Alexander Galaxus: The Complete Alexander Galaxus Trilogy

by Christopher L. Anderson

  “Very well, put the fleet in a fifteen hundred kilometer orbit,” the Admiral ordered. “That should keep us out of harm’s way with the minefields and all. Get every available man on the visual telescopes. Dispatch our frigates and destroyers for a surface search of the planet. I want to know what’s left of our world Captain.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the Captain saluted.

  The “King George V” led her fleet into orbit around battlefield Terra. It wasn’t long before they discovered that even ship-to-ship communications were impossible at the moment due to the radiation fields. Fortunately the source of the problem was obvious in its nature, and with typical Terran adaptability the fleet fell in behind their flagship. They ran with shields at minimal which was enough to protect them from the radiation. To communicate they fell back upon an ancient discourse: Morse code flashed by secondary projectors.

  The immediate concern, the Golkos invasion fleet, was settled within the next few hours. The destroyed hulks of Golkos ships were accounted for, within ten percent, in orbit around Terra. Of those viewed none showed any signs of life. A similar fate, apparently, befell the defending Seventh Fleet.

  “It looks as though they annihilated one another,” Cathcart whispered, thoroughly defeated.

  “The numbers of wrecks we’ve spotted are consistent with the numbers of the Seventh Fleet after the battle of “Thermopylae,” and our projections of the Golkos fleet, sir.”

  “My God, my God,” Cathcart could only lament.

  “The good news is that the planetary shields are largely intact. Bombardment damage is limited to North America and the African continent. There is one more thing, sir,” the Captain started again, but then stopped.

  “Go on,” the Admiral required, though without any desire to hear what was next.

  “We believe we’ve found the Iowa, sir,” the Captain said lowly.

  “You believe? You don’t mean it’s completely destroyed do you?” Cathcart asked, standing bolt upright from his Conn.

  “No sir, but she’s in a pretty bad way.”

  “Is she intact enough to tractor out of there?” Cathcart asked, gaining some of his energy back.

  “Our ships seem to be made of pretty stern stuff, sir, by the looks of it. I think we can haul her out in one piece!”

  “See to it, Captain! I want half the fleet to begin salvage operations immediately. Bring the Iowa and all other ships out beyond the radiation. Put them in geostationary orbit on the dark side of the Moon. That should keep them within the immediate vicinity of Terra, but shielded from the radiation. Begin rescue operations at once! The remainder of the fleet is to stand to and provide cover.”

  “Yes sir!” The Captain jumped to it, and in short order Cathcart could see for himself Terran warships dragging their stricken brethren from the battlefield. As this occurred the first reports from the surface sweeps arrived. They were short and concise, owing to the constrained nature of communications, but before too long a reasonable picture of Terra emerged.

  The vast majority of damage was absorbed by the North American continent. There was extensive damage to nearly all the industrial cities in the Midwest and along the Eastern Seaboard. Inland Chicago, Detroit and Dallas had disappeared. Los Angeles was a seething cauldron, the entire city returned to the sea. The entirety of the Eastern Seaboard was consumed in golden flames. Fortunately, the shields over Europe and most of Asia were still intact. In Africa, however, every major metropolis from Cairo to Johannesburg lay in ruins. The news was sobering, but not disastrous. The planet’s atmosphere thus far protected the population from the rampant radiation now in orbit, and there was foresight enough to evacuate the major cities prior to the attack. Communications on the planet’s surface were disrupted, but not to the extent they were in orbit, and the command structure was still intact. Thus, in relatively short order the planetary defense force informed the scouts of the Fleet all the particulars of the battle. Most of the survivors of the battle landed their lifepods in North America, and their account fleshed out the picture of the two fleets battling to the death. Yet of Alexander they knew nothing. They, like the “King George V” and the galaxy, lost all communication with Alexander and the Seventh Fleet when the Iowa died.

