by B. V. Larson
The fleet’s very presence would make the Huns change their strategy. They would combine task forces into larger fleets, and they would slow their headlong rush to seize Republic territory. They’d scout more, trying to ensure they didn’t get trapped again, and they’d seek a way to combine on her and bring her to battle.
Of all this she was as certain as any commander could be. The Huns had taken a stunning tactical loss, but not a crippling strategic one.
She sent Benota a complete report via message drone, and asked that the next communiqué to the Hundred Worlds Parliament reference the situation. Maybe it would get them to start talking.
However, Engels had to plan for the worst. She had to assume one bloody nose wouldn’t do it, and that meant she had to secure another victory, to deal the enemy a blow to their morale and will to fight.
The Huns wouldn’t be suckered again like at Calypso. Besides, there was no place so suitable. Ambushing a force in space was difficult.
Instead, she needed to employ a more conventional strategy of forcing the enemy to defend something valuable. That ruled out any of the newly taken systems.
No, her model needed to be the battle where it all started, where Braga had also tasted defeat and she herself had been captured: Corinth.
There, the Mutuality had driven deep into Hun territory and pillaged a heavily industrialized world. They’d hidden their strength and waited for the relieving forces to rush in, as they’d hoped.
Then, they’d handed Braga and the Hundred Worlds Navy their asses.
If it worked once, why not again? Only this time, the full load of supplies would allow her forces to choose an enemy system beyond their supposed travel range. The question was, which one?
She examined the entire war front and the enemy worlds behind it, with Trinity comlinked in to run the conference room holo-table. Her staff attended, but the tripart being was so efficient that they were hardly needed.
Many good choices presented themselves, but she kept coming back to one.
Sparta.
While not the most heavily industrialized or populated system, it contained one unique thing: a sprawling manufacturing complex of the Carstairs Corporation. There, mechsuit technology was researched and developed, and over ninety percent of the Hun ’suits were built on site. If she could capture and strip the factories and laboratories, the enemy would be set back years, and the Republic would come much closer to ground force parity.
Sparta was also an easy stepping-stone to the Huns’ political heart, the capital system of Atlantis. Taking it would force the fleets driving into the Republic to turn around to deal with this new threat.
As with Calypso, she would hide her true strength until it was too late. If she won the first battle when they counterattacked, she might even be able to hold the system for months, forcing the Hundred Worlds to pull back and regroup all along the front. If so, their Parliament would have to negotiate a truce, the first step toward making peace, ending the civil war, and dealing with the Opter threat.
Was she being tempted beyond good sense? Lots of commanders throughout history had thrown the dice one too many times. But all the analysis said that she had a good chance to pull it off at each stage.
The first battle, the attack, would be easy, her entire fleet dropping out of sidespace so deep in enemy territory. Sims of the second, counterattacking battle showed about a 75-percent likelihood of winning against even the worst-case estimates of Hundred Worlds strength.
Three out of four chances. Was that good enough?
For a simple battle over a star system, perhaps not, especially as failure would be far worse for her, so deep in their territory, than for the Huns. But in reality, this battle might be for the fate of humanity. For that, it seemed worth the risk.
Carla wished Derek were here. His two-to-three-month estimate was a double-edged sword. It gave her time to prepare her campaign, but it also meant he wouldn’t be with her at the critical time.
She had no doubts about her own tactical ability, and her captains and crews would perform well now that they’d won this great victory, but having the Liberator with them would be worth a squadron or more, just for the morale boost. And, she was honest enough to admit to herself, Derek had a way of seeing things from a fresh perspective and finding a better way to win… not to mention that she already missed him. In the silence of her too-large flag quarters, in the emptiness of their bed, the demons of doubt crept in. Was he coming back? Was he even still alive?
If anyone could pull off the mission he’d set himself, Derek Straker could. Still, at times she could barely restrain her anger at his leaving. His place was at her side, and vice-versa, not playing spy among aliens.
So, settling on Sparta, she ordered her fleet, designated First Expeditionary Force, to prepare and plan in detail. Her message drones had requested additional ground forces in particular, whatever Benota could spare.
After six days, return courier drones arrived with word that the Huns still weren’t talking, despite new overtures stressing their disaster at Calypso, the Republic’s willingness to talk, and the threat posed by the Opters.
“I’m beginning to suspect the Opter influence goes deeper than we feared,” Benota said in a recorded eyes-only vid. “We’ve developed a test for Opter genetics and biotech, and while it’s far from perfect, it’s identified thousands of possible agents among us at every level. The security and intelligence services are working overtime looking for evidence against these suspects, and in the meantime they’re being watched, and assigned to less sensitive duties.”
The vid continued. “That makes my denial of your request for ground forces all the more painful for me, given your impressive victory. I always want to reinforce success, not failure. However, these spies among us, and unrest among our frightened populace, mean we need every Hok, every marine, every Breaker and trustworthy soldier or police officer of any kind. There’s even been a proposal to kill two birds with one stone by turning our prison population into Hok, as the Mutuality once did. I believe we’ve blocked that idea for now, but it’s a very tempting shortcut. And, if we can’t at least stalemate the Huns, if we appear to be losing this war and our central worlds are threatened, making new Hok may become the least drastic measure we have to accept in order to preserve the Republic.”
