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

by Doug Dandridge

  “It is an outcome I am also happy for,” said Horatio, putting an arm around the High Lord’s armored shoulders and walking him from the lobby.

  “They will attack this building, you know,” said Grarakakak. “I would prefer that my wives and offspring be in a safe place. Like that warship capsule you call a subbasement.

  “We will all go there, soon,” said the Ambassador. “And there are some other places down there you might not know about. Even with your vaunted intelligence apparatus.”

  Horatio gestured the High Lord to an office chair, and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and some glasses from a cabinet. After pouring them both a drink Horatio took his own seat and sent a call through his link. “I have asked my Intelligence Chief to join me,” he told the High Lord. “I would like her input on this situation.”

  Gertrude came into the office a little pale in the face from watching the carnage from the roof. She accepted a drink and a chair, and Horatio put up a holo of the planet over his desk.

  “Your assessment?” he asked his Station Chief while she looked at the holo.

  “The Knockermen are going to take control of the planet.,” said the spy. “No doubt about it.”

  “And their attitude toward us?”

  “I think they will not do anything for about a day. Then they will spend another day blustering and threatening, trying to get us to surrender the High Lord, and maybe ourselves.”

  “And what do you think will happen if we do surrender the High Lord?” asked the Ambassador, looking at the Brakakak. “I am not considering that, Lord Grarakakak. I just want to know what I am facing.”

  “I understand,” said the avian. “I have complete trust in you.”

  What you mean is that you have no choice, thought the Ambassador, nodding.

  “If we surrender the High Lord he will be used as a pawn, a bargaining chip, for when the Elysium Navy arrives in force. And if he doesn’t cooperate they will kill his family in front of him, one member at a time.”

  The Ambassador looked at the wide eyed High Lord. “And it’s not in you to cooperate, is it?”

  “No,” croaked Grarakakak. “And even if it were, the Navy will not cooperate with rebels.”

  “How long till your Navy gets here? And is there anything insystem that might help?”

  “As to the second question, the Knockermen took over the ships they could, and fought the ships they couldn’t,” said the High Lord after breathing a sigh of fatigue. “I believe after the firing stopped there was one working ship in the system, and it was damaged, and under the control of my enemies.”

  “So the only thing working in the system might be dropping KE on us in the near future,” said the Ambassador. “Wonderful.”

  “And I wouldn’t expect units of the fleet for at least another three days,” said the avian.

  “If this was a human capital there would be a major force in the system,” said Gretchen, shaking her head.

  “That is because you are a paranoid species,” said the High Lord defensively. He looked at the floor, then back at the spy. “And I guess we could have used a little more paranoia.”

  “So before nightfall we need to have everyone in the embassy shelter,” said Horatio, looking at his Station Chief. “And anything that might be of use to the Knockermen must be transferred down there, or destroyed in place.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Baumen, getting up from her chair.

  “And now why don’t I show you to your quarters, High Lord,” said the Ambassador, getting to his feet and gesturing toward the door. “They’re very nice, as far as quarters in an emergency shelter go.”

  * * *

  THE DONUT.

  “Good news, Admiral,” said Dr. Lucille Yu over the com, looking at the image of Grand High Admiral Len Lenkowski on the desk holo. “We’ve almost caught up with negative matter production. I can’t guarantee anything, but I think I can get you a ship gate or two about a month down the road.”

  “That’s great news, Doctor,” said the Admiral, nodding his head and smiling. “And as soon as you can deliver one will not be a moment too soon. We needed to ship one to Conundrum yesterday, so we can reinforce that sector as needed.”

  “I understand,” said the Director of the Donut Project. “As soon as we have the negative matter available I’ll arrange a shipment in hyper VII of a hole, the framework and the neg matter.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Doctor?” said the Admiral, tilting his head in a quizzical manner. “Is there any faster way to transport a wormhole?”

  “What do you mean, Admiral?”

