Revenge of the Ancients: Crimson Worlds Refugees III

by Jay Allan

  “It’s okay, Connor,” he said, his voice calm, placid. He was more certain than ever he was doing the right thing. “I have to do this.”

  Frasier stood completely still, a dark silhouette against the bright sunlight. Cutter knew his friend was horrified, worried about him, about what could happen to him if the scans found something in the atmosphere, the dirt, the water. And stunned that Cutter had violated Admiral West’s orders. Frasier was a Marine, and the son of a Marine, and he took orders from superior officers to be something akin to the word of God. But as much as Cutter had been taken in by the Corps, obedience didn’t run in his blood as it did with his adopted brethren. Besides, it was an open question if he was subject to West’s orders anyway, at least outside of a battle. Compton had given him virtually unlimited authority to do as he saw fit in conducting research. And as much as he—and West and most of the others—were deathly afraid Compton was dead, no one had dared to utter such words, or to supersede any order the great man had given.

  “It’s okay, Conner,” Cutter said softly. “I know what I’m doing.” He stepped out of the armor. The sun beat down on his skin, the breeze soft refreshing. He leaned back, looked at the sky, nothing but a few puffy clouds breaking up the sea of unbroken blue. The breeze was cool but not cold. He couldn’t recall the last time he felt so content.

  He moved to the back of his armor, to the small storage compartment, and he popped it open. He pulled out a gray jumpsuit, stepping in and zipping it up. He looked back at Frasier and the Marines, standing dead still and watching him. Their visors blocked their faces, but Cutter imagined the looks of horror hiding beneath the silvery masks.

  He reached back into the compartment and pulled out a small com unit. He flipped it on and clipped it to his collar. “Don’t worry, Connor. None of you should be worried. Everything is fine.” He’d been edgy, nervous before, just like his Marine companions. But now he was calm. He knew this was right. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew.

  He turned toward the obelisk, his hand on his forehead, shielding his eyes from the sun. Then he stepped up on the platform and walked toward the monument. He stopped, turned back to look at Frasier, a broad smile on his face. Then he placed his hands on the obelisk.

  It was cool, smooth. He stared straight ahead, into the dazzling whiteness of the stone. Nothing happened…not for the first few seconds. But then he felt something, under his hands. Warmth. Then a strange tingling, like an electric shock but not painful. It moved up his arms, slowly, steadily.

  He could see a shadow behind him, off to the side. Frasier, alarmed, moving to grab him.

  “No, Connor…I am fine. Stay back.”

  The tingling feeling extended all through him, to his neck, his head. He could feel something communicating with him, not in words, but in some other way he didn’t fully understand. He was overwhelmed, excited…but there was no fear. None at all.

  He heard a loud sound, like rock moving on rock. The marble of the obelisk was becoming brighter, as if the stone itself emitted light. Then there was a blinding flash, and when he opened his eyes, the smoothness of the marble monument was gone replaced by a surface covered with what appeared to be runes and carvings. He stood where he was, staring, reaching out, touching the grooves in the previously gleamingly smooth surface.

  The obelisk moved as he touched the runes, sliding back away from him. He glanced at Frasier for a second and then back to the large chunk of moving stone. It continued to slide back, about two meters before it stopped. And where it had stood there was an opening, and a stairway leading down.

  * * *

  “Admiral, Captain Balcov is on the line. He requests permission to send a party to the surface.”

  “Permission denied.” West had a scowl on her face. It was the third such request in the past six hours…and whoever was unfortunate enough to be the fourth was going to get more than he or she bargained for.

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  Seven weeks without combat…a respite gained only by the effort—and perhaps the sacrifice—of Terrance Compton. That was all it took to destroy discipline, caution. To take away the fear long enough to allow carelessness to take control.

  “Excuse me, Admiral…but Captain Balcov insists on speaking with you.”