Benota shook his head. “Of course, there’s always the final option to unite humanity: surrender to the Huns and let them take over. I know you’ve considered it. It might not even be that bad. In absorbing a population ten times their own, they’ll inevitably become absorbed themselves, much as everyone that conquered the Han Chinese did on Old Earth.” He sighed. “I say this for your ears only, as surrender runs counter to any good officer’s instincts—but keep it in mind. Good luck. Benota out.”
Surrender to the Huns? No, she’d never considered it, but Benota’s phrasing forced her to think about it now. She could see his reasoning. In fact, if back when she was Flight Lieutenant Engels she’d been told the tale of her future actions and successes, she’d probably find perfect sense in first overthrowing the Mutuality, and then surrendering it to the Hundred Worlds.
But now that she was Fleet Admiral Engels, and had a fledgling constitutional republic to fight for, one that should in time become better than the corrupt and degenerate Hundred Worlds, she put that option as a last, final resort, just above an exhausted stalemate that would leave humanity at the Opters’ mercy.
In other words, maybe the least of all evils.
It couldn’t be helped. No military commander ever got every resource they asked for.
She turned her attention to readying her campaign.
Part 2: Hero
Atlantis: Capital of the Hundred Worlds
Carstairs Corporation Headquarters
The frown of Billingsworth M. Carstairs VI was quite genuine this time, and stayed firmly in place as he strode into the boardroom. The outer wall of the room was composed of pure ballistic crystal, s
o clear that it appeared he could step right out into the air above Atlantis City.
He ignored the view now, focusing on his board of directors. “I’ve just come from a meeting with the Minister of Defense,” he said. “We’ve been ordered—” at this he ground his teeth, “—ordered to commission the lead ship of the Victory class within ten days.”
“Impossible!” said his CEO, Romy Gardel, who then became suddenly contrite. “I mean, sir, that we need at least three more months to complete the program as laid out, which is already rushing the schedule. To comply with this order we’ll have to perform significant corner-cutting that would expose us to accusations of incompetence, as well as litigation from our suppliers, subcontractors and other megacorps.”
Carstairs slid a thick sheaf of official hardcopy onto the table. “There’s an executive order from the Prime Minister absolving us of all criminal liability. We’re earning so much on this contract we can settle any civil lawsuits and still come out ahead. We’ll commission the Victory on time and our best technicians will be assigned aboard to make sure the AI functions properly until we can turn it over to the military. Then we wash our hands of it. We’ll collect our bonuses, our stock will rise, and we’ll be richer than ever.”
“Of course, sir. But why are they pushing us on this?” Gardel asked.
“Because that idiot Lucas Braga lost an even bigger battle, at some enemy system called Calypso. Probably got himself killed, too, along with most of his command. Why the hell they gave him another fleet after Corinth, I’ll never know.”
“Didn’t you—never mind,” Mike Rollins said quickly.
Carstairs glared at the corporate attorney, remembering quite well that Carstairs himself had supported Braga’s second chance after the military man’s family had called in a favor. That made this debacle all the worse. “Yes, yes, I remember.” He turned to his head of Public Relations. “Cyndi, have your team ready to distance us from Braga—the connections were routine, we didn’t know, we can’t remember, we have no records, et cetera. Generate canned items to blanket the nets with distractions—celebrity sex and drug scandals, human interest vids, examples of our competitors disrespecting the flag and our military personnel—the usual shotgun approach.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll want daily reports from now until the launch. Tell your people to break out the stims. It’s time to earn their bonuses. And if they don’t—which means you don’t, and I don’t—”
He drew his finger across his throat.
Chapter 14
Straker on Terra Nova
The big men around the bonfire, blinded by its light, didn’t see Straker until he was upon them. He struck the man with the torch—the one abusing the tall, bound woman. He delivered a terrible blow to the body, using all his strength and speed. He felt his enemy’s ribs cave.
The others reached for weapons. Two more fell to Straker’s furious surprise attack. The last one turned to face him, holding a sword.
A sword? That was good news to Straker, better than a gun.
The man stabbed and slashed, his movements quick and sure, expert. Straker dodged and parried with his metal strut. Though naturally faster, and he hoped stronger than his opponent, Straker’s injuries put him at a disadvantage. The man had more reach and skill, and a better tool for killing.
Straker retreated, circling the fire, barely parrying his opponent’s heavy blows. Within a minute the man would likely kill him… or force him to run.
By chance, his opponent neared the bound woman. She lifted her legs and, dangling from the ropes around her wrists, kicked out powerfully at the man, causing him to stumble into the fire.
Straker pounced, knocking the big man’s sword aside and striking him in the knee. He roared and fell to the ground, scrambling out of the fire. Now his head came within Straker’s reach.
Straker broke his skull with the strut.
