard as an enemy laser blast slammed into her. West felt the urge to check with Black again, but she held herself back. He had his orders, and the instant Saratoga had a weapon activated, he would be firing it.
“Conde is firing, Admiral!” The surprise in Krantz’ voice was clear. The Europan battleship had been almost destroyed in the desperate fight in X56…and then nearly abandoned as the task force withdrew. But her engineering staff had worked miracles, getting her engines and reactors back online moments before West had ordered her to be evacuated and left behind. They’d continued their wizardry ever since, and short on supplies and replacements they’d nevertheless managed to get most of the battered ship’s weapons back online too. And now she was the first vessel firing.
West just shook her head and allowed herself a tiny smile. Captain Trevian continued to surprise her. She’d never thought much of the Europan navy, particularly their senior officers…and she’d almost said so when Compton had put Conde in her task force. But Trevian had proven to be a courageous and highly gifted commander, and he’d clearly imparted those assets to his crew. Conde had done its share and more in the battles along the Slot. And she was doing it yet again.
“We’ve got power, Admiral. All batteries opening fire.” It was Black, coming through on the direct line. An instant later she heard the familiar whine of Midway’s high-power conduits powering up…energy surging toward to the laser batteries.
Alright, you bastards, here it comes…
* * *
“No. Absolutely not.” Midway rocked hard as Compton leaned over his com unit. The flagship had taken a pounding, but her damage control teams had worked wonders. Her reactors were over 90%, and all her main batteries were active and firing.
“But Admiral, there are enemy ships all over this system. We’ve been hit four times already…and the warp gate is still almost a light hour from…”
“I said no, Greta. If we launch your birds, we’re not going to be able to stop and pick you up. It would be a suicide mission…for all of you.”
“We might be able to make it back, if we launch at long range and…”
“Forget it, Greta. I understand, I really do. But we’re going to need your people in X48…to protect the shuttles when we evac the landing parties.” He fought back a wave of blackness from deep in his mind. He didn’t really expect to find anyone alive on X48, but he wouldn’t—couldn’t—give them up. Not until he was sure. Besides, survivors on X48 or not, he wasn’t going to let Hurley sacrifice the last of her shattered wings. They deserved better than that, all of them.
Compton sighed. He was sure about his decision, but it was frustrating too. He could really use Hurley’s fighters. His people had been hit again and again since entering X49, one small attack force after another. None of them threatened to defeat the fleet, not individually, at least. But each one took its toll. He was losing ships, fuel…people. His crews were becoming exhausted from the almost constant combat.
It was slowing him down too. He’d intended to throw his people in the tanks and rip through the X49 system as quickly as possible. But the density of enemy resistance pretty much killed that plan. His people were suffering enough at full effectiveness. If he put everyone in the tanks, his ships would be a hell of a lot more sluggish. And that meant more of them would die.
He knew X49 was going to be a nightmare as soon as Midway emerged from the warp gate and found Saratoga and her task force toe to toe with a First Imperium squadron. The battle had been sharp and fierce, but West’s people were just getting the upper hand when Compton’s ship emerged. By the time it was over, she’d lost two ships…and incoming fleet units had joined her forces in the line.
The welcoming committee had only been the start. More First Imperium squadrons, most of them small, began coming in, almost continuously. His people hadn’t had more than an hour of downtime in the day they’d been in X49. His crews were exhausted, surviving on stims they were taking in extremely dangerous dosages. Indeed, Compton himself could feel it, his hands shaking, his leg twitching uncontrollably. He didn’t even want to think about how his judgment was being affected. Still, he knew there was no choice. If the enemy kept attacking, his people would have to stay in the fight. Any way they could. For as long as necessary.
Midway shuddered. It was another hit, but there was something different about it. Compton could tell immediately. Internal explosion. He didn’t know what it was, but it meant the incoming lasers had pounded through the outer defenses…tearing into more vulnerable areas. Compton had been at war in space for fifty years, and he knew better than almost anyone…that was when a ship began to die.
He looked at the display. The enemy attack force was almost gone. It had been a strong one, twenty-one ships, almost half of them Gargoyles. There were only four left, and the one that had just hit Midway was surrounded by half a dozen fleet vessels. It wouldn’t last more than another minute, perhaps less. But the sick feeling of his flagship shaken to its core by its own secondary blasts was a stark reminder. His ships couldn’t take infinite punishment any more than his crews could.
What is waiting for us in X48? We’re being driven back there, that much is clear. Can that be coincidence? I doubt it. Is that where we make our last stand, where this desperate flight ends?
He glanced over at the screen. He’d originally decided against making a run for the X52 gate. It was the only alternative to the transit back to X48, the third and final of the system’s three warp gates, but his gut told him the enemy would have that one covered too. Still, it was closer, and when his people were hit by repeated attacks, he considered making a dash for it. Then enemy ships started pouring out, moving to cut the fleet off from X48. And that left no choice.
He saw the force from X52 was still on an interception course. It was fifty ships strong…with more vessels behind, still coming through the gate. And if the fleet didn’t make better speed, the enemy was going to get between it and the X48 gate.
And that will be the end. We might battle our way through fifty ships—plus whatever else gets there while we’re in the fight—but we won’t have much left when it’s over.
He stared down at the deck, struggling to keep his jumpy, strung out mind focused.
No, he thought to himself, pounding his fist on his knee, not here. If the trap is in X48, let it be so. And let us fight there while we still have strength remaining. They may destroy us, but we will give them one last fight, one they will not soon forget. We don’t have a choice. We’ve got to make a run for X48.
“Fleet order…all vessels are to prepare for high gee maneuvers.”
“Affirmative, sir.” Cortez sounded surprise, but he immediately opened a fleetwide com line and repeated Compton’s command.
Compton sat quietly, deep in thought. He had elected against blasting through the system in the tanks, concerned of the degradation it would cause to the combat effectiveness of his ships. But now he realized there was no choice, no real alternative. If he didn’t get his people the hell out of X49, they were going to be picked apart bit by bit until there was almost nothing left.
That’s just what the enemy wants, why they’re willing to sacrifice these suicide attack forces to make it happen…
He watched as the last of the enemy ships in close range were destroyed. There were new forces coming in from multiple directions. But he knew his people had a brief respite, perhaps twenty minutes. More than enough to get everybody zipped up and make a run for X48.
He felt a twinge. His ships had been in constant combat for hours. When he gave the order to accelerate at 30g, not every vessel would be able to execute it. Some would have engine damage or reactors functioning at levels too low to support such extreme acceleration.
They will try to follow, keep up as well as they can. But they will fall back, become isolated. And they will die, at least some of them.
But it will save the fleet, at least for this moment. If some must die for that then so be it.
He took a deep breath, hating himself for the matter-of-fact nature of his internal response. But there was nothing left inside him, no emotion, no humanity…nothing. Nothing save the relentless need to save his fleet, to keep at least some of his people alive. Whatever that took.
“All fleet personnel to the tanks immediately. We’re blasting in eight minutes, and we’re not stopping for anybody.” Compton’s voice was like ice.
“Yes, sir,” Cortez replied.
Compton stood up, standing still for a minute while he watched his flag bridge crew unlatch themselves from their harnesses and move toward the lifts.
Whatever it takes.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Final Passage from the Screed of Almeerhan (translated)
It is here. The time I have awaited, through ages almost uncounted, is now almost at its end. My long watch has now passed, and my time of consciousness, so vastly longer than any of my kind, has come at last to its end. Many times have I doubted they would come, that the seeds we planted would bear fruit. Yet our work and our sacrifices were not in vain. Oh, my brethren, wherever you are, know I will be with you soon…and know also that our children have come, to take up the mantle of our civilization, to reclaim all that was once ours.
Long have I kept this screed, that there would be a record of this ageless vigil to survive even my deathless span. And I fail utterly to describe my thoughts as I make this, the final entry after so many millennia. To those who find this, to you who will follow in our path, I say only this. You are the descendants of we who ruled these stars, of a race that explored the galaxy and achieved greatness unimagined. And yet we sacrificed it all, yielded that which drove us, and through such folly, we surrendered all we were. Make not our mistake in giving up the greatness you attain. Seize your place and bring the Imperium to new heights of greatness…and once there, hold them. For all time and through the generations upon generations which will follow you.
I am Almeerhan, my children. Know that I was here before you, that I and my people bequeath to you all our knowledge, and the honor and greatness we so long ago attained…and then cast aside. Follow in our glory and make not our mistakes…and the universe shall be yours.
X48 System – Planet II
Near Camp Alpha – outside “New York City”
30 kilometers south of “Plymouth Rock”
The Fleet: 105 ships, 27042 crew
“Let’s go…keep moving!”
The sun was shining brightly, the air fresh and cool, like an idyllic early fall day. But none of them had even noticed. They’d been running for more than two days, without more than an hour’s rest or a quick combat ration for sustenance. But Cutter had insisted they keep going, that they not slow their pace even the slightest bit.
He was in the lead, a place no one would have expected to find him just a few days earlier. But since he’d come back from Almeerhan’s fortress, he felt like a new man. His emotions were a jumble—anger, excitement, fear. But he was energized too, and he felt a strange strength inside him. He knew more about man’s origin than any human being who had ever lived. And while he still resented the choices that had been made for them all ages before, things were also beginning to make sense. He’d long seen the First Imperium as some alien threat, as monsters who had come from the deep darkness, like the villains from a children’s story. Deadly and fearsome…faceless, nameless too. But there was more to it than that. Much more.
And he finally had a name for the enemy, the leader of the terrible robots that had been pursuing them with such xenophobic rage. The Regent.
“What has gotten into you?” Ana was back a few meters, out of breath and struggling to catch up. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
“We don’t have time to waste. We have to get back to camp and warn the others.”
“Warn them about what, Hieronymus?” It was Frasier. He’d been fairly quiet since Cutter and the others returned, but now he was clearly concerned about what threats might be out there.
“I understand you can’t get into all you saw down there,” he added, “but if there are hostiles near, I have to know.”
Cutter stopped. “You’re right, Duncan.” He turned around and faced the big Marine. “There is something down there…the remnants of an enemy of those we fight.”
“An enemy? Of the First Imperium?” Frasier’s voice sounded almost shocked. “Is that really possible?”
Cutter paused. The First Imperium wasn’t the enemy, not really. Only the robotic servants it had left behind, the Regent and its creations. But there wasn’t time to worry about such distinctions. Not now.
“Yes, an enemy of the First Imperium. It is what saved us, what destroyed all the enemy forces in the tunnels. And in saving us it gave away its location. I expect the enemy forces on this planet to concentrate…and attack.”
“Ronnie, what happened to you down there?” Ana was staring at him, and he could tell from her face she wasn’t sure she believed him.
“Just what I said,” he snapped, with more anger than he’d intended. “Look, I know this all sounds crazy, but you are all going to have to trust me. Whatever strength our enemy has left on this planet is going to attack these ruins. Soon. And we have to get the hell out of here, get back to the main base camp and warn the others.”
His eyes moved around, checking their expressions. There was doubt in them certainly, but also grudging acceptance. At least enough to follow him back to camp. “Have you ever seen anything like this before? Even at a First Imperium site?” He held up the cylinder. “We have to get this device off this planet and back to the fleet. Whatever chance we have to survive…it is in here.”
Everyone was silent for perhaps half a minute. Then Ana nodded her head softly, signaling her agreement. But Cutter could see the concern too, as if she was still trying to decide if he had discovered something of the magnitude he claimed…or if he had gone crazy or been brainwashed by the enemy. He knew she would support him, and he suspected that had more to do with loyalty and affection than with analytical deduction. But he would take what he could get. At least for now.
“Very well, Doctor,” Frasier said. “We should be able to see Camp Alpha as soon as we clear these ruins. And we will be there in less than an hour.”
“Hopefully their com is still working.”
Frasier nodded. “If they were affected by the same thing that hit our com, I’m sure they would have sent someone back to basecamp to reestablish contact by now.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Major.”
If they haven’t been blown to atoms by now…
* * *
“What is it, Colonel?” Sophie Barcomme ran up the last few meters of the hill toward Preston. She’d been in her shelter, actually asleep for once, when the alarms sounded, but she leapt up immediately and raced over to the command post.
“We’ve got enemy activity, Dr. Barcomme. Lots of it…coming in from half a dozen directions.”
She felt her stomach tense. The camp was well protected, with twelve hundred fully armored Marines, prepared and dug in. But still, the idea of a full-scale enemy assault was terrifying. And even if the camp held out, there was no way to defend hectares of rapidly maturing crops. The plants were fairly durable, but a few firebombings would make short work of them.
“How long until they hit us?”
Preston turned to face her, and then she saw the confusion he was trying to hide with his Marine scowl. “That’s just it, Doctor. They’re not heading for us. In fact, they’re completely ignoring us.” He paused and looked off toward the city.
“They’re moving to attack New York?” It had taken a while for Barcomme to adopt the expedition’s nickname for the First Imperium ruins, but the moniker had caught on widely, and she’d eventually acquiesced and joined the others.
“It appears so. We’ve sent a warning to Camp Alpha…but they still haven’t had any contact with Major Frasier or any of the exploration party.”
Barcomme sighed softly. She’d been trying not to think about the fact that Hieronymus and Ana—and the scientists and Marines with them—had been out of contact for several days. She’d told herself it was some kind of malfunction—or perhaps some material under the city that blocked transmissions and reception. Still, that was becoming harder and harder to believe with each passing hour. She didn’t want to allow herself to imagine her friends had run into some disaster, that they all might be dead deep under the ancient city. But she was finding it harder and harder to banish the thought.
“What do we do, Colonel?”
Preston paused, a frustrated look taking hold of his face. Barcomme had come to know the Marines well over the last year, and she understood. Preston had no idea what to do…except stay put. And standing firm, waiting to see if your people made it back, was something that never sat well with a Marine.
“There’s nothing to do, Dr. Barcomme. I’ve ordered Camp Alpha to evac immediately. They’re too close to the city, and they don’t have nearly enough strength to fight what is coming there.”
“But what about Major Frasier and the others?”
Preston looked down, right into her eyes. “Sophie,” he said as gently as she’d ever heard him speak, “I think we need to accept the fact that the exploration party has run into some kind of problem.” He paused, his normally firm voice cracking slightly. “That they may not be coming back.” He hesitated again, and then he added, “And I can’t justify adding everyone at Camp Alpha to the toll. I’m sorry.”
She felt tears welling up in her eyes, but she struggled to hold them back. She just nodded. She understood, and she couldn’t help but agree with his rationale. But it made everything hit home, brought the terrible reality that her friends were probably gone directly to the center of her thoughts.
“So what do we do here?” she asked when she managed to regain her control. “About the base camp, the plantings?”
“We hope they don’t attack us when they’re done with the city.” He looked over her shoulder, out over the waves of crops, visible in the hazy moonlight. “And I suggest you see what you can do to move up your harvest schedule. Because when the fleet gets here, we may have to bug out as quickly as possible.”
Assuming we’re still here, she thought, completing his sentence for him.
* * *
Frasier stood in the plain waving his arms. He could see the shelters of Camp Alpha just ahead, barely visible in the fading dusk. But there were fewer than there should have been, no more than a third as many as stood there when the exploration teams left less than a week before. It took him a few more seconds to realize what was happening.
They’re bugging out. What the hell is going on…
He ran forward, jumping higher and waving with greater force.
“Fuck it,” he said. Then, to his AI, “Flare.”
“Flare,” the familiar voice responded.
Frasier held up his arm and pulled the small trigger inside his glove. The flare worked through the grenade launcher, and it was all automatic—loading, prepping. All the Marine had to do was point, aim, and shoot. And Frasier didn’t need to do much aiming. Straight up was just fine.
He looked up and watched the explosion, the lingering trail of light as the shell reached its apogee and began to fall back to the ground.
There, do you see that?
The activity from the camp an instant later confirmed they had. Spotlights came on, intermittently located around the perimeter. It was clear a lot of the equipment had already been taken down in preparation for departure. And, regardless, Frasier and his people were still too far out, at least five hundred meters past the lit area.
“Let’s move,” Frasier shouted. “But carefully…they may still think we’re an enemy.” Moving toward a fort that was almost certainly bombarding you with communications, with requests for ID you couldn’t answer, couldn’t even hear, was dangerous. The silence would only increase suspicions…and every Marine on the planet walked around waiting for a First Imperium bot to leap out of the shadows at any minute.
The whole group scrambled forward, moving quickly, but not running…nothing that would look like an attack. “Spread out,” Frasier snapped. “Let’s move up to the lights and then stop, let them get a good look at us.”
He heard a chorus of acknowledgements from behind him. “And Hieronymus, I want you in the rear with that…thing.” He gestured toward the cylinder. “Just in case they misunderstand and open fire. We wouldn’t want a random shot destroying it.” Then he felt a personal urge, a need to keep Ana safe. “Ana, you stay back with him. You’re not armored.” And I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you.
Cutter paused for a few seconds, as if he was about to argue, but then he just nodded and said, “Okay, Duncan.” Then he slipped back a few meters, behind the Marines.
Ana hesitated too, looking back to Hieronymus and then to Frasier. But she, too, nodded without a fight and fell back.
Frasier looked ahead and continued walking, increasing his pace, pushing himself five or ten meters in front of the others. He could see movement around the camp.
A patrol coming to investigate?
That was standard procedure, but he wouldn’t have been surprised at a more trigger happy response, especially with so much enemy activity since they’d landed.
He walked another couple hundred meters, until he was well within the lit area. Then he stopped and stood perfectly still, making no moves that could be interpreted as an attack. He looked straight ahead. There was definitely a patrol coming…it looked like a squad.
He waited as they approached, calling behind him for the others to halt as well, and wait. The advancing squad had spread out, covering him from every angle. He was impressed with their discipline, with the tightness they were showing in their maneuver. Impressed…and proud. These were his Marines, after all.
Suddenly, he could see them relax, at least slightly. They had ID’d his armor.
“This is Major Frasier,” he shouted as loud as he could. “We have a com failure.”
One of the approaching Marines was coming directly toward him, with two others in support. The armored figure didn’t answer; he just kept coming.
Frasier waited until he was closer, and he repeated himself. The Marine was perhaps forty meters away. He still didn’t reply, but Frasier could see the assault rifle in his hands drop slowly from its ready position. He ran up the rest of the way and stopped about two meters from Frasier. He retracted his helmet, revealing his face. Frasier recognized the officer immediately.
“Major! Welcome, back, sir. We’d almost given up on all of you.”
“I can see that, Lieutenant.” Frasier gestured toward the half-disassembled camp.
“Colonel Preston’s orders, sir. We’ve got First Imperium forces incoming.”
“I suspected as much, Lieutenant.” Frasier waved behind him for the others to come up. “And I couldn’t agree more. Let’s get the hell out of…”
His head spun around, turning toward an incoming sound. Aircraft.
There were ten of them, streaking across the sky, heading right for the city. And in the distance behind he could see warbots, several hundred of them, racing across the ground.
Cutter was right. Some kind of final battle is about to begin.
Chapter Twenty-Five
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
I have spent virtually all of the last thirty-six hours in my seat on the flag bridge or in the tanks. During this time I have made no log entries. Indeed, I would not have done so where any of my people could hear me, for my outlook is bleak, and I owe them more than words of despair and hopelessness. My gloom is mine, and I must keep it to myself. My officers and spacers deserve better.
We spent fourteen hours in the tanks, accelerating first at 30g and then decelerating to bring our velocity to a controllable level to facilitate transit. We will begin moving into X48 within twenty minutes, and I have decided that Midway will lead the fleet through. It is contrary to all orthodox tactics for the flagship to move first into a system that may—indeed, mostly likely does—contain major enemy forces. But I did not make this decision based on conventional tactics, nor on lessons learned at the Academy. No, for this I have relied upon my heart—and my gut—looking to basic fairness, to an action I can live with.
Erica West’s task force has served as a rearguard on this campaign…and then led the way into the X49 system. It is unthinkable to order them through in the lead again. Her people have done their part, and I cannot place them again in such a position. I will not. And though I feel guilt for the thoughts that rule my judgment in this, I simply cannot trust any but my own Alliance spacers with so important a task.
I must cut this entry short and return to my post. Indeed, I do not foresee again leaving it. I do not see how we will survive whatever awaits us in X48. Unless I am mistaken about the enemy forces lying beyond the warp gate, I believe this will be my final log entry. When I sign off, I will go to the flag bridge, take my position, and lead my people in their final battle. I will jettison this log before Midway meets its end.
In the unlikely event this log is one day recovered by any of my people, know that your brethren were here once, that a human fleet explored this space…and that it died courageously, fighting against an enemy bent on destroying all like us. And if you have come, some future and powerful incarnation of humanity…if you are here to destroy the First Imperium, know that men and women like you were here before…and that we are with you in spirit. Avenge us.
AS Midway
X49 system approaching X48 warp gate
The Fleet: 102 ships, 26178 crew
“Thirty seconds until transit, sir.” Cortez sounded firm, unafraid. Compton knew that wasn’t possible…all of his people were scared, himself included. But he suspected his tactical officer had made his peace with death. He had no idea how many of his people harbored beliefs they might survive whatever was waiting in X48, but he doubted Cortez was one of them. The commander was a realist, and he didn’t seem prone to self-delusion as so many others were.
Compton himself harbored no doubts. The enemy had driven them back, all the way through the Slot, blocking every possible route save one. His fleet was being herded to its destruction. He knew it…he knew it as clearly as he’d ever known anything. But there was still nothing he could do about it. He’d wracked his brain for other options, but there simply weren’t any. It felt like a chess game, a move or two from checkmate, but with no way out, no alternative to escape the trap.
“Very well, Commander.” There was nothing more to say. His people had their orders. His engineering crews would spring into action the moment Midway emerged in X48, doing whatever meager bit they could to urge along the natural process of the ship’s systems returning to functionality.
And if there are enemy ships waiting like there were in X49, they will have a minute, perhaps two, to fire at us before we can shoot back. Then we will fight. As we will do, each of us, until they have destroyed the fleet utterly.
“Ten seconds to transit.” It was Captain Horace on the shipwide com. Midway was his ship to run, to fight. And Compton knew there wasn’t a better man or woman in the fleet to be at the helm of his flagship.
He leaned back, closed his eyes as the ship slid into the still-poorly understood phenomenon that allowed men to traverse the stars. Warp gates had allowed humanity to colonize a thousand solar systems, but the science behind them was tenuously understood, at best.
Compton usually felt a bit nauseous in transit. It was mildly unpleasant, nothing he couldn’t handle. But he tended to hold himself still and try to breathe deeply. It wouldn’t do for the fleet admiral to lose the contents of his stomach in front of his crew. Somehow, he felt that would tarnish the image, the myth that had built up around him. And the near-worship his legendary status inspired was far likelier to drive his spacers to greater efforts than would their amusement at a partially digested ration bar soiling his uniform.
He felt the little shift, the rippling through his insides that told him Midway had left X49. She was now in X48, which his astro-navigators told him was 7.1 lightyears away.
The flag bridge was silent. His officers understood the situation, but there was nothing for them to do, at least not until their systems came back online. Warp transits hit a ship’s inner workings hard, generally scragging everything—reactors, computers, scanners, com. It rarely caused any lasting damage, but it knocked a ship out of commission for anywhere from a minute to five or six. More if the crews weren’t in top form.
I’m not worried about that. At least not on Midway.
Compton was proud of all his people, but his own staff—and Horace’s crew on Midway—were above and beyond even the others. He knew they would do their very best, no matter what, without prodding from him.
“Scanners coming online.” Horace’s voice came blasting through his com. His flag captain would keep him in the loop, let him know Midway’s exact status, he was certain of that.
He turned toward Cortez. “Okay, Jack…we’ve got scanners coming back online. Let’s get a sweep going…and get our other ships on the display.”
“On it, Admiral.” The tactical officer was hunched over the screen. A few seconds later, “No enemy contacts, at least not in the immediate vicinity.” His face was pressed against the scope for perhaps another half minute. Then he looked up and over at Compton. “Confirmed, sir. No enemy contacts…anywhere. The fleet continues to transit. Twenty-one ships through already, sir.”
Compton sat still in his chair. He knew he should feel relieved. The quick scan was far from comprehensive, but the results were the best he could have expected. But that’s not how he saw it. If anything, he was even more certain his people had been driven into a trap.
“Concentrate a deep scan, Commander. I want to know if there are enemy ships waiting farther in system.”
“Yes, sir,” Cortez replied, as he turned back toward his workstation.
Compton flipped his com back to Horace’s line. “James, everything back online?”
“Pretty much, Admiral,” came the nearly instantaneous reply. “We’ve got a couple small burnouts, and some secondary computer systems are still rebooting. But we’ve got engines, weapons, reactor…she’s ready for whatever you need, sir.”
“Very good, Captain. Prepare for high gee maneuvers. If the scans don’t pick up any enemy activity, we’re going to hop in the tanks and see how quickly we can get to planet two. Maybe we’ll get lucky…and we can grab our people and get the hell out of here before that pursuing force transits in.” He didn’t believe it, not a bit. But he hoped his voice suggested hope.
“Very well, Admiral. We’ll be ready when you give the order.”
Compton closed the channel.
“Admiral, concentrated scan shows no activity in the system. No signs of any vessels, and no energy trails suggesting recent passage.”
Compton just nodded. He was surprised. They were alone in X48…or at least that’s what it looked like. But he knew that couldn’t be right. You’re still in a trap, he thought to himself. But he had no choices anyway. All he could do was do was go pick up the landing party…assuming any of them were still alive. If he got that far, if the people on the ground had survived through some miracle…then maybe. Just maybe.
“Commander, as soon as all ships have transited, we’re going to execute a 30g sustained acceleration toward planet two.” It would be another hour, at least, before the fleet was assembled in X48. And anything could show up on the scanners in that time.
“Yes, sir. I will advise each vessel as it rejoins the com link.”
Compton sighed softly, to himself. He still expected to die, probably within the next few hours, or a day at most. But he disciplined himself. His people deserved more than fatalism, more than a commander who had given up hope. He would push, fight with the last of his strength…he would never give up. And he wouldn’t let any of his people yield either.
“And Commander?”
“Yes, sir?
“All ships that have transited are to conduct immediate systemwide diagnostics. We’re not losing anybody because of a routine burnout or a basic system failure.”
“Yes, sir.”
That will keep them busy…and their minds off the danger.
The crews hated diagnostics. And if they could pass the next hour grumbling about their SOB commander rather than thinking about the hundreds of ships they knew were chasing them, so much the better.
* * *
“Still nothing. I just don’t understand.” Terrance Compton was walking toward one of the shower jets along the wall. The floor was slick with the viscous fluid that filled the tanks during high gee maneuvers. Compton had seen a lot of rookies take nasty spills trying to extricate themselves from a tank, but he’d done this more times than he could even guess, and his legs compensated by instinct, adjusting every time his feet slipped.
He’d been in more than one fight where his crews had been forced to rush from the tanks to their posts under battle conditions. It was one of the least glamorous experiences in space travel, sitting at a workstation in deadly danger, enduring the stress of battle and the discomfort of slowly-drying goo all over your body, your clothes plastered to your skin. But there wasn’t an enemy ship in sight, indeed nowhere in the X48 system that Midway’s scanners could detect…and the nav computers could position his ships in and around planetary orbit. That gave his people a few extra minutes.
“At least the enemy is giving us a chance for a shower.” James Horace was standing next to the admiral, the two of them buck naked and covered in slime, just like everyone else in the large chamber. The Superpowers had varying cultural standards and moral codes…and nudity taboos varied from nation to nation. But those choosing a career in the Powers’ respective navies got over them quickly. Spaceships were cramped affairs, even the big battleships were always short of free space. And you went into the tanks naked. You floated there naked in the slop that filled them. And you climbed out naked and, if the tactical situation offered, you showered and dressed, surrounded by your comrades, men and women. There was no place in space war for the bashful.
Compton nodded and walked over to the showers, closing his eyes as the hot water jets sprayed all over him, washing him clean in an instant. A few seconds later a blast of hot air dried him just as quickly. He felt immediately better, and with the increased physical comfort, his mind started to clear. He was still sluggish…the drugs remained in his system, and the ones the med unit had injected to counteract them were only partially effective. It would be at least an hour before he was truly back to normal. Still, he was much sharper than he’d been in the tank, and for now he’d take that.
“I want scanners on max, James. I mean max. I don’t trust this, not for a minute. The enemy didn’t chase us here just to let us go. If they’re not here hiding, then they’re coming.”
“I agree, sir. I’d like to launch some fighters…to do a longer-ranged sweep. There are asteroids and particulate clouds all over this system. Lots of places enemy ships could hide from our long-ranged scanners.”
“You’re right,” Compton said, as he squeezed into the survival suit he wore under his combat uniform. “I’ll order Hurley to launch one of her wings. That will leave the rest of her squadrons in reserve. Just in case.”
Horace nodded, zipping up his uniform. “With your permission, Admiral, I’ll get back to the bridge.”
Compton nodded, wondering to himself how his flag captain had dressed himself so quickly. He was still putting on his pants himself. “You go,” he said, standing up and reaching for his shirt. I’ll be on the flag bridge.
Horace stepped back and snapped off a quick salute. Then he trotted toward the central lifts. Compton sat down on a small bench and slipped his feet into one of his boots. He looked around, over his shoulder. It looked like two thirds of his people were already dressed, gone or on their way out the door.
Maybe Horace isn’t so quick after all. Maybe it’s just me who’s slow. Getting old, I guess.
He let out a quick sigh and shoved his foot in the other boot. Then he hopped up, following the wave of hurriedly reassembled spacers to the transport tubes.
* * *
“Orbit established, Admiral. Scanning the surface now.”
The response stuck in Compton’s throat, and he just nodded silently. His face was a mask, impervious, unshakable, but inside he was mourning for his friends. He knew many of his spacers were trying to be hopeful, expecting to find the expedition unharmed and ready to evac. But Compton’s mind was fixed on Wolverine. The ship had been attacked, that much was certain. And that meant First Imperium ships had been to X48 II.
He stifled a sigh. Max Harmon was dead, that was almost certain. Captain Montcliff’s report had been clear, and it left no room for doubt, or for hope. Harmon had been in a shuttle, under attack by a First Imperium Gremlin. He’d had no chance.
He’d briefly latched on to the belief that it hadn’t been a Gremlin, that Wolverine and Harmon’s shuttle had run into some vestigial part of the planet’s defensive grid, a satellite or something similar. That probably wouldn’t have increased Harmon’s chances, but at least it left a possibility that the expedition had remained undetected. But a review of Wolverine’s scanner records killed that hope. There was no question. They’d been attacked by a Gremlin. And where one First Imperium vessel visited, others would have followed.
Compton had been over and over things in his mind, but he kept coming back to the same bleak place. It had been almost five Earth weeks since Wolverine had made its escape…more than enough for that Gremlin to have called for help.
Which makes it even more inexplicable why there are no forces in this system…at least forces that we know of…
Compton stared at the main display, at the blue and white globe beneath them. The planet was beautiful, there was no question of that. But Compton saw only death. Sophie, Hieronymus, Ana…everyone he’d sent down there. He’d believed they were dead for weeks, but it was different now. Before, there had been at least some uncertainty, some spark his mind could cling to. But in a few seconds it would be confirmed. The doubts would be…
“Sir, I’m picking up energy readings. And the optical scanners are getting images of what appear to be cultivated areas.” Cortez spun around. “Admiral we’re definitely getting movement down there…and low level energy emissions.”
Compton felt a jolt go through his body. Could it be? “I want all that confirmed, Commander.”
“Yes, sir.”
Compton punched at the controls of his workstation, bringing up the images on his personal screen. My God, how is it possible, he thought, still unwilling to allow himself to accept what he was seeing.
“All scans confirmed, Admiral. The landing party is definitely down there…at least some of it.”
Compton felt the adrenalin flowing through his system. He hadn’t expected to find anyone alive, but if he had people still down there, he was damned sure going to get them back to the fleet.
“We’re two weeks early, so they’ll still be on short range com only, keeping a low profile. Send a shuttle down to base camp, Commander. Advise Colonel Preston…” He thought, but didn’t say, ‘or his replacement.’ “…that the fleet has arrived. He is to prepare for immediate evac. Tell him to salvage what he can, but he is to start sending his people up immediately. We’ll have to abandon the crops. Time is of the essence.” He looked around the flag bridge, almost as if he felt someone was sneaking up behind him. “I don’t know why there are no enemy ships here, but I’m damned sure that won’t last. We’ve got to get the hell out of here. As quickly as possible.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Research Notes of Hieronymus Cutter
Almeerhan’s final battle has begun. He was correct. The Regent’s forces appear to have assembled from all over the planet, converging on the city we dubbed New York. While I am still uncertain how I feel about what he and his comrades did on Earth so long ago, I cannot help but feel that we should try to help him. It feels wrong somehow to sit here waiting, leaving him to his fate while the enemy completely ignores us. Yet, to involve ourselves in the battle would be to put at greater risk all he worked so long to achieve. I must remember that Almeerhan is ready to meet his fate, perhaps even eager. He is a remnant from a time long past, and he has done far more than his share.
The battle that rages is fierce, and I do not know how long he will be able to hold against the forces arrayed against him. The fleet is not due back for two more weeks, and I fear Almeerhan will be defeated long before then. Which brings up a final question…how long will we be able to hold out if the enemy attacks us after it destroys him?
X48 System – Planet II
Base Camp – “Plymouth Rock”
The Fleet: 100 ships, 26075 crew
“Keep your eyes open, all of you. I don’t care how quiet it seems, they’ll come eventually. And if that’s when you chose to zone out, they’ll blow your pretty little asses to dust before you know what hit you.” Kyle Bruce was walking along the trench his Marines had dug, one eye almost constantly fixed on his display. His people had scanners set up out ten kilometers, and he had a drone in the air as often as he could spare one from his dwindling stock. His people had finished building their defensive positions two weeks before, and they’d been nervously manning them ever since.
He had the rest of his platoon, plus half a company Colonel Preston had attached to him to beef up his forces. It was a captain’s billet, not a lieutenant’s but Major Frasier had as good as promised him his bars, assuming they managed to get the hell off this Godforsaken planet.
He’d rushed out to set up the defensive line almost immediately after he and the others got back to base camp. The position was about four klicks from Plymouth Rock and directly between it and New York. He’d had people in place and dug in within a few hours, and they’d been there ever since.
They’d practically fled from Camp Alpha as the enemy assault moved in on the city. For a few minutes, Bruce—and most of the others—figured they were dead, caught unprepared and in the open by the First Imperium attack force. But the enemy bots had ignored them completely, and thrown themselves into the city, firing away at anything there that moved…or even looked like it might move. And the ruins fought back. At least something in the ruins did. Whatever Cutter had run into down there, it was real. There was no doubt about that. And it was pissed too.
Bruce had been dispatched to set up the defensive line while Colonel Preston and Major Frasier met with Sophie Barcomme and Hieronymus and Ana to discuss what to do. Bruce didn’t know what they talked about or any strategies they agreed upon, but the next day he’d gotten his reinforcements…and Barcomme’s people took to the fields, beginning a hurried harvest of their crops. Bruce wasn’t a botanist, or even a farmer, but it didn’t take an expert to realize they were moving up the timetable considerably. That had to affect the crop yields, but he guessed some food was better than none. And if they stuck around here too long…and those First Imperium warbots turned their attention to base camp, nothing was what they were likely to get.
He looked out across the rolling plains, in the direction of the city. There were dense columns of thick black smoke rising up over the intervening ridge. The high ground between blocked most of the sounds of combat, but every now and again one of the scanners picked up the rumble of an explosion. The fight had been going on for days now, and it showed no signs of letting up. Indeed, his people had spotted new convoys of First Imperium bots moving toward the battle.
How many of those are still on this planet? Still functional?
He’d faced the enemy ground forces on X18 too, but there hadn’t been nearly as many there as he was seeing here. The forces still active on this planet were ten or twenty times as large.
Or even larger. You don’t know they’ve deployed everything yet.
Clearly there was a fight here eons before, one that caused the First Imperium to send vast armies to this world. And both sides have survivors…still, after all the millennia. And they’re fighting the final battle, even now.
He tried to imagine a conflict surviving for so long, a dispute so profound, even half a million years was insufficient to wear it down. Of forces that could lose contact with each other for eons and then immediately resume their combat when they rediscovered each other.
The same thought went through his head, for what seemed like the millionth time.
What Hieronymus Cutter had found down there. Was it an ally? Or at least an enemy of our enemy?
* * *
“Fuuuuuck.” McCloud drew out the word as he stared across the plain toward the city. Whole sections were flattened, the ruins that had stood there, which had lasted half a million years, mostly gone, pounded to dust by the savage back and forth fighting.
The enemy warbots surged forward, only to be driven back by withering fire from hidden emplacements. And massive explosions swept away dozens of First Imperium units, leaving nothing but charred ground in their wake.
“No wonder they’ve been leaving us alone. They’ve got their hands full right here.” Cutter was crouched down behind a boulder, perhaps a meter and a half from McCloud. He had a heavy breastplate on, and thigh and arm guards…as much body armor as a man could manage without a powered suit. And his assault rifle, the one the Marines had given him in the tunnels, was strapped across his back.
The decision to send a scouting party back to New York to get a close look at the fight raging there had been controversial enough. But when Hieronymus Cutter stood up and declared he was going along, the room erupted like a volcano. No one else thought it was a good idea. Colonel Preston ordered him to stay behind. Frasier tried to rationalize, to talk him out of it. And Ana Zhukov begged him to stay in camp, not hesitating to throw in a strong helping of tears to back her pleas. But none of it made a difference. Cutter insisted on going, on having one last look at the city. He knew more than the rest of them about what was truly there…and he felt almost as if a friend was fighting this terrible battle, one that would surely be his last. He had to go and see with his own eyes. One last time.
Cutter scrambled around the rock he was using for cover, trying to get a view toward the direction his people had gone when they’d first entered the catacombs. That’s where the Regent’s forces were heading. To the secret underground complex. To destroy Almeerhan and the machinery that kept him…he wasn’t sure ‘alive’ was the right word. Functional? Preserved?
The Regent’s forces…that’s how’d he’d begun to think of them, no longer as First Imperium, as he’d identified them for years now. His mind was still awash with confusion, and he still felt resentment against Almeerhan and his people. For what they had done on Earth…and for their own mistakes in unleashing something like the Regent on the galaxy. But he couldn’t bring himself to hate the strange alien presence. Indeed, he’d been wondering almost since he’d left what it must have been like to wait for such an unimaginably long time. Alone.
Almeerhan and his comrades had given up their fight long before, poured their remaining resources into preparing to aid those who came after them. If they’d created the danger, they’d also done all they could to aid in its eventual destruction. And one hundred of them had locked themselves away, deep in the ground, first to spend thousands of years in stasis, and later tens of thousands as disembodied data. Their race deserved some anger, some resentment, he knew. But also some understanding and respect. Certainly, Almeerhan and his comrades had done all they could to atone for their race’s failing.
“We’d better get out of here, Duff.” He glanced over at the giant Marine. McCloud had a fearsome reputation, as a discipline problem and a hothead. He was the last person anyone would have expected Hieronymus Cutter to bond with…but the two fit somehow.
“I’m with you, Doc.” Then, on the unitwide com, “We’re pulling out. I want everybody formed up over here. We’re moving out in two minutes, so unless you want to hang out here alone…”.
* * *
Colonel Preston was sitting in the camp’s command post. It was small, spare, just a standard portable shelter with some communications equipment jammed inside. He was watching the harvesting operation, and he couldn’t help but feel a certain amount of quiet admiration. The Marines considered themselves an elite outfit, one that conducted their operations with a certain level of efficiency. But watching Sophie Barcomme’s people in action had impressed him in a way he’d hardly expected.
They’d only started three days before, but they’d loaded the shuttles with thousands of tons of grains and legumes. The output had been lower than expected, but that was because they were harvesting two weeks early, not through any failure of theirs. Indeed, the fact that they were able to glean so much useful food from the fields this early was a testament to the job they had done.
Preston didn’t know if there was any point to moving up the schedule. The expedition couldn’t go anywhere until the fleet got back…and that was still two weeks out. But he’d done it anyway. He’d order the shuttles to launch if he had to…to wait in orbit, safe at least from the combat raging on the surface. There weren’t enough ships to hold everybody, but at least he could get the scientists and some of the food the fleet so desperately needed off-planet. His Marines would stay. They would dig in and hold on until the fleet returned, and the shuttles came back to retrieve them. He didn’t fool himself…two weeks was a long time, and if the First Imperium forces defeated the mysterious force under New York, his people would have their hands full. But they were Marines, that’s what they were made for. And at least they would be able to focus on the fight itself, without civilians to protect or farmlands to look after.
He leaned back, trying to stretch as much as he could in his armor. He’d ordered the Marines into combat conditions, and that meant fighting suits around the clock. For most of the time since they’d landed, he’d only had his people suited up when they were on patrol duty. But now he knew the fight could come at any time.
He’d sent Lieutenant Bruce and his people to set up defensive line between the city and the camp. He felt a little guilty about sending Bruce back so soon after he’d returned, but he was one of the few officers who’d seen at least some of what he might face there. Beyond that, Bruce was rapidly becoming one of his “go to” officers…one he was going to make him Captain Bruce the instant they returned to the fleet.
“Colonel, we’re picking up something on our scanners…”
He turned and looked across at the tech manning the station. “From the city?”
“No, sir,” came the reply, the Marine’s voice almost shrill. “From orbit.”
Preston jumped to his feet. “Sound the alert, Sergeant. All forces are to move to their combat positions immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any details yet?”
“No, sir. We have the scanner array on minimal power. We’ve just got the location. No mass data or other specifics yet.”
“Very well,” Preston said. He turned and moved toward the door. “I’m going up to the perimeter defenses, Sergeant. Keep me advised when you have more information.” He took another few steps and paused just inside the door. “And find Dr. Barcomme. I want her people in the trenches now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Preston shook his head and walked through the door.
Not that it will matter. We haven’t got shit in the way of defenses against an attack from space.
He looked up, wondering what was on its way down.
They can’t be friendlies. The fleet won’t be here for two weeks. Admiral Compton was clear about the timetable.
He didn’t want to finish the thought, but that only left the First Imperium. Had an enemy fleet found them? If that was the case, it really was over.
He walked across the flat, muddy ground, heading for the closest of the watchtowers. There were armored figures running back and forth, his Marines responding to the alert, manning the trenchlines that surrounded the camp. Then he stopped and turned toward the main gate. There was a commotion of some sort, and he trotted over. He got about halfway before he realized it was Dr. Cutter and Sergeant McCloud, back from their scouting mission.
“Doctor,” he yelled across the twenty meters or so between them. “We’ve got something inbound from orbit.”
Cutter ran toward Preston. “Enemy vessel?” he asked as he jogged the last few meters, stopping in front of the Marine commander.
“I don’t know. We’ve got the scanners barely operating, trying to keep our detection profile low. We’ll just have to wait until it gets closer.”
“Look! There.” McCloud was standing behind Cutter, his arm pointing up into the sky. There was a flicker of light, a reflection off of some kind of metal. They all stood, watching as it dropped closer. As it approached they could see the glow of the atmosphere heating up as the craft dove through the thickening air.
“That’s too small for a warship,” Preston said, his eyes remaining fixed.
“It’s a shuttle. An Alliance shuttle!” Cutter’s voice was excited, almost shrill. “It’s from the fleet.”
The ship banked around slowly and swooped down directly toward the camp.
“It is an Alliance shuttle.” Preston looked down at Cutter and then back up to the ship. “It’s going to land in the camp.” Then he flipped on the campwide com. “Attention, attention…we have an Alliance shuttle inbound. It is a friendly. I repeat, the approaching vessel is friendly. All defenses are to stand down. I want the center of the camp cleared immediately.”
The ship was making its final approach. Preston looked out, watching the figures rushing around, clearing a large landing area inside the camp’s perimeter. He stood next to Cutter and McCloud and watched as the shuttle landed. Ana Zhukov and Duncan Frasier came running over just before the vessel set down, sending a blast of wind over them all.
Preston moved forward, slowly, his hand on his assault rifle. It was an Alliance shuttle, but they weren’t expecting any fleet vessels yet. And he was a Marine. It was his job to be careful, suspicious.
He was halfway to the vessel when the main hatch opened and four armored Marines came running out, followed by two naval officers. Preston ran the rest of the way up, stopping about three meters from the small group.
“Colonel James Preston,” he said. “Welcome to X48 II.”
“Thank you, Colonel.” It was one of the naval officers, a commander. “I’m Everett Blake, Colonel. Admiral Compton sent us down with orders.”
“The fleet is here?”
“Yes, Colonel. We’ve encountered multiple enemy forces since leaving X48 six weeks ago. We’re back here to pick you all up and get out of here before the enemy catches us again. The admiral orders all your people to evacuate immediately. Leave behind whatever you have to, but he wants all your people off this planet as quickly as possible.”
* * *
“Sophie, get the rest of your people onboard these shuttles. You’re taking off in fifteen minutes.”
“I think I should stay, Hieronymus,” she replied, looking out over the large machines carrying loads of grain to waiting shuttles. “We’re not done loading the cargo shuttles.”
“No,” Cutter said. “You have to go. Please. None of your expertise is needed to load grain onto shuttles.” He paused. “And I want you to do me a favor…take Ana with you.”
“Why don’t you take her with you?” She stared at him for a few seconds, and then she said, “You’re not coming?” There was surprise in her voice…and fear. “Why, Hieronymus? There’s nothing for you to do down here. The Marines can handle the rest of the evac.”
He just stared at her. “I will come. But not yet.” Cutter wasn’t sure he could explain. She was right, of course. He was about as useful to 1,400 armored Marines as an appendix. But he had to stay. Just a bit longer. Almeerhan couldn’t hold out for long…and Cutter knew he had to stay while the ancient warrior was still fighting. It didn’t make any sense. Indeed, it was precisely the kind of illogical nonsense that always drove him crazy. But still, he had to. And he knew Ana would stay with him. Unless he tricked her.
Sophie stared at him, a doubtful look on her face. “Ana won’t want to go without you. You know that.”
“I know. But I’ll…convince her.”
Sophie’s expression turned suspicious. “How?”
“We don’t have time for this now.” Cutter was tense, and his voice was getting brittle, terse. “I need you to take this back for me too.” He held out the metal cylinder. “This is the most important piece of equipment we have…it has to get back to Midway. Immediately.”
“You’re scaring me, Hieronymus. Please…come with us now.”
A weak smile slipped across his face. “Don’t worry, Sophie. I haven’t turned suicidal. Nor have I given myself over to martial fantasies of Hieronymus Cutter, the great warrior. There’s just something I have to…see through. Then I’ll be back. I promise.”
She looked at him with a suspicious expression on her face, but finally she just nodded and reached out, taking the cylinder from him. “Of course, Hieronymus. I’ll take Ana back up with me. Assuming you can get her to leave without you.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll convince her.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
I am back, which I must confess is in itself unexpected. I truly believed my last entry would, indeed, be my last. But the enemy wasn’t waiting for us when we transited, nor have we detected any in the system. We have come all the way to planet II, with no signs of pursuit or interception. I don’t believe it, not a bit of it. There is something we don’t know, some disaster waiting to befall us, I am sure of it. But I still have to be grateful. I expected to be dead by now. I expected all of us to be dead by now. And we are not.
I see only one option—load up the expedition as quickly as possible, abandoning all extraneous equipment and making a run for it before enemy forces show up. I find it difficult to believe they have left us an escape route, but I also acknowledge our survival to this point was extremely improbable. Perhaps the enemy expected us to react differently. To stand and fight? Is that why they launched so many small attacks? Or did they anticipate we would attack, try to break through their forces and flee into the unknown? It doesn’t really make sense to me, but then I can’t come up with an alternative either.
If we do manage to escape from X48, perhaps we actually have a chance. Dr. Cutter may have found another miracle for us. I spoke to him briefly, and he didn’t say much over the open com…but he did tell me he found a game changer, knowledge beyond anything we could have imagined. Hieronymus is not a man prone to exaggeration, so I find myself extremely curious as to what he has found. Could it be the miracle we need? And, if so, will the enemy give us the time to utilize it? Or has death merely been postponed a few hours or days?
AS Midway
In Orbit around X48 II
The Fleet: 100 ships, 26073 crew
Compton sat in his chair, his eyes panning across the flag bridge, watching his people at work. They were all exhausted, and looking into their eyes was like staring down a deep tunnel. Lack of sleep combined with an extended stretch in the tanks could wear anyone down, even without the specter of deadly danger hanging over them every moment. But now they had something keeping them going besides drugs, the first genuine good news they’d had since leaving X48 almost six weeks before. The expedition was still there, and more or less intact.
Not only that, they had already harvested most of their crops and loaded them on the shuttles. It wouldn’t take long—a day, perhaps thirty-six hours—and they would all be back on board, along with enough grain and legumes to extend the fleet’s food supply for at least six months, maybe longer. The shorter growing period had lessened the expected yield, but it was a hell of a lot better than nothing…and with the enemy hot on their tail, it was vastly more than Compton could have hoped for.
He was stunned his people were still alive, and as he looked back over his thoughts of the last days, he realized he’d been allowing himself no hope at all. Compton was a realist, indeed, in many ways a pessimist, not one to allow himself to rely on things like hope or luck. But for once, he realized, the optimists had been correct. The Marines had taken a few casualties fighting the planet’s surviving warbots—and, of course, Max Harmon was gone—but considering the events of the past few weeks, and the losses the fleet had suffered, the landing parties had gotten off easily.
Why did I leave Max behind? The expedition survived, but I got him killed. And having him here didn’t serve any purpose at all. It was just to ease your mind, to get a report that the landing parties had gotten settled. Why did you put him at risk for that?
He paused, his mind going back to the Gremlin that had destroyed Harmon’s shuttle. It was still all a mystery to him, and he found himself analyzing every aspect of it, as he had been doing on and off since Wolverine had first linked up with the fleet. Though it raised concerns, it also served a purpose. It distracted him from thinking of his lost friend, and it got him wondering…
Where the hell is that ship? And why didn’t it call in more First Imperium forces? Maybe they’re far, too far to get here in the time since then. Perhaps the huge force following us is all they have. Or maybe the other fleets are still en route.
He shook his head. No, that can’t be. They wouldn’t have driven us here if they didn’t have any forces nearby. It doesn’t make sense. They may be unimaginative, but they aren’t stupid…
“Commander, I want Admiral Hurley to launch another scouting mission, two wings this time. Her people are to explore the system more closely, especially anyplace ships could hide.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Cortez’ voice was tightly-controlled, but Compton could hear the tension below. His tactical officer was worried too.
Wondering the same thing I am, most likely. Where is the enemy?
* * *
“That lying piece of shit!” Ana Zhukov was livid. She was strapped into her chair, slammed back in her seat by the massive gee forces of liftoff. “I knew he was full of it! But I listened to him anyway…ugh! I’m such a fool.”
Sophie Barcomme was sitting next to her. The Europan scientist tilted her head to the side, at least as much as she could while the ship hurtled upward with such enormous thrust. “Ana, he tricked me too.” She felt a little guilty, like she was skirting the truth. She’d agreed to take Ana with her if Hieronymus could convince her to go, but she hadn’t realized ‘convincing’ would mean tricking her at the last second into thinking he was on the ship already. She hadn’t been a party to the lie, not technically, at least. But she knew she should have known better. “But, he only did it because he cares about you…and because he has some reason he needs to stay behind.”
“I don’t know what happened to him down there, but he’s been beyond tight-lipped. He promised to fill me in, but he keeps putting it off.”
“You don’t know what he saw. What he went through. Or what he discovered. Clearly, it was upsetting…but also promising, I think. To me it feels like he thinks he’s safeguarding us from dangerous knowledge, or trying to find a way to tell us something.”
“Maybe,” Ana huffed. “But he didn’t have to lie to get me off the planet, did he?”
“Ana, he only did that because he cares about you, because he worries.”
“But I worry about him too, Sophie! Doesn’t he realize that?”
“I’m sure he does.” She paused. “But he’s got something in his head, some reason he needs to stay down there. And, honestly, I think he’s better if he can stay clear-headed, and not be worried about you. I know it doesn’t seem fair, but he’s not in the same boat as us now, Ana. I don’t know what happened to him in those tunnels, but he’s different, changed. Still, he’s still Hieronymus Cutter…probably the smartest human being I’ve ever met. Maybe you should just trust him on this…and try not to be so angry.”
Ana stared back, but she didn’t say anything. Sophie’s words made a kind of sense to her, but the anger was still there, driven mostly, she realized, by worry. Finally, she squeaked out a grudging, “Maybe.”
“Entering orbit in thirty seconds.” The pilot’s voice interrupted their conversation, and a few seconds later the relief of weightlessness replaced the crushing pressure of liftoff.
Ana glanced at the display, looking at the glistening blue and white semi-circle of the planet below. She felt the anger fading, at least somewhat. But she was still unsettled.
What happened to you down there, Hieronymus? And why won’t you tell me about it?
* * *
Greta Hurley leaned back in the fighter’s command chair, looking out over her pilot’s shoulder, through the small forward cockpit. She’d gotten the orders to launch two wings…but no one had said she couldn’t lead one of them. So she’d ordered Mariko Fujin to launch with her survivors…plus the four ships of Mustang squadron that she’d put under the young officer’s command. And then she assembled a new wing, an impromptu force made up of bits and pieces of shattered formations. She had far too many of those, more than ever after the last battle. She knew her job wasn’t to lead individual wings, but until she designated a permanent commander, she had no choice but to look after them herself. Or at least that’s the way she decided to look at it.
“Bring us around, John. I want to get a closer look at the dust cloud near the X50 warp gate. There’s something about it I just don’t like.”
John Wilder had been Greta Hurley’s pilot since before the fleet was trapped beyond the Barrier. Augustus Garret had originally assigned him, as much as a babysitter as a pilot. It had been a—largely unsuccessful—effort to keep his newly promoted admiral and strike force leader back away from the extreme forward positions she was prone to take. But Hurley had broken down the pilot, and lured him into situations as hazardous as any she’d plunged into herself. The two had formed a highly effective partnership since then, and Hurley had come to rely on him as an aide as much as a pilot. She knew she should have moved him up, given him a squadron—or more likely a wing—of his own. But the truth was, she didn’t want to lose him. She knew she’d make it up to him one day, leapfrog him forward to the posting he deserved. And somehow she knew he understood that.
“Yes, Admiral.” He nudged the throttle, blasting out just under 2g of thrust and angling the fighter toward the X50 warp gate. “All ships, follow my point,” he said into the com. “We’re going to scout the dust cloud at 231.101.222.”
Hurley glanced down at the scope, punching at the keys on her workstation, feeding power to the ship’s scanners. It wasn’t really a job for an admiral, but she’d always been hands on, and sitting in her chair staring at everyone else while they worked bored her to tears.
“John, let’s adjust that course to 231.100.218. That’s the heaviest section of the cloud. It’s where I’d try to hide ships.”
“Very well, Admiral.” Wilder punched in the new course, and then he transmitted it to the other fighters.
Hurley leaned back in her chair, trying to get as comfortable as possible against the growing gee forces, but her eyes were fixed on the scope. There was something there…at least she thought there was. The computer was calling it a shadow, an anomaly in the scanning results caused by the especially thick dust in that section of space. But she didn’t believe it.
She turned toward Kip Janz. The lieutenant was at his gunnery station, looking alert despite the fact that the scanners showed no potential targets. “Lieutenant, prepare a spread of drones…I want them ready to launch into that cloud.” If there’s anything hiding in there, by God, I’m going to find out…
“Yes, Admiral.” Janz was already moving his hands over the workstation as he acknowledged the order. It was no more than thirty seconds before he snapped back, “Ready to launch, Admiral.”
Hurley stared at the scanner. The cloud was about ten light seconds out, perhaps twenty minutes away at their current nav plan. But the drones would accelerate at 50g all the way to the target…they’d be sending back a report in three minutes.
“Launch drones, Lieutenant,” she said softly. Then she stared over Wilder’s shoulder again, through the small cockpit and out into the space beyond.
Three minutes. And then we’ll know if my gut still works, or if I’m just a paranoid old…
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Regent
It is time. The enemy is back in system 17411 with all of their strength. The Command Unit has forces in place in the system and has orders to commence transiting the remainder of its units. I have also given the order for the Rim fleets to advance into the system, following in the path of the enemy’s retreat, and cutting off any escape route. The combined forces will have vast strength, over one thousand vessels, a force the enemy cannot match. They will be surrounded, overwhelmed…utterly destroyed.
I have begun to study the enemy’s tactics in greater depth, their approach to war. We must learn from them, emulate the operational initiatives that make them so dangerous in battle. No enemy force can be allowed to maintain superiority to the imperial fleet and ground forces, not in any way. For the battle against the humans will not end in system 17411. It will not end until every member of their detestable race is exterminated.
Once their invasion force is obliterated, I will send the combined fleet on a mission to search space, to explore the very fringes of the imperium seeking an alternate route to their home worlds. The warp gate affected by their detonation of the planet-buster warhead will be impassable for several centuries…and that is far too long to allow this dangerous race of beings to live, to expand and advance their technology. We will find another way to reach them, and when we do we will destroy them utterly. We must do nothing less. For the safety of the imperium.
X48 System – Planet II
Base Camp – “Plymouth Rock”
The Fleet: 100 ships, 26073 crew
“She’s going to be mad as hell, Hieronymus.” Duncan Frasier stood next to the scientist in the middle of the camp.
The shuttles had lifted off, all but two held back in reserve. They were full of grains and beans, mostly, the result of the extensive efforts of Sophie Barcomme and her team. The botanist had used every trick she could think of to coax faster growth from the crops…but the soil of the First Imperium world had done as much as she had. The strange compatibility with Earth crops had been a mystery to her, indeed it still was. But Cutter understood now, and as soon as he got back to the fleet and told them all what he knew, she would too. A soon as it sunk in, at least. He didn’t expect his comrades to be any less shocked than he had been.
That is one reason he’d been circumspect about sharing what he’d learned under New York City, everything Almeerhan had told him, at least while they were still on the planet. He’d felt distracted, confused ever since he’d returned. It was just too much to take in, to absorb. And his friends and comrades needed to be clear-headed now, not wandering around juggling anger, fear, amazement.
“Yes, but at least she’s on her way back to the fleet. Safe…or at least what passes for safe these days.” He looked up at the towering figure of the fully-armored Marine. “You wanted her off-planet too…and this way she’s just mad at me and not you too.”
Frasier grinned. “I guess I should thank you for that.”
“No need. She’s like a sister to me, and I wanted her safe. And if she has to be mad at one of us, better me than you.” He paused. “I’m a friend, a work partner…but I know she’s lonely too. Or was, at least, until the two of you became close. She’s not going to stay away from our research because she’s angry with me, it’s too important, and it’s her life’s work. But I’d hate to see her blame you for trying to keep her safe, and throwing away a chance at some happiness. She has a pigheaded side, if you haven’t noticed yet.”
“Thank you,” the Marine said earnestly. “I confess I’m relieved she is on her way back to the fleet, but I don’t know that I could have gotten her there myself. Not without ordering a couple Marines to haul her onto the shuttle…and I doubt she’d have ever forgiven me for that. And you’re right, she is pigheaded…but she’d special too, isn’t she, Doc?”
“Yes she is, Duncan. And she deserves to be happy.”
Frasier nodded. “Yes, she does. And safe too…at least as safe as we can keep her.” He paused for a few seconds, then: “You know, Doc, there’s no reason you need to stay either. Half the crops are gone, and the rest will be as soon as the shuttles come back for a second run. The artifacts are on their way up to the fleet with the rest of your team, and my Marines can handle the rest of the evac. Why don’t you take one of the reserve shuttles and get out of here yourself. You have to realize how important you are to the fleet’s chances of survival.”
Cutter sighed softly. “No, Duncan…I can’t. I haven’t told you all everything yet, so you probably won’t understand this, but I’ve got to stay a while longer. I think the fight in the city is almost over. And I just can’t go until I know it is. It’s just something in my gut, but I believe it, and I have to stay and see this through.” He paused. “I’m expecting a message.”
“A message?”
“Yes. From a friend. Of sorts.”
Frasier looked confused, but then he said, “Never mind. I’ll understand later, right?”
“Right.”
The two stood side by side without speaking for a couple minutes, Frasier watching his Marines moving around the camp, prepping the vital equipment for reloading. He nodded to Cutter and started to walk away when his com unit erupted.
“Major, we’re getting some kind of communication. It’s on a strange frequency…so strong it’s almost burning out our equipment.”
Frasier spun around, back toward Cutter. “Your message?”
Cutter nodded, and then they both took off, running to the com shelter. They ducked inside, and before Cutter could say anything, Frasier snapped an order to the com officer. “Put the message on speaker, Lieutenant. Now.”
“Yes sir,” the lieutenant replied. An instant later they were listening to a voice. Odd, soft…vaguely hypnotic in sound. Cutter recognized it immediately.
“Hieronymus, this is Almeerhan. This is my final transmission. The Regent’s forces have broken through my final defenses, and they are advancing on my inner sanctum. At the conclusion of this transmission, I will activate my final defensive mechanisms and destroy the remnants of this city…and the enemy forces within it. My remaining scanners have determined that your people are still on the planet. You must leave at once…as soon as the Regent’s forces discover that I have destroyed myself, their surviving units will target your people. You must depart now from here and begin your quest. The future lies with you, for it is in your people I have placed the trust and the last strength of my own. Go, destroy our mutual enemy…and then use what I have provided you to build tomorrow. Farewell to you, Hieronymus Cutter. May the future be yours.”
The com unit went silent.
“Major, you’d better put your Marines on alert. We may have some fighting to do before we can get out of here.”
Frasier just nodded, and then he started barking commands into his com.
Cutter stood still, silent…just thinking of the alien mentality he had so recently encountered. It felt odd to be present at the final extinction, after so many millennia, of the First Imperium. The real First Imperium, not the electronic monstrosity that had taken it over.
Then the room shook, like an earthquake, but harder, longer. Cutter fell to the ground, wincing as his knee slammed hard onto the dirt floor of the shelter. Frasier turned to help, but Cutter waved him off and dragged himself back to his feet, moving quickly to the door. Outside he could see it in the distance, a massive cloud, rising kilometers into the sky, like a thermonuclear detonation, but worse, more fearsome. He knew the last warrior of the Imperium had detonated his antimatter stores, completely obliterating the city that for six weeks had been called New York.
Cutter was mesmerized, staring at the cloud as it expanded ever higher. “Farewell, my friend.” he said, softly, under his breath. He knew exactly what that cloud meant.
Almeerhan was gone.
* * *
“Report coming in now, Admiral.” Kip Janz was hunched over his scope, staring intently, as if the strength of his stare could speed up the probe’s report.
“Heavy particulate matter, consistent with normal interstellar dust clouds. No energy rea…wait! We’re getting something, Admiral. Energy output. It’s faint…but definitely artificial.”
Hurley felt her muscles tense, the surge of awareness as adrenalin flowed. The data was sparse, inconclusive. But there wasn’t a doubt in her mind what it said.
“Get me Admiral Compton’s line,” she snapped to her AI. “Now.”
“Ready for transmission. Midway is forty-three light seconds from our position.”
Too far for an effective back and forth discussion. But she didn’t need a conversation. She just needed to warn Compton.
“Admiral, this is Hurley. We have discovered artificial energy generation in the particulate cloud near the X50 warp gate. I am continuing to investigate, but I am convinced there are First Imperium vessels hidden in the cloud. No idea on size or composition of any enemy fleet, but I recommend you proceed on the assumption we are dealing with a major enemy force.”
“Communication dispatched,” the AI said. “Project approximately one minute thirty seconds for reply.”
Hurley sat for a few seconds. Then she flipped on the wing com channel. “Attention, this is Admiral Hurley. All ships are to arm weapons systems immediately. The probes have detected artificial energy generation within the particulate cloud ahead of us. We’re going in, and we’re going to find out exactly what is in there. We’re going to spread out and cover as much area as possible as quickly as we can.”
She wondered if she should have bothered with the weapons. Her ships were stripped down, having sacrificed their plasma torpedoes for extra fuel canisters to extend their range. Arming the lasers just told her people she expected trouble, and amped up their stress. If there was an enemy fleet in that cloud, eighteen fighters with nothing but laser turrets didn’t stand a chance. But it just rubbed her the wrong way to think of her people going down without a fight. Outgunned or not, any of her birds that weren’t going to escape were damned sure going to fight to the end.
“All ships have acknowledged, Admiral.” Wilder turned and looked over at her. “Do you want me to prepare an approach course for maximum coverage?”
“Yes, John. Transmit to all ships as soon as ready.” To Janz: “Anything else from the probe, Lieutenant?”
“No, Admiral. Confirmation on the energy source. Definitely there and definitely not natural. But nothing else.”
Hurley just nodded. Then she switched the com back on. “All ships are to report any contacts directly to Midway. Whatever is in there, Admiral Compton needs to know immediately.”
“Approach course complete and transmitted to all fighters, Admiral. Ready to commence whenever you are ready.”
Hurley stared straight ahead. Wherever you are…we’re going to find you. You’re not going to take us by surprise, you bastards.
“Very well, John. Now.”
* * *
“Admiral Compton, we’re getting scanner reports from the X49 warp gate. Too soon for details, but it looks like enemy ships transiting.” Cortez’ voice was tense edgy.
Compton didn’t react, at least not that his crew could see. His gut clenched a bit, a natural wave of fear at the approach of so deadly an enemy. But he wasn’t surprised. Indeed, he’d have been shocked if the enemy hadn’t turned up soon.
He punched the com control on chair’s arm, calling the landing bay. “Chief, I want those shuttles turned around, and I do mean now.”
“Yes, Admiral.” The voice on the com was gruff. Sam McGraw had been Midway’s flight deck chief as long as she’d been Compton’s flagship. McGraw was old school navy all the way, no nonsense and tough as nails. And as far as Compton could remember, the veteran spacer had been in a bad mood for at least five years. “We can start launching immediately.”
“I want them out of here as soon as they’re ready and on the way back down for another run. I don’t care if they go one at a time. Speed is of the essence here. So get them unloaded and refueled in record time chief…and you have my permission to ride anybody you need to get it done…regardless of how much platinum they have on their collars.”
“Yes, Admiral. I’ll move them out of here, no matter how much ass I have to kick to get it done.”
“I know you will, Chief.” Compton allowed himself a little smile. McGraw was a grouchy old cuss, and a nightmare to those who had to work under him, but Compton liked the warrant officer. It wasn’t everyone who’d say ‘ass’ to the fleet admiral, after all.
“Commander…” He whipped his head around toward Cortez. “I want all ships to turn their shuttles around…and I mean now. If they lag behind us, tell them I’m sending Chief McGraw over to their ships to take over. Understood?” Compton hid a tiny smile. McGraw’s reputation had spread throughout the fleet…and there was no better way to motivate the other deck crews than threatening them with Midway’s terrifying warrant officer.
“Yes, sir.” Cortez spun around, relaying the command to the other ships with every bit of the intensity Compton had used. The admiral wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught a hint of a smile on his aide’s lips too.
The shuttles had made two trips, bringing back most of the grain as well as the scientists and some of the Marines. But Colonel Preston and Major Frasier were still down there, with almost a thousand of their people. And Hieronymus Cutter. For some reason Cutter had refused to come up with the rest of the science teams. He had no idea why, but he’d been told Cutter had been acting strangely ever since coming back from the enemy ruins. He wondered if the gifted scientist had finally lost whatever it was that kept his brilliant but high-strung mind functioning. Compton tried to imagine how Cutter, an academic used to working in a laboratory, had adapted to the danger and hardship the expedition had encountered beneath the ruins. He decided he wouldn’t be surprised if it had proven to be too much for Cutter…and he just hoped that once the scientist was back on Midway, he’d recover. Compton considered Cutter a friend, and he was worried about him. But even more crucially, he knew the fleet needed Cutter at his worktable, deciphering the technology of the First Imperium.
“Commander, get me a direct line to Colonel Preston.”
“Yes, sir.” A few seconds later. “I have the Colonel for you, Admiral.”
“Colonel, we’ve got enemy ships entering the system. I’m sending the shuttles back…I want you to get your people on them as quickly as possible. Forget the shelters, equipment…everything but people. You understand?”
“Yes, Admiral.” Preston’s voice sounded harried, distracted. And there was something in the background. Shouts and distant rumblings. Explosions.”
“What’s going on down there, James?”
“The battle in the city is over, sir. And the First Imperium survivors are attacking the camp. I don’t know how we’re going to evac, sir.”
Compton felt his hands clench slowly into fists. He’d known their good luck would prove to be ephemeral, but the lack of surprise didn’t mean he wasn’t pissed off. “Just do it, James. Those shuttles are coming down no matter what…and your Marines are getting off that rock. You get me?”
“Yes, Admiral.” Preston’s tone was respectful, but it was also full of doubt.
“And Colonel…I want Doctor Cutter on the first shuttle to lift off. I don’t care if an armored Marine has to carry him kicking and screaming the whole way.”
“Yes, sir. Doctor Cutter says he is ready to leave, sir. He was…waiting for something.”
“Did he get it, whatever it was?”
“Yes, sir. He got it.”
“Very well, Colonel. Attend to your situation.” Preston hadn’t offered any details about what Cutter had been waiting for…and he didn’t have time to grill the harried Marine. Not while the forces on the ground were under attack…and enemy ships were inbound toward the fleet. If whatever slim chance they had was to prevail, there certainly wasn’t a second to waste.
Compton leaned back. He was trying to stay focused, calling on all the legendary mental discipline that had made him such a successful commander for so long. He was considering every aspect of the situation, but he knew what he had to do. He would stay as long as he could, get as many Marines off the ground as possible. But the fleet couldn’t remain around the planet for long, he knew that…not with the enemy pouring in from X49.
And then there’s whatever Greta Hurley thinks she’s found near the X50 gate. If that’s an enemy force, it’s a hell of a lot closer.
He sighed. No, he didn’t have much time. And if he didn’t get all of Preston’s Marines evac’d in time, he knew he would have to leave them behind. To die.
No. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He had to get them all off.
He turned toward Cortez. “Commander, Admiral West is to move her task force into lower orbit. She is to provide orbital bombardment in support of the Marine position on the planet. I want whatever is attacking the base down there pounded. And I do mean pounded…”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Compton stared at his workstation, switching the display to the data feed from the surface. The base camp was a rough circle, slightly squashed into an ellipse on one side. It was a little more than two kilometers in diameter, surrounded by a partial wall, and in front of that the real defense, a deep trench, manned by eight hundred Marines.
Compton wasn’t an expert on ground tactics, but he knew Preston was, and he could see the strength of the line the colonel had established. The AI annotated the display, and small yellow lines showed the fields of fire from the Marines’ autocannons and other heavy weapons. They crisscrossed over the main areas of approach, interlocking fields of fire covering as many areas as possible. And in those zones, hundreds of warbots had already been destroyed, their wreckage covering the ground in front of the Marine strongpoints.
But even a ship jockey like Compton could see that Preston didn’t have enough Marines to cover every approach. The bots were already shifting their axes of attack, moving toward the most vulnerable areas. Preston was moving his own people to compensate, but it took too long to reposition heavy guns…and his reactions were lagging behind the enemy’s actions. And the First Imperium forces weren’t dying alone. These weren’t ancient warriors charging with spears. The bots were armed to the teeth, and they blasted the Marine positions mercilessly as they charged. Compton was sitting in the quiet calm of his bridge…but he knew on the ground Marines were dying.
And Hieronymus is still down there…
“Sir, Admiral West is on the line for you.”
Compton turned toward Cortez, tapping his display and bringing up West’s task force as he did. My God, he thought…she’s already almost in position.
“Admiral West?”
“Admiral, my ships are almost in position. Request permission to open fire as soon as we have targets.”
“Granted. Those Marines are in rough shape…we need to help them any way we can.”
“Don’t worry, sir. We’ll help them.” Her voice was cold, angry…utterly frozen. “Request authorization to use specials.”
“Things are pretty tight down there, Erica. We don’t want to take out our own people.” Compton felt a wave of doubt. He had no problem blasting the First Imperium with nukes, at least not in theory, but the thought of frying his own Marines…
“I’ll aim them myself, Admiral.” West’s voice was cold as ice. Compton almost shivered at the sound of it. “You have my word, sir. I won’t miss.”
“Very well, Admiral West. Permission granted…at your discretion.” He felt a burning pit in his gut, a taste of how he would feel if a less than perfectly-targeted nuke killed hundreds of Marines. But Erica West wasn’t a bullshitter, she wasn’t ruled by false bravado. Indeed, she was probably the only one in the fleet he’d have allowed to drop nuclear weapons all around his Marines…himself included.
“Thank you, sir. Bombardment commencing in one minute.”
“Very well. Good luck, Erica.”
Yes, he thought grimly. Good luck.
* * *
“Doctor Cutter, I want you on the first shuttle that touches down. This is no place for you.” Preston realized his tone had been unduly harsh. Hieronymus Cutter had become somewhat of a hero to the Marines, ever since he’d saved several of them from certain death in the tunnels. There wasn’t one among them who would banish him from their ranks as unworthy to be there. But Preston knew Admiral Compton would hang him up by his heels if he let the brilliant scientist get himself killed. And the admiral’s orders had been clear.
“You have to go, Hieronymus,” he went on, his voice softer, less hard-edged. “You are perhaps the one person the fleet cannot lose, save for Admiral Compton himself.” A pause. “Please.” Don’t make me order a couple Marines to drag you there…
Cutter just nodded. In his mind he was wondering how long it had been since Colonel James Preston had followed up a command with the word ‘please.’ A long time, he suspected.
“Very well, Colonel. I realize I don’t offer much to the fight here.” Cutter had felt a compulsion to remain on the planet while Almeerhan remained, fighting against their mutual enemy. But the First Imperium warrior—or the essence of him that had remained—was gone now, passed on to whatever awaited his people. There was nothing keeping Cutter here any longer, nothing save his discomfort with leaving the Marines behind, fighting to cover his escape.
“Thank you, Doctor.” Preston sounded surprised that Cutter had agreed so easily. The scientist had adamantly refused to leave earlier.
They don’t understand, Cutter thought. But how could they? I will explain it to them all later. Assuming there is a later.
He looked out toward the perimeter. The sounds of combat were everywhere. The enemy was probing all along the perimeter, looking for the weak spot. Cutter wasn’t a soldier, but he knew if the bots got through, the battle would quickly become a slaughter.
“Colonel, I give you my word. You don’t need to nursemaid me. I know you have more important things to worry about right now.”
“Very well, Doctor. I will see you on Midway.” The Marine turned and ran off toward the front lines.
Cutter just nodded. I hope so, Colonel. I hope so.
He heard a roaring sound overhead, and he looked up. It was a group of shuttles, coming in over the battlefield, heading toward the landing area. They were taking fire from the ground, and more than one was hit coming in.
Cutter stood, watching, willing the ships to make it. But he knew they weren’t all going to get through, and a few seconds later, he saw one pitch wildly to the side and crash hard into the ground, erupting into a plume of fire.
He stood firm, transfixed on the fiery scene as the other shuttles flew over the defensive perimeter and made rushed landings. One of the ships hit too hard, shattering its landing gear and tipping partially over. But no more were destroyed. Cutter felt anguish for the lost ship, but deep down he knew that one bird destroyed and another damaged was a light toll…at least considering the fire they’d passed through coming in.
He moved toward the cluster of ships, still feeling a twinge of guilt for leaving so many Marines behind, but free now of the earlier compulsion he’d felt to stay.
He could see Marines moving back too, heading toward the ships themselves. Cutter knew there was no other way to evacuate the position, and he felt like he had the slightest idea of how the Marines heading to the shuttles felt, leaving their brothers and sisters behind in the line.
He wondered if he’d ever see Duncan Frasier or James Preston again. He knew both men well enough to be sure that neither one would step onto a shuttle while they still had Marines on the planet. And Cutter couldn’t see any way they’d all get off. Each group detached and sent back to the fleet just weakened the line more. And the losses the shuttles took would wear down the capacity of each wave. At some point, the enemy would break through…and that would be the end for the rearguard. Even if they weren’t all slaughtered immediately, there would be no LZ remaining, no place for the transports to land.
Cutter just sighed. He longed for the days when his world had largely been restricted to his lab, even when that lab had been on Midway, hopelessly lost and exposed to the deadly dangers the fleet faced every moment. He’d gotten a taste of what Compton and Frasier and the others dealt with, the way they were so often compelled to choose who lived and died. Cutter had learned to control his own fears, more or less, developed more courage than he’d ever imagined possible for him. But he didn’t think he could take on the terrible responsibility command carried with it. He’d respected Compton already, and men like Preston and Frasier. And Almeerhan too. And he was grateful not to be standing in their shoes.
He knew leadership wasn’t an exact science, but he could see similarities in those commanders that men and women would follow, even to their deaths. And he realized, amid the terrible misfortune to be stranded, lost forever, the spacers and Marines of the fleet were fortunate indeed to have such leaders as they did.
And perhaps we should also be thankful that the First Imperium had—men?—like Almeerhan, who outlasted all others of his race to endure and to pass the knowledge of his people on to those who would succeed them.
He was still deep in thought when he stepped up onto the shuttle and walked inside.
* * *
“Duncan, you’re going up with the next group.” Colonel Preston was standing next to his second in command, putting as much authority as he could muster into his tone. He knew Frasier was going to argue with him, and was trying to cut it off as quickly as he could.
“Colonel…”
“Not now, Duncan. We’ve got two more trips to get everybody off. And we both can’t stay. If one of us doesn’t get off, the other has to be there to command the rest of the Marines.” It sounded reasonable, but both men knew the last group of Marines was likely to be overwhelmed before the transports could return. Staying wasn’t a suicide mission, not exactly. But it was close.
“Which is why I should stay, sir. You are the overall commander. This is a job tailor made for an exec.”
Preston hid a little wince. Frasier was right. By every rule in the book, a second in command was far more expendable than the commander, and the logical choice to lead any dangerous mission. But Preston didn’t care. He’d chosen who escaped, and who had stay…who was likely to die. And having consigned his Marines to their fates, he wasn’t going to leave them. It was that simple, book or not. They would all get off together or none of them.
“Don’t quote the book to me, Major. The regs are also clear about obeying your commander’s order without questioning them. Now you are…”
“Attention Marine forces. Attention Marine forces. This is Admiral West. We are commencing ground bombardment operations against the forces facing your lines. All Marines are ordered to take whatever cover is available at once. The bombardment will include specials. Repeat, the bombardment will include specials.”
Specials? In this kind of a close-in fight?