  West felt a surge of anger, the heat of it rising around her neck. She was a hard taskmaster, unaccustomed to allowing emotion to interfere with her actions. But she despised disloyalty.

  She nodded, and put on her headset. “Captain Balcov, I trust there is a good reason my tactical officer’s instructions to you were unsatisfactory.”

  “Admiral West, I must protest your despotic orders. Our people have come far, survived battle after battle to arrive here, at the planet prepared for us by our forefathers of the First Imperium. And yet you insist we all remain in space. The scouting party has reported no hostile forces, no problems of any kind. I must insist…”

  West listened as long as she could force herself. Then she cut him off. “Captain Balcov, this is not a debate. It is not a discussion. Your opinions may be submitted, but in the future I suggest you restrict these to actual facts and valid tactics, not some whiny desire to go down and experience the ‘paradise world’ yourself. You are to take no action…none…without my direct orders. Is that clear?” She was trying to keep the anger from her voice, but that just made her words that much colder, like pure ice.

  “Admiral West, I feel I must remind you that you have not been named commander of the combined fleet in any formal manner. I do not wish to challenge you, but I must insist that you behave in a less imperious manner.”

  “Captain Balcov…” She took a breath, tried to calm the rage she felt building inside her. “…Admiral Compton is the commander of the fleet, by the authority of Admiral Garret, the supreme commander of all Earth forces in the war against the First Imperium. I will remind you that Admiral Compton’s position was later confirmed by a fleetwide plebiscite. Admiral Compton, under his duly granted authority, has placed me in temporary command of the main fleet forces.”

  “Come, Admiral West…how long do you think you will maintain dictatorial power over the fleet on that basis? Admiral Compton was a great hero, and the fleet was fortunate to have him at its head. But we all know he is dead. There is simply no way the rearguard could have survived the massive First Imperium forces it was facing.”

  West took a deep breath, trying to control her rage. She knew Balcov only spoke the truth. It was possible, probable even, that Compton was dead. But she wouldn’t give up on him. Not yet. And she certainly wasn’t going to listen to a pompous fool like Balcov speak about the admiral like he was dead, to use the loss of a hero like Compton for his own personal gains.

  “Captain Balcov, I’m going to say this once…and only once. We have no knowledge of Admiral Compton’s death, and until further notice we will be operating under his most recent orders. You are to maintain yellow alert on your ship as previously ordered, and under no circumstances are you to transport anyone down to the surface.” Stop there, she thought, struggling to keep herself from going on. She wanted to threaten him, to tell him in twenty different ways how she’d charge him with treason and personally watch as he was thrown out the airlock. But she’d promised Compton she’d try to be diplomatic with the fleet officers.

  “Admiral West, I am sorry, but I cannot…”

  She stopped listening, her eyes frozen, staring at the main display, at a small dot…then another.

  “Captain…” It was Krantz, and he was looking at the same thing.

  “I see it, Hank.”

  She leaned back over the com. “Captain Balcov, we can continue this later. I must insist that you see to your ship now. There are unidentified ships transiting into the system.” She cut the line. Then she turned toward Krantz, and she uttered a single word.

  “Battlestations.”

  * * *

  Cutter stood stone still, staring down the steps
to the dimly lit corridor below. He knew he should be scared…the man he’d been until recently would have been terrified. Petrified, frozen with fear. But Hieronymus Cutter felt only a strange excitement…and a certainty he had to go down those steps.

  “Hieronymus…” Frasier’s voice was edgy, nervous. He’d abandoned the formality, and it was clear from his tone he was worried about a friend now.

  “It’s okay, Conner.” Cutter didn’t turn back, he just held up his hand, gesturing for Frasier to wait where he was. “I’m going down. Give me a few minutes, and then follow.”

  “But…”

  “No, arguments, Connor. I know what I’m doing.” He did know, though he had no idea how he did. His encounter with Almeerhan had changed him in ways he was still identifying. Explaining it all—and fully understanding—was still ahead of him, he knew.

