Exodus: Empires at War: Book 3: The Rising Storm

by Doug Dandridge

  “Happy to be back among the living, boy?” said the Monarch, picking up the animal that thought of him as the servant. The cat settled into his shoulder and started to purr, and Sean thought about the woman the small beast belonged to. Is she still alive, or dead, her basic particles floating in space? It was not a pleasant thought, but she was just one of many who had died to get him away from the Cacas, and he had come right back into their grasp, putting his life on the line.

  Sean carried the cat out of the bedroom and set him on the floor of the living room, getting out food and water for the creature. The cat attacked the food, and Sean thought of eating something himself. He really didn’t want to be with people right now, but the kitchenette in the room could produce a decent meal. He looked over the menu and set the program, then went into the living room and plopped on the couch, waiting for the signal that his meal was ready.

  “What the Hell am I supposed to do?” he whispered, thinking of everything that had happened this day. The Admiral had told him to remember this day, that he would have to send people to their deaths, but to make sure that he did not send them to die in vain. Or at least that’s what he had heard. “And how do I do that when I’m back in the Capital?”

  That was the way of the Empire, or at least it had been for the last four hundred years. Catherine the Great, the woman who fought against a mad Emperor, plunging the Empire into a civil war, a war that she won, was the last Imperial Ruler to walk the bridge of a warship while wearing the crown. And she had been the hero the people needed to rally behind to depose an Emperor not fit to rule. Could I do that? he thought. The Admiralty would hate that, having the monarch put himself at risk like that. And I wouldn’t be able to handle the affairs of the Empire that would pile up in my absence. Unless I found someone I could trust to sit in as a regent, while I ran the war.

  The timer buzzed, and Sean almost wanted to ignore it and just go to bed. But he hadn’t eaten in quite some time, and he knew he needed the nourishment if nothing else. So he went to fetch the very non Imperial Monarch’s meal of a cheeseburger and French fries, something he had always loved as a child, even though his mother insisted that it was not proper fare for a member of the Imperial Family.

  That thought almost caused him to drop the food to the floor. They’re dead. They’re all dead, and I am the only one left. And he was facing a war where millions had already died, and possibly billions soon to come. And possibly the whole human race, if I fail. If we fail. Sean thought about that for a moment. There was always the Bolthole project. But that would only delay the destruction of the race if the Cacas conquered human space. A lot of people would run, and new colonies would be established all over the Galaxy, and maybe without, but again, would that only delay the inevitable. The best solution is to win, he thought as he finished off his cheeseburger. But not always the easiest thing. He thought back on the fighting he had seen so far, the sacrifices that human spacers had made. If any species can do it, we’re the one. But he still wondered if he was the one that needed to be leading this species in a battle to the finish. Because he had no doubt that this would be a fight to the finish. There would be no negotiated peace, no settlements. The Cacas would attack until either they destroyed the human race or were defeated. And the human race would be forced to destroy the Ca’cadasan Empire.

  Sean left his plate on the living room table, thinking that cleaning up was something he really didn’t need to concern himself with anymore. Satin ran into the bedroom while the door was open, and Sean took a quick shower, then crawled into bed, the cat following him in and snuggling against him. Sean lay there for a second, too many things on his mind to go to sleep, his hand stroking the purring cat. If there is a God, we need your help. I need your help. If you aren’t just a figment of the mythology of the church I grew up in, if you are listening, help us. Give me the strength I need to save my people. Or send someone who can, if I am not worthy. With that thought the ruler of the most powerful kingdom in human space faded into the blackness of sleep.

  The dreams came during that night, the realistic dreams that denoted prophecy. Sean saw another member of his family mounting the throne, while a shadowy figure stood behind him, pulling puppet strings. He saw a burning core world, New Hanau, or maybe Espania, its cities afire, the flashes of nuclear flame sparking across the night sides. And finally he saw the face of Jana Gorbachev, dirty and sweaty and pinched with pain, sitting in a Ca’cadasan cell, while other prisoners were taken screaming to interrogation, and he knew she was alive.

  Sean woke in a cold sweat, knowing that he had seen a glimpse of the future, and maybe one of the present. Possible future, he reminded himself. There was too much randomness in the Universe to ever get a vision of certainty. Too much variation in the quantum field of the space they all existed in. The dreams, the prophecies, were based on probabilities, the most probable outcome seen by the brain of those blessed with more quantum connectedness than most, like his family. But they were not certainties.

  The Emperor sat up in his bed, stroking the cat that had awoken with him. The animal too had its connections with the quantum world, just like all thinking creatures. Sean thought back on the explanation given to him by the Biologist from Imperial University who had been one of his instructors while he was growing up. That sentient minds were not just biological and electro-chemical machines. That they were connected to the random world of particle physics, and scales too small for the owner of the mind to be aware of. That the more neurons, or whatever other neural structures the being had, the more connection, and connection led to creativity and spontaneity. Humans seemed to possess more of that creativity than was normal, and the long gone ancients were said to have possessed even more.

