by Jay Allan
“Yes, General. The enemy homeworld, Vali, as it seems to be called…it almost certainly lies beyond an undiscovered gate. There is no other way to explain all that has happened.”
“How do you know that? Maybe it’s just far beyond the explored borders.”
“I don’t think so, sir. What we call explored space or Occupied Space has something of an imprecise meaning. For example, is a system ‘explored’ if no official expedition has mapped it out, but a rogue miner has ventured there? By strict definition, it is not. Yet, we can assume that every nearby system, certainly those within four or five jumps of ‘known’ space, have been explored, at least to some extent. There might be no record of many of these expeditions, in fact that is almost a certainty. Most of these systems are likely nothing special, too far from established worlds to be worth exploiting, which prevented any follow ups or any charting missions that would have added the systems to the primary databases.”
Sparks looked over at Darius, his expression probing, trying to determine if the general was following him.
“You haven’t lost me yet, Tom.”
Sparks nodded. “Well, from everything we’ve been able to discover, this Vali is likely to be highly developed, very highly…more industrialized than any world since Earth was destroyed. Indeed, perhaps even more than pre-Fall Earth, since it was likely built from the ground up to support an immense war machine and nothing else.”
“So, if any ship had found it, they would have almost certainly reported it in one way or another.”
“Or, more likely, they would have been destroyed. It is an almost certain bet Vali is well defended. But we’ve searched the databases of lost ships over the last thirty years, and while the data is far from complete, we have been able to rule out every recorded disappearance.” He paused. “It looks very much like no wanderer, no explorer…no criminal looking for a hideout…has ever stumbled on this Vali.”
“No one has found it, because the warp gate leading there has not been discovered.” Darius took a deep breath and nodding, as he considered what he’d been told. “So, you think you can narrow the search area down, comb through a few systems, and maybe find the gate leading to the enemy?”
“The process would be considerably more involved than that, General, but that is essentially correct. Assuming we can gather the data we need.” A pause. “I know the pursuit will be dangerous, sir, but I think it’s the likeliest way we’re going to find Vali. And we can’t beat the enemy, not permanently, at least, without taking their main base.”
“No, Tom, we can’t.” Darius knew there would be calls from his allies to spread forces out, to mount defenses of worlds the enemy might attack next. System governments would cry out for aid, for forces to protect them, and many who want to agree. But that was a fool’s game, a road to defeat. It’s just what the Black Flag wanted, to exploit the codes of duty and ethics of their enemies. Such tactics had been used throughout humanity’s history. It was the way governments seized and retained control, the way politicians worked their ways into positions of power. Darius wasn’t going to fall for that trap, not a chance. And he didn’t care what names were added to the list of those he was already called. They could curse him, label him monster, butcher, cold-blooded…but if he was able to find Vali, to destroy the Black Flag at its source, he would be the butcher who’d saved them all.
“Okay, Tom,” he said, still not very happy about it. Get your ship ready. Pick out your crew, and take everything you think you’ll need. Let’s keep it to volunteers on this.” Which meant precisely nothing. Any of the Eagles Sparks asks will go.
“I’ll go.”
Darius turned abruptly. Elias had been standing in the room, listening to the whole conversation, but this was the first time his brother had spoken.
“Elias, we’re talking about following enemy warships, counting on an unfinished stealth generator to stay hidden. The ship’s going to have to match enemy thrust, and the more output from the engines, the more chance of getting caught. Every course change, every major acceleration or deceleration, even any extended stay in one spot…all of them increase the chance, even the likelihood of being found. And being found means being destroyed.”
“I understand all that. No one said defeating the Black Flag was going to be a safe undertaking. And, I appreciate the experimental nature of the generator, but it served us pretty well on Eagle Fourteen.” Then: “This is your place, Darius, here, at the head of your warriors. It’s where you were born to be. But there’s nothing I can really do here, no way to help. This is a way I can truly contribute.”
Darius hesitated, for just a few seconds. He hated the idea of sending his brother, so recently returned into his life, on a mission with such long odds. But they were both Cains, and he couldn’t order Erik Cain’s other son to sit meekly and watch his comrades fight the war. He had to say yes. Besides, right now he had a hard time coming up with anywhere the odds looked much better.
He nodded. He and his brother were very different people, there was no questioning that. But he decided, then and there, that Elias Cain could fight at his side anytime. He’d always loved his brother, even through the years when he hadn’t realized it, when he would have boisterously denied it. But now he felt pride, kinship. There was more alike about Erik Cain’s sons than either of them would have admitted before.
