Dark of the Void (Forged Alliance Book 1)

by Anthony James

  The plasma light didn’t fade and the hull sensors detected an ongoing rumble that made him believe the Kilvar had subjected this area of the research building to an extensive bombardment. Vance guessed the rules had changed and the enemy had decided to destroy the exium rather than let it escape from them. Or maybe they were shit scared that the alliance had a way to use it against their warship. The hope was faint but there wasn’t much else to cling to.

  “We’re going straight for the lift,” said Vance, with no obviously better options. His HUD map indicated the Gundik wasn’t more than five or six hundred metres from the cargo lift. Another explosion – this time closer than the others – possessed enough force to knock the tank sideways and generate several heat alarms for the hull plating.

  “I wish I could give you something to go on, Lieutenant,” said Montero, back on the comms. “The Kilvar warship is saturating this area with missiles. We’re shooting them down, but we have to save a few railers for our warships as well.”

  “Have the enemy gone all-out?” asked Vance.

  “I think they’ve seen enough. We’ve got most of our fleet in the air and the amount of firepower we’re dumping on the Kilvar armour is probably more than those bastards want to take.”

  “Are they suffering damage?”

  “No sign of it yet, but something must have caused this change of tactics. Shit! Missile!”

  Vance threw the control sticks hard right and the tank burst through another wall. The Kilvar warhead detonated close by and suddenly it seemed to Vance as if he was looking at an instrumentation panel that was all reds and ambers. The controls shook and several of the sensors went offline, causing Corporal Charnos to swear profusely in the Daklan tongue.

  A moment passed and a few of the backups kicked in automatically, turning several ambers green and several reds into amber. Mercifully, the propulsion was running and it had lost none of its potency.

  “Lieutenant, are you there?” asked Montero, stress in her voice.

  “Still here,” said Vance. “If that cargo lift is blocked, we’re in the crap.”

  “There’s an opening in the roof directly over the lift,” said Montero. “Damnit, something’s burning.”

  “What about the lift?” asked Vance.

  “I can’t tell you, Lieutenant. You’re nearly on top of it – you’ll be able to see for yourself in a moment.”

  Everything seemed to be alight and the Gundik’s few remaining sensors detected no break in the plasma flames. Vance saw darker patches that he guessed were walls and the tank sliced easily through the heat-softened alloy, its own hull alight with plasma.

  Erupting from the final wall, the Gundik entered a long, rectangular space that had probably been used as storage for components intended to be taken by cargo lift to the subterranean level. The space was empty now, though its high ceiling was wide open to the night sky and half of its walls had been split or melted by Kilvar missiles. Two huge craters had been created in the floor, their rims orange like sullen volcanoes. Glancing at the upper feed, Vance spotted a grey shape racing across the opening, too quickly for him to know if it was friend or foe.

  The original cargo lift had been large enough to accommodate the Gundik, though all that remained of it now was a two-hundred-metre opening in the centre of the far wall, about three hundred metres from the tank. Plasma still burned nearby from the recent missile strike and there was no sign of the lift platform.

  “Let’s go,” said Vance, knowing what he had to do.

  Tagra and Charnos also knew what was coming and they said nothing. Under Vance’s control, the Gundik accelerated into the holding area, its engine output undiminished.

  “Missiles incoming,” said Tagra.

  The tank’s damaged sensors detected inbound warheads through the open ceiling and Vance had no idea where they were going to strike. He kept his narrowed eyes on the shaft ahead and requested maximum output from the Gundik’s overstressed engines. It surged across the floor and its velocity gauge raced from left to right.

  “Functioning countermeasures tracking,” said Targa.

  Most of the tank’s armaments were out of action, but two of the rear chain guns were operational. Flames spat from their multiple barrels and thousands of slugs poured out of the ceiling opening. The inbound missiles disappeared from the tactical and the far wall of the holding bay bulged inwards with the weight of an explosion which had taken place somewhere beyond. A moment after, the silvery debris of a shattered missile clattered through the ceiling opening, and, as he steered the Gundik into the lift shaft, Vance knew what a close call he and his platoon had survived.

