When I nodded, I think I saw him heave an actual sigh of relief before continuing.
“In addition, there are maybe sixty scout marauders, something of the order of ninety-plus regular scouts and some kind of floating mass of individual bugs that we think may be some kind of heavy land-based version but we in the sensor department don’t understand why they’re present in space at this time, Sir,” he finished cautiously.
“That tallies in at less than two hundred,” I pointed out dryly before adding, “however, I understand why you say there are hundreds of them, considering that all of them have yet to be tallied.”
“Thank you, Sir. We’re having difficulty pinning down all the bugs moving in and out of orbit of the main inhabited planet,” the Sensor Officer said with relief.
I froze and then glared at him.
“That would have been nice to have heard at the beginning of the report,” I said neutrally.
“Sorry, Sir,” he stuttered.
The Sensor Officer stopped being the main recipient of my ire when the Tactical Officer decided to break into the conversation.
“That would have more properly been part of a tactical assessment. One which I am more than ready to give you, Admiral,” said the Senior Lieutenant in charge of Tactical.
“Fine. What are we looking at?” I asked shortly; I would have thought he needed a few more minutes for Sensors to pin down every contact, but if he said he was ready, who was I to stop him?
“We are looking at a bug Swarm of significant size. One that has already entered the Star System and already landed on the primary inhabited planet, Admiral. We’ve already skipped past a class four all the way to a class three infection,” he said seriously, “the fact that the main force has yet to arrive means very little. There are bugs on that world and in enough numbers to begin reproducing.”
“I understand,” I said.
“They have to be stopped and we have to stop them, Admiral,” the Tactical Officer said passionately.
“That all depends on the system government. If they say they don’t need us, we’ll leave. But,” I said lifting a finger when he and several other officers on the bridge started to look mutinous, “this sort of thing is our mandate. If they’ll have us, we will sterilize this bug infection from this star system and annihilate that Swarm.
They settled back at that but they settled down even more so when I ordered the Fleet to make its best speed toward the system’s planet.
“What’s our ETA, Helm?” I asked our helm team.
“A little over six hours if we leave the flagship behind and move at the best speed of our battleships; we arrived well within the system’s hyperlimit, Admiral,” reported Shepherd, “more like ten hours if we stay tied to the flagship.”
I nodded, taking it in.
“Sir, if I may make a suggestion,” interjected the First Officer.
“Wait,” I said holding up a hand.
I turned back to the Helm.
“Is there any chance the main bug force will reach the planet before we do?” I asked.
“With their slow reaction-based drive system? No, Sir. They don’t even use grav-plates,” Shepherd said with total certainty, “they’re days away from reaching that planet. A few of their medium ships already en-route may get there and their smaller ships are fast enough on their own but…” he shrugged at that last, to show there was no certainty in this life, especially when it came to a bug Swarms home-brewed technology.
“I think that answers that question then,” I said, nodding toward the First Officer.
He reluctantly nodded his head.
“Listen people. I can see you’re all eager to get back into the thick of it right this minute. We’ve had a couple years to decompress, settle down and as our inestimable Chief Engineer has pointed out, grow slightly complacent,” I said, sweeping the room with my eyes.
“Well, this isn’t the time to make mistakes. We keep this fleet together because it keeps us alive. We’ll do everything we can for these people, within reason, but make no mistake. We do not risk defeat in detail over a handful of scout marauders. Are we clear?” I asked.
“Clear, Sir,” the response rumbled through the bridge.
“Excellent,” I turned to the Com-Officer, “put me in contact with the government leaders on Hot Cross Prime,” I instructed.
“Immediately, Your Majesty,” said the Com-Officer, a person of clear Caprian extraction.
I grimaced at the use of a title. I hadn’t tolerated it when I was a Prince, and I didn’t see why I had to put up with it now that I was a King, but as my wife pointed out in a private conversation, that was back when I was merely a Prince.
The more telling point to my mind was that we already had too many admirals in this fleet. Maybe it was time to accept my promotion to King and Commander in Chief?
I didn’t know and I didn’t like it but it might prove necessary. Only time would tell.
‘Immediately,’ as it turned out, was anything but. It took a good hour before I finally had someone on the screen not only ready and willing to negotiate our services but who also had the authority to make it stick.
“This is Prime-Lord Harkor Fentin of House Mudd, speaking for the Hot Cross Star System. How soon can you move your fleet into position to relieve our SDF around Hot Cross Prime and rid our system of this bug scourge entirely, Admiral?” he asked.
“It’s King not Admiral, Prime-Lord. I’ve recently been elevated to the Throne and my fleet is already moving as fast as it can. Current ETA: five hours, twelve minutes,” I informed him following the general policy of always leading with the good news first, “that said, my legal staff has already forwarded you our bug Swarm protection contract. Sign it and return it and we will be there in five hours, twelve minutes, ready, willing and able to get rid of your bug problem for you, Montagne out.”
The Prime-Lord gave me an angry look as soon as my message reached him and made the round trip back to me.