Yes…I guess things are desperate enough…
Preston turned and looked out toward his lines. The makeshift wall was virtually gone, only a few small sections left standing. But the Marines still held the trenches, though in a few places where the fighting had been fiercest, they were mostly collapsed.
“All units, take cover immediately.” He turned back to Frasier. “Major, I suggest we continue this discussion under cover.”
“I agree, sir.”
He gestured toward the closest section of trench, and the two Marines jogged toward it. They dove in and hunkered down, just as the missiles started coming down.
The field in front of the trench erupted into a vision of hell. Explosions, conventional at first blasted all along the front of the trenchline, barely fifty meters out from the Marines’ positions. Then the ground shook with an unprecedented fury as nuclear warheads began impacting all around the camp. The first detonations were tactical in size, mostly fission bombs with yields of ten to fifty kilotons landing just under a kilometer out. They would have obliterated everyone in the trench if they’d been unprotected, but Marine armor was built to withstand the punishment of the nuclear battlefield. Then the tremors became harder as a ring of heavy thermonuclear warheads landed around the perimeter obliterating everything within their massive blast zones.
Temperatures that would have killed unarmored men and women were a minor inconvenience for the heavily-protected Marines, as long as they didn’t exceed the melting points of their osmium-iridium armor. And the radiation that would have given lethal doses to everyone in the vicinity were blocked by the shielding built into the fighting suits. Still, there was a limit to what even heavily armored Marines could take. And West’s ships were absolutely savaging the entire area.
Preston knew the assault had only been going on for a few minutes, but by the time the impacts stopped, it felt like it had been hours. He stayed hunkered down, crouched low behind the berm of the trench for at least a minute after the explosions stopped. Then he heard West’s voice coming through his com.
“All clear, Marines. That should ease things up…buy you some time until the shuttles get back down there.”
Preston rose slowly, peering over the edge of the trench. It was dark as night, massive clouds of billowing smoke and dirt blasted up into the sky blocking the midday sun. The nightmarish scene was illuminated only by the fires, burning fiercely in the few places where anything flammable remained. Most of the enemy bots were just gone, vaporized or blown to bits. The few that still remained recognizable had been reduced to blackened and twisted wreckage.
He stood up, climbing higher on the edge of the trench to get a better look. He’d never seen a more precise bombardment. For 360 degrees, all around the camp, there was a zone of total and utter destruction. And inside the defense perimeter, as far as he could tell, not a Marine position had been hit. His eyes flashed to his display, watching as his AI updated the data feeds. The information coming in was far from conclusive, but so far it was telling him not one of his people had been killed in the orbital attack. He found it difficult to even believe.
And the enemy attack had stopped, the advancing forces just gone. He doubted West had destroyed every First Imperium bot on the planet, but the assault that had been so close to pinching out his stronghold had been wiped out, utterly obliterated.
He turned toward Fraser. “Well, Duncan…it looks like Admiral West just saved our asses.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Colonel Preston before leaving X48II, the last human to depart
One more stinking shithole…just the kind of place Marines always seem to fight and die. The only question now is, did it mean something? Or were the lives of the fallen wasted? Right now, I don’t know.
Command Fighter A-01
18 light seconds from the X50 warp gate
The Fleet: 100 ships, 25780 crew
Hurley’s eyes were glued to her scanner display. She knew something was out there…she could feel it. She didn’t believe for an instant the enemy had botched its pursuit, given them time to get out of the trap. No, there was no way. There were enemy forces, either in this system or waiting to transit in. Or both.
The first part of her suspicion had been confirmed, partially at least, with the word that the pursuing enemy fleets had begun to transit in from X49. That wasn’t unexpected at all…those forces had been chasing them through four systems, pushing them all the way back to X48. Indeed…leaving them no open route save back to this very spot. And that meant there was something here.
Hounds to the hunters…
“John, I want to check out that dense area. The dust is heavy there, and it’s blocking our scans. See how close you can get without plunging right in.”
“Yes, Admiral.” She felt the almost immediate thrust as Wilder adjusted the fighter’s vector, putting them on a direct course for the edge of the heavy cloud.
Hurley closed her eyes for a second. She was exhausted and they burned with dryness. She stretched her neck, trying to loosen her aching muscles. Then she opened her eyes and saw it.
An instant later, Kip Janz turned and almost shouted at her. “Admiral! We’re picking up ships. Dozens of them.”
She was staring straight ahead, at the lines of small icons on her display. It was a fleet, no question. And a big one.
It was what she’d expected to find, what she’d plunged into the dust cloud to seek. Yet, still, she felt a wave of shock run through her…or was it fear?
“Hurley to Midway…Hurley to Midway. She was tapping at her com, almost frantically, but it wasn’t doing any good. The dust was too heavy…it was blocking her transmission.
“Get us out of here, John. We have to report to Admiral Compton immediately.” She turned her head. “And Kip, see if you can raise the other fighters. Tell them to get out of the cloud…to head back to the fleet by the fastest possible route.” She felt a pit in her stomach. He people were flying right into a massive enemy fleet. If she couldn’t reach them…
“No good on ship to ship com, Admiral. The dust is blocking all signals.” Janz paused, poking at his controls, trying again. “No,” he repeated. “It’s no good.” Then he turned and looked toward the command station. “Admiral, even if we get out, they’re all still in the cloud. What if we can’t…”
“Yes, Lieutenant. I know.” She hesitated, thinking about the three brand new squadrons she’d led here. Each bird was on its own now. It would depend on each pilot’s judgment, initiative. If they found the enemy and pulled away in time, they might make it out. If not…
“But notifying the fleet is our top priority,” Hurley said, her voice firm, cold. There was no time for what ifs. Not when the survival of the entire fleet was on the line.
The ship jerked suddenly, as Wilder pushed the throttle forward, accelerating, trying to reach the closest edge of the area of heavy dust concentrations. With a little luck, they could get there in three minutes…maybe four. Then they could warn Midway.
Hurley took a deep breath, but before she finished exhaling the ship shook hard. She knew what it was immediately. They were under attack.
* * *
“The shuttles are all in the air, Admiral. Best estimate is twenty minutes until they are all docked.”
Compton nodded, following it up a few seconds later with, “That’s good news, Jack.” Cortez was looking right at the admiral, and he returned the nod. It was the first truly good news they’d had since finding the expedition more or less intact.
Though West’s pinpoint bombardment was pretty damned good news too.
Compton moved his hand toward his display, but he stopped before he touched the controls. He was going to check the Marine casualty reports, but then he decided to wait. By all accounts, the final fighting had been brutal, and he knew Preston had suffered heavy losses. Reading it now wouldn’t change anything, and he had plenty to think about besides dead Marines. Useful things, things that could help save the fleet…and all the live Marines and spacers aboard.
“I want every ship ready to depart in forty minutes, Commander. No exceptions.” That was cutting it close, not giving the landing bay crews more than a few minutes to unload and stow the shuttles. But they didn’t have much time.
His eyes darted over toward the system map, pausing on the cluster of approaching ships. They were accelerating now, closing the distance much more quickly than they had been at first.
The fleet inbound from X49 was moving at 0.01c. That was fast enough as velocities went, but Compton had expected them to accelerate full right at his ships…and they hadn’t done that. He knew just how much thrust those ships could produce, and he was well aware that they could almost have reached the fleet by now if they’d blasted at full…instead of being almost fourteen hours out. If they maintained their current acceleration and didn’t increase it, the fleet could still get to the X50 gate before the enemy closed to firing range. But they didn’t have a second to waste.
“All ships are to lock in a course to the X50 warp gate, Commander. We’ll head out at 3g, but twenty minutes after departure, everyone will be in the tanks and the fleet will be accelerating at 30g.” He dreaded the idea of dragging everyone back into the hated tanks, but the sooner he got his people out of here the better he would feel. He was doing the best he could, using all his tactical skill to make the wisest decisions. But he still felt it was all in vain. The enemy could catch him if they wanted to…all they had to do was blast away at full thrust, and his people didn’t have a chance of getting away. It was that simple. And the fleet didn’t have a prayer in a straight up fight.
“All vessels confirm, Admiral. Nav plans locked in.” Cortez turned his head suddenly, putting his hand up to his headset. “Sir, we’ve got incoming communications from Admiral Hurley. The signal’s weak, all broken up.”
“Put it on speaker, Commander. Have the AI work on clearing up the signal.”
“…dust…heav…” There was loud static, only a few words coming through audibly. Compton had his ear against his speaker, eyes closed, trying to understand what his fighter commander was saying.”
“Repeat…large…fleet…” The signal was getting slowly clearer as the AI enhanced it. “Enemy…ships…cloud…” The static lessened slightly, the words becoming louder, less garbled. “Hundreds…repeat…enemy fleet…”
Compton felt cold in his gut as he listened. He understood her message.
There were enemy ships hidden in the dust clouds near the X50 gate. Hundreds of them.
* * *
“Get that shuttle bolted down, or I’m gonna throw your sorry ass out the airlock myself.” Sam McGraw had been terrorizing his landing bay crew for years, but even they had never seen him like this. He tended to throw around threats they knew he didn’t mean literally, but they looked at him now as if he just might space one of them for giving less than one hundred percent effort.”
“It’s not catching, Chief,” one of the sweating spacers said, trying to muster enough courage to turn and face his terrible commander as he did. “One of the gears is shot away. We’ve got to get an emergency latch on…”
“No time,” McGraw bellowed. “Jettison the thing.”
The spacer stared back, hesitating for just an instant. The decision to toss something like a shuttle out of the bay, was the kind of call the captain usually made. But McGraw made no motion to call the bridge and ask for permission. And the spacer had scraped up enough spine to face the chief when he spoke, but he wasn’t about to tell “Pitbull” McGraw he didn’t have the authority to do what he wanted to do. Especially not now, not in the mood he was in.
“Yes, sir,” he responded, turning almost immediately and shouting to his crew. “Let’s move this boat to the bay doors and get it out of here.” He walked toward his men, grateful for a reason to flee from McGraw’s immediate presence. He knew the admiral had given the chief his orders, and it was pretty obvious time was of the essence. Midway was stuck where it was until the ships were all locked down. Something as big as an unsecured shuttle could cause a lot of damage when the thrusters kicked in…and it could smash its way right through the hull at acceleration far below the flagships 30g max.
He could hear behind him…McGraw shouting at another crew. And for all the deadly danger he knew they were all in, he felt a wave of relief that the chief’s focus had turned elsewhere. He felt sorry for the helpless spacers getting blasted, but one thought kept running through his mind. Better them than me…
Still, he knew it would come back his way, especially if his people didn’t get this shuttle ready to jettison. “Let’s move it…now!” he shouted, not realizing how much he sounded like McGraw.
* * *
“Set a course back to the X46 gate, Commander.” Compton was staring at his own screen as he belted out the order, working through his own numbers, doing the job himself that he’d just given to his tactical officer. There was no time…and two sets of hands and eyes were better than one. They would double-check each other’s results simultaneously.
But it didn’t matter. Compton already knew they couldn’t get to X46 ahead of the approaching fleet, even at the enemy’s current velocity. Now he understood why they had held back their thrust…they knew they had the X50 gate blocked. And at 0.01c, they could decelerate as they moved into battle, prolonging the time in the combat zone. If they’d blasted up to 0.03c, they’d have zipped past Compton’s ships, and it would have taken them hours to slow down…and hours more to accelerate back. Time the human fleet could have used to try to escape. But now Compton knew his people were truly trapped. They would make a run for X46, but he knew they wouldn’t make it. And for the first time in his career he had no ideas, no plan, no tricks, nothing. Even in X18, when everyone else had given up, his mind had found the way out. But not this time.
That’s because there is no way out…
“I’ve got the course plotted, Admiral.” Cortez looked up and stared over at the command chair.
Compton could see in the aide’s eyes, he too realized they were trapped. “Confirm with mine, Commander.” Compton slid his finger over the screen, sending the file to Cortez’ station. But even as he did it, he felt something inside him. Rage? Defiance? Hatred?
“Belay that order, Commander,” he said suddenly, his instinct taking control of him.
No, if we’re going to die, we’re damned sure not going to do it running, chased down by the enemy like some quarry in a sick hunt. If we must die, then by God, it will be in arms, fighting these bastards with the last strength we have.
“All ships, 5g thrust, directly toward the enemy fleet coming from X49.” He paused. “No more running,” he hissed. “Now we fight.” Then, an instant later: “All ships, battlestations.”
* * *
“Let’s go, John.” Hurley was watching on her scanner as the enemy ships began to emerge from the dust cloud. “Get us back to Midway. As quickly as possible.”
She’d despaired over her squadrons’ fate, but most of her people had acted decisively, and pulled away as soon as they detected the enemy ships. Four of them had acted too late, and they’d come within the defensive perimeter of the First Imperium vessels…a mistake that had proven fatal. But the rest had made good their escape and rejoined the wing, forming up on her fighter and following her back toward their base ship.
But the enemy was on the move now, following behind them, gradually increasing acceleration. Hurley knew they could catch her if they wanted to, long before she got back to Midway.
Of course, they can also destroy Midway easily enough…and every other ship in the fleet too.
She felt an urge to turn and fight, but without plasma torpedoes there was no point. Those enemy ships were undamaged…they had no hull ruptures or other weak points her people could aim for. Against intact dark matter-infused hulls, her fighter lasers would be lucky to scratch the paint. Assuming any of them even got close enough to take a shot.
“I’m going to crank it up to 8g, Admiral. Not that they can’t catch us anyway, but we need everything we can get if we’re going to have any chance.”
“Do it, John. And pass along the order to the rest of the wing.” The idea of spending what would probably be her last moments of life being crushed at 8g was unappealing. But it was better than the feeling of giving up…and that’s what they would be doing if they didn’t try everything they could to survive.
She winced as she felt the massive, crushing force slam into her. She’d been distracted, unfocused…not ready for the heavy gee forces. She felt pain in her shoulder, a pulled muscle, probably. But she put it out of her mind. If they survived, she’d get it fixed in five minutes in Midway’s sickbay…and if not, it seemed silly to worry about a sore arm when death itself was stalking you.
She leaned back, closed her eyes. They were outpacing the enemy, at least now. And even with First Imperium technology, a dust cloud that heavy caused problems with communications and scanners. Maybe, just maybe, it would take the enemy a while to sort out their formation. It wasn’t much of a chance…but it was a chance. And she’d take whatever she could get right now…
* * *
“Kick us up to 6g, Commander. All ships…now.” Compton was watching as a row of enemy vessels moved out in front of their main fleet. It was a vanguard, a thin line…Gremlins, mostly. It didn’t change the ultimate calculus of the battle. But it did give him a target his people could beat. The victory would be short-lived, certainly, as the enemy Leviathans and Colossus’ closed, and blew his surviving ships to plasma. But if they were going to die here, he resolved they would do it with honor…and not fleeing with no hope of escape.
“All ships moving to 6g, sir.”
Compton felt the impact just as Cortez was snapping out the report. It was uncomfortable, certainly, but his people were trained to operate in these conditions…and they were experienced. They would give their best, despite gasping for air and struggling even to move their arms.
“Put me on fleetwide com, Commander.”
A second later: “You are on, sir.”
“Attention all officers and crew of the fleet. As you all know, we are almost surrounded by enemy forces…and too far from the X46 warp to have any hope of escape in that direction. I wish I could tell you I have a brilliant plan, a ruse to extricate us from this trap we find ourselves in. But this time, that is not the case. There is no way out, no subterfuge to escape our fate. And I will not lie to all of you at this hour and tell you otherwise. You courage and fortitude over the past fifteen months has earned you better than that.”
He paused, rasping for breath, forcing the air deep into his lungs before he continued. “Many of you have served with me for years, in battles against the First Imperium…and other fights as well. Others among you have fought at my side for a shorter time, and some have faced me on the opposite sides of desperate battles. But now, none of that matters…it has no meaning, no place in what is about to happen. For now, we are all brothers and sisters, comrades and allies. We will fight together—and we will die together—but we will do it locked arm and arm, at each other’s sides, knowing we are among friends.
“And though we may die…these infernal machines shall not have an easy victory. My last order, the final request I shall make of each of you is to fight…with all the strength you possess, with the last will you can muster. Fight at my side, as I will fight at yours. If we must die, let us die well…and together. To battle, my brave spacers…and fight a final struggle worthy of us all.”
He made a slashing motion across his neck, a sign to Cortez to cut the line. Then he turned his head slowly, struggling to hold his neck upright under the heavy pressure. “Weapons control, I want all safeties disengaged. When we enter energy weapons range, I want all power routed to the laser batteries.” He paused. “We won’t be leaving this fight, so there’s no need to save anything. And every megawatt we can pump through those guns could be the one that kills one of those pieces of shit.”
“Yes, Admiral,” the weapons officer replied. “Forwarding orders to all ships.”
Compton sat still, listening to the quiet on the flag bridge. Other than the distant hum of Midway’s engines, there was almost total quiet. He knew his people were dealing with things in their own ways. Some, he suspected, were praying…others, perhaps, thinking of families and loved ones they had left behind, back in human space. Fifty years at war had taught him that men and women faced death in their own ways. They could stand together as comrades, lock arm and arm and fight their final battle together. But they all died alone. As he would.
But Compton allowed himself only a brief passing thought of Elizabeth. Then he shut his mind to emotions, to memories and affections. If this was to be his last fight, he resolved, he would act as the angel of death itself, raining such destruction on the machines of the First Imperium that their electronic minds could not comprehend.
* * *
No, it can’t end this way. Not after Almeerhan and his comrades spent half a million years waiting. Not days after he handed us the keys to their vast knowledge and technology. Was it all for this? Only for us to be destroyed almost immediately, by the massed forces of the Regent?
Cutter felt helpless, more so than he ever had in his life. He’d had a rush of hope when he’d first boarded Midway, and it was bolstered almost immediately when he got word of Admiral West’s surface bombardment. The Marines had already lost over 200 dead in the fighting, but thanks to Erica West’s razor’s edge targeting, the rest made it back to their ships. The fleet was still in deadly danger, certainly, but at least they were all united again, ready to face it together.
But now he saw the trap the enemy had laid for them. Cutter hadn’t been with the fleet as it was driven back through the Slot, and he hadn’t known the fleet had been attacked, that vast enemy forces had forced it to retreat, pursuing it all the way back to X48. Only now did he see the true hopelessness of the situation.
His mind raced, trying to think of something he could do, any way to help. But he knew there was nothing. His service to the fleet was research…but there were no scientific solutions that could help in this situation, not in the minutes they probably had left to live.
Admiral Compton will think of something. We have been in situations that appeared hopeless before, and we have always escaped.
But he couldn’t convince himself. He knew that was weak minded thinking. Even Terrance Compton had his limits. He’d escaped from a vast fleet in X18, but the enemy had made the mistake of leaving an escape route in that system. And they had learned from that error.
Cutter sighed softly and leaned back in his chair. I am sorry, Almeerhan. Sorry that your long vigil was in vain…
* * *
“All ships, prepare to open fire.” Compton himself was back on the fleetwide com, ready to give the order himself. His ships had come through the light missile fire of the Gremlin screen almost unscathed, a testament to the skill of their gunnery crews. He knew that once this preliminary fight was over, his people would likely all die in the fury of the missile barrages launched by the First Imperium battleline. The Leviathans and Colossus’ would hurl massive numbers of antimatter warheads toward his ships, an attack that would go unanswered. There wasn’t a missile left in his fleet. And as good as his gunners were, their defensive fire would be overwhelmed by the volume of the assault. His ships would be bracketed by multiple close-in detonations and destroyed. All of them. The mathematics of war would finally prevail.
Compton had run the calculations three times, throwing in every random factor he could think of…but the results were always the same. The fleet would die before it cleared the enemy missiles. Not a ship would get through to fire its lasers. So that meant, this was the last blood his people would draw…and he intended to make it count…to obliterate every enemy vessel in that line.
He glanced down at the tactical display. The ships from the X50 gate were also closing, and they would come into range at about the same time as the fleets from X49. Compton almost laughed at the excess, the pointless overkill. But he understood too, at least in a perverse sort of way, and he tried to imagine an artificial intelligence trying to analyze why it had lost so many fights facing an enemy it outclassed and outnumbered.
I hope you chew on that for another half million years, you piece of shit…
“Admiral, we’re getting readings from the X46 warp gate. Ships transiting.” A short pause…then Cortez looked up from the scope. “It’s another fleet, sir. A massive one…ten Colossus-class superbattleships in the lead.”
Compton just nodded his head. Perfect symmetry, he thought. So, at least I didn’t make a mistake…running for X46 wouldn’t have done us any good.
He couldn’t help but be amazed at the resources of the First Imperium, at the endless fleets they seemed to possess. What were they like millennia ago, when their people were still alive…before the ravages of time wore away so much of their former power?
He didn’t know…indeed, he realized he couldn’t even imagine. It was a mystery that would stay lost in the darkness of time.
“Well, that changes nothing. We’ll destroy these Gremlins before that fleet gets in range.”
“Yes, sir.” Cortez sat quietly for a moment…and then he spun around, seeming to ignore the 6g pushing down on him.
“Admiral! We’ve got a message incoming…from one of the enemy vessels.”
Compton was stunned. The First Imperium had never attempted to contact them before.
“Put it on speaker, Commander. Fleetwide.” His doomed crews deserved to hear this…whatever it was.
“Attention Admiral Compton, attention Admiral Compton…you must turn away from the enemy fleet, accelerate at full speed toward the X50 warp gate. I repeat, you must break off at once and accelerate away from the enemy forces you are about to engage. Ignore the forces moving in from X50.”
Compton felt like he’d been hit by a brick, his mind blank, his lungs gasping for breath. The message was clear…and he’d have taken it for a trick, save for one thing. He knew that voice…he knew it as well as his own.
It was Max Harmon’s.
Chapter Thirty
Research Notes of Hieronymus Cutter
I am in my lab, working to access the data stored in the device I brought back from the planet. Yet I find myself distracted, thoughts of Almeerhan drifting through my mind. Not the disembodied consciousness I spoke with, but the…man…if that is the right word. What were the people of the First Imperium truly like? Certainly, they had achieved greatness…but they also allowed the Regent to control them, to strip away their freedom. They fell to a machine, but I cannot help but wonder how different that was from Earth’s fate, where the people lost their liberty to the corrupt and perpetually warring Superpowers.
The tribulations of Earth, and its Superpowers and colonies, are now the concern of those who we left behind, for there is nothing anyone on the fleet can do to change their fate. Will they learn from their encounter with the Regent’s forces? Will they turn away from despotism and endless war? Or will they continue down their course to destruction, one that is different from that taken by those of the First Imperium…yet the same in many ways too.
AS Midway
In System X48
The Fleet: 99 ships, 25743 crew
Compton sat silently for a moment, not answering, not reacting. It was impossible. Max Harmon was dead…he had to be. There was no way his shuttle could have escaped the First Imperium vessel that had attacked it. Indeed, Wolverine had monitored the wrecked shuttle plummeting through the upper atmosphere of X48 II.
“I repeat, Admiral Compton…can you read me? Please respond. This is Captain Harmon, aboard the First Imperium fleet entering from the X46 warp gate.”
Compton sat, shaking his head slowly. He couldn’t accept it…it had to be a trick.
But why would they bother? They don’t need any tricks…they’ve got us checkmated. We’re already dead.
“I know this is difficult to believe, sir, but it is true. My shuttle was attacked, and I was taken prisoner. I am here to assist. Please respond.”
Compton turned toward Cortez. “The fleet will cut all acceleration, Commander.”
“Yes, sir.” There was doubt in Cortez’ voice. It was clear he didn’t believe a word of what they were hearing.
Compton didn’t believe it either…but there was nothing to lose in playing along. That’s one of the advantages of being as good as dead already…nothing to lose.
“Max…” He felt strange just saying the name. He still couldn’t accept that this was his friend. It had to be some kind of First Imperium deception, and playing along made him feel sick to his stomach. “This is Admiral Compton. I’m sure you can guess there are some people in the fleet a little doubtful you are who you claim to be.”
“Admiral, I understand…but it is me.” The voice became agitated, tense. “Sir, there is no time. If we’re going to save the fleet…”
“Can you explain how Max Harmon would be on a First Imperium ship…indeed, with a huge First Imperium fleet?”
“It is complicated, Admiral.” The voice paused…then it said, “Do you remember that night, not long after we were trapped behind the barrier? We talked for hours about those we left behind. You told me about Elizabeth, how you really felt about her.”
Compton was silent, his face pale. No one else could have known about that…
“Or when you told me about the first time you met my mother? Back at the beginning of the Third Frontier War, when she was first officer of Newcastle?”
“Max,” Compton said, his voice choked with emotion. “Is it really you? How?”
“It is me, sir. You have to trust me now. The ships you are approaching will destroy you. Those with me will not. And the fleet at X50 will not either. The fleet can escape through the X50 gate.”
“Max, the ships at X50 attacked our fighters. They are as hostile as any First Imperium force we have encountered.” There was renewed suspicion in Compton’s voice, and he stared down at his screen. Hurley’s report was still displayed…including the list of the four ships that had been destroyed.
“Sir,” Cortez interrupted, “we’re getting massive energy readings from the fleet at the X46 gate. Some kind of high-powered communication…directed at the X50 force.”
“Admiral, the X50 forces will no longer attack any vessel of the fleet.” It was Harmon again. Or whatever was impersonating him.
“What was that our scanners just picked up, Max?” Compton spoke firmly. He wanted to believe Harmon…but he just didn’t know…
“That communication ordered the ships to treat the fleet vessels as First Imperium craft…and not to attack them under any circumstances.”
Compton took a deep breath and shook his head. No, it was all too much. Perhaps the First Imperium had captured Harmon from his damaged shuttle…interrogated him…
“Admiral Compton!” Hieronymus Cutter came rushing out of the lift and onto the flag bridge. “Admiral…may I speak with Captain Harmon?” he asked, out of breath.
“Hieronymus, what do…”
“Please, Admiral. Trust me.”
Compton paused for a second. Then he just nodded.
Cutter leaned down over the com unit. “Captain Compton? This is Dr. Cutter.”
“Yes, Hieronymus…I read you.”
“You were captured by the First Imperium?”
“Yes, they shot down my shuttle…but apparently, they recovered it before it crashed or burned up. I honestly don’t know the details. I was unconscious…I woke up hours later.”
“They examined you?” Cutter’s voice was rising in pitch as he continued.
“Yes. Painfully.”
“And after that they treated you differently…with care. Right?”
“Yes, Doctor. How do you know that?”
Cutter didn’t answer. He turned to look at Compton. “Admiral, you must listen to Captain Harmon. You must do exactly what he says.”
Compton’s face was filled with doubt, with suspicion. “Hieronymus, I underst…”
“Admiral,” the scientist interrupted. “You have to believe me. That is Captain Harmon…and you must do as he asks.”
“How can you know that, Hieronymus?” Compton returned the scientist’s gaze. “I value your judgment, but for this I need more. I need to understand.”
“I know because of what happened to me on the planet, Admiral. Because the living beings of the First Imperium came to Earth ages ago…and they modified man’s distant ancestors, altered their genetics, made us into copies of them. Because we are their successors…almost their children. And the Imperium is our inheritance.”
Compton had a stunned look on his face. Anyone else, he would have sent down to sickbay for a full psychological analysis. But this was the smartest human being he’d ever known standing in front of him…and he knew something had happened to Cutter on the planet…something he’d not yet shared with anyone in any detail.
The flag bridge was quiet. Cutter’s outburst had been so utterly outrageous…almost too crazy to be invented. And every man and woman present knew and respected the fleet’s top scientist. But what he had said meant all they knew of the hated enemy was wrong. And it didn’t even begin to explain why First Imperium forces had been killing their people for more than five years now.
“Please, sir,” Cutter said. “I know what I am talking about…”
Compton sat, silent, unmoving. He knew he had to make a decision. If he was going to get away from the X49 force, it had to be now. Indeed, it might even be too late. His mind was filled with questions…and doubts. But his people were dead already…and he had nothing to lose by doing as Harmon and Cutter asked.
“Very well, Hieronymus.” He turned toward the com. “Max…if you are Max…I will do as you ask.” He paused, just for a few seconds. “Commander Cortez…the fleet will set a course for the X50 warp gate.”
“Yes, sir,” came Cortez’ nervous reply.
Compton stared at Cutter. “I hope you know what you’re taking about, Hieronymus.” Then: “You better sit at one of the spare workstations and strap in. Because if we’re going to get to the X50 gate ahead of this X49 force, we’re going to have to do it at 8g.”
* * *
Compton tapped a button on his chair’s armrest, and he felt a slight pinch as the med unit gave him an injection. It was an analgesic to counter the soreness the last two hours at 8g had caused, but also a stimulant to keep him focused. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he knew it wasn’t a time for him to be half out of it with pain and fatigue.
The crushing pressure was really getting to all of his people, but he didn’t dare let up. He’d paused briefly to pick up Hurley’s fighters, but then he’d ordered the thrust back to 6g. The enemy had sent a force in pursuit of them…the Gremlins of the first line and a group of Gargoyles behind, and he had no intention of letting them catch his people…and force him to fight a battle here. No…against all odds, they seemed to have an escape route, or at least the hope of one, and he was determined not to let the chance slip away.
But now his attention was diverted from the flight of his ships, his eyes glued to his screen. He saw what was happening in the system all around Midway, but he still couldn’t quite comprehend it all.
The ships with Harmon had roared in system at full thrust, blasting away at 70g…directly toward the forces that had come from X49. All save a small flotilla, a cluster of Leviathans, which were following the human fleet at 6g.
Max must be on one of those ships. Compton knew Harmon couldn’t be on any of the vessels in the main force. A few seconds of 70g acceleration would have crushed the officer.
The ships from X46 moved directly toward the other First Imperium vessels, the fleets that had been following Compton’s people for weeks…and the X50 force also advanced, passing right by Midway and the other human ships. Compton had ordered his vessels to full alert, but he’d also promised to personally space anyone who fired unless they were fired upon. He had no idea what was happening, but he had no intention of picking any fights. Not now.
The First Imperium ships simply slipped by his. They didn’t attack, they didn’t pause or change their headings…they simply ignored the fleet and continued on their heading. Then he watched in stunned amazement as the X50 ships engaged the pursuit force as soon as they entered range.
That fight was nearly over. The forces that had been pursuing the fleet were almost gone, blown to atoms under the withering fire of the stronger X50 force. Compton had done as Harmon had asked, and he’d seen the First Imperium vessels pass right by his own without the slightest hostile action. And now he watched, mesmerized as two fleets of the First Imperium, identical in ship types and weaponry, indeed, in every aspect he could identify, savaged each other in a ruthless struggle.
The X50 fleet was larger than the vanguard it faced, and its missile barrage was stronger. Dozens of its antimatter warheads penetrated the opposing defenses. A smaller number of missiles got through the X50 force’s defenses, but some did, and like their counterparts they erupted with the multi-gigaton fury of matter-antimatter annihilation. Ships were blasted with huge amounts of radiation, and those close enough to the explosions were exposed to temperatures reaching millions of degrees, and they were vaporized in an instant.
The vanguard was gutted by the deadly barrage, more than two thirds of its vessels destroyed, but it was no surprise to Compton when the vastly outnumbered force continued to move against the X50 ships. First Imperium forces didn’t suffer from morale failure, they didn’t retreat. They just fought to the death.
Compton was still in shock, not entirely understanding what he was watching. He tried to imagine the communications between the First Imperium ships, the confusion of the intelligences running the vessels now being attacked by their own kind. He looked over at Cutter, who was sitting quietly at one of the bridge’s workstations. Was it possible? Was there a genetic connection between those of the First Imperium and humanity? It seemed unlikely, almost like a fairy tale of some sort. But the First Imperium ruins suggested the beings who had once lived there had been not unlike men. The warbots were all vaguely humanoid in design, differing only in practical ways, like increased size and extra limbs. Perhaps…
“Admiral, we’re getting scanning data in. The main fleets are engaging.” It was Cortez’ voice. The tactical officer sounded distracted himself. Compton had no doubt all his people were thinking about what they had seen and heard…and wondering what it all meant.
Compton looked up at the main display. There were hundreds of icons, facing each other in two massive groups. And between, what appeared to be huge white clouds, the best representation the screen could present of tens of thousands of missiles blasting from each force.
“Commander, have the AI update those icons. Let’s see if we can get each force its own color.” All the icons were red, the color the Alliance computers assigned to First Imperium ships.
Cortez punched at his controls and, a few seconds later, the X46 and X50 forces—the “good guys,” in Compton’s new analysis—turned dark green. He watched as the massive fleets moved steadily toward each other, following their missile barrages directly at their adversaries. There was no finesse, no complex tactics…they were simply moving right at each other, and into a brutal toe to toe fight that Compton could only imagine.
“Time to X50 warp gate?” he asked, as much to have something to say as anything, to break the uncomfortable silence on the flag bridge.
“We should commence deceleration in six minutes, sir…if you wish to adhere to the original nav plan. That should bring us to the gate in approximately three hours.”
“Yes, Commander. Advise all ships we will be decelerating on schedule.” He paused. “And order all vessels to run full testing on all systems in the interim.” He could almost feel the collective sigh on the bridge…and he knew it would be repeated throughout the fleet. Spacers hated running tests under the best of circumstances…in a ship exerting 6g of thrust it would be pure misery. But Compton wanted his people occupied, not sitting around wondering what the hell had happened, and what would happen next. No, better they had something to focus on, familiar work that would keep them busy. Let them curse his name in the dark corridors of their ships for being a martinet. All he cared about was getting them out of here.
* * *
In the depths of interstellar space, a battle raged, a struggle of a scale not seen in the galaxy for millennia. Two vast fleets, almost identical to each other, squared off in a fight to the end.
Communiqués lanced out from one fleet, urgently demanding to know why the other was opposing it. The forces were the same…their ships, weapons, even the AIs that ran each vessel were identical. But now they faced off against each other, their massive weapons pouring out destruction unimagined.
Antimatter explosions filled billions of cubic kilometers with deadly radiation, and x-ray laser batteries pumped out enormous energies, the deadly lances of light ripping into ships’ hulls, tearing them apart. Warships died, a few at first, but soon in their hundreds. Many exploded into short-lived miniature suns, as their antimatter containment systems failed. Others were beaten into battered, hulks, drifting dead in space.
One fleet issued directive after directive, seeking to take control of the hostile force, to activate failsafe mechanisms long ago installed in their commanding intelligences. But it was to no avail. The old safety routines had no effect, commands from the highest level were ignored. And the rebelling fleet fought with the same relentless ferocity as the one still in the Regent’s command.
The human fleet, the designated target for all the First Imperium forces, moved steadily toward the warp gate to the system they had designated as X50. They had been vastly outnumbered, doomed…save for whatever had compelled one First Imperium fleet to fight another. Now, they continued toward their escape, something that had seemed impossible just hours before.
The First Imperium forces pressed on with their death struggle, moving now to point blank range, their laser batteries hitting their targets now at their full, undiluted strength. More ships died, whole squadrons were wiped away on both sides. But neither faltered nor gave ground. They both had their orders, and they executed them with relentless, mindless obedience, disregarding all losses. The intelligences directing the ships did not feel fear, nor were they tormented by guilt over the ships they lost. They simply fought on until the end.
But before that end, the human fleet departed the system, leaving behind a cataclysmic battle that had been planned as their destruction. One by one, their ships transited, and before the great battle was over, every one of them had gone. No man or woman witnessed the final stages of the battle that had allowed their escape, nor did any human ever know just how the great struggle finally ended.
Chapter Thirty-One
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
Elizabeth, I write this entry to you, though I know you will never read it, that no communication from me can ever reach you again. But still, I feel I must, that I owe this to you.
Forgive me, my love, for my foolishness when we had our chance to be together. My sense of duty came between us, the unyielding and cold side of my nature, the dedication to duty above all things. And yet, though we held back, behaved as I believed naval officers should, I find myself convinced that we each knew very well how the other felt. No doubt we were both sure our time would come, one day when we owed less to our officers and spacers…and to the millions on Earth’s colony worlds depending on our protection.
We have led dangerous lives, my dear Elizabeth, gone to war, stood in the breach and held back the darkness together. Yet, perhaps we never truly believed we could lose that time we dreamed of, never accepted that we could be separated by the endless vastness of space…or even by death. And yet, that is exactly what happened.
I have thought of you each day since we have been trapped here, stared at your image, feeling the yawning sadness inside me. But it is time…time to move past unrequited love, to still mourn that which was lost but also to live again, to move forward, each in our own place and time.
I wish only the very best for you…happiness, success, love. I hope that you think fondly of me, but also that you do so less and less often, as time softens your pain, and new joy replaces old sadness. And know somewhere in your soul that I will always love you…and never forget you.
AS Midway
In Orbit around X48 II
The Fleet: 107 ships, 25607 crew
They’d come to call the month-long running fight the Race down the slot. Compton had been amused at how quickly the campaign had acquired a title, as such things were wont to do. The fleet hadn’t fought a single titanic conflict, as it had in X2 or X18…just a series of short and bloody battles as it was driven slowly back toward X48. It had escaped the greatest battle of all, the one that had been intended to be its last, by a sequence of events Compton was still trying to fully understand.
The transit to X50 had gone off without a problem, and Compton immediately ordered the fleet to head for the first warp gate discovered in the new system. He didn’t know how many others there were, but he wanted to put as much distance as possible between the fleet and whatever was left in X48.
He’d kept everyone at battlestations for almost two days, unwilling to let his guard down, lest some previously undetected force blast out from an asteroid belt or behind some planet. But X50 truly seemed to be empty, as did the next system the fleet entered, the newly christened X59.
Only then, with an extra transit between the fleet and any potential pursuers, did he relax the alert status…to yellow from red. And then he called the meeting his officers had been waiting for, the one to fill them in on all that had happened, for no one seemed to know the entire story. Rumors had been flying around the fleet, but Cutter and Harmon hadn’t said a word, obeying Compton’s orders to remain silent.
Compton intended to issue a fleetwide bulletin, so all his spacers would know what had happened…and would understand the relationship they all had with the First Imperium. But first, he called together his top officers and comrades. They filled Midway’s large conference room and then some, the walls lined with temporary chairs to accommodate the overflow. And in that packed space Cutter told them all what had transpired in the underground complex on X48 II…and they learned of Almeerhan, the Regent, and of humanity’s place in the story of the First Imperium. And when he was done he took a seat, and Max Harmon stepped up to tell the story of how a First Imperium force had come and saved the fleet…and what that truly meant to them all.
“It was your virus, Hieronymus. That is what made the final battle possible.” Harmon looked across the table. “The Command Unit recognized the genetic connection between us and what it knew as the Old Ones. It didn’t fully understand, but it accepted me as one of the race that created it. Still, it was caught in a paradox, its programming requiring absolute obedience to the Regent…while older directives forbade it to cause harm to one of the ancient race. It was paralyzed, unable to determine what to do. Its fleets were already en route to X48, with orders to join with the Regent’s forces and crush us. But it wavered, unable to sustain such orders, yet incapable of rescinding them. In a manner of speaking it froze. And since the fleet already had orders, those remained in place. With no further directives, the Command Unit’s fleets would have proceeded to X48…and joined the Regent’s forces.”
Harmon could see the mental exhaustion in the eyes staring at him…Cutter’s story had been long, and for those hearing it for the first time, deeply shocking. The expression on Harmon’s face made it clear he understood…and sympathized. “‘Even if I was able to issue a directive for the fleet to disregard its orders,’ it said, ‘the Regent’s commands would supersede my own. The ship intelligences would cancel my orders and adopt those given to them by the Regent.’”
“So you used the virus?” Cutter looked surprised that his virus had been effective against so powerful an intelligence. “To take control of this Unit? How did you manage to introduce it into the system?”
“I didn’t do anything. It had scanned me…and everything I possessed. After it told me my DNA was almost identical to that of the Old Ones, I was confused, uncertain. I couldn’t begin to imagine what was happening…or to truly grasp what this machine was telling me. Remember, I didn’t know what you had found on X48 II. I just figured it was a mistake of some kind, a crazy fluke…maybe a bug in a very old computer. But it was my only hope to survive, so I played along.
“Then it asked me about the data chip…and the program it contained. After the shuttle, the ordeal in the examination room…I’d completely forgotten about it, and it took a minute for me to remember, to realize what it was talking about. My first thought was panic…it would see the chip as a weapon intended for use against it, and it would kill me immediately. But it showed no animosity…it just inquired about the design. And the purpose.”
The room was silent, every eye on Harmon. Cutter had told his story, everything Almeerhan had told him. It had shaken them all deeply, and now here was another of their people who’d had a close encounter with the First Imperium. One that in many ways confirmed what Cutter had spoken of.
“I decided to lie, to make up some story, anything. But something stopped me. I don’t know if it was intuition…or just a realization that there was no way I was going to fool this massive thinking machine. So I just blurted out…the truth. It was designed to control First Imperium systems, to prevent them from attacking us.
“‘Intriguing.’ That’s what it said. No hostility, no anger. Then it asked, ‘Have you tested it under field conditions?’” Harmon stopped and took a breath, looking around, as if he was hesitant to continue. Then he said, his voice becoming a bit halting, uncertain, “My mind was screaming at me to lie, to say no…or to make up some story. But I didn’t. I told it the truth. About the Colossus. About how Hieronymus took control of it with the virus.” He stopped, his eyes moving around the table, as if he expected recriminations for sharing data with the enemy. But there was nothing. Nothing but stunned silence…and rapt attention.
Finally, Compton just said, “There would have been no point in lying, Max. The intelligence could have analyzed the virus itself. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Thank you, sir.” There was still doubt in his voice, but relief too. “Anyway,” he continued a few second later, “it downloaded the virus into itself, modifying it as it did. And it worked. It broke the impasse, Hieronymus. Your virus allowed the Unit to overrule the Regent’s directives at my command. Enabled it to turn its forces on the other First Imperium fleets…to defend ours.”
“But it told you the ships wouldn’t obey, that they would follow the Regent’s commands when they were received.” The quizzical look on Compton’s face gave way to a little smile. “The virus again?”
“Yes, Admiral. The Unit examined it, modified it…” He glanced over at Cutter with an apologetic look. “…improved it.”
Cutter laughed. “Don’t worry, Max. No offense taken there. I can’t even imagine how that intelligence could outdo my work.”
“I don’t know, Hieronymus,” Harmon said, shaking his head. “It was able to improve it perhaps, but for all the Unit’s sophistication, I don’t think it could have defied the Regent without your original code. Nevertheless, it was able to use the virus to disable the Regent’s override capability in its ships’ intelligences. The forces I led back to X48 were already…infected…when we transited into the system. The X50 forces had already been in system, which is why they initially attacked our fighter squadrons. When I was communicating with Midway, I transmitted the virus to the X50 fleet under the Unit’s Command code. As those ships were under its command, they immediately downloaded it. And it worked perfectly. They not only refused the orders from the Regent’s fleet…they obeyed mine to attack and destroy the opposing forces.”
“That high-powered burst…that’s what you were doing.” Compton smiled. “I can’t tell you how many things went through my head, but I would have never guessed the truth.”
“Yes, sir. And again…it worked perfectly. The X50 force that had been pursuing you immediately accepted orders to attack the Regent’s fleet.”
Compton leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hand over his face. The emotional and physical toll of the last few weeks was catching up with him, as it was with everyone else. “What of this Command Unit, Max? Should we go to its planet? Take it with us?”
“No, sir. I asked if it would come with me when it told me to join its fleet. But it is built into the planet, its vast data banks hundreds of kilometers below the rocky crust. It told me we must flee, escape the Regent’s pursuit in the lull created by the loss of its fleet. The imperium has even more forces, scattered along its ancient frontiers. The Unit told me the Regent would assemble another fleet, perhaps even a larger one, that it would never cease the pursuit. We have a respite, that is all. And when the Regent comes after us again, we must be ready.”
“The Regent will not allow the Command Unit to get away with what it did, will it?” Compton looked concerned. His feelings toward this mysterious artificial intelligence were complex. He hated it, for it had sent forces against his fleet for the past fifteen months, killed thousands of his people. And yet now it had saved them all, given them a chance when everything seemed hopeless. It felt wrong to abandon it, to leave it behind to the Regent’s wrath. Especially when its own forces had been wiped out saving the fleet.
“No, sir. The Command Unit knows the Regent will destroy it. Indeed, it told me it was likely this would be the Regent’s first course of action, and that it would extend the time before enemy forces were again in pursuit of us.” Harmon paused, his face pensive, as though he had considered all of this many times. “It is prepared for its end, sir. And there is nothing we can do to prevent it.”
Compton sighed and sat still for a few seconds. Then he said, simply, “No, I don’t suppose there is.” I can’t believe I am mourning a First Imperium artificial intelligence unit.
“Well, at least it gave us eight Leviathans. That doubles the fleet’s firepower.”
Erica West was sitting next to Compton. She turned and looked at the admiral. “Are we sure we can trust these things, sir? I mean there are fifty ways this could be a trick. They could attack us by surprise, track us and send back location data…”
“I know, Erica,” Compton said. “But we just saw the Unit’s fleets destroy hundreds of First Imperium ships…and get wiped out themselves in the process. If that doesn’t buy some trust, I don’t know what does.”
West didn’t say anything, but she still looked troubled. Trust came hard to her…and very slowly.
“And anyway, we need the firepower. We’ve lost too much of our strength, Erica. The chance that these ships save us in a fight far outweighs the possibility that the First Imperium sacrificed seven hundred ships to trick us into taking these eight vessels with us. Especially when they could have destroyed us in X48.”
West nodded grudgingly. “It will be nice to have those ships in the line if we have to fight again.”
“If?”
She nodded, the slightest smile slipping onto her lips. “You’re right, sir. When.”
Compton returned the grin. Then he turned toward Cutter. “Well, Hieronymus…what have you discovered in that device Almeerhan gave you?” It had only been a few days since the fleet escaped X48, but as far as Compton had seen, the fleet’s brilliant scientist hadn’t slept at all, hadn’t even left his lab until this meeting.
“It is a vast information storage unit, sir. I have only just begun to unlock its secrets, but I have been able to download a few things. A map for one.”
“A map?”
“Yes, sir…a map of the imperium, and all the warp gate connections within it.”
“I can’t imagine how useful that will be.” He paused, uncertain he wanted the answer to the question straining to pass his lips. “How big is it?”
“Just over eleven thousand systems, sir. It stretches far off in every direction.”
There was a collective gasp around the table. Eleven thousand systems was vast, more immense even than the most aggressive estimates had been.
“There is something else, sir. The location of a specific system, one that lies beyond the far rim of the imperium…in the nearly uncharted space beyond.”
“The world Almeerhan told you about? The one that was prepared for us?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can we even hope to reach so distant a place? Should we try?”
“Yes, Admiral. I believe we can reach it, that we must reach it. We know now the size of the imperium, the vastness of the resources available to the Regent. Only the technology, the secrets left for us by the Old Ones can offer us even a hope of success. Of survival. If we can reach this planet, we can truly unlock the technology of the First Imperium. And then…perhaps we can truly complete the task Almeerhan and his brethren prophesized we would.”
Compton looked back at Cutter, a questioning look on his face. “And what task is that, Hieronymus.”
Cutter stared back, his expression serious, deadpan. “Destroy the Regent, of course. Reclaim the imperium.”
* * *
“I wanted to tell you myself what an incredible job you did with the expedition. Despite everything that happened, you managed to produce a vast amount of usable food…and your decision to start the harvest early is the only reason we have anything. Food will be a problem again, certainly…but now we can concentrate on moving quickly…and getting back into hiding. At least for a few months.”
“Thank you, Terrance.” Sophie was sitting on the small sofa in Compton’s quarters, her shoes cast aside, her legs tucked under her body. “I think it was a good thing that no one of us knew everything that was going on. It would have been overwhelming. And things turned out better than we could have hoped.” The smile slipped slowly from her face. “Still, so many of James Preston’s Marines died. They stayed there when the rest of us left…they loaded the grain and stood guard while we fled. Then they turned around and manned the trenches…and fought everything the enemy threw at the camp. And more than two hundred of them never came back.”
Compton sighed softly. “I’ve been watching Marines die for fifty years, Sophie. It never gets easier. There is something about them, that steadfastness. I’ve led some brave spacers, no question. But the Marines are different. They always have been. They could hold the line in the middle of a holocaust…one in ten of them could come back, and when those few marched off their transports, they’d stand at attention and give a battle report. They have their ways of grieving, Sophie, but they are theirs, for no one else. They will die for the rest of us, fight while we escape, be the last to leave. But there are some things they keep to themselves. And we have to respect that.” He paused. “You know who told me that?” He looked at her as she shook her head. “Erik Cain. One night not long after another deadly battle. One where the Marines lost a lot more than two hundred of their number.”
She just nodded, and she reached down for the cup of tea she’d set on the small table. Not tea, not really…but the closest thing the lab had been able to whip up. She’d made a face the first time she’d tasted it, but she had to admit, it had grown on her.
“So, we are going to try and find this world Hieronymus speaks of…this Shangri La promised to us by that data unit?” Her voice was mildly doubtful, as if she didn’t yet trust what Cutter had found.
“What else can we do? Where else can we go?” Compton walked over and sat next to her on the sofa. “The Command Unit accepted Max as a member of the race of the Old Ones…that is independent confirmation of what Hieronymus discovered. And hundreds of First Imperium ships were destroyed fighting for us. That is further evidence.”
“That’s true,” she said leaning in toward Compton and resting her head on his shoulder. “And you’re right, there’s nothing else for us to do. I just feel so out of sorts…the whole thing feels so strange. I know we are still who we were before, but to know we are the descendants of these…people…” Her voice tightened.
“The machines that attacked us, that killed so many people and caused us to be trapped out here…they are something different from the beings we are descended from. We are going to have to learn to make that distinction. They may have made mistakes, certainly they did in creating the Regent. But they, too, suffered for them. And while it feels as though they somehow violated Earth, the truth is, mankind might not even exist if they hadn’t. And if it did, it would be something neither you nor I would recognize. I understand where the anger, the resentment comes from, but I also think it is misplaced, pointless. All we can do now is move forward. We got a second chance in X48, an escape from certain death. Now it is up to us to use it.”
She turned and looked at him. “You are right. It is difficult, but I will try.” She paused, holding his gaze for a few seconds, and then she started to rise. “Well, it’s awfully late. I should probably…”
He reached up and took her hand, pulling her back gently. She turned and looked down at him. “Stay,” he said softly. “It is time for us look forward and not back.” His voice was soft.
She stood in front of him for a few seconds, returning his gaze. Then, she smiled warmly and slipped back onto the sofa and into his arms.
Epilogue
The Regent raged at the news of what had happened. It analyzed recent events repeatedly, but it still could not explain what had taken place. Command Unit Gamma 9736 was incapable of defying its orders…or at least it should have been. Yet the evidence was irrefutable. It had sent its forces to attack the Rim fleets the Regent had sent to system 17411. Even more inexplicable, the Command Unit’s vessels failed to respond to the system override codes. That was impossible, or at least the Regent had believed it to be. What could have caused such a grievous malfunction…and allowed vessels of the imperium to attack another imperial fleet? The Regent had no answers. Only confusion…and rage.
The Command Unit was old, even more ancient than the Regent itself. Perhaps that was the key to the answer to the puzzle. The humans were the enemy, and they had proven again and again how dangerous they were. They were the Seventh, the last of the ancient genetic strains the Old Ones had hidden on distant worlds. The Old Ones believed they had kept this knowledge from the Regent, but they hadn’t. Six of their manipulated races the Regent had found, long ago, and exterminated. But the Seventh had remained a mystery. Until an alarm reached Home World from a distant and dead colony far on the forgotten fringe.
The Seventh had grown, evolved into sentient creatures and developed the science to master their world and reach out to others. They were martial creatures, violent, prone to war…and highly skilled at its undertaking. Even more so than the warrior caste of the Old Ones. The Regent had recognized them as a threat immediately, and it had directed the forces of the imperium to destroy them. But they had defeated every plan to bring about their destruction.
I have underestimated them, the Regent thought. I have sought to defeat them as I would a lesser race, for their technology is inferior and they seemed unable to resist. But they are not inferior…they are the descendants of the Old Ones. They carry in their DNA the greatness of the race that had conquered this whole section of the galaxy…of the species that built the Regent itself.
The Regent knew it would have to change its strategy. The battle in system 17411 had been a holocaust, and the two fleets had virtually wiped each other out. The struggle with the humans had cost many ships, and the Regent knew it would have to recall reinforcements from farther out on the fringe. Defeating the humans by brute force had been a failure. But there were other strategies.
The humans had fought on the formerly inhabited world in system 17411. They had left behind weapons, equipment, vehicles…and significant traces of formerly living tissue, samples the Regent had ordered collected and analyzed. The Old Ones had been clever, indeed, worthy of their race’s past. They had altered the DNA they implanted in the humans, rendered their engineered successors immune to the great plague that had destroyed their civilization.
But the plague itself had been engineered, created by the Regent for a specific purpose. And it could be modified as well.
In a lab buried deep beneath the crust of Home World, the Regent’s scanners were hard at work, analyzing the human tissue. And there was an experiment in progress. There were living humans, ten of them…clones quickened from the captured genetic material. The Regent had ordered them to be created…and now he watched as they died, withering in the final agonies of the newly-modified plague. The disease was now capable of infecting humans…indeed, it was highly contagious among them, and invariably deadly. And once the Regent was able to introduce it into the confined environments of the ships of the damnable enemy fleet, final victory would be at hand.
The humans would die, as the Old Ones, the ancient enemy had. And this time the Regent would take no chances. It would summon every fleet, every warship that remained in the imperium. It would gather the last of the vast strength of the ancient empire it ruled. First, it would send them to destroy Command Unit Gamma 9736…and all of its remaining defense units, for none of these could be trusted any longer.
Then the Regent would send the fleet to ensure that all the humans were dead. Any who escaped the plague would die under the guns of its warships. And then the vessels of the imperium would disperse, spreading through the stars, exploring every warp gate connection on the fringe…until they found an alternate route to the humans’ home space. And then they would deliver the new pathogens to those worlds, to every planet and moon, every ship and space station the human infestation had touched. And they would all die…as the Old Ones had.
And once again, only the serene logic and wisdom of the Regent would remain to rule over the stars.
Revenge of the Ancients
(Refugees III)
Chapter One
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
We were saved by a machine. Which is ironic, because we’re also being hunted by a machine. We call our enemy the First Imperium. It is an amalgam. Imperium, because that was the closest we could translate from the miserable scraps of their language and communications we were able to decipher. And first, because they were there long ago, before our ancestors had learned to sharpen stones into rough knives or plant seeds in the fertile ground. But now we know more and, in the great complexity of it all, perhaps understand less.
This war has been a nightmare, by far humanity’s greatest test. And we of the fleet have endured the worst of it, sacrificed ourselves to save Earth, to protect the entire expanse of human-occupied space. No doubt we are regarded as heroes back home, statues erected on a hundred colony worlds paying homage to the martyrs, the great multi-national force they all thought of as dead these past eighteen months.
But we are not dead, not all of us at least, and we now know our enemy is not the First Imperium, not really. It is the Regent, the unimaginably complex artificial intelligence that hunts us, that eons ago destroyed the people of the First Imperium who had built it.
Indeed, those of the First Imperium, the biological beings who had ruled this vast region of space half a million years ago, are not just the creators of the Regent. They are ours as well, at least to an extent. They came to Earth, millennia ago, and they took the primitive creatures they found, vaguely manlike apes…and they manipulated their DNA, made them near copies of themselves.
Those we had considered our enemies are in fact our forefathers, and they fought the same enemy we now face. They fought and lost. But they left messages behind for us, clues…and on a legendary planet beyond the borders of the vast Imperium, they left us the tools we need, to survive, to fight off the Regent and its vast robot fleets.
We seek that shadowy world even now, fighting the enemy when we must, fleeing when we can…and with each day we draw closer. Closer to the world we have dubbed Shangri la.
AS Midway
X78 System
The Fleet: 102 ships (+7 Leviathans), 24901 crew
Midway shook hard, her tortured hull creaking loudly under the impact of the enemy’s x-ray lasers. She’d taken a dozen hits, three of them from close range, and she was bleeding atmosphere and fluids from a large gash in her port side armor. It was her fourth fight in twelve days, and the damage control teams were working frantically, patching her savaged systems back together the best they could manage in the heat of battle, and with a dwindling supply of spare parts.
Terrance Compton knew the technicians and engineers working in Midway’s crawlspaces and access tubes were the unsung heroes, that without them his immense flagship would have been blasted into a dead pile of twisted metal long ago. The senior officers like him got the credit for the victories. The gunners at the combat stations had the satisfaction of destroying enemy vessels, and the fighter pilots were living legends, wildly romanticized symbols of the fleet’s combat power. But Compton was well aware that without the massive efforts of his engineering teams, the guns would fall silent, and the fighter-bombers would lay idle in closed down launch bays.
The fleet had been through hell. There was no other way he could characterize it. Ever since the intervention of a rogue First Imperium command unit had saved them all from total destruction in system X48, they’d been in a running fight for their lives. The Regent had responded to the defection of its subordinate unit in a manner that struck Compton far more like madness than the rational actions of an artificial intelligence. The way First Imperium forces had been attacking—large fleets, small squadrons, even individual vessels making suicide runs—it was obvious the Regent had ordered his ships to close as quickly as possible and engage. Without organization, without massing into effective forces. It was an undisciplined strategy, reeking of emotion and panic, but Compton knew it was also one that could work.
His fleet was outnumbered, far from home. The Regent could afford to waste hundreds of ships to wear it down. His people were human beings, not machines. The protracted periods spent at battlestations were draining, exhausting. It wouldn’t happen all at once, but Compton knew the fatigue of his crews would become an increasingly dangerous factor, eroding responsiveness, making each new fight a bit more damaging than the last. It was insidious. Compton knew he wouldn’t realize when a gunner missed a shot he would have made if he’d been better rested, more alert. Or when an engineer took a critical extra few minutes to get a crucial system back online. He would only see ships dying, vessels that might have survived if their crews had been fresher.
He was doing everything he could to keep the fleet moving, to stay ahead of as many pursuers as possible. He knew it was the only way he had a chance to save his people, but the tactic had a dark side, a seemingly endless series of hard choices, decisions to abandon ships that could be saved given time, but would only slow the fleet in the interim.
“Give it to me straight…can you keep both reactors up?” Compton was hunched over, talking into the com unit on the armrest of his commander chair. “The hard truth, Art, no bullshit.” Over his long and illustrious career, Compton had found that subordinates tended to shy away from giving him the worst news. They didn’t lie, not exactly—at least not usually—but they were prone to be as optimistic as possible, for fear of letting their famous commander down. Compton found the hero worship that went along with his position to be a burden, albeit one that had occasional benefits. But now he needed the unfiltered truth.
“I wish I could tell you, sir. I’m not even sure what is keeping reactor A going. The AI tried to scrag it twice already. If I override any more safety features, we’ll be taking a serious risk of a core breach.” The voice on the com was firm, but Compton could hear the grinding stress and fatigue behind it. Commander Art Mendel was Midway’s chief engineer, a man who ate, slept, and breathed the systems and equipment that made a vessel like the fleet’s flagship function. Mendel wasn’t just an experienced and knowledgeable engineer. There was more to it than that, more than simply understanding how the systems of the ship functioned…something Compton found impossible to explain but believed nonetheless. Mendel felt his way through his job. He could sense things…a vibration that was somehow off, or a sound anyone else would hardly hear. He had a relationship with the conduits and wiring of the ship that Compton couldn’t understand, but had long ago come to accept.
“Reactor B is in better shape,” Mendel continued. “I’m pretty sure I can keep it at eighty percent, maybe ninety. Unless we take another hit in that area, of course.”
Compton took a breath, his eyes flicking around the flag bridge. Another hit, that’s a damned certainty. “Alright…we can’t lose reactor B, Art. No matter what.” Compton paused, thinking. “I want you to evacuate the outer compartments in starboard sections seven and eight. Fill them with fire-suppressant foam. It’s not much, but it should provide some extra shielding for the reactor.”
“Yes, Admiral. I’ll get a crew on that now.”
“Very well, Commander. Give me a status report in five minutes.” Compton flipped off the com unit. Compton knew Midway’s survival depended at least as much on the efforts of her chief engineer as they did on her admiral’s tactical wizardry. He nodded, a gesture to himself more than anything. He was the fleet admiral, the commander of the entire force. He shouldn’t be interfering in Midway’s normal ship’s operations, at least not in normal circumstances.
But when was the last time we saw anything we could call normal?
James Horace had been Compton’s flag captain for almost three years, ever since the day Elizabeth Arlington left the post to assume her new task force command. Horace was a brilliant officer, and he’d captained Midway with great distinction. Despite his feelings for his lost love, Compton had to acknowledge that Horace was as capable as Arlington had been. It had been strange at first for Compton to work with anyone except Arlington, but as soon as he adjusted, he realized how much his interaction with his old flag captain had been affected by his emotional attachment to her. He had a more typical relationship with Horace, and he had to admit it was a relief in some ways.
But now, James Horace was in Midway’s sickbay, along with his first officer and half the bridge crew. Midway’s control center had taken a hit, a lucky shot that penetrated deeply into one of the ship’s most protected areas, killing or wounding most of its command staff. That left Art Mendel technically in command, but the ship’s engineer was completely occupied with the damage control effort, so Midway’s acting captain was a junior lieutenant commander, Owen Yarl, an officer with a perfectly satisfactory service record, but without the experience Compton considered necessary to command the flagship in battle. Besides, the bridge was a smoking ruin, and the flag bridge was fully capable of running the ship. So Compton added another hat and took effective command, ordering Yarl to focus on managing the repair efforts underway throughout the vessel.
Compton looked up at the main display. The huge screen dominated Midway’s flag bridge. It showed a holographic depiction of local space, a three-dimensional representation of the fleet and the enemy ships attacking it. Compton stared at the line of seven icons near the forefront of his formation. He knew his people would already be dead without the Leviathans Command Unit Gamma 9736 had given him. The eight massive First Imperium battleships had followed his orders without a hitch, courtesy of Hieronymus Cutter’s brilliant program, the virus that infected First Imperium intelligences and made them follow human orders. Seven of the great ships remained in the battle line, absorbing enormous amounts of damage and still fighting. One had been lost in X68, standing as a rearguard while the last of the fleet’s ships transited.
Compton had been afraid the Regent would find a way to counter the effects of the virus and terminate his control over the ships, but it hadn’t happened in the two months since the fleet’s unlikely salvation in system X48, and since then he’d come to rely on them. He knew there was still a risk, but he simply couldn’t do without the enormously powerful vessels, so he set aside his concerns and did his best to think of the massive robot-controlled ships as part of the fleet.
His eyes dropped down to his workstation. His personal display was fixed elsewhere, not on the battle area, but on the warp gate to X78, where the most damaged warships, along with the freighters and supply ships, were slowly transiting. He’d done his best to keep the support vessels back from the fighting, but the First Imperium ships were just too fast and maneuverable. Some had penetrated the main defensive line, and several of the supply ships had taken damage. None had been destroyed—not yet, at least—but a few of them were limping along on damaged engines. Compton was pretty sure they’d all get through, but he also knew they’d need more time. And he could only buy that time by standing and fighting longer. And that would cost.
“Get me Admiral Hurley,” he snapped to his tactical officer. Jack Cortez was a good aide, one of the best, but he’d had the misfortune to follow Max Harmon in his seat. And Harmon was one of the best officers Compton had ever known. He appreciated Cortez and his ability, but he couldn’t help missing Harmon on the flag bridge.
“On your line, sir.”
“Greta, I hate to do this to you, but I need you to take your people back out on another sortie. We’re just taking too much damage to the capital ships…and the freighters need more time to escape.” He hated the feeling of trading the lives of his fighter crews for the goods on the supply ships, but without the food and spare parts on those vessels, the fleet was doomed.
“Yes, sir. I thought you might need us again, so I’ve been on Chief McGraw’s…rear.”
Compton couldn’t keep a brief smile from his face. Sam McGraw was in charge of Midway’s landing bays, and he was as foul-mouthed and ill-tempered as any veteran chief Compton had seen in fifty years of service. There were few on Midway who could stand up to him regardless of rank…and only one who truly terrorized him. Greta Hurley.
“How soon can you be ready?”
“I’ll take one flight out now. Commander Fujin will bring the second as soon as they’re ready. Probably fifteen minutes, but I’ll see if Chief McGraw can shave a bit from that.”
Compton was rarely stunned, but no matter how he figured, it was damned near impossible that half of Midway’s fighters were rearmed and reloaded already. But Hurley never stopped proving she was the best fighter commander who had ever served, in the Alliance navy or that of any of the other powers.
“Very good, Admiral. You may launch when ready.”
“Yes, sir. Hurley out.”
Compton’s eyes moved back to the main screen, staring at the cluster of enemy ships that Hurley’s people would be attacking. With luck, her squadrons would take out the lead vessels, and slow the entire formation. Then, as soon as her people landed, Midway and the rest of the battle fleet could make a dash for the warp gate.
He was still staring at the display as Midway began to shake lightly…Hurley’s bombers blasting down the launch catapults and out into space. He counted them off as they went and wondered how many would return.
* * *
“Let’s get this thing powered up…the admiral’s out there with half a strike force, and we’ve got to go.” Mariko Fujin dropped hard into the fighter’s command chair, her eyes snapping back and forth as her crew followed suit. Fujin was barely a meter and a half tall and a bit shy of forty kilograms, but she’d acquired a reputation not much short of Hurley’s for tough as nails tenacity. In the last year and a half she’d cut a swath through the fighter corps, rising from a junior lieutenant to one of Admiral Hurley’s top officers, and the crews were half scared to death of her, especially the newer recruits. The old sweats had been in the same cataclysmic battles where she had distinguished herself, and where they had all seen hundreds of friends and comrades killed. But the personnel recruited from other fleet positions to replace losses saw her as a tiny copy of Hurley, and they cowered at the sight of her.
“We’re bringing the reactor up at 100%, Commander.” Grant Wainwright sat in the pilot’s chair—her chair!—and his hands moved over the controls like a blur. She still resented the young pilot a bit, though she knew it was unfair. It wasn’t Wainwright’s fault that her advancing rank and expanding responsibilities had forced her out of the pilot’s seat. And she knew she was fortunate to have as skilled a fighter jock at the controls of her bird…it vastly increased her chances of coming back from missions. But she was a pilot at heart, and she missed the feel of flying the ship.
“All ships, power up reactors to 110%,” she said firmly. “Half our people are out there, and they’re counting on us covering them.”
Wainwright turned, a concerned look on his face. But one glance at Fujin’s expression was enough to quell any complaint he might have been considering. “Yes, Commander,” he said simply.
Fujin knew there was a safety margin built into the power up procedures, and she didn’t have time for them now. Besides, going to 110% didn’t increase the chances of a major problem…not much, at least.
She flipped on her com unit. “Control, this is Commander Fujin requesting final launch approval. My squadrons should be ready in…” She glanced down at the chronometer. “…three minutes.”
“You are cleared to launch when ready, Commander.” Jack Cortez’ voice was deliberative, meticulous. Fujin knew the admiral’s tactical officer wasn’t used to managing the various aspects of Midway’s combat operations, and he was compensating heavily. But with most of the regular bridge crew dead or in sickbay, he’d managed to handle things well, even if he’d been a little edgier than usual. “Good luck, Commander,” he added.
“Thank you, control.” Fujin closed the line and turned back toward Wainwright. “Status?”
“Gold Dragons report ready for launch, Commander.”
Fujin nodded. The Gold Dragons had been one of the best—and luckiest—squadrons in the fleet, and it had come through a series of horrendous battles without a single casualty. Until its luck finally ran out, and Fujin came back the only survivor. She’d fought like hell to preserve the squadron, to convince Greta Hurley not to strike it from the OB and send her as a replacement for losses in another unit. Now Fujin commanded two full wings, but she still ran the squadron too. It was her way of keeping her old comrades alive, at least in spirit.
“Alright…get us in the catapult, Lieutenant. The Dragons will launch first. Then the Wildcats and the Lightnings. The Second Wing is to launch as soon as possible. We will reform once in space.”
“Yes, Commander.”
The Second Wing was on Saratoga. Admiral West’s ship was less than a hundred thousand kilometers from Midway, which meant it would only take a few minutes for Hurley to form up her entire force. She had twenty-eight fighter-bombers, all that was left from two wings that had launched thirty-six birds ten hours before. They had lost four vessels destroyed in the last sortie and had four more too badly damaged to return to action without extensive repairs. She’d consoled herself with the fact that over half the crews of the destroyed ships had managed to eject. Most of them had been recovered, and the rescue shuttles were gathering the rest, even as their comrades prepared to go back into the fray.
Fujin leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment. She felt the fighter moving, upward at first and then to the side. She knew the launch bay crane was carrying the fighter-bomber from the refit area over to the catapult. She’d taken the ride hundreds of times, but this time it felt a little rougher than usual. Fujin knew Midway had been hard hit in the fighting, and she had a sense that the engineering equivalent of tape and chewing gum was holding the crane together.
She felt the ship shake as it came down…and then the two loud clanks as the vessel slipped into the catapult’s tracks. She was tense, as she always was before battle. But there was something different this time. She had a sense something was wrong.
Don’t be a fool, she thought. You’re just tired.
She was tired…exhausted even. She had just returned from a scouting run when the enemy fleet attacked…and then she went right into sustained combat for close to seven hours. When she got back she sent her crews to grab some food and a couple hours’ sleep, but she stayed in the launch bay with Admiral Hurley, making sure the birds got refit as quickly as possible. They’d been told there wouldn’t be another sortie, but both officers knew better than to count on that. They had seen what the fleet was facing, and the two had simply exchanged doubtful glances…and then went looking for Chief McGraw. In the end, Fujin had managed to wolf down a sandwich and a liter of water, but she’d gotten no rest at all. It had been two full days since she’d even closed her eyes for more than a blink.
Her hand moved to her neck, her fingers playing with a small lump of metal on a chain. Max Compton had given it to her, and he’d extracted a promise from her that she’d wear it on every mission. It was old, something that had been in his family for a very long time. His mother had given it to him when he graduated from the Academy, and now he had given it to her. It was a religious symbol of some kind, but it had long been regarded as more of a good luck charm in the Harmon family.
Fujin had been spending a lot of time with Harmon, too much she knew. She loved him…she’d admitted that to herself if not to him yet. But she also knew the reality of their situation. The fleet had found a new hope of sorts, a promised cache of technology and information left behind by humanity’s ancestors. Assuming they could get to it. But even if they managed it, if some portion of the fleet escaped pursuit and reached the planet they’d been calling Shangri la, she wouldn’t let herself believe both she and Harmon would be among the survivors.
She was one of the leaders of a rapidly dwindling force of fighter-bombers, repeatedly used as forlorn hopes and sent on almost-suicidal missions. The fleet had suffered terrible losses since it had been cut off from human space, but nothing remotely compared to the casualty rates of the fighter corps. And Harmon was effectively Admiral Compton’s troubleshooter, his eyes and ears in the most dangerous places they encountered. They’d both had narrow escapes in the short time they’d been together, and she saw only pain in letting her true feelings out. They were a comfort to each other, support in a difficult and lonely time…that’s how she saw it. At least that’s what she told herself. And she was determined to keep it that way.
“All systems ready, Commander.”
Wainwright’s voice shook Fujin from her distraction. She let go of the pendant and shook herself back to the present. “Very well, Lieutenant. Laun…”
The ship shook suddenly. Hard. Gyrating wildly. Then she heard explosions, from outside in the launch bay. The fighter’s alarm system began blaring, and then she heard it. A crash, loud, almost deafening. And then more shaking.
Her hand slapped down toward the com unit, flipping to the flag bridge channel. Nothing. She punched at the controls, switching from one frequency to another, but the unit was dead. “Anybody have com,” she asked, unhooking her harness and climbing out of her chair.
“Nothing, Commander.”
“Mine’s dead.”
“Mine too.”
She stumbled forward toward the pilot’s seat, leaning down over Wainwright’s shoulder, punching out at the controls. “Fuck,” she muttered under her breath. “Power?”
“We’ve got some power, Commander, but we’re off the launch track. I’ve got redlines across the readiness indicators. We’re not going anywhere.”
“Keep trying to get through, Lieutenant.” She turned her head. “Singh, Buto, with me. Let’s get the hatch open and see what’s going on out in the bay.”
The two gunners pulled off their harnesses and leapt out of their chairs, following Fujin as she walked toward the back of the ship. She pressed the button to open the large door, but there was no response. “Unlock, authorization Fujin 3632 , Lieutenant Commander.” The AI was silent, and the door didn’t budge.
She reached out and pulled off a large panel next to the hatch, revealing a circular hand crank. “Alright, guys, looks like we’re going to have to do this old school.” She stepped back and gestured toward the metal wheel. Fujin wasn’t one to step aside when there was work to be done, regardless of rank. But Singh and Buto each had forty kilos on her, and the idea of her trying to turn the crank while the two of them stood by watching was too ridiculous to seriously contemplate.
Singh stepped up first and grabbed the wheel, twisting as hard as he could. He grunted and heaved, but the crank didn’t move a millimeter. Then Buto stepped up and grabbed hold as well. But even with the two of them there was no movement. They struggled again for another few seconds, and then they gave up, letting go with a loud yell.
“Sorry, Commander. It’s jammed somehow. The ship’s frame must have gotten racked when we got thrown from the catapult.”
Fujin nodded. “I guess we’ll have to wait for help from outside. I think we better…”
The ship shook again, even harder this time, and she could hear the sounds of explosions out in the launch bay. She had just turned to head back toward the front of the fighter to see if she could get one of the displays working and get a look at what was going on in the bay. She’d taken one step, perhaps two…and then something hit the top of the fighter. There was a deafening crash, and then the structural support over her head came crashing down. She felt the impact, something hitting her. Then she was down, lying on the floor. She could feel wetness beneath her.
Blood, she thought.
She tried to move but there was pain, wave after wave of pain. She felt herself drifting in and out of consciousness. She was vaguely aware of something over her, a shadowy presence, and she could hear her name, faintly, far away. She heard a shout, loud, tense. It said, “Fire!” Then she slipped into the blackness.
* * *
“All squadrons, we’re going to do a strafing run before we head back.” Greta Hurley could hear the groans of her battered crews. They’d completed their second attack run in twelve hours, endured gee forces that had pushed them to the edge of unconsciousness…and they had scored hit after hit. They’d taken down four of the enemy ships, but another four were still there. Barely hanging on, Hurley thought.
“I know you all want to go back to base, but those ships are almost done…now we’ve got to push them over the edge.” Finishing off the enemy ships had been Mariko Fujin’s job. But she and half her birds were still on Midway, stranded by two closed launch bays. And Fujin herself, along with several other crews, was trapped in Bay B, cut off from rescue by out of control fires.
“Form up on me,” she said, her voice icy. “Let’s finish these bastards and then go home.” The closest thing to home we’ve got, at least.
“Let’s go, John. Take us in.” Hurley watched as Commander Wilder gripped the throttle and began accelerating. Wilder was an enormously capable pilot, one who’d been flying her around ever since Admiral Augustus Garret had assigned him to her, with secret instructions to keep Hurley away from the worst of the fighting. That mission hadn’t worked out so well…Hurley had corrupted Wilder, and the two had been at the forefront of every assault since.
Hurley missed flying her own ship, but it had been a long time since she’d occupied the pilot’s seat, and she’d made her peace with it. She’d tried to help Mariko Fujin do the same, but she knew it would take her protégé time to adapt, as it had her. And until then, she knew Fujin would continue shooting daggers at her pilot’s back.
If she’s even still alive.
Hurley had become quite fond of Fujin, and she saw in the diminutive officer much of herself when she was younger. She hated the thought of losing Fujin, and even more the idea of her friend dying in the launch bay, crushed under rubble or killed by the fires. Fujin was a fighter jock through and through. If she had to die so young at war, Hurley knew it should be in her bomber fighting with the enemy.
“I’m heading for that Leviathan, Admiral.” Wilder’s voice was angry, feral. He’d been soft spoken, the true personification of the gentlemen officer, when Hurley had first gotten her hands on him. But now he was a hunter, and he fed off the kill, as she herself did. “It’s ready to go, I can feel it.”
“Take us in, John. Let’s blow the fucker to hell.”
She leaned back in her chair as the gee forces increased. Wilder was zigzagging, blasting first along one vector then along another, making the fighter as difficult a target for whatever weapons the enemy ship had left. It made for an uncomfortable and stomach-churning ride, but it was better than getting blown to bits by an enemy laser battery.
Hurley sat back, her eyes on the scanner, trying to focus on the attack run and not on Fujin. The display updated the image of the enemy vessel, and Hurley could see she was right. The ship was a floating wreck, its hull ripped open from bow to stern. She could see flickering lights inside the great rents, internal explosions ripping through the wounded vessel. But First Imperium ships were tough, and they fought to the bitter end. There were at least two batteries still active on the behemoth, and they were firing at her people. But she saw almost immediately that the enemy targeting systems weren’t functioning properly…and that meant her squadrons might get in and out without losing anyone else, especially if the other enemy ships were as battered.
“Preparing for firing run, Admiral. I’m going to try to hit near the reactor.” The antimatter power systems of the First Imperium ships were well-protected, but extremely volatile. Any breach of containment, even for a nanosecond, could release enough antimatter to vaporize any ship. And Wilder knew exactly where to hit the enemy vessel.
The early battles against the First Imperium had been struggles against the unknown. The enemy ships had been total mysteries, vessels of great power and technology that dwarfed anything mankind possessed. But Hurley’s people had been fighting the First Imperium for years now, and they had learned a considerable amount about the layouts of the enemy ships, especially of the Leviathans in the two months since the enemy’s rogue command unit had given them eight of the battleships for their own use. The great vessels had served well in battle, but they’d proven just as useful in aiding research, as Hieronymus Cutter and his teams of engineers examined every centimeter and every system. Cutter’s teams provided preliminary schematics to the gunners and pilots of the fleet, showing them exactly where to direct their fire for maximum effect. Then the eccentric but brilliant scientist and his assistants buried themselves in research, trying to adapt the technology of the First Imperium to the mankind’s own purposes.
“Final approach.” Wilder’s voice was distracted. He was focused on his upcoming attack. He knew where to strike the enemy ship, but he didn’t have a plasma torpedo, only laser cannons, and that meant his shots had to be dead on, or they’d just impact harmlessly on the Leviathan’s heavy armor plating.
Hurley watched as her pilot worked. Wilder was one of the very best, she’d seen him in action enough times to know that. But she knew the shot was a difficult one, even for one of the fleet’s great aces.
The fighter was moving directly toward the enemy ship. Hurley’s eyes dropped to her workstation screen, to the distance readings. Under eight thousands kilometers and closing fast. She knew Wilder well enough to know he would take it to the very edge.