  Safety was not nearly guaranteed. The tank’s velocity was enough for it to strike the far corner of the alloy-lined lift shaft before Vance could bring it to a standstill. The impact was distant and he was beyond caring about the additional damage to the front plating.

  Having collided with the wall, the tank’s auto-levelling system kept it hovering. The underside sensors were undamaged and, on their feeds, Vance saw the shaft dropping for thousands of metres into the ground. Three-quarters of the way down, something was red with heat and he guessed it was the cargo platform blocking the shaft.

  Vance was about to set the tank into a controlled descent, where the engines would let it fall steadily, when he spotted yet more incoming missiles on the tactical.

  “Cancelling hover,” said Vance, setting the tank into freefall. He glanced at the life support status light, which couldn’t decide if it should stay red or amber and flickered irregularly between the two.

  It was too late to ponder the safest option and Vance gritted his teeth as the tank plummeted straight down the shaft. The sensation of falling came on and off in his guts, perversely in time with the life support light. In theory, the Gundik’s engines should halt its fall anyway, but Vance had never liked gambling with technology on the basis that technology didn’t have a wife and children to go home to.

  “One of those missiles is coming straight into the room above,” said Tagra.

  A split-second later, that missile detonated on the edge of the cargo shaft high above the falling tank. The lower part of the blast sphere was channelled into the opening and it roared down the shaft. For long moments, Vance could only watch the plasma-lit sensor feeds, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching.

  Then, the sensors cleared and the heat-red of the walls was infinitely preferable to the harshness of white-hot plasma. Suddenly, Sergeant Tagra burst out in laughter, close enough to Vance’s ear to make him wince.

  “This is the way, human! We fight with everything and we survive!”

  Vance didn’t feel like smiling, but the adrenaline was pumping and he was gripped by the same kind of high which usually came when he and his soldiers had escaped an engagement by the skin of their teeth. He grinned briefly and then spotted the next hazard in the endless parade.

  “Cargo lift platform, coming up,” he said.

  “Leave the Gundik in freefall, Lieutenant,” said Tagra. “We will smash it clear.”

  “Freefall it is,” said Vance.

  The platform was hardly more elaborate than a slab of metal, which had fallen and become wedged across the shaft. Travelling at its terminal velocity, the Gundik hit the platform, dislodging it with a shriek. Vance felt the thump of impact, though not enough to test his harness. The two heavy objects descended together for a short time and then Vance switched the tank into a controlled descent.

  Slowed by its propulsion, the Gundik separated from the lift platform and the space between the two increased rapidly.

  “Impact,” said Tagra.

  The lift slab struck the bottom of the shaft about five hundred metres ahead of the tank, bouncing once and then becoming still. An increased howl from the Gundik’s engines indicated they were slowing the vehicle in preparation for a soft landing. Vance exhaled, his relief markedly increased because the life support light had finally decided it preferred red to amber.<
br />
  When the tank arrived gently at the bottom of the lift shaft, the Daklan sitting next to Vance proclaimed it the most exciting ride they could remember in their many years of service.

  Unwilling to make such a statement himself, Vance piloted the vehicle into the vast underground hangar that lay beneath the Amber base. The lights were on and the low-slung shape of a warship lay dead ahead.

  Knowing his part in this mission was nearly over, Vance steered the Gundik towards the exium class warship, Firestorm.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Right, folks, we made it to the Firestorm. Time to unbuckle and get your asses outside.”

  The moment Captain William Flint heard those words on the Gundik’s internal comms, he unclipped his harness and rose. The passenger bay seemed noticeably warmer than before and the sharp scent of machined alloy was much stronger. It was an odour which reminded him of every spaceship he’d ever flown and Flint breathed it in.

  A hulking shape emerged from the cockpit steps.

  “Captain Flint,” said Sergeant Tagra, straightening to his full height. “We have reports from the surface that Kilvar soldiers are on their way. My squad will escort you to the Firestorm.”

