“How did he take it?”
“He’s a line officer. I’d say he was chomping at the bit.”
“Exactly what information did Franklin feed to his handler?”
“The place and approximate date of the attack, and the make-up of the attacking forces.”
“In detail?” said Tarr.
“Very nearly,” said Faulkner. “Except for the fact that they will be expecting three fast frigates rather than three Z-class destroyers.”
“I wonder if the Combine will have been tempted to beef up their defenses prior to the attack?” said Tarr.
“Tempted, yes,” said Faulkner. “But I doubt if they will. They won’t want to tip their hand by giving us clues that they’ve received intelligence on the raid. In any case, pitted against three frigates, I imagine they’d feel their current forces are more than adequate.”
“I’d say they’re in for a very rude awakening.”
“That’s the general idea. And just to keep Franklin’s stock as high as possible we’re allowing him to contact his handlers and give them a more accurate appraisal of the attacking force. Of course, by the time they get hold of the data it will be too late for them to do anything about it.”
* * *
Sjhakar
At that particular instant, the Combine commander – a colonel of marines – was busy arranging his forces to meet the expected threat.
Three frigates? That was a ballsy move for the Alliance. Probably three of their Mastiff class frigates – reasonable armor, a good weapons payload and as fast as they come.
The colonel had at his disposal a pair of heavy cruisers and an escort group made up of four frigates and half a dozen hunter-killers. His tactics were dictated by the assets within the system – the assets he was tasked with defending.
Sjhakar was a white star – though it appeared yellow to the human eye – around which orbited seven planets; six rocky worlds close in-system and a single, huge gas giant which orbited far out at the system’s edge. The civilian colony was located on the fourth planet, a marginal earth-like world with ice caps that stretched almost to the equator. A Combine military complex was located further out on the sixth world, a dwarf planet with barely enough mass to allow gravity to pull it into a sphere. Lastly, beyond even the orbit of the gas giant was a high security facility operated by the science directorate. What went on within its pressure domes was anyone’s guess but like all good Combine citizens, the colonel knew better than to ask too many questions. The only thing he needed to know was that he was personally responsible for its protection.
In his favor was the fact that the system was protected by a trio of warp disrupters located one hundred twenty degrees apart on the system plane. If the Alliance intended any incursion, they would have to knock out at least one of those units before entering the system proper. Unfortunately for the colonel, the vagaries of orbital mechanics determined that the system’s three main assets were just about as far away from each other as they could possibly be which was, of course, one of the reasons that the Alliance had chosen the Sjhakar system as their primary target.
Like any commander, the colonel was loath to divide his forces but it was the only logical approach he could foresee. Orbiting close to the sun, the civilian colony and the military base were relatively close to each other – a matter of light minutes – but the science facility on the edge of the system was several light hours away. If he kept his forces together the Alliance would likely be able to hit one of the targets and be gone before he could intervene. The only alternative was to split his command into two groups, each comprising a cruiser with two frigates and three hunter-killers in company, one group remaining in-system and the other tasked with defending the science facility. The good news was that either group should have enough firepower to handle three Alliance frigates… though he was experienced enough to know that once battle was joined you never quite knew what might unfold. He considered asking for reinforcements but he knew what answer he’d likely get: If he couldn’t handle a flotilla of Alliance frigates he wasn’t the right man for the job.
Mind made up, he sent out the orders.
Zenith
Captain Tyrell’s eyes blinked open as the gentle buzzing woke him from his slumbers. He’d instructed his department chiefs to make sure that all the crew were fed and rested before they dropped out of warp – an order that applied to officers and men alike, though he wondered how many had been too excited to sleep. With the XO looking after the bridge, Tyrell had taken the opportunity to rest and had been sleeping soundly for three hours. He was lucky that way; whatever the situation, he’d always been able to fall asleep at the drop of a hat and wake up completely refreshed. Now wide awake, he rose from his bunk and strode over to the small private washroom where he splashed some water over his face, combed his hair and straightened his uniform. Leaving his quarters, he called in the officers’ mess for a bite to eat, surprising a small group of shiny, new midshipmen who were sitting quietly at one of the tables. Each eyed the captain as he picked up a sandwich and cup of coffee.