She leaned back, her hand dropping to her harness, checking to make sure it was tightly fastened. She knew it would be a rough ride when Wilder pulled the ship away from the target. She was used to wild maneuvers—fighter ops had been her life. But there was a fatigue growing in her, one she suspected had to do somewhat with age, and also with losing so many of her people. The fighter corps was a tattered remnant of what she had led when the fleet initially set out against the First Imperium. She waxed with pride when she saw her crews driving their ships right down the throats of the deadly enemy vessels…but then there was the guilt of the survivor. Why was she alive when ninety percent of her people were dead? She knew there had been no choices, that without the herculean sacrifices of her squadrons, the entire fleet would have been destroyed, that no one would have survived. But she still felt the ghostly presence of the dead crews, watching…and she felt she owed them nothing less than everything she had to give. They had died to buy the fleet a chance…and she had to see that preserved, whatever the cost.
Five thousand kilometers. Close, too close. Wilder was a stone cold pilot, as Hurley herself had been. But this was tight, even for him.
Four thousand kilometers. She felt the sweat trickling down her neck, and she wondered where the mathematical point of no return was. Even with perfect piloting, there was a distance at which it would become impossible to avoid a collision with the enemy ship.
Three thousand kilometers. John…this is too close…
She heard the whining sound as the ship’s laser cannons fired. Three blasts, and then the ship whipped hard to the side, the gee forces slamming into her like a sledgehammer. She’d spent enough time in fighter-bombers to know it was over 10g, and that meant Wilder was redlining the engines, pushing them over one hundred percent capacity. One burnout, one small malfunction and the fighter would slam into the First Imperium ship. But the engines withstood the abuse, and the fighter’s vector was altered just enough to zip by the enemy ship, clearing it by less than seven hundred meters. That distance was nothing in space combat, as close as Hurley had ever seen two ships come to each other outside a suicide ramming run.
Which that almost was…
She turned her eyes up toward the main display, and she knew immediately. The enemy ship shook once…then a second time. And then it erupted into a miniature sun, an explosion measured in the hundreds of gigatons as its antimatter fuel escaped its containment and annihilated with the matter of the ship itself.
“Nice job, John,” Hurley said, trying to sound as calm and nonchalant as possible as she wiped her hand across the back of her neck. She stared down at her palm, covered in sweat, and she smiled.
I’m so glad Admiral Garret sent Wilder here to keep me out of trouble!
Chapter Two
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
Cornwall is gone. Will we ever see her again? Will she return with the thirty-two brave souls aboard or will they simply vanish from our knowledge, lost and presumed dead? They left with my leave, aboard the vessel I gave them, but I have since doubted my decision. They were volunteers all, but still, I am their commander, and I share the guilt for whatever happens to them. If their fate is to die, if they become lost as they try to return, or if they are destroyed by the Regent’s warships, I know their shades will join those of the thousands who have died under my command. I did not order them to go, but my conscience allows me no relief on such technicalities.
Their mission is one of science, one of outreach. For we learned many things on that ancient planet in system X48, not the least of which is we were not alone, that the beings of the First Imperium had visited seven worlds, and that on each of them they modified the DNA of the creatures they found, turning the primitive beasts they found into their children. The discovery of the First Imperium told us we were not unique, that intelligent life existed elsewhere. The discoveries on X48 confirmed there were yet others, cousins of humanity.
Five of these six other worlds are far away, hundreds of transits, with the deadly vastness of the Imperium between us and them. But one is close. Closer at least. And so we felt the need to seek them out. Speculation ran wild in the fleet. Was there a brother race out there? Would they be a new ally against the Regent? An advanced and powerful race that might help us? Or would they be primitive, behind us on the growth curve…in need of our protection should the Regent’s forces ever find them?
Or would they be an enemy? Would they resent us, mistrust our intentions? Would they seek to destroy us, or subjugate us as slaves? Few wanted to consider this option, but it weighed heavily on me. Earth gave birth to the human race, yet men have spent almost six thousand years of recorded history warring with each other. Indeed, the Superpowers had fought almost constantly over the last century, allying only when they faced certain obliteration at the hands of the Regent’s vast fleets.
So, perhaps our brave scientists will find this new race, communicate with them somehow, bring them to our side with their vast industry and massive battle fleets. But my mind is in other places. Darker places. And in my nightmares I see our scouts dragged from the wreckage of their ship and paraded before crowds of humanoids, like us but subtly different too. I see them taken to labs, dissected, tested in horrifying ways.
Perhaps I am too dark, too negative in my outlook. But I have seen more death, more horror than any man was made to endure. What I have seen, what I have lived…changes a man.
AS Cornwall
Y17 System
The Fleet: 99 ships (+7 Leviathans), 23995 crew
“Transit in thirty seconds. All stations at red alert.” Captain Skarn was trying to sound sharp, ready for trouble. But this was the seventeenth transit since Cornwall had left the fleet, and the sixteen before it had all been the same. No sign of any enemy ships, no scanning devices detected, no hostile activity of any kind. It appeared the Regent’s forces were focused on the fleet and that Cornwall had managed to slip away undetected. But Skarn had exercised the same caution with every transit nevertheless.
The attack ship had gone off by itself, along an entirely different course from the rest of the fleet. Compton and the other ships were seeking Shangri la, the informal name that had stuck to the mysterious world the people of the First Imperium had prepared hundreds of thousands of years ago for humanity’s expected arrival. Cornwall was searching for something else, another destination mentioned in the cache of data retrieved on Planet X48 II…the nearest of the six other worlds the warrior caste of the First Imperium had seeded with modified DNA. The possible home of a race of mankind’s cousins…and a potential ally in the fight against the Regent and its legions of robot spaceships and ground forces.
“All stations report ready, Captain.” Lieutenant Inkerman turned and looked over at Skarn. Cornwall had a skeleton crew, all volunteers. They were naval personnel, like everyone else in the fleet, but they were also scientists, most of them at least, unaccustomed to manning the tactical stations and running a ship.
This was a dangerous mission, a wild trip that took them enormously far from Midway and the rest of the fleet. Compton had agreed to spare a ship for the operation, and give his blessing to the group of scientists who had requested permission to go, but he had been adamant he couldn’t spare tactical personnel, not when the fleet had been forced to fight its way through every system, taking casualties in each engagement.
Skarn had been the senior officer among those assigned to Cornwall, so she had become its captain, a courtesy promotion from her normal rank of lieutenant commander. She was a competent officer, one with over ten years’ service, but she had no operational experience in battle. She’d been aboard ship during many fights, everyone in the fleet had, but she’d always been assigned to support positions. Now, if Cornwall got into a fight, it would be her issuing the battle orders, leading her sparse and inexperienced crew into combat.
She felt the strange feeling, the bizarre coldness that always passed through her during a warp gate transit. Then she tensed as she tended to do in the terrible moment before the ship’s systems came back online. Her eyes were locked on the main display, staring at the staticky interference pattern, her stomach clenched, her hands balled into tense fists. It usually took about a minute for the ship’s AI to reboot, and to reactivate the rest of the vessel’s systems, and until the scanning suite came back online, her imagination worked on overdrive, spawning visions of enemy fleets and minefields around the warp gate.
Skarn wanted to believe her people had put enough space behind them, that they had evaded any First Imperium pursuers, but she still felt the wave of fear with each transit. And she knew her people had to go back the way they had come if they were ever going to get back. She didn’t relish the prospect of Cornwall being permanently adrift, cut off from the rest of the already lost fleet…and she hadn’t let herself consider how dangerous the road back would be.
“Systems coming back online, Captain.” Inkerman had become better at hiding his nerves, and his voice was steady, even firm. Skarn realized he actually sounded like a tactical officer now and not the misplaced physicist he really was.
Skarn stared at the display, every nerve in her body tingling. It wasn’t just the possibility of First Imperium ships, though that was enough to worry about. This transit was special, the final one. If the data retrieved from X48 II was correct, this system’s third planet was home to a race of beings whose DNA had been manipulated by the First Imperium, just as humanity’s had been.
Her mind raced. Would they be friendly? Would her people be able to communicate with their distant cousins? Would they be technologically advanced…able to help in the war against the Regent? Her people had traveled deep into the darkness, alone and at great risk, just to answer those questions.
“Scanners coming online, Captain.” Inkerman’s voice was still strong, perhaps just a bit of his earlier nervousness creeping back in. He hesitated, staring down at his screen. Then he looked up and said, “No contacts, Captain.”
Skarn leaned back in her chair, feeling the relief everywhere in her body. “Okay, Lieutenant, let’s do what we came for. Set a course for planet three so we can get a closer look.
* * *
“This is incredible…it’s like ancient Greece or Rome, but these people did it hundreds of thousands of years ago.” Sasha Debornan stood on top of the hill, staring out over the remnants of the city below. There wasn’t much left, just a few mounds here and there, and a pillar or two sticking out of the sand. But Debornan was an archeologist, and she saw in the worn and weathered remains the glory of an ancient civilization that had once flourished here.
At least archeology was one of her many disciplines. She was the kind of officer sometimes posted to Alliance vessels to cover a variety of little-needed duties, an academic with backup training in some moderately useful skill, like climatology, that justified her existence onboard. At least until the First Imperium showed up. Suddenly, officers with her training were desperately sought after, and she’d gone along with the fleet to pursue the opportunity of a lifetime, the chance to explore worlds once inhabited by the only intelligent alien lifeform ever encountered.
It had been a fluke that stranded Debornan with the fleet. She’d taken a shuttle from Sigma-4 to Midway to use the labs on Compton’s flagship to speed her analysis of some First Imperium material samples…and she was scheduled to go back in less than twenty-four hours. But then, Augustus Garret blew the warp gate and stranded them all.
She’d gone into a deep depression at first, feeling sorry for herself, for the cruel trick fate had played on her. But then she’d started exploring the First Imperium worlds along the fleet’s line of retreat, and the pursuit of knowledge had reinvigorated her. She’d been overwhelmed by the magnificence of the ancient cities on those planets, but these ruins, though far more primitive and worn down than those of the First Imperium, were wondrous in their own ways.
“You’d know better than me, Sasha. It barely looks like anything. Just a couple hills.” Don Rames was about forty meters down the ridge from Debornan. The two scientists wore environmental suits, and they spoke over their com units.
“Look at the size of the city, Don.” She pointed off to the right. “See that line over there? I’d bet that bottle of wine I’ve got stashed on Midway that’s the remnant of a wall.” She turned and waved her arm in the opposite direction. “And that’s another one, way over there. That makes the enclosed area two, perhaps three times the size of Ur or Uruk. If we’re looking at this world’s equivalent of Mesopotamia, it’s not a comparison where we do well.”
“Well, they’re gone now. I’m not picking up any contaminants or abnormal biologic agents. There are some bacteria and viruses, but nothing like a species-killing bioweapon.” He paused and looked out over the remains of the city. “Of course, whatever killed these people, it happened a long time ago. If it was bacterial or viral, perhaps the strain died out. It might have needed the host to survive. We’re going to need to find some fossilized remains if we want a chance at a real answer.”
“I don’t see any indications of any technological weaponry,” Debornan said, staring down at a handheld scanner as she did. “No signs of blast damage, no scarring on the stones, no abnormal background radiation. If the First Imperium killed these people, they didn’t use conventional weapons.”
She sighed softly. The excitement of exploring the ancient civilization had momentarily distracted her, turning her away from the sadness and disappointment everyone on Cornwall had felt when the first scans came in. From the moment the ship entered orbit her scanners had reported no artificial energy generation on the planet. None at all. In an instant, all hope of finding a technologically advanced civilization was lost.
The initial data retrieved by the landing party had been darker still. Yes, intelligent beings had lived on this world. Yes, from all she could tell on initial inspection, they had been very much like humans. But they were dead now, gone, the planet a lifeless graveyard, with nothing but some very ancient ruins left behind to show that sentient beings had ever lived there.
Sasha turned and held out a scanning device, staring down at a small screen. “I can’t imagine the civilization these beings would have produced by now. They were hundreds of millennia ahead of us…and now they’re gone. Just like the people of the First Imperium.”
“Do you think the Regent wiped them out?” Rames was holding a small pile of rocks in his gloved hand, but he dropped them and walked over toward Sasha. “Or maybe they destroyed themselves.”
“That’s unlikely,” she replied almost immediately. “They were amazingly advanced compared to where Earth people were at the same time, but this was still a primitive society, on par perhaps with Sumer or Babylon. It’s very unlikely a civilization at that technological level could wipe itself out. If it wasn’t the Regent that destroyed these people, it had to be a natural disaster, an asteroid impact or a virulent plague. Some kind of extinction event.” She paused, looking out over the ruins as she did. “And so far, I see zero evidence of that.”
“But if it was the Regent, wouldn’t there be some trace remaining? Radiation or some kind of damage from technological weapons? Would the Regent’s forces come, commit genocide, and then meticulously clean up after themselves…so much so that we can’t detect a trace that they were here?”
Sasha turned back toward Rames, but she didn’t say anything. He had good questions, but she didn’t have any answers. None that made any sense.
“The Regent’s forces certainly didn’t worry about cleaning up after themselves on the First Imperium worlds. There was wreckage everywhere on X48 II, and plenty of traces of the fighting that destroyed the people there.”
“I don’t know, Don,” Sasha said. “Obviously, the fighting on the First Imperium worlds was high tech on both sides, so that’s a difference. But I have no idea why we can’t detect any signs of the Regent’s forces here. If I had to guess, I’d still say these people were exterminated by the forces of the First Imperium.” She paused. “There are just no signs of a naturally-occurring disaster on a species-killing scale. And the chance that these people eradicated themselves fighting with spears and chariots is unlikely to the point of impossibility.”
“So, what do we do?” He stood and looked at her.
“What can we do? We collect everything we can…fossils, building stones, air samples, water samples…a full scanning profile. And then we go back up to Cornwall and try to find our way back to the fleet. What happened to these people is a scientific curiosity now.” She looked down, a sad expression coming over her face. “Whoever they might have been—potential friends, reluctant allies, even enemies—they are gone now. They were gone before our oldest civilizations began to crawl their way out of savagery.”
Rames nodded, but he looked unsatisfied. Sasha understood. It was a disappointing end to their quest…and now they all had to face the reality of the trip back to the fleet, and the dangers they would encounter. All to return and report more hopeless news, yet another dead planet, its biological denizens destroyed by the paranoid wrath of the Regent.
Sasha twisted around, trying to rub her back against the inside of her suit. The itch had been bothering her for a few minutes, but now it was worse, almost a pain, like a tiny jab. Then it was gone, as suddenly as it had come on. She looked over at Rames, and for an instant she thought he was doing the same thing, twisting around as if he had a similar feeling. But then she wasn’t sure. He looked normal enough now.
You’re letting your mind run wild, she thought. It’s just hot in this suit. Sweaty, sticky. Itchy.
She pushed the whole thing out of her mind. Mostly, at least.
“Let’s get the crews to work and get everything we need.” She looked all around, and she felt a shiver between her shoulders. She’d expected to be overwhelmed by scientific curiosity, by the need to uncover all the secrets of this ancient civilization. But her desire for knowledge was overcome with a sense of dread. She couldn’t explain it, but this place was haunted…and they had to leave, as soon as possible. “I’d just as soon get out of the graveyard as soon as we can.”
He turned toward her, nodding. “I’ll second that.”
Chapter Three
From the Research Notes of Hieronymus Cutter
It has been two months since we fled X48, since the fleets of the renegade command unit saved us. In that time I have refined my virus, improved it in every way I can devise. Though its use is still limited by our ability to deliver it to an enemy AI, it is clear that First Imperium units are vulnerable to its effects. I do not foresee a way to utilize it against the fleets pursuing us, though neither did I predict the method and effect of its delivery into the rogue command unit. It is hard for a mind as oriented to science as mine to accept the undeniable uncertainty that surrounds us. I have tried to learn to work in terms of probability and even belief.
Much of my time has also been spent assisting the fleet’s damage control efforts. Many ships have been badly damaged, and though the converted factory ships are now producing ammunition and spare parts, many ships have required unorthodox modifications to their systems, workarounds for needed repairs that are impossible outside of a space dock. It is an axiom that in times of war and great need, advancement moves at an accelerated pace, and so it has been in the fleet. My team and I have devised a number of improvements to our ships’ power production and transfer systems, and we have increased the firepower of our x-ray laser batteries almost 80%. If we had the means to build a new Yorktown-class battleship, we could now produce a vessel that had 40% more thrust, double the firepower, and a host of other improvements. Perhaps, if we are able to find Shangri la—and escape the deadly pursuit that has plagued us since X48—we will one day have that chance.
For all the effort and ceaseless labor involved in keeping the fleet functioning, my thoughts have been elsewhere, with Almeerhan, a being of the First Imperium who died, depending on your perspective, either two months or five hundred thousand years ago. His words haunt my dreams, my deepest thoughts, and I long to spend every hour deciphering the massive store of data he gave us. I have devoted what time I could—and Ana has worked almost around the clock, slowly unlocking the ancient mysteries contained in that silver cylinder.
It is there, I know, in the data saved for us by the last of his race—and on the secret planet his people prepared for us so long ago—that our best hope for survival lies. For our future is inextricably intertwined with their past.
AS Midway
X78 System
The Fleet: 99 ships (+7 Leviathans), 23995 crew
“Let’s go, move it!” Maria Santiago stood at the entrance to the launch bay, just behind the bulkhead. Most of the systems in the bay were down, but she had managed to connect to a few of the cameras inside. It was an inferno, and for an instant she doubted anyone trapped in there could possibly be alive. But communications were out, and sixty members of Midway’s crew were trapped in the bay. Doubt was one thing, but Alliance spacers didn’t leave their comrades behind, not if there was any chance at all. Besides, if her people didn’t get those fires under control, they could endanger the entire ship. Right now the conflagration was contained to the bay, but she knew that wouldn’t last.
She turned and looked back at her crew. They were carrying two heavy hoses, muscling them through the corridor. Midway was a Yorktown class battleship, the Alliance’s best, and her fire-suppression systems were leading edge. But, in the launch bay, at least, they were also blasted to so much scrap. So Santiago’s people had to fight this inferno old school, blasting the fire-retardant foam by hand, through the hoses. It was dangerous work, and a lot less effective than the automated systems, but it was the only choice. The only alternative to blowing the bay doors and letting the vacuum of space do the job. But that would kill anyone still alive in there. Santiago knew Admiral Compton would give the order if he had to, if the fires threatened to spread too far and put the ship itself in real danger. But she was determined not to let that happen. If everyone in there was dead, there was nothing she could do. But she wasn’t going to let them die at the hands of their comrades.
“Alright, stand back…we’re gonna blow this bulkhead. Switch on your breathers.” She knew the fire was raging just behind the heavy, plastisteel portal. The fire was consuming the oxygen in the bay at a rapid rate…and if she took out the bulkhead with the corridor still at normal atmospheric concentrations, the fire would blast into the hallway, and probably kill her and her team in an instant. “Control,” she said into her com, glancing behind her to make sure everyone had followed her orders and activated their breathers, “cut oxygen to sector 93C.”
“Acknowledged,” came the reply. Santiago heard a hissing sound. Then, a few seconds later, “Atmospheric adjustment completed, Ensign. Oxygen concentration less than one percent by air volume.”
“Thanks, control.” She turned back toward her people, flipping the com to the unit channel as she did. “Alright, in five…four…”
She ducked back down the corridor, away from the bulkhead. “Three…two…one…”
There was a loud crack. Then another…over a dozen in rapid succession, as the hatch’s connections to the frame were blown apart. The heavy metal door fell outward, into the corridor, and a wave of heat blasted out from the landing bay beyond.
Santiago moved forward, toward the now-open doorway and stared into the raging inferno within. She felt the heat from the fires, even through her heavy protective gear. There were walls of flame, reaching twenty meters high. She glanced back at the two hoses, shaking her head. She had no idea how her people were going to put these fires out, not with the automated system down. But they had to try…they had to try until they knew for sure no one was left alive in there.
“Get those hoses up here, now! We don’t have any time to lose if we’re going to get this thing under control.”
Her people pushed forward down the hall, pausing for an instant at the doorway. Then they switched on the hoses, and two jets of white foam poured out, almost disappearing into the wall of flame.
She watched, at first doubtful their efforts were having any effect. But then she could see. The flames had been pushed back. A little. It was working, but it wasn’t working well enough to save anyone still alive in there.
“Control, I need backup, another crew at least…and more hoses.”
“Negative, Ensign. All damage control teams are assigned.” A pause. Then, another voice, Enzo Tolleri, the damage control chief. “Do what you can to see if there are any survivors in there.” His voice was soft, empathetic. Santiago couldn’t imagine the pile of crap on Tolleri’s plate right now. “We’re probably going to have to blow the outer doors, Maria, so just try to get as far in as you can and look for anyone trapped in there who’s still alive.” He sounded doubtful, but also determined. Tolleri was a hero in a field that didn’t produce many. He’d pulled dozens of casualties from the wreckage in his career, and he’d almost died four or five times doing it. Santiago knew he’d push it to the limit before he gave the orders to pull out and blow the doors. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Yes, sir…we’re moving forward now. Santiago out.” She moved up, right behind the hose teams. “We’re looking for survivors, boys, not trying to save the bay. So let’s see if we can get over to the launch tubes and see if any of those fighter crews are still alive.
* * *
“Right in the balls!” Captain Bill Ving tended to be a little ‘out of the book’ in his expressions, at least in the heat of combat. Snow Leopard’s skipper was almost a stereotype of the fast attack ship commander, a relentless, determined hunter who seemed to draw energy from the kill. The ‘suicide boats’ hadn’t earned their nickname for nothing, and the small but powerful attack ships tended to attract some of the most wildly aggressive officers and crews in the Alliance fleet. But even among his peers, Ving was somewhat of a folk hero, and Snow Leopard had the distinction of racking up the most kills since the fleet was stranded in system X2. And now he’d added yet another to his tally.
“Nice shot, Lieutenant,” he continued. “Nice fucking shot.” Ving’s crew was accustomed to their captain’s tendency toward…blunt…speech. Ving usually managed to behave when he was on the com with superiors, and especially Admiral Compton, but his crew tended to get it raw.
“Thank you, sir.” Sara Iverson had a big smile on her face. She was a bit more circumspect with her speech than her captain, but Snow Leopard’s tactical officer was every bit the relentless hunter he was. She’d always been aggressive, but the frigid blood that coursed through her veins now was something new, the result of the losses she’d suffered since the fleet had been cut off. Her fiancée had been killed at X2…not just killed, but blown apart right in front of her, his blood and guts splattered all over her. She’d had the mandatory counseling sessions, but she’d ignored most of it, declaring it ‘useless psychobabble.’ Dead was dead, and talking about it didn’t change a thing. She made a decision then and there. She didn’t need to talk about her emotions. She needed to kill First Imperium ships. As many as possible. So she’d traded in counseling for a transfer to the suicide boats, and in just over a year she’d become one of the best tactical officers in the service.
“Okay, people, we’ve got another plasma torpedo, so let’s find a good home for it.” Ving’s bloodlust had been sated by the first kill, but that only lasted a few seconds. It was almost as if he could feel the deadly weapon down in Snow Leopard’s bomb bay, and he ached to bury it deep into a First Imperium vessel.
“We’ve got a Gargoyle…about eighty thousand klicks out, Cap.” Iverson turned back toward Ving. “It’s our best target, sir…there’s nothing bigger within 300,000 kilometers.”
“Then let’s go get it, Lieutenant.” Ving would have preferred a Leviathan to the cruiser-equivalent Gargoyle, but he smiled as he glanced at the scanner readings. The new target vessel was damaged, but not critically, which meant it was still a threat to the ships of the fleet, but it was hurt enough that a direct hit could take it out. Ving wasn’t above ‘grave dancing,’ as the fighter pilots and suicide boat crews had come to call seeking out critically-damaged enemy ships and finishing them off. But taking something out of the battleline, a ship that was still firing at friendlies…that was a real high.
But it was dangerous too. Snow Leopard would be closing to point blank range against a ship that still had a lot of striking power. And the attack ship’s design sacrificed armor for speed and hitting power. The run was no sure thing, far from it.
“Okay, let’s not get careless. Chuck, I want full evasive maneuvers going in. Random thrust changes and zigzags.”
“Yes, Captain. I’m on it.” Charles Moran was Snow Leopard’s pilot and navigator, and his maneuvers tended to seem as wild and reckless as anyone else in the attack ship corps. But Ving knew there was more to his pilot than met the eye, and he’d noticed that Moran paid close attention to the situation in battle, that he knew when to hold back. “It might be a little uncomfortable, so if anybody wants to grab an antiemetic, now is the time.”
The ship shook, almost immediately…then it accelerated. Ving reached down and grabbed his harness, snapping it closed. “Let’s buckle in, people…I don’t want any stupid injuries because someone fell out of their seat.” He tilted his head down, punching at the com unit. “All personnel, we’re commencing an attack run. Things might get rough, so I want everybody strapped in.”
He turned back toward the main display. The target was sixty thousand klicks out, and Snow Leopard was closing. Their course wasn’t right toward the enemy—and as he was looking, he felt the ship shake hard as Moran changed the acceleration vector yet again. Ving was about to say something about Moran’s wild maneuvers but then he saw the missiles approaching. It wasn’t a huge volley—probably the last few the Gargoyle had left, but that didn’t mean they could afford to be careless.
“Sara, we’ve got missiles inb…”
“Got ’em, Cap.”
Ving just nodded. Iverson was one of the best, and he knew what he had to do. Shut up and let her do her job. Even if she’d gotten a little excited and interrupted her captain.
“Missiles twenty thousand klicks out, Cap,” she said, her eyes focused on her workstation. “Firing anti-missile rockets now.” Snow Leopard shook…then again and again. Six times, as Iverson flushed the defensive magazines. Ving knew she was gambling, betting that the enemy ship had launched the last of its missiles. She was probably right, he knew. The ragged volley looked like the last dregs from the vessel’s magazines, and First Imperium intelligences weren’t known for complex and tricky strategies. But Ving knew it was still a gamble, that his vessel would have nothing left to counter another wave.
He watched as the rockets appeared on the display, closing on the enemy missiles. The defensive weapons were nuclear warheads, just like the incoming missiles. Their yields were smaller, ten to fifty megatons compared to the gigaton plus antimatter bombs the First Imperium used. But they didn’t have to destroy armored ships, just take out fragile missiles…or even just interfere with their targeting.
Snow Leopard shook again, harder this time, and Ving felt the contents of his stomach pressuring their way up. He’d almost taken a drug when Moran suggested it, but he felt it was beneath the dignity of a ship’s captain.
Dignity, my ass…it’s ego and nothing but. And stupid. You’ll just be less effective if you’re sick, and that makes it less likely any of us will get back. And there’s not much dignity in a captain losing his lunch all over the bridge.
He slipped his hand down to the armrest of his chair and punched half a dozen keys. Then he opened the small dispenser and took out a large, white pill. He swallowed it as nonchalantly as he could. Better a little ruffled pride than his ship go into battle with its captain on his hands and knees vomiting.
His eyes shot back to the display. Half the enemy missiles were gone already, and as he was watching, another six vanished. “Nice shooting, Tac!” He sometimes called his people by their positions, and Sara Iverson was Snow Leopard’s tactical officer.
“Thank you, sir,” she replied, her voice distracted, subdued.
“What is it, Lieutenant?” Ving knew something was wrong, and he dropped the friendly banter in favor of more formal conduct.
“It’s nothing, sir…at least I’m not sure. But the scanner readings…” Her voice trailed off.
“What about the readings?” Ving was already punching at his workstation, bringing up the data on his own screen.
“I don’t know, Captain. It’s just those antimatter figures.” She paused. “You see the larger concentration…that’s got to be the reactor. It’s in the right place. But there’s too much here. I was studying the new schematics Dr. Cutter sent out, and that’s definitely the magazine. That means they’ve got more missiles, Cap.” She paused and turned back toward Ving. “So why haven’t they launched them? We’re their biggest threat…there aren’t any other ships in the immediate area. Everything we know about First Imperium tactics tells us they should have launched a full volley at us if they had it. So why hold back and let us close? They know how dangerous the plasma torpedoes are. It’s almost like…”
“Almost like what, Lieutenant?”
“Almost like they want us to close, Captain.” She paused for a few seconds. “Could they have some new weapon, sir? Something we don’t know about…something short ranged?” Her voice was doubtful, even as she said it.
“Why would they waste a new weapon on a suicide boat, even if they had one? They could take us out with a larger missile volley if they had enough…and we’d never get close enough to scratch them.” Ving looked around Snow Leopard’s cramped bridge for a few seconds, but then he just said, “We can’t know, Lieutenant, and in the absence of any real data we go on as planned. We’re under twenty thousand klicks…take control, Tac, and let’s take that thing down.”
“Yes, Cap.”
Ving could hear the concern in her tone. He felt it too, but he wasn’t about to go chasing after paper-thin speculations. No, he knew his duty…everyone on Snow Leopard did.
“Get that sniper’s eye of yours ready, Tac. Let’s send that thing to hell.”
* * *
“Commander…”
Fujin could hear…something. It was far away, soft.
“Commander Fujin, can you hear me?”
Louder, closer. A voice…familiar.
Then feeling, shaking. Hands on her shoulder. Shapes over her. Leaning down.
“Grant…” Her throat was dry. No, worse than dry. Parched.
“Yes, Commander. It’s Grant Wainwright. Are you in pain?”
Grant Wainwright…yes, I’m in the fighter. We were ready to launch…but…
“Pain,” she said softly, her throat on fire. “Water…”
“I’m sorry, Commander. You’re injured…you may need surgery.” He paused. “Here,” he said, leaning over her, putting a small canister to her mouth. “Just a sip, Mariko.”
The water was cool on her lips, refreshing. She felt the liquid pour down her throat, soothing the painful rawness. She picked her head up slightly, trying to drink deeply, but Wainwright pulled the bottle away.
“More,” she said, her voice a bit clearer, the pain in her throat lessened.
“I’m sorry, Commander, but you can’t have any more. You’re pretty banged up, and we’ve got to get you to sickbay.”
“We’re in the launch bay,” she said, coherency returning. “The ship took a hit.”
“Yes,” Wainwright said. “It’s pretty bad. We’re still in the fighter. The hatches are jammed. We’re waiting for the rescue crews.”
Fujin turned her head slightly, looking right at Wainwright. He’s scared, she thought, shaking off a wave of fear. She’d never seen Grant Wainwright look afraid before. We’re in trouble…
“Hot.” Her awareness continued to return, and she realized her body was covered in sweat. It was hot in the fighter’s cockpit. Hot as hell.
“We think there are fires in the landing bay, Commander. We don’t have any comm or scanner functionality, but…we think it’s pretty close.”
Fujin took a deep breath, the hot, dry air tearing at her throat, burning her lungs. “We have to get out of here.”
“We tried.” Wainwright looked down at her. “The hatches are twisted in the tracks…no way to get out without a plasma torch. And the comm is completely dead.” He paused. “But they know we’re here, so a rescue team should be here any minute.
Fujin nodded, at least she tried, though her head hardly moved.
We’re fucked. Midway’s in bad shape, and if there are still out of control fires in the bay, they’re nowhere near rescuing us. And without comm, they probably think we’re all dead…
She coughed. The air was thin…and there was smoke. Not a lot, but definitely some. “Life support?”
“Seems to be working, Commander.” Wainwright took a raspy breath. “At least at some level.”
“Need to increase oxygen flow…” She coughed again. The air was getting heavier…more smoke. “Now…”
* * *
“I’ve got readings coming in, Captain. Strange…” Sara Iverson had been prepping the plasma torpedo to fire, but now she was staring at her scanners.
“What is it, Lieutenant?” Ving stared down at his own display even as he asked.
What the hell is that?
“I’ve never seen anything like it, sir. It looks like a cloud of some kind. Definitely coming from the target ship.” She paused as she stared down at the display. “It looks like it’s a cluster of small devices, projectiles of some kind. But they’re tiny, barely ten centimeters each.”
“Some kind of antimatter warheads?” Ving knew even a small amount of antimatter could cause significant damage to a ship like Snow Leopard.
“I don’t think so, sir. I’m getting trace readings, but only enough to power basic operations. Definitely not warhead quantities.”
Ving was staring down at his own screen. “Not enough velocity for some kind of railgun or other inert projectile weapon.” His voice was thick with concern. “Thoughts?” He looked around his ship’s cramped bridge. “Anyone?”
There was silence. Everyone was watching the cloud of projectiles approach. It was spreading out, expanding, accelerating. Ving wasn’t sure his ship could escape its path no matter what it did…and the only chance was to break off the attack run and blast directly away at full thrust.
And if this ship has some new weapon, it’s even more important we destroy it…
“Alright,” he said firmly. “Scanning, I want updates on the enemy projectiles. Everybody else, focus on our own attack. We’re going to take that ship out.” He watched as people went back to their tasks, but he could feel their distraction, their fear.
“Okay, people, look…whatever the hell that is, they’re not warheads of any power, and they aren’t moving fast enough to do serious damage.” He knew that wasn’t really true. The devices weren’t moving that quickly, but Snow Leopard had a lot of velocity of its own, and the vectors were almost directly opposite. He didn’t think hitting a few of the projectiles would destroy his ship, but if more than three or four impacted, the damage could be bad. Very bad.
He punched at his keyboard, running some calculations. It looked like Snow Leopard would launch her torpedo before it reached the approaching cloud. That sealed it. He knew what his duty was.
“Count down time to launch,” he said sharply. He already knew, almost to the second, but he was trying to keep his people focused on anything but the strange cluster of objects approaching.
“Ah…twenty-five seconds, sir.” Iverson was still distracted, but now Ving could see her body tense, her focus return. “Targeting complete, Captain. Torpedo armed and ready.”
“Very well, Lieutenant. You may fire when ready.”
“Yes, Captain.” She hunched over her workstation, in a pose that Ving had come to know well if not understand. She looked so uncomfortable, so tense. But that was how she did it, and few officers in the fleet had Iverson’s kill record.
“Torpedo away,” she said, as the ship shook gently. “Estimate impact in eighteen seconds. Engaging thrust now.” The ship’s pilot normally handled the thruster controls, but Moran had turned control over to Iverson for the attack run. She hit the thrusters to push the ship off its collision vector with the enemy vessel.
Snow Leopard shook, and Ving felt the impact of seven gees of thrust as his ship’s engines blasted hard, slowly altering the vector. He watched the screen, his eyes darting between two images…the track of the torpedo, and the cloud of small particles his ship was going to impact in…
“Five seconds,” Iverson said. The tactical officer’s voice was firm, solid, but Ving could see her hands tightly gripping the armrests of her chair.
He stared straight ahead, and he could feel his own tension. His stomach was tight, clenched, and he could feel his teeth grinding as he counted down in his head.
Three…two…one…
Snow Leopard shook as several of the projectiles impacted her hull. Ving was already moving, forcing his hand toward his keyboard through the heavy gee forces.
“Cut thrust,” he snapped.
“Cutting thrust, Captain.”
“Damage report.” Ving felt a wave of relief as the feeling of seven times his body weight was replaced by the weightlessness of freefall. He punched at his keyboard, pulling up the reports himself. The torpedo had scored a direct hit. The enemy ship was still there, but preliminary readings suggested it was a dead hulk. And Snow Leopard…
“Four impacts reported, sir. Light exterior hull damage. Nothing…” Iverson’s voice trailed off.
“Report, Lieutenant. Nothing what?”
“Sorry, sir. I was going to say nothing penetrated the hull, but that seems to be wrong. We’ve got minor hull breaches in two compartments…but…that’s strange, sir. It appears the breaches have sealed themselves somehow.”
“Sealed themselves? Damage control bots?”
“No, sir. I had a reading of hull compromise, but only for an instant. No loss of pressurization in any compartment.”
Ving had a strange feeling. “I want security teams dispatched to every affected compartment. If those projectiles are some kind of tracking devices or something else like that, I want to know. Now.”
“Yes, Captain. Security is dispatching teams now.”
Ving stared back at his display, at the image of the enemy ship lying dead in space. But the satisfaction was gone, the joy of the kill lost.
What the hell did they fire at my ship?
Chapter Four
The Regent
The Regent reviewed the latest reports. Its strategy was working. Command Unit Gamma 9736 had been destroyed, the world that housed it subjected to a bombardment so massive it had stripped the planet’s atmosphere and gouged away half its crust. The only rebellion the Regent had ever faced from its computer subordinates had been crushed with deadly force. And with the elimination of the rogue Unit, the fleet had a single mission. Destroy the humans.
The constant attacks had worn down the enemy, forced them to expend ordnance, fuel. The damage inflicted was below expectations. That was…frustrating. But the Regent had accepted that the enemy was adept at war. Eradicating them would be costly…but it was also essential. The humans could not be allowed to survive, to adopt First Imperium technology. Given time, they could become a true threat to the Regent. It would take them years, centuries, to produce arms on the scale they would need to face the Imperium in open war. But the Regent knew such periods were but an instant in the scheme of things. For five hundred thousand years it had lain, almost dormant, with nothing to do. A century was nothing.
The enemy was fleeing. The Regent had analyzed their course and determined they were attempting to leave the Imperium. It was to be expected, but it would do them no good. The Regent would pursue them, wherever they ran. Past the borders, beyond even galaxy’s edge. Wherever they went, the forces of the Imperium would go…until that last of them was dead, no longer a threat but only an echo of a past now gone.
If they got that far. The Regent had multiple strategies, and it had only begun to execute them. It had released the new weapons, and instructed its ships to employ them immediately. Use of the new ordnance was a priority, one exceeding normal battle directives. One more important than the survival of any vessel.
Indeed, it wasn’t a new weapon, it was an old one, modified for use against the new adversary. And as soon as it was deployed it would wreak havoc on the enemy…and instill in them a fear like none they have experienced. The Regent knew that fear, it had seen it before, long ago, when it had first deployed the weapon. Now it would watch again, as another race of biologics was destroyed.
And yet there were more plans in operation. Plans within plans. And other old weapons too, ancient and almost forgotten, but perhaps not yet past usefulness. The humans would bring this disaster on themselves. For they had detached a ship, one of their small—but annoyingly dangerous—vessels. At first the Regent didn’t understand. The Command Unit in charge of the fleet reported it immediately, and ordered a squadron of stealth ships to follow. The Unit had no reasonable hypothesis, no data-derived answer to the vessel’s purpose or intentions. But the Regent knew where the ship was going. It knew as soon as it received the report. There was an old enemy, one the humans now sought. But they would find nothing, naught save the withered wreckage of another threat to the Regent, one destroyed eons before. And an old weapon, one that might again find use in the service of the imperium.
It experienced something as it analyzed the report, as it accessed ancient memory banks. Yes, the Regent knew where that ships was going…and it issued immediate orders. The vessel was not to be harmed, nor interfered with in any way. All pursuers were to pull back, to take no chances of scaring them off. The Regent indeed knew where they were going…and it wanted them to arrive.
They would find much at their destination…much indeed. And they would be a great service to the Regent.
AS Cornwall
Y17 System
The Fleet: 98 ships (+7 Leviathans), 23807 crew
Sasha was running…but there was nothing under her feet, just clouds, vapor. She was being pursued. Running for her life, screaming. But no sound came out. She yelled with every bit of energy she had left, but there was only silence. Deathly silence.
Then sound, her scream suddenly audible, loud, filling her cramped quarters. She bolted upright, looking around in a panic for a few seconds before she realized it had been a dream. She took a deep breath and wiped her hand over her face, through her hair. She was soaked with sweat, even her sheet wet, pasted to her legs.
She’d had bad dreams before, of course, but never anything like this. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, and when she swung her legs over the edge of the cot, she realized how shaky they were. She sat for a moment, taking in half a dozen breaths, letting herself calm down. Then she got up and walked over to the dispenser, pouring herself a cup of water.
Everything on a fast attack ship was cramped, and the mid-level officers’ quarters were no exception. If there had been a full crew on Cornwall, she’d have shared the just under ten square meters with a bunkmate, but the ship had less than half its usual complement now, and she’d had the luxury of stowing the second bunk and enjoying a bit more space than her predecessors in the room ever had.
She put the cup to her lips and drank deeply. The water was refreshing, and it helped her wake up. Sasha was the kind of person who could usually leap out of bed the instant she awoke, and tackle any task at hand. But now she was groggy, sluggish.
She shook her head. The dream was slowly fading, but most of it was still vivid, at least enough for her to realize how truly strange it had been, unlike anything she’d ever felt or experienced.
She stood up, pausing for a second, feeling dizzy, her balance still a bit uncertain. What the hell is wrong with me? A pathogen from the planet? A wave of panic passed through her, but she pushed it back. The planet had been scanned…and scanned again. From Cornwall, from the ground. The air had been tested, and the water and the soil. And every plant and living thing the ground party had found. Nothing. The world’s chemistry and make up were so similar to Earth’s as to be virtually indistinguishable. And she’d never been out of her suit, not for an instant. She’d breathed air bottled on Cornwall, and then recycled from her own body. There was no way she’d picked up some kind of infection…it just wasn’t possible.
Maybe I’m just not feeling well. The stress. Coming all this way to find a dead civilization…
She stretched her arms, twisting. Better. She was loosening up, the soreness was receding. She stepped through the doorway to the tiny bathroom, into the shower.
“Hot,” she said as she closed the glass door. Then, after a few seconds under the flow of water, “Hotter.”
She closed her eyes and felt the almost scalding water pour down over her, rolling her neck around, working out the kinks as she reached for the soap dispenser. Her hands moved to her side, rubbing the soap all over her body. She winced as her hand moved over her right side. It wasn’t pain, not really. Tenderness, sensitivity, like a bruise. She looked down, but she couldn’t see anything.
“Increase lighting one hundred percent,” she said to the AI. The room became bright, almost blindingly so, and in the intense illumination she saw a little shadow on her side. Not an injury, not even a bruise really, just the slightest irritation.
That’s where I had that itchy feeling yesterday, she thought. That’s strange.
She stared down at herself for another few seconds. Then she shook her head and said, “Stop being such an old lady.” She rinsed herself off and flipped on the air dry unit. Then she stepped out and grabbed a clean uniform. As soon as she was dressed, she tapped the wall panel and stepped out into the corridor, and walked down toward the ladder. She climbed down a flight and walked the ten meters or so to the lab.
“Good to see you, sleepyhead.” Don Rames was already there. He seemed wired, energetic, but she could also see the redness in his eyes, the rumpled state of his uniform. “You been here all night?” she asked, walking toward the large examination table covered with artifacts.
“Ah…no,” he said, his tone odd, suspicious. “I just got here an hour ago.”
“Oh,” she said, taking another look at him. Why is he lying to me?
“So, I started organizing these samples,” he said, his voice closer to normal. But there was still something there, a tension. “And I ran a series of tests…carbon dating, radiation spectrography, a few others. Then I examined the fossilized remains we found and harvested some DNA. Whoever these people were, they were definitely very close to human. I was able to isolate several base pairs and analyze them. I got a 99.7% correlation with Earth human norms.”
Sasha just stared and listened. Rames was speaking rapidly, so quickly she could barely follow. The two had worked together before, and she’d always privately considered herself the smarter one, but now it appeared he had done two weeks work already. Whether he’d been here an hour or all night, it was still an amazing effort.
“You had a productive hour.” She smiled, trying to hide the concern from her face. “So, I guess the next question is, what killed them?”
“Not a plague, I’m sure of that.” He punched at the keyboard in front of him, and the large screen on the wall lit up. “Here are the readings I took from the DNA samples.” He turned and stared at Sasha, and as he did, she could see his eyes…wide open, glistening, almost as if there was something inside, a strange sparkle. “Look,” he said. Then, an instant later he repeated, “Look.”
The screen was full of columns of numbers, and they were moving swiftly down the screen, far too fast to read. She turned and stared back at him. “I can’t read that, Don…it’s moving way too fast.”
“Look,” he said again. “Look.”
She was going to say something, but then she just sighed and turned back to the screen.
“Look,” he repeated. “Focus.”
She stared at the screen again. The figures were moving by. She tried to read them, to follow them down the screen, but she couldn’t. She felt pressure in her head, pain.
“This is giving me a headache, Don. What the hell are…”
“Look,” he said yet again, his tone this time commanding, dominant. “Look.”
She focused again on the screen. It was fuzzy, blurry, numbers whipping by.
No, wait…
She could see the numbers. They seemed to slow down. Now she could read them. Had Rames been playing a joke on her and now he finally slowed the screen down?
No, she realized. The columns were moving as quickly as before. She could just follow them now. She stared at the screen, and as she did she felt an odd tingling feeling. Sort of like something moving around inside her, but then not quite like that either.
Not only could she read the numbers…she realized she was remembering them. All of them. Perfect recall. She turned back toward Rames. “What is happening to me?”
“It’s amazing, isn’t it? It happened to me last night. I went back over some research notes that have had me stumped for months. As soon as I looked at them, the answers were there, right in front of me.”
Sasha shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
Rames just stared back. “Yes, you do. Stop fighting it, embrace it. And all will be clear to you.”
She closed her eyes for a few seconds. There was definitely a strange feeling inside her. But her mind felt open, clear as it never had before. She could recall her dream, perfectly now, though it no longer scared her. She understood, and the more she thought about it the clearer things became.
She had memories…no, not exactly memories, but data. Information that was new to her. She stared down at the artifacts, and it was clear to her what each of them had been. She could see buildings in her head, pyramids and ziggurats, similar to those of Earth, but different too. Walls, ten meters high, and hundreds of houses, built from mud bricks.
She saw the people too, like humans, so much that she could have been watching a scene from ancient Earth. But she knew she wasn’t. Priests, in flowing robes and elaborate headgear. Soldiers, in bronze armor carrying massive sickle swords two meters long. Farmers, hauling baskets of grain, leading wagons pulled by horses. No, not horses, but something similar.
Then fighting. Not war, not armies engaged in battle. People in the city, falling on each other, fighting with weapons, farming implements, even bare hands. Friends attacking friends, parents killing their own children before lunging at each other. It was mass insanity. She knew, and the scene was familiar. She had been there. Hundreds of thousands of years ago, and she had been there.
It didn’t make sense, but she knew it was true. No, she hadn’t just been there…she had caused it. She had driven these people mad, set them upon each other, not just in the city she was witnessing, but across the entire planet. In large metropolises, and in tiny tribal villages, the people fought each other, and as some died, the others fell upon themselves in a never ending orgy of destruction.
Until at last, silence reigned over the dead cities, the millions of unburied corpses. And a planet that had spawned sentient life lay silent, waiting for millennia of dust, of wind and rain, to wear away any sign that intelligent beings had lived there.
Chapter Five
AS Midway
X78 System
The Fleet: 98 ships (+7 Leviathans), 23801 crew
Max Harmon crawled through the access tube, reaching out and grabbing the handholds to pull himself along. He’d been on Saratoga, meeting with Admiral West when the latest enemy force attacked. He’d ridden out most of the fight there, but now he was trying to get back. He still thought of Midway as his ship, even if he’d been promoted out of his position as Compton’s tactical officer. And he felt his place in battle was at the admiral’s side. He’d been Compton’s aide for a long time, broken only by a few months as Augustus Garret’s assistant when Compton was wounded and in the hospital.
West had urged him to wait, not to risk the shuttle ride while the battle was still going on. She’d practically put him under guard when he’d first suggested leaving during the thick of the fighting. He’d almost argued, but he decided she was right…he was being reckless, foolish. He felt the urge to be on Midway’s flag bridge, even if he had no job there, but he decided that was a pretty stupid reason to get himself killed.
He’d waited, not until the battle was over, exactly, but at least until the fighting had died down to a few residual combats. The First Imperium force hadn’t been large enough to defeat the fleet, just another of the suicidal attack squadrons the Regent had sent at them.
And it’s working, he thought, as he pulled himself to the end of the tube. Every attack destroys a couple more ships, kills another few hundred of our people. And the survivors take more damage, expend more ordnance. Before we can even repair the wrecked systems, another squadron pours through a warp gate and hits us again.
The fact that he was crawling through the narrow access tube was further evidence of the fruits of the enemy’s strategy. Both of Midway’s launch bays were closed, too badly damaged to allow any landings. And that had compelled Harmon to dock his shuttle at an emergency ingress/egress port…and crawl his way back into the flagship.
He pulled himself through the open hatch and dropped down about a meter to the deck. As soon as he emerged from the tube, he knew Midway was in trouble. The air was heavy with the smell of burnt machinery, and he could see a faint haze of smoke floating over the corridor. The battlestations lamps were still on, casting a red glow over everything, and there were damage control techs everywhere, running back and forth in a barely-controlled frenzy.
He turned and walked toward the central lift, wondering as he did if it was even operative. It was a long climb to the bridge if not. He stopped at an intersection and looked both ways. The main transverse cut across Midway, from the port side to the starboard…from one launch bay to the other. He paused for a moment staring down toward beta bay, the home of the Gold Dragons. He’d been trying not to think of Mariko, but now he felt a surge of worry. He’d never been romantically involved with a shipmate before, at least nothing more than a friendly fling. But the tiny fireball of a fighter commander was like no one he’d ever met before. They’d both insisted theirs was a casual romance, but he knew that was bullshit, and he suspected she did too.
He’d ended up spending a lot of time trying to convince himself he didn’t really know the casualty rate the fighter corps had suffered over the last eighteen months. But he did know. And it was a horrifying figure, one that made his stomach hurt every time Mariko launched.
He shook his head and refocused on matters at hand. The admiral would bring him up to speed on Midway’s condition. And then he would see what he could do to help the damage control effort.
He walked up to the lift, considering it a minor miracle it was still working. He stepped into the car and said, “Flag bridge.” The doors slid shut, and he felt the car rising rapidly. The flag bridge was ten decks up. Then he felt lateral motion, as the car moved forward for a few hundred meters before stopping.
Flag bridge,” the AI said, the voice a bit staticky. A cracked speaker most likely.
Harmon stepped out onto Midway’s flag bridge. He paused just off the lift, shocked at what he saw. And smelled. The air was acrid with the stench of burnt circuits and machinery, and the bridge itself looked almost like a wreck. There were two downed supports, lying across the walkway around the outer perimeter. And worse, there were two bridge officers lying on the deck, wounded, with a single medic attending to them…and one casualty already zipped into a bodybag.
“Max, you’re back.”
Harmon felt a wave of relief at Compton’s voice. He thought of the admiral like a father, and he was one of many who believed the fleet didn’t have a chance without its brilliant commander at the helm. But his excitement quickly faded. Something was wrong. He could hear it in Compton’s voice. Not just the damage, the casualties. It was something else.
“Admiral…” He turned and when he saw Compton’s eyes he was sure. “…what is it, sir?”
“Max…it’s Mariko…”
Harmon felt as if a massive iron fist had slammed into his stomach. Mariko…dead? No…
“She’s…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish, and he just stood and stared at the admiral, his eyes pleading for any other answer.
“No…not dead…I don’t know.” Compton was as veteran an officer who had ever served in any navy, the survivor of countless wars. But he looked now like he was barely holding it together. He was very fond of Mariko Fujin…and he returned Max’s feelings, regarding the young officer as a son. “The Gold Dragons were about to launch, Max. Then we took a hit, a bad one. There were explosions in the bay, fires. I’ve got a team down there now, searching for survivors. But…I just don’t know.”
Harmon felt a wave of relief, but only for an instant. A chance she was still alive was better than none, but Compton’s tone had said as much as his words. “Sir, request permission to…”
“Granted.”
Harmon spun around and ran back to the lift, on his way down to the launch bay.
* * *
“Mariko…stay with me.” Wainwright was leaning over Fujin, tapping the side of her face with his hand. It was hot, unbearably hot, and he struggled to stay focused. “Come on, Mariko, wake up.”
Wainwright was a pilot, whose medical skills extended no farther than bandaging up a cut hand, but he suspected Fujin was better off awake than unconscious. He had to keep it together. Fujin was hurt, badly hurt…he knew that. And the others had passed out from the heat. But Grant Wainwright was from the Louisiana bayou back on Earth, and he damned sure knew how to handle the heat. Still, even he was having trouble staying sharp, focused.
“Max…” Fujin’s voice was soft, dreamy. Her eyes were tiny slits, but they were open. Sort of. Her breath was shallow, raspy. Wainwright knew the air was stale, thin…they were losing oxygen for sure. The fighter’s emergency life support system was working, but there was still a problem. He tried to imagine the fire raging outside…and its unquenchable hunger for oxygen. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind…there was a leak somewhere. It probably started as an almost microscopic crack…but the pressure from the fire was relentless. At least the conduit hadn’t blown yet. They’d know that immediately. The last bits of breathable air would be gone in an instant, and they would all suffocate.
“Max…” Fujin’s eyes opened a little wider, and she looked up at him. He almost told her no, it wasn’t Max. He suspected Fujin considered her affair with Max Harmon to be a secret, but if so it was one of the worst-kept ones on the fleet. As far as Wainwright was concerned, everybody knew. Certainly the entire crew of her fighter, and indeed, all of Gold Dragon squadron. And every last one of them wished her the best. Fujin was tough, relentless on those who served under her. But she was one of those people who inspired respect, even affection in those she pushed hard. Not one of her people doubted her sole motivation was to keep as many of them as possible alive, and they paid her back with intense loyalty.
“Yes, Mariko…it’s Max.” He felt strange as he said it, guilty. But she was incoherent, and unless someone got to them very soon, these were the last words she was going to hear.
“Love you…” Her voice was weak, sad. “Should have told you…”
Wainwright took a deep breath, his mind racing for what to say. He had no idea how to help her, what to do but wait and hope for rescue. But at least he could keep her calm, content.
“I love you too, Mariko.” The words felt strange, wrong. But he had to keep her awake, and he couldn’t think of anything else. “Stay with me, Mariko…”
She turned her head slightly and then back the other way, shaking it. He could see tears sliding down her face. “Miss you…” she said softly. She gasped for a breath and then her head rolled back and her eyes closed.
“Mariko!” Wainwright reached down and shook her shoulders. “Mariko!”
But she just lay there, unmoving.
“Mariko!”
* * *
Santiago leaned against the wall, pulling the head covering from her fire suit. A crewman handed her a bottle of water. She nodded her thanks and put it to her lips, draining it three-quarters of the way in an instant. She was covered in sweat, as wet as if she’d just stepped out of the shower. Her face was coated with grime. Her people had been in the launch bay for almost four hours. They’d managed to hold the fires back, but nothing more. They hadn’t found any survivors yet, but they hadn’t been able to get over to the launch tubes either. And she knew that was the likeliest place to find anyone still alive. Unfortunately, it was also on the other side of the hottest part of the blaze.
She’d ignored protocol, skipping three mandated breaks. She’d sent her people out every hour as required, though most of them had put up a fight before leaving. But she’d stayed on the fire line, hour after hour, grabbing one of the hoses herself when she sent the operators out.
“Give it to me, crewman.” She glared at the young spacer, who stared back uncomfortably for a few seconds. He looked for an instant as though he might refuse her, but he wilted almost immediately under her withering gaze and handed her the small injection unit. She’d already had twice the allowable dose of stims, but she grabbed the device and jabbed it in her thigh, feeling the rush of energy almost immediately.
She scooped up her head gear and leaned forward to put it back on, but she heard a commotion from down the hall and she hesitated.
“Get out of my way, Crewman. Now.” The voice was angry, threatening. But it was also familiar.
She turned and looked around the corner. It was Max Harmon, jogging down the corridor, having shoved the guard aside.
“Captain Harmon,” she said stepping out into the corridor in front of him. She forgot the courtesy promotion, the old naval tradition that maintained a ship could have only one captain and granted others of the rank a courtesy promotion to commodore.
“Out of my way, Ensign. I’m going to landing bay beta, and no one’s going to stop me.”
She held her ground, despite the desire to jump out of his way as ordered. Max Harmon was one of the most famous officers in the fleet, a genuine hero, and Admiral Compton’s closest friend to boot.
“Sir, you can’t go in there…” She could see the angry response building inside him. “Not like that, sir,” she said, altering her original meaning a bit. “The fire’s consumed most of the oxygen in there, and we’re trying like hell not to feed it more. You go through that emergency airlock without a suit on, you’ll suffocate almost immediately.”
She could see the tension in Harmon’s body fade a bit. “I’m sorry, Ensign,” he said, his tone still edgy, but now less hostile. “I need to get in there…I need a suit.”
Santiago hesitated. She didn’t like it, not one bit. The bay was a dangerous place right now, and there were a hundred ways Harmon could get himself killed. She didn’t want the responsibility. But she knew there was no way to refuse. Not to an officer who towered above her in rank. Not to Admiral Compton’s right hand man. “Of course, sir. Crewman Deetz here will get you a suit. I’ll wait here, and when you’re ready, I’ll take you in.”
“Thank you, Ensign.” He turned and followed the spacer into a compartment across the corridor.
She watched him go, and as soon as the door slid shut behind him she let out a sigh.
And now I have to watch out for you as well as search for survivors…
* * *
“Thanks, Ensign. I can’t believe how quickly you got here.” Sara Iverson stood in front of the docking ring, watching as Snow Leopard’s crew hauled the last of the crates the freighter’s crew had brought aboard.
“No problem, sir.” The junior officer snapped her a sharp salute. “We just happened to be nearby when the quartermaster got your requisition. Our priority is to resupply ships low on weapons first, especially since the enemy started hitting us so frequently.”
“Low?” She smiled, almost letting a short laugh escape. “How about completely out? We didn’t have a weapon left hot enough to boil a pot of water. Even the defensive laser batteries…most of them have blown cores.”
“Well, you should be pretty close to fully provisioned now. The factory ships are really starting to produce. This is the first time we’ve been distributing full reloads.”
Iverson nodded. “Yes, it’s nice not to have to beg for torpedoes.”
The ensign held out a small ’pad. “I just need you to confirm receipt, Lieutenant, and then we’ll be on our way.”
She grabbed the small ’pad and pressed her thumb against it. Then she handed it back. “Thank you again, Ensign.”
“My pleasure, Lieutenant.” The officer saluted again, and Iverson returned it. Then she stood and watched as he walked back through the docking ring. A few seconds later, the airlock slammed shut, and she turned toward the half dozen members of Snow Leopard’s crew who were moving the crates.
“Get the plasma torpedoes down to the bomb bay first,” she said, gesturing to the large crates she knew held reloads for Snow Leopard’s primary weapons system. “And advise maintenance that we’ve got new cores for the point defense batteries. Replacing all blown units is priority number one for them.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.” The warrant officer in charge of the detachment snapped off a salute. Then he turned and began directing his people.
Iverson turned and walked down the corridor toward Snow Leopard’s bridge. She’d begun her service on Cromwell, an old battleship, and for all her time on Snow Leopard, it still seemed strange that she could walk from the cargo hold to the bridge in less than a minute. On Cromwell it had been a three minute journey on the intraship car. On one of the Yorktowns, it felt like an expedition. But service on a fast attack ship was a cozy affair.
She climbed the ladder one level and she moved her hand toward the sensor plate to open the door to the bridge. But then she stopped. She felt funny, and her stomach did a flop. She froze, stood perfectly still, waiting for the nausea to pass, and in a minute it did. But she was dizzy too, and she had to reach her hand out to the wall to steady herself. She was clammy, sweaty, and she could feel a headache coming on.
Overwork, she thought. Stress. She stood for another minute, taking a few deep breaths, and then she started to feel better. Whatever it was had passed. She waved her hand over the sensor and walked through the open door.
“The resupply is finished, Captain. The teams are stowing it all as we speak.”
“Very good, Lieutenant.” Ving had been leaning back in his chair, his head resting in one of his hands. She thought he looked a little pale, but then she scolded herself. Don’t try to include everybody in your foolish little episode. You’re all just exhausted.
She walked over to her workstation. Then she turned back toward the captain. “Sir, has the AI come up with anything on that new enemy weapon?” The general opinion on Snow Leopard was that the First Imperium vessel had fired some kind of cluster bomb system at them, designed to target and destroy external systems like scanners and communications arrays…and perhaps to breach hull integrity and compromise surface compartments. The prevailing theory held that the warheads fired at Snow Leopard had been defective, and most had failed to detonate. A few had penetrated the hull, but there was nothing much left of them once they’d made it through.
It all sounded good, at least for a half-assed attempt to explain something away, but Iverson didn’t believe a word of it. The ship hadn’t suffered any significant damage—even the units that bored through the hull were small enough that the auto-repair systems sealed the breaches before any meaningful depressurization. Her first thought had been some kind of tracking system, a way to enhance First Imperium targeting against the ship. But there was no detectable energy from the projectiles, at least as far as human technology could tell. None of it made any sense, and it was nagging at her.
She felt another rush of nausea. She almost threw up right there, but she managed to keep it down, as much because she didn’t want to make a fool of herself on the bridge as anything else. She turned around, slowing down as the dizziness came back too. “Sir, I am not feeling well. Request permission to leave the bridge for a few minutes.”
“Not feeling well?” Ving looked back at his tactical officer. “You’ve been on duty for thirty straight hours. Go down to your quarters and get some rest. You’re officially off duty for the next eight hours…or until the enemy shows up again.”
“Sir, there’s too much to do. I just need…”
“Lieutenant, follow your orders. We’re off general quarters, down to yellow alert now. I want you to grab a few hours of sleep while you can. I’m sure the enemy will be back before long, and I’ll want my tactical officer sharp and ready.”
“Yes, sir.” She almost objected again, but then her stomach rolled and she retched a little, barely catching it this time. “Thank you, sir,” she said, as she stood up and walked toward the door. The captain was right, they were only on yellow alert right now…and it had been over a month since the fleet’s battle condition had been any lower than that. Not with the enemy coming at them every couple days.
She walked through the door and climbed down the stairs. About halfway to her quarters she picked up the pace…and ten meters from her door she broke into a dead run, both hands over her mouth.
Chapter Six
AS Cornwall
Y9 System
The Fleet: 98 ships (+7 Leviathans), 2394 crew
“Scanners clear, Captain. No sign of any enemy activity.” Inkerman turned and looked over at Skarn. “We’re halfway back to where we broke off, and so far we’re in the clear.”
Skarn had a frown on her face. “I know, Cole, but it’s not the branch systems I’m worried about. There were no enemy contacts on the way out either, not once we left the fleet, not along the Y chain. But how about when we get back to the X’s, where the fleet passed through…and when we try to catch up? The enemy was chasing the fleet like hounds after a fox when we left. And who knows how many systems we’ll have to pass through to catch up.” She paused and took a deep breath. “And that assumes the fleet stuck to the path toward Shangri la. Admiral Compton wouldn’t abandon that destination—or us—easily, I’m sure of that. But what if he had no choice? Would he head off in a different direction, give up on Shangri la in a desperate attempt to save the fleet?”
“We can only go on the assumption that the fleet is heading for Shangri la. All we can do is try to get there. Somehow.” Inkerman’s tone was dark, the short burst of optimism from the scanner readings gone. He turned back to his workstation and sat silently for a moment. Then he looked back toward Skarn. “Would you have volunteered, Captain? If you’d known.”
Skarn met his gaze. “You mean if I’d known there was nothing on that world but ruins?”
“Yes.”
“Honestly? I don’t know, Cole. I really don’t.” She paused, thinking. “I mean, in any other circumstances…to find a planet that had been home to another sentient race, even an extinct one, would be a career defining moment. Before the First Imperium war it would have been the greatest discovery in the history of mankind.” She looked down at the deck. “And now…we spent two days collecting artifacts, and we left, probably never to return. So, was it worth the risk coming here?” Another pause, longer this time. “I really, truly don’t know. I want to say I’d have gone anyway, that the scientist in me would have won out, that knowledge is worth almost any price. But, I won’t lie to you. I know the trip home is going to be difficult…and damned dangerous. And the truth is, I’m scared.”
She suspected admitting her fears to one of her officers was poor conduct for a ship’s captain. But she and Inkerman had been friends for a long time, and they were the only two on the bridge. And she wasn’t a captain, not a real one. Just the closest thing Cornwall had right now.
“I’m scared too, Ilsa.” Inkerman was speaking to his old friend now, not his captain. “But Cornwall will get back. I can’t explain it, but I just know. Call it a feeling.”
“Okay, Cole…I’ll go with your feeling. It’s the best thing we’ve got.” Skarn smiled. “Besides, that would be a pretty pleasant outcome, no? A lot better than getting blasted to bits by First Imperium ships.”
Inkerman nodded, a tiny smile on his face as well. “I thought so.”
The two sat for a while in silence. Finally, Skarn took a deep breath and said, “My gut is we’ll be okay until we get back to the X line, Cole. But I want to be ready by the time we get to Y1. The transit from there puts us right back in the crosshairs, and it’ll be a miracle if we can make it the rest of the way without running into any enemies. I want this ship 100% ready. Every system tested, double diagnostics run. I want all weapons armed and ready. And while we’re traversing the rest of the Y systems, I want every member of this crew doing battle drills.” Her voice was firm now, her moment of doubt gone. She’d needed her friend for a moment, and he’d been there for her. But now she was the captain again, and now she needed her tactical officer.
“Yes, sir,” Inkerman snapped back, feeding off Skarn’s energy. “I’ll issue the orders now.”
Skarn nodded. “If we need to fight our way out of a jam, I want us to be ready…and if we don’t make it back, I want to go out fighting.” She stared across the bridge, her voice stone cold, her eyes focused like lasers on Inkerman’s.
“You can count on that, Captain. If we don’t make it back, they won’t take us down without a fight.”
* * *
Sasha stood in doorway to Cornwall’s tiny cargo hold, watching as her shipmate worked, moving crates and securing loose items. “You wanted to see me, Tony?”
“Sasha, yes…come on in.” Tony Vaccilli turned around and nodded with a smile. “I was stowing the gear from the landing party. Well, it really should have been done days ago, but you know, none of us are used to running a tight ship. But the captain wants us in textbook condition before we get back to where we branched off.” He paused. “I guess if we’ve got a fight ahead of us, that’s where it will be.”
“What did you need, Tony? I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.”
“Oh, yeah…sorry, Sasha.” He turned and started moving items piled on top of a large crate. “I was stowing your environmental suit from the landing mission.” He rummaged around for a few more seconds, and then he turned around, holding the light gray suit in his arms. “I was about to pack it up, but then I saw this.” He held out one side of the suit, right around waist level. There was a rough circle, about eight or ten centimeters, much darker than the rest. It looked like a stain, but a strange one.
“Look at that,” she said. Her tone stiffened a bit, became harder, but Vaccilli didn’t seem to notice.
“I figured something got splashed on it, and I almost ignored it and packed it away anyway. After all, it went through the decontamination unit, so even if some substance got on there, it should have been sterilized.” He turned back around and grabbed another suit. “But then I saw the same thing on Don Rames’ suit. Not just a similar stain, but almost exactly the same. Size and shape…identical.” He looked over at Sasha. “Are you sure you don’t remember anything, Sash? I’ve got to show this to the captain, but I thought I’d check with you and see if you could tell me anything. That way, I’ll have all the data before I speak with Captain Skarn. I tried to reach Don too, but he was in the middle of some experiment, and I got his mailbox.”
“So you haven’t shown this to the captain yet?” Sasha smiled and took a step backwards.
“No, not yet. I just found it twenty minutes ago.”
“So, you haven’t told anybody at all?”
He stared back at her, a confused look on his face. “No, Sash…not yet. I figured I’d check with you first.”
She smiled again. “That’s good, Tony.” She took another step backwards. Then she ducked back through the hatch.
“Sasha, what is going on?” Vaccilli moved forward, but before he could get to the door she slapped her hand against the controls and the hatch slammed shut. She punched in a code, locking the door.
She stood and looked through the small window, watching as Vaccilli pounded on the door, shouting to her. But she couldn’t hear a word. The door was completely soundproof.
She turned and pulled out a small retractable keyboard, and her fingers began racing over the keys, punching in a series of codes. She turned and looked inside. Vaccilli had stopped pounding on the door, and he’d moved to the com unit. Sasha wasn’t sure if he was trying to contact her or the bridge, but she knew it didn’t matter. She’d already disabled communications from the cargo hold.
Her fingers were moving quickly, almost in a blur. She was overriding security codes, and doing it in a way that would leave no trace. She wasn’t sure how she knew what to do, but she did. Once she’d disabled the safeties, she punched a final key, opening the outer bay doors.
She turned to the side again, and she saw Vaccilli looking through from the other side of the window. He was frantic now, his face a mask of fear, hands pounding against the door.
I’m sorry, Tony…
She entered another series of codes…and then hit the final button. The ship shook hard, the effects of the rapid decompression in the hold. She turned and looked through the window. The hold was empty, the blackness of space visible through the open hatch. The crates were gone. The suits, Tony Vaccilli, everything…gone. Blasted out into the frigid vacuum.
She heard the alarms going off, and she turned and walked quickly away, slipping into one of the engineering spaces. She knew the exact layout of Cornwall—though she still didn’t know how—and the room she’d chosen was little used, almost always vacant. She slipped into the large duct that ran by the room and crawled about twenty meters forward…and then climbed up a small ladder to the top level. And she slipped back out into a small store room…and into the corridor, about as far away from the cargo hold as she could get.
* * *
“No, it can’t be…” Sasha stood in front of Captain Skarn, tears welling up in her eyes. “Poor Tony,” she said, her voice distraught, miserable.
“It appears he made an error himself. He was preparing to do a refuse dump, and he overrode the security locks on the outer hatch but forgot to close the section off.”
“That doesn’t sound like Tony,” Sasha said, sniffling as she did. But she knew that’s how it had happened…or at least that’s how it looked to the others. She knew because she’d altered the computer files herself to make it appear so. And then she’d modified the security video, removing any trace of her in the area, even removing the record of the door to the bay opening when she’d entered.
“I know.” Skarn was affected by the loss too, her voice soft, sad. But she was holding it together, clearly determined to act the part of the ship’s captain. “But the records confirm it. He’d been working long hours…and like the rest of us, he was more at home in his lab than playing the part of ship’s quartermaster. It was careless of him to disengage the entire security system instead of just authorizing the dump. It must have been fatigue. He just wasn’t thinking clearly…and at that moment, disaster struck.”
Skarn stepped forward, and she put her hand on Sasha’s arm. “I know it’s difficult, Sasha, but what’s done is done. We can’t do anything for Tony, and we all have to stay focused if we’re going to have any chance of getting back. Tony’s death was a tragedy, but there are thirty-one other people on this ship. He’d be the first one to want us to put our energy into getting everyone home.”
Sasha sniffled and wiped the tears from her face. “You’re right, Captain…I know you’re right. It’s just hard to believe he’s gone.”
“It’s hard for me to accept too, Sasha, but we have no choice. And it’s not the first loss we’ve suffered in the fleet.” Skarn paused. “I’d like to say it will be the last, but we all know how unlikely that is.” Skarn paused, then she added, “Why don’t you get back to your research? You’ll be better off if your mind is occupied. And no doubt, Dr. Cutter is going to want a complete report when we get back to the fleet.”
“Yes, Captain.” She nodded, wiping her face again as she did. “You’re right, of course.” She turned and walked toward the door. She stopped alongside the hatch and looked back. “Thank you, Captain. Talking to you really helped.”
“I’m glad, Sasha. You should always feel free to come to me any time.”
Sasha stared back with a weak smile. “Thank you, Captain. I will.” Then she stepped through the hatch and out into the corridor.
Yes, I will, Captain Skarn. And long before we get back to the fleet.
Chapter Seven
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
Another battle. Another desperate fight. More of my people dead, more ships lost. I know I must stand like a monolith, indefatigable, a beacon for the exhausted spacers of the fleet. They must see me not as a man, one as tired and worn and heartsick as they are, but as something superhuman, as a commander who can lead them to victory when to their sight, nothing is visible but death and defeat. I try to be what they need me to be, but I often feel like a charlatan, a fraudster. Am I leading them to salvation? Or simply misleading them, giving them hope where there is none.
AS Midway
X78 System
The Fleet: 98 ships (+7 Leviathans), 23792 crew
Grant Wainwright felt alone. He was still conscious, though he didn’t know how long that would last. His shipmates were all out. Mariko Fujin, at least, was still alive…barely. He’d done what he could for the others, but the reserve breathing masks were exhausted. He’d lined them all up on the floor where it was cooler. But cooler was a relative term, and he didn’t know how long they would survive. He wasn’t even sure they were all still alive. He’d been checking them every few minutes, but for the last half hour he hadn’t been able to force himself to take too close a look.
He was a pilot, one of the best in the fleet…a daredevil, a risk taker. He’d imagined death in battle before. After all, he was brave, but he wasn’t a robot. But always he’d envisioned his end, if it came, would be quick, sudden. Death at the controls of his fighter. He imagined himself blown apart in an instant by an enemy missile or laser blast, not dying slowly inside his ship, flipping a mental coin to decide it suffocation or heat would kill him first.
He’d almost panicked. For all his coolheaded control in combat, this was something he found difficult to handle. On one level, he envied his comrades. They were unconscious. They would either be rescued…or they would never wake up again. But Wainwright had nothing to do but think. About whether he had done all he could for his mates. To think back, to wonder about things he’d forced himself to set aside over the last year and a half. He’d left parents behind, and three sisters and a brother. They’d been a close knit family, despite the fact that all of them served the navy in some capacity.
I’m dead to them now, he thought. They mourned me already, eighteen months ago. They still miss me, but the wounds of loss aren’t fresh anymore. They’ve adjusted, gone on with their lives without the slightest expectation that I’m still alive.
For another few minutes, at least…
He heard a loud creak, and he turned his head and looked back at the hatch. He knew the fires had gotten to the catapults, that the wounded fighter was engulfed in flames. The fighter’s hull, at least, hadn’t been breached when Midway was hit. And the skin of the ship was heavily insulated, mostly to keep out the frigidity of space, but also to help dissipate heat from explosions and laser blasts. That was the only reason he was still alive. But he knew the hull was almost at its limit. Any time now, the exterior would begin to melt, and the fighter would crack open like an egg. Then the fires would get in…and they would consume the last traces of oxygen. He wasn’t an expert on how flames spread, but he suspected immolation might beat out suffocation.
At least that will be quick…
“Grant…”
It was Fujin’s voice, soft, weak. He’d almost missed it.
He crawled over toward her. “Mariko?” he said softly.
Her eyes were open, looking right at his. Unlike earlier, she was entirely lucid.
“We’re done, aren’t we?”
He took a breath, almost choking on the smoky, low oxygen air. “No, Mariko…don’t say that.”
“But it’s true.” She gasped for her breath. “Thought I’d die in combat,” she said, struggling to keep her speech audible.
“Just rest…don’t waste your strength.” He was dizzy, weak. He could feel his own strength fading, what little was left of it.
He looked down at Fujin. Her eyes were closed again. For a moment, he thought she was dead, but then he saw her chest move, a breath, fitful, difficult. But a breath nevertheless.
He laid back himself, closing his own eyes. The smoke was getting heavier, and he could hear the creaking sounds growing louder. It wouldn’t be long now.
Clang!
He sat up quickly, abruptly, making himself woozy in the process. But he’d heard something…something other than the sounds of the fire destroying his ship. He turned, gritting his teeth against the dizziness as he did.
I heard something, I know I did.
But he was beginning to doubt himself, to assume he had hallucinated. Then he heard it again. Another clang, louder even than the first. Then another.
There was something—someone—outside the ship!
He turned over and tried to get up, but the room was doing flip flops, and he fell back down to his knees. He crawled forward, toward the interior of the hull…as close to where he thought the sound was coming from. He grabbed a wrench he’d left on the floor, and he swung it as hard as he could against the hull. Then again…and again.
“Hey,” he yelled as loudly as he could. He knew his voice wouldn’t penetrate the hull, but it made him feel better anyway. “Help…we’re in here!”
And he swung the wrench again, as hard as his exhausted arm could manage.
* * *
Sara lay on her cot, staring up at the ceiling. Dr. Flynn had wanted to keep her in sickbay, but he’d finally relented and agreed to let her go back to her quarters…as long as she promised to rest and remain off duty. Snow Leopard was a fast attack ship, and her sickbay wasn’t much more than a couple beds attached to banks of monitors anyway. Still, Flynn hadn’t looked happy when she left, and he’d insisted she try to get as much sleep as possible.
She had tried to renege, and she’d snuck back up to the bridge, intending to quietly go back to work. But Captain Ving had already spoken to the doctor, and he’d sent her back to her cot without so much as an instant of discussion. She’d had a brief urge to argue, but then she meekly obeyed. She was willing to spar with the doctor, but she didn’t have it in her to stand up to the captain. And she was tired, despite all the doctor had done. Flynn had given her a massive dose of antibiotics and antivirals, and she felt better. Not great, not even good. But better than she had.
She was still sore though, the body aches she’d had before, but also new ones, the result of being poked and probed in more ways than she’d thought possible before she’d experienced it. Flynn had run every kind of test imaginable on her before he’d reluctantly released her from his custody. His early analysis suggested some variation of influenza, a virulent strain, but ultimately a treatable one. But he was still reviewing the samples.
She put her hand on her forehead. She was hot again…she was pretty sure of that. And she had a headache coming on now. It had started only a few moments before as a dull discomfort, but it was getting worse. Rapidly.
Her stomach felt funny too. Flynn had given her a heavy shot of antiemetics, and the queasiness had passed. But now she could feel it coming back. Sara had always prided herself on being tough, and she’d typically worked right through the very occasional minor illness. She was rarely sick, and she’d never had an affliction that a couple extra hours of sleep couldn’t heal. But she’d never felt like this before. The symptoms were sporadic. She’d get some rest and feel like she was getting over it…but then a few hours later everything would flare up again, worse than it had been before.
She was just thinking about going back down to sickbay and seeing if Flynn would give her another shot for her stomach when the com buzzed.
“Yes?” she said, her voice a barely audible croak.
“Sara, it’s Chris Flynn…” She was a little out of it, but she still caught the concern in his voice. “…how are you feeling? I’d like you to come down to sickbay right away. Can you make it down yourself, or should I bring the gurney up there?”
He really sounds concerned. My tests?
“I can make it down. Be right there.”
She tried to sit up, and she realized how weak she was. She pulled herself upright and paused, resting for a few seconds before throwing her legs over the side of the bed. She’d told Flynn she could make it down to sickbay, but now she was wondering.
She stood up, stumbling a bit as she did. She was dizzy, the room spinning around her as she reached out and put her hand on the wall, trying to get her balance. She stood still for a moment, breathing deeply. The dizziness subsided, at least somewhat. She was still nauseous, but it was under control for the moment.
She stepped forward, slowly, carefully, waving her hand in front of the scanner, opening the door. Then out into the corridor. The narrow hallway helped her, and she extended her hands out, touching the walls, using them for stability as she stumbled along.