  “They’re in the subsurface bay?” asked Flint in surprise.

  “Perhaps. They had an entrance through the facility roof. Two of the Gundik’s shoulder guns remain operational, but this is not a time for risks.”

  “I agree,” said Flint. “Lead on, Sergeant.”

  Tagra’s voice was monumentally loud, even when he wasn’t trying, and he bellowed orders at his squad. Some of those soldiers were in the next bay behind this one, but those nearest squeezed their way along the narrow aisles and headed into the exit tunnel.

  “Won’t we burn up when the exit hatch opens?” asked Lieutenant Garrett.

  “Negative, Lieutenant,” said Tagra. He smiled broadly. “As long as you move quickly.”

  “I can move,” Garrett confirmed. “You bet your ass I can.”

  “Approaching the exit hatch,” said Private Janie Mack, who was the first soldier into the passage. “If it’s melted shut, we’ll need to hit it with rockets to get it free.”

  “Just open the door and stop the jaw, Mack,” said Drawl.

  The pressure was still on, but the soldiers weren’t showing much sign they were affected by it and Flint admired how well they worked together. He and his crew were all in this bay and he beckoned them to follow as he headed for the exit passage. Turning once to make sure they were with him, Flint found himself staring into Lieutenant Becerra’s visor. Her blue eyes were wide, her lips pressed tightly together and she was holding onto a Rodan like it was the most valuable object in the known universe.

  “You’re doing great, Lieutenant,” said Flint. “Soon it’ll be our turn to kick some ass.”

  Becerra’s voice was taut, but with no sign of panic. “Absolutely, sir.”

  “I’ve got a green light on the exit hatch,” said Mack on the platoon channel. “I guess we won’t need those rockets after all. Get ready for the heat, folks.”

  With Sergeant Tagra ahead, Flint stooped low into the exit passage. The Daklan’s broad shoulders blocked his sight, but the hatch wasn’t far ahead. Flint heard the thumping of gears and he braced himself.

  Pressurized cool air fled the tank’s interior and blisteringly hot air rushed in to take its place. A temperature alert went off on Flint’s HUD and he glanced at the material of his combat suit, which was already a sickly yellow-brown from the energy beam heatwave it had been subjected to on the surface.

  Despite his size, Sergeant Tagra wasn’t slow and he made it through the hatch before clambering rapidly down the steps. Flint came afterwards – the hatch seemed higher above the surface on the way out than it had on the way in, and the ground was ten metres below.

  Descending as rapidly as he dared, Flint hurried away from the steps, turning his head in every direction to absorb as many details as he could about the subterranean bay.

  Lieutenant Vance had stopped the Gundik a short distance from the nose of a warship which Flint knew to be the Firestorm. The viewing angle wasn’t perfect, but he was able to obtain an impression about the warship’s overall shape. It was bulky, yet retained the design cues of other HPA fleet warships.

  The Firestorm was surrounded by a mixture of standard warship construction gear – cranes and lifter shuttles, all of which were grounded by their failed engines – and other equipment that looked like it should have been in a research lab. Hundreds of personnel were performing various tasks in the vicinity and Flint was impressed by the organization.

  “The Firestorm,” said Lieutenant Fredericks, gesturing with his gun. “They got the engines running.”

  “It sounds terrible,” said Commander Maddox.

  “That’s what the exium prototype is here for,” said Flint.

  He turned to find out what state the Gundik was in after its destructive journey through the research facility. The bay viewscreen had given him a good idea, but hadn’t told the whole story.

  It turned out the Gundik was in better shape than he imagined – its clean edges where the angles met were now rounded and lumpy, as was the rest of the armour. In addition, one of the main armaments was bent at a ten-degree angle in the middle, the front section of the vehicle was compressed and some of the plating split.

  Under the circumstances, the Gundik had come through remarkably well and its rear loading ramp was extended. Soldiers descended and the exium protype was coming with them.