  “Well, I realize you can transport them through hyperspace. Something to do with the geometry of the wormhole existing outside of any of the dimensions of normal or hyper. But would it be possible to transport a wormhole through another one?”

  “Don’t even think about it, Admiral,” said the woman, a shudder passing through her body at the thought. “It would be, disastrous, I guess, is the only way to think about it. The energy released at both ends of the hole would be in the terratons. Something I don’t even want to contemplate.”

  “So I guess the answer is no,” said Lenkowski, a tight smile on his face. “Just a thought.”

  “And not one you want spreading around where some fool might try it,” said Lucille, wagging a finger in the air. “We’ve given you a miracle far beyond what any of the other races in this region can dream of.”

  “Could the Cacas do it? I mean, could they learn how to generate wormholes?”

  Lucille thought about that for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. I mean, technically they could. But at an enormous cost to energy production. Maybe a month’s worth of antimatter production at a major facility. No, Admiral. The only practical way to make holes is with a station and a black hole, like we have. And it takes a very long time to build something like that. So we should continue to have this advantage over them for a long long time.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  As I write, highly civilized human beings are flying overhead trying to kill me. They do not feel any enmity against me as an individual, nor I against them. They are only doing their duty, as the saying goes. Most of them, I have no doubt, are kind-hearted law-abiding men who would never dream of committing murder in private life. On the other hand, if one of them succeeds in blowing me to pieces with a well-placed bomb, he will never sleep any worse for it. He is serving his country, which has the power to absolve him from evil. George Orwell.

  SESTIUS SYSTEM, MARCH 31ST THROUGH APRIL 2ND, 1000.

  “The Hunter’s back,” said one of the men, part of the group sitting around the fire. The cave was smoky, the fumes trying to find their way out and not succeeding. But the fire was a comfort to all, with its hypnotizing flames and its ability to bond the group sitting around it.

  Cornelius stopped a few meters from the fire and tossed two right horns at the feet of the speaker. He gave the man a cold stare, forcing his eyes away.

  “He meant nothing by it, son,” said Walther Jodel, the Preacher who had turned back into an Army Ranger with the hostilities.

  Cornelius nodded his head and moved to sit down on the log beside the older man. He looked around the fire, seeing one of the women nursing his son. He returned her smile, thankful that the Freeholders had accepted them so readily, and that someone was caring for the infant. He didn’t have time for that. There was only one thing he had time for, death.

  The Guerilla leaned the rifle he had appropriated across the log, making sure it was powered down. A combination particle beam rifle and micro-grenade launcher, it was capable of taking down anything the Ca’cadasans were using in this jungle. He still didn’t use it as much as the monomolecular blade he had taken from a dead Caca officer. It was much more quiet for his line of work.

  “You’re going to get killed if you keep on going out there alone like you do,” said the Preacher, leaning close and talking softly.

  “Not a problem,”
said Walborski, gazing into the fire. “As long as I’m in the process of bringing death to the Cacas, I really don’t care what happens to me.”

  “How many you got now, Hunter?” called out one of the other Freehold warriors, this one a woman.

  “Seven,” said one of the men before Cornelius could answer. “With those two today that makes seven.”

  “Actually twenty, if you count the ones he got before I found him,” said the Preacher, giving Walborski a concerned look.

  The men around the fire started murmuring to each other. Martial prowess was what they respected at this time and place. And only the Preacher seemed to have more of it than the farmer turned guerilla.

  “Cornelius Junior wants to see his father,” said the woman who had been caring for the baby. She held the infant out, and Cornelius took him gently in his hands, looking down at the closed eyed face of his son.

  “He’s beautiful,” said the proud father, gently shaking the baby in his hands and eliciting a smile.

  “We gave him his boosters today,” said the woman.