  So in the recent past, the present or the future, Gorbachev was alive. That’s a hell of a lot of use, isn’t it? And I don’t have a clue as to where. The vision of the core world is a little more useful. He had to think about that for a moment. Knowing that those two worlds were threatened in the future gave him information, but how useful? If he stationed ships there to defend them he would be uncovering other locations. If he did something to change the probabilities then something worse could happen.

  “I envy you, kitty cat,” he said to Satin, stroking the purring cat. “The only worry you have is when is dinner served.”

  Sean gave the cat one last pat, then lay back down and closed his eyes, drifting back into a sleep, this time one without dreams.

  * * *

  THE DONUT.

  Several days went by without an incident before the minor accidents started happening all over the occupied portion of the station. Nothing drastic. Just small machinery breakdowns, or lifts, on one occasion an airlock opening on its own, with no one fortunately in the room exposed to space. Tensions among the security personnel were high, and among station personnel as more and more Marines and Naval crew made their appearance.

  There were also the people in normal duty clothing that no one knew. That in itself was not a big deal, as there was a constant influx of people as the working part of the station expanded. No, it was that some of the new people were always looking, always watching, and sent off the vibes that plainclothes police might.

  “And no sign of Doctor Landry,” said Agent Chung at the next security meeting. “It’s like he just disappeared.”

  “Or was destroyed by something,” said Callahan, playing back the scene of the man’s destruction by negative matter. “And how in the hell could it have been him? There is too much evidence that he was annihilated in this accident. So where does that leave us? A clone?”

  “Cloning is illegal,” said one of the IIA men, gaining scoffs from many of the other people in the room.

  But it is illegal, thought Lucille. Clones didn’t behave like normal people, they were missing something. Some of the religious leaders said it was a soul, but whatever it was, the fact remained that clones acted as psychopaths, no matter how they were raised or trained.

&
nbsp; “And you think that’s going to stop a spy ring, or a criminal syndicate,” said Callahan. “In fact, what better operative than a heartless psychopath?”

  “But it would take months to quick grow a clone,” objected one of the other naval intelligence officers.

  “By any means we know of,” agreed Chung, nodding. “But there may be other methods, developed by another power. Plus, this station has been building for over a century. That would seem to give anyone more than enough time to get an operative in place. And the death of Dr. Landry may have been planned to get him out of the way. It was just unfortunate that the incident was caught in memory.”

  The arguing went on for an hour, and Lucille could see that no one really knew what was going on, yet. There were plenty of opinions, and everyone had a different one.

  “As long as we keep the wormholes moving,” said one of the engineers.

  “And how is production going, Doctor Yu?” asked Callahan. From his expression Lucille could tell that he already knew the answer, and was only asking for the benefit of everyone else.”

  “We did another run of micros this week,” she answered. “Two hundred twenty of them, total. That’s a little more than thirty-one a day.”

  Callahan shook his head with a smile. The micros could be used for heat sinks for stealth attack, but both knew these were destined to become com links on warships. Flagships were being outfitted as fast as could be so they could have instant communications between them. While not totally solving the light speed transmission problem, at least task forces in a fleet could get vital information to each other in a few seconds, instead of the hours to days it often took.

  “We’ll be running off passenger gates in the next week,” said Lucille, “and maybe a ship gate or two.”

  “Those are things we really need,” said Callahan, and Lucille nodded her head.

  Admiral Lenkowski had told her the same. A ship gate at Conundrum linked to another around the central docks would allow Home Fleet to reinforce the battle zone in minutes, instead of the weeks it normally took. The enemy ships were on the whole faster than Imperial vessels, but instantaneous travel between points separated by hundreds of light years should take them off guard. And they wouldn’t be able to duplicate that feat without building their own Donut.

  Suddenly the station shook under them. It was a slow deep rumble, which could mean either a large distant explosion or a smaller, closer one. The alarms started to sound right away.

  “Security,” yelled Callahan over his com. “What the hell is going on?”

  “There was an explosion by docking bay Forty-four F,” came the voice of the security controller.

  “Not the wormholes,” cried Lucille, imagining the thirty containers that would have been in that bay. Since the last attack they had not stored them all in one place prior to their being transported to the pickup destroyer.

  “What is the condition of the wormholes?” asked Callahan over the link.

  “They’re gone, sir,” said the controller after a moment’s hesitation. “The storage containers were vaporized by what we estimate was a twenty megaton antimatter blast.”

  “A whole day’s run,” cried Lucille, then covered her face as she thought of all the people who must have been in the area.

  “Start looking over the security memory,” said Callahan, while Chung talked with his own people on another link. “I want the identities of everyone that approached those holes in the last hour.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the controller, and the link went dead.

  “At least we dispersed them so they could not be destroyed by one strike,” said Chung.

  “I want the guard doubled on the remaining holes,” yelled Callahan into another link. “No one is to approach them without authorization. Understood?”

