Invasion (Contact Book 1)

by David Ryker

  “Report,” he said before they had finished.

  “Five kills.”

  “Five!”

  Almost nothing. His entire Fleet firing, trying to clear a path. Five kills from hundreds. The Exile ships lurked above and below, limiting the sphere of combat to the trench between the two sides. Loreto couldn’t communicate complicated plans to them, so he’d given them simple roles. Anything which flew out too far was gunned down.

  “It’s not working, sir,” Hertz said. “We need to be smarter.”

  “I know, Hertz.” Loreto beat a hand against the pulpit.

  Their shields were strong. So strong. And their guns. They could kill the fighters, those dart-shaped fighters that flitted in and out of the trench, but the bigger Symbiot ships were too heavy.

  “Right,” Loreto said, opening his comms, “we need to act as one. All as one. I’m going to direct fire. I want every ship, firing on exactly one enemy.”

  “Sir!” Hertz shouted, flapping his hand. “We’re too far back, we won’t be accurate enough!”

  Loreto repeated his order and looked at the projection, selecting a target. He picked a plump Symbiot ship, one of their own.

  “There,” he said, highlighting the vessel. “Everyone, on my order. Go!”

  They fired. The First Fleet and the Spartans and the Exiles. They targeted the enemy, their cannons working together in a coordinated flurry. The ship took the hit and the next and the next. It began to drift forward, moving into the trench.

  “Sir!” Hertz shouted again, “Richard! It’s not working, look, they’re massing here, on the other side. We need to–”

  The Symbiot ship flickered red and vanished.

  “Target down,” someone called.

  There was a cheer.

  “No!” Loreto shouted, banging his hand against the pulpit. “Turn! Turnabout.”

  He shifted the Fleet, turning their attention to where Hertz had just been pointing. The Symbiot had already begun to fire. They targeted the Spartans on the wide left and collapsed their own loose formation. Loreto highlighted half his Fleet and directed them to covering fire.

  “Ghoulam,” he shouted, “are you there?”

  No answer. He was out in the targeted ships, under attack. Loreto pulled his Wisps back, sent them to run interception. The Symbiot cluster broke forward, firing all the while. It plunged toward the Spartans, breaking out to the flanks rather than through the First Fleet.

  “Ghoulam?” Loreto shouted again. “Can you read me?”

  “Interference from the battle, sir,” Menels announced.

  “Relay me through the other ships, then.”

  We can’t afford to lose him, Loreto knew. Without their leader, the Spartans might lose heart.

  “Loreto?”

  “Ghoulam?”

  “We’re taking -- -- moving -- -- now!”

  “Get me a better connection,” the admiral shouted. “Ghoulam, fall back. Save your power!”

  The Spartan ships on the starboard flank began to move, turning back toward the battle, readying another attack. Right into the heart of the enemy, Loreto knew. It was suicide.

  “Loreto -- -- legends -- -- -- win, for -- -- Sparta!”

  The ships accelerated. One exploded, and another. The cannon fire was heavy, shattering their shields up close. Five ships from the squadron plunged on.

  “Get me Ghoulam again,” Loreto shouted, desperate to avert the inevitable. “Now!”

  Another Spartan ship fell. Four left, hardly a second away from their enemy. They hit into the Symbiot, aiming for the biggest ship in the cluster. Two collided, taking down a string of enemies. One plunged on, deeper and deeper, always accelerating.

  “He’s going to–” Hertz started and then it happened before he could finish.

  The bridge fell quiet. Together, they watched the projection blink red and then vanish. The Spartan ship was dead, Ghoulam gone with them. It wasn’t just the man, Loreto knew, it was his ships. He’d lost a huge chunk of his forces. And for what? The Symbiot were looping around. On the other side of the map, they were firing. The Vela took another hit, shook.

  Then, a red light appeared. And another. And another. One by one, the Symbiot ships which had challenged the Spartans began to explode. Ghoulam had flown dead into the center of them, taking them out. Like a chain reaction, one explosion hit the next, chewing through their shields.

  “Twenty dead, sir. Thirty. Thirty-five. Fifty.”