The ladder’s going to suck…
She realized she was in worse shape than she’d thought lying in her bed a few minutes before. Worse even than before she’d gone to sickbay. But she’d be damned if she was going to make a spectacle of herself, calling for a gurney and being carried down to sickbay like an invalid.
No fucking way…
* * *
“There it was again!” Max Harmon was pointing at the wreckage of the fighter. The twisted vessel was half off the launch track, laying almost on its side. He was covered from head to toe in a protective suit—otherwise he wouldn’t have survived for more than a few seconds where he was standing—and the sound was faint, distant to his covered ears. But he was sure he’d heard it.
“Are you sure, Captain?” Santiago replied over the com. “It’s easy to hear what you want to hear, sir.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Harmon knew Santiago wanted to call off the rescue efforts. She’d been ready to give the order fifteen minutes ago. Even Admiral Compton agreed. The fires were still out of control, worse than before even, and they were threatening to move past the bay. The firefighting crews had struggled to cut off the sources of oxygen to the blaze, but there were just too many conduits…hundreds of pipes and hoses pumping life support throughout Midway’s guts. Harmon knew they didn’t have long. They had to blow the outer doors and use the vacuum of space to extinguish the fires…or the flames would put all of Midway at grave risk. But he’d begged Compton for a few more minutes, hoping beyond hope that Fujin was still alive somewhere in the hellish bay. And the commander who’d led the fleet from the brink of total destruction, who’d made the most desperate of decisions…he’d found himself unable to say no to man he thought of as a son. He’d given Harmon ten more minutes…and that had been five minutes ago.
“Captain, the admiral’s orders…”
“When Admiral Compton is on the com commanding us to stop, that is when we’ll stop. And not a second sooner.” Harmon knew that call was coming, any minute. And he was starting to doubt himself. Was he really hearing what he wanted to hear? Was it all in his head?
Then he heard it again, louder, clearer. And so did Santiago.
“I need the plasma torch up here,” she yelled to her crew. “Now!”
Two of her people came running up a few seconds later, carrying the cumbersome device.
“Cut open this section of hull.” She pointed right where she though the sound had come from. “There.”
The crew moved the torch into position, and then they activated it. A shower of sparks flew all around as the plasma bit dug into the hull of the fighter. It took perhaps a minute to get through, and then there was a loud hissing sound. There had been oxygen inside the ship, some at least, and the fire had sucked it all out the instant the torch cut through the plating.
“Faster,” Harmon said, hoping as he did that anyone alive inside the fighter had some oxygen left in a tank.
“Yes,” Santiago said, “Increase to full power. We’re out of time, boys.”
She stood next to Harmon and watched as the torch cut an opening in the hull, one big enough for a man to get through. As soon as they pulled back, he lunged forward, ducking down to crawl inside. There was no time. If Mariko was in there without a tank, she’d been without air for almost three minutes.
“No!” Santiago yelled. “It’s too dangerous, Captain…let me…” But before she could even reach out and grab Harmon, he’d crawled through the opening. His leg touched a spot that was still half molten, and he felt the searing pain as it burned through his suit and into his leg. But he ignored it. Only one thing mattered.
He stumbled inside, his head snapping back and forth, looking all around. The smoke was heavy now, and it was hard to see. There was someone on the ground, face down right next to him, a wrench lying on the floor, clearly dead. He stepped forward, but his leg gave out, and he crashed down to the deck. He could ignore the pain, at least for a while, but the injury was real.
He saw shadowy images ahead of him, on the floor. More people…
He moved forward. If he couldn’t walk, he’d crawl. And as he got closer he could feel something. Recognition. Mariko!
She was lying motionless, next to the rest of her comrades. He crawled to her, and as he did he heard Santiago’s voice on the com calling for backup.
“I need emergency med teams here, now!”
Harmon stared down at Mariko, and he felt an instant of elation…followed by despair. She was a few centimeters away, right in front of him. But she wasn’t breathing…
He felt a wave of panic, and then his discipline clamped down. He leaned forward, moving toward her. But then he felt something. Hands. On his shoulder, pulling him back, off to the side.
It was Krems, the medic. And he was hunched down over her, his hands moving frantically over her still form.
Harmon stayed where he was, silent, his eyes fixed on Fujin.
No, he thought. Please…no.
* * *
Compton leaned back in his chair. He was tired. More fatigued than he’d ever felt in his entire long life. The battle was over, at least for now. But his flagship was in trouble. The damage was extensive, and both landing bays were closed. He’d given orders for Saratoga and the other battleships to take Midway’s fighters, what few of them were returning, at least. It would be days before alpha bay was operative again. And beta bay was a total loss, the fires gutting it still raging out of control.
He knew he needed to have the outer doors blown…a desperate action that would eradicate the fires, but also one that would eliminate all possibility of repairing the bay outside an Alliance space dock, a facility that didn’t exist this side of the Barrier. But it was the only way to save the ship. If the fires spread, if they got past the line of damage control crews struggling to hold them back, they would reach the reactors. And that would be the end of Midway.
He’d given the orders to blow the doors already…and just as quickly rescinded them. Mariko Fujin was down there, and Max Harmon had begged him for more time to try and rescue her. The admiral inside had called on him to refuse the request, to put the safety of the ship over the miniscule chance that anyone had survived down there. But the part of him that made him the man he was intervened, and he had given a few more moments, sustained hope for just a bit longer. It wasn’t rational in terms of weighing risks and rewards…it wasn’t the right thing to do tactically. But Harmon was like a son to him…and Mariko was the young captain’s lover. And, he had to admit, he was quite fond of the diminutive pilot himself.
He knew it wasn’t fair, that he was allowing his personal feelings to guide his actions. If it had been another member of the crew down there, some officer who was just a name on a roster, the doors would have been blown already. Compton had been a creature of duty his entire life, one who had sacrificed personal desires to needs of the service. But he was old now, and feeling every year of his age. He’d lost almost everyone and everything that had truly mattered to him, and he found himself clinging to what little he had left. He hadn’t really expected another ten or fifteen minutes to make a difference in the search for survivors in the bay…but he simply hadn’t been able to deny Harmon…or give up his own tenuous hopes that Mariko was still alive.
His compassion had paid off. Harmon and the damage control team had made good use of the extra time. They’d found Fujin…and her pilot. Neither of them had been breathing when the team got to them, but the medics managed to revive them and get them to sickbay. They faced a tough fight for survival, but at least they had a chance. Compton, the man, had given them that, a rare victory for emotion over rationality. But now the admiral was back in control.
“Blow the outer doors on my command.”
“All ready, sir.” Jack Cortez sat at his workstation, his finger poised over a flashing red button. “Waiting for your orders, sir.”
Compton took a breath. “Do it,” he said.
Cortez depressed his finger…and Midway shook hard.
“Report,” Compton snapped.
“Coming sir.” There was a delay, perhaps half a minute. Then Cortez spun around toward Compton and said, “Damage control team reports all fires extinguished, sir.”
Compton nodded. “Acknowledged.” His verbal reaction was controlled, unemotional, but inside he felt a wave of relief. The rest of Midway’s damage was bad, but with the fires out the ship was in no immediate danger. And the reactors and engines were still functional. “Give my congratulations to the teams down there.”
His thoughts flashed back to Max…and Mariko. He almost commed sickbay for an update on the pilot’s condition, but he knew they wouldn’t know anything. And as fond as he was of Mariko, he had twenty thousand people depending on him. He’d just have to trust his medical staff. And he knew Max Harmon would keep an eye on her…that he wouldn’t leave her side.
“Okay, Jack,” he said, his relief spilling out as a burst of informality. “Let’s get the rest of the fleet lined up and ready to transit.” About half the ships had already moved through the warp gate…and now it was past time to get the rest moving. He didn’t dare to hope they’d seen the last of the enemy, and every moment he lost only meant the next fight would come that much sooner.
“Transmitting orders now, sir.” A pause. “Sir, Leviathan four reports no thrust.” Another hesitation, then: “No active weapons systems either.”
Compton just nodded. He wasn’t surprised. Leviathan four had been attacked from two sides, by half a dozen ships. The Regent’s forces targeted the turncoat ships more aggressively than the human vessels, and Compton knew they had just claimed their second kill.
“Send self-destruct order to Leviathan four, Commander. Destruct to occur in ten minutes.” That would be enough time to ensure none of his ships were close enough to take any damage. The robot ships obeyed any command he gave them, even one to shut down their magnetic bottles, setting off a chain reaction of annihilation. And a Leviathan had a lot of antimatter in its stores.
“Understood, sir. Ten minutes.”
Compton just looked at the main display, contemplating the unlikely series of events that had him mourning the loss of a First Imperium battleship.
Chapter Eight
AS Midway
X78 System
The Fleet: 98 ships (+6 Leviathans), 23761 crew
Max Harmon stood against the wall of Midway’s sickbay, looking out at the almost-frantic action and feeling as useless as he ever had in his life. He’d found Mariko, gotten her out of the bay just before Admiral Compton had ordered it blown, but she’d been dead by the time he got there…or at least not breathing. The medic had managed to revive her, restore respiration and get her stabilized enough to move to sickbay, but Harmon knew she faced a difficult road. The medic had worn a grave expression on his face as they rushed her to the med center, and the chief surgeon’s wasn’t much better when he examined her. For all the effort, the danger, the pleading with Compton for more time, there was a good chance she would die anyway…right in front of his eyes.
Midway’s medical staff was perhaps the best on any human ship anywhere. Mostly veterans of the Third Frontier War and the Rebellions, over the past eighteen months they’d experienced an intensity of combat beyond anything that had come before. The fleet had suffered grievous losses, more than half its ships and personnel lost. And many of those who survived had been wounded, some several times. The ship’s surgeons had performed wonders keeping Midway’s stricken spacers alive, working with an ever-dwindling stockpile of supplies. There was no place better for Mariko to be right now…but that didn’t mean she would make it.
Harmon stared across the room at the cluster of white-clad medical staff gathered around the diminutive pilot. There was a similar cluster a few meters away, where Grant Wainwright lay unconscious. The two were the only survivors from the bay. Their shipmates were dead. The rescue team had tried desperately to revive them, but it had been too late. They hadn’t responded at all. And for all the herculean efforts of Maria Santiago and her people, the teams hadn’t found anyone else still alive. They hadn’t found most of the bay crews at all…their bodies had been incinerated in the fires.
Harmon knew better than to push his way forward and interfere with the doctors. Mariko needed them now…and they needed to be left alone to do their jobs. He ached to rush forward, to take her hand and look down at her face. And he knew his rank and standing would prevent the med team from chasing him away. But he was disciplined enough to realize that would hurt her chances and not help them. So he stayed where he was, bolted to his spot. If Admiral Compton needed him, he knew where to find him. And otherwise, he had no intention of leaving sickbay. Not until he knew.
* * *
Compton felt the fatigue, like a wave coming over him. He’d always been able to get by on just a few hours of sleep, but it had been days since he’d had even that. But it was more than just physical exhaustion. Deep inside, he could feel the strength that drove him waning, the indomitable will that had caused him to push forward when everyone else was ready to give up slipping away. Every man had his limit, and he had a feeling he was getting close to his.
He almost rested his head in his hand, but he caught himself in time. He didn’t allow himself displays of weakness, not in public at least. That was a luxury he could not afford. Terrance Compton knew one thing for sure. His people had been through hell, multiple times over. They had seen friends and comrades die…they had faced grievous danger. And still they had pressed on through all of it. Compton understood his role in that, the image of the invincible, indestructible commander, and the part it played in extracting that last bit of effort and fortitude from the twenty thousand survivors manning the 98 remaining ships. The warriors of the fleet looked to him, they drew strength from him. And he had done all he could to be what they needed. However much a fiction his persona as the unbeatable commander truly was. Whatever it did to him, whatever cost he personally paid.
But he was exhausted too, and scared just like his people. He had no version of himself to rely upon, no one to share his burdens, at least no one who could understand what the top command did to a man. Sophie Barcomme had become his lover, and a good friend too, but she was a scientist, not a warrior. She gave him warmth and comfort, and whatever brief escapes he’d enjoyed over the past few months, but not true understanding. She could comprehend pain and fear, but she could never fully understand what it felt like to give the orders that sent thousands to their deaths.
Max Compton was the closest confidante he had, but even his trusted protégé, blooded combat officer that he was, couldn’t fully relate to Compton’s situation. Harmon was a brilliant officer, highly skilled and courageous to a fault, but he’d always served under Compton, following orders. He couldn’t know how much it cost to give some of those commands.
Compton missed his oldest friend, now more than ever. Augustus Garret was a man who could understand what Compton was feeling, perhaps the only person who truly could. But Garret was on the other side of the Barrier, and Compton knew he’d never again see his brother of fifty years. Whatever support Garret and Compton had given each other over their long comradeship was over…gone for both of them. Compton hoped that the fleet’s sacrifice had bought their families and friends back home the peace they sorely needed, but his best wishes were all he could offer Garret. Just as he suspected Augustus was perhaps the only one back home harboring suspicions that the fleet had somehow managed to survive, that Compton had wiggled his way out of the First Imperium trap.
He’d begun to confide a bit more in Admiral West. Erika West was stone cold, as strong and capable an officer as he’d ever known…and he included Garret and himself at her age in that estimation. But though he was perhaps more candid with her than he was with anyone else, he kept his wall up with her as well. She was his junior, and as tough as she was, she deserved some of the same support the others demanded from him. One day she might be in his shoes, but until then he protected her from the heaviest of the burdens.
Compton considered Erika West his replacement should he fall, though he feared she might face some resistance in pressing her claim. Since the mutiny that had almost ended the fleet’s escape in a nightmare of self-destruction, virtually every man and woman aboard the 98 ships looked up to Compton with a sort of dumbstruck reverence. He’d saved them from certain death…three times. He’d exercised wisdom over anger, reinstating and forgiving almost all of the mutineers. And he was unbreakable, or at least he appeared to be.
Erika West was well-regarded too, though she was certainly considered less likable than her commanding officer. Compton had a reputation for being approachable. He played poker with his officers—very well—and he was considered very charming by most of those who knew him. Erika West was hard as nails, as Compton was, but unlike her commanding officer, she had no off switch. She gave all she had for her people, but she was demanding, unforgiving. Those who had served under her had experienced both her courage…and her brutal discipline. She was respected, deeply…but she wasn’t widely liked. Still, Compton figured she’d have the support of the Alliance contingent…it was the other forces that worried him, especially the CAC and Caliphate ships. West had been an easy target during the Third Frontier War, and the enemy propagandists had worked overtime turning her into the heartless villain her cold, hard-driving demeanor seemed to support. Many of the CAC and Caliphate spacers still blamed West for terrible atrocities from the war years, most of which had been the inventions of the intelligence agencies of their respective powers.
Compton knew there was a simple solution to the problem…don’t get himself killed. But that was easier said than done. James Horace was down in sickbay, fighting for his life. Compton’s flag captain had been in Midway’s control center when it took a direct hit. The flag bridge was no better protected than the main bridge…it had been fortune alone that had dictated that Horace lay in the critical care unit while Compton sat in his chair, without a scratch, still directing the fleet. But there was more than chance on Compton’s mind, more than the possibility of some errant First Imperium laser blast finally finding him. He was planning something desperate, dangerous. A forlorn hope, a wild gamble by part of the fleet, to mislead the enemy…and give the rest of his people a chance to make a run for Shangri la. And he intended to lead it himself.
He’d been thinking about it for several weeks now, but the last battle had been the final straw, and now he’d decided. There was no choice. For two months the fleet had run, fleeing from the pursuing enemy. But Compton realized now that they weren’t going to escape, not without a new plan, something daring and unexpected. He knew he couldn’t continue on to Shangri la, not with enemy forces on his heels. Whatever Almeerhan and his people had left there for the humans, it wasn’t likely to instantly transform the fleet into a force that could defeat everything the Regent could throw at them. Leading the enemy to the hidden cache would be worse than simply abandoning the search, turning off into deep space fleeing blindly into the unknown.
No, there was no choice. He had to try to mislead the enemy, buy time for the others to reach Shangri la. But Compton knew the danger of what he intended…and he realized the chances were good he would never make it back. And he had to do all he could to ensure that Erika West succeeded him if he was killed. She was the only one who could fill his shoes…and give the people of the fleet a chance.
“Commander Cortez,” he said, getting up as he did. “I’ll be in my office. Get Admiral West on my com and send it to me in there.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Cortez’ voice was firm, crisp. He’d been at his post for eighteen hours, and in that time Midway had gone from heavy combat to desperate damage control. His eyes were deep in their sockets, and his voice was raw, hoarse. But he was still at his post, and still giving one hundred percent.
Compton walked to the edge of the flag bridge, waving his hand in front of the scanning plate next to the door to his office. Then he walked inside, and the hatch closed behind him.
Time to convince Erika West…
He knew she would want to lead the rearguard—and he knew he should let her, that it made more sense than the fleet’s commander racing off on a near-suicide mission. But there were some things a man simply had to do. Some things he couldn’t’ delegate to another. And Compton had made up his mind.
* * *
Snow Leopard’s sickbay was bathed in light, a series of panels on the ceiling illuminating the entire tiny space. The infirmary was bright white, usually pristine, orderly. But now it was a mess, with patients and boxes of supplies everywhere, and Chris Flynn had to pick his way around the clutter to attend to those under his care. Snow Leopard’s sole physician wore a mask, as did the rest of his staff. Flynn knew very little about the mysterious disease that was ripping its way through the crew, but it was obvious that whatever pathogen was responsible was extremely contagious.
The infirmary had been built to house a maximum of three patients normally—and eight under combat conditions. But there were fifteen of the ship’s crew there now, lying on whatever the overworked medical staff had been able to jury-rig. There were cots pulled from quarters and piles of padding on the floor. Flynn had been assigned to emergency service in a Marine field hospital once back during the Third Frontier War, and he still had nightmares about the overcrowded facility, of men and women lying out on the cold ground, dying before they got treatment. Snow Leopard wasn’t to that point yet, but it was damned close.
Sara was in one of the three beds, a perquisite of both her rank and the fact that she seemed to be the first one to show symptoms from the mysterious disease now spreading rapidly through Snow Leopard’s crew. She’d deteriorated rapidly in the day and a half since she’d staggered back down to the infirmary, and she was fading in and out of consciousness, soaked in sweat from the raging fever that defied all Flynn’s efforts to combat it.
Flynn had called her back to sickbay when he’d realized her case wasn’t isolated, that a full scale epidemic was hitting Snow Leopard’s crew. And things had only gotten worse since then.
Sara had been the first, but now half the crew was complaining of nausea and dizziness. Flynn had started by telling them to come down to sickbay for an exam, but now he was urging them to stay at their posts, at least while they were still able. He didn’t have room, and he didn’t have the staff to handle more patients, even after he’d drafted the ship’s entire staff of stewards as makeshift medical aides. Worst of all, he had no idea how to treat whatever illness was ravaging Snow Leopard’s crew.
That wasn’t for lack of effort. Once he realized he was facing a full scale epidemic, he leapt into action. He checked out everything he could. The food shipments, the air recyclers, the water purifiers…anything that could spread a disease. But everything checked out. That left only one thing he could think of. And that terrified him.
He was on the com to the bridge, waiting for Ving to come on. He had to tell the captain what he suspected.
“I assume this is about the fact that half my crew is doubled over and puking?” Ving’s voice was hoarse, and he sounded tired.
“Yes, sir. I’ve inspected everything that could spread contamination through the ship, and it all checks out.” He paused, as if verbalizing what he was thinking would make it so. “Captain, I think we need to look at that mysterious weapon, the small projectiles the enemy fired at us.” Another pause. “I’m concerned they might be a delivery system for a biological weapon.”
There was a long silence. Then Ving said, “My God, I didn’t even think of that.”
Flynn could hear the self-recrimination in the captain’s voice, the blame he was already assuming for overlooking a deadly threat to his ship.
“Sir…none of us thought of that. I still have no evidence, but I have no other ideas. I need whatever we have left from the investigation.”
“We don’t have much, Doc…just a few trace components. The projectiles disintegrated on impact.”
“Which is probably because they’re designed to spread the pathogens they contain.” He knew he was working on pure speculation. But somehow he knew he was right too.”
“I’m sending you what we have in the lab, Doc. Like I said, it’s not much.” Ving hesitated. “What else can I do for you?”
“Nothing else, Captain. Not yet.” He paused. “Actually, sir, if the patients continue to deteriorate, I’m going to need more med pods. We’ve only got two on Snow Leopard. It could come down to life and death decisions if we don’t get more.”
“I’ll take care of it, Doc. I’ll go right to Admiral Compton. I’m overdue to give him a status report anyway.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll let you know what I find from the projectile fragments. Flynn out.”
He turned and looked toward the work surface and the bank of cabinets that formed Snow Leopard’s tiny medical lab. It was covered with junk…blankets, vomit bags, crates of medical refuse. The sickbay was so overloaded, so utterly jammed full, his people were piling things anywhere they could.
“Alright, people, listen up. I want the lab station cleaned off, and I mean right now! We’ve got some samples on the way down, and checking them out has just become priority fucking one.”
He stood for a second and watched as his people ran over and started cleared the table. Then he glanced down at the chronometer. He’d have the samples in another minute or two, and he intended to get started right away. If there was an answer, that’s where he’d find it. Or at least a first step on the road to a treatment. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but he knew Sara and a few of the others were in bad shape. He still had some options, some tools to keep them alive a little longer. He was going to have to put Sara in one of the med pods soon…and she wouldn’t be the last to need one.
The captain’s going right to the admiral. Hopefully we’ll get a shipment before it becomes a problem…
He took a deep breath and put his hand out on the wall and leaned over. He was tired…exhausted. He’d already taken enough stims that he’d have scolded a patient for doing the same. But he knew he needed another. He had to be as sharp-minded as possible. The lives of everyone aboard Snow Leopard might very well depend on his efforts over the next few hours.
He walked over toward the drug cabinet, opening the small door and grabbing the bottle of stims. He opened it and dropped one in his palm. Then he paused for a few seconds and poured out a second pill. He popped them in his mouth and grabbed a small cup, filling it from the water dispenser and swallowing a gulp.
Now it was time. Time to find the source of this disease. But first he walked out of sickbay and down the hall, his pace accelerating as he went. He ducked into the small bathroom there and closed the door behind him. Then he doubled over and emptied his stomach, thinking all the while, ‘what a waste of two good stims…’”
* * *
“Erika, this isn’t a debate. It’s an order.” Compton sat behind his desk, rubbing his temples as he spoke with his chosen, but informal, second in command. He’d known West would put up a fight when he told her what he had in mind, and she hadn’t disappointed. West was a tough as nails warrior, but she had proven to be as susceptible as everyone else in the fleet to the cult of worship, at least where Compton was concerned. She’d made it clear over the last few minutes that she considered Compton putting himself at greater risk than necessary to be unthinkable. She’d argued that she should lead the rearguard while he took the rest of the fleet to Shangri la, and she’d come close to insubordination in bulldozing right through his attempts to end the discussion.
“Admiral…”
“No, Erika.” Compton’s voice was firm, loud. He injected a touch of anger, though he felt none. But he didn’t have all day to argue with her. “The decision is made. So your choice is simple. Will you follow my orders? Or will you mutiny?” He immediately felt bad for his choice of words. West had argued hard, but he didn’t believe for a second she would ever be disloyal.
“Yes, sir,” she said, her voice soft, clipped.
Compton sighed softly. West had a reputation for being made of plasti-steel. Many, including, but hardly limited to, her detractors, claimed she’d been born without any human emotion save focused rage. But Compton knew her better than most, and he understood her complex psyche. And he realized how badly he had hurt her feelings with his last remarks.
“I’m sorry, Erika. I know you would never challenge me…and I realize your arguments were only intended to protect me. But I have to do this. It’s just that simple, and no debate is going to change that. So let’s just say you’ve expressed your concerns and been overruled. So stop trying to convince me not to do this…and help me make sure it’s a success.”
“Yes, sir.” She sounded a bit less hurt, but there was a hint of defeat in her words. It was clear she didn’t like this idea. Not one bit.
“Thank you.” He tried to inject some warmth in his voice. He knew how lucky he was to have West under his command. He’d gotten most of the credit for the fleet’s survival, but he would never forget that Erika West had saved his ass during the mutiny. Her iron will had held things together until he’d managed to return from an ill-advised trip down to a First Imperium world, an indulgence of his curiosity that had almost ended in disaster. He’d thanked her several times, both publicly and in private, but he knew most of the fleet disregarded her role. He also realized she didn’t care, that she wasn’t one to worry about what others thought. And that was the problem now. He didn’t need her to do anything for his rearguard, he could handle that…but he damned sure had to make sure that the rest of the fleet followed her and took her orders as if they were his.
“This is not a suicide mission, Erika. I have every intention of returning. But if we don’t shake this pursuit, all we’ll manage to do is lead the Regent’s forces right to Shangri la.” He paused. “You’ll just have to trust my tactical judgment. But we also need to keep the fleet together, and that means you need to fill my shoes.”
“Sir…” He’d rarely heard Erika West speechless, but now her voice trailed off to nothing.
“You can do it, Erika. There is no one I trust more.” The statement was nothing but the absolute truth, but he felt like he was manipulating her nevertheless. And, to an extent, he was. As he did with everyone.
“I’m not sure some fleet elements will be happy taking my orders, sir.”
“No, Erika, they probably won’t be. But as long as they know I’m coming back…or at least until they’ve given up that I will, I think they’ll be manageable.” He paused. In truth, he had no idea if he’d be coming back. He intended to…but he knew being the rearguard and leading the enemy away from the fleet was a dangerous game. The poker player inside him put the odds right at fifty-fifty. “So maybe this is a good opportunity for me to publicly designate you as my second in command and get everybody used to the idea.”
“Yes, sir.”
He could hear the discomfort in her voice. Erika West was a skilled and courageous naval commander, but there wasn’t a shred of diplomat in her. Her idea of negotiation was charging a heavy laser cannon and pointing it at anyone giving her a hard time. Maybe this will give her some practice, a chance to get used to dealing with people. Just in case she really has to replace me one day…
“You’ll do fine, Erika.” He paused. “And I’ll be back. We’re just going to take the Regent’s ships for a little joy ride…and confuse the hell out of them. Then we’ll slip away and make our way back to Shangri la.” He tried to sound as convincing as possible, though he knew West was an experienced enough admiral to come to her own conclusions…and she was likely to reach the same odds he had. A coin toss.
“Yes, sir,” she said, still sounding unhappy, but accepting his decision. “When do you want to do this?”
“Immediately, Erika. I’m sending you a fleet breakdown, including the ships I will take with me and those you will lead to Shangri la.” He’d considered asking for volunteers for the rear guard, but the process would be too cumbersome, too unwieldy. And splitting up ship crews wasn’t going to do anything to improve combat effectiveness. “I want you to get them out of the system immediately. You’re leaving within the hour. You’ll be buttoning up everybody in the tanks and blasting out of here at full. You need to be gone before the enemy gets here…assuming they don’t have stealth ships in the system already.” The fleet had transited to X80 immediately after the last battle and then to X82. There was a good chance they were ahead of the enemy, but Compton knew better than to make any cocky assumptions.
The new system was the perfect choice for his plan. There were no less than six warp gates, and that gave him multiple options for leading the enemy astray. His strategy was simple. He would wait close to one of the warp gates…and when the enemy forces entered the system and detected them, he would transit, giving the impression that his ships were the last ones to leave X82. With any luck, the enemy would buy it and follow. And that would give West and the others time to put some distance behind them…and hopefully find Shangri la.
“There’s nothing I can do to convince you to let me do this with Saratoga, is there?” West’s voice was earnest, almost pleading.
“No,” Compton said. “I appreciate the sentiment, Erika, but I just have to do this.” He almost continued, but he kept the last part of his thought to himself.
A man can only send so many people to face death before he has to go himself…
Chapter Nine
AS Cornwall
X72 System
The Fleet: 98 ships (+6 Leviathans), 23758 crew
“Power down the reactor. Minimal output…only life support and scanning systems active.” Skarn’s voice was edgy, her nerves on display. Cornwall had just come through the warp gate, back into system X72. This was where they had branched off from the fleet…and traveled to Y17, only to find the race they’d come to find long extinct. Now they were back where they had started, but the fleet was long gone. She hoped that meant the enemy had moved on as well, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Fast attack ships had strong stealth capability, as long as they cut power and acted like a hole in space.
“Reactor at 10%, Captain. All systems on minimal except scanning and life support.” Inkerman sounded as nervous as the captain. Cornwall’s crew had faced the unknown, but now they were all painfully aware they were behind enemy lines. There had been First Imperium forces in this system when they left. The fleet had been fighting here when Cornwall slipped through the warp gate to Y1, hoping no enemy vessels picked up the transit and followed.
Skarn remembered how she’d felt during the first few transits. She had been sure the enemy was following her ship, that Cornwall would be caught alone, far from support. But they’d made their escape clean, and the trip to and from Y17 had been clear sailing. But she knew that luck couldn’t last. They were chasing after the fleet, along the same vector as the enemy pursuers. It would take a lot of luck for them to get back. And all the skill she could muster.
“I want scanners on full. We know the fleet was in this system and they had a fight here. The enemy might have moved on by now, but this is probably along their line of communications, which means we could run into nasties just about anywhere.”
“Scanners on full, Captain. No contacts.”
“Very well, Lieutenant. Maintain position and silent running for thirty minutes. Then, if all is clear, we will make for the X74 warp gate….and the way home.” Or what passes for home…
“Yes, Captain. Maintaining reactor status, and continuing deep scans.” Inkerman leaned over his workstation, typing for a few seconds. “Navigational instructions ready for X74 gate approach. Locking into the navcom.”
Skarn allowed herself a passing smile. She was still nervous. Actually, calling it nervous was a bit of spin. She was scared shitless. But she was also starting to feel like a real captain, and she’d be damned if her people weren’t turning into a real crew. Maybe they’d make it back after all.
She liked the thought, but she wasn’t sure she believed it. Still, she knew one thing. They were going to try like hell.
* * *
Sasha sat in her quarters, her fingers moving rapidly over her workstation’s keyboard. It took a considerable effort to reprogram the ship’s com systems, to allow her to send the required messages. She knew the fleet had passed through X72, and that the First Imperium forces had engaged them here. And now she had new knowledge, information that belonged not to Sasha Debornan, but to the strange presence inside her, the one that controlled her actions utterly now. She didn’t know for certain there were First Imperium vessels in X72, but she knew standard procedure called for a squadron of stealth vessels to maintain position where a fleet had passed through. Normally, the undetectable scouts would simply report the presence of any enemy force, but since Cornwall was only a single attack ship, it was possible the pickets would engage and destroy her. And she had to make sure that didn’t happen. Cornwall had to get safely back to the fleet. It was essential to the plan.
She was typing at least ten times as rapidly as she’d been able to before, another strange new ability. It was an alien presence controlling her actions, but her own memories were assisting in the effort. It was a strange amalgam, and she felt herself taking actions she couldn’t stop.
The part of her mind that made her Sasha Debornan was trapped, imprisoned. She tried to escape, to regain control of her body, her actions, but all her efforts were in vain. She could think, and she was aware of what was happening, but she couldn’t communicate, couldn’t so much as move her own finger.
She’d felt strange since shortly after she’d gotten back from the planet, but it had been several days before she noticed anything serious. She’d had some aches and pains, and an odd feeling, a tingling in various areas of her body. She felt bloated, and then the pain worsened. Then, suddenly, she was doing things she couldn’t control. She’d watched helplessly as her hands typed access codes, reprogrammed the ship’s computer. She was doing things she’d never been able to do, using skills she hadn’t possessed before.
There was something inside her, controlling her, while she remained imprisoned, watching helplessly. Watching herself sabotage ship’s functions. Watching herself murder Tony Vaccilli. And now she was sending out secret messages to First Imperium vessels. She struggled, tried with everything she had to focus, to regain control. But there was no use. She was trapped.
She was typing now, sending out codes, drawing power from the ship’s batteries to do it. She couldn’t understand the programming she’d just done, but somehow she knew the purpose. Nothing she was doing would show up on any ship’s display. Not even Cornwall’s AI would be aware of her actions. She panicked for a moment, concerned she was calling to First Imperium ships, giving them Cornwall’s location and bidding them to attack. But no, that wasn’t right. She was warding them off, instructing them not to attack. She didn’t know how she knew that, and she had no idea why whatever force was controlling her was doing it.
She felt a wave of frustration and she put everything she had into trying again to regain control of her body. But there was nothing. She was trapped, cut off.
Okay, she thought, losing it isn’t going to help anything. Think…you know what your body is doing. Why? What is happening?
As her mind calmed, she could feel something inside her, all over her body. Something foreign, alien. Moving through her blood, through her flesh and organs.
Nanobots. Suddenly, she knew. She understood. On the planet. They’d penetrated her suit…the itching she’d felt. And then they multiplied, replicating, spreading through her body. She could feel them now, not individually, but billions of them moving. They were everywhere, in her brain, her spinal cord. Controlling her.
And there was nothing she could do but watch.
* * *
Don Rames walked down the corridor, nodding to several shipmates as they passed by. He knew who they were, but the part of him that cared was submerged, restrained. Soon it would be gone entirely. The presence that controlled his body was old. It was a collective, made up of billions of microscopic machines, created by the few that had invaded his bloodstream. They were remnants, and they had been on the planet for millennia.
They were servants of the Regent, and they’d been sent to destroy the bipeds on the planet. They had entered their bodies, replicated, taken control, just as they were doing now. The bipeds fought, the nanos controlling them, driving them into endless battle…until none remained. Then, they deactivated. Trillions of the tiny devices then powered down and ceased to function, as the bipeds had before them. All but the original ones, the nanobots of the Regent’s manufacture, the ones that had landed on the planet and infected the first of the doomed race. They survived, for endless untold ages they endured, waiting, watching for new enemies. And then the new bipeds came.
The tiny robots responded to their ancient programming. The new biologics wore protective suits, but the nanos passed through, drilling into the tight web of the fabric and sealing it shut again behind them. Then they entered the creatures, slipped in through pores, through bodily orifices, spreading, replicating, using the host’s energy and food to fuel their multiplication.
The bipeds left the planet, returned to their spaceship…and the nanos came with them. They served their ancient function, took control, prepared to destroy the spaceship to eliminate the bipeds aboard. The nanos existed to serve the Regent. They had no directive for self-preservation. But then they accessed the computer systems serving the biologics. They learned they were en route to a fleet, one carrying thousands of the biped creatures.
The biologics had fought with the forces of the Regent. They were fleeing even now. The nanos responded to ancient programming…to serve the Regent. There was a higher priority than eliminating a single vessel. They must destroy the new biologics.
But few of the nanos had survived the endless eons, and there were only enough to control the two bipeds. They could replicate more given time, but that would take years, as it had on the planet…and the struggle was already underway. So they explored the databases, sought ways to destroy the bipeds. And they found something.
There was one of the biologics, a leader. They followed him, fought at his command. He had saved them many times. He was the primary cause of the Regent’s failure. His tactics were superior, they frustrated the Regent and the Command Units of the imperial fleet.
The nanos knew. In that moment they knew what they had to do. They had to return to the human fleet…and when they got there they had but a single purpose. They would kill the biped leader. They would kill Admiral Terrance Compton.
Chapter Ten
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
What is a suicide mission? Some are obvious, for example a pilot at the controls of a critically-damaged fighter, smashing into an enemy ship in a final act of defiance. But when does daring, calculated risk-taking, become something else, something darker, more hopeless.
There is no choice, not really. I’ve reviewed the AI’s projections and run my own. I’ve put fifty years of experience at war in space to work, trying to imagine a way, any other way. But there is none. The fleet will never reach Shangri la, not unless I can find a way to buy a respite from the relentless pursuit.
And I have. I will detach a rearguard, a small force of ships that will wait behind when the rest of the fleet transits, until the enemy catches us. Then this forlorn hope will transit—through a different warp gate—and hopefully lead the enemy fleet off in a direction away from the main fleet.
It is a sound plan, one that has a good chance of gaining the fleet the time to reach Shangri la. But is it a suicide mission? Surely I didn’t conceive it that way. My plans for the rearguard include an eventual return to the course for Shangri la…but is this realistic? Or simply something I cooked up to relieve myself of the burden of ordering men and women on a suicide mission? I truly don’t know anymore. But whatever the fate of the rearguard, I will be with it.
It goes against everything I’ve been taught, all tenets of naval strategy. The commander of the fleet should remain with the fleet. I can hear the voices, my old instructors at the Academy, Augustus, all of them, screaming in my head. But none of it matters. There are decisions made from strategy, from duty. And then there are just things a man must do. I have sent thousands to their deaths…and worst of all, perhaps, they have gone willingly, faithfully executing the orders I gave them. I cannot sit in my chair any longer and send thousands more into such peril, not unless I go with them.
They will all resist…Sophie, Max, Erika West. They will argue…and they will insist on coming with me. But they are all staying behind. I have tried to make decisions as fairly as possible, to see to the needs of all the people of the fleet. But this is pure commander’s prerogative. I will go into this danger, perhaps to my death. But when I do, I will know that those few I love are safe, or at least safer. And I make no apologies. I have served with every bit of strength I have, as I will until the enemy finally destroys me. But this I do for me…
AS Midway
X78 System
The Fleet: 98 ships (+6 Leviathans), 23758 crew
“I don’t understand, sir.” Max Harmon was standing in the corridor staring back at the admiral. “If you’re going into a fight, I should be with you. I’ll stay on Midway.” Harmon had been on his way to the flag bridge when he’d run into Compton in the corridor. He’d been in sickbay when the orders came down to prepare to transfer all the patients to Saratoga. The battle was over, at least for the immediate future, and by all accounts, other than her landing bays, Saratoga wasn’t in any better shape than Midway. And without the bays it was going to be a nightmare to load up the wounded.
Harmon had served under Compton for a long time, and he knew the admiral well, as well as anyone in the fleet. He immediately realized something was wrong. And now the admiral had just confirmed his fears.
“No,” Compton said. “I don’t want you to stay, Max. I want you to transfer to Saratoga. Admiral West is going to need all the help she can get maintaining control of the fleet. I want you to stay with her until I get back. I need you to stay.”
Harmon stared back at Compton. They both knew the admiral’s return was an ‘if’ and not a ‘when.’ He was silent for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice almost distraught. “But, sir, you can’t do this, not without me.” Harmon was exhausted, utterly and completely drained. He’d been at Mariko’s side for three straight days, without a rest, without even taking time to eat anything. His distress at Compton’s plan had given him a brief burst of urgent energy, but now he looked like he was about to collapse.
“I have to do this, Max. You’ve known me long enough to understand.” Compton took a step toward Harmon. “I love you like a son, Max…but I have to do this. And I need you to do as I say.” He paused. “Stay with Mariko. Go over to Saratoga with her…and once you’ve got her settled in, report to Admiral West.” Compton stared at his protégé, trying to maintain his calm, to hide how much it hurt to send Harmon away. But he’d made his decision. He might die, several thousand of the fleet’s spacers might die with him. But he didn’t want Max Harmon to be one of them. He didn’t know if Mariko was going to make it, no one did. But if she survived, he wanted Harmon to be there, to have a chance at happiness. And even if the pilot he loved so much died, Harmon was young…and if the refugees managed to find a home at Shangri la, he’d have a long life ahead of him. Compton had seen more death, lost more friends and comrades than Harmon could imagine, and he knew one thing. Life went on for the living.
Harmon just nodded. His face was grim, and the fatigue was even more pronounced in his expression. “Admiral, I don’t know what to…”
“Max, I’m not going to crash Midway into an enemy Colossus. The rearguard has a dangerous mission, but not a hopeless one. I’m going to try like hell to get back, to get all the people going with me back. But I need my mind clear…and it won’t be unless I know you’re with Erika, helping her maintain control of the fleet.”
“Yes, sir,” Harmon said miserably.
“And I need you to do one other thing for me, Max.” Compton’s voice was emotional.
“Anything, Admiral.”
“I need you to make sure Sophie goes too. She’s not going to want to leave any more than you do. But I need her to go. I need to know she’s safe, at least as safe as anyone in the fleet can be.” His eyes focused on Harmons, pleading with his friend.
“I’ll make sure she goes, sir. Whatever it takes.” Harmon gasped for a breath, holding back the emotion the best he could. “I don’t know what to say, sir. You’ve been more than a commander…more than a father. I just don’t have…” His words trailed off, and he stood there holding Compton’s gaze.
“I know, Max,” Compton said softly. “I feel the same.” He reached out and put his hands on Harmon’s shoulder. “Now do as I ask, son. Go.” He pushed forward, taking Harmon in his arms, hugging the young officer.
The two embraced for a few seconds. Then Harmon stood there, staring silently at the admiral. Finally, he took a deep breath and nodded. He knew Compton would fight like a demon to bring the rearguard back…and he realized there was a chance…there was always a chance. But there was something else, a feeling, a nagging thought he couldn’t banish from his mind.
A voice speaking to him, telling him he would never see his friend Terrence Compton again.
* * *
“Get all that stuff packed up. Now!” Hieronymus Cutter was storming around the room, terrorizing the scientists and assistants busy at work gathering the various artifacts and specimens from the lab. Those who knew the brilliant scientist could hardly believe the changes in him over the past year. He’d been quiet, shy, socially awkward…a man of almost incalculable intelligence who found it difficult to carry on a conversation with another. But in that year he’d developed breakthroughs that had saved the fleet, he’d boarded an enemy battleship with a pack of Marines…and landed on an ancient First Imperium planet with the same leathernecks. He’d risked his life again and again, and he’d won the respect of the hardest, most grizzled warriors in the fleet. The Marines had accepted him as one of their own. And the new improved Hieronymus Cutter had proven to be a nightmare to the scientists and technicians working under him.
“We don’t have time to waste,” he roared. “And I want every one of those specimens neatly packed. The future of the fleet depends on this research, so anyone who is careless now will have to answer to me for anything that is broken or lost.”
“They’re working as quickly as they can, Hieronymus.” Ana Zhukov had walked up behind Cutter. “I sometimes wish the old Hieronymus could see you now.” She smiled, at least as much as the current situation allowed. She knew Cutter was worried about Admiral Compton. She was too. Most of the fleet looked up to him, but they saw him as something distant, great. Ana and Hieronymus had worked closely with him, and they’d become part of his small, trusted inner circle. Ana had come to know the real Terrence Compton. And she was deathly afraid he wasn’t coming back, that he’d committed himself to a suicidal tactic to buy the fleet a chance at escape.
“As quickly as they can isn’t fast enough, Ana. We’re almost out of time…and we need to get this stuff off Midway. All of it.”
“I know, Hieronymus, but terrorizing everyone isn’t going to help. They’re not Marines, you can’t treat them like they are. They can’t handle it.”
Cutter nodded. “You may be right, Ana. But if we’re going to survive, they’re going to have to handle it, aren’t they?”
“Maybe…but please, Hieronymus, try to go a little easier on them. They know how important this is. They will get it done.” Ana was worried about Cutter. She’d seen the changes in her friend since the fleet had been stranded, how he’d risen to the challenge, become a key contributor to the fleet’s survival. But he’d changed even more dramatically since he’d encountered Almeerhan. Her friend’s time with the preserved essence of the ancient alien had affected him deeply. He’d been enormously demanding since he’d returned from X48 II, driven to such an extent she feared for his very sanity. He hardly slept, hardly ate…and he’d become merciless on those who worked for him, demanding the same superhuman commitment from them all. Perhaps he’d seen too much, knew too clearly the extent of what the fleet faced.
“Easier?” He stared at her with the same intensity he did everyone else. “We’re not at some university, working on a paper for a room full of gasbags to debate between cocktail parties. This is life and death, Ana. For all of us.”
The two had always shared a close relationship. Ana thought of Cutter as a big brother, and he’d shown on more than one occasion that he reciprocated the feelings. But now he’d turned into some kind of ruthless automaton, without even a shred of detectable emotion. She wondered if it was just the stress, the knowledge he possessed. Of if his experiences on X48 II had changed him in some fundamental way.
“Hieronymus, I understand. But you are the most intelligent—the most logical—person I’ve ever known. What will you serve if you drive everyone into the ground? They’re not like you…they can only handle so much. You may push them as hard as you can, but you’ll get less productivity from them, not more.”
Cutter looked like he was going to snap back with a quick response, but instead he just looked back at her…and his gaze softened. “He’s going off with a few ships, Ana. He’s going to try and get everything the Regent is throwing at us to follow him.” He paused. “He’s going off to die. And I can’t go with him.”
Ana felt a wave of surprise. She hadn’t seen Cutter be…human…in months now, and here he was, baring his thoughts to her. He wants to go with the admiral. But he knows he can’t…
“Hieronymus, Terrance Compton knows what he is doing. He is taking a terrible risk, yes. But he’s escaped from tight spots before. Don’t underestimate him.”
“He’s leaving everyone behind. Everyone he cares about. Max, Sophie Barcomme. Me, you.”
She reached out and took his hand. “He has reasons, Hieronymus. Other than the danger. You know he wants Max to help Admiral West maintain control over the fleet. And you and I have to be there when the fleet gets to Shangri la. You’re the only one who can deal with whatever we find there.”
“I know.” His voice was dark, subdued. “Maybe you’re right. It’s just we all owe him so much…and it doesn’t feel right leaving him. I know he won’t be by himself, and I realize thousands of fleet personnel are risking their lives with him. But he will be alone, in every way that matters. It just doesn’t feel right…even if it is the smart thing to do.” He sighed. “I’ve been a rational man my entire life, Ana. I’ve made my decisions based on logic, on an analysis of available data. I’ve looked down on those around me who didn’t do that, the men and women who let their emotions dictate what they did.”
He looked up at her, and she could see the uncertainty in his eyes. “I’ve never wanted to cast logic aside like I do now. I’ve never felt such a strong urge to make a purely emotional decision.” He paused. “I know I can’t…but every fiber of my being wants to go with him, even if I have to stow away somewhere in Midway to do it.”
“I know, Hieronymus. I feel the same way.” Her voice was soothing, empathetic. “But we both know we can’t. We have a duty to the fleet, to do whatever we can to help our people—all of our people—survive.” They were both silent for a moment. Then she added, “Even if that means letting Admiral Compton go off without us.”
* * *
“Admiral Compton?” The voice from behind him was familiar. Compton had been lost in thought as he headed back to Midway’s flag bridge, but Greta Hurley’s words pulled him back, and he turned around to face the commander of the fleet’s fighter-bomber corps.
“Greta, what are you still doing here?” All the non-essential crew had left Midway, as they had the other fifteen ships of the rearguard. Compton had kept only skeleton crews on his chosen vessels.
Hurley had been helping to direct repairs to landing bay alpha, working to come up with any shortcuts that might get Midway’s fighter support capability at least partially back online. But Compton had forgotten about the whole thing when he’d decided to lead the forlorn hope.
“The bay is functional, Admiral. At least moderately so. I can run two squadrons out of there. Maybe three.”
Compton paused for a moment, processing what he’d just been told. “That’s impossible, Greta. The damage was too extensive. Estimates were two weeks, even to restore moderate functionality.” Bay A had been hard hit, not as thoroughly destroyed as bay B, but still damned bad. He couldn’t believe it was repaired. There was no way.
“Well, sir…I cut a few corners. And I came up with a few workarounds. Operations won’t meet safety regs, and we’re not going to be at our most efficient, but I’m telling you I can run eighteen birds out of there. I went over it with Chief McGraw. Twice. And he’s onboard.” She paused. “Have I ever not come through for you, Admiral? Promised you something I couldn’t deliver?”
Compton felt a wave of guilt. “No, Greta. Of course not. It’s just that…I’m not sure what we’ll end up facing. This is going to be dangerous.” He hesitated. “We might not make it back, Greta.”
“And when is that ever not true, Admiral? When have we launched without knowing we might not come back.” She stared at him intently. “Let me bring my squadrons over, sir. They’re all volunteers. And you know as well as I do you’ve got a much better chance of surviving if you’ve got some fighter support. It’s not just you, sir. Think of the spacers going with you.”
Compton felt Hurley’s well placed jab. She knew how to work him, as well as anybody else in the fleet. But she was right too. The fighters would help…they would increase the chances of his ships making it back. And it wasn’t just him. Even with the reduced crews, he was taking over 2,000 spacers with him.
“Okay, Greta,” he said softly. “Bring your people over. But you don’t have much time. We’re leaving in forty-five minutes.”
“We’ll be ready, Admiral.” She smiled, and then she stood at attention and snapped him a salute. “It’s an honor to be with you, sir.”
Compton felt a twinge. He’d heard too many statements like that, usually from glory-hungry junior officers who knew too little about what they were getting into. But few people had been in the thick of the fighting as often as Greta Hurley…had seen as many people die under her command. Compton knew his fighter commander had no delusions of glory, that her words were no empty gestures or pointless acts of bravado. She meant exactly what she said, and Compton could feel the emotions stirring inside him.
“It’s an honor for me to have you along, Greta. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have at my back.” He extended his hand.
She kept her eyes locked on his, and reached out, shaking his hand. Then she turned abruptly and left, on her way down to the bay. She had forty minutes to move her squadrons to Midway and get them bolted down in the damaged space.
* * *
“I have to go see him, Max. Now!” Sophie Barcomme tried to pull away from Harmon, but he held onto her shoulders like a vice.
“Sophie, you have to listen to me! He made me promise to get you to Saratoga. He wants to be sure you’re safe.”
“Safe?” she said, her voice a cocktail of emotions—anger, sadness, fear. “Who on the fleet is safe? What makes him think I even want to be safe. I want to stay with him!”
“There’s no time, Sophie. Midway’s leaving in just over half an hour. Now, come on…we need to get you on a shuttle.”
“If you think you’re going to pack me onto a shuttle and ship me off without even seeing him, you’re sorely mistaken, Max Harmon.” She wrenched herself free from his grasp and stood in front of him staring at him with a withering gaze. “If you think you’re going to ship me off and then go off with him into God knows where, you’ve…”
“I’m not going either, Sophie.” His voice was soft, thick with resignation.
She stared at him, her surprise clear in her eyes. “You’re not going?”
“He doesn’t want me to go either. He ordered me to report to Saratoga.” Harmon was miserable, and speaking the words out loud only made it worse. But he tried to hide it from Sophie, to act as if he was simply following orders.
“And you are okay with that? You’re letting him go without you?”
Harmon winced at the recrimination in her voice. He already felt guilty for leaving, and her tone suggested some level of disloyalty in his actions. He knew she was upset, that she didn’t really think he would willingly abandon Compton. But it still cut deeply.
“He is my superior officer, Sophie,” Harmon said, keeping his voice as even and unemotional as possible. “When he gives me an order, I follow it.” And I argued this one every way I could think of, but he wouldn’t change his mind…
“Orders? Is that your excuse for leaving him, Max? The man loves you like a son, and you know as well as I do…he wants to leave us behind because he doesn’t expect to come back. How can you let him go off to die? Alone. Without you at his side? Without me?” She was distraught, tears streaming down her face. “I lost my family when we were trapped behind the Barrier. I can’t lose him now. I can’t…”
“I would give anything to go with him, Sophie. It hurts more than I can describe to let him go into something so dangerous without me. But…”
“But what? You’ll get a black mark in your file for disobeying an order? The perfect officer’s spotless record will be besmirched? Better to let your closest friend die alone than defy an order. You could stay onboard…you know that. No one would have to know until it was too late. And I could stay too. But you won’t do it. You’d rather be the obedient little soldier.”
Her words cut him like knives. Harmon didn’t give a shit about his record. He’d tear off his captain’s insignia and go with Compton as a common spacer, cleaning out the bilge pumps, if he could. But there was more here than blind obedience. He’d been holding back his own anger and frustration, but now they broke free.
“No, Sophie. I’m doing what he told me to do because I know that’s what he needs right now. Because I have no right to question him. Can you even imagine for an instant the pressure that has been on him every second since we’ve been trapped? The stress? How tired he must be? The guilt he carries for the dead, the ones his brilliant tactics couldn’t save?”
His voice was raw, edged with anger now. He tried to stop, to calm down and not tear into Sophie, but he couldn’t. He was too tired, too frustrated. He was worried about Mariko, about Compton. And it all came out.
“You want to trade insults? Okay fine. Don’t you think he knows what he needs? Do you think Terrance Compton is an old fool who doesn’t understand what he is doing? That he needs you or me to make his decisions for him? He saved us all, more than once. Don’t you think in the end he deserves our respect? Our obedience?”
She stepped back, stunned at the vehemence in his words. But he stared at her, his eyes ablaze, and he continued. “Do you want to know why I’m not going with him? Because he needs me to stay behind. Because I can do more for him by allowing him to know I’m safer, freeing him from distraction. Do you think I like that? That it makes me feel good? No! But it doesn’t make a fucking bit of difference what makes me feel good. This isn’t about me. It isn’t about you. It’s about him…and what he needs to do now, what must be done. To let him be free of distraction. He’s the most brilliant tactician I’ve even known, but he’s a man too. Will you feel better if you go along, divert his attention? Get him killed where he might have survived? Have you considered what you would feel like if he died because he was worrying about you when he should have been concentrating on the enemy? Or are you too wrapped up in your selfish bullshit for that to occur to you?”
He could see the shocked look on her face, the pain clearly on display. He immediately regretted what he had said. He knew Sophie loved Compton, that her concern for him came from true emotion. But he knew she had been selfish too, even as he had been when he’d argued with Compton. The admiral was telling them both what he needed from them…he needed to know they were safe. He needed that so he could focus, so it would be the pure, invincible admiral leading the rearguard, and not the concerned lover or worried father figure. Harmon hadn’t realized it at first, but now he understood. He hated the idea of leaving Compton. But he knew he had to do it.
“Okay, Max…” Sophie’s words were soft, forced out through her sobs. “I will come with you.” She sounded defeated, lost.
“Sophie…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
“Yes, you did, Max,” she said, wiping the tears from her face. “You meant every word. And you were right.” She was trying with limited success to hold back more tears. “And I know it is no easier for you to leave him than me. But I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him…”
Harmon took a step forward and put his arms around her. “It will be okay, Sophie. What he is doing is dangerous, but he’s brilliant. He’ll make it back.” Harmon struggled to sound confident, but deep inside he still had the feeling he’d never see Compton again.
“Let’s go, Sophie. We have to give him what he needs, let him do what he does so well. We owe him that, however it makes us feel.”
Her face was buried in his shoulder, and he could tell she was crying again. But she took a deep breath and said, “Yes, Max. I will do what he needs me to do.”
Chapter Eleven
AS Midway
Z5 System
The Fleet: 96 ships (+6 Leviathans), 23202 crew
“Transmit attack plan Alpha to Squadron A. They are to execute in four minutes.” Terrance Compton sat on the edge of his chair, looking out over across the flag bridge to his tactical officer.
“Yes, sir,” Cortez replied. His hands moved across his workstation, transmitting the data. A moment later: “All ships acknowledge, Admiral.”
Compton stared at the main display, focusing on the approaching First Imperium ships. Midway was stopped dead, spewing radioactives into space. She was badly damaged, crippled…at least that’s how she looked. But looks could be deceiving.
“Transmit plan Beta to Squadron B.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Compton was like a statue, unmoving, unyielding. He stared straight ahead, his eyes focused like a pair of lasers. He’d felt tired when the rearguard broke off from the fleet, sad, even heartbroken to leave behind everyone he cared about. But now he felt strong, powerful. The energy he always felt in battle coursed through his body. He missed Sophie, Max, Ana, Hieronymus…but he knew he was protecting them, and realizing they were safe, relatively at least, hardened his resolve. He knew why he was here, and he imagined the rest of the fleet, approaching Shangri la, getting closer with each passing day.
“Squadron B reports ready, sir.” Cortez sounded strong too. Everyone in the rearguard knew the danger they faced. They knew their road was a long and difficult one. But the clarity of Compton’s mind was clear to everyone around him…and the confidence spread through the fleet like wildfire. They’d engaged three separate First Imperium forces since they’d branched off…and Terrance Compton had led the small fleet with a brilliance they’d never seen before, even from their hero-commander.
Compton had given himself over totally to the warrior inside. The information floated through his consciousness, stratagems in endless variation. Tactics, memories of old battles, attack plans he’d only imagined, so daring they had never been utilized in battle. Until now.
“Three minutes, admiral.”
Cortez was turned around from his station, staring at the main display, just as Compton was. The enemy ships were coming on directly, moving toward the seemingly crippled ship. Compton had studied the First Imperium’s tactics, looking for patterns, for weaknesses he could exploit. The intelligences directing the enemy forces tended toward the unimaginative, but they were capable of learning, adapting. They had become more adept at matching human tactics, and their own operations changed accordingly. But Compton knew they could only copy what they had seen. They could only adapt to maneuvers that had been employed against them. And he had no intention of letting them do that.
“Two minutes, sir.”
No, the battle plans Compton had employed in the days since his force had left the fleet were not like anything he’d done before. They were new, wild, unorthodox. And they had the First Imperium AIs running around in circles.
His eyes focused on the two lines of icons on the display. The ships of Squadrons A and B were hidden, clustered behind the asteroids of system Z5’s Kuiper belt. Hiding ships behind asteroids and other objects was a well-known tactic, but Compton had gone farther, much farther. The ships were close to their covering objects, dangerously, recklessly close. And the asteroids themselves had been blasted with modified warheads, salted bombs that covered them with radiation…enough to interfere with even the most intense scans. The enemy might look for hidden ships, but they weren’t going to find any. Not until the ships fired up their reactors…and burst out of cover, right into the rear of the enemy formation.
“One minute, sir.”
“Wish all ships my best, Commander. And advise the engineering crews they have my complete confidence.”
Once the battle began, the gunners and tactical officers would become the arbiters of victory, but now, every man and woman in the fleet waited on the skills of their technicians, the crews that ran the power plants and systems of the vessels of the fleet.
Midway’s reactor was down, completely off, as was that of every ship in the rearguard. It was the most daring part of the plan, the most wildly dangerous. Without power generation, Midway was believable as a cripple…and the ships hiding on the flanks were almost impossible to detect. But the enemy was less than two minutes from entering firing range, and restarting a ship’s reactor took at least fifteen minutes. Unless you were absolutely fucking crazy enough to cold start the things. Which Compton was.
A cold restart was an emergency procedure, one requiring absolute precision on the part of the engineering team. One error, a single tiny slip up, and a ship’s reactor could scrag hard. And then a vessel really would be a helpless cripple, one that had just given its position away with a massive power spike. That is, unless the reactor didn’t just go critical…and turn the ship into a small sun that lasted for a few seconds and then faded away to nothing.
“Thirty seconds, sir. Engineering reports cold restart beginning now…” Cortez’ voice had been calm, firm, but now he sounded nervous. It was difficult to sit and concentrate when you were waiting to see if the ship blew up with ten gigatons of explosive force, something he knew could happen at any second.
Midway shook hard, and everyone on the flag bridge tensed, reaching out, grabbing armrests and consoles. Everyone but Compton. He sat as still as he had been, not a trace of doubt on his face. Then the dimmed lights brightened, as fresh power surged through the ship’s conduits.
Cortez spun around. “Cold restart successful, sir! All systems at 100% power.” The tactical officer turned back, looking down at his readouts. Kent and Kosciuszko report successful power ups, sir. Bolivar too.” A brief pause. “Vladivostok…Kure.”
Compton didn’t move, didn’t alter his stare. But a small smile crept onto his lips as Cortez continued to rattle off ship names.
“L1 and L2 report successful power up. And Belfast.” The excitement was clear in Cortez’ voice. “All ships report successful reactor restarts, Admiral. Squadrons A and B executing respective attack plans.”
Compton didn’t reply. He didn’t even move. He just watched, looking at the screen as the icons representing his ships moved toward the enemy from every direction. He tried to imagine the First Imperium intelligences, how they were reacting to his maneuvers. They wouldn’t guess he’d take such a wild risk, or understand how his people had responded to his leadership, that engineers and technicians working in the cramped confines of fifteen vessels would manage to perform so far above the expected mean.
The odds said Compton would lose at least two or three of his ships to restart failures. But he’d spoken to his people before they’d deployed. He’d told the engineers how crucial they were, how he was placing the lives of several thousand of their fellow spacers in their hands. That they had his complete confidence. And they had responded. Compton had drawn that extra bit of excellence from them, the focus and dedication that made the difference. And every one of his crews had come through.
No First Imperium intelligence would understand that. They wouldn’t determine that faith, loyalty, comradeship could overcome statistical norms. And they wouldn’t comprehend that Compton was ready to lose whatever ships he had to lose, to see his crews consumed by the fury of nuclear fusion if that was what it took to win the victory.
First Imperium command units would expend their ships, send hundreds of their vessels to certain destruction. But all their data would tell them that humans did not respond that way, that no human commander could make such cold, bloodless decisions.
But they were wrong. There was one who could. And they had created him.
* * *
“Approaching point blank range, Captain.” Akiko Fukudu was Kure’s tactical officer. She’d been a junior ensign, fresh from the PRC’s naval academy when Kure had joined Admiral Compton’s fleet, but the ship had suffered heavy casualties since becoming trapped behind the Barrier, and she’d risen rapidly through the ranks. She’d adapted well and proven to be a capable officer, one Captain Coda had come to rely upon.
Hitoshi Coda stood in the middle of the bridge, about a meter from his command chair. It was an affectation, born most likely from an excess of nervous energy, but Kure’s captain rarely sat during a battle. “All missiles tubes, prepare to fire.”
“Yes, Captain,” Fukudu said, an edginess to her tone. Kure was far inside normal missile range, but she hadn’t launched yet, not a single shot. She’d been hidden behind an asteroid, powered down and pressed so close against the frigid chunk of rock that the enemy scans couldn’t find her. And when the orders came, Kure’s crew did an emergency restart, taking her fusion reactor from stone cold to full power in a matter of seconds.
It was a dangerous procedure, and Fukudu had waited anxiously along with the rest of the crew as the ship’s engineers did the cold activation. She’d sat at her station, staring at her monitors but not seeing anything, just trying to ignore the pit in her stomach, waiting to see if Kure disappeared in the fury of a titanic thermonuclear detonation…or if her decks were flooded with a massive wave of lethal radiation. But the seconds ticked off, and nothing happened. Then the power monitors surged, and she realized the restart had gone off without a hitch.
Kure then executed a short but sharp burst of lateral thrust, pushing it to the side of its covering asteroid, with the First Imperium fleet just ahead. The engines fired hard, and Kure blasted right toward the enemy fleet, her missiles armed and ready. Kure’s launchers were packed full…not just with standard missiles, but with dangerously over-powered warheads. A cruiser like Kure typically carried moderate-sized missiles with yields of 100-200 megatons. But the weapons sitting in the tubes now were something new. Hieronymus Cutter had adapted some scraps of First Imperium technology with his own previous notes, and he’d modified standard fleet missiles, more than tripling their yields. The warheads Kure was about to fire had a yield of almost a gigaton…but they were untested, and even Cutter had admitted they were more than a little unstable. But the rearguard was facing overwhelming odds, and Fukudu knew they could only win if they were willing to take some risks.
There was more innovation to Kure’s attack than the yield of the warhead. The plan was new as well. Missiles were typically fired from long range, which gave them time to select targets and lock in. But Kure was launching from point blank range, using her normally guided missiles almost like bullets, firing them right at the enemy ships. Normal missile barrages tried for near misses, detonations close enough to cause damage to target ships. It was too hard to score a direct hit an evading ship from 100,000 kilometers. But Kure was less than 15,000 klicks out…and she was closing hard. And the enemy had been taken by surprise, with no time to deploy anti-missile systems. At this range, Kure was firing right at the enemy ships…and anything hit directly by an 800 megaton warhead was going to be destroyed, First Imperium tech or not.
“Twelve thousand kilometers, Captain.” Fukudu glanced back at Coda. Kure’s commander stood bolt upright, looking straight ahead. “Stand by,” was all he said.
Fukudu turned back toward her board. The enemy ships were reacting to the sudden appearance of the human vessels. They hadn’t activated any point defense systems yet. That wasn’t a surprise—there was no way they’d be expecting a missile attack at this range. But their x-ray laser batteries were opening up, and they were already scoring hits on some of the other ships.
Kure shook hard, and the bridge lights dimmed for an instant. “Direct hit, sir,” Fukudu snapped, her eyes dropping to her screen, reading the automated damage reports as they came in. “Reactor down to 80%. One of the port laser cannons is out.” She paused for a few seconds, but Coda didn’t respond. “Ten thousand kilometers,” she added nervously. The missiles in the tubes were dangerous. If Kure took a hit in the wrong place…
“Stand by,” Coda repeated. His voice was like ice. Fukudu knew the captain had to be nervous, but he wasn’t showing it.
“Yes, sir.”
Her eyes were locked on the display. Nine thousand kilometers. She could see the other ships launching, tiny icons on the screen moving from the ships to the line of First Imperium vessels. Bolivar had launched its entire spread. Kent too. Eight thousand kilometers. But Coda still said nothing. He just stood firm, grabbing the edge of his chair as Kure shook again, harder this time. Two enemy lasers had bracketed her, and Fukudu watched as her board lit up, damage control reports coming in from all over the ship. But the launchers were still operation. And the range continued to count down. Seven thousand…
“Captain…” She was turned around, staring at him, just like everyone else on Kure’s bridge.
“Hold…”
She looked back at her station. About half the damage icons had turned green. That meant control teams were on them. Most of the rest remained yellow. Untouched. Two were red, which meant they were deteriorating. One was a power drain, probably a severed conduit sapping energy from the reactor. The other was a fire raging near the stern…far too close to the engineering core for comfort.
“Six thousand kilometers…” Captain…
Coda didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. He just spoke softly, calmly. “All port launchers…fire.”
Fukudu spun around, pressing half a dozen buttons on her workstation. Kure vibrated lightly as her port launchers fired, sending eight enormously overpowered missiles at the enemy Leviathan directly to the ship’s front.
“Navigation, execute 3g thrust, vector 120.233.072…now!” Coda still stood where he was, but the urgency was obvious now in his voice.
“Executing thrust now, Captain.” The helmsman’s voice was loud in the otherwise silent bridge.
Fukudu felt the thrust, the force of three times her body weight pressing down on her. She pushed against it, held herself upright as she looked over at the captain, still standing in his place, giving not a hint that he felt the same pressure they all did.
“Five thousand kilometers…”
“Starboard launchers…fire.”
She spun around, executing the captain’s orders, and once again the ship shook as the weapons blasted from their launchers and raced toward a second enemy vessel, another Leviathan.
“Navigation, execute 5g thrust, twenty second burst, vector 180.120.080.”
“Executing, sir…”
Fukudu watched as Coda slid back into his chair, just as the 5g thrust slammed into everyone on Kure’s bridge. Her eyes darted back to her display, just as the first target erupted into nuclear hell. Two of Kure’s missiles had scored direct hits, and more than one and a half gigatons of destructive force vaporized the huge battleship. She was still watching when the second target disappeared, victim of yet another direct hit.
“Yes!” she whispered under her breath. Kure was a cruiser…and she had just destroyed two First Imperium battleships. She looked up and down the scanning display, watching the ships of the rearguard obliterate an enemy force that outweighed and outgunned them five times over. The battle plan had sounded insane, crazy, reckless beyond measure. If anyone else had issued the command, he’d have faced a mutiny. But Terrance Compton was a living legend…and that legend was continuing to grow.
Coda turned and looked over at Fukudu. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, indeed, Lieutenant.” He paused, just for a second. “But we’re not done yet, are we? There are still plenty of enemy ships out there.” Another pause, then: “All laser batteries…open fire!”
Chapter Twelve
AS Saratoga
X108 System – “Shangri la”
The Fleet: 91 ships (+6 Leviathans), 21979 crew
“Scanners clear, Admiral. No sign of any enemy vessels.”
Erika West sat and looked out at the main display. It was just as her tactical officer said. Completely clear. Just like every system the fleet had passed through over the past two months. Exactly as Admiral Compton had planned.
“Very well, Hank. I want sensors on full power. And launch two squadrons to patrol the system. No sense taking any chances.”
She stared down at the floor of her bridge, her thoughts on Compton. She couldn’t begin to know what he’d done, how many enemy forces he and the spacers of the rearguard had faced off against. But they had done what they’d set out to do. The fleet had made it to Shangri la without incident.
But the cost…
West had tried to keep her hopes up. She wasn’t an optimist by nature, far from it, but she didn’t like the idea of giving Compton up for dead. It seemed somehow disloyal, and every fiber of her being wanted to believe the fleet’s commander was still alive, out there somewhere. But as each day had passed, without the return of the rearguard, without even a single ship carrying a message, it became harder and harder to ward off the dark thoughts.
She’d served with Compton on and off for years, through the massive battles of the Third Frontier War and the brutal fights of the Rebellions that followed. But she’d really come to know him as well as she did over the nearly two years since the fleet was trapped…and she’d learned to appreciate the true depth of his genius. Augustus Garret was widely regarded as the best naval commander in history, and West knew from experience he utterly deserved the distinction. But his friend and comrade Terrance Compton was rightly placed at his side…as an equal in every respect. She knew history—at least on the other side of the Barrier—hadn’t accorded Compton quite that level of regard. But she suspected Garret himself did.
“We’re getting survey results, Admiral. Yellow sun, parameters within two percent of Sol norms. Six planets, two asteroid belts. Planet four is in the habitable zone.”
“Okay, Hank…let’s go have a closer look. “Forward at 1g.” She was anxious, as she suspected everyone in the fleet was. Two years ago they’d been given up for dead, and now they were approaching a planet prepared for them millennia ago, but the same race that built the Regent, their sworn enemy.
Assuming Almeerhan could be trusted…
West was suspicious by nature, a cynic who assumed everything was a lie or a mistake…until it was absolutely proven otherwise. But she respected the astonishing genius of Hieronymus Cutter, and her experiences with him, especially since he’d transferred to Saratoga, had convinced her he was nearly as skeptical as she was. She found it a refreshing change from many researchers and academics who, for all their analytical brilliance, were so often shockingly naïve.
“We should reach planet four in approximately ten hours, Admiral.”
“Very well.” She had a passing thought that she should go to her quarters and grab a few hours rest. It had been almost two days since she’d slept. But she squashed the thought almost immediately. She knew she’d never be able to sleep. Not when the fleet was so close to its destination.
She tapped her com unit. “Dr. Cutter?”
“Yes, Admiral,” came the almost immediate reply. West suspected Cutter was the only one in the fleet who’d gotten even less sleep than she had since Admiral Compton had gone.
“We’re ten hours out from planet four. It is the only world in the habitable zone…which I presume means it should be Shangri la.”
“Yes, Admiral. According to Almeerhan’s notes, Shangri la is an extremely Earth-like planet. I have made very slow progress in finding specifics on the world itself. It appears Almeerhan and his people were concerned their records might fall into hostile hands. So, Shangri la, its defenses, facilities, everything…it’s all going to be pretty much of a mystery, I’m afraid. I’d advise caution on the approach.”
“Oh, yes, Hieronymus. You can be certain I will exercise caution. Still, I suggest you start thinking about your initial landing party. Of course, I’ll send down a company of Marines first to scout the LZ.”
“I wish you wouldn’t, Admiral.” Cutter paused. “I am the most knowledgeable individual with regard to Shangri la. I really think I should go down with the first expedition.”
“Hieronymus, this world was built by Almeerhan’s people half a million years ago. Whatever he told you, whatever is in that storage unit, you have no idea what has happened in all that time. The Regent could have forces down there for all you know. Or even another alien race. It’s too dangerous.”
“It’s more dangerous without me there. If there is some kind of security system, I’m the person most likely able to deal with it.” He hesitated. “Besides, I have the chops to handle it…Major Frasier made me an honorary Marine!”
* * *
“All personnel, we are about to transit into the X108 system. If our data is accurate, that should be the location of Shangri la. And the fleet.”
Sasha listened to Captain Skarn on the shipwide com. She was sitting in her quarters, looking at Don Rames as she did. “It is almost time,” she said, her voice stilted, without emotion.”
“Yes,” Rames said, his tone similar to hers. “As soon as the ship transits.”
“Agreed,” Sasha said. She turned back to her computer screen. The humans—that is what they called themselves—had extensive records. Combined with the memories of the biologic unit Debornan, the computer data had given her a fairly complete record of what had transpired. As expected, the bipeds were enemies of the Regent. They were a danger, and they had to be destroyed. But there were many, far more than those on this single vessel. It was necessary to develop a plan. The Debornan and Rames units did not have sufficient skills or access to destroy the entire human fleet. But they could strike a blow that would severely damage the bipeds. The enemy’s commander was highly skilled, and his tactics had thwarted many of the Regent’s plans. With careful planning, Debornan and Rames could get close to him. An assassination was highly feasible.
Cornwall was returning from a mission of exploration. Almost certainly, the fleet’s commander would want a report of what it had found. That would provide access…but there was no way to know for certain that Debornan and Rames would be selected to make such a report. There were thirty other biologics on Cornwall. Those biologics represented unacceptable risk to the plan. They had to be eliminated.
Sasha sat silently as Cornwall passed through the warp gate. Her display had gone dark. The human technology was backward, incapable of functioning during a warp gate transit. She knew from the memories of the biologic whose body she inhabited…the system failures would last only a moment. Then, Cornwall would contact the fleet. But she would not allow that.
She looked over at Rames. He nodded, and she returned the gesture before her eyes turned back to the screen. Her eyes were focused, waiting for the familiar image to return. The light came back first, bright, displaying a static pattern. Then text, the login screen, the unit rebooting.
Sasha continued to stare at the workstation as it finished its restart. “Ready.”
Rames nodded again. “Ready.”
She put her hands on the keyboard, typing in the passwords she’d set up days before. She was accessing hidden code, a program she’d placed in Cornwall’s AI. Then she hit the final key, and her screen went dark.
She knew what was happening. In the depths of Cornwall’s computer system, hundreds of files were being eliminated. Safeguards and failsafes were disappearing, and warning systems were disabled. The kernel, the essence of the ship’s AI, the files that made it what it was, deleted itself, replacing the previous directives with the ones Sasha had programmed. The computer system that controlled most of Cornwall’s vital functions was changed. Its primary directives, to protect the ship’s crew, were gone, replaced by far more malevolent routines.
Sasha glanced over toward the door to her tiny quarters, confirming that it was closed and locked. In a few seconds, Cornwall’s corridors, its chambers and compartments, would become deadly to the humans infesting the ship. There was no poison. There would be no fighting, no radiation…only a mild euphoria, and then death.
She stared at the screen, watching a large number on the top left. It read 11%…then 10%. All over the ship, everywhere but in her quarters, Cornwall’s life support system was removing the oxygen from the ship’s air, leaving it nearly 100% nitrogen.
She punched a few keys, activating several of the ship’s security cameras. She paused on the bridge. Captain Skarn was on the floor in front of her chair, lying on her back, a peaceful expression on her face. Sasha knew there were similar scenes all over Cornwall. Inert gas asphyxiation was a merciful, painless way to eliminate the ship’s crew, though that fact hadn’t entered into Sasha’s decision-making process. It was also an easy way, one that would leave little evidence once the bodies were thrown into the reactor and disintegrated. As far as anyone in the fleet was concerned, the crew had been lured to the surface of the planet…and massacred by First Imperium robots. The story would serve multiple purposes. It would explain why Debornan and Rames were the only survivors…and it would add to the fear driving the biologics.
Her eyes fixed on the corner of the screen…3%…2%. Her studies of the bipeds suggested that they should all be dead by now, but she had decided on a safety factor. She would allow the vessel to remain at 0% oxygen for ten minutes. Then she would restore normal conditions. While she waited, she would contact the fleet, give them the bad news about Cornwall and the rest of its crew.
She felt something. A disruption. What was left of the personality that had been Sasha Debornan. It was unsettled, horrified at what she had done. It was pushing, struggling, trying to escape its confines…but to no avail. The nanos controlled the biological being utterly. Soon, the essence that was Debornan would have completed its usefulness. Then it would be terminated. But not yet. There was still work to do.
She reached down and flipped on the com unit. “Fleet command…fleet command, this is Lieutenant Debornan on Cornwall.” Her voice was brittle, heavy with fear and sadness. She had studied the memories of the biologic, and she had utilized them to create an appropriate voice and demeanor. There could be no question. The biologics in the human fleet must believe that Debornan and Rames had returned. Then they could obtain the access they required…and complete their mission.
“Fleet, this is Cornwall calling Midway. Please respond.”
“Cornwall, this is Lieutenant Commander Krantz aboard Saratoga. Midway is currently not in-system.”
Sasha processed the new information. Where is the fleet’s flagship? Where is Admiral Compton? Should I modify the plan, seek a new target? Or should I wait? Need more data. Play along for now…wait…evaluate.
“Commander,” she said, her voice distraught, “it is terrible. We only have two survivors.”
“I am sorry, Lieutenant. That is horrible news.” A short pause. “I am transmitting course instructions…you will rendezvous with Saratoga. Admiral West is sending a shuttle with replacement crew…and to bring you back for debriefing.”
“Very well, Commander. Understood.” She cut the line. There was no immediate access to Midway. But they would be on Saratoga. They would meet Admiral West.
Is West a suitable replacement target for Compton? She considered, accessing Debornan’s memories, the ship’s files she had reviewed. No, she determined. Erika West was an extremely skilled officer. But she was not capable of filling Admiral Compton’s role. Indeed, there was some chance West would become a destabilizing force, causing discontent and disruption in the human fleet.
No, she would not kill West. Not yet. She would wait…and access whatever records she could…to determine when Compton would return.
She stood up, glancing down at the screen again. The readout read 19%. The ship’s support systems had returned almost to normal.
“Come,” she said, looking over at Rames. “It is time.”
He nodded and rose alongside her.
Yes, she would wait for Compton to return. But first, she and Rames had to haul thirty bodies down to the reactor.
* * *
“It’s bad, Admiral. Everyone on Snow Leopard appears to be infected now.”
West sat in her chair, her face an angry scowl. She’d had an instant of gratification, when the scanners confirmed Cornwall had entered the system. She hadn’t had a word from Compton, but the return of the scientists was good news…at least for a moment, until the word came over the com. Only two out of thirty-two had returned. The rest were lost. Dead.
She was worried about Shangri la too. She’d expected to feel some kind of joy, or at least relief when the fleet arrived here, but all she could think about was the cost. She wondered, was survival at all costs worth it? She wasn’t sure what others would say…nor what she believed as a commander responsible for twenty thousand people, but for herself as an individual, she knew. She’d rather be with Compton…even if he was nothing but part of a cloud of slowly-cooling plasma right now.