“Watch and learn, people, watch and learn. I know you’ve all been thoroughly schooled in the importance of maintaining discipline and following procedure. There is, however, one vital piece of advice that your lecturers may have neglected to pass on. It is this…” he said, letting the words hang heavy in the air. “Never – on any account – go into battle with an empty stomach and a full bladder. To which end I thoroughly recommend one of Chef Dillahunty’s bacon sandwiches… but go easy on the coffee.” One of the middies chucked and the atmosphere in the room visibly brightened. Making short work of the sandwich, Tyrell downed his coffee and headed off to begin his final moral boosting walkabout before the Zenith and her sisters dropped out of warp.
Tyrell had spent the previous months training his crew to be the best that they could possibly be. A full third of the ship’s complement had come straight out of basic training. Three months that had to be enough to turn a collection of farmers, joiners, shop clerks, cab drivers – there had even been a concert pianist among them – into fledgling sailors. Boot camp taught them the basics – it was Tyrell’s job to turn them into a functioning crew.
New recruit or seasoned veteran, Tyrell had drilled his troops incessantly, chastising and encouraging in equal measure until each crew member had honed his or her skills to perfection. Most of all, he’d instilled in his crew the belief that when they went into battle, not only could they win, they absolutely would win.
Passing through the various compartments he was well satisfied with the results. The crew looked eager and confident, standing tall as he passed by with a smile, a pat on the back and a few words of encouragement. There were the occasional signs of apprehension, but that was only to be expected; half the crew had never seen action before and most of the others had tasted little else but retreat and defeat.
Well, that was about to change.
Chapter 10: Drunk and Disorderly
Tycho City
Trinity Base lay five hundred kilometers to the north of Tycho City. A sprawling complex of landing pads, runways, hangars, workshops, barracks and various other facilities, the base covered over twenty square kilometers and was home to almost ten thousand people. The majority were enlisted personnel but their ranks were augmented with a large contingent of civilian auxiliaries. The base’s residential zone was located in the south-east corner and like any other small town – for that’s what it was – it had its own shopping complex, hospital, cinema, and a host of other services and amenities that serviced the community. It also had a dedicated mag-lev station linking it to Tycho City. The entrances to the platforms and concourses had originally been located outside the base but Trinity’s perimeter fence had been extended around them some years previously. It made security easier and also aided in the movement of personnel and materiel. Anyone finishing their duty cycle could take a mag-lev train and be in Tycho City within the hour. They would arrive at TG
C – Tycho Grand Central – and from there take any one of a dozen lines that reached out over and under the city and into the suburbs.
The Sable line struck north, passed through the city’s financial district and out into a middle class residential zone. A fifteen minute ride would take you to Rojo Square, a station named after the hero of a battle that few could now remember. By contrast, Master Sergeant Rojo would be remembered forever, at least by those who might one day wonder how the station had come by its name.
Alighting the metro at Rojo Square, you might take the escalator up to street level and within minutes be standing outside Tobias Franklin’s town house. Alternatively, you could descend one level, change to the Salem line and head east, out towards the city’s mech-sector that housed the heavy industries and armaments factories. And in the grey area between suburban middle class and industrial grime lay the housing developments, the tenements and the slums that housed all manner of people, from good, honest worker to street hood and vagabond. And with them came the drug addicts, whores and pimps that populated every city on either side of the border. A microcosm of humanity, warts and all.
Perhaps you would disembark at Brewer Street, as Franklin had often done in a previous life. From there you might take a stroll along 31st Street, but not too far, especially at night and certainly not alone, for the further you ventured into the heart of the neighborhood the greater the risk to life and limb.