  It was a ripple, pushing outwards.

  “Seventy kills, sir.”

  Then he didn’t die in vain, at least, Loreto thought, and then felt the regret hit him like a hammer blow. There were still so many. The Vela rocked again.

  “Heavy fire, sir.”

  Loreto had hardly been paying attention. He’d been distracted. Stupid.

  “Fall back,” he shouted. “Fall back around Sparta!”

  The Fleet had lost its shape. It was disorganized; they needed more time. The Symbiot kept firing.

  “I want us out of range,” Loreto said. “Get me space between us and them.”

  The Fleet was taking hit after hit. Red lights littered the map.

  “That was the Argo, sir.”

  Like a stab wound, Loreto watched his ship die. Not just any human ship, one of his, its crew dead. He thought of Coen, the captain, and his heart ached. He thought of Coen’s sister, Lyor, and he felt his hand shaking harder than ever before. He raised it up and began massaging his temple furiously.

  “Fall back.” His voice cracked. “Get me out of range!”

  Their cannons were too strong. Another red light. Another. The whole Fleet tried to regroup, dropping backward as the Symbiot swarmed forward, seizing the advantage. It was a rout. The Vela shook again. Loreto had to hold on. He didn’t need to hear the shouts to know the shields were losing power.

  “There, sir!” Hertz was pointing. “Look!”

  Loreto turned to the projection. The Exile ships had coiled around the humans in a long arc. They’d touched outwards, hit the perimeter of the battle, and began to swoop around. They were moving without orders, speeding up, faster and faster, into the trench.

  “Who told them to do that?” Loreto shouted, trying to find the button for the comms.

  Then, the Exile ships slowed.

  “They’ve blocked us.” Hertz stood open mouthed. “They’re using their shields to shelter us.”

  The Symbiot fire was clattering into the sides of the gigantic Exile battlecruisers. The smaller fighters crashed into the heavy shields of the scimitar ships, exploding on contact. The Symbiot advance slowed, moving out of range of the cannons.

  “I hope they can take a beating,” Loreto said. “Form up!”

  I’ve got another chance, he thought. He began pointing to the map, dragging his orders into position and arranging his pieces. Just a short window. They won’t be able to block us forever.

  “Line up,” he shouted to everyone, on his ship and others. “We’ve got one more chance, let’s make it count!”

  One more chance, he told himself, the excitement flowing through his skin, and I finally feel alive.

  31

  Loreto

  “Ad-mir-al.”

  The frayed comms chewed Of the Hanged Tree’s emotionless voice and spat back a crackle. Loreto watched the Exile ships, hanging in the space between his forces and the enemy.

  “I need more time!” he shouted.

  He stood on the holo-plate, looking up into the battle. As he touched shapes, dragging them to different sections, they changed color. He moved a blue ship to a new part of the map and it turned yellow as the order was broadcast. It would turn green when it reached its position.

  The bridge bustled with noise. People ran from station to station, comparing fuel levels and damage reports. All their work filtered down to Hertz and Menels and the other officers before it reached Loreto, who looked up into his map, a yellow mess.

  “Sir!” Hertz was watching Loret
o’s machinations. “We could never manage–”

  “Shut up,” Loreto said. “Please, Hertz.”

  Loreto turned his attention to the flanks. The remnants of the Spartan fleet had joined him, close to fifty ships. He split the forces in half, sending the weakest back to orbit around the planet they were protecting. Alongside the docking stations, they might be able to buy the people on the surface a few additional minutes if his plan failed. They’ve just lost their leader, he added to himself. I can’t be sure how focused they’ll be.

  The Federation Fleet had remained intact. They had fifty battleships of various classes but only one Vela. The Symbiot fighters had destroyed too many Wisps, making engagement difficult. I’ve got one big attack left in me, he thought as his shaking hands moved through the map, I’ve got to make it count.

  He glanced at the Symbiot fleet. The Sirens were struggling to pick out the smaller details but the skeleton ship in the center of the Symbiot forces demanded his attention. They protected it. The Exiles feared it. It meant something, he could feel it.