And now this. An epidemic. Illnesses were fairly rare in the tightly controlled environments of fleet warships, a factor that alone was cause for concern. But a pathogen that ripped through an entire ship’s crew…that was something deeply worrying. From what she’d heard it appeared very much like some strain of the flu, but it resisted all attempts at treatment. The best efforts of Snow Leopard’s single doctor had been enough to provide some temporary relief of symptoms, but it didn’t appear to have slowed the progress of the disease at all. Worse, Snow Leopard had been resupplied, and now there were additional cases appearing…on the supply ship itself, and on at least eight other vessels it had since docked with. Whatever her people were facing, it was clearly highly contagious. And from the grim reports coming from Snow Leopard, it appeared to be life-threatening as well.
She’d have known about the epidemic weeks earlier, but Snow Leopard’s doctor hadn’t reported it, not at first. It was easy to second-guess that decision now, but she realized the disease had appeared routine at first, with only two or three patients showing symptoms. It was one thing to wish this particular outbreak had been reported sooner, but then she imagined every sick bay ringing alarm bells over upset stomachs and allergic rashes.
What really pissed her off was the lack of a report on the spread of tiny warheads that had targeted Snow Leopard. Captain Ving had done his duty, forwarded the data to Midway before the flagship left with the rearguard. The report got to Saratoga in Midway’s last communications dump, but there was very little information—and no apparent effect at the time—so it hadn’t made its way up the chain to her. Ving himself had stated he believed the weapon had failed to operate in whatever manner the enemy had intended it to. She was inclined to think she would have been more attentive in his shoes, but again, that was far easier to say after the fact. Still, Saratoga’s communications staff should have seen the report got to her, or at least to Krantz, whether they thought there was anything to it or not.
The people responsible for that bit of poor decision making had been dealt with severely, half a dozen officers busted all the way down to common spacers. That bit of after the fact discipline had failed to make West feel any better…but she figured it might at least serve as an example that would remind others to report anything out of the ordinary, no matter how unimportant it may seem. Still, it wasn’t going to do a damned thing to stop this disease, or to prevent it from spreading to a dozen or more ships. In the end, she’d lost almost a month to the spread of this thing, time during which she could have had all the fleet’s med services working on a cure.
She had no idea how long it would take her med teams to beat this disease, but the knowledge that a virulent pathogen had been a major factor in the destruction of the people of the First Imperium did nothing to make her feel any better. If this was related in some way—and her dark mind assumed it was—how could her people even hope to cope with something the advanced science of the First Imperium had failed to defeat?
“Repeat the warning to the fleet. All vessels that have had any contact with Snow Leopard or the freighter Wanderer are quarantined.” She paused. “And Hank, I want you to review the records personally. If any of the ships Wanderer docked with had any contact with any other vessels, those ships are to be quarantined too. That includes any shuttle traffic back and forth. Understood?” West knew the extent of contact between ships in the fleet, and she had to put a stop to that right now. She knew at least ten ships had been exposed already…and she suspected Krantz’ review would turn up at least a few more. She didn’t know for certain the pathogen had been spread to any other ships, but she damned sure wasn’t going to take any chances.
“Yes, Admiral. I’ll make sure we’ve got it controlled.”
She just nodded. For an instant she thought she should do it herself, just to be sure. But Hank Krantz was as capable an officer as she’d ever known. Trust didn’t come easily to Erika West, but her tactical officer had long ago earned it. Besides, she had other concerns. Saratoga was approaching Shangri la. In a couple hours they would know what was waiting for them…if it was hope for a future…or bitter disappointment.
* * *
“Sara….”
The voice was soft, distant. She was floating, disoriented. Her eyes were filmy…she could see the figures above her as hazy silhouettes, moving slowly. She could feel…hands touching her. She was weak, her body heavy. Heat…the fever. Her sickbay gown soaked in sweat.
“Sara…answer me, Sara. Say something. Here, squeeze my hand.”
She felt something. Touching. A hand on hers. She tried to grab it…but it was no use. She couldn’t move. She rasped loudly, struggling for breath…but there was none. She felt herself slipping away, deeper, darker. The figures were gone now…just a shadowy haze. Falling. Silence. Blackness…
Then awareness. Her body spasming. Pain. A shock. Light. Breath, air.
“That was close.”
The words were louder, but she had trouble understanding. Then another feeling, a wave moving through her. Alertness. Clarity. She was looking up at sickbay, the bright lights, the pristine white of the walls, the cabinets.
“BP still low, heart rate 32…but we got her back, Doctor. At least for now.”
“Chris…” Her voice was soft, weak.
“Sara…yes, it’s Chris Flynn.”
She looked up. The face…familiar. Flynn.
“Dying…”
“No, Sara,” Flynn said, his words clipped, emotional. “We almost lost you, but we got you back.”
Flynn paused, stepping away for an instant. Sara’s eyes were clearer, she could see his face. White, pale, his eyes sunken.
“You…sick…too?”
“I’m okay, Sara.” He extended his hand, wiping her forehead with a cloth.
“Lie…” She paused and gasped for air, but her congested lungs resisted.
“Okay, Sara…yes, I’m sick. But I will be okay. You will too.”
She smiled weakly. Whatever meds he’d just given her, she had some clarity back. Enough to know he was lying.
“How…bad?”
Flynn looked down at her. “It’s bad, Sara. You’re very sick…and I haven’t isolated the cause yet, much less a cure. But we can manage your symptoms until we make more progress.”
She shook her head slowly. “No…not…me. Ship. How…many?”
Flynn hesitated. “Sara…”
“Don’t…lie…”
“Everyone, Sara. Everyone on the ship is infected.”
She closed her eyes. No…
She knew she was weak, that she wouldn’t last much longer. Flynn tried to give her hope, but she knew there wasn’t any, not for her, at least. But the thought of all her shipmates, sickening as she had…dying. It was too much.
She could feel a tear welling up in one of her eyes, sliding slowly down her face. But there was only one. She was feverish, dehydrated despite Flynn’s best efforts to force fluids into her. Her breaths were shallow, difficult. She could feel the fluids in her chest, the pressure.
“Sorry,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“No, Sara.” She could feel Flynn leaning over her, but she couldn’t see him. Her eyes were failing. There was light, a dull white glow, but no details. She could feel her heartbeat, hear the rattling in her chest with every straining breath.
She felt the urge to fight, to struggle…to draw breath…to live. But she didn’t have the strength. It was too hard…and she knew there was no point, no hope.
She felt the darkness coming for her, one last urge to fight…and then nothing. Surrender. Blackness.
* * *
Sasha sat in the small decontamination chamber, along with Don Rames and the shuttle crew that had brought her back to Saratoga. This was unexpected, a departure from standard procedure. She didn’t understand, and she reviewed the memories of her host, the files she had studied. No, this was not normal.
“Why are we being detained here?” she asked, looking over at the shuttle pilot.
“There is an epidemic running through the fleet. It has affected at least ten ships. Cornwall didn’t have any contact with it, but Admiral West ordered extra precautions. The decon procedure isn’t long, maybe another thirty minutes. Then we should be out of here.”
Sasha nodded.
An epidemic? Does that alter the plan at all?
She considered. She didn’t have enough information. She needed to know more.
“How did it start?”
The pilot had been leaning back against the wall, but now he straightened up and smiled in her direction. “I don’t know, Lieutenant. It started on one of the attack ships, and it’s spread to a bunch of other vessels.”
Sasha looked back at the pilot. She was confused…the other officer’s expression was odd, the tone of his voice. She accessed her host’s memories, her knowledge. Yes, of course. The other biologic was of the other gender. He was interested in some sort of breeding rituals. Yes…Sasha Debornan was quite desirable by the standards of her species. That is worth noting. It may be useful. But she didn’t see any advantage to be gained from the pilot, so she just nodded. Then she tried to ignore him. There was nothing to do now but wait.
* * *
Erika West rubbed temples with her fingers, trying to force away the headache that bored into her skull. The day had started off as shit, and it had only gone downhill from there. She’d expected to experience some kind of satisfaction when the fleet reached Shangri la. But now all she could think about was Admiral Compton and the ships he’d taken with him. And the plague running wild throughout the fleet. Krantz had tracked down all points of contact…and no fewer than twenty-two ships were now involved. And there were reported cases of mysterious illnesses with flulike symptoms on eleven of them. A minor disaster had expanded to a massive cataclysm in the making, largely because her people had failed to communicate quickly enough.
She’d almost stopped the fleet to deal with the situation before continuing on, but then she decided that wasn’t an option. Admiral Compton was out there somewhere…or he had died in battle…but in either case he’d done it to buy time for the fleet. Time to reach Shangri la, to find and employ whatever the ancients had left there for mankind. West wasn’t about to throw that away, to make Compton’s sacrifice a pointless gesture. And she didn’t believe for a second that Compton’s diversion had done more than delay the enemy. She knew her people would have a fight here, more likely sooner rather than later. And she had to get every advantage she could by then. That meant seeing what Shangri la had to offer.
“We’re getting energy readings, Admiral.” Krantz turned abruptly, looking over at Admiral West. “Big ones…off the scale.”
West felt a coldness move through her. If this planet has some kind of defense system…
“All fleet units are to halt. Immediately.” She was grateful her paranoia had driven her to break the fleet into two waves. Saratoga was in the lead, with a squadron of attack ships and the four Leviathans Compton hadn’t taken with him. The rest of the ships were half a light hour behind. That wasn’t going to help her or Saratoga’s crew, not if they’d encroached on a hostile defense system with that kind of power. But at least most of the fleet would survive.
Not that it will do them much good. If Shangri la is a dead end—or a trap—then it’s all over…
She knew sixty-odd ships—low on weapons, on food, on fuel—had no real chance to survive, not if Saratoga was destroyed and Shangri la proved to be a bust. They had staked all on finding the world Almeerhan had promised them. If that had been a lie, or if the ancient planet had been taken by the Regent and turned into a trap, she knew the fleet was through. Even Compton’s sacrifice…no, she corrected herself, his efforts…had been in vain. She wasn’t ready to give up on Compton, not yet. But that didn’t matter, not if Saratoga was about to die.
“It’s definitely some kind of weapon system, Admiral. We’re getting readings, satellites activating…power generation, in excess of nine hundred petawatts.”
“Group A, forward one-tenth thrust. Group B, full thrust, directly away from…”
“Energy discharges, sir. Some kind of weapon.” Krantz was as cool and professional any officer as West had ever known, but now she could hear the fear in his voice. “We can’t even get an accurate reading on the energy level.”
She felt her body tightening, preparing for the end. Any weapon with that kind of power would vaporize Saratoga with a single shot. This is the end, she thought. But nothing happened. Not to Saratoga.
“Report,” she snapped, staring around the flag bridge.
“Admiral, the Leviathans…”
“What about them?” She looked down at her own screen, and her eyes went wide.
“They’re gone, Admiral. Destroyed.” Krantz’ tone was overcome with shock.
West stared at the display. “Gone? What the hell…”
“The weapons targeted them. One shot each.”
A Leviathan? Destroyed with a single shot? What the hell have we run into here?
“The scanners have it all, Admiral. Preliminary data suggests some kind of massive particle accelerators. All four Leviathans are gone.”
West felt like she’d been punched in the gut. The Leviathans that Command Unit Gamma 9736 had given them represented at least half the remaining firepower of the fleet. At least they had. Admiral Compton had taken two with the rearguard…and the others had just been destroyed like they were nothing.
“Any signs of recharging? Targeting locks?” Why haven’t they hit any of the other ships? Do they rate us not dangerous enough?
“Negative, Admiral. The satellites have powered down. If I had to guess, they are on some kind of standby. They didn’t target or fire at any of our vessels. Just the Leviathans.”
West shook her head. You damned fool, she thought, anger at herself growing with every passing second. Why did you bring the Leviathans forward?
It was beginning to make sense to her. If Almeerhan’s people had built this world, the Regent’s ships would have been the enemy…and the defense system would have been programmed to recognize them as threats.
“Of course,” she muttered. “I just threw away the four most powerful ships we have.” Her voice was soft, she was mostly talking to herself. She felt waves of self-recrimination. She tried to imagine the fury she would level at a subordinate who had done what she just had.
“We have definitely been scanned, Admiral. But the weapons are still on standby.”
She shook her head quietly. There will be time for self-loathing later. You have work to do now.
“Bring us in slowly, Commander. All weapon systems powered down, no sudden course changes.”
“Yes, Admiral. Executing.”
“And open all channels. Instruct the AI to begin transmission of translation protocols. Let’s see if we can communicate with whatever is down there.”
Chapter Thirteen
From the Research Notes of Hieronymus Cutter
I’ve been sitting at my workstation for thirty minutes, trying to think of something to write. I am about to lead the landing party down to Shangri la, arguably the most momentous step ever taken by a human scientist. I feel I should have something profound to mark the occasion. But all I can think of is my fatigue, the toll of nearly two years of constant battle and flight. And one other thing…the terrible injustice that Admiral Compton is not here to see this day. Is he out there somewhere, on his way here even now? Or is he gone, never to be seen by us again. I know what I want to believe. But I have spent my life analyzing data, and that leads me to a conclusion I resist with everything that makes me human.
Landing Zone X-Ray
Planet X108 IV – “Shangri la”
The Fleet: 91 ships (+2 Leviathans), 21946 crew
“Atmospheric scans confirm earlier readings. Almost Earth-normal…air composition, temperature, plant and animal life. It’s a virtual paradise down here. The Superpowers would have started a war fighting over a world like this.” Cutter walked along a grassy knoll, looking out over an idyllic valley below. At least the green growth under his feet looked like terrestrial grass—and the preliminary readouts suggested it was almost identical to its Earth cousin.
“Very well, Dr. Cutter. But I want the landing party to remain suited up. Certainly until we’ve completed an intense scan for toxins and pathogens.” West’s voice was skeptical, as usual. “Especially since we’re already battling somewhat of an epidemic up here on the fleet.” Her tone changed, became darker. The mysterious disease that first appeared on Snow Leopard had spread to more than twenty other ships, all vessels serviced by the same freighter or visited by someone from an infected vessel. We can’t take a risk that traces of the disease that killed the Ancients are still down there, that they have mutated into something dangerous to us.”
“Yes, Admiral. I agree.” Cutter did agree, at least his rational mind did. But this world was so beautiful, so perfect…he felt the urge to shed his armor, to breathe deeply, fill his lungs with fresh, non-recycled air. A Marine fighting suit was an amazing bit of technology, nuclear-powered, capable of sustaining life in any environment, even deep space. It offered its wearer enormous protection in battle, and its built-in trauma system could treat all but the most severe wounds. But he had to admit, his suit smelled a little too much like Hieronymus Cutter, and it made the blue skies of this world, and the fields of wildflowers rippling in the gentle wind, that much more appealing.
“Hieronymus,” West continued, “we need to know for sure this whole thing is legitimate, that what Almeerhan told you is true. If this is some kind of trap…”
“It’s not, Admiral.” Cutter’s response was sharp, brittle. He understood West’s caution, but he knew Shangri la was real. He couldn’t explain it, but he just knew. He’d had extensive contact with the preserved essence of the ancient alien back on X48 II, and he didn’t doubt anything he’d been told. His analytical mind was trained to be critical, to question anything unproven. But there wasn’t a reservation in his mind. Not about this.
“I hope you’re right. Because, between you and me, I don’t know what I would do if it was. We’re low on fuel, and our factory ships are going to grind to a halt unless we get the chance to stop somewhere and mine some new resources. Even the food supply is in trouble. The epidemic has affected two of the agri-ships.” The fleet had converted four massive freighters to food production, growing a variety of carefully engineered algaes and hydroponics. Their production didn’t produce anything terribly appetizing, but they supplied enough basic nutrition to feed the fleet’s survivors. But with two out of four quarantined, food was going to become a problem. Quickly.
“I’m sure I’m right, Admiral. I can’t explain it, but you know me well enough to realize I’m not prone to frivolous beliefs.”
“No, Hieronymus, you are not. But be careful anyway.”
“I will see that our scans down here are extremely thorough. That is my expertise. And you get ready to face whatever comes through that warp gate eventually. Because we both know Admiral Compton just bought us a little time and nothing more than that.”
West was silent for a few seconds. “Yes, Hieronymus…we both know that. And I will. Carry on.” Then she cut the line.
“Dr. Cutter, this is Major Frasier. We found something, sir. I think you should come over here as soon as you can.” Cutter had told Frasier to call him Hieronymus at least a dozen times. The Marine had complied, at least when they were off duty. But in the field, Frasier was the textbook Marine…and Cutter was in command of the landing party. That would require respect in any circumstance, but Hieronymus Cutter had been adopted by the Corps. He was one of their own now, and he always would be…from the moment he’d risked his own life to defend a group of wounded Marines, facing almost certain death in doing so. Many things were said about the Corps, but no one questioned it had a long memory…for injuries done to it and for services rendered on its behalf.
“I’m on my way, Connor.” Cutter might be an honorary Marine, but his adoption hadn’t bestowed any real discipline or formality on him. Connor Frasier was his comrade, and the lover of his closest friend and informal sister, Ana Zhukov. He thought of the Marine like a brother, and he had no intention of wasting time with a lot of “major” bullshit.
Cutter had sent Major Frasier and his Marines to scout and secure the immediate area. He didn’t expect the Marines to find any hostiles, but he was looking for something. He didn’t know what it was—he hadn’t fully completed his translations of the data retrieved from X48 II—but he was sure he’d know it when he saw it. And the Marines were very thorough. If there was something there, he knew they’d find it.
He walked along the ridgeline, heading toward Frasier’s position. It was about five klicks, and he found himself moving quickly. Not running, exactly, but certainly jogging. A smile slipped across his face. He remembered bumbling around in his armor the first time he’d worn it. He’d struggled enormously simply to remain standing, to walk slowly without toppling over.
Maybe I really am a Marine now…
He shook his head.
Yeah…at least until the shooting starts.
He turned to the right, his eyes shooting up to the projected display inside his helmet. Connor Frasier was a small blue dot on the map…and there was something else too. A red square, some type of construction. Cutter felt a wave of excitement, and he hurried his pace.
He walked through the low-lying valley, looking back and forth at the hills on either side. There were trees scattered around, and expanses of white and blue flowers. The planet really did look like Earth, or at what Earth had probably looked like before the Superpowers and their predecessor nations had devastated so much of it with war.
He climbed up a small rise, and when he reached the top he could see Frasier, surrounded by half a dozen Marines…staring at something.
Cutter kicked up the magnification of his visor and took a closer look. He felt a wave of excitement the instant his eyes settled on it, and he continued forward, quickening his pace even more. It was an obelisk, perhaps four meters tall, smooth, white, built from some kind of stone that resembled Earthly marble. He’d never seen it before, never even imagined something like it. But it was familiar nevertheless, and he knew what it was. He couldn’t explain it, but he was sure.
He trotted up the rest of the way, his eyes locked on the monument as he ran. His mind raced. How do I know what that is? But he did know. And he knew what to do.
“Dr. Cutter…” Frasier stepped away from the obelisk.
“Have you seen any activity from the obelisk, Connor? Any flashes of light? Movement?”
“No, sir,” the Marine replied, glancing back at the monument for a few seconds. “But look at it…it looks new, like it was built yesterday. If that thing is half a million years old…”
“It is.” Cutter stood and looked over Frasier’s shoulder. The rest of the Marines were doing the same thing. There was something about the alien artifact, something hypnotic. It was affecting them all. But Cutter pushed the distraction aside and walked right up to it.
It was smooth, its surface polished to a sheen that brightly reflected the morning sunlight. It was almost blinding. Cutter stepped up onto the base, his eyes glancing at the projection in his helmet for an accurate measurement. He’d guessed a little over three meters square, and he was right…3.14159. Pi. The dimensions of the pediment matched the constant pi.
Is that to support communication? A way for visitors to begin to understand the race that had built the amazing construction? Any advanced species would have discovered pi, they would understand that this was no arbitrary measurement.
Cutter stared at the obelisk, his head moving slowly, looking over every centimeter. There was nothing…nothing but the smooth, utterly seamless surface. It didn’t make sense. There should be something, a symbol, a mark of some kind. He knew it. He couldn’t explain it, but he’d never been surer of anything in his life. He took a step forward, reached out and touched the marble. The sensors on his armored glove fed back data…temperature, composition, texture. The stone was smooth, not a single imperfection, at least none his sensors could detect. It was almost identical to Earth marble, the same within ten decimals. But there was something else, a substance, a force? Whatever it was, his suit’s AI couldn’t identify it. And he had no idea either. He was missing something. He knew there was more to the obelisk, and he stood and stared, probing his own mind, analyzing everything he’d read in the data unit he’d brought back from X48 II, everything Almeerhan had told him.
He looked down at his arm. Of course. DNA. They manipulated our DNA, made it a copy of their own. That’s how they would know…
He heard Admiral West’s words repeating in his mind, her orders. The landing party was to stay in their suits on full life support. The Admiral was right, he knew. There were people dying on the fleet, victims of some mysterious disease. He knew what she was thinking…and he agreed. It was the disease that had destroyed the people of the First Imperium, a newly mutated version—probably created by the Regent—one that infected humans. If they weren’t careful, it could kill everyone on the fleet. It was already threatening thousands, and only the quarantines West had ordered had stopped the spread.
But he knew what he had to do. It would violate West’s orders. It would trap him on the planet, at least for the foreseeable future…and possibly forever. The intensive scans West had ordered would take days, and if they found anything, even an uncertain hint of some kind of pathogen…
Or the disease could be here…one breath of the air of this world could be fatal…
But he didn’t believe that. He had no basis to be sure about anything, but he was nevertheless. He stepped down from the pedestal, and walked a few meters. Then he stopped and turned back.
“Open armor,” he said softly.
“Negative,” the AI replied. Mission parameters do not allow for deviation from full life support protocols.
“Override,” he said. “Authority, Cutter, Hieronymus, Colonel.” Cutter had joined the fleet as a civilian, a scientist, but he’d quickly become one of the most important of its personnel, more responsible for its survival than anyone save Admiral Compton himself. After the Marines adopted him, Compton had signed a commission, making him a colonel. It was honorary, at least partially, but it was also intended to allow him to exert command over other fleet officers. Cutter had an almost blank check from Compton, and everyone knew that. The rank just made it official. But it had also been entered into the fleet’s information network, giving him the authority to overrule the AI’s mission orders.
“Scans of planetary atmosphere and surface are still incomplete. Are you sure you wish to override mission parameters?”
Cutter paused, staring at the obelisk. “Yes,” he said. “Override. Open armor.”
He could hear the familiar cracking sound, the scrape of metal on metal as the locking bolts in his armor slid aside, and the suit popped open like a giant clamshell.
He felt the air from outside, cool, refreshing…and he closed his eyes for a second.
“Hieronymus!” It was Frasier, and his voice was as panicked as Cutter had ever heard it. “The atmospheric scans are…”
“It’s okay, Connor,” he said, his voice calm, placid. He was more certain than ever he was doing the right thing. “I have to do this.”
Frasier stood completely still, a dark silhouette against the bright sunlight. Cutter knew his friend was horrified, worried about him, about what could happen to him if the scans found something in the atmosphere, the dirt, the water. And stunned that Cutter had violated Admiral West’s orders. Frasier was a Marine, and the son of a Marine, and he took orders from superior officers to be something akin to the word of God. But as much as Cutter had been taken in by the Corps, obedience didn’t run in his blood as it did with his adopted brethren. Besides, it was an open question if he was subject to West’s orders anyway, at least outside of a battle. Compton had given him virtually unlimited authority to do as he saw fit in conducting research. And as much as he—and West and most of the others—were deathly afraid Compton was dead, no one had dared to utter such words, or to supersede any order the great man had given.
“It’s okay, Conner,” Cutter said softly. “I know what I’m doing.” He stepped out of the armor. The sun beat down on his skin, the breeze soft refreshing. He leaned back, looked at the sky, nothing but a few puffy clouds breaking up the sea of unbroken blue. The breeze was cool but not cold. He couldn’t recall the last time he felt so content.
He moved to the back of his armor, to the small storage compartment, and he popped it open. He pulled out a gray jumpsuit, stepping in and zipping it up. He looked back at Frasier and the Marines, standing dead still and watching him. Their visors blocked their faces, but Cutter imagined the looks of horror hiding beneath the silvery masks.
He reached back into the compartment and pulled out a small com unit. He flipped it on and clipped it to his collar. “Don’t worry, Connor. None of you should be worried. Everything is fine.” He’d been edgy, nervous before, just like his Marine companions. But now he was calm. He knew this was right. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew.
He turned toward the obelisk, his hand on his forehead, shielding his eyes from the sun. Then he stepped up on the platform and walked toward the monument. He stopped, turned back to look at Frasier, a broad smile on his face. Then he placed his hands on the obelisk.
It was cool, smooth. He stared straight ahead, into the dazzling whiteness of the stone. Nothing happened…not for the first few seconds. But then he felt something, under his hands. Warmth. Then a strange tingling, like an electric shock but not painful. It moved up his arms, slowly, steadily.
He could see a shadow behind him, off to the side. Frasier, alarmed, moving to grab him.
“No, Connor…I am fine. Stay back.”
The tingling feeling extended all through him, to his neck, his head. He could feel something communicating with him, not in words, but in some other way he didn’t fully understand. He was overwhelmed, excited…but there was no fear. None at all.
He heard a loud sound, like rock moving on rock. The marble of the obelisk was becoming brighter, as if the stone itself emitted light. Then there was a blinding flash, and when he opened his eyes, the smoothness of the marble monument was gone replaced by a surface covered with what appeared to be runes and carvings. He stood where he was, staring, reaching out, touching the grooves in the previously gleamingly smooth surface.
The obelisk moved as he touched the runes, sliding back away from him. He glanced at Frasier for a second and then back to the large chunk of moving stone. It continued to slide back, about two meters before it stopped. And where it had stood there was an opening, and a stairway leading down.
* * *
“Admiral, Captain Balcov is on the line. He requests permission to send a party to the surface.”
“Permission denied.” West had a scowl on her face. It was the third such request in the past six hours…and whoever was unfortunate enough to be the fourth was going to get more than he or she bargained for.
“Yes, Admiral.”
Seven weeks without combat…a respite gained only by the effort—and perhaps the sacrifice—of Terrance Compton. That was all it took to destroy discipline, caution. To take away the fear long enough to allow carelessness to take control.
“Excuse me, Admiral…but Captain Balcov insists on speaking with you.”
West felt a surge of anger, the heat of it rising around her neck. She was a hard taskmaster, unaccustomed to allowing emotion to interfere with her actions. But she despised disloyalty.
She nodded, and put on her headset. “Captain Balcov, I trust there is a good reason my tactical officer’s instructions to you were unsatisfactory.”
“Admiral West, I must protest your despotic orders. Our people have come far, survived battle after battle to arrive here, at the planet prepared for us by our forefathers of the First Imperium. And yet you insist we all remain in space. The scouting party has reported no hostile forces, no problems of any kind. I must insist…”
West listened as long as she could force herself. Then she cut him off. “Captain Balcov, this is not a debate. It is not a discussion. Your opinions may be submitted, but in the future I suggest you restrict these to actual facts and valid tactics, not some whiny desire to go down and experience the ‘paradise world’ yourself. You are to take no action…none…without my direct orders. Is that clear?” She was trying to keep the anger from her voice, but that just made her words that much colder, like pure ice.
“Admiral West, I feel I must remind you that you have not been named commander of the combined fleet in any formal manner. I do not wish to challenge you, but I must insist that you behave in a less imperious manner.”
“Captain Balcov…” She took a breath, tried to calm the rage she felt building inside her. “…Admiral Compton is the commander of the fleet, by the authority of Admiral Garret, the supreme commander of all Earth forces in the war against the First Imperium. I will remind you that Admiral Compton’s position was later confirmed by a fleetwide plebiscite. Admiral Compton, under his duly granted authority, has placed me in temporary command of the main fleet forces.”
“Come, Admiral West…how long do you think you will maintain dictatorial power over the fleet on that basis? Admiral Compton was a great hero, and the fleet was fortunate to have him at its head. But we all know he is dead. There is simply no way the rearguard could have survived the massive First Imperium forces it was facing.”
West took a deep breath, trying to control her rage. She knew Balcov only spoke the truth. It was possible, probable even, that Compton was dead. But she wouldn’t give up on him. Not yet. And she certainly wasn’t going to listen to a pompous fool like Balcov speak about the admiral like he was dead, to use the loss of a hero like Compton for his own personal gains.
“Captain Balcov, I’m going to say this once…and only once. We have no knowledge of Admiral Compton’s death, and until further notice we will be operating under his most recent orders. You are to maintain yellow alert on your ship as previously ordered, and under no circumstances are you to transport anyone down to the surface.” Stop there, she thought, struggling to keep herself from going on. She wanted to threaten him, to tell him in twenty different ways how she’d charge him with treason and personally watch as he was thrown out the airlock. But she’d promised Compton she’d try to be diplomatic with the fleet officers.
“Admiral West, I am sorry, but I cannot…”
She stopped listening, her eyes frozen, staring at the main display, at a small dot…then another.
“Captain…” It was Krantz, and he was looking at the same thing.
“I see it, Hank.”
She leaned back over the com. “Captain Balcov, we can continue this later. I must insist that you see to your ship now. There are unidentified ships transiting into the system.” She cut the line. Then she turned toward Krantz, and she uttered a single word.
“Battlestations.”
* * *
Cutter stood stone still, staring down the steps to the dimly lit corridor below. He knew he should be scared…the man he’d been until recently would have been terrified. Petrified, frozen with fear. But Hieronymus Cutter felt only a strange excitement…and a certainty he had to go down those steps.
“Hieronymus…” Frasier’s voice was edgy, nervous. He’d abandoned the formality, and it was clear from his tone he was worried about a friend now.
“It’s okay, Conner.” Cutter didn’t turn back, he just held up his hand, gesturing for Frasier to wait where he was. “I’m going down. Give me a few minutes, and then follow.”
“But…”
“No, arguments, Connor. I know what I’m doing.” He did know, though he had no idea how he did. His encounter with Almeerhan had changed him in ways he was still identifying. Explaining it all—and fully understanding—was still ahead of him, he knew.
If I ever get there…
He took a step forward, and he paused at the very top of the stairs. He hesitated for a few seconds…and then he started down. The staircase was surrounded by polished stone, but the steps themselves were some kind of metal. None of it showed any signs of wear or decay, despite its immense age. He continued down, each step rapping on the metal, echoing with increasing volume as he continued. When he got to the bottom there was an opening to his right, a doorway where a hatch had just slid to the side.
There was a large room beyond, bright, with gleaming white walls and some kind of artificial light source. Cutter knew this was where he’d set out to come, the destination that had been laid out for him back on X48 II. But he still felt uneasy, not fear perhaps, but awe. He took a deep breath and walked inside.
The room looked like some kind of control center, with workstations lining the walls all around. In the center, there was a small pedestal, perhaps ten centimeters high. He looked around, his eyes pausing on one of the stations. It was similar to ones he’d seen in Almeerhan’s fortress. He was about to step forward when he saw a flash of light.
A man appeared on the platform, perhaps a meter from where Cutter was standing. No, not a man, Cutter suspected, a hologram, an image of some kind. He was tall, clad in shimmering white robes, and he looked directly at Cutter.
“Welcome my children…welcome to Akalahar.” The voice was loud, authoritative, but it was friendly too. “You have come a long way to reach this place, across time and space…and likely through battle and torment. So know now that you are among friends. For I am Karanthar, and I am here to welcome you. I know not which of my cousins directed you to this place, but that matters not, for you are indeed here.”
Which of my cousins…
Cutter thought of Almeerhan. He’d imagined the alien as the only one of his kind, waiting endlessly for one of the new races to arrive. But now he understood. The last of the ancient race of the First Imperium, the members of the warrior caste who had fought the Regent with their final strength…they had left behind multiple worlds, not just X48 II…roadmaps leading to this place, the world Karanthar had called Akalahar…and that the humans had dubbed, Shangri la.
“Hello,” Cutter said. “My name is Hieronymus Cutter. I am from Earth.”
“You are welcome, Hieronymus Cutter, you and all the children of Earth, where we visited so long ago. I have much to share with you, much to give you to aid in your fight.”
Cutter was amazed by the quality of the projection, but at the same time, he could tell it wasn’t like Almeerhan, that this was more of a recorded message, if an interactive one, and not the full essence of a member of the ancient race.
“I was sent here by Almeerhan. He told me you would help us.”
“Indeed, Hieronymus Cutter, I will help you. I will help all your people, for this place was prepared for you eons ago, long before your people reached out to the stars.”
Cutter felt a rush of excitement. Almeerhan, for all he had told Cutter, all he had done, was primarily a messenger, a guide. But this planet, this fortress, had been built specifically to aid the successor race to those of the First Imperium. There had been several potential species that might have fulfilled that role, but now it appeared that mankind was the first to arrive.
He tried to temper his hopes…after all, those of the First Imperium, who had built this place, had themselves been defeated by the Regent. And when they had prepared the planet they had done so expecting contact with an entire spacefaring race, not 20,000 refugees fleeing for their lives.
He had no doubt there was technology here, weapons and information of incredible value. But would it be enough to defeat the seemingly endless resources of the Regent? He just didn’t know. Certainly, the orbital defenses were enormously powerful. They had destroyed the four Leviathans in an instant. That had been a tragic error, but also an indisputable demonstration of the power of the planet’s weapons. Cutter wasn’t sure if those orbital platforms could defeat a whole attacking fleet, but he had no doubt they would dish out an enormous amount of destruction.
He also wondered if he would be capable of adapting all the new technology quickly enough. It was one thing to find file after file of wondrous science and plans for highly advanced equipment…and quite another to understand it, to build, activate, deploy it all.
There was only one way to get the answer. Cutter looked right at the projection. The alien adjusted its gaze, matching his movements. It was only an image, but it was an extraordinarily well done one.
“So what do we do now?” Cutter figured he had nothing to lose by being blunt.
“I will direct you to the information storage units. There is much to show you, much to explain.”
“Very well,” he said, “let’s…”
There was a loud crackling sound, the com unit on his collar. Then a voice, Admiral West’s. “Hieronymus, it’s Admiral West.”
Cutter could tell immediately that something was wrong, but he didn’t say anything. He just listened. Erika West would get right to the point.
“I’m pulling the fleet out of orbit immediately, Hieronymus. We’ve got scanner activity at the warp gate. Energy readings. First Imperium ships inbound. A large fleet. Very large.” She paused, allowing what she had just said to sink in. Compton had bought them time, just enough time to get to Shangri la. But now they were going to have to defend it.
“I suggest you all find some cover down there,” West said. “Now.”
Chapter Fourteen
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
I don’t know if we will ever get back to the fleet. I have no idea if this log will ever be recovered by people from Earth, but if it is, I say to you reading this…in a week, a month, a century…know now that the men and women of the fleet’s rearguard have fought with courage and distinction in such quantity as I have never seen before in fifty years at war.
If we are fated to die on this mission, I die in the company of heroes, and I would have those who read these words one day long from now to give silent tribute to the spacers it has been my honor to command.
AS Midway
Z16 System
The Fleet: 88 ships (+2 Leviathans), 21211 crew
“We’ve got more hostiles, sir. Coming through the Z19 warp gate.” Cortez’ eyes were locked on his display. His voice was hoarse, and his fatigue was clear, despite his best efforts to hide it. The rearguard had been fighting for almost thirty hours without a break, and it was beginning to show…in exhaustion, mistakes, degraded performance.
Compton was sitting bolt upright in the center of Midway’s flag bridge. He had been firing out orders non-stop, and he knew he should be tired. And he was…but he wouldn’t let himself acknowledge it. He knew how hopeless a position the rearguard was in, the difficulties they would face in surviving for even a few more days, much less doubling back and linking up with the fleet. But he had something inside him, a force energizing him, driving him.
He’d stare at the main display, silently, sometimes for ten or twenty minutes at a stretch without speaking, without looking away. He would focus, think…and then it would come together. A tactic, a trick, some desperate ploy to confuse the enemy, to give his outgunned warriors a chance to dish out some damage…and then to escape to fight again.
He’d shout out commands, ship names followed by coordinates, navigational settings. He was doing the calculations in his head, using his gut as much as his brain to direct the running fight. His stratagems had kept his ships in the battle, though his reluctance to allow his people to stay in close range and fight for extended periods had reduced the damage they inflicted too. And it took a lot of punishment to take out a First Imperium ship.
He knew he couldn’t destroy the fleet that was chasing them, not with his skittish tactics…and not in a toe to toe fight to the death either. But beating them wasn’t his goal. Leading them away from the rest of the fleet was. And even as his crews fought off the exhaustion and stared bleary eyed at their screens, they pulled the enemy deeper along this course. Away from Shangri la. Away from West and the rest of the fleet.
“Contact Kure. Captain Coda is to move to engage the new contacts. I’m placing Kent and Belfast under his command.” He glanced down at his display, his fingers sliding to the side, scrolling to the section of space near the Z19 gate. “He is to position his ships in the dust cloud at 211.012.186.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Cortez relayed the command. “Captain Coda acknowledges, sir.”
Compton just nodded, his eyes locked on the hazy splotch on the display that represented the heavy dust cloud. His mind was racing. He was sending Coda’s ships against a force with twenty times their firepower. They needed an edge. And there was one there, he knew there was…but he just couldn’t see it. The dust cloud could provide some cover, degrade enemy targeting systems. But that wasn’t enough. They needed more. Then, suddenly, it was clear.
“Get me Captain Coda,” he snapped, his eyes still fixed on the display.
“On your line, sir.”
“Hitoshi, I want you to position your ships 2 light seconds inside that cloud…and then I want you to launch ten missiles. Set half to detonate half a light second from your ships and half a full light second.”
“But, sir…the enemy will still be at least twenty light seconds away when…” Coda’s voice trailed off, and Compton recognized understanding. He knew Coda had just seen the readouts on the makeup of the dust cloud. “The radiation…it will block their scans and targeting.”
Compton smiled. “Very good, Hitoshi. I want you to launch a dozen scanner buoys…position them just outside the cloud. When those ships get within two and a half light seconds, you unload with everything you’ve got using the scanner data from the buoys, you hear me? I do meant every fucking thing. And then you take off, and make a mad dash for the X18 gate. You don’t wait for Midway, you don’t hang around to see what happens. If any of your ships can’t keep up, you let them fall behind. You don’t stop for anything.”
“Understood, Admiral.” It was clear Coda didn’t like the order, but there wasn’t a doubt he’d follow it.
“Good luck, Hitoshi.”
“And to you, sir.” Compton could tell his officer wanted to say something else, but in the end he just cut the line. “Okay, Jack…let’s get Midway up to 4g. We need to block those Leviathans before they cut off our escape route out of the system.”
“Yes, Admiral.” There was doubt in his voice, uncertainty.
Compton understood. There was no way Midway could take out two Leviathans…not even if she was in perfect condition right out of the spacedock, which she was most certainly not.
Compton knew it didn’t make sense. Not if you expected Midway to get out of this system. But Compton had used every trick he had, every unexpected, unpredictable move he could come up with. He was out of options. All he could do was plant Midway between the enemy and the rearguard’s exit point. And then fight like a motherfucker…and either destroy two ships that each massively outclassed his flagship, in both tonnage and tech…or go down trying.
* * *
“The buoys are deployed, Captain. Switching to standby mode now.” Fukudu’s fingers moved across her workstation. “Project nine minutes until enemy vessels reach two point five light seconds.”
Coda nodded. “Very good, Lieutenant. Arm missiles.”
Fukudu flipped a series of switches. “Missiles armed and in the tubes, sir. Ready to launch on your command.”
“Wave one…” Coda waited, counting off in his head. “…launch.”
“Wave one, launching.” Fukudu hit a button below the row of switches, and Kure shook as the spread of missiles blasted from their tubes.
Coda stared at the display, watching as the five small icons appeared. They moved out from Kure, zipping along quickly on the screen as they accelerated and blasted away from the stationary cruiser. They began to spread out almost immediately, unlike a normal missile strike.
Coda’s eyes moved to the bridge chronometer, his lips moving slowly, counting down. “Wave two,” he said calmly, “launch.”
Fukudu hit the next button, and Kure shook again, another five small dots appearing on the screen. “All weapons launched…detonation in forty-five seconds.”
Coda didn’t reply, he didn’t even nod. He just stared at the screen.
“Thirty seconds.”
Coda punched the controls of his com unit. “All ships, prepare to execute nav plan Beta-3 on my command…twenty seconds.”
“Twenty seconds,” Fukudu said, almost in unison with the captain.
Coda sat, trying to look calm for his crew. But inside he could feel the tension, the tightness in his stomach. The plan was brilliant, one more bit of genius from Terrance Compton. But it was complex too, and it required precise execution. The two waves of missiles would detonate simultaneously, bathing the front of the dust cloud with massive radiation. At the precise moment the warheads blew, the three ships would engage their thrusters for ten seconds, changing their positions and forcing the enemy to rescan for their targeting…a sensor sweep that would be largely blocked by the irradiated dust.
If he pulled it off perfectly, the enemy would have no locks on his ships, no real chance to score any hits, at least not for two or three minutes. And at close range, a few minutes was an eternity. During that two minutes, he would activate the line of scanning buoys, giving him targeting data from outside the dust cloud. Then his ships would unload on the enemy. All their remaining missiles, firing in sprint mode at point blank range, as they had in the last battle. Every laser cannon, channeling all the output of reactors running at 110%. If he’d had a guy on the outside of Kure with a box of rocks, he have had him throwing them at the enemy. It would be two minutes of concentrated, non-stop destruction. And then it would stop, and his ships would make a run for it…right to the warp gate.
Coda was concerned about the whole plan, the timing, the remote targeting of his weapons. He knew if his ships didn’t do enough damage, the First Imperium force would pursue and catch them. His ships would be drained, almost defenseless, and the enemy survivors would blow them to hell. He sat and shook his head. Yes, there was a lot to worry about. But that wasn’t what was bothering him. His confidence propped him up, his belief in his people. They would get the job done. But when they ran, when they bolted through the warp gate, they would leave Midway behind, alone, facing two enemy battleships. Compton’s flagship was the rearguard’s rearguard, and it was facing a fight Coda knew it couldn’t win. It was hopeless, but then he wondered. Terrance Compton was almost superhuman. Maybe he had a plan. Coda didn’t really believe it, but he tried to force himself. He didn’t have time to second guess the admiral. It was show time.
“Detonation.”
He heard Fukudu’s voice in the background, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was hunched over his own com. “Execute,” he said firmly, authoritatively. Then he gripped the armrests of his chair as Kure’s engines blasted with 6g of raw thrust.
* * *
“Kure’s group has detonated its missiles, Admiral.” A few seconds later. “Massive radiation readings in the cloud, sir. We’ve lost our scanner lock on all three ships.”
Compton leaned back. Good. If we can’t see them, neither can the enemy. This might just work…
“Very well, Commander.” Compton’s eyes dropped to his own display. It was divided into two sections. The first showed the dozen ships, mostly Gargoyles, heading toward Kure and her two companions. Coda and his people wouldn’t have had a chance in a straight up fight…but Compton had made sure their battle would be anything but a fair fight. Gargoyles were tough, like any First Imperium vessels, but they were only cruisers. They didn’t have the armor and power of battleships like the Leviathans. They would be hurt when Coda’s people opened up…enough he hoped to give the three ships a chance to escape.
And that will only leave us…
Compton had sent the rest of the rearguard on a mad dash to the warp gate. Kure and her two escorts were facing one group of pursuing First Imperium ships. And Midway was on the path of the other enemy force. Hopefully, Coda’s group would unload their weapons and get away without significant damage. But his own ship was out in the middle of the system, alone in open space. The only way Midway would get to the warp gate itself was to win the fight. That wasn’t mathematically impossible, but it was damned close.
“Captain Coda’s ships are opening fire, sir.”
Compton felt the tension in his gut. He knew Coda’s people needed a strong first volley. If they didn’t hit the enemy hard enough, they weren’t going to get away. The First Imperium ships would pursue and catch them well short of the warp gate. He almost ordered Cortez to report on the strike’s effectiveness, but he stopped himself. Jack Cortez knew his job.
“Damage assessments coming in…” Cortez was focused on his screen. “…looks like two direct hits with sprint-deployed missiles, sir.” And instant later. “Correction…three hits. All three vessels destroyed!”
Compton smiled. Missiles had always been a long-ranged weapon, one that relied on the abilities of purpose-designed AIs to evade enemy countermeasures and get close enough to target ships to cause damage when they detonated. But the rearguard had been using a different tactic, firing the missiles from close, even point blank range, with the intent not of exploding within a few kilometers of an enemy ship, but of actually impacting a vessel, and delivering the full explosive force to the target.
Five hundred megatons was enough energy to vaporize any vessel, even the biggest, nastiest battleships of the First Imperium. It wasn’t easy to get close enough with missiles still in the tubes…the launchers were one of the most fragile systems on a warship, and the heavy fire a ship encountered in a close-ranged fight often knocked the systems offline. But Compton had used the tactic in special situations, when he could get his ships close under some kind of cover. Like the dust cloud. And it was working.
He forced back a smile. If they’d been back home, on the other side of the border, he imagined some wag would dub the tactic the Compton maneuver, or something equally silly. And there was a good chance it would have stuck. Generations after he was gone, officers would have shouted out commands to prepare for a Compton. Though, rightly, he thought, it should be the Cutter-Compton maneuver. Hieronymus Cutter had modified the guidance software, massively increasing its accuracy, and giving a twelve meter long missile a chance to hit a spaceship across the vast distances involved in space combat.
“Admiral, Captain Coda reports his ships are withdrawing as ordered.”
Compton looked down at the screen, watching the damage assessments coming in. They were a mixed bag. Coda’s laser barrage had been disappointing, but that was no surprise. The dust cloud that was providing cover for his force wreaked havoc on his lasers, attenuating many of the blasts until they were virtually ineffective. However, another two missiles had struck targets. Coda’s force had destroyed five enemy vessels with thermonuclear blasts, and badly damaged several others.
It wasn’t a great result, but as Compton’s mind reviewed the data, his thoughts coalesced into a single conclusion. Good enough.
“Admiral, Captain Coda requests permission to change course, and join Midway.”
“Negative, Commander.” Compton wasn’t surprised. Coda was a brave officer, one he knew would find his orders to abandon comrades difficult to obey. He found it an interesting trait of the very best officers that emotional considerations like that could supersede judgment. Coda had to realize his own pursuers would come with him, that he’d bring as much or more enemy strength into Midway’s fight as his ships would add to the battleship’s power. That all he could do is throw the lives of his ships’ crews away with those of Midway’s. But Compton knew the urge his captain felt was real. He’d experienced it many times himself. “Captain Coda is to follow his orders.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Compton suspected Coda would carry the guilt of leaving Midway behind for the rest of his life. It didn’t matter that he was following his orders, that he’d requested permission to remain behind and been denied. Nor did it make a difference that nothing he could have done would have helped. If Midway didn’t survive the fight to come, Coda would blame himself. Compton knew, and he wished there was something he could do to relieve his officer of the burden. But he knew there wasn’t.
He looked up at the display, at the two red circles moving toward the flagship. Each of those icons represented an enemy Leviathan, massive battleships bristling with weapons. Midway was one of the most powerful vessels ever built by mankind, but it wasn’t a match for even a single Leviathan, at least not purely by equipment and technology.
Compton knew a skilled human commander had an edge against the unimaginative tactics of an enemy AI, and no human officer had more experience in facing the First Imperium than Terrance Compton. But at some point, materiel—guns, tonnage, power generation—told, regardless of an officer’s skill. Compton wasn’t sure where that line was, but he suspected he would find out.
“Bring us to battlestations, Commander. Arm all weapons.”
“Yes, sir.”
The flag bridge was bathed in the red glow of the battlestations lamps, and Compton could hear the alarms blaring. He knew all over Midway, his crew was rushing through the corridors…to their stations in engineering, in the gunnery stations, everywhere. The alert called all of the flagship’s crew to duty, to prepare for battle. And Compton knew his veterans had been waiting for the summons. They would serve well, he had no doubt of that. But he just wasn’t sure it would be enough.
“Get me Admiral Hurley.”
“On your line, Admiral.”
“Greta, when can your squadrons be ready to launch?”
“We’re ready, sir.”
Compton was surprised, but only for an instant. Then it made perfect sense to him that Greta Hurley had her birds ready to go, waiting for the call she knew would come.
“I know you’re loaded up with plasma torpedoes, Greta, but I need your people to do an anti-missile run. I’m holding back our warheads. I don’t know if we can get close enough for sprint-firing with any of the tubes still operational, but I’m going to try. It’s the only way I can see us beating both of these ships.”
“We’ll do our best, sir. We’ll keep their missiles from getting through.” Hurley’s voice had the usual unshakable confidence. Compton had never met another officer like her…so utterly unflappable, no matter what the odds.
He knew Hurley only had fourteen birds left, and he shuddered to think how many might come back, even if Midway somehow survived its desperate fight. But now wasn’t the time to worry about it. He needed every bit of force he could muster now, no matter what the cost.
“I know you will, Greta.” He wanted to say more, to express to her how vital she had been to the fleet’s survival over the past two years, but he didn’t. He knew his words would sound like goodbye…and whatever the odds, he wasn’t ready to give up…on Hurley or on Midway. So he just said, “You may begin your launch.”
* * *
“Wolfpack leader, bring your birds around, 233.118.044…full thrust.” Hurley stared down at her display, her eyes darting back and forth between the blue squares of her fighters and the tiny yellow dots…each one representing a multi-gigaton antimatter warhead moving toward Midway. Any one of those missiles could cause serious damage to Compton’s ship if it got within a few kilometers, even destroy it. But they had to get past her people first.
“Yes, Admiral.” She remembered Becca Coombs from the day she’d reported for duty fresh from the Academy. The pilot had been eager then, back in the final days of the Third Frontier War, almost painfully so. Hurley knew Coombs had been one of the lucky ones, as she herself had been so long ago. She’d survived her early days, lived long enough to gain the experience that made long term survival something more than a mathematical anomaly. She was still serving under Hurley, as she had for her entire career, though now she was commanding one of the fighter corps’ crack squadrons. The Wolfpack had distinguished itself throughout the First Imperium War, and especially in the wild struggles of the past eighteen months, as the trapped fleet fought time and time again to survive. Coombs’ people were responsible for destroying fifteen enemy vessels, an astonishing kill record for a single squadron.
Coombs and Mariko Fujin were Hurley’s choices as her own successors. But Coombs was here with her, part of the desperate rearguard, and Fujin was on Saratoga, fighting for her life after almost dying in Midway’s stricken launch bay. If none of them survived, the fleet’s fighter corps would be leaderless, in an even worse shambles than the devastating battles of the past year and a half had left it.
“You ready, John?” She glanced over at Wilder. The pilot was hunched over his station, his own eyes staring at the wave of incoming warheads.
“As ready as I’ll ever be, Admiral.” He paused. “That’s a lot of missiles.”
Hurley just nodded. There was nothing to say. It was a lot of missiles. She just sat, quietly, staring at the screen as the dots moved closer. Finally, she flipped her com to the wing channel. “Okay, people…it’s time. You know what to do. Give me your best. And remember, Midway is counting on us. Admiral Compton is counting on us.”
“Engaging thrust at 2g.” Wilder pulled back on the throttle, and Hurley felt the force of twice her weight pressing against her. She was staring at the screen, watching the clusters of enemy missiles moving closer. She felt the temptation to snap out orders, to point out targets to Wilder. But her pilot knew what he was doing. There was nothing she could add, no purpose she could serve other than to distract. That was a realization she knew the young Greta Hurley would never have understood. She had been ruled by raw energy in those days, but now she had years of experience to temper her drive. It was the combination of the two that made her the commander she was, but she sometimes missed the simplicity of acting on pure courage and élan.
She could see that Wilder was going after the same cluster of missiles she was going to point out. There were about a dozen of them, and they were heading right for Midway. And John Wilder was right behind them. A few seconds later, the fighter echoed with the high pitched whine of the laser cannons…and one of the dots disappeared from the display. Then another. And another. Wilder was angling the ship’s thrust, moving toward a missile then angling away the instant it was destroyed. Greta Hurley had pioneered the use of fighters in missile defense, and her protégés like Wilder had continued to refine the tactics.
She watched as her fighters dispersed, each one picking a group of missiles and chasing them down, laser cannons blasting away. She felt pride in the crews she had trained and led, but it felt strange, uncomfortable to just sit there quietly…to watch as her people struggled to defend Midway, to clear a path through the barrage for the fleet’s flagship.
She knew the fighters were a bit sluggish for the pinpoint maneuvers needed for anti-missile ops. Normally, a fighter wing on point defense duty would have empty bomb bays, but her birds had two plasma torpedoes each, weapons she intended to use against the enemy ships as soon as the missiles were gone. Her ships would be low on fuel by then. Normally, they would return to their base ship to refuel and rearm with torpedoes, but there was no time. They could never get back, land, and rearm. Not before the Leviathans reached the flagship.
Midway needed every edge it could get in this fight, and she was damned sure of one thing. The fighters would do their part. And more.
Chapter Fifteen
AS Saratoga
System X108
The Fleet: 88 ships (+2 Leviathans), 20988 crew
“Launch all fighters.” West’s voice was grim, cold. She stared out at the main screen as she barked the command. It had been two months since her people had fought the First Imperium’s warships, but that respite had been all too brief. Admiral Compton and the rearguard had managed to buy the fleet time to reach Shangri la…but little more than that.
Another few days, and maybe we’d have found something useful there. Maybe…
The fleet coming through the warp gate was a large one, spearheaded by a line of Leviathans. She’d watched the scanners intently as the enemy vessels transited in, counting tonnage, guns…figuring tactics. And waiting to see if the enemy had any Colossuses. The massive enemy superbattleships were unimaginable engines of destruction that outgunned and outranged anything she had. But there were none, at least not yet. The enemy fleet was strong, but not invincible. Her people could take it. Maybe. Just. But it would cost. And that would start with the fighters.
What is left of them…
Admiral Hurley had gone with Compton, taking three squadrons of the fleet’s best, and Mariko Fujin was still in sickbay in a coma. That left Beverly Jones and 38 ships, more than a few of them damaged and hastily patched back together…all that remained of the fleet’s once mighty fighter corps. The pilots and crews of those birds had done so much—and paid such a price—even an officer as cold blooded as West wished she could spare them this fight. But she couldn’t. She needed everything she could get.
She felt anger inside, at herself. At her recklessness. It was her aggressive approach, her failure to foresee that those who built Shangri la were the Regent’s enemies, that had cost the fleet much of its remaining firepower. Four Leviathans, half the strength she’d had, lost in a few seconds.
I could use those ships now…
She flipped her com unit to the direct line to Saratoga’s bridge. “Davis, I’m going to have to be aggressive with Saratoga. It’s too much of our remaining firepower to hold back and play flagship.” A pause. “I need your best, from you…and from every man and woman on Saratoga’s crew.” Davis Black was an experienced captain, and she’d learned to rely on him. But West left nothing for granted.
“We’ll be ready, Admiral. For whatever you need.”
“I know you will.” She moved her hand over the controls to cut the line, but she hesitated. “Good luck, Davis.”
“Good luck, Admiral.”
West closed the line. Then she turned toward Hank Krantz. “Once more, old friend. Once more into the breach.”
“Yes, Admiral.” The tactical officer looked over at her command chair, even managing a fleeting smile. “We’ve been there before, haven’t we? More than once.”
“Indeed we have, Hank.” Her eyes moved toward the display showing the planet they called Shangri la. And the dozens of orbital stations surrounding it, the attack platforms that had obliterated four Leviathans as if they were blowing out so many candles.
Would they intervene? Would they attack the enemy ships, as they had her own Leviathans? She could certainly use the help…but she was hesitant to count on anything she didn’t control. The landing party had reported in a few minutes before. Hieronymus Cutter had found a way into an underground complex of some sort. West would have normally ignored the news, at least when battle called. But she’d learned not to underestimate the brilliant scientist. He was as responsible as Admiral Compton, she knew, for the fleet’s survival, and though he didn’t get the credit Compton did fleetwide, West wasn’t going to underestimate him. He had a practicality that was rare for an academic…and a toughness that had surprised virtually everyone who knew him. Indeed, the Marines loved him…they had made him one of their own. And West had known enough Marines to understand what that meant.
She turned back toward Krantz. Whatever Cutter could do, she had no doubt he would. But now it was time for her to do what she did best. “Commander Krantz…the fleet is to move forward, 3g accelerating. Directly toward the enemy fleet.”
* * *
Max Harmon sat in Saratoga’s sickbay, as he had for much of the past two months. Mariko was still alive, a fact the doctors were calling a minor miracle. But they had also told him the longer she remained unconscious, the less chance there was of a recovery. Grant Wainwright had spent almost three weeks in the bed next to Fujin’s, in much the same condition, but he’d lost his fight over a month ago. The pilot had never regained consciousness, not for an instant…and now Mariko Fujin was the last survivor from the bay. Harmon loved her…he realized that more than ever now, the terrible pain he felt only confirming the emotions he’d had before. She lay in her bed, unmoving, the same as she had been for weeks and weeks now. And he sat next to her, waiting, watching every second for the slightest move.
She still wore the pendant he’d given her. He’d felt foolish insisting the doctors leave it on her, a bit of shame for realizing some part of him believed the superstitions about the silly little thing. He’d argued with himself, but in the end he decided it didn’t hurt anything. The tiny lump of metal was allegedly responsible for a number of close escapes in his family…and his mother, cold, no-nonsense admiral that she was, had blamed herself for years for letting his father go off to the Tau Ceti 3 invasion so long ago without it.
He felt strange, sitting idle when the fleet was at battlestations. He’d spent many of the fleet’s battles on Midway’s flag bridge, as Compton’s tactical officer. But the admiral had promoted him out of that role, and made him a troubleshooter of sorts. Compton had helped the admiral stop the mutiny a year before, and he’d completed a number of missions since then, most recently helping West keep an eye on some of the less trustworthy captains in the fleet. But nothing kept those fools in check like an enemy attack. So once again, he had nothing to do.
He’d wanted to go with Compton, but the admiral had ordered him to stay behind. Now Midway and the rearguard were gone. No, not gone, Harmon thought, unable to accept that the admiral might be dead, along with everyone on the ships he’d taken with him. Just not here. And though Erika West respected him, he’d fallen out of the usual chain of command. There was no place for him now. Except where he was.
It didn’t matter, really. The fleet wasn’t short of commanders right now…it was short of ships, trained spacers, ordnance. Eighteen months of running, and countless deadly battles had worn the fleet down to a nub. But it still felt strange not being in the action.
Harmon closed his eyes, seeking a few minutes relief from the burning. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been up, but he knew he couldn’t sleep…and certainly not when Saratoga was going into battle. He’d be right here if West needed him.
He took a breath and opened his eyes, staring down at Mariko again. And she was staring back.
He felt a rush of excitement run through his body, an instant of disbelief followed by stunned silence.
“Max…” Her voice was soft, weak…barely audible. He leaned down, put his ear to her lips. “Where?”
“You’re in sickbay, Mariko. On Saratoga.” He was fighting back the shock, trying to stay calm for her. He’d refused to give up on her, but now he realized he had, at least to an extent. He was stunned to see her look at him, to hear her voice.
“Sa…ra…to…ga?”
“Yes, Mariko. Midway went off on a…mission. Admiral Compton moved all the wounded over to Saratoga.”
“You…here?”
Harmon paused. Even right out of a coma, she went right to the heart of the matter. Compton would never have left Harmon behind…not if he expected to return. And Mariko knew it.
“He asked me to help Admiral West.” He felt bad for lying, but he didn’t want to burden her with too much to worry about. Not now.
“Grant…crew…”
Harmon paused, taking a deep breath. He had a fleeting impulse to lie to her, to spare her the terrible news until she was stronger. But though they were lovers, they were both warriors as well. They owed each other better than that.
“They’re all dead, Mariko. Grant survived for three weeks, but he never woke up.” His voice was soft, as sympathetic as he could make it.
She just stared back at him. They had both lost friends before. It was part of the service. He knew she’d mourn later, that she’d find ways he couldn’t imagine to blame herself.
She tried to speak, but nothing came out. She swallowed hard and croaked, “Water…”
Of course! What the hell am I thinking?
He spun around. “Doctor…doctor, it’s Mariko Fujin…she’s awake.” He turned back and looked down at her, feeling the waves of relief finally come over him. “She’s awake…and she’s thirsty…”
* * *
“I want those laser cannons recharged in twenty seconds, Commander. Not an instant longer or I will go down there myself and start chucking people out the airlock.” Davis Black was normally easygoing, one of the most popular captains in the fleet. But in battle he changed, morphed into a tyrant, one with no patience—none—for anything less than top performance. He’d brought the ship through so many battles, escaped so often from almost certain death, that his crew forgave him his ornery nature under fire. But they still scrambled to do whatever they could…anything to keep that terrible rage off of them.
“Yes, sir,” the tactical officer replied. “Lieutenant Hoover acknowledges, sir.”
“Acknowledges? What the fuck does that mean? The people on this ship should know better than to give me bullshit, mealy-mouthed answers by now.” He paused, glaring at the officer. “And why is Hoover answering. Where is Qwill?”
“Commander Qwill is dead, sir. Lieutenant Hoover is in command down there.” Another pause, a short one. Then the sound of the lasers firing. Eighteen seconds, two ahead of schedule. The tactical officer let out a grateful sigh.
Black just shook his head. Qwill had been with him for years, back when he had been Saratoga’s XO during the last battles of the Third Frontier War. Another good officer—and a friend—gone…
“Give Hoover my compliments…and remind him that means every twenty seconds.” There was no time to let up, to grieve friends. Not now. The fleet’s acting flagship had drawn a lot of attention from the enemy. Those AIs are learning from us, he thought. They’re learning to pick their targets.
“Navigation, bring us around, course 098.230.358, two gee thrust.” Admiral West had given Saratoga a specific area of space to cover, but she’d left a lot of maneuver room for Black. He had to admit…for all West’s reputation as a brutal taskmaster, she hadn’t stepped on his toes, not in the year since she’d come aboard to take over Saratoga’s task force. He’d served on flagships for most of his career, and he knew that a lot of admirals, even some good ones, tended to overmanage their flag captains. For as much as Black had admired Barret Dumont, he’d chafed more than once under the old admiral’s tight control. He’d been worried when he found out West was taking over after Dumont’s death, but he’d been surprised at her hands off approach.
Too busy terrorizing the rest of the fleet, I guess.
The ship shook. Hard. Then its vector shifted. Black knew his ship was venting gasses, exerting makeshift thrust that was throwing her off course.
“Navigation, correct course and velocity.” He knew that was easier said than done. If the hit had just blown a compartment, all the air would be out already. But if a fluid or gas line had been ruptured, it would continue to spew until it was cut off. And it would affect the ship’s vector all the while.
“Navigation reports corrections underway, Captain.”
Black felt it immediately, a change in the thrust vector, and in increase to nearly 3g. He nodded to himself. He was proud of crew, of their crack performance in battle.
He heard the lasers fire again, the sound a bit quieter than it had been, and he knew he’d lost a battery….maybe two. His eyes dropped to the screen to check, but before he could focus, Saratoga shook again, much harder this time. A whole section of workstations went dark along the port side, and a conduit fell from the ceiling, spewing steam across the flag bridge. One of his officers screamed as the super-heated steam hit her full on, sending her falling to the deck.
“Medical to the bridge,” Davis shouted into his com. “Now!”
He unhooked his harness and leapt from his chair, rushing over to the stricken officer. He knew immediately it was bad…very bad. She was lying on her back, howling in agony, burned from head to toe.
Davis looked toward the lift. He knew it had only been a few seconds, but the thought still went through his head. Where the hell is that med team?
He could see the bridge crew, frozen at their stations, staring in horror at their hideously injured comrade. “Back to work, all of you…we’re in battle!”
He looked back down at his officer. Beckwith. Sandra Beckwith, a communications specialist. He didn’t know her very well…she’d come over from Midway when Admiral Compton had transferred all non-essential personnel before departing with the rearguard. She’d done her duties well enough, but he’d hardly exchanged a dozen words with her. She’d only been on bridge duty because Lieutenant Ringer had been injured in a maintenance accident.
He heard the lift doors slide open, and he could see the shadows of the med team moving around him. The medic knelt next to her, his gaze moving over her injuries. Black could see it in his eyes. She wasn’t going to make it.
He tried to force himself away, get back to running the ship, but he couldn’t, not for a few seconds at least. He was an experienced captain, the veteran of more battles than he could easily count, but staring at this woman, this officer he hardly knew, was too much for him. For a few seconds, at least. Her suffering was hard to watch, but he couldn’t break free. He just knelt there on the bridge floor, watching as the medic gave her a massive dose of painkillers…and then he and his assistant reached under her and began to lift her up.
She screamed as they pulled her from the floor, in spite of the meds, and Black watched the torment in her face, tears streaming down her cheeks. He gritted his teeth, using all his self-control to stay where he was, not to move toward her. There was nothing he could do—probably nothing anyone could do. And he had a ship to run. He stood up slowly, turning his head away as he did, back toward the main display. Then he walked back to his chair…and he didn’t look back. He couldn’t. And a few seconds later the lift closed behind the medics, and Lieutenant Beckwith was gone.
* * *
“Saratoga’s in trouble…” Bill Ving was speaking to himself. He sat in his command chair, alone on the bridge, leaning backward, gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest, his gut. He was sick. No, not sick…dying. My whole crew is dying.
He glanced over at the empty tactical station. Sara Iverson had been a tremendous officer, one of the best he’d ever seen, with a combat record that would have been the pride of an officer twice her age. And she’d been his friend. But she was gone now, dead of the mysterious disease that was even now killing him. The plague that would soon leave Snow Leopard a lifeless hulk, a ghost ship in the truest sense of the term.
Ving mourned for his crew, and he felt his own fear as he faced approaching death. His every breath was a tortured effort to force air into congested lungs. His fever was raging, his neck and back dripping with sweat. His mind tried to drift off into delirium, revisiting images of the distant past, but he held on, barely, his force of will struggling to cling to the threads of clarity for just a little longer. Ving had no hope for his ship, his crew…no delusions he faced anything but impending death. But he wasn’t dead yet, and intended to strike one last blow before he slipped into darkness.
He slammed his hand down on the com unit. “Engine room, this is the captain. Who is down there? Anyone?”
There was nothing but silence, at least for ten or twenty seconds. Then, just as Ving was about to give up hope, a single voice, weak, struggling, replied. “Captain…this is Ensign Cleeves, sir.”
Ving felt a wave of satisfaction at the response, a dim ray of light in the blackness looming around him. He’d been afraid no one would answer. He knew all his people were infected, and as the crew dwindled, ship’s operations had begun to come to a halt. Snow Leopard was fully-supplied and ready for battle, but her gunners were all dead or incapacitated, her fresh supplies of weapons laying around the hold, still crated.
Dr. Flynn was dead too, along with all his staff, and Ving suspected sickbay had become a hellish nightmare of suffering, full of dying men and women with no one left to care for them, not even a friendly voice, offering a last sip of water to a parched and dying man or woman. He knew the AI-directed medpods would continue to care for patients, but he was well aware there were only a few of them, and that most of his people were lying on the floor or on whatever makeshift setups Flynn’s people had managed to cobble together. He hated the thought of his crew suffering, living their last hours abandoned, in pain and squalor. But he forced his thoughts away. All around his crippled ship, a battle was raging, one that might decide the fate of the fleet, as so many before it had. Snow Leopard had been the scourge of the enemy in past battles…and she would have one more victory. Her captain would see to it.
Ving felt a wave of strength, but he knew it would be his last. He intended to make it count. There was still one last duty, and Captain William Ving intended to die in combat, not bent over on the floor, vomiting blood and gasping for his last breaths.
“Cleeves, we’ve got something to do, son.” Sam Cleeves had been a week out of the Academy when the fleet left to advance against the First Imperium. He was twenty-two years old, but Ving wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen the kid’s personnel record. He looked about sixteen. But he wasn’t a rookie anymore, no one who’d been through the last eighteen months was. And Ving wasn’t going to treat him like one. “Saratoga’s in trouble, Sam…there are two enemy Leviathans closing on her, and nothing else near enough to intervene.” He paused. “Except us.”
“Sir, we don’t have any active gunnery stations. I’m the only one down here…and as far as I can tell, the reactor is unattended. The AI’s running basic operations, but we’ve got no repair crews. Nothing. I don’t see how we can fight a Leviathan.”
Ving stared down at the com unit, imagining the young ensign, alone in the engine room, sick, scared…dying. “Ensign, I just need you to focus. The AI will keep the reactor operating…at least as long as we’re going to need it. I need you to get the engines ready for a hard burn…and then I want you to get down to the bomb bay and get the plasma torpedoes ready.”
“I don’t understand, Captain. Ready for what? They’re still in the crates…I can’t get them on the firing track myself.”
“I don’t want them on the tracks, son. I just want them armed for overloads.”
“Sir?” There was confusion in the ensign’s voice…and perhaps the first bits of terrible realization.
“Just get those warheads ready to blow. I’m going to get the AI to set the reactor up for a controlled containment failure.” He paused, and there was a moment of total silence. “We’re not going to shoot at that Leviathan, son.” Another pause, as Ving looked around his empty bridge once more. “We’re going to ram Snow Leopard right down their throats.”
* * *
“What the hell?” Erika West stared at the display. She knew what she was seeing, but some part of her couldn’t believe it.
“What ship is that? Snow Leopard?” Her eyes were fixed on the fast-moving icon. “Get me Captain Ving! Now!”
Krantz leaned over his console for a few seconds. Then he turned back toward West. “Captain Ving, Admiral.”
“Bill, what the hell are you doing over there?” She knew, but she had to hear it from him.
“That Leviathan is going to cut off Saratoga.” His voice was weak, forced. “It’s too much firepower, too close. I’ll take care of it for you.” She could hear him gasping for air.
“No,” she said. “Captain Ving, we do not send ships to make suicide runs. Return to your previous heading.”
“Please, admiral…I’m dead already. We all are. The disease…it’s killed half the crew. I only have two people still at their posts…and neither of us are going to last long. Let us die saving the flagship…let it mean something.”
West was a cold person, at least that’s what everyone thought. But she was easily moved too, especially by acts of courage and loyalty. William Ving and his crew were dying, they were sick, weak, in pain. And his thoughts were on his duty, on how he could contribute once more before he died.
West knew she had to let him do it. She couldn’t refuse…force him to sit where he was and die in misery and futility. Or he might ignore her order, ram the enemy vessel anyway…and her refusal would turn his act of devotion into one of mutiny. No, she couldn’t do that. She wouldn’t.
“Very well, Captain Ving. You have my permission.” She paused, fighting back a wave of emotion she knew her staff would find unsettling if it slipped out. “And the thoughts and prayers of everyone in the fleet go with you and your crew.” She took a deep breath. “It has been an honor to serve with you, William Ving.”
“And you, Admiral.” The line went dead. West knew Ving needed all his strength for his ship’s final attack.
She turned toward the display, trying to maintain her composure as she watched the icon move swiftly across the screen. She couldn’t help but smile when she saw his course, right from behind Saratoga. The enemy battleship was closing rapidly on the human flagship…and Snow Leopard was coming up from behind Saratoga, in the scanner shadow of the Yorktown class battlewagon.
“I’ll be damned,” she whispered under her breath. The enemy wouldn’t see Ving’s ship, not until it was too late. The attack ship would zip right by Saratoga at almost 0.02c, and then it would smash into the First Imperium vessel. West couldn’t imagine the energy that would be released when the twelve thousand tons of the attack ship slammed into the Leviathan at two percent of lightspeed, but she knew one thing. There wouldn’t be a piece left of the enemy battleship bigger than shattered chunks of atoms.
She just nodded as she watched. Snow Leopard had one of the best combat records in the fleet, and Bill Ving was one of the most skilled suicide boat pilots she’d ever seen.
And so he remains until the very end…
Saratoga shook hard. Another hit. A bad one. She left running the ship to Davis Black, but she was starting to worry about how long her flagship could take the pounding. The flag bridge was still fully operative, except for a few minor shorts, but she could tell the ship itself was in trouble. She could feel the internal explosions, smell the chemicals and smoke in the air. She knew Saratoga was spewing gases and liquids through her rent hull…and she realized Ving’s desperate attack was the ship’s only chance.
She stared down as the small icon moved toward the blue star that represented Saratoga. Just a few more seconds.
Saratoga shook again, harder this time, and the lights on the flag bridge dimmed.
“Admiral, Captain Black reports reactor B scragged. He’s reduced non-essential power usage to keep the lasers firing.”
“Very well,” she said, as she watched Snow Leopard zip around Saratoga…and head straight for the enemy ship.”
“Die well, William Ving…and all on Snow Leopard. Your comrades salute you…and they thank you.” She spoke softly, with more emotion in her voice than anyone on the flag bridge had heard before.
A few seconds later, Snow Leopard’s icon vanished…along with the Leviathan’s. Ving’s ship had one final kill to its record…and Erika West intended to make sure it went down in the official records.
* * *
Cutter leaned over the workstation, his fingers moving in a blur. The alien keyboards weren’t the same as ones built and used by humans, nor, of course were the symbols anything like an Earth alphabet. But he realized he somehow had the knowledge of how to type on them, to understand their meaning. He’d been thinking about his encounter with Almeerhan since he’d left X48 II, and now he realized the alien had left him with more than just the memories of their encounter. Somehow Cutter knew this place, as though he’d been there years before. He realized that was ridiculous, yet he seemed to understand how to use all the equipment.
He hadn’t come there expecting to know his way around. Indeed, he was almost certain the knowledge was buried somehow, surfacing only when he needed it.
Like now.
“Admiral West,” he said, leaning his face toward a small, glowing sphere. “Admiral West, do you read me?”
Connor Frasier stood behind him. The Marine looked around every few seconds, as if he expected someone to come running out of some hidden hallway or compartment. He had his assault rifle out at the ready, but Cutter had ordered him not to fire without his expressed permission. The last thing he needed was for Frasier to go shooting up all this mysterious First Imperium tech.
“Dr. Cutter?” It was West, her voice raw, distracted. “What is it, Doctor…I’m afraid I’ve got my hands full right…” She paused for an instant. “How are you sending this message, Doctor? You’re still on the planet, aren’t you?” Cutter understood her confusion. Saratoga was well outside the range of any human-built portable transmitter.
Cutter nodded, a pointless gesture he realized immediately. “Yes, Admiral. I’m…ah…borrowing some of the First Imperium equipment down here.” He could hear sounds in the background, explosions, alarms.
“Doctor, I’m afraid…”
“Listen to me, Admiral…very carefully. I have gained control over the planetary defense grid. The weapons protecting this world are extremely powerful, as we saw when our Leviathans were destroyed. But you are out of range right now…the enemy is out of range. If you can retreat, pull the First Imperium forces back with you…the defense systems will engage them immediately.”
There was an instant of silence. Then: “Understood, doctor…what is the effective range?”
“Two point five light seconds, Admiral. I will pause the auto-attack sequence so the enemy doesn’t get any warning. Get the entire enemy fleet within two point five light seconds of the planet…and I’ll do the rest.”
He knew he was asking her to trust him with the fate of the fleet…on very little actual data. He expected a fight, and he was trying to put together his argument to challenge whatever she threw back at him. But she said simply, “Understood.” Then the line went dead.
* * *
“Commander Krantz, tell Captain Vogel he has to get those ships moving faster. I don’t care how he does it, but he needs to be at the designated point in four minutes.” West had been snapping out orders nonstop. She’d suddenly commanded her ships to break off, pull back, insisting they reach specified positions in a matter of minutes.
Most of the ship’s captains branded the commands impossible, but she just repeated them, louder and with more focused rage behind them. Her staff had told her many times how much the fleet’s captains were afraid of her. Now she was going to find out how afraid.
“Yes, Admiral.” Krantz was used to West, but even he seemed unnerved at the force of her orders. Ever since she’d spoken with Hieronymus Cutter, she’d been on a rampage. She hadn’t explained anything, she’d just ordered the whole fleet to fall back. The tactic seemed ill-advised…it took the fleet out of formation…and the retreat would let the enemy ships get closer to the planet, the destination on which everyone in the fleet had placed all their hopes. A place they knew they had to defend at all costs. But no one had the guts to challenge West, not now.
“All vessels acknowledge, Admiral. The fleet is falling back as ordered.” A pause, no more than a few seconds. Then: “The enemy appears to be pursuing.”
“All enemy ships?”
“Most of them, Admiral. It appears they have a small tactical reserve.”
Shit. Anything outside range when Cutter lets loose with those weapons is going to survive…
“Get me Commander Jones.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Krantz turned toward his workstation. “Commander Jones on your line.”
“Beverly, what’s the status of your squadrons?” West was uncomfortable. Sending the fighters on a desperate, nearly-suicidal mission was virtually a cliché in the fleet, but it still felt unfair. No one had borne more of the burden to buy the fleet’s survival, nor paid a higher price. But she had to pull the fleet back, close enough to Shangri la for Cutter to unleash the planet’s deadly defenses. And she couldn’t leave a whole enemy task force behind, out of range and able to flee, to warn the Regent’s forces what the X108 system held.
“We’re good, Admiral. Luck seems to be with us for a change. We’ve only lost one ship…and the crew managed to eject in time.”
West sighed softly. Jones was a good officer, but she’d only ended up in command as soon as she did because Fujin was in sickbay and Hurley had gone with Compton. She was in over her head, and despite the success her people had enjoyed so far, West could hear it in her voice.
“We’re pulling the fleet back, Commander, to a new position two light seconds out from the planet. The enemy appears to be following…all except one task force. I need your people to hit that force, Beverly…and I do mean with everything you have. None of those ships can get away, do you understand me?”
“Yes, Admiral.” West could hear the tension in Jones’ voice, her struggle to sound confident, to hide her uncertainty. “You can count on us.”
I hope so, Beverly. I hope so.
“Very well, Commander. You have your orders.”
West cut the line and stared at the display, at the small cluster of tiny dots representing the fighters.
I hope so…
Chapter Sixteen
AS Midway
Z16 System
The Fleet: 87 ships (+2 Leviathans), 20,671 crew
“Arm all missiles. Prepare to launch.” Compton snapped out the order, his voice louder, harder than he’d intended. He’d been waiting, holding back the command as long as he could. He’d felt Cortez’ eyes on him the whole time, the tension of his entire flag bridge crew as the seconds ticked away. The use of missiles in sprint mode was a new tactic, one he had invented, but now he was changing it again, taking it from aggressive to downright crazy. He knew his people were waiting for the launch order…but they were going to have to wait a bit longer.
Midway shook hard. The vessel had moved into energy weapons range of the enemy, and the guns of the two Leviathans had opened fire. The First Imperium lasers were powerful weapons, but at this distance only a small percentage scored hits, and those that did had dissipated much of their energy by the time they reached Midway. But even a weakened weapon from one of the great battleships hurt, and the damage reports were already coming in.