Though gasping for each painful breath, Straker picked up the sword and whirled, making sure none of the other three had recovered enough to pose a threat. Only the first man remained conscious, groaning and holding his crushed side.
Cautiously, Straker approached the woman, who eyed him warily. Taller than he was, she wore only a short skirt, and her skin was dark and scaly in the firelight, different from that of the men, which was smooth like leather, and crimson. She had no hair, only some feathery structures on her head, and her features were hard and angular. If not for her bare, perfectly mammalian breasts and wide hips, he wouldn’t have known her sex.
Straker raised the sword slowly toward her bindings, watching her face for understanding. The woman lifted her chin to look upward as he extended the blade and carefully sawed at the rope wrapping the tree branch. When that parted and she could stand flat-footed, she extended her hands for him to cut the remaining ropes.
As soon as she was free, she ran for a dropped sword, picked it up, and struck with brutal efficiency at the one conscious man. Straker intervened, but only after the third blow.
“Stop, stop!” he said, blocking her from further attacks. “They’re down.”
“They deserve death,” the woman said in passable but heavily accented Earthan. Straker had the impression it wasn’t her first language.
“Maybe. But I don’t murder my fallen enemies.”
She spat at the nearest. “Enemies should die. That is truth.”
Straker stood his ground. “No. Let’s get away from here, somewhere safe.”
The woman glared at him, put down the sword, and then stripped the sword-belt from the one she’d hacked. It was too big for her slim waist, so she looped it over one shoulder and across her chest. She then wiped the blade clean and slammed it into the scabbard.
“We need food and water.” She gestured toward the encampment supplies.
Straker nodded, taking a sword-belt for himself and doing the same while the woman rummaged among the items scattered on the ground. She came up with smoked meat, and canteens of wood and hide.
“Eat. Drink.” She squatted by the fire, her back to it, ripping off big bites of the meat, apparently ravenous. He could see her teeth were long and sharp, like a predator’s.
Straker gratefully sat to eat and drink, his back also to the fire. Afterward he checked the fallen men. The two living ones he bound with ropes. While he wouldn’t murder them, he had no problem leaving them to their fate. Any warrior worth his salt would find a way out of the bindings come morning.
Once the woman had eaten, she salvaged several items and stuffed them into a bag, then gestured sharply, pointing with her hand like a blade. “We must go, that way.”
Straker nodded. It was pointless to ask where. The woman seemed competent and knowledgeable.
“Wait,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Roslyn. What’s yours?”
“Straker.”
“Stray-kurr. That is a good name. A strong name for small man.” She reached out to grasp his arm, squeezing his biceps. “Strong man,” she amended, feeling the hardness.
Straker flexed and smiled. He seized her hand in his own, finding sharp nails like talons there, and squeezed until her eyes widened and she winced slightly. A warrior culture would revere strength. Best to establish his right up front. “Ros-lyn,” he said. “Strong name for a strong woman.”
Roslyn grinned a smile that could have filled a tiger’s mouth. “You speak truth.”
“Guess I do. Let’s go?”
“We shall go.” She turned and headed back the way Straker had come—toward the wall.
“Wait, wait,” he said. “Not that way.”
“This way.”
“No, I came from that way.”
“We go to the wall.”
“Why?”
Roslyn reached into the bag and half-lifted out a coil of rope.
“To climb it,” she said, watching him narrowly.
Straker sighed. “Look, I came from the other side.” He gestured to make his point. “Fr
om over the wall. That’s how I got these.” He showed his scrapes and his bound ribs. “I fell from the top.” He mimed falling.
“You… fell from the other side of the wall?”
“I did.”
“You are a great warrior.”
“Ah, yeah. I am, though maybe not the way you mean.” Then again, what did he mean? War was war and soldiering was soldiering, no matter what the tools.
Her face showed sudden wonder. “Gorben was right.”
“Gorben?”
Roslyn’s nostrils flared. “Later. We must go. A Rardel is near.”
“A Rardel?”
“A great eating beast.” She turned. “There!”
Straker turned to see something huge waddle into the firelight. It was the size of a five-ton loader, had a shell like a turtle and a lizard’s head on a long neck. Roslyn pulled Straker back slowly as his hand went to the hilt of his sword.
The nightmare stared their direction and Roslyn froze. After a long moment, the thing turned to nose at the bloody dead man Roslyn had slashed. It grasped a foot and backed away from the fire, which it evidently didn’t much like. In a moment it had faded into the trees. Soon, Straker heard the sounds of eating.
“Good. Now these Bortoks shall all die. Come.”
So the fallen men were Bortoks…
Roslyn led Straker through the woods in a wide arc around the crunching, tearing noises. She moved much more surefootedly than he did, and more than once she hissed at him to be quieter. Eventually she slowed down and helped him, sometimes telling him where to place his feet, or to avoid certain plants he could barely see. Her night vision was clearly superb, far better than his own.
Roslyn seemed to be avoiding trails. Their route wended slightly, slowly upward into low hills.
Four hours and at least twenty kilometers later, Roslyn paused by a stream and drank. They refilled their water-jugs. She then led them to the bare top of a rise to look back the way they came.