  Cornelius nodded his head. The baby of course would have gotten a full supply of nanites from his mom. But a booster of the little guys would ensure he didn’t get any of the old childhood infections that used to kill so many babies. In fact, short of physical damage, there was no way the little guy could be harmed. That last thought brought a frown to the Guerilla’s face. There are creatures out there who want to see every baby dead, not just mine.

  “That is what you come home for,” said the Preacher, reaching out a finger and letting the baby grab it. “Sure, you go out to kill. But you try to get back. It may not always happen, but you damned sure try.”

  Walborski nodded his head as he cradled the baby against his shoulder. The only thing he had left of Katlyn, his childhood sweetheart, besides memories. He looked back at the Preacher. “Thanks for the gift of this cammie outfit. The damn Cacas seemed to be looking at me sometimes and didn’t react.”

  “My pleasure,” said the augmented man. “Just don’t get any holes in it. That cost the government a pretty Imperial.”

  Cornelius nodded his head as he reached up and touched the soft fabric that was as durable as steel. It could be cool to wear, as it was now, and still the pores could close up to reflect heat inwards. It would also take on the coloration of objects around it, without any betraying energy fields.

  “We just got news,” said Becky, walking into the large cavern from a side one used as their com center, such as it was. “Big news.”

  “So what’s going on, Becky,” said Preacher, looking up and the woman. “Quit being such a drama queen, and give us the info.”

  Becky gave the Preacher a glare, hands on her hips, then looked around the fire. “There are Imperial warships in the system. And they just beat the local Caca force in battle. Now they’re on their way to the planet.”

  “How long till they get here?” asked Rafford, the ranking man in the group, shouting over the uproar.

  “The first ships should be here in twelve hours or so,” said Becky. “The capital ships about twenty hours after that. They are talking about evacuating the planet.”

  “There’s no damned way those creatures are going to make me leave my home,” shouted one of the men. Other shouts joined in, and no one seemed happy about the prospect of leaving.

  “I just know the damned Imperial Navy is going to have to fight me if they want me to leave,” said Rafford, and there were shouts of agreement..

  Cornelius gave the baby back to the woman who was caring for him, then accepted a plate of food, mechanically eating as the debate went on around him.

  “I guess you can get back to New Detroit,” said Preacher. “Though I would bet you are Army bound, if I can see the future. You’ve got those killer instincts.”

  I didn’t before these damned demon aliens took away my life, thought Walborski, shaking his head. “I don’t think I’m leaving either. I’ve found my purpose in life. My new purpose. To kill these bastards. And there are enough of these bastards here to kill. Or there will be. And what about you?”

  “I think I’ll go ahead and get off this rock,” said the Preacher, taking a swig of the beer he had in his hand. “Not that I have anything against Sestius,” he said hastily, after one of the locals glared at him. “It’s just that I can do more for the war effort in command of a battalion, or even an infiltration team.”

  “I just want to kill Cacas,” said Cornelius around a bite of tough meat that might have come from any kind of animal. “I can do that here.” Cornelius took a last bite of his food, then threw the rest of the meat to some dogs that were prowling the circle looking for food, including one of his own. He patted that dog on the head while it wolfed down the meat, took a last drink of his own beer, and got up. “In fact, I think there are a couple of Caca horns out there with my name on them. I think it’s time to do some night hunting.”

  “Mind a bit of company?” asked the Preacher, standing and slinging his rifle over his shoulder.

  The Guerilla thought about it for a moment, then nodded his head. “Why not. Maybe you can show me some things.”

  The night was warm, and Cornelius had worked up a sweat by the time they had hiked ten kilometers through the jungle. Preacher had stopped him from crossing areas a couple of times, pointing out this or that predator that lay in wait. Cornelius had blasted his way through some of those traps the last couple of days, but saw that Preacher’s method was more efficient, and safer.

  And the way Preacher moved through the brush was also amazing to the young man, who had thought his woodcraft as good as anyone’s. Preacher stood completely still, or moved in a blur to cover open areas. He didn’t make a sound while doing either. And though they wore the same cammies, the older man just seemed to know how to blend in better with the jungle, taking advantage of all the chameleon aspects of the fabric covering.