  Before Flint could avert his gaze, he saw one of the rear chain gun turrets rotating towards the lift shaft. The gun roared, cut out and roared again.

  “We’ve got incoming ground troops,” said Vance on the comms. “They’re dropping straight down the lift shaft.”

  Realising he’d been gawping, Flint got himself moving towards the Firestorm’s forward boarding ramp. Several personnel were coming his way and he diverted to meet them.

  “Captain Flint?” asked one of the group, a remarkably attractive Daklan woman.

  “Yes,” he said, wondering who she was.

  “I’m Lera-Vel.” She looked tired but undaunted. “This is my operation. You are here to pilot the Firestorm.”

  “Those were the last orders I received,” confirmed Flint. Having learned her name, he knew who Lera-Vel was, but didn’t know if she outranked him or not.

  “You and your crew must board at once,” she said, brushing past. “My personnel will take the exium prototype.”

  Flint was stuck by a sudden thought. “Wait!” he said.

  “What is it, Captain Flint?” asked Lera-Vel impatiently.

  “The surface doors protecting this facility,” said Flint, pointing upwards. The bay ceiling was thousands of metres overhead, flat and uniformly grey. “What kind of protection do they offer?”

  Lera-Vel narrowed her eyes. “You fear the Kilvar warship will attack the doors once they realise this subsurface bay exists.”

  “They’ve sent their shock troops down the cargo shaft,” said Flint. “I’d say there’s a good chance they already know.”

  “The doors are strong, but we must evacuate the bay as soon as the exium prototype is installed,” said Lera-Vel.

  “It’s going to be tight fitting everyone on the Firestorm,” said Flint.

  “Discomfort is better than death.” Lera-Vel gave him a sudden grin. “There is another thing I did not mention. The bay doors may not open.” She waved airily towards one of the ternium blocks where the bay floor and wall met. “We managed to bring the gravity field generators into an operational state, so the walls and overhead doors are partially supported, but not everything is receiving sufficient power.”

  “Meaning the door motors?”

  Lera-Vel speared Flint with her gaze and took a half step closer, which was perhaps the Daklan way of putting someone at ease. Or, more likely, Flint thought, to get a better gauge of how well he’d fit in the oven. “Prec
isely,” she said, her voice low and husky.

  “We’ll deal with it as it comes,” said Flint, trying hard to hold his ground. A muffled boom caused him to look directly overhead. “Missile strike,” he said.

  A comms channel formed. “The enemy have detected your position and have begun directing missiles at the surface doors protecting the underground facility, Captain Flint,” said Fleet Admiral Recker. “I have ordered the fleet to shoot down any missiles aimed for those surface doors, but you are aware that it’s not an exact science.”

  “Yes, sir, I am,” said Flint, setting off towards the Firestorm’s forward boarding ramp and waving at his crew to follow.

  “The moment you’re out of the bay, fly clear,” said Recker. “I don’t want the Kilvar dropping an incendiary down there.”

  “Your wife and the bay personnel will be onboard the Firestorm with me, sir. There’s too much risk if we leave them behind.”

  “Damnit,” said Recker, that single word conveying many different emotions.

  “I’ve had a quick look at the unlocked warship’s files, sir. If the weapons work as intended, I’ll be able to do something with them.”

  “The weapons may not work as intended until certain conditions have been met, Captain Flint.”

  “What conditions, sir?”

  “It may be that without full superstress of the Firestorm’s engines, the destroyer cannon will be ineffective.”

  “I feel like I need an hour’s briefing to discuss this, sir, and I know there’s no time.”

  “Everything may become clearer once the exium unit is installed, Captain Flint. We’re all waiting on the outcome of that.”

  “Whatever happens, I’ll fly this warship and I’ll test its weapons against that Kilvar warship.”

  “Don’t let doubt hold you back, Captain Flint.”

  “No, sir, I won’t.”

  The weight of pressure and expectation should have been a heavy burden to carry, yet Flint felt strengthened knowing he had this chance to show the Kilvar what the consequences were of attacking the human-Daklan alliance.