  “Sir…”

  “What is it, Menels?” Loreto didn’t have time for the man’s hesitancy. “Spit it out.”

  “It’s… the aliens, sir. They’re moving.”

  The two colossal, scimitar-shaped Exile ships began to drag themselves out of the space between the humans and the Symbiot. They moved slowly and Loreto rushed to move his pieces into place, broadcasting the plan to all the ships.

  “The Spartans, too,” added Hertz. “They’re not following orders.”

  The yellow shapes on the map were not moving into position. Loreto finished his Federation arrangement and turned to his comms. He was moving too fast to think about his emotions but he could feel his body struggling. His neck was soaked in cold sweat and his knees ached.

  “This is Loreto,” he used his announcer voice. “Who is in charge of the Spartan forces?”

  Someone had to be leading them, he knew. They’d just lost Ghoulam, a man not lacking in charisma, and their planet was under attack. He didn’t blame anybody who got scared. No one answered.

  “Come in, Spartan forces,” he repeated.

  Still nothing.

  “I could open the comms to the base,” Hertz said. “We could ask the president?”

  Loreto looked at his captain, his face obscured by the blue glow of the projection.

  “Keep them closed. I don’t want to hear from them right now.”

  No admiral needs a politician on his shoulder, Loreto thought. He could blame the comms shutdown on the battle; he just hoped that the Spartans weren’t doing exactly the same to him.

  “Please.” He tried once more and then turned to Menels. “Boost the broadcast. Make sure I’m getting through.”

  Menels bit on his thumbnail and watched his instruments.

  “They’re all out of whack, sir. Overloaded on everything, I wouldn’t know how to direct power, even if I could…”

  That damn Exile tech, he thought.

  “This is Loreto, this is Loreto. Come in, Spartans.”

  The Exile ships were moving, exposing his fleet to the enemy forces again. He needed to be ready.

  “We read you, Red Hand.”

  A woman’s voice.

  “Who’s this?” he asked, scared to get what he wanted.

  A pause.

  “Sliti,” she said hesitantly.

  Loreto had never heard of anyone by that name. He’d been brought up to hate the Spartans, not fraternize with them.

  “Sliti, I need to move into position,” he pleaded.

  “Ghoulam’s dead.” Her voice sounded hollow and stark, even through the interference.

  “Sir,” Menels interrupted. “Exile broadcast. It’s a warning, I think, sir.”

  Loreto’s hands moved frantically through the ethereal shapes of the projection. He passed around the cobalt ghosts, dragging them this way and that, desperately trying to find a strong formation. He knew what he wanted to attack, he knew how impossible it was. He didn’t have long.

  “Sliti,” he talked while he worked, “I need to know I can count on you.”

  “We must protect Sparta, Admiral.”

  “Sliti, please. We want to help you. I know Ghoulam’s dead, but he knew how important it was to win this fight,” he told her. “You can’t leave now.”

  “How could we trust you, Red Hand?” Her voice crackled with resentment.

  Does she think I killed him? Loreto added the concern to his growing pile of problems.

  “Sir,” said Menels. “The Exiles… nearly gone.”

  “I want to save Sparta, too,” Loreto pleaded, stepping off the holo-plate. “I need to. I’m going to.”

  “You Earthbound,” Sliti snapped, “how could–”

  “I don’t care about Earth!” Loreto shouted. “It can burn for all I care.”

  He felt the nervous sweat on his forehead and his fingers. His touch slipped as he tried to drag himself up into his pulpit. He looked out at his crew, into their worried faces.

  “What?” she was suspicious.

  “I need you and your ships,” he sighed, feeling the pain. “I need to save Sparta. Otherwise, everything is lost.”

  “Exile ship moving out of position,” Menels said. “Resuming Symbiot contact in 8… 7… 6…”

  “Sliti,” Loreto leaned heavily on the brim of his pulpit, hanging his head. “Please.”

  Silence.

  “5… 4…”

  Loreto leaned back and shouted up into the darkness of the bridge. He could feel it, the pain of failure, the oath inside him snapping like a tendon. No, he told himself. You go down fighting. He snapped back to the projection and saw the Exile battleships exiting to either side. From his pulpit, he saw a window opening between the parting ships.