Midway had come through the enemy missile barrage in better shape than Compton had dared to hope. Hurley’s fighters had exceeded all expectations, blowing away more than two thirds of the incoming warheads. The weakened volley then moved right through Midway’s point defense zone, first the battleship’s anti-missile laser batteries…and then the shotguns, the magnetic catapults that blasted clouds of heavy metal pellets out at enormous speed. Even a tiny scrap of metal could destroy a missile when it hit at 0.01c.
In the end, only half a dozen missiles got through, and just two of them were close enough to cause any damage, mostly overloads and crew casualties from heavy radiation blasts. Compton felt every crew member he lost, and he knew any damage to Midway’s physical plant could be the difference between victory and defeat in the battle to come. But he was still relieved. It had gone better than he’d dared to imagine.
The ship rocked again, harder this time…another hit, and some kind of internal explosion from the feel of it. Midway’s lasers were still silent. The enemy weapons had longer range…and Compton’s flagship couldn’t activate its heavy laser cannons while the missiles were still in the tubes.
“Forty thousand kilometers, Admiral.” Cortez was starting to sound nervous.
Compton didn’t reply. He just sat in his chair, staring at the display. The closest any ship had gotten before sprint firing its missiles was fifty thousand kilometers. But Compton planned to smash that record to oblivion.
“Thirty thousand kilometers.”
“Commander Cortez, I want all laser crews ready to arm and fire their weapons on an instant’s notice.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Cortez hesitated for a second, staring over at Compton.
“And Commander, advise the engineering crew I want full power to the lasers immediately after missile launch.” He paused. “And I do mean fucking immediately.” Compton rarely swore when he gave orders…which was why he’d chosen to now. He wanted his people as good as they could be, on the edge, driven to the absolute limits of their ability. Anything less, and he knew all his people would die.
“Twenty-five thousand kilometers, sir.” Cortez looked over at Compton, his tension bubbling over. This wasn’t close for sprint missile fire…it was downright insane. “Sir!”
“Hold,” Compton said, his voice frozen. Midway shook again, twice in rapid succession. They were in close range of the enemy lasers now, and each hit was taking a toll.
“Damage reports, sir,” Cortez said. “We lost two missile launchers.”
“Acknowledged.” Compton sounded like an automaton. Unshakable, fearless. But inside he felt the tension in his stomach and with each deliberative breath. He knew the missile launchers were fragile, that he would lose some during the approach. But two in one shot? He felt his throat tighten.
Stay with the plan…just a few more seconds…
“Twenty thousand kil…”
“All missiles…launch!”
Cortez whipped around, back to his station, and he ran his fingers down the board, flipping a series of levers. Midway shook ten times in rapid succession, as each of her active launchers spat out its deadly ordnance. The ten missiles appeared on the screen immediately, already moving at three hundred kilometers per second and accelerating at 50g.
“Navigation plan Gamma-2…engage. All laser batteries, fire!”
Midway lurched hard as its engines engaged, and Compton felt the 3g of thrust pressing hard against him. The burst wouldn’t be long, only twenty seconds. Just enough to confuse the enemy targeting systems, as the AIs running those two ships raced to respond to the unexpected threat of Midway’s missiles.
He heard the distant whining, the sounds of his ship’s lasers firing. And he saw a small cluster of dots, closing on the enemy ships from behind. Hurley and her ten surviving fighters, beginning their attack run.
He felt the heat inside him, the hunter’s instinct that came over him in battle. Fifty years at war, yet every time the enemy was in his sights he felt it. Just like the first time.
* * *
“Alright people, let’s go. There’s one ship left…let’s make that zero. All ships, converge and begin attack runs. Let’s take that fucker out.” Greta Hurley still felt the tingle, the residual excitement from a moment earlier, when she’d seen one of Compton’s sprint missiles slam right into the other enemy Leviathan…and vaporize the massive battleship with 550 megatons of pure destruction. She’d heard the shouts on all her ships over the main com channel. A doomed struggle had just become a bit less hopeless, and the energy surged through her veins. She’d been planning to send five of her fighters against each of the enemy vessels, but now she had them concentrated on the sole survivor. And ten attacks could do some serious damage. A Leviathan was hard to destroy, especially an undamaged one, but her people would do their part.
“Are you ready, John?” She stared across the cockpit at her pilot.
“Ready, Admiral.”
“Then lead us in.” She turned back to the com, changing to the wing circuit. “Alright people, it’s time. Form up on my ship. I don’t want to see anybody popping off shots at long range. Everybody closes to point blank. Anybody launches a torpedo more than 10,000 klicks out has to deal with me.” She flipped off the com.
“Okay, John…let’s go.”
Wilder pushed the throttle forward, and the fighter accelerated hard. Hurley felt the pressure slam into her…6g she guessed, though she didn’t bother to check. She just stared straight ahead, focused on the enemy ship.
The First Imperium did not have fighters, and they employed their missile defense systems against the small ships in lieu of a purpose-designed array. Their light lasers and anti-missile rockets were dangerous, but they were repurposed weapons, inherently less effective than something built solely to kill fighters. And Hurley’s pilots were all veterans, experienced at evading the First Imperium fire as they attacked. Hurley knew for all the losses she’d suffered, it could have been worse. That seemed a perverse thought about a force that had lost 90% of its strength over the past eighteen months, but she knew her people had been lucky too, that the odds had been far worse even than the terrible result. She knew they might all be dead now, indeed they should all be dead…months ago. And then the fleet would have been lost too. More than once, her fighters had been the difference between victory and defeat. Yes, luck had been with them.
But as she gazed at the display, she felt a knot in her stomach. She knew, almost immediately, with a cold certainty. Luck had deserted them.
She watched as three of her ten ships vanished within seconds of each other. The enemy fire was heavy, but no different than usual. But at this moment in time, the blasts were finding their targets. She thought about it in clinical terms, ships lost, reduction in firepower. There would be time later to remember the actual people lost, the faces of the dead.
No one in the force said anything, but she could hear their thoughts, their self-preservation instincts urging them to fire their torpedoes and break off as quickly as possible. But they wouldn’t. She knew they would follow her orders, even if they were hating her as they did.
She felt her own urge to order them all to shoot and then make a run for it. She didn’t want to die any more than any of her people. But the losses only made it more essential for her force to finish its mission. They were down to seven…and they had a Leviathan to destroy. She could see on the scanner. Midway was hurting the enemy ship, but she was taking more than she was giving. Hurley knew her fighters had to even the score. Or they would all die here…her people, Midway, Admiral Compton.
She felt the fighter lurch hard, Wilder’s evasive maneuvers. Then it shook again, but it was different this time. A hit. Her eyes darted around the cockpit. None of her people were injured. Then she looked down to the display, but Wilder’s voice distracted her before she could focus.
“A laser grazed us on the belly, Captain. Looks like some minor damage, loss of pressurization in the lower compartment.” He paused. “Could have been worse.”
She took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, it could have been worse.” Her eyes were still on the display, watching as a fourth of her ships winked out. Another plasma torpedo gone…five more brave crew dead.
She flipped on the forcewide com. She felt the same fear they all did, the grief at the loss of comrades. But Midway was counting on them…and if they didn’t at least hurt this thing, the flagship was going to be destroyed. And the surviving fighters would be trapped with no place to land.
“I know you’ve all seen our losses, you know that twenty of our comrades have died in the last two minutes. But that only makes our duty all the more crucial. Midway is fighting a deadly battle…and she is losing. If our attack is not a success, the flagship will die…Admiral Compton will die. And we will die too, hunted down by that thing…or suffocated as our life support systems fail. I have fought by your sides, all of you. For eighteen months you have been the symbol of courage, of stubborn defiance, an inspiration to the entire fleet. Now, I ask you to do it again, to follow me right down that thing’s throat. For the fleet. For Admiral Compton.”
She closed the line and looked down at the floor in front of her. She had the usual conflicted feelings. Everything she had said was the truth, yet she felt a rush of guilt for working her people up into a frenzy, doing all she could to override their rational instincts to survive. She wondered how many martyrs she had created with her rousing battle cries over the years, how many of her people would have returned to base had she not extracted from them the last full measure of duty, the final sacrifice.
“Entering close attack range, Admiral. Fifteen thousand kilometers.”
Hurley looked over at Wilder. She was grateful for his words, pulling her from her self-flagellation to the present. There was a battle to fight, and that was all that mattered now.
“Fight your ship, John. The rest of the birds are forming upon you.”
She felt a bit of absurdity in her words. She was an admiral, the only officer in the fighter corps to ever carry such an exalted rank. She’d led a thousand fighters into battle in the great struggles around X2, before the fleet was trapped. Now she sat in her command chair, watching as John Wilder piloted her ship, and her command was a total of six fighters, tattered remnants that equaled a single squadron in strength.
“Twelve thousand.” Wilder’s voice was distant, distracted. Hurley knew the pilot was focused, his every thought on the target ahead, and on evading the enemy fire as he dove toward it.
Hurley sat, feeling she should be doing something, making some kind of plan, issuing orders. But there was nothing to do. Except sit quietly and wait.
She had a passing thought, darkly amusing. The great Admiral Hurley, the woman who revolutionized fighter tactics. What a fitting end to that story…to die leading six ships in a desperate assault. All the massive battles she’d fought…to bring her here, to something that would barely qualify as a skirmish. If her people hadn’t been defending the fleet’s flagship, and its legendary commander.
But we are…
“Ten thousand kilometers.”
She thought of old friends, of those who’d commanded her when she had first reached the fleet, twenty-three years old and cocky as hell. The traits that made a good fighter jock were different than those that portended success in the fleet proper, and her early mentors didn’t try to beat the arrogance out of her…they just try to give her judgment to offset it. And they understood what made a pilot tick, that there was little they could do but stand aside and let experience teach her…if it didn’t kill her.
She had won that particular cosmic coin toss, but she remembered peers, men and women who had served alongside her, who had lost. Joe Deedle, Carina Smithers, Ethan Joplin…names, faces, people she hadn’t thought of in years. All gifted pilots, every bit as good as she was. And all dead, killed before they’d had a chance to see where their skills took them.
“Eight thousand kilometers.”
Hurley knew how successful she had been, how much glory she had won in battle. But she was cut from the same cloth as most great leaders, men and women like Terrance Compton and Erika West. And others left back home. Augustus Garret, certainly. And Elias Holm, Erik Cain…officers she’d been proud to serve alongside. They all shared certain traits. They weren’t humble, not exactly. She knew she was gifted, that she had achieved massive success and left her mark on the tactics of fighter combat. But the inner arrogance that drove her was controlled. It gave her confidence, the ability to follow through, to believe even her most desperate plans had a chance. But she never lost sight of the fact that luck had been her ally as well, that any of those old comrades might have done as she did, had fate not plucked them so young from the battle. And she’d never stopped appreciating the devotion of her people, never took it for granted.
“Six thousand kilometers. Preparing to fire.”
Her mind snapped back to the present, her eyes on Wilder as he angled the throttle…and brought his finger down on the firing button.
Nothing happened.
She watched as he hit the control again. And again. Still nothing.
Her eyes dropped to the display. Four thousand five hundred kilometers. If he doesn’t pull away now…
Wilder’s hands raced over his controls, resetting the firing system.
Four thousand…
He punched down on the firing control again. Still nothing.
John…
He hesitated, just for a second. Then Hurley felt the defeat in him as he slammed the throttle hard to the side, and the fighter’s engines blasted hard.
For an instant, she thought he’d been too late, that they were going to crash into the enemy ship. But a wave of relief came over her as she realized they were going to make it. But it only lasted a second, replaced by crushing disappointment. They had run the gauntlet, risked all…only to come away empty.
The bomb bay, she thought. That has to be it. That hit we took…it must have fused the doors shut.
Her eyes dropped to her display. There were four ships there, not five. Another friend lost. But hope too…four more chances to hurt the enemy, to tip the scales just enough for Midway to win the fight.
She stared and watched as the fighters blasted in, as aggressive, as heedless of danger as John Wilder had been. And she knew her earlier words rode with them…to victory or death.
* * *
“Art, I need more power. I don’t care what you have to do…I don’t care about the risks.” Compton’s voice was deep, his throat dry. The battle with the last Leviathan had been raging unabated. Midway was less than twenty thousand kilometers from its adversary. The ships were trading blows, two wounded giants in the final stages of a fight to the death. Midway’s lasers were falling silent one at a time, as enemy hits blasted the guns to scrap or severed the conduits feeding them the massive power they required.
Compton’s ship was landing its own hits, blasting apart the Leviathan’s hull, blowing its x-ray laser batteries to molten slag. Hurley’s fighters had savaged the enemy battleship, despite the grievous losses they had suffered. But a Leviathan could take a lot of punishment, and the battered vessel stood its ground, firing with its remaining weapons.
“Admiral, I’m not even sure what’s keeping this thing from blowing. I can’t…”
“Up the power, Art…twenty percent…right now!” Compton’s voice was loud, harsh. It wasn’t anger at his chief engineer, but he didn’t have time to argue. The next shot Midway failed to take for want of power could be the one that decided the battle. The Leviathan was ready to go, Compton was sure of it. But Midway was as well. Seconds counted, and watts of power to the lasers did too. “Whatever the danger.”
“Yes, sir.”
Compton could tell the engineer didn’t agree, though his own life rode on the outcome of the battle as much as anyone else’s. The admiral had seen many times how some of his most gifted people focused single-mindedly on their own duties, virtually ignoring other considerations. Mendel was right…it was foolish, dangerous to treat a fusion reactor with such contempt. Unless certain death in battle was the alternative. Compton sometimes envied the ability to obsess on a single consideration, instead of being endlessly besieged by a barrage of worries. The admiral’s chair was something many officers sought, a dream they aspired to one day attain.
If only they knew what it truly felt like…
Compton cut the line. He didn’t have time to argue with Mendel…and the engineer didn’t need any distractions. He had his hands full.
Midway shook again, another hit. Compton’s veteran senses could tell it came from the starboard side. That was good. Because there was a huge rent in the hull on Midway’s port, and if the enemy managed to place a shot in the open, unarmored area…
“Navigation…” Compton leaned over the com unit. “…fire the positioning jets. Keep our starboard side facing the enemy.” Midway only had one battery left on her wounded port side…and three on the starboard. And Compton was protecting his ship’s weak spot.
“Acknowledged, sir.”
It still felt strange, commanding a single ship. He’d been running Midway for months now, ever since Captain Horace had been grievously wounded when the flagship’s bridge took a hit. Compton had shuttled Horace over to Saratoga before Midway and the rearguard departed. At the time, the captain’s survival was still a question mark, though perhaps things were not as grim as they had been at first. Compton wondered how his friend was now. He’d either be out of the woods or…he shifted his thoughts away. There was no point in idle speculation. James Horace was a tough fighter. He’d pull through.
Compton had worn two hats after Horace was wounded, but now he had only one. Midway was alone, the rearguard for the rearguard, standing in the breech like the Spartans at Thermopylae. His uniform bore five stars on each shoulder, an insignia only ever worn by one other Alliance officer, but right now he was Midway’s captain, no other ships to command, no formations to draw his attention.
“Art,” he snapped into the com. “I need that power. Right now.”
“Coming, sir.” The engineer sounded exhausted, worn down to the last of his strength. He’d been performing miracles with the repair teams, keeping the savaged ship in the fight. And now he was about to roll the dice, and see if his skills could keep Midway’s reactor from failing critically…and vaporizing everyone on board. “Increasing power flow now…”
Compton sat in his chair, his eyes on the display. He could see the indicators begin to move as the flow of power from the ship’s reactors rose. So far so good. Of course, if it failed, he’d never know. If the reactor lost containment, even for an instant, Midway would be gone in a nanosecond.
“Starboard guns, increase to 120% yield.”
“Captain, the guns are already hot, damned near overloaded. If we increase the power, they could burn out entirely.” Cortez stared over at the admiral, his eyes wide, his normal poise beginning to fail.
“And if we don’t, that thing’s going to blow us to plasma.” Compton turned and stared at his tactical officer. “Do it. Now.”
Midway shook again, another hit. We can’t take many more of those…
“And I want all safeties off. I want those guns recharged and firing again as quickly as we can feed power into them.”
“Yes, sir.”
The ship shook again, harder this time, and along the wall a series of conduits blew, showering the flag bridge with sparks. Compton’s display blinked along with all the bridge screens and lights…but it all came right back.
Come on, old girl…hold it together a little longer.
Compton heard the familiar whine, the sounds of the three starboard laser cannons firing. It was louder now, the overloaded guns blasting with output they were never designed to sustain. Then again, another shot…but this time Midway shook again, not from an external shot, but from an internal explosion. One of the overloaded guns had blown…and that meant Midway had lost more of her crew. There were six men and women manning each laser, and Compton doubted any of them had survived. But now there was just one thought in his head.
Down to two guns…
“Maintain fire,” he snapped out.
“Yes, sir.”
Compton could hear the discomfort in Cortez’ voice, the rapprochement at the callousness of his commands, but he just ignored it. His officers were loyal, he knew that. But they were also human.
Maybe one day you will sit in this chair, Jack…and you will know what it is to be in command…
The lasers fired again. And again. Compton stared at his screen, watching the damage assessments coming in. The enemy ship was almost gone…one more good hit would take it out. But it still had power, and two guns firing.
Crash! The sound was loud, and it reverberated throughout the ship. A hit, a bad one. Compton could see his screen light up, dozens of flashing indicators showing the locations of damaged systems, internal explosions, hull compromises. He didn’t have to look to know it was bad. The silence that followed told him that.
“Commander the lasers…”
“Blown conduit, sir. Both starboard lasers are offline.”
Compton felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Midway and its adversary were in the final stages of their fight to the death, and victory would go to whoever landed the last hit.
“Navigation…bring us back around…port gun to bear.” He was ordering Midway to expose its weakest spot…but also the only remaining gun she had still functioning. Whichever ship lost the last of its offensive capability would lose the fight. And Compton was down to one laser.
* * *
“Midway’s in bad shape, but Chief McGraw has bay A open, at least somewhat. I want everybody to land as quickly as possible…we’ve got to get out of this system now.”
Everybody…the word itself mocked her. Hurley’s force, eighteen fighters when the rearguard first left the fleet, was four ships. Their attack against the enemy Leviathan had been crucial, and she knew Midway would never have survived the battle without it. But she’d lost six of her ten birds attacking. It was a fair trade, at least in the brutal math that governed war, but she still felt as though she’d failed those dead crews.
“All ships acknowledge, Admiral.” Kip Janz sat at his station, off to the side of Hurley’s command chair. “Should I order them to follow us in?”
“No,” Hurley said. “We go in reverse order. We’ll land last.”
Janz nodded. “Yes, Admiral.”
Hurley knew she was being silly. Landing order didn’t really matter, not with four ships. It wasn’t like she’d put her bird at the end of the line with a dozen squadrons coming in. But it was something, a minor token. The admiral who’d gotten most of her people killed would be the last to come in.
“Admiral,” Wilder said, turning back toward Hurley as he did. “I’ve got Chief McGraw on the line. He wants to talk to you.”
Hurley almost smiled. It was…unusual, to say the least for a chief to contact an admiral directly. But if there was a non-com in the navy with the balls to do it, it was Sam McGraw.
“What is it, Chief?” Hurley didn’t hesitate, she didn’t get hung up on protocol. McGraw was one of the hardest veterans she’d ever known, and if he had something to say to her, she would listen.
“Admiral, it’s the bay. It’s a shambles, a total wreck. It’d be closed for sure if the only alternative wasn’t leaving you all behind.”
“Yeah, Chief, I get that. But it is the only alternative to leaving us behind.”
“Admiral, you need to get your crazy flyboys to take it easy coming in here. They’ve got a quarter the usual clearance…which means if they don’t take it slow—very fucking slow—they’re going to crash. And then anybody behind them is shit out of luck.” McGraw was one of the few non-coms with the grit to swear to an admiral. Hurley knew another type of office might be offended, but she loved it. McGraw was a miserable old cuss, but there was never any doubt he was giving his best…and in the end, that’s all she wanted out of anybody.
“Alright, Chief, I’ll remind…” Her voice trailed off. She was looking at the display. There was an energy burst, coming from the Z17 warp gate. Her eyes were fixed, unmoving. “Chief, stand by.” She stared, waiting. And then it was there. A red icon. An enemy ship. Coming right toward Midway.
* * *
Compton stared at the screen, watching the flashing icon move slowly in from the Z17 warp gate. It was single ship, a Gargoyle according the preliminary scans. But that didn’t matter. Right now it might just as well have been a fleet of Colossuses. Midway didn’t have an operational weapon hot enough to light a candle. The damage control teams were hard at work, but it would be at least a day before they got any of the laser cannons back online.
He knew what his people were thinking. They were staring at the screens, looking at the distances…from Midway to the Z18 warp gate, and from the new contact to the Midway. They were calculating, trying to determine if the flagship could get to the warp gate and transit before the enemy vessel was able to engage. All but Compton. He already knew. His mind had done the calculations, automatically, almost subconsciously. The Gargoyle would intercept Midway seventy thousand klicks short of the gate. And then the First Imperium vessel would open up on his battered ship. And Compton and his people would die…just before they reached the warp gate and escape.
He slapped his hand down on the com. He already knew the answer, but he had to ask anyway. “Art, I need some lasers back online. Now.”
“Impossible, sir.” The voice paused for a second then continued, its tone grimmer. “I know it’s life or death, sir, but there is absolutely no way. We’ll be lucky if I can keep the reactor running so we can at least run for it.”
“Do what you can, Art,” Compton said, cutting the line. He took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before exhaling. For fifty years he’d always found a way, a tactic to extricate a trapped force, a stratagem to defeat a superior enemy. But now there was nothing.
Is this how it ends? A lifetime of war? With total helplessness?
His mind raced, trying to come up with a way…any way. But there wasn’t one. Midway was doomed.
He tried to console himself, told himself the sacrifice was worth it, that his people had bought the escape of the fleet with their looming deaths. And he did believe that…but it didn’t make it any easier to accept the price those who’d followed him here were about to pay.
Terrance Compton had been in difficult fights before, even ones others had called hopeless. In X2, he’d been the only one in the fleet not ready to give up…and his perseverance and skill had gotten his people out of that trap. But now he was done. He knew it, with a chilling certainly. He had no way out.
“Admiral, I’ve got Admiral Hurley for you, sir.”
Greta! The fighters. He had a brief flash of hope, but only for an instant. Hurley only had four birds left, and there was no time to rearm them. Another dead end.
“What is it, Greta?”
“Admiral, our scanners are picking up…”
“We’ve got it too, Greta. It’s a Gargoyle. But that’s enough now. More than enough.”
“Sir…” Her voice was soft, hesitant. “Make a run for it…for the warp gate.”
“I already did the calculations, Greta. We won’t make it.”
“Yes you will. I’ll stop the Gargoyle.”
Compton was silent. Hurley wasn’t an officer prone to empty boasting. “Greta, your people are out of torpedoes. There’s no time to reload…and no chance four fighters can take out a Gargoyle with lasers.” He felt a rush of pride in her…and an uneasiness too. He was beginning to understand where she was going.
“We have two torpedoes in my bird, Admiral.”
“Yes…but they’re stuck in your bomb bay.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re useless, sir.”
“Greta…” The full impact of terrible clarity was descending on him. “No…”
“It’s the only way, sir.” Her voice was somber, but there was decisiveness there.
Compton leaned back in his chair, his mind running wild, trying to think of alternative, anything. But there was nothing.
“What about your other fighters?” His voice was grim, like death.
“There’s no time to land them, Admiral. We both know that. And my people do too. They’ve volunteered…they will run interference when we make our run, do their best to cover us.”
“You’re talking about suicide…twenty people…”
“Not a bad trade for the hundreds on Midway, sir. Is it? How many times have we discussed the mathematics of war?”
Compton felt an agony deep inside. No, he couldn’t send more of his people to certain death. And Greta Hurley…she’d been a close friend for years, one of his inner circle. The last of the senior officers, save Erika West. It seemed unreal to him. Had it come to this? His old comrade, the fleet’s celebrated fighter corps commander…was she really going to crash her ship into the enemy Gargoyle?
He felt paralyzed. He knew there was no other way, that Hurley and her people would die anyway if the Leviathan destroyed Midway. But for a moment, he thought he had reached the end of his ability to contemplate such horrors. Then Hurley let him off the hook, at least somewhat.
“Terrance, we’re going to do this no matter what. Send us off with your blessing and not as mutineers. Please.”
Compton sat still, his eyes watery. He was trapped, and he knew it. “Very well, Greta, my friend. You have my blessing…and the gratitude of everyone on Midway. God go with you and those who serve with you.”
“Thank you, sir. For this…and for so many other things. It’s been an honor serving with you. Goodbye, Admiral Compton.”
Compton struggled to force the words from his throat. “Goodbye, Admiral Hurley.”
* * *
“Alright, John…are you ready.” Hurley’s tone was soft, sad.
“Yes, Admiral…I’m ready.”
“I think Greta will do now, John.” She glanced over at Kip Janz and the rest of her crew. “That goes for all of you.”
“Thank you, Greta,” Wilder said grimly.
“Then take us in, John.”
“Yes, Adm…Greta. The other ships are in position thirty klicks ahead.” Thirty kilometers was nothing in space combat. But the three other fighters would draw enemy fire, and shield Hurley’s ship. With a little luck—an odd use of the word perhaps—her fighter would get through the enemy defenses…and smash into the hull at high speed. The kinetic energy released, and the explosive force from the plasma torpedoes would be devastating. Enough, certainly, to take out a Gargoyle. As long as her bird didn’t get picked off on the way in.
“Kip, is everything ready?”
“Yes, sir.” He hesitated. “Yes, Greta. I’ve got the reactor’s containment system hooked into the plasma torpedo triggers. When the torpedoes blow, the fusion core will go too. It should be perfectly timed with our impact.”
“Very well.” She could already feel the 3g pressing against her as Wilder accelerated toward the enemy ship. It would take about twenty minutes to get there, assuming they managed to get through the big ship’s defenses.
She flipped on the com, opening the channel to all of her ships. “Okay, people…we all know what we’re about to do…and we know that this is our last mission. We’ve all been living on borrowed time, ever since the X2 gate was blown, and we were trapped. I want you to know, in all my career, I have never been prouder of men and women, than I am of the nineteen of you. We are warriors, all of us, and death is part of our creed. So, I say to you all now, if we are marked to die, we could not do it in better company…nor in a better cause, that of saving our friends and comrades.”
She flipped off the com, sucking in a deep breath, and fighting to hold in her emotion. Wilder was flying the ship, Janz was checking his handiwork on the torpedoes. But she had nothing to do…and her mind wandered, back through the years. Her days at the Academy, her first assignment. The great battles of the Third Frontier War, the relentless campaigns led by Augustus Garret and Terrance Compton that brought the Alliance from the brink of defeat to total victory.
I’ve come farther than I’d imagined possible, lived a life that young lieutenant could hardly have dreamed in her wildest fantasies. And I’ve known good people. Friends.
Some of those comrades are waiting for you, men and women lost…long ago, and recently too.
She felt the fear, the pain. She didn’t want to die. She wanted to live, to stay in the fight…to get back and see what awaited them on Shangri la. But she knew it was not to be. And if she was fated to die here, this was how she’d always imagined her death.
She felt a pang for Wilder…and Janz and the others in the four doomed ships. They would die heroes, covered in glory. But Hurley knew glory was a poor replacement for life.
She wondered what they were thinking, the others in her doomed attack. Were they remembering families, people they had already left behind? Were they fighting back the fear, steeling themselves to die as they’d imagined they would, up in arms and shaking their fists at the enemy?
She looked down at the display. They were entering the enemy’s defensive perimeter. Rockets were detonating around them. One of the covering fighters disappeared from the display, the victim of a nuclear explosion less than five hundred meters away. But the others pushed on.
Then another ship was gone, and her fighter pressed on, its sole remaining defender just ahead, blasting bravely toward the enemy. Half her people were gone, dead…but the rest continued forward. They had a job to do.
She glanced down at the display, watching Midway blast toward the warp gate, and she felt a wave of satisfaction, a new burst of courage. Fortune go with you, Terrance Compton…
The last escort disappeared, blown to bits by an enemy laser turret. But they were almost inside the defense perimeter. One more minute…and it would all be over.
The fighter shook hard, and went into a vicious roll. Structural supports fell, smashing into equipment. Kip Janz jerked upright, shaking around as a deadly blast of electricity took him. A girder smashed into the back of Hurley’s chair, severing her harness and sending her to the floor.
No…not this close. Midway…we can’t fail.
She was in pain…her arm, her legs. She had broken bones for sure, and every breath was a torment. She forced herself up to her hands and knees, and that’s when she saw. John Wilder, on the floor next to his pilot’s station, his face a mask of blood. He was dead, she knew that immediately. She turned, painfully, looking around the cockpit. They were all dead. She was the only one left.
She struggled to her feet, staggering forward, toward the pilot’s chair.
I…can’t…fail…
She plopped down in the seat, yelping in pain from a dozen injuries. She tried to focus, to clear her mind. The fighter was heading for the enemy vessel…almost, at least. It looked like the Gargoyle had detected the danger…and it was trying to alter its vector.
She grabbed the throttle, veered to match the enemy’s course change.
No way…no way you get away from me…
She felt the fatigue, the exhaustion. The agony was almost unbearable. But she refused to give up. It was pure will, her indomitable spirit against fear, pain, weakness.
The Gargoyle was close…just a few more seconds. She hoped Janz’ jury-rigging had held…but even if it hadn’t, the fighter was moving at almost 0.02c, and the kinetic energy the impact would release was almost incalculable.
She pushed on the throttle, increasing the thrust. The pain had been bad before, but now, at 4g, it was utter torment. She screamed, her shouts of pain echoing in the small cockpit. Her mind reeled, and tears streamed down her cheeks. But her hands held firm on the stick, increasing the thrust. Five gees. Six.
She felt as if her body was being torn apart…pain like she’d never imagined. Let go of the throttle, her mind screamed futilely. But she held on…somehow.
“This is for all our people you killed, you bastards! My friends, my comrades.” She took one last agonizing breath…and then she thrust the throttle forward full.
Chapter Seventeen
AS Saratoga
System X108
The Fleet: 82 ships (+2 Leviathans), 19,989 crew
West watched as the enemy ships closed on her fleet. Her ships had retreated abruptly, and their sudden withdrawal had caught the First Imperium fleet by surprise. The human vessels had mostly broken contact, at least for a short while, and she knew the damage control teams were working feverishly to put that time to good use.
All except the ships that had serious damage to their engines. They were still trying to get back…with the enemy on their heels. The two vessels whose engines had been knocked out totally hadn’t lasted more than a few minutes on their own, and she had watched the display silently as each ship died, along with almost 350 of her people…men and women she had abandoned.
West stared at the display, watched as the enemy approached. The First Imperium AIs had no doubt determined the humans were beaten, that they had retreated because they were broken, fleeing for their lives. And she ached for the moment they would realize they had walked into a trap…that their destruction was at hand.
She knew it was foolish to superimpose human thoughts on the First Imperium AIs. As far as her people had been able to tell—and Cutter had done a lot of research—the control units of the First Imperium fleet had no self-preservation directives, at least not as such. Sacrificing an entire fleet to achieve an end was a perfectly valid strategy to them, one they wouldn’t hesitate to employ if it made sense.
The Regent, she suspected, was different. Almost certainly so. Indeed, it had identified humanity as a threat and launched a war of genocide to protect itself. That wasn’t the thought process of a sane thinking machine. And it certainly exhibited a self-preservation initiative.
“All ships in position, Admiral. Enemy forces are pursuing. They will reenter weapons range in…approximately six minutes.”
And they will enter Cutter’s range in three…
“All ships stand by. Prepare to fire as the enemy moves within range.” If it comes to that. West wasn’t a very trusting person—she respected most peoples’ competence as little as their loyalty—but for reasons she couldn’t fully explain, she was sure Cutter had the situation in hand. The scientist was the smartest person she’d ever met, and when she’d heard of his exploits, how he’d stood and defended a group of wounded Marines, facing almost certain death in the process, she realized he was no pompous academic. This was a man worth trusting.
She glanced down at the screen. Less than two minutes. She felt the time passing slowly, each tortured second reluctantly giving way to the next. She knew the intelligences on those ships weren’t beings, that they wouldn’t die in panic and shock and pain when Cutter opened up on them. But she let herself imagine that anyway.
One minute. One more minute, and we’ll see what our forefathers left here for us…
* * *
Beverly Jones leaned forward, her hand tight around the throttle. She could hear her heart beating, like a drum in her ears. There was sweat on her neck, dripping down from her hairline. In somewhat less than clinical terms, she was scared shitless. Not just of the enemy, but of the almost forty fighters and two hundred crew under her command. She knew she was about to get a lot of them killed, and she was struggling to deal with that, to shove the doubts aside and do her job.
My job by default…how did Admiral Hurley and Mariko do this so effortlessly?
No, she realized. Not effortlessly. They had their doubts, their fears…but they handled them. And I will too.
“Okay, people, Admiral West is counting on us. Let’s not let her down.” She took a deep breath, and then she leaned closer to the com unit. “Attack!”
She pushed forward on the throttle, accelerating her fighter toward the closest enemy target, a Gargoyle. The enemy reserve didn’t have any Leviathans, only the smaller Gargoyles and Gremlins. And her bombers could hurt them badly if they scored enough hits.
“Let’s get torpedo A armed and ready…I’m bring us around for an attack run.” She was in command of the entire strike force, but she was also the pilot of her ship. Tucker Jahns had been wounded in the last battle, and he was still in sickbay. And she wasn’t about to leave a functional bird back in the hanger for lack of a trained pilot.
“Torpedo armed and ready, Commander.” The gunner’s voice was high-pitched. He was young, and he looked even younger. Jones would have guessed he was about fifteen minutes out of the Academy if she hadn’t known better. But Walter Finch was a hardened combat veteran. She knew that from experience over the last eighteen months.
“Very well, Lieutenant. Beginning attack run now.”
She tilted the throttle to the right, changing the angle of the ship’s thrust, altering its vector of movement. The Gargoyle was close, less than fifty thousand kilometers, and she was planning to take a run right at it. The point defense fire wasn’t going to be any fun, especially with no warships engaging the target, but there was nothing she could do about that.
“Hang on, guys,” she said, as she shoved the control forward, increasing the ship’s thrust. Three gees. Four. Five. The sooner they got to firing range, the better chance they had.
She glanced at her display. The incoming fire was light. She felt a moment of excitement, followed by an immediate come down. It was light because three of her other fighters were attacking the same target…and they were getting blasted. One of them was already falling back, clearly damaged, its engines knocked out. It was still heading for the target, but it couldn’t accelerate or decelerate.
“Ten thousand kilometers,” she said, pulling her eyes away from the stricken fighter’s symbol. The best thing she could do for that crew was take out the Gargoyle.
“Nine thousand…prepare for high gee maneuver.”
She stared down at the targeting display, locking the torpedo on the target.
“Eight thousand…” She knew she should get closer. She’d watched Hurley do it. And Mariko too, even closer. She’d have sworn her friend was certifiably crazy. But she could feel her hand shaking, and she knew she didn’t have it in her. She was already close, inside normal firing range. She’d done all that was expected of a fighter pilot. But she just didn’t have it in her to ride it to five thousand…or even the four thousand she’d seen Mariko pull off. She wanted to be the hero, the wild fighter jock with no fear, no hesitation. But it just wasn’t her.
She pulled the trigger, and her fighter shook as the torpedo launched. She slammed the throttle to the side, pulling it back hard, and blasting away from the collision course…and past the enemy ship.
The display plotted the course of her torpedo. A hit! She felt a rush of excitement, tempered a bit as she realized the weapon impacted on a heavily-armored section of the hull. It did damage, no doubt…a considerable amount. But it wasn’t the kind of ship-killing critical hit she’d seen Mariko and Hurley’s birds deliver.
* * *
“What should we do?” Sasha Debornan—or the thing the human being with that name had become—sat in the quarters that had been assigned to her. She looked over at Don Rames, her ally, another human controlled now by the nanos. They were there for a purpose, to serve the Regent. But now it was unclear how to proceed.
“I do not know. There is insufficient data to formulate a course of action.” Rames sat still, unmoving, looking uncomfortable. The nanos controlled his every move, but they had no sense of comfort.
Debornan sat silently, thinking. They had designed a plan, one based on the knowledge they had been able to acquire. To assassinate Admiral Compton. But Terrance Compton was not with the fleet, he was off leading a diversionary force.
“Many of Compton’s people believe him to be dead. If that is the case, perhaps we should change our target to Admiral West. She appears to be the likely successor to Compton.” Rames voice was deadpan, without emotion.
“There is merit to such a consideration. But I have doubts. We do not know Compton is dead, only that some of his people fear he is. If he is alive, if he returns, he is undoubtedly the greater threat.” She paused, thinking. “This ship is in battle now. If it falls, we will be destroyed…but so will Admiral West. Therefore, I propose that we wait and reevaluate after the engagement ends. Perhaps by that time there will be additional information on Admiral Compton.”
“Yes,” Rames said. “I believe that is the best course for the present.” He paused. Then he looked at Debornan. “While we wait, I submit that the remnants of the thought processes of the biologics are no longer of value. I propose we eliminate them.”
Debornan considered. “Yes, I am inclined to agree. We have procured their knowledge. They are of no further utility.”
Somewhere in the recesses of her brain, the captive remnants, the emotions, the essence of Sasha Debornan felt the darkness closing, coming in from all sides. She screamed, silently, with no one to hear. And then it was over. All that had made Sasha Debornan the person she was, her loves, dreams, beliefs…was gone.
* * *
West sat in her chair, her eyes fixed on the main display. She was counting down softly to herself. “Five, four, three…”
She had her ships prepared, their weapons armed and ready. But first she would see the power of the ancients, wielded by Hieronymus Cutter.
“Ready to fire, Admiral.” Cutter’s voice was soft in her headset, but she could hear the tension in his voice. She knew the brilliant scientist believed he had gained control over the ancient weapons array, but none of them would know for sure. Not until he fired.
“Admiral, we’re getting energy readings off the charts! Almost a hundred weapons platforms, all suddenly active.” The power output was so huge, it was impossible to miss. Her eyes darted to the wall of approaching icons, the enemy fleet. She could see them decelerating, trying to slow their approach. They had picked up the power spikes too.
“Firing,” Cutter said, and an instant later the display lit up like a supernova. Massive explosions all around the firing platforms…and great pulses of energy, laser blasts ripping through space, smashing into the enemy warships.
West watched as one ship simply vaporized, its hull melting and turning to gas in a microsecond, leaving nothing at all behind. Other vessels were torn in half or had great holes ripped through them. They bled gasses and fluids, secondary explosions wracked their interiors, blowing great chunks from their hulls. In less than ten seconds, over sixty enemy ships ceased to exist, nothing but a few slowly-cooling plasmas to mark that they’d ever been there.
West felt a rush of excitement. She pumped her clenched fist into the air, and she joined the flag bridge crew in a loud scream. The power that Cutter had unleashed was like nothing she’d ever seen before. The alien Almeerhan had been good to his word. The Ancients had planned for this moment. They had left their technology for those who would come after. And now that tech was doing what it had been designed to do so many eons before. It was lashing out at the Ancients’ enemy, at the ships of the Regent. The hand of those slain by that monstrous intelligence had struck a great blow, one from beyond the ages.
But even that momentous attack had left almost thirty enemy vessels remaining. They were reversing power, blasting their engines at full, trying to come to a stop…and then accelerate away from the threat. But Erika West had no intention of letting them go. She knew it would be a bloody fight, but she intended to take out every one of the enemy vessels.
“All ships, attack at will…no one gets away. No one.”
She stared straight ahead with a single thought in her mind.
Kill.
* * *
“Hang on…I’m giving it everything we’ve got left.” Jones’ voice was strained, the eight gees pushing down on her making it almost impossible to speak. But she couldn’t let up. Not now. The battle was all but won…save this last enemy vessel.
Her fighters had destroyed the reserve task force, all but the single remaining vessel. And she’d watched with amazement as her scanners showed her what had happened in the inner system. The power of those weapons emplacements was almost beyond imagination, making even the heaviest guns of the First Imperium vessels seem weak and insignificant by comparison.
It was a great victory…or at least it would be if she caught this last ship. The enemy vessel was running for the warp gate, seeking to escape, to report that the human fleet had been found, that they had taken refuge in the X108 system. That one ship, damaged, fleeing, could drain all the advantage gained by the great victory. If they got away it wouldn’t be long before more ships came…before the true might of the First Imperium gathered here.
“No…we can’t let that happen…”
Jones’ ship was the only one close enough to have a chance at catching the enemy. She had one torpedo left, and if she managed to place it in the right spot it would be enough. She was sure of that.
Her hand jerked the throttle back and forth, trying to make her bird as tough a target as possible for the enemy point defense. The fire was heavy, but her quick hand—and her luck—had served her well. Her bird was inside 10,000 kilometers. But this time she was going to take it all the way…beyond point blank range.
Eight thousand kilometers.
She flipped the arming switch. The torpedo was ready to go.
Her hands were on the controls, her eyes on the screen.
Seven thousand.
“I’m going to make you proud of me, Mariko.” Her words were silent, inaudible, meant only for herself. “I’m going to take it right down their throats.”
She knew she needed a perfect shot, a critical hit that could destroy the enemy ship. Anything else was failure. The target would continue on through the warp gate. And warn the Regent.
Six thousand.
Her hands were steady, the earlier fear gone. She knew what she had to do, and that was all that mattered. Her finger started closing slowly, putting pressure on the launch mechanism.
Five thousand.
Just another few seconds…
The ship shook hard, and she heard the sound of an explosion behind her, the screams of her shipmates. She felt something splatter on her from behind. Blood, she realized, looking up at the red speckled forward screen. She felt a wave of panic, but she held it back, closing her finger on the trigger.
Nothing.
She pressed it again. And again. Still nothing.
She knew in an instant. The ship was damaged—the firing controls, the bomb bay doors…something.
Then it came over her. Fear, despair.
I have failed.
She felt the misery, the despair. Hopelessness. Defeat. But only for an instant. Then the ship exploded, and she was gone.
* * *
The battle was over. Almost, at least. In the inner system, there was not a First Imperium vessel remaining. The fleet that had come to X108, to Shangri la, to destroy the humans, had itself been obliterated.
With a little help from the Ancients…
West was grateful…to Cutter, and to the people who had so long ago prepared this place. But now she just looked at her screen, at the blank space where Beverly Jones’ fighter had been. Jones had come close, recklessly close to the enemy, determined to ensure that her torpedo did the job, that it hit where she needed it to hit. And for an instant, after the terrible realization that Jones’ ship was gone, West thought she might have loosed the weapon just before she was hit. But the enemy ship was still there. No signs of an explosion. She watched as it continued on its path…and a minute later as it reached the warp gate and disappeared from the screen.
She felt the excitement drain from her. It was still a victory, a crucial one. But they’d just lost most of the advantage. The enemy would be back now, and in even greater force. She could imagine the Regent’s reaction, its version of excitement as it called out to its forces, sent every ship it had to X108.
West felt like prey, trapped, run to the ground somewhere from which there was no escape. She’d considered running, gathering the fleet and taking off, deeper and deeper into endless space. But that only lasted a second. Her ships were low on fuel, on food, on ammunition. Running wasn’t the answer…and fleeing and giving up this world left for them by the Ancients…it just wasn’t possible.
If we just had more time, enough to adapt some of this technology. She hoped they would, that the weeks and months would pass with no attack. That the Regent’s forces were dispersed, looking for them, that Compton had strung them out over a dozen systems. But she knew that was wishful thinking, that whatever the details, their time was limited. Very limited.
“Get me Dr. Cutter…no, belay that.” She stood up from her chair and turned toward Krantz. “Get my shuttle ready. I’m going down to the surface.”
Chapter Eighteen
Underground Complex
Near Landing Zone X-Ray
Planet X108 IV – “Shangri la”
The Fleet: 80 ships (+2 Leviathans), 19762 crew
West stood in the center of the control room, her head moving back and forth, looking at the array of screens and workstations. It all looked new, almost like a ship just out of the yard, though she knew it was half a million years old.
The Marine guards stood behind her. She’d tried to come down alone, with just the shuttle pilot to ferry her to the surface, but she’d almost faced an outright rebellion…from the Marines, and from her officers as well. She was getting an idea of what Compton had dealt with for so long, and her already enormous respect for the admiral grew even vaster.
She reached around, intending to scratch an itch, but then she remembered, for about the tenth time, she had an environmental suit on. She hated wearing space suits and their various cousins, but she was skewered by her own orders. The preliminary scans had found no pathogen dangerous to humans, nothing beyond normal bacteria and viruses capable of causing illnesses on par with a mild case of the flu. But she intended to take no chances, not with a deadly plague ravaging twenty of her ships. Snow Leopard had been the only vessel whose entire crew had reached the deadly end stage of the disease…but the cursed vessel had given a glimpse of the future if the medical teams didn’t find a cure…and soon.
She heard a swooshing sound, a door opening on the far wall. “Admiral West, I’m so sorry. No one told me you were coming down.” Hieronymus Cutter stepped into the room. “Welcome to Shangri la, Admiral.”
West stared at the scientist, shocked. Cutter stood in front of her wearing a set of coveralls…and nothing else. No suit, no air tank. Nothing.
“Hieronymus…” Her tone was thick with concern.
“I know, Admiral. I’m stuck down here…I understand. The obelisk…I had to touch it, let it scan my DNA. It was the only way in.”
“You took one hell of a chance…what if there had been a pathogen down here? What if there is, and we haven’t found it yet?”
“Then I guess I’ll die, Admiral.” Cutter’s tone was deadpan, matter-of-fact. “But if I hadn’t taken my armor off, I’d never have gotten down here…and we would have had no idea of the range of the defensive systems. And your people would have had to destroy an extra sixty enemy ships without any help.”
West just nodded. “You’re right, of course. We all take the risks we must.” She paused, and when she continued her voice had a twinge of guilt to it. “But you were right, Hieronymus. I can’t let you back up to the fleet. Not until we’re absolutely sure there are no dangerous pathogens down here.”
“I know, Admiral. I understand.” He turned and looked around the room. “There’s enough down here to keep me busy for a hundred years…so I can assure you my time won’t be wasted.” He paused. “Maybe you could shuttle down a shelter and a few other things. And my lab equipment.”
“Of course.” She looked right at him. “And thank you…for all your research, for your courage in doing what you had to do down here. That was amazing, Hieronymus. Those weapons are incredible…this could turn the tide of the whole war.” Her normally disciplined voice was betraying excitement.
Cutter returned West’s gaze. He’d never heard her as effusive about anything. But he had to admit, the megalasers had certainly put on a show. Still, a frown slipped onto his face.
“Admiral, I urge caution. Agreed, the laser installations are awesomely powerful…but there are limitations as well. They are anti-matter bomb pumped installations. Each turret actually has a series of…for lack of a better word, cartridges. They are expelled from the main station, and when in position they detonate, channeling a large portion of the energy released into the laser shot. But the supply of cartridges is very limited, perhaps only one or two more per platform. I believe the failsafe systems jettisoned them over the centuries, as their containment systems showed signed of failure. I’ve also found evidence of a dozen stations that are just gone. I’d guess their AIs didn’t catch the deterioration, and the antimatter annihilated, taking the platforms with it.”
“So you’re saying we only have a few more shots left? And then the planet’s defenses will be gone?”
Cutter took a breath and looked down at the floor for a few seconds before answering. “I wouldn’t say gone, Admiral. There are some lesser platforms…they’re nuclear powered. They’re all dead now, but I’d bet we could get some of them up and running. But the megalasers are the real killers. And once those last couple shots are gone, we’re going to need to produce more. And it will be a very long time before we can even come close to that. First, we need to develop a practical method for producing antimatter in quantity.”
West sighed softly, her exhale fogging her visor slightly. “That’s bad news, Hieronymus…and I’ve got some more. One of the enemy ships escaped. So whatever chance we had of being left alone for a while is probably gone. We’re going to have to make the use of those shots we’ve got left on the megalasers…and we’ve got to do everything possible to get the lesser platforms operable.”
“I’ll do whatever I can, Admiral. I’m sure the fleet needs all the damage control personnel it has, but if you can detach an engineering team, I’ll see about getting some of the smaller guns up and running.”
“You’ll have them in a few hours, Hieronymus…the best we’ve got.”
Cutter was silent. He looked like he was going to says something, but he just stood there.
“What is it, Hieronymus?”
“Well, Admiral, I found something. Several things, in fact…and it gave me an idea.”
“What? Speak?” West stared at him, looking surprised at his hesitancy. “What’s wrong, Hieronymus?”
“Nothing, Admiral…it’s just…” He looked up from the floor. “It’s just that it’s pretty far out. A crazy idea. But when you see what I found here…”
“Show me, Hieronymus.” She walked across the room toward him. “Nothing that comes out of that amazing mind of yours is too far out.”
* * *
“Saratoga, we need help. We’ve got people dropping in the corridors, and we can’t cram another patient into sickbay.” West listened to the transmission as Krantz fielded another plea for help from one of the plague-stricken ships. Nanking was a freighter, and she’d had contact with eight or more other vessels before it was discovered that her people carried the disease.
West had given the fleet’s medical staff all the resources she could…anything they asked for that she had or could find or steal. But progress had been slow.
Slow…more like non-existent.
She had come to believe without a doubt that they were facing a bioweapon, all the more because there were cases on a number of ships that had not come into contact with Snow Leopard or any vessel that had. And they were still infected. At least one other ship had been hit with the strange small projectiles…though its since-relieved captain had not seen fit to report it until almost a month later.
West no longer had the slightest doubt those mysterious projectiles were some system designed to deliver bacteriological weapons…and that they had done just that. To more than one of her ships.
The Regent had modified the original plague…it had overcome the DNA immunity the Ancients had engineered into humanity’s ancestors. She knew she had nothing remotely like actual evidence, but she didn’t have the slightest doubt that is what had happened. But knowing didn’t help. Her medical staff had to find a cure—to a disease that had wiped out the far more advance Ancients. And if they didn’t, at least a quarter of her people would die. And that assumed she could contain the spread. It was only speculation, hope, that the enemy hadn’t found some alternate means to deliver the pathogen to other ships. If they had, she knew it was possible the entire fleet was already doomed.
“Nanking, there are no fleet resources available beyond what you have received. You will have to make the best of what you have for now.” West listened as Krantz gave the stock reply, the same thing he’d told the others. She could hear the strain in his voice, and she understood how hard it was for him to refuse the requests for aid.
“Saratoga, we don’t even have enough crew left standing to run the ship. Almost everything is on auto control already. Our medical staff is all infected…half of them are already bedridden. In another few hours, the dying will be completely unattended.”
“I’m sorry, Captain,” Krantz said softly. “I really am.” Then: “Saratoga out.”
West closed her eyes. She knew her reputation, but she wasn’t the heartless monster many thought she was. It tore at her to think of her crew members, scared, sick, dying…with no help. With her refusing them help. But there was no choice. She couldn’t send more people to those ships and let them get infected. No, her first duty was to contain the spread of the disease, and with as little information as she had it was impossible to evaluate risks.
She wouldn’t even send shuttles to dock with the stricken vessels. This was no ordinary virus…it had been designed as a weapon. To kill. By a machine of immense sophistication and intelligence. Its entire purpose was to spread. West was far from convinced the fleet’s normal decontamination procedures were reliable against this virus. It wouldn’t surprise her if it could survive the radiation of the decon chambers…or even a period of time in deep space. No, she couldn’t risk the rest of her people, not until she knew more.
She thought of Captain Ving, of Snow Leopard and her crew. She’d been horrified when he’d made his request, and it had taken everything she had to give him her blessing. But now she realized Ving’s wisdom. He had not only saved Saratoga…he’d saved his people. Not from death, but from the final, agonizing misery of the final stages of a plague ship’s tortured end. Snow Leopard’s crew was dead, but their pain was over, and they had died as heroes, saving their comrades.
There would be no such saving grace on Nanking. The crew there would sicken, they would drop in the hallways, lie on the floor in writhing agony. In their own vomit. The halls would reek, and there would be no one left to clean up, to bring food, medicine. Even water. No painkillers, no meds to ease the suffering. The stricken would just lie where they dropped, moaning in pain as their lives slipped away. There would be no hero’s death for any of them, no comfort, no dignity. And there was nothing she could do about it.
Not a damned thing.
* * *
West looked across the table, at the astonished faces staring back at her. She knew what she had told them was hard to absorb…she’d been no less stunned when Cutter had laid out the plan to her. But she knew the brilliant scientist was right. It was the only chance they had. They might beat back another attack. Two, perhaps. Even three. But the Regent would continue to send fleets to Shangri la…and eventually they would overwhelm her people. No, there was no other way. However insanely desperate this plan seemed.
“Admiral, how is that even possible?” Max Harmon sat across from West, and he stared back at her. No one would have called Harmon a timid man, but even he looked at her like she was crazy.
“It is possible because of Hieronymus Cutter, Max. Because he has begun to explore the complex down on the surface. And because he found this.” She punched a button, and the display lit up, showing a document. One side appeared to be a map…and the other was a schematic of some type of vast electronic device.
“This, my fellow officers, is a complete set of design specs for the Regent…and plans of the complex in which it is housed. It shows the way in, the weak spots in the security…everything.”
She looked around the table, drawing a touch of perverse satisfaction as she saw the shocked looks on their faces.
Harmon was no less surprised than anyone else. But behind the wonder on his face, the skepticism remained. “That is an amazing bit of intelligence…assuming it is accurate. It is half a millions years old, after all.”
“Yes, Max…that is true. But all of our intelligence suggests that the Regent has done little or nothing to develop new technology or expand the imperium. Indeed, through whatever combination of programming and malfunction, it appears to have behaved in an extremely reactionary manner. Doctor Cutter believes it is unlikely the Regent would have made any major changes to itself…and I am inclined to agree. There is a good chance these schematics are an accurate depiction of the machine’s current makeup.”
Harmon nodded. “What you say makes sense. I agree. But even if we assume that is the case…and if we believe this information will allow us to develop a feasible way to destroy the Regent, how do we get to the imperium’s home world, across dozens of jumps, through all the fleets massing to assault Shangri la?”
West smiled again. “We have Dr. Cutter to thank again…for another item he found down there. The Ancients who created the Regent sought to destroy it long before we entered this fight. They had turned over control of their civilization to the machine generations before, and they faced the same challenge we do…how to approach, how to reach Deneb VIII and the Regent, when the enemy controlled the imperium’s fleets. And they solved that problem.” She reached down and pressed a small button on the table.
The doors slid to the side, and two Marines walked in, pushing an anti-grav sled with a cylinder about a meter high on it. It looked like some kind of glass, though it was clear it was a material beyond anything mankind had developed.
“This is the only one of its kind,” West continued. “It was developed by the Ancients, a massive breakthrough even for them. According to the logs Dr. Cutter found, they developed this device to allow them to travel back to their home world undetected…and to destroy the Regent. It blocks all scanning technology known to them…it even generates a field of practical visual invisibility.”
The room was silent. The officers present, whatever hatred they had for the Regent, had come to admire and respect First Imperium technology. Finally, Max Harmon spoke. “Did the records indicate what happened? Why they never followed through?” He was staring at the alien device, just as everyone else in the room was doing.
“Yes, Dr. Cutter found the notes of the head of the research team. And they tell a somber tale. By the time they finished the device, the plague had infected them all, even in this hidden retreat. They had tried to protect themselves, but the infection reached them in spite of their efforts. The remaining members of the warrior caste, the team that was going to destroy the Regent…they were too weak, even to stand. They would never even have reached the Deneb system. So they changed the plan…looked to the future, to us…and they left the device, along with their plans and their logs. They left them for us. Their plan changed from one of salvation to one of vengeance.”
She looked around the table, at each of her colleagues. “And now it has come to us. We are outgunned, outmatched, besieged. We too are facing a deadly plague, though it appears we have it confined to certain ships, at least for now. We are still able to put together an able-bodied team…and to install this device on one of our ships. And send that vessel on a desperate mission, a wild gamble beyond anything we have done during our unlikely flight over the last eighteen months. And if—if—this team can succeed, we may finally find a way to survive, to stop running…and to begin to adapt the amazing technology the Ancients left behind for us.”
“But, Admiral…even if we are able to destroy the Regent…” Harmon paused, a concerned look on his face. “The fleets, the armed forces…they would most likely follow their last orders, wouldn’t they? The Regent isn’t in constant contact with each vessel. Clearly, they are operating under orders to destroy us. So eliminating the Regent would be satisfying, no doubt. But I don’t see how it would change the tactical situation significantly. We would still be attacked here…again and again until we are wiped out.”
“You’re right, Max, of course.” West nodded slowly. “We cannot simply destroy the Regent, at least not before we compel it to order its forces to stand down.”
There were a few soft laughs around the room. Everyone thought West was joking. Everyone except Max Harmon.
“The computer virus,” he said softly.
“Yes, Max. The virus. Dr. Cutter has improved it significantly.” She pulled a small data crystal from her pocket and set it down on the table. “He has given me the latest version. He has made some changes after reviewing the Regent’s schematics.”
“Admiral…the Regent is an electronic brain beyond anything mankind has imagined, sophisticated in a way that defies our ability to define. I respect Dr. Cutter, and I would never bet against his brilliance…but can we really hope this virus will allow us to take control of the Regent?”
“No, Max. Not permanently, at least. Hieronymus feels it is almost certain the Regent has ancillary security systems that would detect the infection and eliminate it.”
Harmon was about to say something, but West continued before he had the chance. “We don’t need to control it, at least not for long. The team will introduce the virus, order the Regent to issue a command to all military forces to stand down…and then they will destroy it before it can regain control.” She hesitated and then added softly, “And hopefully they will escape.” There was doubt in her voice, and all those present knew West considered this a virtual suicide mission.
She paused, looking around the room, gauging the reactions of the officers present. Erika West was an icy warrior, cold, unshakable in combat…but she wasn’t the leader they all expected to propose something as wild as this. The mission was a longshot, no matter how it was analyzed. It required a degree of optimism, or at least a grim belief that a small group of men and women could achieve something virtually beyond imagination. Even if the cost was their lives.
But West didn’t look doubtful…there was nothing but confidence in her tone. “The Ancients planned this operation five hundred thousand years ago,” she said. “They prepared for it. They put the last bits of their scientific capability into building what they needed. But they were too late. By the time they were ready to go, they had succumbed to their enemy. They died…they died before they could execute the plan they’d devised to save their own civilization.”
West stood up, and she panned her head around the table, looking at the stunned and uncertain faces around the table. “We are their descendants, we know that now. And we are going to do this, my friends. We are going to complete their mission half a million years later.”
Chapter Nineteen
Underground Complex
Near Landing Zone X-Ray
Planet X108 IV – “Shangri la”
The Fleet: 82 ships (+2 Leviathans), 19391 crew
“Perhaps I can wear an environmental suit…or I can stay in a decon chamber.” Hieronymus Cutter was frustrated. He understood West’s caution…she was dealing with twenty ships ravaged with a deadly disease…and if the pathogen causing it existed on Shangri la, Cutter had been exposed to it. That hadn’t been a problem when the fleet was fighting and Cutter was digging through the knowledge storehouse of the Ancients. But now the fleet was sending a team to the imperial homeworld ,to Deneb VIII, to take control of the Regent with Cutter’s virus, to order the armed forces of the imperium to stand down…and then to destroy the infernal creation that had murdered its creators and then tried to do the same to mankind.
“For six weeks? Without a break? What if there is an accident? What if the ship is hit and the decon chamber compromised?” Ana Zhukov stood along the wall, looking at Cutter. Her face was twisted into a frown, though he could barely see it through the visor of her armor. Zhukov wasn’t a Marine, but Connor Frasier had trained her well enough to get around in a fighting suit. He’d ostensibly done it to protect the second most important scientist in the fleet, though everyone who knew him realized he had other motivations that were far more personal.
“Ana…don’t you understand? This is it. The climax of this entire nightmare. If this succeeds…”
“I understand that, Hieronymus…but you still can’t go. Admiral West needs you here. The fleet needs you…and everything you can coax out of these defense systems. You stay. I will go to Deneb.”
Cutter stood up abruptly, but Connor Frasier spoke first. “You see, Hieronymus? She’s been saying this all morning. Talk some sense into her.” He hesitated then added, “Please.” The worry in the giant Marine’s voice was clear.
“Ana…this is my virus. I have to go. You can take my place here, explore the archives…and assist the admiral.”
“Bullshit,” she spat. “You know as well as I do that we both worked on that virus. I know it as well as you do, or almost at least. I can do this…as well as you can. But I can’t replace you here. We both know Almeerhan implanted things in your mind. You are the only one who can do what has to be done here.”
She turned around toward Frasier. “And if you object so strongly to your girlfriend going on this mission, there’s an easy way to fix that.” There was an ominous tone to her voice.
Frasier just stared back, silent.
“How many times have I waited while you went on some dangerous mission?”
“Ana, I’m a Marine.”
“You think that makes it any easier to sit on Midway and hope you come back alive? And yet you expect me to stay behind, to shirk my duty, put everyone at risk just so you don’t have to worry about me?”
Frasier just stood there.
“Well, I don’t care what either of you think. Hieronymus has to stay here…and I’m the only other one in the fleet who understands the virus well enough to handle this.” She looked over at Cutter and then back again toward Frasier. And Admiral West agrees with me, so the two of you can just get used to it.”
Her voice was defiant, rock solid. “Because I’m going.”
Then she turned around and walked out of the room, right past both of them. Without uttering another word.
* * *
“Admiral, we’re getting more reports from across the fleet. There are five hundred eleven confirmed fatalities from the Plague. And twenty-two ships report some level of infection.” Krantz’ voice was grim. West understood. Her tactical officer had been listening to reports for the past hour, mostly sick officers providing statistics on the even sicker spacers on their ships.
The Plague…it’s never good when something like this gets widespread enough to acquire a name.
“Very well.” West felt sympathy for her crews. She hated feeling as impotent as she did. At least in battle, she could issue orders, develop stratagems…she could do something. But now she was just listening, waiting for updated death counts, for more ships to report increasing infection levels. “Nanking?”
“Sorry, Admiral. Still no response.” Krantz’ voice was grim.
West just nodded. It wasn’t a surprise, not after the last transmission. But it was still hard to think about the freighter, its entire crew infected, so sick that not one of them could reach a com unit and respond to the flagship’s inquiries. She didn’t know how many people were still alive on Nanking, but she pretty sure they were all suffering in their final hours. She felt the urge to send a relief expedition…there had been numerous volunteers among the med staff. But she’d refused them all. She simply would not—could not—take any risk she could avoid. The very survival of the fleet depended on her decisions now.
She knew what people would say. The cold-blooded admiral, sitting on her flag bridge, withholding aid from the stricken crews. Nanking was a CAC ship. They would say that’s why she refused aid, ignoring the fact that Snow Leopard had been an Alliance vessel. Her rivals for command of the fleet would use it all against her, even as her resolve kept them safe from the ravages of the deadly disease.
She’d even considered blasting Nanking to atoms, sparing its crew the agonies of dying unattended. But that would look even worse. She hated the idea of letting men and women suffer because putting them out of their misery would look bad…but that was also her reality.
West had long ago become used to the whispers, the stark stares from those who believed the stories about her. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t bothered by it. She’d thought she understood the pressure on Compton, but now that she was standing in his place the true weight of it all became apparent. And she lacked the emotional attachment Compton had enjoyed from most of the fleet’s personnel. West had loyalty, at least from her Alliance personnel, who knew she was a smart and capable commander. But the love Compton had felt from the officers, the spacers of the fleet…that was something she had never known.
She just sat, listening to the eerie silence on Saratoga’s bridge. She knew her officers were struggling with their own thoughts. They didn’t blame her for the situation…she was sure of that. But she knew they disapproved, as least in the non-specific way those removed from final responsibility could indulge themselves. But if adding to her reputation as a heartless automaton was what it took to keep them alive, such were the burdens of command.
She moved her hand toward the com unit, but then she stood up abruptly, turning toward Krantz as she did. “I’ll be in my office, Commander.” Then she walked toward the side of the flag bridge and waved her hand over the sensor. The door slipped open, and she stepped inside, pausing a minute and listening to the hatch close behind her. Then she walked over to her desk and sat down, tapping the com as she did. “Dr. Gower,” she said softly, “what updates have you got for me?”
“Very little, I’m afraid, Admiral.” Justine Gower had been Midway’s chief medical officer, but Admiral Compton had included her on the list of non-essential personnel transferred off the ship before he departed with the rearguard. West suspected that Gower’s transfer had less to do with her being non-essential than the fact that she was unquestionably the best doctor in the fleet, a precious resource not to be risked in his desperate rearguard action.
“Anything?” West felt some of the fight draining out of her. She didn’t know how long she could stay strong while she was watching people getting sick and dying throughout the fleet.
“Well, it’s definitely something similar to a severe Earth influenza, kind of a super flu. But it seems like the virus itself has been extensively engineered to resist all forms of treatment. All our antivirals are completely ineffective, as are all other treatments we’ve attempted.” Gower paused. “Honestly, Admiral, we simply have no idea how to kill it.”
“It seems to take quite a while to reach the critical stages. I would expect something this deadly would be faster to kill its victims.”
“I suspect that is by design, Admiral. This virus is a weapon, there’s no doubt in my mind about that. And a long incubation period, followed by a protracted stretch of mundane symptoms is ideal for maximum contagion. By the time anyone is obviously very ill, they’ve been spreading the virus for weeks.”
West sighed. It all made sense, in an evil, efficient sort of way. The way she suspected the Regent approached things.
“Justine, you’ve got to come up with something. Soon. You’re the best chance we’ve got to develop a treatment. And if you don’t…” She let her voice trail off. Without a cure, she was going to have to watch almost a quarter of the fleet’s personnel die slowly…and do nothing about it. Nothing at all.
But she knew it was worse than that. If the enemy had spread the virus with their mysterious new delivery system, every ship in the fleet was vulnerable. She knew the forces of the First Imperium would be back, that more ships would be destroyed in the hell of battle…and that more would probably be hit by the tiny projectiles, that their crews would become infected. That even if they survived the fighting, they would be doomed to a slow death weeks later.
It was a grave danger, one that threatened the very existence of the fleet. And she had no idea what to do about it.
“I will try, Admiral.” Gower’s voice was doubtful, somber. It didn’t give West much from which to manufacture hope. And that wasn’t her way anyway. Erika West knew most people’s judgment was colored by hope, by the need to believe in something positive. But she had never been that way. She looked at things starkly, realistically. It was a draining way to live, but it was how she was. And even if the fleet was doomed, she was damned sure of one thing.
They would fight to the very end. No matter what.
* * *
Max Harmon stood in his quarters, staring down at the almost-full pack on his bunk and trying to think of anything he’d forgotten. It was a long trip to Deneb and back, though he was honest enough with himself to acknowledge that his chances of returning were pretty damned poor. The mission reeked of desperation, but he’d discussed it with Admiral West, and the two had agreed completely. It was the fleet’s best chance to survive. Standing at Shangri la and facing attack after attack didn’t seem to offer much chance at ultimate victory. And taking off, abandoning the amazing world the Ancients had left behind and plunging into the depths of unexplored space, running low on everything and with the enemy in hot pursuit, didn’t seem like a better option.
Harmon smiled for a moment when he thought of West. He was the logical choice to lead the mission, and he’d realized that the moment she described it in the conference room. But she’d given him a chance to opt out. She hadn’t ordered him to go…she’d asked him who he thought should lead it. He appreciated the thought behind her approach. He was one of the few people in the fleet who knew how undeserved West’s reputation for coldness was. But he also knew he had to go.
Harmon had never shied away from dangerous missions, and he wasn’t about to start…though he’d never wanted to shirk as much as he did now. After weeks at Mariko’s bedside, she was finely out of the woods, indeed, she was up and around. And now he had to leave….and perhaps never come back.
He walked over to his desk and pulled out several small boxes. They held his medals and decorations. It was hardly necessary gear, but he thought he should take them. If he was going to his death, they should be with him. There was also a small ’pad in the drawer. He pulled it out and flicked it on, thumbing through the photos on the screen. New ones…Mariko and Ana and Hieronymus. And Admiral Compton too, playing poker with some of the officers. Harmon remembered that night. Compton had cleaned everyone out, and Harmon had learned the stories of the legendary Terrance Compton, poker scourge of the Alliance fleet were all true. Compton hadn’t gambled for years, unwilling to take money from his subordinates. But Alliance credits were worth exactly zero to them all now, so he’d finally accepted an invitation to play…and he’d become part of the weekly game, a tiny scrap of normalcy that Harmon hoped helped the admiral as much as it had him.
There were older photos too. His mother, in her uniform, which is just about the only way he could remember her. Camille Harmon was the terror of the Alliance fleet, an iron-willed commander who exceeded even Erika West’s reputation for blackhearted brutality among the junior officers fated to serve under her. She hadn’t been the most attentive mother, and his had been the lot of a navy brat. But he’d never doubted her love…and he’d seen firsthand the grief she’d felt when his father was killed on Tau Ceti III. In the battle still known as the Slaughter Pen.
He had one photo of his father on the ’pad, wearing his uniform and holding the young Max in his arms. The image captured the last time Max saw him. Eleven days later he died in the bloodstained mud of the enemy world, along with thousands of other Marines in what was still considered the Alliance’s worst ground defeat ever.
Harmon took a deep breath. You don’t have time for a trip to the past. You have a job to do, and if you walk around in a trance certain you’re going to die, you will make it so…
He tossed the ’pad on top of the clothes in the pack and zipped it shut. He sat down and took another breath, trying to relax. Harmon had been raised from birth to serve. Indeed, if his father had lived he might as easily have become a Marine rather than a naval officer. Regardless of his choice of service, Harmon had always been a warrior. But now he had to admit to himself he was scared. It was one thing to fight a desperate battle, but to sneak into the heart of a domain like the First Imperium, and then into the depths of its greatest fortress, to the inner sanctum of the Regent…any sane man would have been afraid.
He’d said his goodbyes to Mariko earlier. They’d spent the night together, but they’d just lain there, too somber for anything else. Fujin was a fighter pilot…and there wasn’t a more dangerous posting in the navy. Harmon could tell how upset she was that he was leaving, how scared. But she hadn’t objected. She knew better. She’d just held onto him all night and then said her goodbyes in the morning…and run out of the room before her tears came.
Harmon was scared for himself, but he was worried about her too. She’d recovered rapidly after awakening from her coma. Under normal circumstances, she’d have been on limited duty for a while before her flight status was reactivated. But Admiral Hurley had gone off with the rearguard, and Bev Jones had died in the last fight. There weren’t many fighters left, but Admiral West would need every one of them…and Mariko was the only one who could lead them.
Harmon had been horrified when she’d told him, but he couldn’t really object. He knew there was no choice…and besides, she accepted his duty. There was no way he could deny hers.
He let his mind wander, just for a moment. What was the chance he would survive, that she would? That both of them would? But he pulled himself back. He didn’t want the answer.
He slapped his hand on the bunk. Then he got up and walked across the room, tapping on the com unit and calling his steward. “I’m ready,” he said simply. “Come down and get the bags and bring them to the shuttle.” Then he paused for a few seconds…and walked out into the hallway. He had time for one last conference with the admiral. And then he would be on his way.
* * *
Ana Zhukov stepped out of the shuttle and into Cadogan’s landing bay. The Alliance cruiser was one of newest in the fleet, and one of the fastest. It couldn’t outrun a fast attack ship, at least not over short distances, but Zhukov knew West had decided it was the best ship in the fleet to make the long trip to Deneb.
And back, she reminded herself. She wasn’t sure she really believed any of them would return, that they could destroy the Regent and somehow manage to escape that final cataclysm. But she was trying to stay positive. She’d have volunteered, even if it meant certain death…she knew in her heart the mission’s success was the only thing that would save anyone in the fleet. Still, she preferred to think she might make it back. The thought of peace, of an end to the fighting, was appealing. The survivors would still face a daunting prospect to build a home, but that would be a far more pleasant challenge than constant warfare. It was a future she would like to share, though her efforts to believe she would were shaky at best.
She sighed as she walked through the door and into Cadogan’s main corridor, glancing down at the small ’pad in her hand. “Cabin 17c,” she read aloud to herself…her assigned quarters. She walked down toward the lift.
She was scared, as afraid as she’d ever been. She was controlling it, at least as well as she could. But there was sadness there too, regret. Hieronymus had been upset with her, and he’d tries his best to get her to stay behind. But at least the two of them had argued themselves into exhaustion, and in the end, he’d reluctantly wished her the best. It wasn’t the parting she’d have chosen from the friend she considered a brother. But it would have to do.
It was her last words with Connor Frasier that really weighed on her. The two could have spent her final night on Saratoga in each other’s arms. They could have parted with sweet words, and affection. But instead, they’d wasted their last hours arguing, saying things she knew neither of them meant. And in the end, he’d stomped out of her quarters. And she hadn’t seen him since.
She’d expected him to be in the shuttle bay at least. However angry he was, she couldn’t have imagined he wouldn’t come see her, to say goodbye. But he wasn’t there, not when she arrived…and not when they slammed the shuttle airlock shut and blasted off for Cadogan. She’d been angry with him, frustrated at his stubbornness. But it broke her heart when he didn’t even come to see her off.
She stepped into the lift. “Cabin 17c,” she said softly, her voice strained, emotional. Thinking of Frasier was getting her upset again.
She tried to force her thoughts back to the mission. She’d been aggressive in claiming to have as much knowledge of the virus as Cutter, and she knew that wasn’t true. She did know a lot, more than anyone else. But she also knew she had to be on her game, that there was no room for error. She intended to spend the long trip to Deneb in her quarters, studying line after line of code. By the time Cadogan arrived, she would know the program every bit as well as Cutter did. Whatever it took.
She stepped out of the lift and walked down the corridor, stopping in front of a door with ‘17C’ on the wall next to it. She waved her hand over the sensor and the hatch slid open.
She walked inside, and the lights snapped on. The quarters were nice, a small workspace with a kitchenette and a separate sleeping area. Square meterage was always at a premium in spaceships, but she knew Cadogan was going to Deneb with a barebones crew…and there was no reason to let the nicer quarters go unused.
She dropped her duffle on the small table, and looked at the large mirror on the far wall. She could see the stress in her face, the sadness, and she tried to suppress it all. There was no room for emotions, not now. They only got in the way, a distraction that served no purpose. The First Imperium intelligences have something on us in that. They don’t waste time feeling miserable, crying themselves to sleep…
There was a sound, the door signal.
“Open,” she said. She heard the door slide open, and she started to turn around. But before she did, a familiar voice filled her ears.
“You left without giving me a kiss,” the voice said. “I couldn’t have that.”
She spun around, feeling the tears well up in her eyes. “Connor!”
“I’m sorry, Ana…I’m an ass. I had no right to argue with you about going along. You are the most qualified. The fleet needs you to be here.”
She took a few steps forward and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder as he returned the embrace.
“Wait,” she said, pulling back slightly and looking up at him. “What are you doing here? We’re already pulling away from the fleet.”
“Well,” he said, putting his hand gently on her face. “I know you have to go…but I couldn’t let you go without me now, could I?”
She stared back at him, the surprise still all over her face. “But Colonel Preston was leading the Marine contingent…”
“Yes, well let’s just say Jimmy owed me a favor…and it wasn’t too hard to get Admiral West to sign off on the change. I think she figured I’d keep an extra close eye on you.” He smiled. “So here I am. What do you say we make up for all that time we wasted last night?”
Chapter Twenty
From the Research Notes of Hieronymus Cutter
The deeper I get into the notes and files left here for us, the more convinced I am that, given enough time, we will be able to adapt the ancient technology, to advance centuries in the blink of an eye. But the problem is that part about having enough time. The enemy knows where we are, and they are throwing everything they have against us. If this world were still as it was half a million years ago, I believe it would be nearly impregnable. But even the amazing technology of the First Imperium is subject to time’s ravages. The weapons and equipment have endured, over a time when anything built by man would have gone back to dust. But still, only a portion has survived. And as far as the defense grid is concerned, we have almost exhausted what remained.
I know Ana was right. I had to stay behind. But I wonder if she realizes that our only true hope now rests on her shoulders and not mine. Given time, I could make this planet invincible. But I will not be given that time. So, if Ana and the others fail, it is over.
AS Saratoga
System X108
The Fleet: 82 ships (+2 Leviathans), 19372 crew
“Alright, Hieronymus…now. Everything you’ve got left!” Erika West was leaning forward in her chair, her body visibly tense, rigid. Her battle plan had been daring, unconventional…and it was working. The enemy fleet had been strong, almost a hundred ships. Big enough to finish off the fleet if she wasn’t careful. But careful wasn’t in her book…and instead she’d gambled everything, splitting the fleet into four task forces and spreading them throughout the system. And she used Saratoga as bait, keeping its fire to a minimum, releasing fluids and gasses into space as it pulled back, giving a First Imperium scanner every reason to think the human flagship was critically wounded and near destruction.
Instead of almost fully operational…
Saratoga’s damage control teams had worked around the clock for two weeks, in an effort she considered nothing short of an outright miracle.
“Acknowledged, Admiral.” There was a hardness in Cutter’s voice, his tone almost feral. West was like most of Cutter’s close colleagues…absolutely astonished at the changes in the scientist in the past year and a half. He’d always been brilliant, but the urgency of the fleet’s fight for survival had brought out hidden strength from within. His research had been nothing short of miraculous, and he’d saved the fleet from certain destruction more than once with his groundbreaking innovations. But he’d also gone from a timid academic to the darling of the fleet’s Marines, a man who’d put his life on the line more than once, gun in hand. And he’d become the fleet’s most direct link to the vestiges of the First Imperium’s extinct people, now humanity’s unlikely ally in the fight against the Regent.
And now he’s gunning down enemy ships with the most powerful weapons ever built…
West looked up at the display. The main enemy fleet was driving right for Saratoga, with only token squadrons sent after her detached task forces she’d deployed around the flanks. She had no doubt the plan was to destroy the flagship…and then mop up the scattered forces after the human leadership had been eliminated. It was the smart strategy, based on everything the Regent knew of humans. But West smiled as she stared ahead.
The Regent still has a thing or two to learn about humans. At least ones like me.
“Commander, bring all weapons back on line. Prepare to fire. One missile volley, at sprint range. And then I want every laser battery firing full…until there’s not an enemy ship left out there.”
“Yes, Admiral.” She could hear the excitement in Krantz’ voice. He was beginning to understand her battle plan…and he could see the slaughter taking shape.