  With this sobering news Cathcart ordered the “King George V” to escort the wreck of the Iowa to the dark side of the Moon, where an immediate rescue operation could be undertaken. Crews were promptly dispatched in shuttles with space suits to make a thorough inspection of the ship. As the “King George V’s” sensor arrays were no longer overloaded by radiation they were able to direct the crews in short order to possible life signs. Under the desperate constraints of time and necessity the genius of Terran invention came to the fore. The gaping wounds in the Iowa’s hull were obviously impossible to seal, but the vacuum within made rescue equally difficulty for those trapped. Engineers quickly rigged force fields which allowed them to create temporary airlocks within the ship. Shuttle’s docked at intact airlocks and then created pressurized pathways to sealed chambers. It was grueling, dangerous work, but within the hour they were close to reaching the battle bridge of the Iowa. The was still no sign of Alexander or Admiral Augesburcke.

  “This does not bode well,” Cathcart told “King George V’s” Captain. “We’ve heard nothing of Alexander. The Iowa’s bridge is almost completely destroyed by the look of it.”

  The Captain was about to reply in kind when the Communications Officer suddenly interrupted, exclaiming, “Admiral! Captain! I am picking up a transmission from the “Iowa!”

  “What?”

  “Sir, it’s on the Galactic emergency ethernet channels. It’s Alexander!”

  “Put it on!”

  The ghostly image of Alexander appeared. Behind him floated Terra and the stars through a jagged rift in the Iowa’s hull. Alexander was bloodied and defiant, but the soft focus of his features told all viewers that he was relying on the emergency life support field in his armor to protect him from the vacuum of space.

  “. . . from the pyre of Terra I spite all who would be our executioners. Learn the lesson of this defeat well and hold it close to your bosom, for you dare not push me to repeat it! The Golkos attack on Terra was doomed to failure from the start, yet Golkos did not heed my dire warnings. Now my prophecy is culminated in reality. The final Golkos warship has surrendered in the only manner possible, or acceptable: with its destruction. Thus falls the last of Terra’s foes, and if the galaxy is willing, thus is quenched the greater fire of Alexander’s anger. Yet what remains? For some of you the path from war has led to newfound friendship with Terra. Your choice shall not be ill founded. Though you have all, to some extent, been the bearers of misfortune for Terra in this hour I will not renege on my words, or the sincerity with which Terra views our various accords. The war of Terra and the Alliance is now drawn nearly and completely to a close. There remains only the matter of Terra and Golkos. This too will shortly be settled. Terra has emerged from this war with blood upon her lips and orphans at her breast. For that injustice there shall be a reckoning. Whether Golkos yields or whether Golkos resists is her decision. Either way Alexander will come to Golkos and he will walk upon her soil. It is up to Golkos in what manner this may occur, but by the behavior of Golkos she has dictated that Alexander shall bear the countenance of conqueror. Be his will malicious or benevolent is still for Golkos to decide.

  “As for Terra’s other neighbors I say it is time to put these troubled days in our past. There is a future out there to grasp if we will just lay hold of it. Terra will be a willing partner in ventures with its neighbors, as an equal, and not as a state of dominion. There is healing to be done, and in this time it is the wish of Terra that all peoples within this small region of a vast galaxy recognize and respect one another with sincere equality. The word of the gentle Quotterim should bear the same weight as that of the bold Terran, or the honorable Chem. That, if anything, is Alexander’s view of our galaxy in the aftermath of war. If we can
not improve the standard by which we all exist then our suffering in these trying times shall have been in vain. War is too terrible a price without some greater effect to our future. Though it is waged by necessity, and different reasoning, it is my opinion that we must take its aftermath and shape our worlds to the better. I hold this true for all worlds in our community, even to the Golkos. Though there is at this moment bitter blood between our people’s time demands that it will not always be so. Therefore, even in victory and strength, even in the face of my own past words, I shall not necessarily seek cataclysmic retribution. Though I view our cause as that of the victim the same event through different eyes can be either equally innocent, or equally guilty. Golkos shall not perish by my hand, nor shall its institutions dissolve by my wish. Golkos still, as ever it has, guides its own destiny though it stands on unsteady feet. As for Terra, she demands some answers, she celebrates her freedom but she does not rejoice in her victory.”

  The communication ceased.

  “Hail him”

  “Nothing, Admiral; there’s nothing but static. Admiral! The crews have reached the battle bridge of the Iowa. They have Admiral Augesburcke, sir!” Fifteen minutes later the Admiral’s were shaking hands on the Iowa’s bridge.

