Philo knew better. He was proud of having been considered an elite warrior. If he had been born to parents in another part of the galaxy that might have translated to protecting a king who was actually concerned with the well-being of his people. But because he was born in the Mardigan sector, it meant ruthlessly silencing any dissent, accompanying Mowbray during public executions, or killing the family members of those who had crossed the Vonnegan ruler.
As soon as Mowbray was dead and the Vonnegan Empire extinct, he finally reconsidered everything he had done. Only after it was over did he start to think of the true extent of the horrors he had carried out. Women forced to watch their babies die. Men forced to watch their wives die. There was no limit to the depravity Mowbray had ordered and the misery Philo had carried out.
In the years since the Round Table’s formation, he had paid his penance in blood and sweat in the golstan mines deep underneath Greater Mazuma. Due to the banking, trade, and business jobs located there, Greater Mazuma was considered to be the wealthiest planet in the entire galaxy. Philo went as far from that lifestyle as he could, found the hardest work available, then broke rock two miles under the planet’s surface for sixteen hours a day. He kept just enough finances to survive and donated the rest to a shelter that gave rooms and food to Vonnegan troopers who were too emotionally ravaged by war to care for themselves.
When Brigadier Desttro’s forces were defeated and news spread through Greater Mazuma of the approaching Juggernaut, Philo put his chisel and hammer aside and asked what he could do to help. His unblinking fearlessness about the Hannibal’s march across the galaxy offered a sense of comfort to those around him. In his cold stare they saw someone who knew death and resolve. Without volunteering to lead, without telling anyone what he had done during Mowbray’s reign, Philo’s reputation spread across the resistance as someone who would greet the approaching mechs with pure determination. It was the type of resolve Vonnegans prided themselves on and so they rallied around him.
He was joined by Pompey, a former general in the Vonnegan Empire. He wasn’t charged with war crimes because he had long ago retired. Pompey had been a general for Mowbray’s father. He had commanded many of the largest victories on behalf of the empire and was renowned by military minds for relying on superior tactics rather than the brute force Mowbray would later employ.
As the former ruler grew sick and Pompey knew Mowbray would take power, he retired from the Vonnegan Empire rather than serve a young tyrant who cared only about expansion and conquest.
Appreciating history, knowing how young despots were quick to take offense, he knew Mowbray might take the retirement as a personal slight. A week after he was back home on Greater Mazuma, he was visited by Mowbray and his nine Fianna. The guards stood in a semicircle around Mowbray as Pompey invited him inside his home. Part of him thought it would be his final day of life.
“Funny time to choose to retire,” Mowbray had said, staring directly at Pompey for any sign of treachery or offense.
“My health has been failing me for a while, my lord. Your father’s own illness, which so grieves me, reminded me of my mortality.”
“Do you not think it is best to die on behalf of the Vonnegan Empire?”
Pompey understood how it was going to be; any answer could be a potential slight against the empire or its new leader, and thus an excuse for the Fianna to slice him to pieces.
“I agree it is, my lord. But I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I lost an Athens Destroyer and its crew because I didn’t have my faculties about me. I would have not only let them down but also my ruler, and that is something I cannot do.”
Mowbray sighed and looked around the room to which Pompey had invited him. After a moment he asked what Pompey intended to do. The truth was that he had always been fond of the idea of teaching, but he knew, seeing Mowbray’s posture and his glances at the guards on either side of him, that any work at all would be proof that Pompey had indeed intended to slight the new Vonnegan ruler.
“Nothing, my lord. My poor health will not allow it. I am old and sick. I plan to remain here, in quiet, until I die.”
It was the only possible answer that could have saved him and it had worked. Mowbray and his Fianna left and Pompey exchanged command of the Vonnegan fleet for a pair of gardening gloves and the trials and tribulations of trying to grow vegetables in Greater Mazuma’s long and rainless summers.
He didn’t know if it was the new hobby or working fewer hours but he soon realized he felt strong and fit. Not only was his health fine, although he could never let on to the contrary, he felt as if with each passing day he were becoming younger rather than older.
When Mowbray died, various Vonnegan leaders visited him to ask what the Vonnegan Empire should do.
“Is there a Vonnegan Empire?” he had responded as he planted a new batch of seeds.
Some took his answer to mean he was still playing the role of the sick and delusional old man. Others interpreted it to mean the Vonnegan Empire hadn’t been a tangible thing but rather an idea. If Mowbray’s death and the army’s defeat meant one idea was to be replaced with another, it was of little consequence to him or anyone else on Greater Mazuma. However, he never explained his answer.
After Brigadier Desttro’s defeat, he was visited again. This time, instead of being asked for advice, he was asked if he would lead the effort to defend Greater Mazuma from an approaching enemy who intended to spare no one.
Pompey used his index finger to dig a hole in the dirt. He then dropped in a yellow seed, covered it, and sprinkled a tiny amount of water over it.
Looking up, he said, “You’ll find someone to care for my garden?”
“Of course,” the other man said.
Pompey stood and brushed the dirt from his pants. “Very well. One final battle to lead.”