  If I ever get there…

  He took a step forward, and he paused at the very top of the stairs. He hesitated for a few seconds…and then he started down. The staircase was surrounded by polished stone, but the steps themselves were some kind of metal. None of it showed any signs of wear or decay, despite its immense age. He continued down, each step rapping on the metal, echoing with increasing volume as he continued. When he got to the bottom there was an opening to his right, a doorway where a hatch had just slid to the side.

  There was a large room beyond, bright, with gleaming white walls and some kind of artificial light source. Cutter knew this was where he’d set out to come, the destination that had been laid out for him back on X48 II. But he still felt uneasy, not fear perhaps, but awe. He took a deep breath and walked inside.

  The room looked like some kind of control center, with workstations lining the walls all around. In the center, there was a small pedestal, perhaps ten centimeters high. He looked around, his eyes pausing on one of the stations. It was similar to ones he’d seen in Almeerhan’s fortress. He was about to step forward when he saw a flash of light.

  A man appeared on the platform, perhaps a meter from where Cutter was standing. No, not a man, Cutter suspected, a hologram, an image of some kind. He was tall, clad in shimmering white robes, and he looked directly at Cutter.

  “Welcome my children…welcome to Akalahar.” The voice was loud, authoritative, but it was friendly too. “You have come a long way to reach this place, across time and space…and likely through battle and torment. So know now that you are among friends. For I am Karanthar, and I am here to welcome you. I know not which of my cousins directed you to this place, but that matters not, for you are indeed here.”

  Which of my cousins…

  Cutter thought of Almeerhan. He’d imagined the alien as the only one of his kind, waiting endlessly for one of the new races to arrive. But now he understood. The last of the ancient race of the First Imperium, the members of the warrior caste who had fought the Regent with their final strength…they had left behind multiple worlds, not just X48 II…roadmaps leading to this place, the world Karanthar had called Akalahar…and that the humans had dubbed, Shangri la.

  “Hello,” Cutter said. “My name is Hieronymus Cutter. I am from Earth.”

  “You are welcome, Hieronymus Cutter, you and all the children of Earth, where we visited so long ago. I have much to share with you, much to give you to aid in your fight.”

  Cutter was amazed by the quality of the projection, but at the same time, he could tell it wasn’t like Almeerhan, that this was more of a recorded message, if an interactive one, and not the full essence of a member of the ancient race.

  “I was sent here by Almeerhan. He told me you would help us.”

  “Indeed, Hieronymus Cutter, I will help you. I will help all your people, for this place was prepared for you eons ago, long before your people reached out to the stars.”

  Cutter felt a rush of excitement. Almeerhan, for all he had told Cutter, all he had done, was primarily a messenger, a guide. But this planet, this fortress, had been built specifically to aid the successor race to those of the First Imperium. There had been several potential species that might have fulfilled that role, but now it appeared that mankind was the first to arrive.

  He tried to temper his hopes…after all, those of the First Imperium, who had built this place, had themselves been defeated by the Regent. And when they had prepared the planet they had done so expecting contact with an entire spacefaring race, not 20,000 refugees fleeing for their lives.

  He had no doubt there was technology here, weapons and information of incredible value. But would it be enough to defeat the seemingly endless resources of the Regent? He just didn’t know. Certainly, the orbital defenses were enormously powerful. They had destroyed the four Leviathans in an instant. That had been a tragic error, but also an indisputable demonstration of the power of the planet’s weapons. Cutter wasn’t sure if those orbital platforms could defeat a whole attacking fleet, but he had no doubt they would dish out an enormous amount of destruction.

  He also wondered if he would be capable of adapting all the new technology quickly enough. It was one thing to find file after file of wondrous science and plans for highly advanced equipment…and quite another to understand it, to build, activate, deploy it all.

  There was only one way to get the answer. Cutter looked right at the projection. The alien adjusted its gaze, matching his movements. It was only an image, but it was an extraordinarily well done one.