  “It is a damnable thing to leave the bridge in the midst of battle, Admiral Cathcart, and I’ll never live it down. What’s the word on Alexander? It’s no good if we lose our Overlord after the battle is won!”

  Cathcart was about to update Augesburcke on the status of the rescue, but before he could reply the Captain reported that Thor and the Second Fleet were dropping out of superluminal beyond Neptune. Admiral Sampson was momentarily on the ethernet and proceeding at full impulse to Terra.

  Cathcart nodded and turned to Augesburcke, suggesting they add the muscle of the Second Fleet to our their own rescue efforts.

  “By all means, Cathcart, let’s get our ships out of there. As for ourselves I want to find Alexander.”

  “Admiral! There’s another message from Alexander!”

  Cathcart turned to Augesburcke, saying, “We picked up a transmission from Alexander a short time ago. It was transmitted from within his suit, possibly from the bridge of the Iowa. We did not get a response to our hails, however.” They turned to the main viewer and watched Alexander’s message. Cathcart shook his head. “No, it’s the same transmission being replayed. He must have programmed it for retransmission. It is possible he’s still alive, sir, but all the rescue crews are tied up on the interior of the Iowa. Our scans show the bridge has no emergency force field. If there is anyone still alive on the bridge they must be using the sustaining field in their suit. The fields are designed for a maximum of four hours use. If Alexander is up there he must be pretty low by now. Unfortunately, the route to the bridge is all but impassable. The only other option is to drop off a crew with a shuttle and send them over the hull. That’s still half an hour away.”

  “That’s not acceptable! Suggestions?” Heavy silence met Augesburcke’s demand.

  #

  On the bridge of the Iowa Alexander floated out of his seat and into the darkness. As if to highlight the finality of the moment all power on the bridge now failed. The Iowa was cold and dead. The only light within came from the open wound in the bridge’s bulkheads. He was completely alone. Even Nazar was gone. The redoubtable Chem was torn from his side when the bridge’s bulkhead breached. The last the Overlord saw of him was the lanky frame spinning into space. It was a difficult loss, but beyond was the loss of Terra. When last he knew both North America and Africa were aglow with the hellfire of blaster bombardment. What the outcome of the battle was he could only guess. To this end he made his way to the gaping wound which cut the bridge diagonally through the port bulkheads. There were stars beyond, and as the air grew stale in his sustaining field he looked to them for comfort. So many things left undone, so much to experience, but for Alexander time was growing short. There were no more emergency power packs left on the silent corpses, and the light bar on his wrist now dipped from amber to red. Ten minutes or so, he estimated, no more.

  He watched the stars for a time with real regret, disappointed that he did not at least get one last view of Terra. “Funny,” he whispered to himself. “I spent all my life looking away from Terra to the stars. Now at the last all I really wish for is one final look at home and a last goodbye—ironic.”

  The metal was cold under his hand, but otherwise he was very much bereft of feeling. There was a peace in Space, and he thought, half against his will, that this was not at all a bad place to die. At least he would die on the deck of a fighting ship. Alexander watched the slow wheeling motions of the stars for a time, ignoring the warmth of the atmosphere in sustaining field. He faded in and out, almost thinking that he caught the limb of Luna in his fading sight. He corrected himself. It must have been Terra under a silver blanket of clouds; it was far too close to be Luna. Yet weren’t those craters he just saw? Hot flashes and tingling in his fingers announced the onset of hypoxia, and he shook his head. The cobwebs would not clear. He growled to himself. Alexander knew what was next. Some people got giddy when oxygen starvation hit them; he just got nauseous and irritable. A hell of a way to go out, he thought, ruining the stunning view outside by being sick. He hoped he wouldn’t retch. Would the sustaining field contain his own vomit? That would be the last straw. The color of the world disappeared into a hazy canvass of greys, like some bad piece of modern art. He closed his eyes, trying to bring them back into focus, but when he thought to open them he saw nothing at all. Cursing, Alexander tried to force himself to move, but nothing happened. Then the atmosphere in his lungs cooled noticeably. Blinking, the color and definition of the world returned with sudden clarity. He snapped back to full consciousness, feeling hands on his arms. A silver portal slid open before him, and his felt the hardness of decking underneath his knees. His eyes lifted and there was the smiling face of Augesburcke, hand outstretched.