  The only bad part of the evening was there were no Ca’cadasans to be found. “They probably fell back to whatever areas they could fortify to get ready for the Marines those ships are bringing.”

  “But the Marines aren’t coming to stay,” said Cornelius, scanning his part of the jungle as they headed back to the cave. “That’s what you said.”

  “They need to secure landing zones,” said Preacher, stopping for a moment. “You move well, son. And I know you have the courage to close with and destroy an enemy. You would make a Hell of a Ranger.”

  “And they would give me abilities like yours?”

  “They would, if you qualify,” said Preacher, nodding. “I couldn’t guarantee you’d get in. That would be up to you, how you perform. But I can put in a good word for you. Even guarantee you assignment to my unit if you pass training. If that’s something you want.”

  “Hell yeah,” said Cornelius, an adrenal rush coming over him at the thought of being an enhanced warrior. “If I can move like you do, then Hell yeah.”

  “There is a price, you know,” said Preacher, looking into the young man’s eyes with a serious expression. “The enhancement takes a toll. About forty years off your life expectancy, unless you have one of the lucky genomes. I didn’t. Would that cause you to rethink the proposition?”

  “Not a problem,” said Cornelius, grinning. “I don’t really expect to live through this damned war anyway. If any of us get to. So forty less years of life expectancy? Not even a concern.”

  In the morning, well before the sun was over the horizon, Cornelius and Preacher were ready to go. Junior was in a carry pouch attached to the front of Walborski’s cammies, and there were bottles of liquid in his backpack. The baby was out, his internal nanites instructed to keep him in a deep sleep until told otherwise, so the infant wouldn’t give them away in a bad spot. His three remaining dogs were being left with the Freeholders, who had expressed a desire to keep the animals, always valuable out here. The dogs seemed to know that something was up as he petted and talked to them. But they stayed in place whe
n told, and didn’t accompany their master to the cave entrance.

  “I wish you would stay,” said Rafford, the leader of this band of Freeholders. “I understand why you want to go.” The leader raised his hand as soon as Cornelius started to speak. “I know it has nothing to do with lack of courage. Hell, you’ve killed more Cacas that the rest of us put together.”

  Cornelius nodded his head, not knowing what to say. Becky grabbed him in a gentle hug, one hand going to the head of the baby. “You take care of this baby, hear. No matter what, make sure the little one is safe.”

  “I will, ma’am,” said Cornelius, feeling a tear come to his eye. “He’s the only thing I have left of his mother.”

  “You still have your memories,” said Becky, putting her hands on his arms and holding him back so she could look into his face. “The Cacas killed my husband and my eldest boy, but I still have them in my heart. Never forget that.”

  “No, ma’am,” agreed Cornelius. Preacher patted him on the back, he smiled at the woman, and walked out of the lives of the Freeholders who had saved him and his child.

  “We’ve got about forty kilometers of jungle to walk to get to where we want to be,” Preacher told the Guerilla. “I figure we can be there by tomorrow morning if we push through. You up to it?”

  Cornelius looked down to his sleeping son, then back to the surrounding foliage, feeling the adrenaline high that was still with him. “Hell yes. If it gets me what I need to kill Cacas, I’ll walk for three days straight if need be.”

  “Good attitude, son,” said Preacher, slapping him on the back. “Because when you get to training, three days will be a walk in the park.”

  * * *

  “The enemy ship has been destroyed,” said Commodore Basingee, smiling out of the viewer. He was over two light hours distant, so Montgomery didn’t bother with a reply. She would send her message when he was finished with his. “Two of my light cruisers and a destroyer sustained light damage. Nothing too bad. You really messed him up in your fight with him. And I have some very good news.” The Commodore looked at the screen for a moment.