  “Fire ahead,” he shouted to his crew. “Wisps on the flanks, cutting in. I want the biggest ships aiming dead for center.”

  The crew sprang into action, sending the orders. Loreto levelled a finger and pointed to the projection.

  “Get me close to that skeleton ship.”

  The Exiles cleared and the battle burst into life again. The Symbiot swarmed around, clusters of fighters and ships rushing forward toward the Vela. He stood in his pulpit, watching a screen for information about fuel availability and shields. Every detail of every human ship was available to him but he couldn’t watch it all at once. So people shouted down to him.

  The Vela’s guns sliced through the Symbiot fighters. We’ve got so much power, Loreto thought, but for every bogey we hit, it seems like there’s ten more behind. The only enemy with any sense of self-preservation was the skeletal giant. Other ships protected it and it never engaged. It has to be a weakness, he told himself, or why would they care?

  “Of the Hanged Tree,” he spoke into the comms. “Covering fire. Give me covering fire.”

  “Y-es,” came the response.

  “Shoot anything that shoots me,” he shouted back.

  The Exiles seemed to understand, even if their replies were limited. Loreto was desperate to keep them in reserve, as one final defense for the planet if the Symbiot broke through. He couldn’t risk them in the heart of the battle and they had steadfastly refused to lead the line. So he’d used them as guardians, using their cannons to corral the enemy into a tight sector, making them easier to challenge.

  “Sir!” Hertz shouted. “The Spartans!”

  Loreto was a bundle of nerves and the word hit him like a hammer. He almost didn’t want to look. The Spartan ships had turned back to the fight.

  “Yes, Sliti!” Loreto shouted into the open comms link. “Form up on me, follow my lead.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply, turning to his data screens and absorbing the information and repositioning his forces as the battle developed.

  “No, sir…” Menels muttered, watching.

  “Yes,” Loreto said, still moving.

  “Sir, please don’t tell me…”

  “He is,
” said Hertz, a twinge of excitement in his voice. “He is!”

  “Plot the damn course, Menels. We’re leading through.”

  He stepped back and admired his map.

  “But, sir…” Menels trailed off.

  “We’re the only one with strong enough shields, Menels. I don’t know what the hell was in that codex, but the Vela can take a hit now and the rest can’t. I want us formed up tight and I’m heading for that ship.”

  He levelled his eyes on the objective. The skeleton ship. The Pyxis, Fletcher’s corrupted pride and joy. It sat in the center of the battle, guarded by the Symbiot. Well, Loreto thought. I’m going to hurt it.

  “We can kill all the fighters we want,” he announced, talking to the bridge and the open comms channel. “But we need to strike a real blow. I’m going for the Pyxis and I need cover. Form up!”

  “Setting the course,” shouted Hertz, relaying the orders through the ranks. Movement in the bridge above. The whole ship working as one. Loreto loved his crew and felt his hand shaking and his neck sweating.

  “Calculating distance,” Menels said. “Distributing to Fleet.”

  “I need to make a call.” Loreto watched his ships move on his orders. “Get me Cavs.”

  The light on the front of his pulpit blinked and he hammered the comms button.

  “Jimmy Cavs,” he said.

  “Admiral.” A cold voice. Loreto heard the chaos in the background. Men shouting, guns aiming, overheating. “I don’t know what you’ve done, Admiral, but–”

  “Forget it, Cavs. Forget it all.” Loreto rubbed his forehead.

  He knew it was stupid to pause a battle, taking a moment to wrap his arm around a struggling shoulder. But the kid needed it. Loreto needed it. This was his duty as an admiral and, holy hell, did he need Cavs to shoot straight.

  “I need you, Cavs. I want to know I can trust you.”

  The comms were quiet. Just the sound of chaos.

  “Why?” Cavs asked, his voice soft.

  “We’re going in hard, Cavs.” Loreto tried to use the kid’s name more. “I need my ship firing fast and true. I’m sending you Siren data. Weak points I’ve picked. Targets.”

  “But, sir! The calibrations–”