“I’ve seen this so-called contract. It’s nothing more than extortion and highway banditry.” He raised a hand, “we’ll pay it of course but under protest. The lives of our people are more important to us than money. However, I must point out that we are full tax-paying members in good standing of the Confederation, entitled to all the same rights and protections from the Confederation Fleet as every other member world.”
“Good for you. As you may or may not be aware, in no small part thanks to your own world’s representative, I am no longer a member of the Confederation. You exiled me. Meaning I haven’t seen so much as one hot centi-cred of that money. Nor is my fleet any longer Confederation fleet. If you’re upset at how your tax credits are being spent, I strongly suggest you take it up with the Confederation Fleet. In the meantime, the days of hot lunches and free rides on the house are over. We bled and died for you during the dark times and you threw us away,” I said coldly.
“It’s a sad fact of life that when you vote to exile a man, you are no longer entitled to his free military services,” I finished flatly.
The Prime-Lord’s nostrils flared during my speech and at the end, he took a deep breath.
“I am aware of your situation. What I regret is that you have decided to hold our planet individually responsible for a group action it was forced to take when our government was held hostage and our military stood down. What was our star system supposed to do, defy the Empire and our Spineward Government in order to stand in solidarity with a military that had already acknowledged its defeat?” He paused for effect.
“A military that included you, King Montagne, who as I recall, was at the summit that saw the formation of a treaty that seceded Spineward Sector sovereignty, oversaw our initial return to the Confederation, and exiled you. So you tell me, if you couldn’t stand up to the Empire, what were we supposed to do?” he asked shaking his head.
“The New Confederation was a dream,” he sighed sadly, “a grand dream, I
’ll grant you but ultimately doomed to fail and now that dream is over. Home rule is the best we could have hoped for.”
“The time to ask my opinion was two years ago, as many in the Border Worlds Alliance did,” I said coldly, thinking the reason the New Confederation failed wasn’t because it was doomed but because of smooth-talking pikers like this guy who refused to stand up and fight for it. “When given the option to run the numbers and make the smart play or stand on principle and let the Demon take the hindmost, your world made its decision. It also failed to build up a strong enough SDF to fully backstop that decision, which brings us to today,” I said bluntly.
“A day where I have shown up eager to blow these bugs to Kingdom Come for you,” I continued, “Sign the document and we can let our bygones fade into the welcoming embrace of history, where eager young historians will gladly write and rewrite it until the both of us can barely recognize it,” I said.
The Prime-Lord shook his head, looking like he wanted to say any of a dozen things but finally held himself back.
“It will be as you say. Save our people, King Montagne, and you will receive the reward you ask from a grateful Star Nation,” he said with heavy irony in his voice but despite the snark, I had to give him points for tact. Most planetary rulers were not so resigned and ready to face reality as he was, at least in my experience. Perhaps that was because they didn’t face the very real possibility of being eaten like the Prime-Lord did? I didn’t know and I really didn’t care. I was on a bug hunt and ready to act as the exterminator.
“Read it carefully, I don’t want to hear any complaints about the terms after we’ve cleared the star system,” I said, offering a final parting shot.
The Prime-Lord, in perhaps his final parting shot, didn’t bother to dignify my dig with a direct answer, instead choosing to send back a signed copy of the star system protection agreement.
He’d made his position clear. I’d failed his world and thus, they had no responsibility to me or mine. Which was fine. He was welcome to his opinion. But considering I wasn’t the one begging him a favor, I figured we’d go right ahead with what I felt was right, and right now I had a fleet hemorrhaging credits.
Four hours later, the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet swept into orbit like a storm. Individual bug ships going into or just coming out of orbit were targeted and blasted out of space at the first opportunity.
Bug scout-ships and even scout marauders didn’t stand a chance against a heavy laser mount. It was one hit, one kill as we swept over the planet’s main continent.
“I’ve got a bug sign on the planet’s surface and it’s consistent with the reports we’ve been receiving from Hot Cross’s surviving system defense forces, Your Majesty,” reported the Tactical Officer.
He paused reading something on his personal screen.
“If anything, it’s even worse than reported. I’ve got bugs landing all over the planet and scooping up everything from farm animals and vegetation, even raw dirt, up to and including successful attacks on medium-sized towns. I don’t think I need to state what they’re filling their holds with in the towns,” the Officer said grimly.
“No, you don’t,” I said unhappily, and turned to my Chief of Staff.
“Get me Rear Admiral Laurent on the line,” I instructed.
“Your Majesty,” he said, inclining his head as soon as I appeared on his screen.
My eyes narrowed dangerously but I let it slide. Now was not the time to be arguing over titles and technicalities.
“Take the light units under your command and sweep clean the orbitals,” I instructed.
“Yes, Sir,” he said eagerly and cut the channel.
No doubt he was eager to do something in the face of this ravaging of an otherwise peaceful population. I mean, could you look at them as anything other than a peaceful people when they wouldn’t fight the Empire alongside me and then went and built a system defense force so anemic, it couldn’t even fight off a force of bugs?