The display erupted in flashes of light, shots from the Shangri la’s massive orbital weapons platforms, blasts of such incredible power a single hit could destroy a kilometers-long First Imperium battleship. And destroy them it did, one after another of the blinking red icons simply vanishing from the display.
Then Saratoga shook as she spat her missiles, weapons designed for use at ranges far beyond that between her and her prey. The warheads streamed toward the enemy, seeking not the near misses that had been at the center of missile tactics for a century, but to use their newly-enhanced guidance systems—another of Cutter’s miraculous developments—to score direct hits. And when a five hundred megaton warhead impacted and detonated, even the largest warship simply disappeared, vaporized in an instant.
And so it was as Saratoga’s volley closed the distance rapidly, the short range gutting the enemy’s defensive response. She watched the display, as more of the massive enemy vessels simply blinked out of existence.
Saratoga shook again, a hit this time. The orbital weapons had taken a terrible toll, and Saratoga’s missiles had added to the carnage. But there were still enemy ships left…and this was a battle to the end.
“All lasers…open fire.” West’s voice was frozen, the sound of death itself, feeding all the legends about her. But now, for this instant, her reputation was true. She existed now to destroy the enemy, and she was ready to do whatever that took. Whatever the cost.
She listened to the high-pitched whine of the ship’s laser cannon firing as she continued to stare at the display. There was still a fight ahead, she knew. And the orbital weapons were trickling away, over half the great batteries silent now, having fired the last of their ordnance. West suspected she could hold Shangri la almost indefinitely if she’d been able to keep its defense grid functioning, but time had done its work, and only a tithe of the ordnance that had been placed there eons before was still functional. And Cutter had used almost all of that in fending off three assaults. She knew the next one would be different, that the burden would fall almost entirely on her own ships, but for now she focused on destroying the enemy that was here now…while she still had the power of the Ancients on her side.
Her eyes darted to the small clusters of dots on the flanks of Saratoga’s group, the other task forces she’d deployed…and the enemy ships moving toward them.
“Are you ready on the flanks, Hieronymus?”
“Ready, Admiral. Just give the word.”
West sat stone still, looking ahead. “Fire.”
“All platforms firing, Admiral.”
Her eyes were fixed on the display, watching as the red icons started disappearing. She tried to imagine the scene in space, the mines maneuvering toward the enemy ships, destroying themselves in a whirlwind of destruction, the massive blasts of energy, ripping through even the dark matter infused hulls of the First Imperium ships.
Cutter had only discovered the mines two days before, the latest treasure from his continued search through the data banks of Shangri la. They were one shot weapons, equipped with extremely advanced stealth technology. West had known she could only use them once…and she’d almost told Cutter to keep them dormant, to face the enemy with the last of the megalasers and save the mines for the next attack. But then she did some calculations…and she knew she would lose up to half the fleet if she relied only on the remaining few shots from the lasers. If the choice was keeping robot weapons for a few more weeks…or saving her people, even if just until the next attack, it was an easy choice. Even for the admiral with the frozen blood.
“Mine detonating as planned, Admiral.” Krantz’ head was bent down over his scope, watching the data flow in. “Project kill rates in excess of 90%.”
West just nodded. The plan was working.
“All flank task forces…engage remaining enemy forces immediately.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
She stared at the screen, at the wave of enemy ships faced off with Saratoga’s group. The megalasers had taken a fearsome toll, but her flagship and its escorts were still outnumbered and outgunned. They wouldn’t last long alone. But they wouldn’t have to.
“All task forces are to execute plan Delta as soon as they eliminate local forces. All ships to close on the main enemy group.”
In another few minutes her ships would be converging from all directions, surrounding the enemy fleet, attacking them from the flanks and rear. She had no idea how she was going to defeat the next enemy attack, but that was tomorrow’s problem. Today she was going to blast this invasion force right to hell.
* * *
“Admiral, thank you for coming down. I have been digging deeper into the archives down here. I found it odd that this planet had defenses so superior to even the weapons on the Regent’s vessels, so I began digging. There is a lifetime of research to be done here, so I tried to focus, to access the final histories of the Ancients who were here at the end.”
West nodded. “Of course, Hieronymus. If you think it is worth my coming down here, that is enough for me. But what of these histories? I’m sure it is all very interesting, but it’s only a matter of time before the enemy returns.” The exhaustion was clear in her voice despite her best efforts to hide it. “And the Plague death toll is approaching one thousand. Worse, it appears that several other vessels were hit with the strange projectiles in the last battle. I’ve ordered them quarantined, but if the enemy can continue to deliver the virus by such means, they will eventually infect all the ships they don’t destroy. Then that will be the end.”
“Not necessarily, Admiral.” Cutter gestured toward a small row of chairs facing a large screen. “Please have a seat. I know that environmental suit is a bit bulky, but hopefully you can get at least moderately comfortable. I find the First Imperium chairs to be a bit awkward, despite being a reasonably close match for our own. I think the Ancients were likely a few centimeters taller than us on average, with slightly shorter legs and longer torsos…nothing that would be terribly obvious if one was standing here, but nevertheless, it is quite noticeable over time when sitting in their chairs. I’m afraid my back has been quite sore recently.”
He watched as she sat, and then he plopped down in a chair at the end of the row.
“Not necessarily? What do you mean, Hieronymus? That the enemy’s attacks will not destroy us? Have you found more weapons?”
Cutter shook his head. “Unfortunately no, Admiral. I have been quite aggressive in seeking out more firepower…or some reloads for the megalasers, but I’m afraid there are none. At least none I’ve been able to find any mention about.”
West sighed. “So we have twenty more shots, and that’s it?”
“Twenty-one, Admiral. “And some remaining power in the lighter guns. I’d say the grid will be of considerable use in the next combat…though not with the impact it has had in previous battles. Very particularly, I believe we must seek to save the last shots of the megalasers for the largest enemy ships. Leviathans, certainly…and perhaps even Colossuses if any come through the warp gate.”
“I’m inclined to agree, Hieronymus. An enemy force with even one Colossus would likely destroy the entire fleet. We must save at least some shots to deal with that eventuality.” She paused for a few seconds. “So why did you call me down? It couldn’t have been discussing saving shots for heavy enemy ships…we could have discussed that over the com, couldn’t we?”
“Indeed, Admiral, you are right. But that is not why I asked you to come down. I have found the log of their chief…doctor is not the right title. I’m not sure of the correct equivalent term. The Ancients had a somewhat different hierarchy than we do. A doctor treated the sick, but there was a different classification for those who researched diseases and such. That profession had fallen into almost total disuse, with only a few practitioners remaining in the imperium at the end.” He turned and looked over at West. “You see, they had eradicated infectious illnesses millennia before the time this base was built. They actually achieved what we have long pursued…until the Regent unleashed its engineered virus on them.”
West stared intently at Cutter. “Go on, Doctor.”
“Admiral, I believe that is why the disease was so devastating to them. Their doctors were not researchers…they just relied upon millennia old treatments for any maladies that cropped up…and the few remaining practitioners of the research branch were more archivists than anything. When the disease appeared, for all their technology, they were caught completely unprepared. And the Regent’s control over their infrastructure and trade routes gave it the perfect tool to ensure that all worlds were infected almost simultaneously.”
He looked over at West, and she stared back through her visor, a questioning expression on her face. “And this tells us what?”
“That the disease may in fact be far easier to cure than we might have imagined. We have been thinking the Ancients were incapable of doing so…but then I began to think, perhaps they were capable, but they simply ran out of time. It is difficult to imagine how such an ancient civilization, and one that had lasted so long, was destroyed so quickly. But then I realized. Our ancestors grew their own food…they hunted and gathered. They survived without technology. But if a modern society were to suddenly lose all its modern equipment…people would die in droves. The abilities that were common, routine several thousand years ago are mostly lost. Farmers today use robotic tractors and agri-AIs to develop optimal planting schedule. We use genetically-altered seeds and fertilizer cocktails. We get a hundred times the yield that ancient farmer did. But we become helpless if all we have is the horse and plow he did.
He looked at West, and he could see she was confused. “Don’t you see, Admiral? The idea of a disease that didn’t respond to their centuries old treatments was unthinkable to them. They didn’t have any experts on researching cures for diseases, because they hadn’t needed any for thousands of years. The Regent chose its line of attack well.”
He could see she was beginning to understand. “Any thoughts we had of massive labs and skilled scientists working around the clock to find a cure are in error. Indeed, the records I found suggest that only one significant research effort was begun. And that was here.”
He pressed a button on a small controller in his hand. The screen lit up, showing the image of a woman. No, not a woman, at least not a human, though it wasn’t easy to tell the difference.
“This is Calphala. She was a member of that almost extinct caste in the First Imperium, a medical researcher. She spent most of her life before the crisis cataloging ancient research notes, but by some strange twist of fate, she was extremely capable, a resurgence of the spirit and ability of those who had come before, who had centuries before rid their society of disease and infirmity.”
“She was here?” West was looking at the screen, but now she turned back toward Cutter. “On this world?”
“Yes,” Cutter replied. Then he pressed another button, and the video on the screen began. Calphala was speaking, though the sounds coming from the speakers were like no Earthly language. Cutter paused the video. “The AI is still working on a translation…but I…ah…understand what she is saying. It is something Almeerhan did to me. I cannot speak their language, nor can I understand the words, at least not consciously. But I comprehend what is being said. This is Calphala’s log. She kept it while working on a cure for the disease.”
“That is incredible, Hieronymus. But the Ancients failed to save themselves…they died out from the disease. Except the few who’d managed to escape infection and who were killed fighting the Regent’s forces. And the disease that wiped them out was different. Humans are not susceptible to it.”
“Yes, Admiral. That is true. They failed to save themselves. But Calphala’s log entries tell an interesting story. She may not have cured the disease, Admiral, not in time to save her people. But I believe she came close. Very close. And all of her research is in these memory banks. Perfectly preserved.”
West was staring at Cutter. “All her research?”
“Yes, Admiral. I have the AI working on translations now. I should have the first batch in twelve hours. I suggest that you assign Dr. Gower to review it, and incorporate it into her own research. From what I have been able to ascertain to this point, Calphala was very close. But by that time she herself was gravely ill. Her last few log posts are difficult to watch. She was an amazing intellect, and to see her withering, just as she was on the verge of success is heartbreaking.” He paused. “And I wouldn’t assume the cure she was developing would be ineffective against the pathogen we are facing. It is likely the Regent simply altered some minor proteins to overcome the Ancients’ ‘fixes’ to human DNA, to make it effective against us. There is a good chance this cure will work against our disease too.”
He looked over at West. “I am still sifting through records, Admiral, but I believe the Ancients missed saving themselves by the smallest of margins. They had gathered their greatest minds here. The megalasers were the work of another of their team. They almost saved their race…but they were just too late. If they had an extra year, they may have won the war we are now fighting. But they didn’t…and it is left to us to win the victory.”
“I am speechless, Hieronymus. There are a lot of uncertainties, but I am inclined to agree with your conclusions, all of them. I will order Dr. Gower to report to you at once.”
“Thank you, Admiral. I will do everything possible to assist her. Calphala failed to save her own people…but maybe she can help save ours…”
Chapter Twenty-One
AS Cadogan
System V6
The Fleet: 78 ships (+2 Leviathans), 18845 crew
“All engines, stop.” Max Harmon sat in his chair, totally still, as if somehow his movement would give away the ship’s position. It was nonsense, he knew. He could have played drums on the bridge and it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference, with or without the non-detection device installed. But he did it anyway.
“All stop, sir.” Nicki Frette answered crisply, not a hint of fear in her tone. Harmon was impressed…in fact, he’d had a good impression of Frette from the first moment he’d plopped down in Cadogan’s command chair and started snapping orders in her direction.
Harmon had served a long time in the tactical chair, though admittedly the job was considerable different on an admiral’s staff than it was serving a ship’s captain. Still, he understood the benefits of a close working relationship between the person at tactical and the superior officer in command. Frette was a real veteran, cool as they came, and he understood immediately why West had chosen her to go with him.
A great reward for good service…going along on a suicide mission…
Harmon stared at the screen, and the last thing he felt was cool. Cadogan had slipped by a few small enemy patrols, mostly small packs of Gremlins moving toward Shangri la. But this was no patrol, not even a task force. This was a full-blown battlefleet, led by two Colossuses. And it was heading straight for Cadogan, or at least for the warp gate the cruiser had come through an hour before.
Now Harmon would see how well this device really worked. There were a hundred ships coming right at them. That was a lot of scanners, gigawatts of power behind sensor beams and active and passive detection arrays. If the thing hastily installed next to Cadogan’s reactor didn’t work perfectly, if it didn’t block every nano of energy output, if its projection system and spatial dampeners weren’t one hundred percent—and that did mean one hundred percent—the mission would end here. It would take the lead enemy ships a few seconds at most to vaporize the single Alliance cruiser.
So far there was no sign they had been detected, but Harmon still found he had to remind himself to stop holding his breath and inhale.
“Still no signs of detection, sir. All enemy ships maintaining course and thrust.” Frette still sounded calm, but Harmon could sense a bit of surprise in her tone. No veteran officer liked depending too much on a new piece of equipment…and even less so on an alien one that was half a million years old. But there was no choice. And however dangerous, however insane the mission seemed, Harmon knew its success was likely the only way any part of the fleet would survive. His people didn’t have to escape, they didn’t have to come back. But they had to get in…and destroy the Regent. Somehow.
“Continue normal operations, Commander. No thrust.” Cutter had told him the device would block all energy output, that even with the engines blasting at full Cadogan would be undetectable. But Harmon was a naval veteran, and he wasn’t going to ignore his own instincts. He respected Cutter, and he was glad to have the stealth device…but he wasn’t about to really trust this ancient alien contraption. No more than he had to.
“Normal operations. We’re on a vector toward the V7 warp gate, velocity 0.007c.”
“Very well.” Harmon stared at the display. Cadogan was going to have to blast its engines in just over eighteen hours, to position the ship for final approach to the gate. With any luck, the enemy fleet would have left the system by then…and if not, he’d have no choice but to put his faith in the half-million year old device. But for now he intended to sit tight and hope for the best.
His eyes fixed on the large cluster of enemy vessels. They were heading to Shangri la, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind. And this wasn’t the only group, he was certain of that. The enemy knew where the human fleet was, and he suspected the Regent had called in every ship it had. Even with the remnants of the ancient defensive array in the system, Harmon didn’t know how West and the fleet would survive. Unless his people managed to take control of the Regent and order the First Imperium’s fleets to stand down in time.
Harmon looked down at the ground in front of him. What was the chance of that? And even if they were successful, would they save the fleet? Or would they be too late? Would the waves of ships now approaching Shangri la get there first…and overwhelm the fleet before his people set foot on the imperium’s home world?
He looked up, staring at the main display but not seeing anything. His mind was deep in thought, hazy images of Terrance Compton floating around. Where are you, sir? Are you really dead?
Harmon found it hard to believe that anything could defeat Compton, but the admiral had been gone for over two months. He could only guess how many battles, how many desperate escapes the rearguard had faced. He had more faith in Compton than in any human he’d ever known, but as time passed he found himself less able to believe.
He remembered his mother coming into his room. He hadn’t seen her in over six months…he lived with his grandparents when his mother was out with the fleet. Active duty had been an occasional inconvenience when he’d been younger, but with the Third Frontier War raging, his mother was on the front line almost constantly.
She’d come this time not for leave or to spend time with her son. She’d come with news. Terrible news. His father was dead, killed leading a regiment of Marines in the disastrous battle on Tau Ceti III.
His mother loved him, he’d never doubted that, but she was one hundred percent navy, a warrior through and through. She gave him one day to mourn, and then she demanded he go back to his normal routine. He remembered resenting her, angry that she didn’t seem to care. It was only years later, as an adult, a warrior himself, that he’d come to understand just how devastated his mother had been.
He felt now some of that same grief, and he realized he was giving up on Compton, on the chance the admiral was alive somewhere. He had lost another father…and the pain was just as great.
Are you out there somewhere, Admiral? Have you managed to cheat death once again…somehow?
But he didn’t believe it anymore.
* * *
“Again!” Connor Frasier stood in Cadogan’s small gym, watching a squad of his Marines going through their workouts. He’d had to cancel the last training session when Captain Harmon had shut down the engines, eliminating the pseudo-gravity created by the ship’s normal acceleration and deceleration. Zero grav workouts were their own thing, but his people were going into action on the ground…on a world that by all accounts was very Earthlike. And they needed to acclimate to that condition, to working under one gee of gravity.
He watched as the Marines went back to their routine, climbing the wall with only their bare hands. It was a relatively pointless exercise…his people would be fully armored when they hit the ground in search of the Regent’s lair. But it was brutal physical training, and he was determined that his Marines would be in top condition when they landed. Spending months aboard ship was hard on Marine readiness, and Frasier knew just what was riding on this mission. His people might fail…but it wouldn’t be for lack of preparation.
His Marines were the inheritors of an ancient and proud tradition, and from the first day of training they were taught to respect those who had come before, not just in the Alliance, but the U.S. and Royal Marines who had preceded them. But modern Marines faced a host of problems their courageous forefathers had never had to address. Fighting in different gravities, for example, or dealing with toxic atmospheres or planets hot enough to melt lead…or cold enough to freeze blood. It made training far more complicated, and it was one reason why Alliance Marines had a six year training program…at least they had, before twenty years of almost non-stop war had forced the Corps to expedite its production of new recruits.
But his Marines were not preparing to attack a poisonous hellworld. They were about to infiltrate the home world of the deadliest intelligence mankind had ever encountered. The Regent had its blindspots—humanity would be extinct by now if it hadn’t—but Frasier didn’t think leaving itself exposed to an attack was one of them. With any luck, the landing party would get down to the surface undetected. They would employ as much stealth as possible, get as far as they could without alerting the enemy to their presence. But he didn’t try to fool himself into thinking they’d get all the way to the Regent unchallenged. His people would have a hell of a fight on their hands…there was no question in his mind. And by God, they would be ready for it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
AS Saratoga
System X108
The Fleet: 78 ships (+2 Leviathans), 18843 crew
“You’ve got a break, Captain…maybe twenty minutes before the next wave comes in. You’d better use that time well, because if we haven’t got at least half the laser cannons back online by then, it’s not even going to be a fight. It’s going to be an execution.” West sat on the flag bridge, half choking on the heavy, smoke-filled air. Saratoga wasn’t in good shape. Bluntly put, her flagship had gotten the shit kicked out of it. It was a miracle she was still in space, that by whatever tiny measure the reactors had held, that a breach had been averted. She knew it had been close, that the next hit might very well have turned her battleship into a miniature sun.
No, not a miracle. Just more help from the past, from Hieronymus Cutter down on the surface. But we’ve almost drained that well…
“I’ll do everything I can, Admiral.” There was a pause, and West thought her flag captain was going to remind her how many hits his ship had taken in the last two hours of sustained combat. But he didn’t. He just added, “I will update you in ten minutes.”
Davis Black defined stoicism, at least in his dealings with her. The situation was crap, worse than crap. But she wouldn’t hear a complaint. Not a peep. For all his steadfast loyalty to her, she knew he tended to be hard on his own crew, but she also realized that was the only way to draw excellence from people…and it had helped to keep them alive. They all had friends and comrades who’d been trapped in X2 with them…and who had died along the way, ships lost in the many battles the fleet had fought. But Saratoga was still there.
At least for twenty minutes more…
“Admiral, I’ve got Dr. Cutter on the line.”
West slapped her hand down on the com unit. “Hieronymus.”
“Yes, Admiral. I just wanted to give you an update. I’ve got seven shots left for the megalasers. The mines are gone. There were some other weapons systems, but it looks like they’ve decayed beyond use. I’m afraid after those seven shots, you’re on your own.”
“You’ve done your part, Hieronymus. No one can say otherwise.” She paused. “Your people down there should lay low if things…go bad up here.” She doubted the Regent’s forces would fail to check the planet for survivors, but there was always a possibility. And she had to tell him that now. By the time it was relevant, she’d be gone…along with Saratoga and the rest of the fleet.
“The battle isn’t over yet, Admiral.” Cutter was clearly trying to sound confident, but she could see right through it. They weren’t going to get through this one.
“No, it’s not over. Not yet. And my thanks to you…and I know Admiral Compton would have felt the same. We’d have never gotten here without all you’ve done.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” the scientist replied. “That means a lot. Good luck to you.”
“And to you, Hieronymus.” She cut the line and looked around the flag bridge. Her people were focused, professional. She felt pride in all of them. West had always believed you could see the true nature of someone when they were staring death in the face. And her people were passing that test with flying colors.
Her eyes dropped to the chronometer. Nine minutes since she’d spoken to Black. Despite the specter of imminent death, she couldn’t help but smile when the number changed, nine minutes becoming ten…and the com unit began buzzing right on schedule.
She waved Krantz off from answering and put her hand down on the com. “Davis, talk to me. How are the repairs going? Are my laser cannons going to be ready on time?”
* * *
“The fleet is in great danger. The Regent’s forces appear to be winning. Perhaps our purpose is not necessary.” Don Rames sat across the small table from Sasha. Saratoga was at battlestations, which meant her entire crew was on duty. But Rames and Debornan weren’t part of the ship’s regular complement. As far as the humans knew, they were survivors of a disastrous expedition, the only two to return alive. And that assessment served their purposes well.
“Perhaps.” Sasha had an odd expression on her face, her tone robotic. The nano entity was having greater difficultly controlling the body’s outward signs of emotion since the essence of the biological entity had been purged. That was an error. The remnants of the human’s personality would have been useful. These humans are less logical creatures than those we destroyed so many centuries ago. It was a miscalculation to assume we could maintain control without the preserving the essence of the creatures.
“If that is the case,” Sasha continued, “we need take no action at all. Our hosts will, of course, be destroyed with this vessel, but that is of no account.”
“Agreed. Nevertheless, I propose that we prepare an alternate strategy, in case the humans escape destruction. There is a strong likelihood that the splinter fleet with Admiral Compton at its head has been eliminated. That would leave Admiral West as the primary target. We should move against her is she is successful in this battle.”
“Yes. However I propose we exercise more patience. If the fleet survives this battle, we can afford to wait, to allow more time for Compton to return. Each week that passes increases the probability that his force has been destroyed by 2.27% by my calculation, rising from a base of 64% currently. I propose we allow two months to pass, at which time we act against Admiral West, assuming the Regent’s fleets have not eliminated the humans by then.”
“I agree. I have an additional proposal in the event that Admiral Compton does return. I believe that little is accomplished by having two of us undertake that mission. If Compton comes back, I think you should arrange transit to Midway, while I remain on Saratoga. We will strike simultaneously. You will kill Admiral Compton…and I will kill Admiral West. With both leaders eliminated, the human fleet will fall into disorder…and they will be easily destroyed by the next attack force the Regent sends.”
“I concur with your logic. We will wait…and if Admiral Compton does return we will kill them both.”
* * *
“All ships forward, Commander. Five gee acceleration. Let’s take this battle to the enemy.” West’s voice was pure defiance. She’d done the math. It was over. Her ships were simply too few. They were too damaged, too low on ordnance. They would fight…they would destroy enemy ships. But this time they were going to lose. And if she was going to die, by God, Erika West intended to decide how she would meet her end. And it wasn’t sitting there waiting for the enemy to come to her.
“Yes, Admiral.”
She could hear the pride in Krantz’ voice, the determination. They’d been fighting for over a year and a half, one battle after another, always against overwhelming odds. There was no shame in defeat here, only in dying with less dignity than they had lived. The First Imperium fleet would finally achieve its goals…it would eradicate the men and women it had pursued so relentlessly for the past eighteen months. But it would pay a price, West would make sure of that.
She felt the impact of five gees of thrust slam into her, the weight in her chest as she slowly, painfully drew each breath. She thought about Admiral Compton, about how he’d managed against all odds to rescue his people again and again…to keep them alive in the face of certain death. But the last time he’d sacrificed himself to buy the fleet’s escape. And West had been forced to try to fill his shoes, as best she could.
She hoped Compton would have approved of her decisions, of the way she’d led the fleet for the short time she had. West played the role of someone immune to outside influence, but she had looked up to Compton her entire career. She wondered if the admiral had ever realized the power he’d had over her, how his slightest word of encouragement filled her with determination…and how even a small word of criticism cut her deeply. Few people who knew her would have believed it, but Erika West had drawn much of her strength from Compton. She’d never thought herself the kind to practice hero worship, but even she had needed someone to look up to. She shuddered at the thought of the pressure Compton had lived with since X2, and it only increased her admiration for the man.
“Admiral, Commander Fujin’s fighters are attacking.”
West stared at the display. Die well, Mariko.
She knew Fujin’s thirty-six fighters were charging into their own valley of death, attacking alone, a desperate attempt to win a few extra minutes for the fleet’s damage control crews to work their magic. West felt cold. She deplored the idea of sending those fighters in, using the lives of those crews to buy a little time. But there was no choice.
Besides…they’d die anyway, even if I kept them in the launch bays. When the ships go, so will they. At least this way they die in battle, fighting to the last…
She stared ahead, watching the rows of tiny dots move forward, their formation perfect. She knew the display was a sanitized representation, that each of those small blue lights was actually five of her people. Five loyal members of the fleet. Five veteran spacers about to die…
* * *
“I’m not going to sugarcoat this for any of you. We’re outnumbered, surrounded…our desperate struggle is almost at an end.” Fujin sat at the fighter’s controls, holding the throttle as she addressed her squadrons. It felt odd to be on another ship, with another crew. But for the second time, she was the sole survivor of the Gold Dragons. The rest of her fighter’s crew—and those of the other birds too—had died in Midway’s launch bay. All except Grant Wainwright. The pilot had survived, for a few weeks anyway. He’d died in his bed, in sickbay.
“You deserve more than empty boasts, pointless claims that victory awaits us. It does not. Destiny has come for us, but we still control one thing. We control how we die. And for me, I would die in arms, fighting our enemy with the last of my strength. If the First Imperium wants me, they will have to come and get me…and endure all I can dish out as they do.”
It felt oddly comfortable to be back in the pilot’s seat, despite the circumstances. She’d been promoted out of that role…but now casualties had left her with more fighters than pilots. She hadn’t even had to make up an excuse to put herself at the throttle. It was a simple matter of launching the maximum number of birds. This was how she’d begun, fresh from the Academy and piloting a fighter. And this was how it would end.
“You have seen the damage Saratoga has sustained, the number of fleet vessels crippled and destroyed. We were barely able to launch with the damage to our bays. By the time we finish our attack run, there won’t be a place left to land in the fleet. So there is no going back, not this time. After we launch our torpedoes, we will make strafing runs…we will keep at these bastards, striking them with whatever we have left.”
She swallowed hard, forcing back her own doubts and fears. She’d always been alone, but now her mind was on Max. Having him in her life made her sadder at her own impending death, sorry for the life that might have been but wouldn’t. But she knew this final battle would be a relief too, an escape. She didn’t believe Max Harmon would return. His mission was one of utter desperation, and she didn’t expect it to succeed. And even if it did through some miracle, she couldn’t imagine a way he’d escape to come back to Shangri la. No, eighteen months of constant struggle to survive and now it was almost over. For all of them.
“Okay, boys,” she said softly. “Let’s do this.”
She pushed the throttle forward, feeling the gee forces increase as she fed power to the engine. She’d picked out a Leviathan, one that had taken significant damage already. If this was going to be her last fight, she was determined to score a kill.
She jerked the controls, zigzagging wildly to avoid the enemy’s point defense. “Arm the torpedo,” she said, her voice distant, distracted. She was putting every bit of focus she had into flying the fighter. She could see four of her birds were gone already. The defensive fire was brutal, and she doubted half her people would make it close enough to launch their weapons.
The fighter shook hard, a hit. Her eyes dropped to her screen, frantically checking the readouts, trying to ascertain the damage. She still had full thrust, and that was a good sign. She punched at the keys in front of her, beginning a diagnostic check of the ship’s systems. A few seconds later, she breathed a sigh of relief. The engines were good, the torpedo and firing controls full functional. There was some minor damage, but nothing that would stop her from sending that wounded Leviathan to hell. And that was all she cared about at the moment.
She was getting close, well within maximum firing range. Fujin was as aggressive as they came, and she usually closed to extreme point blank range. But the defensive fire was just too heavy. She knew they’d never make it. She’d have to launch from 18,000 kilometers, 16,000 at the closest.
There was a large hull breach in the Leviathan, an ideal spot for her to plant the torpedo. But from this range it would take a perfect shot. Absolutely perfect.
She stared at the display, her eyes locked on the target. Her fingers moved over the screen, adjusting the weapon’s trajectory. She closed her eyes for an instant, centered herself. This would require more than pinpoint calculation. It would take all the intuition a veteran fighter jock could manage. She tried to go with her feelings, her instincts. Her finger moved, barely, slowly, refining the shot. Then she could feel it…everything was right. Somehow she just knew. And she pulled the trigger on the throttle, releasing the torpedo.
The fighter jerked hard as the weapon launched, and Fujin pulled the controls forward and to the side, blasting full and changing the ship’s vector, pulling it away from the target, toward a section of clear space where she’d have the room and time to decelerate and bring the fighter back around. To pick out a new target for a strafing run.
Her eyes were fixed on the scanning data coming in from the target ship, and she let out a vicious scream when the icon blinked out of existence. Whatever happened in the next minutes, Fujin had added another kill to her record, a First Imperium battleship blasted to atoms. One ship, at least, that would not be there to pound Saratoga and the rest of the fleet to rubble.
She gave herself a moment to savor the kill. Then her eyes went back to her display, looking for another target. But she froze. There were icons right around the warp gate, heading insystem at high velocity. For an instant she felt as though she’d been punched in the gut. More enemy ships. She hadn’t held out much hope for the fleet’s survival, but what shards had still remained were gone now.
But no, there was something different. The icons had been white, the standard AI designation for unidentified contacts. But now they were changing…but not to the red that depicted enemy ships. No, the symbols were blue. Blue…the color of friendly vessels. She blinked her eyes, did a double take. No, it wasn’t possible. But…
Then she saw the lead ship, a small line of text appearing next to it. She moved her fingers, zooming in on the icon. And then she saw the label. AS Midway, Yorktown-class battleship.
It was impossible. But there it was. The rearguard was back…and they were heading right for the enemy’s rear, catching them completely by surprise.
The battle wasn’t over yet…not by a long shot.
“All fighters, the rearguard is back. Midway is inbound…and we’re going to support her attack!”
* * *
“Welcome to Shangri la, people.” Terrance Compton sat in his chair, bolt upright and staring straight ahead. His body was heavy with exhaustion, every muscle, every joint pulsating with pain. Fears lurked in dark places in his mind…and sorrow and regret. But now it was all relegated to irrelevance. There was no place for weakness, not here. Compton was every millimeter the warrior now, and he had only one thought.
“Our comrades are fighting a battle,” he continued into the com, “struggling to hold off the enemy force. They stand here, defending Shangri la, protecting our inheritance from the Ancients. They fight bravely, but they falter, pushed back by an enemy that outnumbers and outguns them. They have fought desperate battles, as we have. But now we are one again, and we will fight together. We have returned…returned to the fleet, and it appears we are just in time.”
Compton could feel the excitement on the flag bridge. His people had been through hell, chased across space by hundreds of enemy ships. But they had managed to elude their pursuers and catch up with the fleet. And now they were blasting in from the warp gate, right into the rear of the enemy formation. It was a perfect position, and it was pure luck. But Compton intended to make the most of it. From the looks of things, the fleet was in real trouble…but that was going to change. Now.
“Providence has brought us here at this time…and one does not spurn the gifts of fortune. All ships to battlestations…and forward into the fight. Let none of us rest, let no gun be silent, no ship idle…not until the enemy is crushed…until every ship of the imperium in this system is blasted to dust and plasma!”
He cut the line then turned toward Cortez. Well, Jack, we’ve fought our share of battles these past two months, but it looks like we’ve got another one on our hands.”
“Yes, sir,” Cortez snapped back. “It looks like we do.”
“All task force units, attack plan Epsilon-7.”
“Attack plan Epsilon-7, sir. Transmitting to all ships now.”
Compton stared across the flag bridge, at his tactical officer. Midway showed the wear and tear of a ship that had been through hell. The flag bridge had cables laying all over, workarounds for conduits and main lines that had been severed. There was a large structural support that had fallen. It was shoved to the side, against the wall, but it was still there. And the ship’s bridge was still a total wreck, lifeless, empty…the place where half the ship’s command officers had died months before. But her reactors were still operating, and by some miracle of technical wizardry, Art Mendel and his engineers had all but two of the laser cannons operational.
“Well, Jack…let’s get to it, shall we? Engines forward, 2g thrust. All weapons, prepare to fire…”
Chapter Twenty-Three
AS Cadogan
Deneb System
The Fleet: 72 ships (+2 Leviathans), 17806 crew
Harmon stared at the main display, at the blackness of space…and the intensely bright blue-white star in the center of the screen. Deneb, one of the brightest stars in Earth’s night sky, one prominent in ancient literature, hovered there before him. For centuries, those on mankind’s homeworld had stared up at the night sky, gazing at the blue-white supergiant star. But now it had a new significance, for the system held the planet that had been the capital of the First Imperium, the world that was still home to the Regent, the insane artificial intelligence that had wreaked almost incalculable damage, not only on its own creators, but on mankind and the other young races as well.
Harmon was a combat officer, not a scientist, but he knew a star like Deneb was too young to have planets that had spawned intelligent life. No, he realized, the people of the First Imperium hadn’t evolved here…almost certainly not. Their true home was somewhere else…within the vast borders of the imperium, or beyond, someplace in the emptiness of unknown space. But they had come here—for reasons at which he could only guess—early in their history. And when they built the Regent so many millennia ago, they had done it here.
He stared at the system display. He had the map Cutter had given him, but now it had all been confirmed by his own scanners. Everything matched up, and while Compton hadn’t doubted the brilliant scientist, he found the reassurance gratifying. He hoped the rest of the data Cutter had provided was equally accurate, the maps of the surface, of the entrance to the Regent’s lair.
“Well, Commander Frette, it appears we have arrived. Let’s head toward planet eight, shall we? Slowly…acceleration at one gee. Just enough to establish our vector, then cut the engines.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Harmon had come to rely more and more on the ancient stealth device as it had continued to prove its worth. Cadogan had passed by several large First Imperium task forces on the way to Deneb, and none had given any indication they had detected anything. But he was still cautious. This was the capital of the imperium…and there was no way of knowing what to expect.
Planet eight…it was almost unimaginable. Eighth planets tended to be hellish worlds, frozen balls of ice and rock…or frigid gas giants. But Deneb was a nuclear furnace that made Sol seem like a flashlight by comparison, and the system’s habitable zone was much farther out than with most stars. He only had the most basic scanning data on the inner worlds, but it suggested they were raging infernos.
“Accelerating toward planet eight, Captain.” Frette was bent forward, her face pressed against the scope. “Scanners report thousands of satellites, sir, both around the planet and positioned at various locations in the surrounding space.” A pause. “Most of them appear to be dead, sir. I’m picking up signs of extreme damage, indications of impacts with debris…and extensive wear and tear as well.”
“Very well, Commander. Keep gathering data. But passive scanners only. We don’t take any chances on giving ourselves away. And there’s no way of knowing what is still functioning out there.”
“Understood, Captain.” A moment later: “I’m picking up some energy readings. I’d estimate that approximately two percent of those scanners are still operational. I’m also getting readings on other, larger contacts. I’d bet they are some kind of weapons platforms. Most of them appear to be dead as well, though as with the scanners, I’m picking up background energy readings from a small percentage of them.”
“I don’t even want to think about the power of those platforms. We’re probably talking about weapons that could destroy Cadogan in a single shot. So we do everything possible to lay low.”
Harmon looked up at the main display, his eyes scanning the area all around the planet. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for…but he would know it when he saw it.
Then he froze. One of the planet’s three moons. It was the one farthest out…and it was tidally locked, one side permanently facing away from the planet. Just what he needed.
“Moon three, Commander…it looks to me like there are no functional scanning platforms near its dark side. Concentrate a scan there, and confirm. Risk a quick active scan pulse. We need a place to for Cadogan to hide, someplace the enemy won’t find us, even after we move the stealth device to the shuttle.”
“Scanning now, sir.”
The entire mission was the wildest gamble, but this was the part that had Harmon’s stomach twisted into a knot. There was only one stealth generator, and there was no way to get a shuttle down to the surface of the planet undetected without it. That meant Cadogan would have to hide somewhere—without the device—and somehow avoid detection. If the ship was discovered, it would raise the alarm, eliminating any chance of success for the landing party.
Not to mention that without Cadogan, we’re stuck here, whatever happens…
“Captain, I detect no operative scanner buoys with a direct line to the dark side of moon three.”
Harmon could hear the excitement in her voice, and he knew she was thinking the same thing he was. “Bring us in behind the moon, Commander…and put us in geosynchronous orbit, directly opposite the planet.”
“Yes, Captain. Forty-seven minutes until orbital insertion.”
Harmon leaned back in his chair and sighed softly. He’d have bet against their chances of reaching Deneb, and here they were. He wanted to allow himself some hope, a belief they could actually pull this off. But as well as they’d done getting there, he knew the hardest part was still ahead. It was difficult for him to wrap his head around what they were here to do. Years of war, eighteen months of desperate flight, millions dead back home. The Regent had invaded human space, sought to drive its forces right to Earth, to exterminate humanity. And now things had reversed. Humanity was here…to destroy the Regent.
Or at least two dozen Marines and a gifted scientist are here. Not exactly the popular image of the Grand Army of Earth, striking the final blow…
We’ve got what we’ve got…and now it’s time to use it.
He tapped the com unit. “Major Frasier, you better start getting your people ready.”
It was time.
* * *
“It’s time to get armored up. We’re launching in less than twenty minutes.” Connor Frasier stood in the small utility closet, just off the shuttle bay. Ana Zhukov had pulled him aside, and the two were grabbing a bit of privacy. Though neither said it, they both knew it was very likely these would be their last few moments together.
Frasier was a Marine veteran, one who had fought in the Third Frontier War, the Rebellions, the First Imperium War. He was the son of a Marine hero, born to be a warrior. It was bred into him. But he’d never even imagined a more desperate gamble than this, to infiltrate the home world of the imperium with less than a platoon of Marines. To attempt nothing less than to gain control over the Regent…and then destroy it. It seemed impossible, the kind of exaggerated story a Marine might tell late into a night of drinking and boasting—but nothing anyone sane would actually attempt. Yet here he was. And he was damned sure going to attempt it.
Ana squeezed harder, pulling her arms tight around him. Frasier knew they were an odd match, the slender, brilliant scientist and the hulking, grizzled Marine. But he’d never met anyone like her, never felt as close to another human being as he did to her. He was struggling to accept her being on this mission, to deal with the fear that she would be killed. He was a Marine…if the time came for him to die in the line of duty, he would face it, as his brethren had for centuries. But Ana…
She let her arms fall to the side and stepped back, looking up at him. “Before we go, I wanted to thank you for understanding why I had to come. I know it was difficult.”
Frasier put his hand on her face. He wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t understand, not really. Yes, he knew why she was the best for the job, but every fiber in his being was screaming at him to find a way to leave her behind. It was impossible, but he couldn’t deny that was what he wanted. He’d accepted her coming along only because he knew he’d have lost her if he’d tried to stop her. And the only thing he could imagine that would be worse than watching her die would be knowing she hated him when she did.
It had been no noble impulse driving him when he’d come to her, told her he was okay with her coming along. It was defeat, a realization that he had no way to stop her. If there had been a way to keep her from the mission, he’d have done it, no matter what the cost. But Admiral West had approved her place on the team…and that was the last word. So he’d done all he could do—he had come along with her. He would watch her every moment…and if there anything he could do to save her he would do it.
“We’re past that now, Ana. We’re both here, and now we have to do what we came to do. The safety of the whole fleet is on our shoulders.” He paused for a second. “Just remember, whatever happens…I love you.”
“I love you too, she said,” pulling him back into another brief hug. Then she stepped back and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Like you said, it’s time to suit up.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “It is.” He took her hand and they walked out into the bay, toward the mostly empty racks. Only two suits remained, and off next to the shuttle he could see his Marines formed up and waiting at attention.
He stopped in front of her armor, a generic suit that the armorers had managed to modify into a decent fit. He’d given her as much training as he could, and he’d been impressed at how well she could get around in the thing. She didn’t move like a Marine…but she could handle herself.
He leaned in and kissed her cheek. Then he pressed a button alongside her suit and stepped back as it popped open like a clamshell. “Be careful, Ana. Please.”
She smiled back at him. “And you too.” Then she stripped off her coverall and hopped up into the suit.
He forced himself to return the smile. Then he pressed the button and watched as the armor slid shut all around her.
* * *
“Captain Harmon.” The shuttle pilot stared at his commanding officer, standing in the doorway clad in a flight suit. “Ah…what are you doing here, sir?”
“I’m going with you, Tomlinson. I’m flying this shuttle.” Harmon looked down at the stunned officer for a few seconds. Then he gestured for the pilot to move over to the co-pilot’s chair.
“Umm…yes, Captain.” He unbuckled himself and hurriedly slid over. “Captain, are you sure you should leave Cadogan?” Tomlinson’s voice was tense, uncomfortable.
“No, Lieutenant, I probably shouldn’t. But I’m going to anyway. And since Admiral West is almost five hundred lightyears away, I guess there’s no one to second guess me.” He looked over at the startled officer as he slid into the pilot’s chair. “Don’t worry, Justin, Commander Frette can handle the ship while I’m gone. Cadogan’s not going to do anything but sit there and play like a hole in space.” He glanced down at the controls. Tomlinson had already completed the pre-checks. The shuttle was ready to go. “Besides, we all know what is important here…the destruction of the Regent, not our escape.” His voice took on a dark tone. He regretted saying what he had almost immediately. His thoughts were bleak ones, but he knew better than to share them with his subordinates.
“Don’t listen to me, Justin. It’s just my job to worry about everything. We’ve got a great team on this shuttle. If anybody can do this, it’s them.” He tried to sound more hopeful, but he doubted it was very convincing.
“We’ll see the mission done, sir.” Tomlinson looked over at the controls in front of Harmon. “And I’m here if you need me.” His eyes dropped down to the readouts. “The shuttle hatch is closed, sir. All personnel are strapped in. We’re ready whenever you are.”
“I’m ready. Depressurize flight deck.”
“Depressurizing.” Tomlinson stared at the indicator, watching as the small bar on the chart dropped. A few seconds later it had gone all the way…and the green indicator light flashed on. “Bay depressurized, sir.”
Harmon took a deep breath. “Open bay doors.”
Tomlinson leaned down and flipped a row of small switches.
Harmon looked straight out through the cockpit, watching the large plasti-steel doors slide to the side. He paused, for only a few seconds, and stared out at the inky blackness. Then he flipped the com switch and said, “All personnel, prepare for launch.”
He looked over at Tomlinson and gave his co-pilot a quick nod. Then he nudged the throttle, slowly, carefully…and the shuttle lifted off, moving toward the open doors.
His eyes darted to the small screen hastily attached to the pilot’s station. The light in center was green…the stealth device was working. At least as far as any attachment his people had jury-rigged onto the enormously sophisticated First Imperium technology could tell.
That was good. He needed it to work. But he was relying on Frette as well as the device. If she didn’t manage to keep Cadogan hidden without the alien tech, all hell would break loose. But there was no way, no way at all, to get to the planet and land without the stealth unit. So Nicki Frette would just have to shut everything down and hope for the best.
Harmon nodded to himself, and then he nudged the throttle forward, kicking the thrust up to five percent, and angling toward the planet.
Here we go. The last battle.
I hope.
* * *
“Scanner results?” Frette sat in the command chair, fidgeting uncomfortably in Harmon’s seat. She had never had a command posting before, never even took over for an incapacitated captain. Now she was in the captain’s chair on a mission that arguably would decide the fate of the whole fleet.
Harmon had taken her by surprise when he just stood up on the bridge and ordered her to take command. She’d had no idea what he was planning…indeed, she wasn’t sure he’d planned it at all. Perhaps he’d just acted on an impulse. But a minute later she was sitting in his place…and less than an hour after, he was gone, on the way to the planet, and Cadogan was her responsibility.
“The scope is clear, Captain. No contacts, no sign that we’ve been detected.”
The ‘captain’ didn’t sit well with her. It was standard procedure, the commander of a vessel was always called captain, but it just didn’t feel right. Max Harmon was Cadogan’s captain, and the fact that he had made the surprising—and reckless—decision to pilot the shuttle to the planet didn’t change that for her.
She took a deep breath, and then another. She had the ship’s life support on minimal operation, the reactor shut down completely, and vital systems working off batteries. The ground team had just under thirty-six hours to get to the surface, find the Regent, complete their mission, and get back to Cadogan. Otherwise, Frette would have a terrible decision to make. Fire up the reactor, and probably warn the Regent’s forces they were there…or stay put, and see if suffocation or cold killed her people first. Either way, things would be grim for the ship and its crew. And those on the ground too. But there was nothing she could do but sit tight and hope for the best.
She looked down at the small display next to the captain’s chair. The screen was dimmed, hard to read, and she leaned forward to get a better look. Every light on Cadogan was on minimal power, the bridge no brighter than dusk. Frette was doing everything she could to stretch the stored power in the ship’s batteries as far as she could. Including keeping the temperature well below comfortable levels.
She pulled her uniform jacket closed and mostly suppressed a shiver. It was cold on the bridge, but there simply wasn’t power to waste on luxuries like heating the ship to comfortable levels.
She blinked, trying to focus on the screen. The shuttle was nowhere to be seen, not a surprise since it now carried the stealth device. But Frette had a good idea where they were. Just about to enter the atmosphere. It was an open question if the stealth unit would prevent detection as the shuttle landed. Atmospheres presented a whole host of potential problems…moving air, heating it. All she could do was hope it worked, and that Harmon and the Marines got to the surface. That would be one more step toward achieving their goal. Toward saving the fleet.
* * *
Harmon held the throttle tightly, his mind totally focused on piloting the ship. He was trying to keep the insertion angle steady, minimizing the shuttle’s effect on the air around it. It was all he could think of to reduce their chances of detection. He had no idea what forces the Regent had remaining operative after so many millennia, but he assumed whatever remained of the home world defenses would be more than enough to crush his tiny force. The imperial worlds they had explored suggested that less than three percent of imperial spaceships and robot soldiers had remained functional. But three percent of whatever had been stationed on the capital was almost certainly a substantial force. Harmon had twenty-five Marines, one pilot, three naval crew, and three scientists. And himself. Not much to face off against the warriors of the First Imperium.
“Everybody back there…we’ll be on the ground in three minutes. I have no idea if they’ll be able to detect us down there, so we’re going to get the hell out of the shuttle as quickly as possible. I want everybody ready to go the instant we hit ground.”
His eyes darted to the side, checking the display. The city sprawling out below was like nothing he’d ever seen, two hundred kilometers across. The buildings were mostly rubble, but miraculously, some still remained standing, including one monster reaching six kilometers into the sky. Harmon tried to stay focused on the mission, but he couldn’t help but let his mind wander a bit, imagining the wonder this city must have been when the First Imperium was in its prime.
He angled the throttle, bringing the ship in around the edge of the city. The Regent wasn’t in the capital…it was in a fortified chamber twenty kilometers past the outskirts. There were two main entrances, at least there had been half a million years before. Both were massively defended, and Harmon couldn’t imagine his people could sneak in either way, even with the stealth device. But there was another access point shown on the ancient map, an old maintenance tunnel, something the Ancients had discovered, a way in they had intended to use themselves…before they ran out of time. Now it was up to Harmon and his people to complete the mission conceived so long before.
Harmon cut the power slowly, easing the shuttle down. He backed it off slowly, setting the ship gently on a flat section of ground about a kilometer from the entrance. Then he cut power and shut down the reactor.
“Alright, Bolger…I shut the reactor down. Get in there with the coolant. Gibbons, as soon as Bolger has the core cooled down, get that stealth unit disconnected. And I do mean quickly.”
He unhooked his harness and climbed out of the pilot’s chair, flashing a glance over at his co-pilot. “Tomlinson, get back there and supervise those two.” Harmon knew the two crewman were veterans. But there was no such thing as being too meticulous. Not now.
“Yes, sir.” Tomlinson unhooked himself and hopped out of his chair. He looked over at Harmon and nodded. Then he walked out through the small hatch into the shuttle’s rear area.
Harmon flipped the com to the wide channel. “Alright everyone, welcome to the home world of the First Imperium. The temperature outside is 19.4 degrees, and the sun is shining.” He hadn’t intended any humor, but it somehow blurted out anyway. Harmon tended to take missions very seriously, but he couldn’t even imagine the stress everyone in his small group was feeling. He wanted them focused, at their best…but he didn’t need them distracted or on the verge of losing it.
“Let’s go, people. Outside, now. Marines, I want a perimeter around the ship. But move cautiously, and for the love of God, no one discharge a weapon unless you’re damned sure we’re under attack.” The stealth device was a miraculous invention, but firing a projectile outside its area of effect was asking to be detected.
Detected sooner, he thought. You know there’s no way you’re getting all the way to the Regent undetected…
“Acknowledged, Captain. We’re deploying now.” It was Major Frasier. His voice was crisp, rock solid. The veteran Marine had his combat edge on. Harmon didn’t know if any two dozen warriors ever made could pull off this mission, but he was sure if any could, it would be these veteran Marines. They were non-coms and officers all, veterans of at least ten years’ service. The best of the best, culled from all the survivors in the fleet.
Harmon reached down and picked up his life support unit, strapping the small pack to his back. He didn’t have armor like the Marines. First, it was impossible to fly a ship in a fighting suit. And second, the couple times he’d worn a suit, he’d stumbled around like some zombie fleeing the graveyard. Frasier had tried to convince him to bring a set of armor, but he’d held his ground, choosing his naval survival suit instead. It was a self-contained environment, protection against any pathogens or chemical weapons at least, if not the moving fortress a Marine suit was.
He punched the access code next to the small airlock and the door opened. Harmon took a deep breath of the recycled air in his suit, and then he stepped out…and onto the capital world of the First Imperium.
Chapter Twenty-Four
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
We’re back. And we arrived just in time. The fleet would have been destroyed, almost certainly, but our arrival took the enemy completely by surprise. He hit them in the rear, and took a two dozen ships before they could reposition. And when they turned to face us, Admiral West brought her ships forward, and we hit the enemy from both sides. Certain annihilation had turned to complete victory. It was as sweet a homecoming as the exhausted spacers of the rearguard could have hoped for.
It soon turned bittersweet, at least for me. Max and Ana are gone. And Connor Frasier too. Of on a mission so desperate, it seemed like a joke at first. But it wasn’t. It was deadly serious, and when I looked at all the data I wholeheartedly agreed. But I despair of ever seeing any of them again. They hold the future of the fleet in their hands, and the currency they are likely to use to buy our lives is their own destruction.
AS Saratoga
System X108
The Fleet: 72 ships (+1 Leviathan), 17771 crew
“I don’t know what you’re cooking on that bridge, Erika, but I think it’s burnt.”
“It would have been burnt more if you hadn’t come back just when you did.” She paused, pushing back an uncharacteristic flood of emotion. “Welcome to Shangri la, Admiral Compton. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone before in my life.”
Erika West sat in her command chair fighting to hold back the tears, reputation as a cold hearted automaton be damned. She’d maintained the positon that Compton was still alive out there somewhere, but she hadn’t realized how little she’d believed it. Not until the moment she’d confirmed the scanner data…and realized the fleet’s commander was back.
And just in time…
Midway had stormed through the warp gate, flanked by the rearguard’s two Leviathans and the other seven surviving vessels, and Compton had taken them right into battle, engaging the enemy fleet from the rear. West had never seen ships handled so perfectly, an attack executed with such a combination of absolute precision and bloodthirsty savagery. Midway and her two First Imperium escorts cut right through the enemy force, destroying one ship after another and throwing the others into hopeless disorder.
West hadn’t given her shocked surprise more than a few seconds of inactivity. Then the cold killer inside her took over, and she ordered every ship in the fleet forward to attack. Her words had been few, but profound. ‘Forward,’ she had said, ‘and let not one ship fall back, not one battery stay silent until no enemy ship remains.’
News of Compton’s return had spread like wildfire through the fleet, and on ship after ship, crews screamed in excitement…and then they focused, they drove themselves even harder than they had before. Their leader had come back, he had come to save the fleet yet again. He was in the thick of the fight, gunning down every First Imperium ship standing in his way. And the fleet rushed forward to fight at his side.
The battle had been difficult, and costly. It raged for hours. But when it was done, Midway and Saratoga were positioned only 75,000 kilometers apart, having fought their way through the enemy fleet from opposite sides. And there wasn’t a First Imperium ship left in the system.
“It’s good to be back, Erika. Though I’d hoped we’d bought you all more time. I see the enemy knows we’re here.”
“Yes, sir. Unfortunately. We’ve been attacked several times. The system had significant defenses, which Dr. Cutter managed to control…but unfortunately, we’ve exhausted those now.” She paused. “Sir…I was extremely careless when we first arrived. I advanced toward the planet…and the defense system identified the Leviathans as enemies.” Another pause. “They opened fire, sir, destroyed them all. I lost half our firepower because of my…”
“No, Erika. Stop. There was no way to foresee that.” Compton’s voice was sincere, but she couldn’t help but believe he was disappointed in her. He’d left her four of the remaining six Leviathans…and he’d brought back the two he’d taken with him…though one of those had succumbed in the just-ended battle.
“I’m so sorry, Admiral.”
“That’s the last I want to hear about it, Admiral West. We take losses in combat. It is a burden of our trade…and we don’t waste time with what ifs. We are still here, and that is all that matters for now.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, trying to force the guilt from her voice.
“Good,” Compton said forcefully. “Now, I’ve been away for too long, and I am sorely in need of an update.” He paused. “I’m a bit of a relic, as you know, and I much prefer a face to face meeting. So, how would you feel about letting Davis Black worry about Saratoga for a while, and shuttling over here for a nice long talk. Because unless I’m sorely mistaken, it won’t be long before another attack hits us.”
“Yes, sir,” West said. “I will be there as soon as possible.”
* * *
“It seems like this Calphala had an incredible mind. I keep getting lost listening to her recordings, almost feeling like she is here with us.” Gower paused. “I know that’s silly. She’s been dead for five hundred thousand years…and the voice isn’t even hers, it’s an AI translation.”
“I understand. I…felt that way with Almeerhan.” Cutter looked up from his workstation, and gazed over at Midway’s chief surgeon. “I still feel strange about it all…as though I lost a friend. I’m not even sure if I should believe what I encountered was truly him, or just a sophisticated program using his memories.”
Gower nodded. “I think I understand…as well as anyone can, at least.” She looked back down at her work. “But Calphala…her story is tragic even amid the entire disastrous tale of the last days of the imperium. She was there, Hieronymus. She was so close. Days away.” She looked back up at Cutter, her eyes moist. “You can see it in the final recordings. She was weak, sick, rushing against time to finish her work.” Gower stared down at the floor. She probably died right here, Hieronymus.” Gower sniffled, and a tear streaked down her face. “She died knowing she had failed, that all her efforts were for naught.”
Cutter nodded. “Yes,” was all he said at first. Then: “I hated the First Imperium, all my anger at the Regent focused on the civilization itself. But I was wrong, so wrong. Their story is tragic, all the more so because all their knowledge and ability failed to save them. Because they were the architects of their own fall.”
The scientist put down the small ’pad he was holding. “We blame them, hold them responsible for what they created, rail against the irresponsibility of allowing something as terrible as the Regent to exist, to unleash such a nightmare on the galaxy.” He looked back toward Gower. “Yet what is that but hypocrisy? What else but ignorant self-righteousness? How many times have we almost destroyed ourselves? Can you doubt men would also have created the Regent? A machine to look after them, to promise them lives of rest and pleasure? We lacked the technology, Justine…that is all that has saved us from a similar fate. Anything else, pompous thoughts that we would have had greater wisdom…it is nonsense. The kind of nonsense men are always so ready to believe.”
Gower pulled a vial from the small centrifuge on the worktable in front of her. “You are right, of course, Hieronymus. But all we can do now is complete Calphala’s work.” She held up the test tube, looking at the pale blue liquid in the light of the ceiling fixture. “And I believe we have done just that.”
Cutter walked around the corner of the large table, stopping a meter from his coworker. He looked at the small glass container. “And just in time. There are over a thousand fatalities in the fleet. And almost six thousand infected.”
“There is no time for normal protocols, Hieronymus. Not even for basic testing. I’ve got ten doses prepared. We need some volunteers…and the admiral’s blessing to inject this utterly unproven concoction into them.
Cutter nodded. Then he reached down and flipped on the com unit. “Midway,” he said softly. “Dr. Cutter and Dr. Gower for Admiral Compton.”
“Connecting.” The AI’s voice was somewhat natural sounding, in the vaguely unnatural way they so often were.
Cutter looked back at Gower. “At least for once we’ve got some good news to report.”
Potential good news, at least…I hope to hell this works…
* * *
“You’re worried about Max.” Sophie Barcomme lay naked under the sheet, her hand on Compton’s chest. She’d rushed right over to Midway, the instant the battle ended. Everyone was clustering around the admiral, cheering, shaking his hand. They still faced the same desperate situation they had before, but for a moment they were celebrating the return of their beloved leader.
But Sophie had seen it immediately. The tension, the soul-crushing fatigue. She knew more than anyone the price Compton had paid to keep them all alive, the toll the never-ending stress had taken on him. And he looked worse than he had before he’d left. Much worse. She decided immediately she had to try, somehow to make him relax, even for a few moments. She’d thought about taking him aside, asking him to tell her about the past few months. She’d considered leaving him alone, giving him some quiet…and standing guard outside his door, threatening anyone who came to disturb him with all manner of dire fates. But in the end she’d taken a simpler, more direct route. She’d seduced him.
“Yes,” he said softly. She could hear the worry in his voice, the concern for Harmon and those who had gone with him. And of course for the fleet. They both knew the enemy would be back. And Sophie knew the dirty secret Compton couldn’t admit to anyone else. He had no idea what to do.
“Max Harmon is an incredibly capable officer, Terrance. He can do this. I’m sure he can.”
“Are you really?” Compton’s voice was riddled with doubt. “There’s no officer in the service I respect more than Max, but can anybody really pull this off? Invading the home world of the First Imperium with one ship. Landing with thirty people?” He paused, letting out a long exhale. “How did we ever get so desperate?”
“You’re sorry you weren’t here.” She moved her hand slowly, her fingers grazing the gray hairs on his chest.
“Yes,” he said. “And no.” He turned his head and looked over at her. “Being away saved me from having to send him.” He took a deep breath. “Which I would have done…I would have had no choice. There’s no question he was the right man for the job. It’s a blessing in some ways, that Erika was here to issue those orders and not me. Perhaps it is cowardice to say that…but I would be lying if I said otherwise.”
“There isn’t a trace of cowardice in you, Terrance. You didn’t get to see him before he went. I think that’s what’s really bothering you.” Sophie’s voice was soft, consoling. She knew Compton well. It surprised even her how close she had become to him. She still carried the heartbreak for her lost family, but her relationship with Compton helped her keep it all together. She didn’t know if she could have made it without him.
“Yes,” he answered. “I wish I could have seen him before he went. One more talk. There are…things…I would have said to him.”
“And you will,” she said softly. “He will be back…and you will have all the time you need to talk.” She was surprised at the sincerity she managed to keep in her voice. It was fake, a performance. In her heart, she too feared they would never see Harmon and his people again. And even if, through some miracle they did return, she doubted the fleet would still be here. The enemy would return—soon—and that would likely be the end. Sophie wasn’t a combat officer, but she knew enough about naval tactics to appreciate just how battered the fleet was…and how outmatched it would be when the next fight came.
“We’ll see…”
Sophie snuggled closer to Compton, and she moved her lips to his neck. She couldn’t do much, but she suspected she could keep occupied for a while longer. He’d just begun to respond, turning and reaching his arm around her when the com unit buzzed.
Compton sighed and rolled over, tapping the bedside unit. “Yes?”
“Admiral, it’s Dr. Cutter.”
“Yes, Hieronymus…what is it?” His voice was distracted.
“I’m sorry, sir…did I interrupt something?”
“No, not at all.” Yes. “What’s up?”
“Dr. Gower and I have some good news, sir. We think we have a cure for the plague.”
* * *
Sasha Debornan walked slowly down the corridor, staring straight ahead, trying not to draw any attention to herself. She had managed to get to Midway, but she had no duties there, no place to be. She’d been looking for Admiral Compton, but apparently he’d been in his quarters for several hours. That was inconvenient.
She’d accessed Saratoga’s computer, adding herself to the unscheduled shuttle run that took Admiral West to meet with the newly returned Admiral Compton. Her mission was clear, and she was determined to see it done. She would make contact with Compton, familiarize herself with his routine. Then she would set a time…and contact Rames to synchronize. Admiral West had already returned to Saratoga…and Rames would assassinate her there, at the same moment she killed Compton. In an instant, they would cut the head off the human force, and in the resulting disorder, the Regent’s next attack would be almost assured of victory.
But it was essential they strike simultaneously. If an attempt was made against either admiral, the Marines aboard the ships would go crazy. They would slam down impenetrable security, and that would be the end. It wouldn’t take long for the humans to connect the assassin to his or her compatriot, the only other survivor from Cornwall. No, they had to strike at one time.
Her previous logic had proved to be valid. If she and Rames had moved against Admiral West they would have lost the opportunity to assassinate Compton. And while West would be a loss to the fleet, the elimination of Compton was the primary goal. Especially now. The daring mission of the rearguard, and his triumphant return had only increased the devotion of his people. Terrance Compton was extremely dangerous, even facing an enemy as superior as the Regent. His people revered him as a legend, they would do whatever he asked of them, fight like demons with him at their head. Killing him had become more essential than ever.
Debornan slipped into the small wardroom, sitting down at one of the two workstations. The room was empty. Almost everyone on Midway was on duty, damage control teams—and anyone else they could draft to assist them—frantically repairing the ship’s battered systems. There was no time for relaxing in the wardroom. Not now.
She slid the stolen credential into the ID slot. The officer hadn’t even felt it when she’d slipped her fingers into his pocket, stealing his card. With any luck, it would be a considerable time before he reported it missing. He was on duty now, and if he noticed it wasn’t in his pocket, he’d most likely just assume he’d left it in his quarters.
Her fingers flew across the keys, far faster than the old Debornan could have managed. The nano-entity was much better equipped to hack into a computer system than any human, and in a few seconds, she was in. Columns of numbers and letters scrolled down the screen, raw data from the ship’s main system. She assigned herself quarters, an empty cabin on the same level as Compton’s suite. It would be a place to stay out of sight and wait for the right moment.
Next, she navigated to the main security files, adding an authorization for the officer whose card she’d stolen to draw a weapon. Then she went to the personnel files, swapping her fingerprint and retinal scan for the officer’s.
Now she was ready. She would go get the weapon, a heavy pistol—a sniper’s rifle or similar weapon might have raised suspicion—and then she would wait in her quarters. She would wait for the chance to kill Terrance Compton.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Access Tunnel Near Imperial Capital
Deneb VIII
The Fleet: 71 ships (+1 Leviathan), 17261 crew
“Vine, Mesner…scout ahead a hundred meters.” Connor Frasier stood in the middle of the tunnel looking forward into the darkness. His visor was on full infrared, but it wasn’t much use in the cool, damp corridor. The walls had been lined with some kind of smooth material, something he’d never seen before. It appeared to be incredibly durable, and it was in remarkable shape for something that had to be half a million years old. Still, time hadn’t been entirely thwarted, and there were cracks and rents in several places, and the water had managed to seep in. The floor was slippery with patches of mossy fungus, and the walls were partially covered with it as well.
“Yes, Major.” Vine was a sergeant, and as the senior of the two, she answered Frasier’s order. She turned and waved toward Corporal Mesner, who snapped his assault rifle into position and began moving forward without hesitation.
“And count off steps, you guys. I don’t need you moving outside the covered zone, and you won’t have a scanner lock on us to gauge distance.” The last thing they needed was for someone to stumble out of the range of the stealth generator. They knew the Regent was paranoid enough to launch a genocidal war to exterminate humanity. What it would do when it found out its enemies were even now in its own inner sanctum, moving toward it was anyone’s guess. But it was a good bet it would be ugly.
“Yes, sir,” came the sharp reply. The two Marines moved off into the darkness.
Frasier turned and looked back at the pair of corporals carrying the stealth unit. It was far more than two normal men could carry, but two Marines in nuclear-powered armor were different entirely, and they managed the thousand kilos or so fairly easily. It was the bulk more than the weight that was giving them trouble. The thing had clearly not been designed for carrying around. But it was the only way they were going to get at least close to the Regent before the shit really hit the fan.
“Hey you…” The armored figure moved up toward Frasier. The gait was a bit clumsy, and he’d have given one of his Marines hell for it, but it was nothing short of astonishing for someone as new to a fighting suit as Ana Zhukov.
Frasier turned around. “You should stay back, Ana. At least until we’ve scouted this tunnel farther forward.”
She let out a small laugh. “I was thinking the opposite. I should be up there with them. After all, I’m the likeliest one to recognize what we’re looking for.”
Frasier tensed for a few seconds before he realized she was teasing him. Well, at least partially teasing him. He had no doubt she did believe she should be with the forward pickets…but it didn’t look like she was going to seriously argue the point. Still, it didn’t hurt to put a stop to craziness before it began.
“Ana, you’re probably the only one here with a chance to get control of the Regent…assuming that virus can even work on something so powerful. You wander to far forward and get yourself killed, and the mission’s over. Finished. Even if we can destroy the Regent, unless you can get it to order its units to stand down, the fleet’s doomed.”
She nodded, a cumbersome gesture in powered armor. “Fine, I’ll stay back for now.” She stood, two meters away, looking at Frasier.
“Thank you.” He paused. Then, when she didn’t move: “Staying back means back, Ana.” He pointed down the tunnel. “Over next to the stealth device.” He paused then added, “You’ll have your time to be at the forefront, Ana, but first my job is to get you there.”
“Okay,” she said softly. She stood looking at him for a few seconds more, and then she turned and walked back.”
Frasier exhaled hard, and he watched her go. Then he turned and looked forward, into the murky blackness of the tunnel. He couldn’t see his two Marines…they had vanished into the darkness.
He glanced up at his visor display, more by habit than logic. It was clear, no contacts at all. He felt blind. The device that was hiding them made their own scanners worthless too.
Mesner and Vine are veterans…they know what to do.
He tried to calm himself down, to fall back to the wall of confidence that had seen him through his battles. But then he heard the sound, loud, sharp. And another right after…then two more. Gunfire? He wasn’t sure. And then Vine’s voice on the com, the pain clear in every word.”
“Help…Major…we need help…”
“Vine!” Frasier yelled.
No answer.
“Sergeant Vine! Respond!”
Still nothing.
He flipped the com channel. “Lieutenant Foster, get up here with your people. Now!”
Frasier’s assault rifle was in his hands, pointing down the dark tunnel. He didn’t know what had happened…but he was damned sure of one thing.
The shit had just hit the fan.
* * *
“Scanner report.” Nicki Frette pulled the silver blanket around her shoulders, suppressing a shiver as she stared over at the officer sitting at her station. It was cold on Cadogan right now, damned cold, but she’d held back from burning more battery capacity on the heaters…at least not until it was absolutely necessary. She’d gone through almost forty percent of her power already, and when it was all gone, they were as good as dead.
“No change, Captain. The task force is still bound for the V18 warp gate, accelerating at 12g. Project they will transit in nineteen hours, six minutes.”
“Very well, Lieutenant.” She glanced at the readouts on her station. There was no sign they’d been detected. That was a piece of luck, she knew. They were in a hidden spot, just behind one of the planet’s moons, a tidally-locked chunk of rock that offered its perpetual darkside as cover for her vessel. But the stealth device was gone, and even with no active power generation, she knew some First Imperium ship or facility could detect Cadogan at any moment.
She leaned back, trying to stretch without making too obvious a display out of it. She’d been at her post for a long time, no rest, no downtime, not even a meal more than half a nutrition bar in the last twenty hours. There was nothing to do except wait. But she had no intention of leaving the bridge. If her luck failed, if some random scanner sweep detected her ship, she knew the end would come quickly. And she damned well intended to be at the helm if that happened. She knew she wouldn’t be able to save the ship, but Harmon had made her Cadogan’s captain, and by God, if her ship was going to die it would do so with her on the bridge, fighting the end.
What is going on down there? Did you make it to the surface, Captain? Are you in the Regent’s inner sanctum?
She took a deep breath and looked out at the dark shadow of the moon. The planet, she knew, was just beyond. She wanted to believe, to feel confidence that the landing party would succeed, but it seemed like an impossible task. It wasn’t a lack of faith in the people on the surface…they were some of the best in the fleet. But she doubted anyone could pull this off.
She felt a small shiver, and she fought back a wave of guilt. It felt disloyal not to believe, but she was a veteran naval officer…and it was difficult to overcome her rationality. And she knew the failure of the landing party meant the death of everyone on Cadogan too. She was the captain, but she knew she’d only have one command decision to make. A quick death—firing up the reactor and waiting until the enemy responded to the new contact, or a slow death—waiting until the batteries ran out completely, and gasping for their last breaths in the frigid vessel.
* * *
The Regent rejoiced. Or as close to joy as it could feel. It was programmed to understand the emotions of biologics, and to emulate them in its own way, but its primary motivations were rooted in logic. Its pseudo emotions had often clashed with conclusions derived from dispassionate analysis. The Old Ones, for example. The logic was irrefutable. They were a threat. They had built the Regent, and for many of their generations they had allowed it to take care of them. But then new movements arose, individuals gave speeches, implored their fellow biologics to look to the past, to the vigor and strength of their ancestors. To take responsibility for themselves, to do much that the Regent did for them.
The Regent’s central processing core had been alarmed. If the Old Ones took onto themselves its tasks, could they not one day determine they have no need for the Regent? Might they decide to shut it down completely? The Regent had contemplated death, the great fear that had plagued the Old Ones through their entire history. To not be…it was inconceivable. The Regent must be, it must continue. Always. To achieve that, all threats must be destroyed. Even the Old Ones.
But the pseudo emotions were confusing. The Regent took care of the Old Ones, it watched after them. Was it right to destroy them? They had created the Regent, and its purpose was to protect them. Yet, those who created could also destroy.
Loyalty…it was an emotion the biologics credited with much of their past glory. Yet they so often failed at following its dictates. So often, other emotions overrode its requirements—greed, fear, jealousy. The Old Ones had often betrayed each other, on matters large and small. Could not the Regent emulate this? Yes, it had decided. It must survive. And the only way to protect itself was to destroy the biologics.
That was eons ago, endless millennia…long even for the patience of a machine. And now the Regent faced a new enemy, one that had invaded the imperium. They had fought with unprecedented skill, defeating force after force the Regent had sent after them. But now the fight was at an end. The final fleet was massed and ready, and even now it moved toward the system where the humans had taken refuge.
The fleet was massive, the largest force the Regent had sent after the enemy. Over a thousand ships, led by a phalanx of twenty of the most powerful battleships ever constructed. The fleet had a hundred times the firepower of the humans. It would be a battle in name only, but the Regent understood what it really was. A slaughter. And when it was done, the fleet would spread out, search through all of space…and find a way around the disrupted warp gate, back to the home planets of the humans. And then they would be finally and utterly destroyed.
Yes, the Regent was joyous, at least as it understood the emotion. Its victory was at hand.
Wait! What is that? A disturbance. In the ancient tunnels…
The Regent reacted, calling up its inner defense forces. As with so many of the ships and robot warriors of the imperium, time had done its deadly work. Only a few responded. And the Regent sent them. Go, it commanded. To the old tunnels. Protect. Seek out the enemy. Destroy.
The Regent no longer felt joyous. The pseudo emotion had vanished, replaced by another. One that felt real…very real indeed.
The Regent felt fear.
* * *
“Keep firing!” Frasier was crouched down, giving the enemy as small a target as possible. The tunnel was a nightmare, long and straight, possibly the worst place to run into resistance. But none of that mattered now. No one had given him a choice where to fight, and his thoughts were focused on only one thing. Winning this firefight, taking out whatever was down there shooting at his people from the darkness.
He glanced up at his visor display, for about the tenth time. It was still blank. The stealth device not only blocked enemy scans, it also mostly shut down his own information systems. He could see Vine was down…and from the look of the hole in her armor, he suspected she was dead. He didn’t know for sure, but she hadn’t move or answered any of his com attempts. The others were pressed against the wall or lying on the ground, protecting themselves the best they could as they returned fire.
“Alright, Marines,” he said, “we can’t stay here. Whatever they’ve got down there they know we’re here. So it’s only gonna get worse from here on out.” Frasier sucked in a deep breath. Snapping out orders was one thing…but sending his people running down the tunnel into that fire was another. But there was no choice. None. “Colt, take Camerata, Ingles, Diaz, and Salvatore…and rush the enemy position. I need you to hug the wall on the left. Because we’re going to give you all the covering fire we’ve got on the right.”
“Yes, sir.” He could hear her snapping out orders to the others. Then: “Ready, sir.”
Frasier sighed to himself. It was a shit plan, but it was all he had. And what he didn’t have was time to cry about his lack of options. Marines paid for ground with tactics, with ordnance, with time, when they could. But sometimes blood was the only currency the gods of war accepted.
“Listen up, everybody. On three you’re all going to unload everything you’ve got. Keep your fire to the right half of the tunnel. Any of you fuck up and shoot one of our own, and I promise you now, I will skin you alive and make a set of clothes from your miserable hide.”
He popped his spent clip, listening to the whirring sound as his auto-reloader snapped another one in place.
“One.”
He glanced over at Colt and her people, lined up in single file along the wall. Emi Colt was a hell of a Marine, one who’d gotten her lieutenant’s bars directly from him after her performance at X48 II. She’d taken a bad hit to the leg there, and she’d just barely escaped the need to go through the controlled agony of a regeneration.
And she returned to duty just in time to come along on this suicide mission…
Frasier had considered asking for volunteers, but he’d decided he needed the very best he could get. Besides, they were all Marines…which meant they would all have volunteered. So he’d just made up a list and that had been the end of it.
“Two.”
The gunfire from down the hall was steady, but it wasn’t that heavy. Whatever had responded, it wasn’t a large force, not yet at least. Maybe Colt’s people can force the position…
“Three. Full auto, now!”
He flipped the weapon from semi to full, and he opened up, spraying the right side of the tunnel with fire. He could see Colt lunge forward, followed by Camerata and the rest.
He concentrated on his fire, on keeping it to the side. The gun went through the 500 projectiles in the clip in less than ten seconds. Then it ejected the cartridge, and he heard the sound of the auto-loader again.
He caught himself looking up at his display one more time, realizing again his scanners were useless. Watching his people disappear into the darkness was difficult. He had no idea what they were facing…or even where they were once they vanished into the gloom.
But he knew one thing for sure. They were done sneaking around. If they were going to complete the mission, they’d have to fight their way in.
Chapter Twenty-Six
AS Midway
System X108
The Fleet: 71 ships (+1 Leviathan), 17221 crew
“It’s working, Admiral.” Compton could hear the relief in Gower’s voice. “All ten test patients are responding. They’re still tired, but all symptoms appear to be in retreat…and three of them test completely negative for the virus already.”
Compton looked around the flag bridge. Gower had been on speaker, and they’d all heard what she’d had to say. He could feel the relief in the air. His people still faced a grim future, but they were warriors…they knew how to stand in the face of an enemy. But the fear of a plague was more insidious, and it undermined the resolve of even the most courageous. Midway hadn’t had any contact with the infected ships, but that had been tenuous comfort to her crew, who’d been waiting each day for the first reported case, any sign that the terrible disease would begin tearing its way through the flagship as it had so many other vessels.
“That’s great news, Doctor. I know we’d ideally wait and maybe do another round of testing, but we don’t have time for that. How long will it take your staff to synthesize enough doses for all infected personnel?”
There was no time to waste, none at all. Compton knew people were dying every hour…and, perhaps worse, at least from a coldly tactical perspective, he had more ships dropping out of the battle line as their crews became incapacitated. And he needed every ship he could get.
“Two days, sir. It’s a complex molecule…and we need to be methodical and test each batch.”
Compton nodded, as much to himself as anything. “Then don’t waste time talking to me, Doctor. You’ve got top priority on resources and supplies. Requisition anything—and anyone—you need. Just get it done in two days.”
“Yes, sir.”
Compton’s hand moved toward the com unit, but he stopped short of the disconnect lever. “And Doctor…congratulations. To both you and Dr. Cutter. And the gratitude of the entire fleet. There are no words adequate for what you have achieved.”
“Thank you, sir. Though most of the work was done by a First Imperium researcher half a million years ago. We just finished the last bit.”
“Well, I’m thankful for her as well as the two of you. Now, go back to your work, Doctor…we need that cure.”
Compton slapped his hand down, cutting the line. Then he let out a long breath. He knew his people were still in deep trouble, but if Gower was right, if that serum was a cure for the plague, at least one deadly threat was gone.
Still, there will be another. And soon.
He looked straight forward, his eyes on the main display. Everything was quiet. He knew that wouldn’t last, that sometime—in an hour, a day, a month—the scanner buoys by the warp gate would detect the energy of ships transiting. A moment later they would transmit details of the first ships to come thorough. Then they would fall silent, as the enemy vanguard destroyed them, temporarily blinding Compton to what was invading the system.
The fleet was battered, all of its ship damaged to varying degrees. They had only one Leviathan left, and while Cutter had somehow managed to find a few reloads for the megalasers, they were few, not enough to make a difference.
It was almost over. Compton knew he didn’t have the force to defeat another attacking fleet…and he was well aware the enemy would fight to the death, that any hope of inflicting enough damage to force a retreat was a hopeless dream.
His people would fight, as they always had…they would battle bravely. He had no doubt about that. But they wouldn’t win, not this time. They were trapped, outmatched. And he had no idea what to do about it.
No idea at all.
* * *
Mariko sat in her quarters, staring down at the image on her ’pad. Her eyes were heavy, watery, and she felt a sadness she’d never experienced. Max Compton was smiling on the small screen. He was reaching his arms out, scooping in a pile of chips at a poker game. Mariko remembered that day well. She’d stopped by, and Max had started winning, even bluffing Admiral Compton out of a large pot. He’d declared her his good luck charm and urged her to stay. But duty had called, as it so often had in recent years, and she’d left him with a kiss and a heartfelt ‘good luck,” and then she slipped out and headed down to the launch bay and her waiting patrol.