The Blue Goose was located on the corner of Brewer and 31st Street. At least, the entrance was; a wide flight of stone stairs led down to a basement complex that lay beneath a sprawling warehouse. A man dressed in a staff sergeant’s uniform paused at the top of the steps and gazed around before descending slowly. It was still early evening but he bore the signs of a man who had already consumed enough alcohol for one night. His gait was unsteady, his uniform untidy and hair his tousled.
The sergeant descended to a wide underground concourse, the bars and eateries lining each side punctuated by the occasional strip joint and poker hall; all the essentials for whatever night out on the town might be desired. Few of the proprietors would describe their establishments as chic or up market, but then none of them would want to. Chic and up market were that last things their clientele wanted; reasonable fare, good liquor and plenty of both at a reasonable price was all that was required, so that’s what was provided.
The Blue Goose was a little way along the right hand side of the concourse, sandwiched between a noodle shop and a steak house. The sergeant pushed open the door and made his way across the room to his customary stool at the far end of the counter. It wasn’t a particularly large establishment; the bar ran the full length of one wall, half a dozen booths lined the opposite wall and the rest of the space was filled with scattering of tables. Unusually, the bar was almost full. Belching noisily as he sat down, the sergeant drew looks from those seated nearby. A few were enlisted personnel but most were working men and women enjoying a well earned drink at the end of their shift.
“Well, excuse me, please,” said the sergeant with a theatrical wave of his one good arm.
“What’s it to be?” asked the barkeep.
“The usual.”
“Coming right up.” The barkeep poured a shot of whisky into a glass and pushed it across the counter. The sergeant eyed both the barkeep and the drink suspiciously. “Anything the matter?” said the barkeep.
“No. Just leave the bottle and get me some ice.”
“You got it,” said the barkeep. “But you’d best pay me now. I don’t want to have to go rummaging through you pockets again after you pass out on the floor.”
The sergeant pulled a handful of notes from his pocket and slapped them down on the bar top. “That cover it?”
“Should do,” said the barkeep, counting out several of the notes and handing back the rest. “Just so you can’t say I short changed you.”
“Whatever,” said the sergeant, shoving the change back inside his jacket. He picked up the glass and stared at the whisky for a few seconds before knocking it back in one gulp. Wincing as the raw liquor burned its way down his throat, he slammed the empty glass back down on the bar top.
“How’s it going, Sarge?” asked a man sitting on the adjacent barstool. Dressed in workman’s clothes, his hair was grey-white and his face mottled with age.
“Who, me?”
“Well, as far as I can tell, you’re the only sergeant in here, though I can see a couple of PFCs, a lance corporal and a specialist sitting across the way.”
“Congratulations, you know your ranks,” said the sergeant.
“Sure do. Did my service time, oh… twenty five years back. Made sergeant myself before I rotated out. The name’s Josh, Josh Turner,” he said, offering his hand.
“Dan,” said the sergeant. “Dan Powers.”
“So, how’s it going, Dan?”
“How’s what going?”
“Whatever you want,” said Josh genially. “You personally, the war in general..?”
“Well now, Sergeant Josh… let me see… Me personally? Well that’s easy enough. Everything is shit. Yesterday was shit, today was shit and as for tomorrow, well that will probably be shit too. Luckily, I don’t give a shit. Does that answer your question? Oh, and the war? A slightly more difficult question, but that’s shit too. Really, really shit. We are officially getting our asses kicked. We are in full retreat on all fronts, and in any number of our former possessions the enemy is now pissing on the graves of our dead soldiers, drinking our beer and shafting our women, and all by the numbers. The Combine are very good at doing things by the numbers – I know, I’ve seen them in action. It’s all that training, I expect. Damn good at killing, I’ll give ‘em that. Stands to reason they’d be just as good at drinking, pissing and fornicating. Makes sense, doesn’t it?” He swiveled on his stool and turned to face the small group of customers that had stopped to listen. “Here’s to killing, drinking and fornicating,” he said, raising his glass. “But not necessarily in that order. And while we’re on the subject, let’s drink a toast to the brave men and women of the fleet. You who are about to die, we salute you!” He raised his glass with a flourish, gulped down his second large whisky in as many minutes and turned back to the bar with a dry laugh. The impromptu audience gazed at his back for a few seconds before returning to their own conversations, a few with a shake of the head.