In the days since, almost everyone on Greater Mazuma considered him to be the general in charge of the entire resistance.
The third member of the triumvirate was a Vonnegan by the name of Thidian. He was not an elite warrior like Philo. He was not a military tactician like Pompey. He was the planner of the metropolis that covered all of Greater Mazuma’s lands. What he brought was a complete understanding of the streets, underground tunnels, building schematics, utility pathways, and everything else that kept the planet, which was basically one giant city, functioning.
He didn’t want any part in actually leading the resistance, but he was happy to supply endless information to Pompey and Philo. He explained why one tunnel had been built to a dead-end while another tunnel broke off into three forks. He detailed which buildings were made to the latest structural specifications and which were the oldest. Through the information he provided, he offered a means to turn a cityscape into the site of a counteroffensive.
26
Between Greater Mazuma and Terror-Dhome, where the Cauldrons of Dagda was located, was a small outpost used for asteroid mining. The Juggernaut came to a stop a short distance from the colony floating in space. The outpost was a collection of interconnected pods one-tenth the size of a Round Table flagship. The Juggernaut was so much larger than the outpost that the small society could almost have escaped notice as a place where people might actually live.
A beam of light shone from the colossal Hannibal craft and scanned the outpost for any sign of life. Finding none, the light faded and the Juggernaut’s engines powered back up.
As it began forward again, it did not bother to try and go around the tiny outpost. Instead, its massive frame pushed the collection of intertwined cylinders for a few seconds before the structure broke into dozens of pieces.
The Hannibal vessel continued toward Greater Mazuma.
27
Talbot stood at the edge of CamaLon’s spaceport. Across from him, the vessel Lancelot had arrived on, a Type B Strain transport, was being disassembled. A team of scientists and engineers gave orders as a group of mechanics took apart whichever piece of the ship they requested next.
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They were not trying to find a secret weapon or some type of treasure. They knew the vessel was a threat. Rather, they were trying to figure out how to reverse engineer its shield technology.
Now that Talbot realized the scientists had been kidnapped for their abilities and not as bargaining chips, everything made more sense. The only reason Arc-Mi-Die had managed to evade capture had been because some very talented scientists had worked on a project in exchange for the empty promise of being returned to their families. Their work evolving the technology that established artificial atmospheres around colonies had allowed ships to become impervious even to the impossibly harsh environment of a supergiant star.
Now, it was the first step in Lancelot’s plan to defeat the Hannibal.
As soon as the engineers and scientists figured out how the containment field worked, they intended to install similar devices on as many Round Tables vessels as possible. After that, they would go into the same star Arc-Mi-Die had hidden himself inside.
28
Lancelot’s Llyushin transport appeared from a portal in the Kerchin sector and continued to a barren planet hours from any other sign of civilization.
Life on Kerchin-Joshua was hard. The surface consisted of either frozen seas or frozen tundra. There were no developed colonies, no infrastructure of any kind. Few people lived on the planet and the ones who did valued solitude and privacy above all else. That was the only thing Kerchin-Joshua did offer—a quiet reprieve from other people. Which meant Lancelot’s first potential recruit was someone who clearly didn’t want to be bothered.
“Over there,” Vere said from behind Lancelot’s seat in the cockpit. “He’ll be over there.”
Lancelot pulled the transport’s controls to the side. The ship banked to the left.
There were no buildings visible anywhere on the planet’s surface. Kerchin-Joshua’s environment prohibited any kind of sustained life above ground. The planet’s surface did contain some oxygen but also large amounts of hydrogen and helium and would be fatal to anyone not wearing a suit to protect from the air and the cold. Underground, though, caves had an atmosphere with ample oxygen and thermal pockets provided natural heat.
The ship’s sensors found no signs of life across the horizon. Vere said this was because the few people scattered around the planet lived deep underground. With so many metals and exotic minerals comprising the rocky and frozen surface, not even the transport could offer reliable scans of where people were living.
“Bring it in lower,” Vere said. “The second cave on the right.”
Without asking how Vere knew all of this, Lancelot brought the ship down so it landed at the edge of a cavernous opening. The pathway down into the planet’s depths looked large enough for her transport to navigate but she felt safer exploring new terrain on her feet rather than in a ship she wasn’t familiar with. Through the cockpit viewport, she was able to peer down a length of tunnel roughly a hundred yards long. After that, the tunnel curved and she couldn’t see anything except darkness.
She unbuckled herself from the pilot’s seat, stood, and made her way to the rear hatch.
“You won’t need your weapons,” Vere said.
Lancelot smiled. “Have you ever known me to go anywhere without them?”
As she walked down the ramp and set foot on Kerchin-Joshua’s surface, she sensed that Vere was no longer with her. She could hear the wind howling its toxic mix of elements, but with her Carthagen suit on, she was protected from both the cold and the poisonous air.
Facing the length of tunnel descending farther underground, she saw a figure appear. With the lens in her visor, she zoomed in to see a man wearing a thick coat and a mask that covered only his mouth and nose. She guessed he wore only that level of protection because he didn’t intend to come any closer to the toxic surface.