“Sire, it looks like there’s a harvester right outside one of their major cities. The local ground forces are fighting it right now,” said Tactical.
“Noted,” I replied emotionlessly, images of helpless men, women and even children being eaten and consumed by bugs clashing in my head.
“I’m receiving a call from Rear Admiral Druid, Sir. Do you want me to pass it through to you,” asked Steiner.
“I’ll take it now,” I said.
“Sir!” said Druid as soon as he appeared on my screen, “do you have any order for me?”
“A little eager aren’t we, Rear Admiral?” I asked, quirking a brow.
“There’s a world being attacked by bugs and my battleship squadrons are ready for action. Who wouldn’t be eager?” he asked, giving me a skeptical look.
“You’re right. Are you ready to hear your new orders, Admiral?” I asked.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Druid said with a hungry expression.
“I want you to take your battleships and clear the ground infection before that harvester can make a surface hive. Use those turbo-lasers to drill down deep and hard, Admiral, and don’t stop till you see the back of their mandibles,” I instructed.
“With pleasure, Sir,” Druid said with a nod.
“If that’s all,” I said with a gesture.
“What do you want to do about the bugs in their orbital industry?” he asked before signing off.
“We’ll take care of it,” I said with a dismissive hand gesture.
“Sounds risky. Are you sure you don’t want a little extra help?” he asked.
“Lancers sign up for service in the flagship on the understanding that they’ll be the tip of the spear. I’m just giving them what they want. Besides, I think we can handle it,” I said.
“I’ll have a few shuttle loads of Marines standing by anyway. Just in case,” he said.
“You run your command how you want,” I said, splaying my hands and then cutting the signal.
“First Officer,” I said.
“Yes, Sir!” he exclaimed.
“Bring up an image of Hot Cross’s orbital industry,” I instructed.
“Of course,” he said hesitantly but soon an image of the planet, its industry highlighted in flashing circles, appeared.
Despite myself, I was silently impressed.
“That’s a lot of industry, Number One,” I said; they had more orbital smelters and factories than Tracto and we’d been heavily investing and building up over the past two years.
“Near core-world levels, Sire,” said the XO.
“Well I guess we can see where their military budget went then,” Spalding snorted.
I looked in his direction.
“They’ve been rebuilding fast since they rejoined the federation. Probably paid for more than one outside constructor, or a constructor on a long-term project and turned their whole industry into rebuilding once they thought they were safe. Probably owe a mountain load of debt now too,” he said judiciously.
“Not our problem,” I said turning a now assessing look on those brand-new orbital factories and processing facilities, works that were currently infested and probably being damaged by bugs even as we spoke.
“Unless they’re richer than I’m giving them credit for, it’s unlikely they’ll be able to pay your fee, King Jason,” Spalding opined.
“Oh, they’ll be able to pay,” I said.
One way or the other, I added silently, eyeing their orbital factories with greedy eyes.
“A few factories would be just the thing to kickstart Tracto to the next level,” I said.
There was a pause as the bridge stopped to digest this.
“Who’s going to man them, though? Because I swear I’ll quit the service before you railroad me into running one of those things,” the old engineer immediately rejected, “I’ve got projects that won’t wait while I sit on an assembly line making stan-bolts.”
“On
e problem at a time, Commodore Spalding,” I said with a Cheshire Cat grin.
I turned to the XO.
“Check with our lancer department and see if there’s any volunteers for a hazardous assignment,” I said.
“On it,” said the First Officer.
As it turned out, there were quite a few volunteers. Nearly the whole Lancer Department answered the call to duty.
Chapter 34
Hot Cross II: The Battle for the Orbitals
“Remember when we only had swords,” asked one Lancer shooting down a pair of six-footers, lifting up his foot for a side kick that crushed a three-footer with its little spinning side wheel flat against the wall, and then turning to blow another six-footer to pieces with his blaster rifle.
“I try not to think about those times. You’ve got another warrior bug on your six,” his shield companion said. tersely.
Dropping his rifle and letting it hang by a strap, he pulled a vibro-blade. Gravity pads on the bottom of his power-armored boots clanged as he hot-walked toward the warrior bug.
To his surprise, the vibro-blade in his hand sparked off the metallic crab-like claws of the six-footer.
“What is this?” he exclaimed in surprise as another waving warrior claw blocked an instinctive follow-up slash.
“What are you doing playing around there with that bug,” grunted his companion, still firing his blaster rifle.
“These bugs are different,” grunted his Shield Companion, knocking the bug’s claws to the side with sheer power and then slamming a fist right through its head.
“They keep dying all the same for me,” replied Lancer, still unloading his blaster rifle into the bugs around him. Then a shot from his blaster rifle hit a metallic-looking bug warrior and ricocheted away, taking a three-foot bug technician with a cut wheel in the head and splattering what passed for its bug brains all over the hull of the orbital factory.
“Okay, that was different,” he said after a moment.
“It just takes a little more work is all,” his Shield Companion grunted, shoving his sword straight into the mouth of another dark metallic-looking bug warrior.
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