  “You may want to look at this, sir,” said the first controller, as a holo appeared over the table.

  On the vid Captain Callahan approached the container of holes in the center of the loading dock, giving a salute to the Marines stationed there as guards. A close up showed him pulling something from his jacket pocket, then bending down by the containers. The Marine guards were facing out, having no reason to doubt their own commander inspecting the holes. Moments later the Captain left the loading dock. The holo fast forwarded, as seen by the movements of the guards. There was a bright flash and the holo died.

  Agent Chung’s sidearm was out of his jacket in the blur of the enhanced, aiming for the Captain.

  “That wasn’t me,” said Callahan in protest, looking around the room. His own men started to move, stopping when they realized they were covered by armed IIA agents.

  “I know it wasn’t you,” said the IIA agent. “But the question is, who are you? And was that the real you, or this. I think we need to subject you to a deep scan and physical, so we can establish just who or what you are.”

  “He’s right,” said Callahan, bowing his head. “No one is to interfere with the IIA men. They’re doing their jobs.”

  An hour later it had been established that Callahan was who he said he was, and the identity of the duplicate was still unknown.

  “But we’re pretty sure it was not a clone,” said Agent Chung. “Unless they made a bunch of them. The system is now set to scan for duplicate incidences of people across the station. And we’ll do DNA scans of anyone entering a sensitive area, no matter who they appear to be. Now maybe we can catch whatever this thing is.”

  And Lucille noted that they no longer talked about the saboteur as a person, but a thing. And what kind of a thing, no one knew.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Unfortunately, when one is in space, traveling in the fragile environment we enclose ourselves in, one has little control over their own destiny. The commander of the vessel has somewhat more control, but even that is often an illusion. The real control is exerted by the space itself, by the immutable laws of physics that govern whether we live or die. And that is the frightening thing about travel in space.

  Philosopher Francine Thomas, Imperial Year 453.

  SPACE BETWEEN MASSADARA AND CONUNDRUM, MARCH 30TH AND 31ST, 1000. HYPER VII DESTROYER DOT MCARTHUR.

  “They’re definitely Ca’cadasan ships,” said Captain Jiyoung Kim of the Hyper VII cruiser Athens. “Three scouts.”

  “So that makes a million five tons of warship,” said von Rittersdorf. “And we have a million six hundred thousand on our side.”

  “I’m not letting you take your wreck into battle,” said the senior captain. “You wouldn’t stand a chance. Besides, I have my orders. You are to get back to Conundrum.”

  “So what are you planning to do, Captain?”

  “I am planning to take my three operational ships into hyper VII and fight the enemy,” said the Captain “You are to continue toward base in hyper VI, at max acceleration. We will begin decel, now. And God speed to you, your Grace.”

  “Captain,” protested von Rittersdorf as the other ships began to fall back, decelerating so they could get down to point two light and jump to VII. “I have a better idea. You can use your acceleration to get away. We’re only one ship. Use some sense.”

  “The Admiral would ream me a new one if I let anything happen to your ship,” said Kim with a tight smile. “Not to say what the Emperor would do. Now good luck to you, and get your ass home. We’ll be right on your tail, if we can.

  “Good luck to you,” said von Rittersdorf, watching the plot as the other ships fell back so they could go into hyper VII. He didn’t have anything else to say, and soon the distance had opened to where only grav wave codes could communicate.

  “Steady as she goes,” he told the Helmsman, watching as the enemy ships also decelerated, trying to set themselves up to jump down to VI. The Captain wondered who would get there first. It would be close, and if the enemy jumped down first, then McArthur would be overwhelmed before the other ships could return to her side.

  Two hours went by with the bridge crew watching the plot and
the vector arrows. The question was would the enemy ships get down to point three light before the human ships reached point two. And that’s technology we need, thought the Captain of the enemy’s ability to jump a tenth of light speed faster than the human ships. Until we get that we will always have a disadvantage in hyper.

  “We have missile launch,” called out Lt. Lasardo, the Tactical Officer, looking back at the Captain at the same time as the Sensor Officer.

  “Whose?”

  “They’re our missiles,” said the Sensor Officer, beating the Tactical Officer to the punch.

  The Captain watched as green icons bloomed on the plot, their vector arrows and numbers showing they were on a deceleration profile to allow them to jump. Within minutes the missiles were at low enough velocity to jump, and jump they did, at the edge of their range to the enemy, even with those ships closing on the weapons.

  “The enemy is starting to accelerate again,” said Lasardo with a smile.

  And why shouldn’t he be smiling, thought the Captain as he continued to watch the plot with furrowed brow. After all, this probably means we get to survive for another half day or so.

  “Enemy is firing missiles,” called out the Sensor Officer. “They’re decelerating, and curving their vectors this way.”

  “Shit,” said von Rittersdorf, staring at the new contacts. There were ten of them. If McArthur were fully capable that number would be no problem. In their present state they might make it, or they might not.