“Things are that bad, huh?” said Josh.
“Bad? Oh, they’re worse than that. Take it from me. There’re a whole lot fucking worse. Drink up while you still can, that’s my advice.” He picked up the bottle and held it between his knees as he twisted off the cap. Pouring out a generous amount of whisky, he swirled it around the inside of the glass, gazing intently as the overhead lights reflected off the surface of the amber-gold liquid.
“So what happened to the arm?”
Here we go again, thought the barkeep, rolling his eyes. If there was one thing the sergeant was enthusiastic about – apart from bitching and drinking himself into a stupor – it was talking about his lost arm. And once he got started… The barkeep moved to the other end of the counter.
“My arm?” said Powers. “I misplaced it. Very careless – very careless indeed. Surprised they didn’t put me on a charge. I put in a requisition for a new one, you know. They gave me this, ‘Prosthetic arm Mark 1.101 – Amputees, for the use of’. Looks dead lifelike, don’t you think? And that’s exactly what it is – lifelike but dead. None of your fancy cybernetics here, you know – you have to be an officer to get that kind of hardware. That or a bona fide hero. And let me tell you that I am neither – officer or hero, that is. Just another poor fool in the wrong place at the absolute wrongest of times. Nope, what we have here is good, old fashioned rubber – simple, elegant in design and of course, hardwearing and functional. Well, not really.” He twisted off the artificial limb and dropped it on the bar. “I’d like to say it was price to be paid for glorious victory, but all we did was get jumped carrying
a cargo of field rations to an outpost on Ormoron. Ever been to Ormoron? No? Me neither – got blown to shit before we got even half way there. Not quite enough to guarantee me a medal, or even a mention in dispatches. No, all I got was a rubber forearm…” He twanged one of the artificial fingers and watched it spring back into place. “They sent us out without any escort, you know. None at all, unless you count a thirty year old scout with less firepower than my dear old grandma’s invalid carriage. How fucking stupid was that? I mean, really, what kind of military genius comes up with an idea like that? Someone’s son and heir, I suppose. Had their old man pay for their commission and then fix them up with a nice little billet a zillion light years behind the front lines.”
“That’s tough,” said Josh with genuine feeling. “Real tough. Listen, Dan, I want you to know that us folks back home appreciate everything you guys in the fleet are doing. We’re all rooting for you. And like I say, I’m sorry about the arm.”
“Oh, well thanks, Sergeant Josh, thanks a million. That’s real peachy, I’m sure. I feel better already,” said Powers, downing another shot of whisky and reaching for the bottle once more.
“You know, son, you wouldn’t be the first to look for answers at the bottom of a glass…”
“You think?”
“But take it from me, you ain’t gonna find any.”
“Look, old timer, I’m sure you mean well, but I don’t need your advice, I don’t need your kindness, and I sure as hell don’t need your goddamned sympathy. You understand me?”
“Yup, reckon I do,” said Josh, giving up the battle. He picked up his cap and rose from his seat. “Guess I’ll be moving along. You take good care of yourself, now.”
“Sure as hell nobody else will,” said Powers as Josh left. He turned to face the other people in the bar. “Not the high command, that’s for sure, nor the government. We’re just pawns, that’s all. You, me and everyone else – expendable assets. Slaves to the warmongers, dollar signs to the profiteers and fodder for the guns. The sooner the Combine army comes marching up Central Avenue the better. And it won’t be long in happening, either.”
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