  “It seems I’m always bring you back home, Alexander. Welcome aboard, Overlord!”

  CHAPTER 20

  It was a bright day in St. Joseph, Kansas, when Alexander stepped out of the shuttle at the airport. The Golkos bombardment spared the small city, and by all indications the only scar of the previous afternoon was the grey pall overhead: the smoke fed by continental fires. The quiet victory of the day was unfortunately lost on him. A car took the grim Overlord of the Terran Empire to a place he’d been many times before.

  Nazar looked around with interest. It was the Chem’s first time outside a major Terran city or military installation. The sight of the stately homes of the museum district overlooking the meandering river was quite enough for him to forget the luck of being plucked, Quotterim-like, from space by the inimitable but now one-armed Admiral Konstantinov of the Gagarin.

  “I’m getting good at fishing for aliens!” The Admiral snapped when they brought Nazar aboard. The rupture of a plasma conduit on the bridge cost Konstantinov his left arm and left him with painful burns. He refused to leave the bridge to be tended to, and the surgeon cut off the tatters of the limb as Konstantinov ordered the Gagarin’s final salvo of torpedoes into the belly of the Nived Sheur. The torpedoes broke the Golkos flagship in two, after which Konstantinov fainted. When he came to he was still on the bridge and all that remained of the battle was the flotsam and jetsam of the fleets. He’d fired the final shot in the battle for Terra.

  Alexander’s car stopped in front of an imposing brick edifice. Almost absently he said, “The last time I was at Corby Mansion was for dinner. Johnny bought this place twenty-years ago for a song. We all thought he was crazy. It was built last century, and was once a grand place, but when Johnny got it there was nothing left but the shell. He and Jeannie put ten years of blood and sweat into the place, room by room. He brought it back. Johnny always talked about retiring here . . .” Alexander’s voice trailed off as the car rolled to a stop. He got out heavily, climbing the steps like a condemned man. Halfway up the
door opened. Jeannie and the kids appeared. The kids, oblivious to the meaning of Alexander’s visit rushed down the stair to meet their “Uncle Alexander.” Alexander picked them up, all three in a bundle, and carried them into the drawing room. Jeannie, knowing full well the look on Alexander’s face, let the children say their hellos. Finally she extricated Alexander from their embrace, and the kids promptly turned their attention to the strange figure of Nazar.

  “You’re a Chem, aren’t you?” asked Jeanna, the eldest, but still only seven. “I know the Chem, the Scythians, the Golkos, all of them. You’re one of our friends aren’t you?”

  “Yes I am,” Nazar smiled.

  That was as much as Jeannie could take. She hustled the kids away. When they were out of the room she shut the door. Standing stock still, a graceful hand steadying her lips, Jeanie’s eyes started tearing. Slowly, painfully holding it in, she gazed about the room. Her voice quivered, at the verge of breaking, but she’d rehearsed this moment, these feelings a thousand nights before. Wistfully distracted with a facade of control she told them, “We had a dinner party here just last week. Everyone from Johnny’s squadron came, and old friends from the other squadrons. We traded stories, memories, hopes and fears. Johnny decided to have another party when it was all over, you know, in keeping with tradition. It was wonderful, but behind all the faces there was that same question: who would be at the next party? Johnny said it would be rough, but somehow I never thought he would be the one left out. I don’t suppose he would have stayed on Terra, even for me and the kids.”

  “I couldn’t spare him Jeannie. I wish that I could have.”

  “I know Alexander. Johnny was terribly afraid that you’d take him out before the fight. That worried him more than anything else.” She stopped at the fireplace mantle. Reaching up she cradled the family portrait, a ghostly smile paling her face. Her eyes flashed with angry fragility at the picture next to it: Johnny’s portrait in uniform. Her words were biting in that moment, but they trailed off into simple sadness. “I suppose I must be the commander’s wife one more time and host the damn party anyway. Put up a brave front for all to see and all that crap! Johnny would call it “therapy,” and, well, I suppose he’d be right. He’d be the first to tell me to think of my duty; to keep busy and be useful. God knows there must be others in the wing that’ve lost it all this day. I can’t let them down. Can you get me a list of names, Alexander? I’ll handle the rest.”