  “So what do we do now?” Cutter figured he had nothing to lose by being blunt.

  “I will direct you to the information storage units. There is much to show you, much to explain.”

  “Very well,” he said, “let’s…”

  There was a loud crackling sound, the com unit on his collar. Then a voice, Admiral West’s. “Hieronymus, it’s Admiral West.”

  Cutter could tell immediately that something was wrong, but he didn’t say anything. He just listened. Erika West would get right to the point.

  “I’m pulling the fleet out of orbit immediately, Hieronymus. We’ve got scanner activity at the warp gate. Energy readings. First Imperium ships inbound. A large fleet. Very large.” She paused, allowing what she had just said to sink in. Compton had bought them time, just enough time to get to Shangri la. But now they were going to have to defend it.

  “I suggest you all find some cover down there,” West said. “Now.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton

  I don’t know if we will ever get back to the fleet. I have no idea if this log will ever be recovered by people from Earth, but if it is, I say to you reading this…in a week, a month, a century…know now that the men and women of the fleet’s rearguard have fought with courage and distinction in such quantity as I have never seen before in fifty years at war.

  If we are fated to die on this mission, I die in the company of heroes, and I would have those who read these words one day long from now to give silent tribute to the spacers it has been my honor to command.

  AS Midway

  Z16 System

  The Fleet: 88 ships (+2 Leviathans), 21211 crew

  “We’ve got more hostiles, sir. Coming through the Z19 warp gate.” Cortez’ eyes were locked on his display. His voice was hoarse, and his fatigue was clear, despite his best efforts to hide it. The rearguard had been fighting for almost thirty hours without a break, and it was beginning to show…in exhaustion, mistakes, degraded performance.

  Compton was sitting bolt upright in the center of Midway’s flag bridge. He had been firing out orders non-stop, and he knew he should be tired. And he was…but he wouldn’t let himself acknowledge it. He knew how hopeless a position the rearguard was in, the difficulties they would face in surviving for even a few more days, much less doubling back and linking up with the fleet. But he had something inside him, a force energizing him, driving him.

  He’d stare at the main display, silently, sometimes for ten or twenty minutes at a stretch without speaking,
without looking away. He would focus, think…and then it would come together. A tactic, a trick, some desperate ploy to confuse the enemy, to give his outgunned warriors a chance to dish out some damage…and then to escape to fight again.

  He’d shout out commands, ship names followed by coordinates, navigational settings. He was doing the calculations in his head, using his gut as much as his brain to direct the running fight. His stratagems had kept his ships in the battle, though his reluctance to allow his people to stay in close range and fight for extended periods had reduced the damage they inflicted too. And it took a lot of punishment to take out a First Imperium ship.

  He knew he couldn’t destroy the fleet that was chasing them, not with his skittish tactics…and not in a toe to toe fight to the death either. But beating them wasn’t his goal. Leading them away from the rest of the fleet was. And even as his crews fought off the exhaustion and stared bleary eyed at their screens, they pulled the enemy deeper along this course. Away from Shangri la. Away from West and the rest of the fleet.

  “Contact Kure. Captain Coda is to move to engage the new contacts. I’m placing Kent and Belfast under his command.” He glanced down at his display, his fingers sliding to the side, scrolling to the section of space near the Z19 gate. “He is to position his ships in the dust cloud at 211.012.186.”

  “Yes, Admiral.” Cortez relayed the command. “Captain Coda acknowledges, sir.”

  Compton just nodded, his eyes locked on the hazy splotch on the display that represented the heavy dust cloud. His mind was racing. He was sending Coda’s ships against a force with twenty times their firepower. They needed an edge. And there was one there, he knew there was…but he just couldn’t see it. The dust cloud could provide some cover, degrade enemy targeting systems. But that wasn’t enough. They needed more. Then, suddenly, it was clear.

  “Get me Captain Coda,” he snapped, his eyes still fixed on the display.