“Hello, Quickly,” Lancelot called, her voice echoing through the tunnel. “Vere sent me. I need your help.”
29
“Hello, Quickly,” the figure called from the top of the cave entrance.
The computerized voice echoed as if greeting him a dozen times. The visitor then said that Vere had recommended him for his piloting skills.
Nothing about the scene made any sense to Quickly. Even from a hundred yards and in the poor lighting of the Kerchin-Joshua dawn, he could recognize the outline of a Llyushin transport. He would recognize that ship anywhere. He had logged more hours in various Llyushin ships than anyone he knew.
But the person disembarking the ship wasn’t anyone who should be in possession of the craft. He was taken aback by having any visitor at all, much less a Carthagen. He didn’t know much about them. He had only seen photos of them and heard stories from traders, but they were supposed to be a highly reclusive and secretive race. Surely, from what he had heard, they would want nothing to do with the Round Table. And yet, the four-armed and four-legged creature at the mouth of the cave tunnel was almost certainly a Carthagen. Adding to his confusion, the Carthagen not only knew Vere but also that Quickly had been an associate of hers. In the three years he had spent living on Kerchin-Joshua, no one had ever come looking for him. The string of nonsensical connections made him wonder if he wasn’t perhaps losing his mind. Isolation, he had read, could do that.
He was so perplexed that he didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t do anything. Only when the Carthagen was halfway down the cave tunnel did he get his speech back.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
It sounded less than welcoming but that was the least of his concerns.
The Carthagen paused and held all four palms out to show it meant no harm. “I come in peace,” it said. “Vere told me you could help.”
Again, he didn’t know what he was supposed to say. Hearing no response, the Carthagen began down the cave pathway again.
Quickly glanced behind him to see if Enid was observing the scene. His wife, however, was nowhere to be found.
Without even realizing he was doing so, his fingers moved to the small blaster strapped to his hip. The Carthagen, ten yards away, saw this and paused once more. Quickly didn’t think the blaster would have an effect on the heavy armor the Carthagen was wearing but he would do anything he needed to protect his wife. Two of the Carthagen’s hands also moved, but not toward a weapon. Instead, they reached up to its brown and bronze helmet. After unlatching four clips, the Carthagen removed its head protection. Quickly saw long blond hair and a very human face.
“Hello, Quickly,” the visitor said again, this time in a musical and soft voice. “I need your help.”
“Put your helmet back on until we get further down the tunnel,” he said. “The air here isn’t as bad as up on the surface, but you don’t want to try your luck.”
It was also colder than was healthy for prolonged exposure. Already, his right arm was numbing from the cold. His left arm, lost to a meteor years earlier while trying to free the Excalibur ships, was made of metal and impervious to the temperature change.
Nodding toward the depths of Kerchin-Joshua’s underground caves, he turned and began back toward his home. As he walked back into the darkness, he heard the clunk of the four boots following behind him.
30
Although dozens of Vonnegans sat in the same room, Pompey and Thidian did most of the talking. Everyone else was gathered around them in the chamber that had once been Mowbray’s main royal meeting hall. Philo scanned the room, expecting someone in attendance to realize how much time he had spent there under the guise of his Fianna uniform while protecting the Vonnegan ruler.
In discussing the basic concepts of defense, Pompey told the crowd there were three key approaches.
“We can fortify defenses and force the invaders into a prolonged siege. If we can design a nearly impenetrable series of walls, the Hannibal might eventually give up.”
Someone in the corner asked how long was prolonged.
Thidian said they could have a nearly unlimited supply of power and air. Food an
d clean drinking water would be the primary concerns.
Pompey added, “That, and actually designing a defensive system that could hold off the mechs for an extended period of time.”
The man in the corner of the room rephrased his question. “I meant, how long do you think the siege would last?”
“Before they gave up?” Pompey said. “Could be years. Perhaps a decade. The Siege of Lisbonne lasted ninety years.”
Not a single person, save for Philo and Pompey, breathed after this was said. Only to the two of them did a lifelong battle seem like a reasonable suggestion.
Pompey said, “If we could hold them off for ten years, think of all the flagships the Round Table could build and send here.”
“So they could be destroyed, like all the other ships?” a middle-aged Vonnegan woman said from behind Thidian.
“I agree, it’s not the most effective tactic, or even the most desirable,” Pompey said. “I merely want to share all relevant ideas so we can make an informed decision together.”
He said this even though everyone in the room would most likely defer to his advanced knowledge of offensive and defensive military strategy.
“Second,” he said, “we could take the fight to the mechs. Have gunners on the towers. Arm every adult with a blaster. Have Thunderbolts provide air cover and gravity tanks providing heavy cover in the streets.”
He looked to Philo for input but the other man, half Pompey’s age, said nothing. Instead, a businessman told everyone in the room that if the mechs destroyed flagships and space fighters with ease, not to mention the massacre at the Cauldrons of Dagda, where the galaxy’s most dangerous prisoners had been easily defeated, the people of Greater Mazuma couldn’t hope to put up any sort of meaningful fight.
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