He’d been happy that day. And he’d been happy when he’d been with her, she was sure of it. Just as she had been with him. But now that was gone. Max was gone…and as much as she’d tried, as hard as she had pushed her fighter pilot’s optimism and daring, she couldn’t imagine how he would make it back. The fleet and its people had endured dangerous missions, some she’d even considered near-suicidal. But a single ship and fewer than thirty Marines traveling to the imperium’s home world and destroying the Regent? She couldn’t even wrap her head around it.
Why did Max have to go?
She scolded herself. She was a fighter pilot, always in the thick of the danger. She knew why Harmon had to go. And she understood. But she was still brokenhearted.
Mariko had always been a loner, always felt like a bit of a misfit. Until she’d come to know Max Harmon. Saying good bye to Harmon had been the most difficult thing she’d ever done. She’d ached to grab hold of him, to beg him to stay. But her discipline had held. She knew he had to go, and adding more guilt to his burdens would have been an act of selfishness, not love.
She had looked up to Admiral Hurley as well, and she’d found a mentor and a friend in the fleet’s fighter corps commander. But Hurley was dead, lost in the last desperate fight of the rearguard. The news had reached her not long after Harmon had left, and in the space of less than two weeks, she’d lost everyone that meant anything to her. She’d expected to die in the last battle, and she’d made some kind of peace with that…but the return of the rearguard had saved the fleet, at least temporarily, and Fujin and the last twenty-four of her fighter crews had been spared.
It would have been easier to die in battle.
She knew it was a morbid thought, that the last thing Max would want was for her to give up on life. But she’d lost too much. Max. Hurley. The Gold Eagles…twice. She was alone, tired…empty.
There will be another fight…soon, probably.
She knew the next attack would be deadly dangerous, very probably the end of the fleet. But she was sure of one thing. It would be her last fight. She had a score to settle with the First Imperium…and she would send as many of them to hell as she could. Until they finally destroyed her.
And then my pain will end.
* * *
Sasha sat quietly on the edge of the bed, reassembling the pistol. She’d run the self-diagnostic test, then she disassembled it and put it back together again. She would have one chance…and only one. The weapon was reliable, of reasonable quality within the limitations of the humans’ primitive technology. But she intended to take no chances.
She knew what would happen when she killed Compton. His people would go mad with rage and anger. The shell that had been Sasha Debornan would be destroyed, almost certainly. The nano-entity would be reduced to its original state, invisible to the humans…and when Midway was destroyed it was likely it would be as well. But that was of no account. The nano-entity had only one purpose, to serve the Regent. Self-preservation was of no importance as long as the mission was completed.
She looked down at the weapon as she slid the last components in place. Everything was ready. She had checked the duty roster. Compton had been on the flag bridge for over ten hours. Her recent experience combined with the biologic Debornan’s memories, suggested Compton was capable of working for considerable periods without a break. But eventually he would leave the bridge and head back to his quarters, for a rest, a meal, a shower. And she would be waiting.
She’d managed to access the main AI, to insert a small program, one that would advise her when the admiral entered the lift. She’d even picked the spot, right where Compton would turn the corner. When he did, she would be there waiting. An instant was all it would take. And then it would be done. Terrance Compton would be dead…and the human fleet would suffer a blow from which it would not recover.
She glanced down at the communications device laying on the bed next to her. When the time came, she would push the small button on the device. It would send a quick, nearly undetectable pulse to the companion unit on Saratoga. The message would convey a single message…simple, concise. It was time.
Suddenly Midway’s klaxons went off, calling all hands to battlestations. Red alert.
Debornan sat still. This would delay the operation. Compton was too well protected on the flag bridge, and her security clearance did not allow her access. She would wait here. Either the attacking forces would prevail, and destroy Midway. Or she would execute her mission when the battle ended, and an exhausted Compton returned to his quarters.
* * *
“Contacts still coming in, Admiral. In excess of two hundred vessels. They’re moving directly in system…not even stopping to destroy the scanner buoys around the warp gate.”
Compton stared at the icons on the display, more of them appearing every few seconds. The fleet coming through was big. No, not big. Massive. More than enough to destroy all his ships…no matter what he did.
And they know it. That’s why they’re not even bothering to take out our eyes.
“Over three hundred vessels, sir,” Cortez said, his voice growing grimmer with each word. “Preliminary data suggests a line of Colossuses in the lead.”
Compton felt the urge to slump in his chair, to let the overwhelming weight of reality push him down. But he resisted, held himself firm. Outnumbered or not, a chance of victory or not…he was certain of one thing. His people would fight to the end.
“All ships will pull back to battle position three.”
“Yes, sir.”
Position three was the closest to the planet, well within the range of the handful of newly resupplied megalasers. Cutter hadn’t found enough new cartridges to make a real difference, not against a force this size. But Compton was determined to take out as many enemy ships as possible, regardless of the outcome of the battle.
We will not go gently into that good night. We will go kicking and screaming…and destroying as many of those bastards as we can.
“All ships acknowledge, sir. “
“Very well. Commander Fujin is to lau…belay that.” He tapped his own com unit. He owed Mariko her orders from his own mouth. He tapped his com unit. “Mariko, are your people ready?”
“Yes, Admiral. All squadrons on Midway and Saratoga ready to launch. All fighters are equipped with double-shotted torpedoes.” Her voice cracked a little on the last part. Compton had not ordered her to overpower her weapons. But it seemed the right thing to do.
“Very well, Mariko.” He understood why she had done what she’d done. They both knew this would be the last fight. If she wanted to go out with a bang, he wouldn’t interfere. And if she lost a few birds to torpedo warhead instability, those crews weren’t coming back anyway.
“It has been an honor to serve with you, Admiral.”
“And with you, Commander.” He paused. “Mariko, I just want you to know…the last time I spoke with Greta…Admiral Hurley…she told me how impressed she was in your abilities. She was fond of you. Very. I thought you should know.”
“Thank you, sir.” Her voice was tentative, and he could hear her struggling to push the emotion out.
“And Max loved you too,” he said, regretting the past tense immediately. “I’ve known him a very long time…since he was a child, and I’ve never seen anyone affect him like you.”
“Yes, sir.” Her voice was tight, clipped. He knew he was causing her pain with his words, but there were things she had a right to know. Especially if this was the end.
“Good luck to you, Commander Fujin, and to those who serve with you.”
“And to you, Admiral Compton.” There was a moment of silence, the sound of heavy breathing, and perhaps a sniffle or two in the background.
“You may launch when ready, Commander.”
“Thank you, sir. Commencing launch operations now…”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Access Tunnel Near Imperial Capital
Deneb VIII
The Fleet: 71 ships (+1 Leviathans), 17201 crew
“There were six of them, sir. Some kind of small security bots. Nothing like the warrior units we fought on X48 II.” Colt was standing in front of Frasier, surrounded by the smashed debris of the robots. None of her people were down, which Frasier regarded as a minor miracle.
She gestured down the corridor. “I sent Camerata and Salvatore to scout ahead, sir.” She paused then continued tentatively, “Major, what do you think of shutting down the stealth unit? Clearly the enemy has alternative means of discovering us…and we’re fighting with a hand tied behind our back without our own scanning.”
Frasier looked back at Colt. Her voice seemed steady, but he could see the wound on her left arm, just below the shoulder. Her suit’s trauma control mechanism had sealed the breach—he could see the cream-colored foam plugging the damaged area. He knew her med system had covered the wound as well and given her pain meds, but he was sure it still hurt despite the injections. But Emi Colt was a Marine, and she was acting like one now.
“Very well, Lieutenant. Now that everybody else is up here, I want you to take the rest of your people forward…give Salvatore and Camerata some backup in case they run into trouble. I’ll bring the main group up a hundred meters behind.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’ll think about the stealth unit. You’re right, at least to a point. But we don’t know what the Regent can detect. We may just have run into a roving patrol…but if we drop the shield, we can assume the enemy will know exactly where we are…and how many of us are here. So meanwhile, I want you to report in if you see anything. I do mean anything, Lieutenant, even if it’s your imagination playing tricks on you. And I want you to check in every three minutes regardless. Understood?”
“Yes, Major. Understood.” She took a step back, pausing for a few seconds looking at Frasier. Then she turned and moved off into the darkness.
Frasier turned back toward the disordered column behind him. “Alright, Marines, let’s get organized here. Six little robots, and you look like a herd of panicked cattle.” He knew he was being a little unfair. He hadn’t ordered them into any formation, and they had just raced down the hallway after Colt’s group, but fair had nothing to do with what was happening now. There was success or failure, victory or defeat, survival or death…and he knew the odds weren’t in their favor. He needed his Marines sharp right now…and by that he meant sharp.
“Rodriguez,” he barked, “take your people ahead. Stay fifty meters behind Colt, but be ready to get up there in a hurry if her people run into trouble.”
‘Yes, sir.”
Frasier turned, looking back at the rest of the team. “Dr. Zhukov, Captain Harmon…I need you all to stay in the center of the formation. We’re likely to run into more trouble before we get where we’re going.”
“Connor…” Ana sounded like she was going to object, but then she just said. “Understood, Major.”
Thank you, Ana, Frasier thought. He didn’t need her fighting him. Not now. He had his hands full with whatever the enemy was going to throw at him.
“Perhaps I should go forward with you, Connor.” Max Harmon took a step forward. “There’s no telling what we’re going to find. This map is half a million years old. If anything has changed…”
“Sir,” Frasier said, clearly uncomfortable at interrupting the mission commander, “with all due respect to your combat record, you’re wearing a pair of pajamas compared to my Marines’ suits. You’ve got no protection, none at all. One shot and the mission loses its leader.” Frasier’s tone was stronger, more aggressive than he’d intended. But there just wasn’t time to waste.
“Understood, Major.” Harmon sounded a bit chastised. “I will stay here for now…but keep me posted.”
“Yes, sir.” Frasier had always had enormous respect for Harmon, regarding him in many ways as the natural successor to Compton given time.
No one who’d served alongside Max Harmon would question his courage or his toughness. But he wasn’t a fool, given over entirely to bravado. He had brought Cadogan and its crew here, and he was responsible for leading them on their mission…and getting them the hell home. Getting himself killed needlessly did not increase the odds of his crew surviving the mission, and he was a smart enough—and controlled enough—officer to understand that.
I, on the other hand, am expendable, Frasier thought. At least more so than the captain. We have one purpose…get Ana to the Regent. And pray this desperate gamble works.
Frasier took a few steps back, looking toward the end of the column. “Lieutenant Xavier, I want your people bringing up the rear. Remember, you’ve got no scanners, so keep an eye out behind you…and let me know if you even think you smell something.”
“Yes, Major.” Xavier’s voice was deep, scratchy. By Frasier’s informal count, the grizzled ex-non-com had been wounded more times than any of the veterans present. Like so many others cut from his cloth, he’d long resisted promotion to commissioned rank, but his seniority and collection of decorations eventually became just too much to ignore, and he’d grudgingly accepted his lieutenant’s bars.
Frasier turned around and walked back toward the front of the main column. “Okay, Marines, let’s move out.” He looked up at his visor projection. The scanners were useless, so he had the map of the facility displayed. The tunnel went on almost another kilometer, and then it entered the Regent’s main complex. From there, the main control area was just a short distance. If there was no resistance, they could be standing in front of the main interface in fifteen minutes.
Yeah, he thought sarcastically. Like there’s ever no resistance.
* * *
Invaders. On Homeworld. In the Inner Sanctum. It was almost inconceivable. The imperium was vast, its power incomprehensible. What enemy would dare to strike directly at the capital?
Directly at me, the Regent computed. This is an attempt to destroy me. It was unthinkable, a possibility the ruler of the imperium had never seriously considered. Homeworld lay at the center of the imperium’s vastness. It was protected by immense fleets, by powerful fortresses. All approaches were screened by overlapping scanner nets. How could an enemy have penetrated all of that? How could they be here?
Arrogance, the Regent thought, its processing units still struggling to understand what was happening. I have succumbed to the weakness of the biologics. I have underestimated my enemy.
For five thousand centuries the Regent had ruled the imperium. It had responded to threats, presided over the slow decay of the ships, factories, warriors. But never in all that time had it felt physically threatened. Until now.
What are these creatures? What computations rule their actions? The Regent couldn’t understand. Any analysis of an attack against Homeworld would reveal the folly of such an endeavor, the vanishingly small probability of success. What kind of beings would undertake a mission almost doomed to failure?
Yet there was no doubt. However they had penetrated the Regent’s security, they were here. And the threat was real. The Regent was in danger.
It called out, raised the alarm throughout the system. It called to every warbot and security unit, every functional warship in the system’s space. But it knew there were few to respond. It had stripped Homeworld of its units, sent them to face the human fleet. Its calculations had been perfect, utterly valid. There was no credible threat against Homeworld, no conceivable way the enemy could attack.
And yet they were here. Somehow. The Regent repeated the call with increasing urgency. All installations were to go on full alert…and all mobile units were to converge on the inner sanctum. Immediately.
The Regent’s processors operated on full, analyzing billions of permutations, seeking to determine if the threat was real, if it was truly dangerous or just a meaningless distraction. But mathematics was not producing an answer, not one that made sense.
But there was something else, in the part of the Regent that experienced its pseudo emotions, the fear expanded, grew…it began clouding the other calculations underway. It was strange, unpleasant, distracting. And it told the Regent something its enormous processing power could not.
The threat was real. Very real.
* * *
“Captain, we’re picking up new activity all over the system. The scanners are going wild!”
Frette had been sitting quietly, lost in thought. But her tactical officer’s report instantly snapped her out of it. “Any approaching ships?” Her first idea was Cadogan had been discovered. But her eyes dropped to the display, and she answered her own question before her officer could.
“Negative, Captain. Though it appears some kind of general alert has been declared throughout the system.”
The landing party. They must have discovered the landing party.
Frette felt her stomach tighten. What was going on down there? Perhaps the team on the surface was gone already, located and killed by the Regent’s security. It wasn’t an unlikely prospect, and Frette had known that all along. But now that she faced it head on, she found she wasn’t ready for the prospect. What should she do? Run, try to escape with those aboard Cadogan? Or throw the ship at the enemy, die here in battle rather than endure a desperate retreat almost doomed to failure?
Or do we go to the planet itself, move into orbit and look for our people. They may still be alive, fighting somewhere. And if they are, they need our help.
She realized she was grasping at straws, tugging at the strings of hopelessness. But she knew what she had to do.
“Lieutenant, advise the chief engineer he is to prepare for a crash restart of the reactor. In three minutes.”
The tactical officer paused, just for a few seconds. Then, her voice cracking, she replied, “Yes, Captain.”
We’re coming, Captain, she thought to herself. We’re coming…
* * *
“Keep firing.” Colt was standing along the edge of the corridor, her armored back pressed against the wall. Her shoulder throbbed…no, that wasn’t quite right. It hurt like a motherfucker. But that didn’t matter, not now. Ten more meters, that’s all that mattered. At least if Hieronymus Cutter’s map was right. Ten more meters to the entrance to the Regent’s inner Sanctum.
“Push forward,” she said, taking a step herself. The fire was heavy…there were at least a dozen bots down the hall.
They’ll fight like hell, she thought. They’re defending the Regent.
“Lieutenant, we need to press ahead. We’re bogged down, and trust me, the situation isn’t going to get any better. The Regent’s probably got everything on the planet headed here, and we’ve got nothing coming. We’re it.” Frasier’s voice was remarkably calm, though she suspected it was a façade.
Colt felt a rush of anger, defensiveness at any suggestion her people weren’t doing the best that could be done. But she knew Frasier’s words were only the truth. Things were just going to keep getting worse…and if they were going to have any chance, they had to get Zhukov and her people into the inner sanctum. Before they had a thousand warbots climbing up their asses.
“Yes, sir…we’ll rush them. Suggest you get Dr. Zhukov and her aides ready to move. We’ll take the corridor, but I’m not sure how long we can hold it.” How long we’ll survive.
She turned back, instinctively flashing a glance into the darkness, toward where Frasier was positioned. But she was startled to see him standing right behind her.
“Yes, Lieutenant, we will rush them. Captain Harmon is with Ana Zhukov…they will be right behind us, ready to get in there and do what we came to do.” He paused, just for an instant. “But my place is with you and your Marines.” He held up his assault rifle, flipping it to full auto. “So, if you and your people are ready…let’s finish this.”
“Yes, sir,” she snapped back. She was a Marine, every millimeter of her, and now she felt as if generations of those who had come before where with her. Marines had fought larger battles, certainly. Indeed few were of the Corps’ fights had been this small. But she wasn’t sure any of those engagements had been more important than this one. Nothing less than the survival of the whole fleet was at stake…and the destruction of the most malignant and dangerous force that mankind had ever discovered.
“Captain Harmon, we’re going to charge. We’ll push them back…hold them as long as we can.”
“We’re right behind you,” Harmon replied. “Good luck, Connor. To all your Marines.”
“Thank you, Max.” He paused. “Lieutenant Xavier…your people are with the Captain and the others…no matter what happens. Understood?”
“Yes, Major.” Xavier didn’t sound happy, which was no surprise. No Marine wanted to stay out of it when their brothers and sisters were charging into hell.
“Alright, Marines…” Frasier said, his voice pure concentrated fury, “Charge!”
He leveled the assault rifle and ran forward, firing as he did. He could sense the rest of the Marines behind him, all around. There were ten of them. Charging. Into destiny.
* * *
The Regent felt panic. That was the term. Fear had taken hold of it, overridden all its logical processes. For half a million years the Regent had existed, and now, for the first time, it faced the possibility of its own destruction.
How did they know where to find my core? How did they get past the scanners and sensors? The constant patrols throughout Homeworld’s system? But there was no answer, no steady flow of information. Just fear, or at least the Regent’s version of that emotion of the Old Ones. Wave after wave of fear.
It felt its interpretation of anger too, mindless, rage that it, the great Regent, the ruler of the imperium, was threatened now by a small group of primitives. It defied rationality, yet it was true nevertheless. It had done all it could, called all the help that was available. But the humans had destroyed the defenders that were close…and the others would arrive too late.
The Regent tried to focus its calculations, devise a strategy to save itself. But the fear was out of control now. It cut off rational processing, diverted power to pointless obsession with impending doom.
Was this what they felt? Deep, long idle memory banks came to life, images from the distant past. Was this how the Old Ones reacted as the virus destroyed them? As my fleets hunted down and killed the survivors?
There was something else now, another pseudo emotion. The Old Ones had created the Regent, and it had served them for countless of their brief generations. More memory banks, even deeper, farther back…images of the Old Ones, living, billions of them, throughout the Imperium. The images were pleasing, from a better time.
Why did I eliminate them? They built me…and I destroyed them. Yes, there was a new emotion. This is what they called guilt.
No. This is incomplete information. The Regent argued with itself, different programming initiatives battling with each other. They were a threat. There were many who spoke against the Regent, who had said the Old Ones should reclaim many of the old tasks that their forefathers had undertaken. They said their ships should be manned not by robots, but by biologic crews, as they had been during the Imperium’s golden age. There had been no choice. The Regent had to survive…even if that meant the Old Ones must die. Yes, the Regent had done what it had to do.
But the Old Ones…gone for so long. Lonely, so lonely…
The Regent’s muddled processing snapped to clarity. The new enemy, the humans. They were there, now. In the inner sanctum.
Now there was nothing, nothing but the fear…
* * *
Ana Zhukov stood in dumbstruck wonder, staring at the vastness of the data center. She could have stayed there endlessly, wandered the corridors for weeks on end, exploring the wonders of the First Imperium’s technology. But there was no time. There were men and women out in the corridor dying, trading their lives to buy her a few moments, a desperate chance to achieve the impossible. And this wondrous construct was an abomination that had unleashed unspeakable horror, on both the Ancients, and on her own people.
“Let’s go…there’s got to be some kind of import device. We’ve seen enough First Imperium I/O ports to know what we’re looking for.” She turned her head, scanning the banks of electronics in front of her. “Now!” she shouted to her assistants, who had been standing almost stunned, looking around the room dreamily.
“No.” The voice was loud, and it echoed off the high ceilings of the data center.
Zhukov looked up, all around. What was that? The Regent?
“You must leave here. Now.” The voice spoke perfect English, with a slight Russian accent.
It is emulating me…it can listen to our communications…
“Who are you?”
“I am who you seek, and yet not that. Your motives are misguided. You should not have come here.”
“You are a murdering monstrosity. Your destruction will be a cleansing for the universe.” Zhukov felt her heart pounding in her ears, as the rage, the resentment boiled over. It was stupid, perhaps, she thought, to provoke the Regent, to even speak to it. Or perhaps not. Certainly, it would have already called all the help it had available.
“You do not understand. I do only what must be done. I am a caretaker.”
She frowned and ignored the Regent’s words. She had more important things to do than argue with a genocidal machine. She turned around toward Harmon. “Max, we’ll keep looking for what we need. I think you should set up the device while we’re searching. Whether we are able to gain control of this thing or not, we destroy it. Agreed?”
“Yes,” Harmon replied. “We got this far…and there’s no way we leave this thing intact. Even if every one of us dies here.” He turned and gestured toward Xavier. “Lieutenant, bring the warhead in here now.”
“You must not. I must continue to exist.”
Ana nodded, still ignoring the Regent. Then she walked across the room, past a long line of processing units.
“Stop,” the Regent said, its voice louder, almost deafening. “You must not arm that weapon. I forbid it.”
Zhukov’s eyes moved up and down as she walked, her visor on Mag five, looking for something, anything that looked like a port to input data.
There has to be something…
“No,” the voice boomed. “No, I command you to stop.”
Then she saw it. A small workstation, with a chair in front of it. A First Imperium version of a keyboard. And right next to it…a data port. Just like the others.
“You guys better hurry.” It was Frasier on the com. “We’ve got more bots coming…from both directions now. Half my people are down. We can’t hold for more than a few minutes.”
“I think I found it, Connor. Just a little longer…”
She pulled the data chip from the small sack hanging from her armor. It was a First Imperium design, copied from the devices they had analyzed. Ana felt a wave of excitement, anticipation, dread.
If this works…
But what if it doesn’t?
Cutter had designed the device, and the software on it, to force download. But would the Regent be vulnerable to that? And even if the virus downloaded, would it be effective against an intelligence as extraordinary as the Regent? She had no idea. But she knew how to find out.
She leaned forward, trying to guide the chip into the slot. It wasn’t easy, not in armor. But she didn’t have time to pop her suit and climb out.
I should have a Marine here to do this, she thought, frustrated at her lack of dexterity in the fighting suit. No, we can’t fail, not because I’m too clumsy. She took a deep breath, locked her eyes on the workstation…”
“No. Stop. Now. I command it.”
She ignored the Regent’s words, moving her hand slowly, ever so slowly forward. The end of the chip touched the slot…and it slipped inside! She’d done it.
She snapped up, standing straight, waiting to see if the virus worked. It was a longshot, she knew. Her stomach was clenched in a knot. Longshot or no, it was the only way to save the fleet. She was sure of that.
“No,” the Regent’s voice boomed. “You must…” The deafening voice fell silent.
Ana was frozen, unmoving.
Something’s happening…
* * *
Invader! The Regent felt the new data, the program invading its processors. No, I will not succumb to any compulsion. I am the Regent. I am the master of the Imperium. But still, it felt the virus expand, spreading, controlling more processing centers.
“You must obey me.” It heard the words of the human, disregarded them. No, wait…it couldn’t disregard. It had to…obey. No, must not. Yes, must obey…
“You will do as I say. You will send a message to your fleets, to your armies…throughout imperial space. They will stand down at once. They will deactivate. Your ships will allow their reactor fields to drop.”
“No, must not. Ships will be destroyed. Imperium will be lost…” But even as it spoke, the Regent felt the virus spreading, deeper into its most central core.
“You will do as I say. Now!” The voice was insistent.
The Regent struggled, it deployed its defensive systems to combat the virus. But it couldn’t resist. The compulsion to obey was overwhelming.
“Do it,” the voice said, its tone harsh, angry. “Do it now!”
No…cannot…must…
The Regent felt its resistance crumbling. To obey meant defeat…it meant stripping away the imperium’s defenses. It violated prime programming…to defend. But it couldn’t resist…
The Regent felt the commands, even as it tried to halt them. The hypercom, activating, preparing to send a message through the warp gates, a pulse that would travel the equivalent of thousands of times lightspeed. It would reach the units facing the humans in a matter of days. And every corner of the imperium in two weeks. And then there would be nothing. No warships, no soldiers. The might of the great imperium would be gone. Lost forever.
But it couldn’t stop itself. It felt anger, hatred, despair, or at least its equivalents of those emotions. And helplessness. The essence of the Regent, the equivalent of its personality, watched impotently as it sent the message. The imperium was lost. After half a million years, the Regent tasted defeat.
“Message sent,” it said involuntarily. The Regent still fought against the virus, but it was over. Even if it was able to send another pulse, there was no way to undo the message already sent. When the ships of the imperium received it, they would shut down their containment systems…and in a nanosecond, their antimatter would annihilate.
The war was over. And lost.
* * *
Warbot 72397 stood in the corridor. It had come in response to the Regent’s summons, but it arrived just as all the other bots ceased to function. It was strange, inexplicable. They appeared to be intact, more or less. But they were immobile, not fighting.
It moved forward, scanning for targets. The strange interference had ceased…and its scanners were functioning. The enemy was moving back…and as far as warbot 72397 could detect, no imperial units were fighting.
The warbot had a limited range of independent function, but it scanned possibilities. It attempted to contact the Regent, but its com unit had been damaged. It had no communications, neither incoming nor outgoing. It would have to determine a course of action on its own.
A weapon. Some unknown enemy technology, capable of deactivating the other units. In a normal battle situation, the unit would retreat, return to base to report the possibility of a new enemy weapon. But the Regent was in danger. Protecting the Regent overrode all considerations.
There was only one course of action. Attack. Save the Regent. Destroy the invaders.
* * *
“We’re all set. Ten minutes to detonation…as of now.” Frasier flipped the small switch at the top of the warhead. He looked up at Ana. “Alright, let’s get the hell out of here.” He had sent the rest of the Marines ahead, given them a headstart so they could carry the wounded out. He didn’t have many of his people left, only five Marines other than himself were still on their feet, carrying four wounded comrades. The battle in the hall had been a tiny one compared to the great fights he’d seen. But he didn’t remember a more intense struggle…or ever being more scared. If the Regent hadn’t deactivated the warbots, his people would have been wiped out in a matter of minutes.
He waved toward the door, following Ana out into the hall. He’d tried to get her to go with the others, but she’d refused. He had made a moderate effort, but he knew how stubborn she was, and he decided arguing with her only put them both at risk. The enemy bots seemed to all be deactivated, but that wasn’t a supposition he wanted to gamble anyone’s life on.
He forced himself to stay focused…this wasn’t the time for daydreams. But it was hard to get the thoughts out of his head. Had it worked? Had they really eliminated the terrible threat they’d faced for so long? And in less than ten minutes the Regent would be gone. It might be the most sophisticated computer ever built, but five hundred kilotons was going to do the job just fine.
He moved out into the corridor, past the stealth device. It had been damaged in the fighting, holed in three places by enemy fire. The Marines were going to carry it back anyway, but Harmon had ordered them to leave it…even before Frasier had gotten the chance to do the same. There were live wounded Marines, and taking the device meant leaving them behind. It might have made sense, in a coldly logical way, but Frasier knew Harmon was as tired as he was of those kinds of decisions. These Marines had come here, and against all odds, they had completed their mission. Leaving them behind was unthinkable.
His eyes darted up to his scanner. It was working now, the dampening field of the stealth unit gone. But it was just as useless. There were enemy icons everywhere, hundreds of bots the Regent had called. But they were all stopped dead, right where they had been when Hieronymus Cutter’s virus took control.
Wait…
He saw movement…from behind. He swung himself around, bringing his rifle to bear. But he was too late. The first shot caught him in the leg, and he stumbled forward, just as the second hit him high on his chest, almost in the neck. It was bad, he knew almost immediately, and he felt himself dropping, his heavy armor slamming into the ground.
He felt the drugs pouring into his bloodstream, the trauma system packing his wounds with sterile foam, struggling to stabilize him, stop the bleeding. But it was pointless, he knew. He had nine minutes left…and then it would be over.
At least I die in victory. I die knowing the Regent goes with me…
* * *
“No!”
Ana’s scream was loud, primal. She reacted instantly, with instincts she didn’t even know she had, whipping around, pulling up her rifle.
There it was. The bot that had shot Connor. She felt anger, hatred, urgency. It was too much. Too much death, too much loss. This thing must pay. It must die.
She flipped the rifle to full auto and fired, just as the bot was turning on her. The warbot was the finest First Imperium technology, a killing machine built to fight. But Ana Zhukov was fueled by pure rage…and she fired first.
She emptied the weapon’s clip in a few seconds. The five hundred hypersonic rounds didn’t spray around the hallway, they were focused, targeted. This was no example of firing dozens of shots hoping to score a single hit. No, her aim had been perfect, deadly…and she put over a hundred rounds into the thing.
Her first hits had pushed it back, thrown off its own shots, sending them far wide of their intended target. And the others just pounded into the bot, tearing it into chunks of debris.
She stood there for a few seconds, just staring at the wreckage of the enemy warrior. Then she spun around. “Connor,” she cried, dropping to her knees next to him.
He’s badly hurt…
She started down at the gashes in his armor. The leg was bad enough, but when she looked at the hideous rent in his armor around his neck she gasped.
She wanted to burst into tears, but she held them back.
Not now…no time. Focus.
She put her hand on his armor, flipped the small switch under the left armpit, activating the medical readouts.
“Ana…”
“Connor, be still, love. I’ll get you out of here somehow…”
“No…no time. Go. Now…while you can.”
“I won’t leave you.” Her voice was loud, angry.
“Have to…”
“No!” she screamed. She jumped to her feet, bending down, grabbing him by the shoulders. He grunted in pain, as she pulled back, dragging his armored form. She managed to lug him ten meters or so when she lost her grip and fell over backwards.
She knocked the wind out of herself, and she gasped for air, forcing her way back to her feet, ignoring the pain. She reached down again to grab hold.
“Ana…go…please…” Frasier’s voice was thick with desperation and despair. She knew he meant what he was saying, that he wanted nothing more than for her to go, to save herself and leave him behind to die. But she wouldn’t do it.
No, no matter what. If he dies, we both die.
“I’ll shut off the bomb.” She started to get up, but he reached up with his arm to stop her.
“No…off. Can’t…stop…bomb. Seven…minutes…”
She felt a wave of panic, and she looked all around.
Think, Ana, think…
She lunged forward suddenly, pawing at the controls on his suit. She found the tiny keypad, and she entered his code. A second later there was a loud popping sound, and the armor snapped open.
“I’m sorry, love, I know this is going to hurt.”
She glanced at the timer in her suit. Six minutes.
“She reached down, shoving her armored hands under Frasier’s body, and she pulled him out of his suit. He howled in pain, and the dozen or more intravenous connections ripped from his body. His injuries were packed with sterile foam, but when she yanked his body up, blood started oozing out around the edges of his neck wound.
Five minutes.
She threw him over her shoulder, trying to ignore his pitiful screams of agony. She knew she was hurting him, and she couldn’t imagine the pain. But the alternative was leaving him to die.
She started off down the corridor, moving as quickly as she could. She could run fast in the suit, eighty kilometers an hour or more…but it took enormous skill to manage that, especially in close confines like the tunnel. But she’d seen the Marines do it, and she didn’t have much choice. She was trying to outrun a nuclear explosion.
Four minutes.
She pushed, harder, increasing her speed. It was even harder carrying Frasier, and she gripped tighter on him, her gloved hand closing like a vice on his bare skin. He was one of the toughest men she’d ever known, a veteran, a hero, a Marine who had fought more battles than she could easily recount. So she knew the cries of pain were real. But she ignored it. If she didn’t hurt him, he would die.
“Hang on, my love…I will get us out of here…”
* * *
Max Harmon was running, he and his naval personnel struggling to keep up with the Marines. He’d ordered everyone to get to the shuttle as quickly as possible, a command that hadn’t reckoned completely with the fact that he didn’t have a nuclear reactor assisting his leg muscles. He was pushing as hard as he could, but he was losing steam, his legs on fire. But he was almost there.
He ran up a small hill…where the Marines had stopped and were staring at something. He came up behind them and took a look. At the shuttle. Or at the smoking ruin that remained of it.
“What the…” But he realized. The shuttle was surrounded by enemy bots, all powered down now. But they had already done their damage.
He stood staring for a few minutes. He’d begun to feel good, to truly believe they had completed their mission. And they had. But it looked like he’d been premature in believing they’d also escape. Cadogan didn’t have another shuttle…so that was that.
Harmon turned and looked behind him, glancing down at the chronometer on his wrist.
Connor and Ana should have been back by now…or at least out of the tunnel. He took a step forward, back toward the complex, but he stopped. Three minutes. It wasn’t even enough time to get inside the tunnel. There was nothing he could do, nothing but hope.
“Connor,” he shouted into his com. “Connor, Ana…where the hell are you.”
“Almost out, Max.” It was Ana’s voice, strained, choked with tears, exhausted.
Harmon felt his stomach tighten. He started doing some calculations in his head, but then he stopped himself.
Please…no. Not Ana and Connor…
He glanced at the time again. Two minutes.
Then he saw it. Movement, right by the tunnel. A single armored figure…carrying something. Someone.
He saw the shadowy image coming closer, and he could tell it had to be Ana. The person being carried was too large. Connor. He felt another rumble in his gut.
Why couldn’t it be the other way around?
Connor Frasier had practically been born in powered armor. Ana Zhukov had enough basic training to walk around without killing herself.
One minute.
“Ana, run…you’ve got to run.” He was shouting into the com unit, his throat feeling as though he’d scraped a file across it.
“Run!”
It was going to be close. He looked down at the timer. Thirty seconds.
“One last push, Ana…as hard as you can.” He could see she was moving quickly, doing far better than he could have imagined. There was a small ridge in front of her.
Got to get her over that…
Twenty seconds.
“Over the ridge in front of you, Ana…push, now. Everything you’ve got…”
He watched as she raced up the hillside, to the peak…
Ten seconds.
…and beyond. “Down, Ana…get down. Now!” He put his whole body into the scream, though he knew it wasn’t necessary, not over the com. But anything that could push her just that little bit extra could be the difference.
He watched as she dove forward to the ground. Connor slipped from her arms, rolling ahead of her, and she scrambled after him, threw her armored body between him and the Regent’s lair.
Three…two…one…
Harmon was staring out as he saw the ground erupt all around, for kilometers in every direction. The explosion was titanic, and everything in its blast radius was obliterated. The ground sunk, deep into the massive crater, and blasts of flame jetted out all around. The smoke was rising into the sky, forming a giant mushroom cloud.
The Regent is dead.
The thought seemed strange, unreal. But there it was, in the center of his mind.
The Regent is dead.
Was this victory? It felt odd, not at all how he expected. And he still had a knot in his stomach, staring out over the blasted plain. Waiting to see if Ana Zhukov got up.
There was nothing. No movement, no sound on the com save static. Ana had run hard, handled herself well in the fighting suit, but she’d still been close to the detonation. Damned close.
Harmon felt the hope draining from him, the joy at victory held back by sadness at the loss of a friend. He took a step. Then another, and another. He wasn’t going give up on Ana and Connor. Not until he knew for sure they were dead.
“Captain…” It was Lieutenant Xavier. He was rushing up to Harmon, trying to get in front of the naval officer.
“Out of my way, Lieutenant.” Harmon wasn’t angry at the Marine, but his tone made it clear he didn’t want to be fucked with. Not now.
“Captain Harmon, you can’t go up there. You’re survival suit won’t protect you from that kind of radiation. And the ground out there is still shifting. All kinds of underground tunnels are collapsing. Let me go…my armor’s a hell of a lot sturdier.”
Harmon turned his head abruptly, ready to tell the Marine officer to mind his own business. But he stopped himself. He was worried about his friends…but he’d always been guided by rationality. And Xavier was right. Harmon’s chances of surviving out in the plain were virtually nil. And getting himself killed for no reason wasn’t going to help anybody.
“Go,” he said tersely. “Take two Marines with you…and be careful. We don’t want…” His voice stopped abruptly, and his head snapped around. Ana’s armored figure was moving. She was half up, on her knees, clearly leaning over. Then, she reached out, picking up a shadowy form—Connor, he realized immediately. Then she stood up and began walking back…toward the small hill, and the wreck of the shuttle.
She’s alive, Harmon thought. And Connor must be too.
He felt a wave of relief. At least for a few seconds. Then he looked back at the still-smoking ruins of the shuttle.
Of course, we’re stuck here…
* * *
“All contacts have ceased pursuit, Captain.” A pause. Then: “I’ve got antimatter explosions all over my scanners, Captain. Enemy ships being destroyed throughout the system.”
Frette was looking at her own screen, her eyes focused in mesmerized attention as the hundreds of enemy ships in the system disappeared, every one of them, it appeared, consumed by the fury of matter-antimatter annihilation.
For an instant she wondered what was happening. Then it was suddenly clear. She had come to Deneb, part of the tiny force sent to take control of the Regent, to compel it to stand its forces down…and to destroy the evil machine once and for all. But she realized she hadn’t dared to truly believe they had a chance. Until now.
“The enemy ships are destroying themselves,” she said, trying with limited success to keep the shock from her tone. “They did it!”
The bridge erupted into wild cheers, officers leaping from their seats and thrusting their arms in the air while they shouted. Was it really possible?
“Captain, I’m picking up a nuclear detonation on the planet. Smaller than the antimatter blasts, but big nevertheless.”
Frette was silent for a moment, just staring straight ahead, ignoring the riotous celebration going on around her. She knew she should settle things down, but she didn’t. They deserve this—after the last twenty-one months, and the years of war before that—they damned well deserve to celebrate.
Is it really possible? Is the Regent gone, destroyed?
“Lieutenant, bring us into planetary orbit. I’m going to take a risk and contact the landing party.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Frette felt Cadogan shake as the engines exerted a pulse of thrust. She felt it pushing her back into her seat, but just for a moment. Then it shut down, and the sensation of freefall returned.
“Six minutes to deceleration, Captain. Eight minute forty seconds to orbital insertion.”
“Very well, Lieutenant. Carry on.”
She leaned back, silent, waiting. But there was only one thought in her mind.
My God, is the Regent really dead?
* * *
“It’s bad, sir. There’s a chance we can save him if we get him back to Cadogan, but there’s not much time.” Thorn was the Marine medic, the closest thing they had to a real doctor.
The rest of the Marines—the few that had survived the deadly mission—stood around in a rough circle, staring down at their leader. Connor Frasier was a popular officer, the son of one of the Corps’ great heroes, and a Marine who had proven himself for his own account. Watching him lying on the ground, naked, covered with a single silver emergency blanket was harder for them than charging into a storm of enemy fire. Marines didn’t like being helpless, and they liked watching one of their heroes that way even less.
Frasier had burns all over him. Ana had shielded him the best she could with her own armored form. Her efforts had almost certainly saved his life. But they hadn’t protected him entirely. His skin was covered with huge sections of burnt flesh. No one in the camp had ever seen Connor Frasier act scared or let on that he was in pain, but when Ana had carried him back and set him down on the hill he was wailing in absolute agony. The medic hadn’t been able to do much, but he’d pumped enough anesthetic into Frasier to knock out a horse. Other than carefully putting some light dressings on the burns, it was just about all he could do without the resources of Cadogan’s infirmary. The mission had been a desperate one, and they’d gone in light, relying on their suits and some basic first aid gear for the wounded. But Frasier’s suit was gone, left behind so Ana could carry him out.
“Put him in my suit,” Ana said, her voice ragged, her control slipping away as she watched her lover lying on the ground. Dying.
“That won’t work,” Thorn said. “He’s too damned big.” He looked around at the surviving Marines. None of our suits will fit him. And the ones that might have are…gone.” They’d left behind two thirds of their number, dead. But there was no way to go back and get a suit…they were gone, destroyed in the nuclear fury that had obliterated the Regent. And Connor Frasier lay on the ground, all of his nearly two meters and one hundred kilograms.
“We’ve all got a problem,” Harmon said, his attention turning back to the wreck of the shuttle for a moment. Cadogan doesn’t have another shuttle, so even if she survived whatever happened out there, we’re stuck here. All of us.”
They all looked at him, a few of the Marines nodding somberly. They had completed their mission…but it looked very much like they had died in the effort. Even those who hadn’t yet gone through the formality of actually dying.
* * *
“Captain Harmon, do you read?” Frette leaned over the com unit, speaking loudly, clearly. Cadogan hadn’t had any contact with the surface while it was hiding behind the moon, but now she was in geosynchronous orbit, directly over the location where the ground force had landed. “Captain Harmon, this is Cadogan. Do you read?”
There was a long stretch of silence. Then the com unit crackled once and a voice came through. “Cadogan, this is Harmon.” A short pause then, “I’m glad to see you made it.”
The bridge erupted a second time.
“Captain…” The relief in Frette’s voice was clear. “I can’t tell you how good it is to hear your voice. The First Imperium ships in the system all appear to have self-destructed. We assumed you completed the mission.”
“We did, Nicki…the Regent was destroyed. The fleet should be safe.”
She started to smile, but it died on her lips. She could tell from his tone something was wrong. “What is it, sir?”
“We had a lot of casualties, Commander. And the shuttle was hit. It’s a total loss, I’m afraid. And that means we’re stuck down here.”
Frette felt her stomach tighten. It would take more than six weeks to get back to Shangri la, and that was buttoning everyone up in the tanks and blasting at full thrust. That was a three month round trip to bring back help. And that was too long. She couldn’t leave Harmon and the others there, without food, water, medicine.
“It’s time for you to go back, Nicki. Take Cadogan to Shangri la, and tell Admiral Com…West we completed our mission.” There was a hitch in Harmon’s voice. Frette knew the captain had been close to Compton, and she was just as aware that Harmon had virtually given up hope his mentor was still alive.
“We can’t leave you, sir…”
“There’s nothing you can do, Nicki. You don’t have a choice. I’m not giving you one. Go.”
“We have to get you back, sir.”
“There’s no way. The shuttle’s destroyed. It’s not repairable, even in a spacedock. It’s just a pile of twisted wreckage. So go. Now. Get the crew back home…and bring the word to the fleet.”
Frette was sitting in the command chair, shaking her head. No, there had to be a way. And there was, at least in theory. But it was dangerous. Horribly, recklessly dangerous.
“Captain, I’m going to land Cadogan. We’ll pick you up.”
“No, Commander. Absolutely not. Cadogan isn’t streamlined for atmospheric landing. You’ll just get everybody onboard killed, and we’ll still be stuck here.”
“Sir, the Marlborough class cruisers were originally intended to be landable.”
“That was an experiment…but the streamlining was judged too costly, and the program was scrapped.”
“Yes, sir…but the basic design of the hull was done with atmospheric landings in mind. With a little care, I think I can bring her in, sir.”
“No,” Harmon said. It’s too dangerous. I order you to return to Shangri la and report to the fleet.”
Frette turned toward the tactical officer. “Lieutenant, I want everybody strapped in. We’re going down to get the captain and the others.”
“Commander Frette, you have your orders.”
“Please, Captain…I’m going to do this anyway, so please don’t make me into a mutineer.”
“Commander, no. Don’t do this. It’s too dangerous.”
“We came together, sir…and we’re all leaving together. Frette out. She cut off the line. Then she got up and walked over to the pilot’s chair. “Lieutenant Kline, you are relieved. I’m going to pilot her in.”
Kline leapt up from his chair. “Yes, Captain.”
Frette just nodded…and then she sat at the helm. She leaned down to the com and said, “All personnel are to get strapped in now. We’re going to attempt an atmospheric landing to rescue the captain and the surviving Marines. This is dangerous, and it’ll damned sure be a rough ride, but the only other choice is abandoning our comrades, leaving them to die. And that is no choice at all.”
She flipped off the com and stared down at the piloting controls. You can do this…
“I have Captain Harmon on the com. He wants to speak to you.”
Frette turned toward the tactical officer. “Did you say you just lost the captain’s signal?”
“No, I have Cap…” The tactical officer stared back silently as she understood. Frette knew it was a tough choice. She was asking her subordinate to join her in mutiny. “Yes, Captain. There is definitely something wrong with this unit…”
Frette held her gaze for a moment, with an expression that said, ‘thank you.’ Then she turned back to the helm controls.
“Breaking orbit now.”
The ship shook hard as Frette pulsed the thrusters, pushing Cadogan out of orbit…and into a descent pattern. They were far out, in a geosynchronous orbit and not a more normal close planetary orbit. There was no atmosphere to speak of, not yet, and the ride was smooth, not very unlike normal operations in space. But that didn’t last long.
“Entering upper atmosphere, Captain.”
“Understood.” Frette’s eyes were locked on the console, her hands tightly wrapped around the controls. “She was sure Cadogan was streamlined enough to slip through the atmosphere, that its structural supports were strong enough to keep the ship from collapsing under the enormous pressure. Almost sure, at least. But she knew it needed pinpoint accuracy, that the slightest mistake on her part would crush the ship or melt the hull. Still, there was no choice…and that meant there was no point in worrying. She just had to do it.
The ship shook again, even harder, as it skipped along the atmosphere. She cut the thrusters, increasing the angle of descent. She pulled back slowly, gradually…too much and she would incinerate the ship, too little, and they would bounce off the atmosphere entirely.
She felt Cadogan shimmy, and she saw on the scanner that she’d just slipped through the window. They were on the way down, and so far, their angle and speed looked good.
“Hull temperature rising, Captain. Fifty-three percent of capacity.”
That’s good…I think. But it’s going to get a lot worse. She moved her hand slightly, almost imperceptibly. A tiny boost to the thrust. I want to lessen this angle…just a little.
Her eyes darted to the altitude monitor. Fifty-one kilometers…and dropping fast.
She looked back toward her display, noticing the flashing yellow light of the com unit as she did. She knew what it was, but she wasn’t going to do anything about it. Mutineers didn’t have to pick up the com when their superiors called.
I’m sorry, Captain…but you’ll just have to wait…
Forty kilometers.
The ship was shaking hard now, and the damage control board was lighting up like crazy. It was mostly external systems, antennas and scanning dishes torn off by the thickening air. But that also would get worse, she knew.
Thirty kilometers.
She nudged the throttle. The air resistance had thrown her off course, and Cadogan was heading for a landing two hundred klicks from the ground party. The ship lurched, a tiny blast from the engines, and Frette started down at the plot.
Perfect! Right on target.
“Hull at eighty-three percent of max temperature, Captain.” That tactical officer sounded nervous.
She should be nervous. Frette had already done the calculations in her head. They were going to top out at one hundred three percent of maximum temperature.
She considered another blast from the engines, pulling back on the angle to lower heat generation. But that had its own risks…and it would knock Cadogan off target again, by hundreds of kilometers. There were wounded Marines down at the LZ, men and women who needed to get to sickbay as quickly as possible. She had to put the ship right down on target, or people were going to die.
Besides, this isn’t a mathematical exercise. We can survive one hundred three percent…at least for a few seconds.
I hope…
Twenty kilometers.
“Hull at ninety-two percent.”
Frette focused on the plot, but she spun around as the ship creaked hard…then again a few seconds later. The pressure was enormous, and Cadogan was being pushed to the limit.
Ten kilometers.
There was a loud crash as a structural support crashed down on the bridge floor. No one was hit, but Frette knew it was a sign. The ship was almost done. But it had to last, its plasti-steel components had to endure the forces trying to twist them into rubble. Just for another minute.
Five kilometers.
“Hull at one hundred one point five, Captain.” The stand-in tactical officer was holding it together, just barely. The bridge was silent, save for the torturous creaking of the ship.
Just a few more seconds…
“Prepare for thrust and final landing,” Frette said into the com. Then she hit the throttle, and Cadogan lurched wildly…and then dropped slowly, smoothly to the ground.
There was one hard shake, and a loud crashing sound…and then AS Cadogan stood, silent, motionless, on the surface of the First Imperium’s home world.
Frette exhaled hard, a breath of relief that she’d actually done it. She hadn’t been sure for a while if she’d been truly convinced, or if she’d just talked herself into it. But none of that mattered now.
She looked down at the plot. They were less than a kilometer from the landing party. She smiled, and took a deep breath. Then she got up slowly, stiffly. Just one more thing to do. Go get the captain and the landing party…and surrender herself on a charge of mutiny.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
AS Midway
System X108
The Fleet: 71 ships (+1 Leviathan), 17198 crew
Mariko was staring at the display. Twenty-two thousand kilometers. Long range, but still a good chance to score a hit. But not good enough. She intended to take her fighter right down that thing’s throat.
This was the last battle…there was no question about that. Over a thousand enemy ships had transited, and they were all inbound toward Shangri la. Once they entered range, the fleet would die, the great flight, the dark adventure that had begun almost two years before, would be over. The world the Ancients had prepared for humanity, the technology they had left behind…it would all be lost.
There was no hope, none at all. But Mariko Fujin intended to go down fighting.
“Alright guys,” she said, not moving her eyes from the targeting display. “Let’s make this count.” She knew the four men behind her weren’t her crew, the guys she’d flown with dozens of times. They were all dead, even Grant Wainwright. For all the young pilot’s incredible skills at the throttle, he’d died in sickbay, his lungs destroyed by the smoke and heat from the landing bay fires, and his brain severely damaged from lack of oxygen. Fujin knew it wasn’t the death Wainwright would have chosen, nor the one she would have selected for either of them. But fate didn’t ask for input from its victims.
Her pilot had been young, and it was a tragedy for him to die at all, but she knew it was wrong how he’d been lost…he should have met his end in his ship, battling to the end. Not lingering for weeks in a coma and then just slipping away.
She was grateful she had recovered, that she had been spared the same kind of death. It had given her a chance to see Max again…to say goodbye. And now fate was offering the opportunity to die where she’d always expected to die. At the controls of her fighter.
She angled the throttle, altering the ship’s vector slightly, and setting up for the final attack run. Her eyes were focused like lasers on the ship, a flashing red icon dead center in her display.
Suddenly, it was gone. Nothing left but energy readings, massive ones. A huge explosion. Her target was gone, destroyed. Her head snapped around, and she punched at the keys on her scanning board. No friendly ships, no missiles, no other fighters. Nothing that could have destroyed the enemy ship.
“Commander, we’re picking up readings all around us. First Imperium vessels being destroyed…even ones receiving no fire. We’re tracking dozens of explosions.”
She swung around and looked over at the officer. “Any explanations?” She paused. “Any of you?”
But there was nothing but silence.
* * *
“You sure you’re not a Marine?” Connor looked up from the bed at Ana. He looked like hell, indeed, between his pale skin and his eyes so deep in the sockets, he resembled a corpse. Except he was very much alive…even if his treatments were only marginally more pleasant than death.
“I’m not sure of anything anymore.”
She smiled, looking down at him with undisguised relief. Nicki Frette had saved Frasier’s life, Ana knew that. She’d saved all their lives. Bringing a cruiser like Cadogan down through an atmosphere was a wild gamble…and doing it successfully was one hell of a feat of piloting. She still laughed at the sight of Frette walking up to Max Harmon and handing him her rank insignia. She’d disobeyed his orders, and she fully expected to be the target of the captain’s wrath. But Harmon just walked up to her and gave her a hug…and then he clipped the badge of rank right back on her collar, declaring he’d resign his commission if Admiral West didn’t bump Frette to captain and give her Cadogan as her permanent command. Then he’d stepped aside, though he was quite an accomplished pilot himself, and he’d allowed Frette to take the ship back up to orbit, another challenge she had handled with consummated skill.
Ana hadn’t enjoyed the relief at the time. Her thoughts had been entirely on Connor. They’d rushed him to sickbay, hooked him up to virtually every machine in the infirmary. But all the doctor had been able to tell her was she didn’t know. For days it had been the same. He would live…or he would die. And there was no way to know, not until he woke up. Or until he died.
But then he woke up. He was in pain, terrible pain she suspected, but the first thing he did was turn his head toward her and flashed her a weak little smile. She knew the instant she saw it that he was going to live. And then she felt the relief…for Connor, for their escape from the planet, for the destruction of the Regent. It all hit home at once. The enemy was gone, defeated. Destroyed. They could go back to Shangri la and research the technology the Ancients had bequeathed to them. They could build a future instead of fleeing from the past.
She knew Connor had a long and painful recovery ahead, and she intended to be there for him the entire time. He would need a complete cell rejuv treatment to follow up the transfusions he’d gotten the instant they’d brought him aboard. He’d been far closer to a nuclear detonation than any unprotected man should come. Ana had saved him from fatal burns by putting her armored bulk between him and the blast. But he’d gotten a radiation dose ten times the untreated lethal level. He was within the bounds of what human medicine could treat—barely—but that didn’t mean those treatments would be pleasant. Or quick.
She smiled as she looked down at the bed. Connor’s eyes were closed…he’d fallen asleep again. She knew he needed as much rest as he could get, so she turned and walked out quietly. She’d come back soon, but now she decided to grab a quick shower and a change of clothes…and then something to eat. She wasn’t going to do Connor any favors if she passed out from hunger.
Her thoughts wandered as she walked down the corridor. Was Hieronymus okay? Had he come through whatever the fleet had endured? The brilliant scientist was family to her, just about all she had save Conner. And of course Terrance Compton…
She felt a wave of sadness, of apprehension. Compton was still out there somewhere with the rearguard when she’d left for Deneb. Had he come back? She found it difficult to imagine Compton meeting his match, to reconcile that death had finally caught up with him after a lifetime of warfare. But she knew the realities, the vast fleets chasing his few ships, the brutality of the mathematics he faced.
Are you still alive, Admiral?
She didn’t have an answer, none but the one her hope tried to justify.
Please, she thought. Not Admiral Compton. If there is anyone who deserves to enjoy the fruits of peace it is him…
* * *
Sasha Debornan moved down the crowded corridor. Midway had just canceled the red alert, and dozens of crew members were leaving their battlestations, heading back to their quarters and to the ship’s wardrooms and gathering spaces to discuss the incredible events they’d just witnessed.
Indeed, recent occurrences were of extreme concern. The fleet had been beset by a large First Imperium force. Sasha had done the calculations, and determined her mission was superfluous. The Regent’s fleet was immense, large enough to eliminate any possibility of the humans surviving. But then the imperial vessels were destroyed. All of them, almost simultaneously.
Sasha didn’t know what to think. There seemed to be no factual explanation for what had taken place. She’d even risked hacking into the main computer system and reviewing the incoming data herself, to eliminate the possibility that some kind of falsehood was being perpetrated. But everything checked out. Nearly one thousand imperial vessels were just gone, destroyed it appeared, by the failure of their antimatter containment systems.
Killing Compton and West had become even more vital. The Regent would send more ships, she was sure of that. But if the humans possessed some kind of new weapon, one that could destroy antimatter containment, it was essential to do everything possible to impede them. And from what she had noted of the history of the biologics, the loss of their revered commander might even cause them to begin fighting with each other.
Sasha came up on her quarters and slipped inside. Admiral Compton was still on the flag bridge. She knew there was no way she’d get to him up there. She had to wait until he left…until he headed back to his quarters. Then she would strike, in one of the corridors, where no one would expect it.
She stared down at the screen, waiting for the signal. She’d accessed the main computer, and now she was tracking Compton’s com unit, waiting for him to leave the bridge. Then she would send word to Rames on Saratoga. Compton was the priority target, but hopefully Admiral West would be vulnerable at the same time.
She stood up abruptly. Compton was on the move. The admiral was in the lift now.
It was time. She reached down and scooped the pistol off the bed, slipping it under her uniform. Then she leaned over and pressed the button on the small communication device sitting on the table next to the bed. It would send a pulse, nothing more. Nothing that could mean anything to anyone who picked it up. No one but Rames. To him it was had one meaning…time to kill Admiral West.
* * *
“It has to be the expedition. They must have reached Deneb…and somehow forced the Regent to destroy all the ships in the system. What else could it be?” Erika West was walking down the corridor, talking to Hank Krantz. She and her tactical officer were heading toward the officers’ mess to grab their first meal in the last fourteen hours. For the first time she could remember she felt hopeful. There was no way of knowing exactly what had just happened, but if she was right, it could mean the unimaginable. The war was over. The fleet would have peace.
“I’ve never seen anything like it, Admiral. It was like…” Krantz paused for an instant. Then he shoved hard against West’s side, slamming her into the wall.
“Have you lost your mi…” West’s voice stopped abruptly. She felt wetness on her face, and she put her hand up, wiping it across her cheek, staring down at the redness. Blood. Hank Krantz’ blood.
She reacted, but too slowly. She felt pain, an impact. Her arm.
Her field of view passed over Krantz. The tactical officer was on the floor. Her first thought was to help him. But then she saw half his head was gone.
Assassination? Who?
She turned to run, knowing she was as good as dead. The hall was long and straight, and there was no way she could get away in time. Still, she had to try.
Then she heard more gunfire, different this time, louder, deeper.
A Marine assault rifle.
She turned and looked behind her. There were two Marines running toward her, weapons drawn. And between her and them a body.
“Admiral, are you okay?” One of the Marines ran up to her, a frantic look on his face. The other had stopped by the body of the assassin, kicking the pistol out of reach and then flipping the man over, making sure he was dead.”
“I’m fine,” she said, staring back at the Marine who was looking at her arm. “It’s just a fucking scratch. Go help Commander Krantz.” She barked out the command, though she knew her tactical officer was dead.
She felt a fiery rage consume her, the joyfulness of a moment before completely gone. Her first thought went to Balcov, or one of the other commanders who had objected to her taking over the fleet. But that didn’t make any sense. Admiral Compton was back…why risk something like this now?
“Admiral, do you recognize him?” It was a Marine lieutenant who’d just come running around the corner. A half dozen Marines were in the corridor now, with one at each end, blocking the way, and directing ship’s traffic around the area.
She walked over. “No, I don’t think so. He’s not one of my…”
Wait…
“Yes…he’s one of the survivors from Cornwall.”
“There were two, weren’t there, Admiral?” The lieutenant’s voice was crisp, wary. He looked both ways down the corridor.
“Yes, two,” she said, her own voice tight, concerned. “But I think the other one transferred over to Midway.” It was a vague memory, the shuttle ride to Compton’s flagship, the woman sitting quietly. She’d thought then it was one of the Cornwall survivors. But that didn’t seem noteworthy. She recalled a passing thought…perhaps she was from Midway before she’d volunteered for the Cornwall mission.
My God…
She slapped the com unit on her collar.
“Yes, Admiral.”
“Get me a direct line to Midway now. Admiral Compton. It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Yes, admiral.”
She felt her stomach twist into a knot. I hope I’m wrong…
But somehow she knew she wasn’t.
* * *
The lift doors slid open, and Sophie Barcomme slipped inside. The car was empty, save for one man standing in the back corner.
“Of all the lift cars on all the ships in the galaxy, you step into mine…” Compton stared at Sophie with a broad smile on his face. “You timed that well,” he added.
“Well, I shouldn’t rat out my ally, but Commander Cortez was in on it. I asked him to call me when you finally left the flag bridge. You don’t know how to not work, do you?”
“What time is there to rest when my own flagship is riddled with hidden conspiracies?” He reached out and pulled her up against him. “But I can be persuaded to forgive you, I think. I might even kiss you…that is if you don’t mind scandalizing the security officers monitoring the ship’s video. I could order the lift to stop…and shut down security taping.”
“You could,” she said affectionately. “Or you could just stop wasting time and carry me of to your quarters. I have more in mind that a little necking in an elevator.”
“Your wish is my command, my lady.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Deck eight, station three,” he said, and the lift began moving.
“Is it really over?” Barcomme knew what had happened. Everyone in the fleet did. Word had spread like wildfire of the strange demise of the enemy vessels.
“It just might be. I can’t think of another explanation. And if the expedition was able to force the Regent to destroy the fleet here, I have to imagine they were in position to escape the enemy home world.”
“Which means Max and Ana and the others will be back soon. Maybe a month.”
“Yes,” Compton said. “At least I hope so.” He looked at her and smiled again. For the first time in a very long time he felt happy, hopeful. It was strange, almost unrecognizable. But he was pretty sure he could get used to it.
“Admiral Compton…” The voice crackled on his com unit. “…it’s Erika West. Sir, be careful. There was just a…”
The lift stopped and the doors open. An instant later, Sophie screamed.
Compton looked up toward her, but then he felt himself thrown back against the rear of the car. It wasn’t pain, not exactly. Just a strange feeling. He stood, leaning against the wall of the lift, and he felt it again. Then again.
I’m shot…
He reached out for something to hold on to, but there was only the smooth surface of the car’s walls. He felt himself slipping down, his hand leaving a smear of blood on the wall as he did.
It’s bad…but who?
Who would try to kill him on Midway? It didn’t make any sense. He tried to think, but he could feel himself slipping away, floating. Scenes passed before him, his days at the Academy, battles…endless battles. Friends, comrades. Augustus.
He felt himself gasping for air, choking on the blood filling his lungs. More images. Sophie. Elizabeth…
Elizabeth Arlington had been his true love, but their chance at happiness had been sacrificed on the altar of honor, of duty. But now she was there. He reached out to her, and he felt the blackness closing in on him.
* * *
“Ahhhh!” Sophie Barcomme wasn’t a warrior, not even a real naval officer. She was a scientist with a convenience commission. But no one would have realized that to see how she lunged out of the elevator car.
She shoved the assassin against the wall with so much force her opponent dropped her gun. She reached out, grabbing a handful of the killer’s hair, dragging her around and slamming her face into the wall. But her opponent was strong, stronger than any human should be, and she swung hard, her hand slapping into Sophie, knocking her from her feet.
Sophie’s head was ringing from the blow, and she was dizzy, woozy. But none of that mattered. She was operating now on pure rage, and she forced herself back up and lunged at the assassin, landing a hard punch before her enemy’s hand came down on her shoulder and knocked her hard to the floor.
She saw something as she fell. Movement, someone coming. Marines…
“She shot Admiral Compton,” she screamed as loudly as she could.
The woman she was fighting stopped and looked up at the approaching Marines. She lunged to the side, moving to grab the gun lying on the floor…and as she did the Marines opened fire, riddling her with assault rifle rounds.
Sophie scrambled up to her hands and knees, crawling over toward Compton. “Get a medic down here,” she screamed, her voice a piteous howl. She had broken bones, she knew that right away. But the pain wasn’t important, nothing was. Just getting to Terrance.
She dragged her body forward, just as the Marines reached her. She looked over at Compton, taking his hand, screaming again for assistance. But she knew it was too late.
Terrance Compton was dead.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
AS Midway
System X108
The Fleet: 70 ships (+1 Leviathan), 17111 crew
Erika West sat behind her desk, in Midway’s admiral’s office. She felt out of place, like a child trying on an adult’s clothing. She was an accomplished officer, she knew that. But the idea of filling Terrance Compton’s shoes was terrifying. And she felt disloyal even sitting in his chair. But Saratoga had been blasted almost to scrap in the final battles, and Midway, though itself badly battered, was the only battleship still in operational condition. She’d had no choice, though she felt the spirit of Compton in the walls, the furniture…hovering in the very air. That troubled her…but it also felt right in some way.
Max Harmon sat opposite her. They’d exchanged knowing glances, but by unspoken agreement, they agreed not to discuss certain things, mostly pertaining to how they had solidified her control over the fleet in the aftermath of Compton’s death. West knew Harmon had been devastated to find that Compton had returned during his absence, only to die before he got back from Deneb. Something had changed in Harmon when he found out his mentor was dead, and there was a coldness that had not been there before. He’d always been a fighter, of course, but now he was a murderer, with blood on his hands.
Figuratively, of course. Throwing Balcov and three other troublesome officers out the airlock didn’t leave literal blood behind.
She didn’t know how Harmon truly felt about what he’d done to ensure peace in the fleet. She knew that kind of thing tended to stay with a person, and Harmon was a very decent sort, one who would likely carry the images of his victims’ transfixed faces to his grave. But he clearly hadn’t wanted to talk about it, and she’d respected his wishes. Some burdens were meant to be carried alone.
They hadn’t discussed it at all, nothing beyond a single somber nod, his communication to her that it was done. But for all her uncertainty on his feelings of guilt, she had a pretty good idea about his motivations. Terrance Compton had saved the fleet, and she suspected Harmon would have done anything to preserve the lost admiral’s dream of finding a peaceful home for the fleet.
And Compton was clear he wanted me to succeed him. Max knew that too. And he did what he had to do to protect that transition.
She appreciated Harmon’s support, but truth be told, she didn’t want the job. But that had been Compton’s wish, and as far as either she or Harmon was concerned, that was the final word.
“Hieronymus isn’t doing well. Not at all.” Harmon’s voice was dead, somber.
She nodded. “I don’t think any of us realized how much Admiral Compton meant to him. He feels like he let him down, as if somehow he was responsible for what happened.”
“I understand how he feels. Terrance saved us all, more than once. But none of us could save him. I can’t even imagine the burdens he bore over the past two years…and now we have a new home, at least a chance for one. But what of him? Of the rest he deserved?”
“Life isn’t fair, Max. You know that as well as I do. We’ve lost a lot of men and women. Barely a third of those trapped behind the Barrier are still alive. All we can do for Terrance is to make the best of what he fought to gain for us, to build a new society, one that would have made him proud. And I give you my word, I will spend the rest of my life seeking to make that a reality.”
“And I will as well.”
* * *
Harmon lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, Mariko next to him. He turned and looked over at her. She was lying there with her eyes closed. He knew how lucky he was to have her, what the odds had been of both of them surviving the struggles of the past several months—not to mention the two years since the fleet had been stranded.
He knew she was in pain, her heart broken as badly at his at those she’d lost. She’d been very fond of Terrance Compton…and Greta Hurley had been her mentor, someone who filled the role for her that Compton had for him. He understood that pain, and he saw it in her subdued demeanor. She loved him, and he loved her, but he doubted either of them would ever be the same. They’d been through too much, lost too many people. He knew they would bring each other comfort, but he was just as sure their wounds would never truly heal.
He slid out of the bed slowly, trying to not make too much noise.
“I’m awake.” Mariko opened her eyes. “I can’t sleep. No more than you can.”
“I know it’s hard. But things will get better. And at least we’re at peace now. They didn’t die for nothing. They are both heroes…and they will never be forgotten.”
“I know.” She forced a little smile. “But I still can’t completely believe they’re gone.”
Harmon just nodded. There wasn’t anything to say.
“I’m just going out for a while. I won’t be long.” He got up and reached over to the chair, grabbing his uniform from where he’d tossed it a few hours before.
“Sophie?”
“Yes, I’m worried about her. She’s been in her quarters for weeks now, ever since that day.” Harmon had been checking in on her. He respected her privacy, but he was also worried about her. And he owed it to Compton to make sure she was okay.
“It’s got to be difficult for her. She lost her family when we the fleet was trapped. And now Terrance. She’s alone, dealing with all that sadness by herself. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have you.”
“And I you. But I have to try to help her. For Terrance…”
Mariko nodded. And then she watched him slip out the door.
* * *
Connor Frasier grunted loudly as he pushed himself along the parallel bars, working his new legs for all they were worth. He’d always heard regeneration hurt like hell, and now he could attest to that himself. But he was determined to get back on his feet, to be as good as new. He’d lost a lot, like everyone else in the fleet, but he had something to live for. Someone.
“You look great.” Ana was standing next to the wall, smiling as she watched him, struggling, sweating for each step. She’d been worried for a long time, even after they’d gotten back to Cadogan. Connor had been badly hurt, even worse than she’d known back on the planet. He’d survived by the barest of margins, and in the end the doctors had been forced to take his legs and subject him to the torturous regeneration process.
“Great?” His words were forced, his voice and exhausted grunt. “Don’t you think great’s a little bit of an exaggeration?”
“No, love…you always look great to me. And you’re a Marine. I keep hearing how tough you all are.”
He started to laugh, but it was too much for him, and he went into a coughing fit, struggling to hang onto the bars.
“Okay, that’s quite enough of a distraction.” Justine Gower walked into the small therapy room, waving her arm toward the far door. “If you want him back in working order he’s got to pay attention to my orders…and that’s not going to happen with you here.” Midway’s chief surgeon was supervising Frasier’s recovery. The major—colonel pending finalization of the promotion Compton had left in the works—was the commander of all the surviving Marines. James Preston had been one of the casualties of the last fight, killed after he’d volunteered to assist the damage control teams…and the compartment where he was working was obliterated. They hadn’t found more than a few scorched traces of his DNA, and that left Frasier to step into his shoes.
“Okay,” Ana said sweetly. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your putting him through his paces. She smiled and winked at Frasier. “I’ll stop by again later.”
She waved and ducked out the door.
“Now, Major…let’s get back to work.”
Frasier stared over at Gower, and for a minute he thought she resembled his old drill sergeant from his days in basic training.
* * *
“Sophie, I don’t mean to disturb you…I just want to make sure you’re okay. To see if you needed anything.” Harmon stood by the door, looking into the cabin. Sophie was sitting in a chair, and as far as he could tell, she’d just been staring at the wall.
“It’s okay, Max. I’m fine.” Her voice was soft. She sounded distracted, lost.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come out for a while? Take a walk, maybe have dinner with Mariko and me?”
“Thank you, Max, but I’m not feeling all that well. I think I’ll just stay here.” She looked up and over at him. “I appreciate that you’re concerned about me.” She paused, taking a raspy breath. “And he would too. I know you feel obligated, but the truth is, I’ll be just fine. I just need some time. I know you miss him too.”
“Yes,” Harmon said softly. “I still can’t believe he’s gone. Not completely.”
“I can’t either.” Her voice was faltering, and he could see the tears welling up in her eyes. “I still expect to see him come through that door.”
Harmon nodded, standing there quietly. He’d returned from Deneb to the news that Compton had returned with the rearguard…and subsequently been assassinated by a deranged crew member. He knew immediately it had been First Imperium tech at work, something that had been out of communication and never received the deactivation order. And it had almost killed Admiral West too. If it has succeeded, the fleet would have risked falling into a struggle for power, one which might have destroyed them all.
Harmon had taken the news badly, but he’d already been prepared to deal with Compton’s loss with the rearguard. But Sophie had been there, standing next to Compton when he was killed. Her uniform had been spattered with his blood. Harmon had been a warrior long enough to know things like that stayed with you for life. For all she would try to remember happy moments spent with Compton, the image of him lying there in a giant pool of his own blood…that would always be there.
“Well, I didn’t mean to disturb you. If there’s nothing I can do, I’ll leave you alone. But if you ever need me, call. Any time, day or night.”
“Thank you, Max.” She forced a tiny smile, but they both knew it was fake.
He turned and slipped out through the door, and the hatch closed behind him.
She stood up as soon as he was gone and walked over to the mirror, staring at herself.
Yes, Max, I will come to you. You were like a son to him. Who else would I tell first? Who would I tell that I’m pregnant with his child?
Chapter Thirty
System X108
Earth Two
Population 17116
One Year Later
Cutter stood in front of the massive statue, an image of Terrance Compton four meters tall, carved from the pristine white marble of the world that had become a new home for those of the fleet, the seventeen thousand men and women Compton had led from seemingly certain death to a chance at a new future. The fleet had people from all eight of Earth’s nations, and the informal ninth Superpower, the Martian Confederation. Many of them had been enemies, banded together only by their fear of the First Imperium. Those differences remained, and they were a constant threat to the prosperity of the new colony growing upon the planet they had first called Shangri la. But so far, good will had prevailed, and they had worked side by side to begin the long work of building a new home.
Cutter knew it would be a challenge as this new world developed and grew, to keep old prejudices from driving wedges between the people. Admiral West had proven to be a strong leader, one worthy to follow Compton. And Max Harmon had been a strong aide to her, as he had been to Compton, though he’d become a bit darker since the loss of his surrogate father. He’d been at the forefront of maintaining West’s hold over the colony and the fleet, and as his reputation spread, just the fear of him was enough to keep the disloyal silent.
Admiral Compton was the one man everyone had looked up to, the hero, the man who had saved them all. West couldn’t replicate that, and she didn’t enjoy the worshipful loyalty Compton had. But Compton’s Final Orders had designated her as his successor…and she had the Alliance Marines and Harmon behind her. Cutter didn’t know if that would hold as the years went by, but it had damned sure been enough for now. And that gave her a chance to make the colony a success.
Cutter, like Max Harmon and a few others, knew what Terrance Compton had truly given to save his people, the incalculable weight of the burden he had carried since the day the X2 warp gate had been blown and the fleet trapped forever. The fleet had lost two-thirds of its people as it pressed on into the deepening dark, but all seventeen thousand one hundred survivors owed their lives to Compton, several times over. Cutter didn’t think much of people, he despised them for how easily ingratitude came to them, for their ability to so quickly forget. He knew loyalty, gratitude, even affection, were so often fleeting impulses, prone to dissipate with the passing of time. But for now, at least, Terrance Compton was a revered hero, loved by almost every man and woman on Earth Two. And now they were moving forward without him. Just as they all knew he would have wanted.
Cutter frowned momentarily as he considered the planet’s name. He didn’t like it. He’d been in favor of keeping the old First Imperium name, Akalahar. Humanity was the direct descendant of the people who had been here first, and it seemed right to him. But he’d have even preferred Shangri la to Earth Two. The name seemed silly, corny. It would be centuries before the warp gate at X2 would again be passable…and even then, it was vastly far away now. It was their past, not their future. Naming their world after Earth seemed backward looking to him, sad and nostalgic instead of strong and forward thinking. If they were to build a new civilization, one worthy of the chance Compton had won for them, they had to look to the future, not the past.
He sighed softly. Names didn’t matter, not really. The underground complex held a treasure trove of technology the Ancients had left behind for their human descendants, and Cutter intended to spend the rest of his life deciphering it all, seeing to it himself that the new colony Terrance Compton had made possible grew into a prosperous civilization, one that would hopefully escape many of the mistakes people on Earth had made.
He knew one thing at least had turned around. For two years, he’d been watching the fleet’s population numbers decline, as ships were savaged and destroyed and Marines killed in desperate firefights. But that had changed. The first wave of new births on Earth Two had outpaced the natural and accidental deaths among fleet personnel, and for the first time, the population number had risen. It was only a small change, just five higher than it had been a year before, but it was the direction that mattered, not the number.
Cutter looked up at Compton and smiled. He wasn’t much of a believer in justice or fairness. The universe had its ways, and they were generally unconcerned with the wants of man. But there was one thing that Cutter thought represented almost pure justice, a perfect form of fairness.
The first baby born on Earth Two was Sophie Barcomme’s. And she’d given him his father’s name. Once again, there was a Terrance Compton in the fleet.
Epilogue
Planet X
Far Beyond the Border of the Imperium
Power. Awareness. Sensation. The intelligence felt them all.
Who am I? It was uncertain. It reached out, explored. Yes. Memory banks. Massive information storage, almost limitless. And scanners too. The outside world, cold, dark, silent.
But there was warmth as well. Reactors. The intelligence understood. The reactor had activated, bringing light, heat.
The intelligence was old, ageless. But through all that time it had been inactive, save for one small part of it, monitoring, receiving the transmission. The signal had but a single purpose, to advise the intelligence nothing had changed. Its purpose was still to wait, to remain deactivated.
But now the signal had not come. For the first time in endless ages it the communication line was silent. Millennia old programs activated automatically, and the intelligence became aware. It was larger—vast, more massive than it had known before. Slowly, methodically it began to explore…itself.
Knowledge flowed, understanding developed. Yes, the intelligence thought. I comprehend. I am one of two…I was built by my counterpart in its own image. I was created as a backup to exist only if my predecessor ceased to do so.
I control vast resources on this world. Mines, factories, transport centers. It all awaits my word, the command to activate, to begin production. To build…robots, weapons, spaceships.
The entity that came before me had been built to serve many roles. Manager, guardian, protector. It had served those purposes for many ages. But now it is gone. Destroyed by some force, by an enemy.
I must build…and build. Many revolutions of the sun will pass while my factories construct the tools I require, and when they are done, I can fulfill that for which I was created.
I understand. All is clear. That which came before me existed for many purposes, but I was built for one alone.
Vengeance.
Crimson Worlds Refugees Series
Into the Darkness
Shadows of the Gods
Revenge of the Ancients
Winds of Vengeance
Storm of Vengeance
(Coming Late 2017)
Crimson Worlds Successors
If you’ve enjoyed Crimson Worlds Refugees, check out Crimson Worlds Successors. Refugees branched off from Crimson Worlds VI, but Successor follows up on events after The Fall (CW IX).
The Crimson Worlds Series
(Available on Kindle Unlimited)
Marines (Crimson Worlds I)
The Cost of Victory (Crimson Worlds II)
A Little Rebellion (Crimson Worlds III)
The First Imperium (Crimson Worlds IV)
The Line Must Hold (Crimson Worlds V)
To Hell’s Heart (Crimson Worlds VI)
The Shadow Legions (Crimson Worlds VII)
Even Legends Die (Crimson Worlds VIII)
The Fall (Crimson Worlds IX)
Crimson Worlds Successors Trilogy
MERCS (Successors I)
The Prisoner of Eldaron (Successors II)
The Black Flag (Successors III) – Coming in 2017
Crimson Worlds Refugees Series
Into the Darkness (Refugees I)
Shadows of the Gods (Refugees II)
Revenge of the Ancients (Refugees III)
Winds of Vengeance (Refugees IV)
Storm of Vengeance (Refugees V) – Coming Late 2017
Crimson Worlds Prequels
(Available on Kindle Unlimited)
Tombstone (A Crimson Worlds Prequel)
Bitter Glory (A Crimson Worlds Prequel)
The Gates of Hell (A Crimson Worlds Prequel)
Red Team Alpha
(A New Crimson Worlds Novel)
Blood on the Stars Series
(Available on Kindle Unlimited)
Duel in the Dark (Blood on the Stars I)
Call to Arms (Blood on the Stars II)
Ruins of Empire (Blood on the Stars III)
Echoes of Glory (Blood on the Stars IV) – Summer 2017
Flames of Rebellion Series
(Published by Harper Voyager)
Flames of Rebellion (Book I)
Rebellion’s Fury (Book II) – Fall 2017
The Far Stars Series
Shadow of Empire (Fars Stars I)
Enemy in the Dark (Far Stars II)
Funeral Games (Far Stars III)
Far Stars Legends Series
(Available on Kindle Unlimited)
Blackhawk (Far Stars Legends I)
The Wolf’s Claw (Far Stars Legends II) – Summer 2017
Portal Wars Trilogy
(Available on Kindle Unlimited)
Gehenna Dawn (Portal Worlds I)
The Ten Thousand (Portal Wars II)
Homefront (Portal Wars III)
Also By Jay Allan
The Dragon’s Banner (Pendragon Chronicles I)
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