“Okay, Elias. You take operational command…but make sure you bring an experienced fleet officer with you.”
“I will, Darius.”
Darius turned toward Sparks. “And, Tom…make sure you’ve got the team you need as well. Take anyone you even think you might need. There’s no way to overstate the importance of finding Vali. I might go so far as to say that our only real chance of ultimate victory rests with you tracking the Black Flag to their home base and bringing that information safely back here.”
“I understand, sir. We’ll get it done…somehow.”
Darius sighed softly. “This may all be immaterial anyway. It all depends on us getting to Armstrong in time, on finding the enemy there, and not already gone with nothing but radioactive debris remaining behind. And then on us defeating them.”
The three men were silent, and Darius suddenly realized that none of them had expressed the slightest doubt that the Black Flag had attacked Armstrong, only whether they would arrive in time to intervene. What had begun as his own sudden assumption had progressed now to accepted fact. At least as far as Elias and Tom Sparks were concerned.
Darius was starting to figure this enemy out, he realized, as he had all those who’d come before. He could beat them, he knew he could. There was only one question he couldn’t answer, not yet. Was he on time?
The comm unit buzzed, and Darius tapped the controls on the wall, activating the speaker. “General Cain here.”
“General, it’s Colonel Teller.” A pause. “Darius, we’re picking up energy readings at the warp gate. Big ones. Warships, I’d bet, though they’re too far out for positive IDs.”
Darius turned and flashed a glance at Elias and Sparks. Then he swung his head back to the comm. Had they run into more enemy forces? Or allies?
“We’re on the way, Erik.”
Chapter 21
“The Red Plateau”
Planet Armstrong, Gamma Pavonis III
Earthdate: 2321 AD (36 Years After the Fall)
Cain fired, then again. He was down to single shots now, preserving what ammunition he had left. He’d sent runners back to order more supplies brought forward, but he went through three before one made it.
He’d gotten to the left flank moments before the enemy forces launched their attack. They sent in two thousand troopers, Cain figured, maybe more, and he’d scraped together exactly three hundred sixty-two…and he’d only managed that by stripping the rest of the line to dire levels.
He’d gotten reinforcements eventually, another two hundred or so, but only after his initial force repelled two attacks that outnumbered them at least five
to one.
He’d ordered his Marines to dig the instant they got into position, but even with the monstrous strength of their powered armor, they’d only managed to scrape out a shallow set of works by the time the Black Flag troopers came upon them.
Cain’s people had held, grimly, doggedly, and he’d had to admit, his combination of fresh trainees and aged retirees returned to the colors had fought as well as any force he’d ever commanded. They died the same too, singly and in groups, from rifle fire and bombardments, and during one charge that had come perilously close to breaking the line, in hand to hand combat.
Cain had taken down two enemies himself with his blade, the molecules-thin knife that was sharp enough to cut through armor. It had been a long time since he’d used the blade and, even if his reflexes had slowed a bit, his skill with the weapon was still there.
He had about half the Marines he’d started with, but they’d used the time between assaults to strengthen their defenses, and their position was more than a match for the one that repelled the first charge. They still hadn’t equaled the strength of the trenches in the center, but now the field was littered with Black Flag dead, perhaps twelve hundred, even fifteen hundred. The enemy had diverted more forces to the attack, but they hadn’t been able to keep up with their losses. For all the vast numbers that had landed on Armstrong, the enemy’s strength was clearly beginning to dwindle.
Cain didn’t dare guess how many enemy soldiers the Marines had taken down since the first landings. Twenty thousand, he thought. Thirty? No, more, he realized. He had estimated the landing force to be somewhere between seventy and ninety thousand, and he figured close to half of those were down.
And, for them, down means dead. Cain had watched as the enemy had failed to set up any aid stations, any hospitals. He was disgusted at a fighting force with so little regard for its soldiers, and he wondered how they maintained loyalty and discipline. How do you get soldiers to fight for you when you are so clear you consider them expendable?
He fired another shot, picking off a Black Flagger who’d gotten careless and raised his head too far. Cain didn’t know if these mysterious soldiers even felt fear, if killing one between assaults had any effect on the others, except reducing their number by one. He had no idea who they were or where they’d come from…or how to defeat them, short of killing every last one of them. Which is exactly what he would do if he had to. Somehow.
We can’t just stay here. There are still too many of them. They’ll keep stretching the line until we can’t match them.
He cranked up his visor magnification, staring across the narrow no man’s land between the lines. The enemy was on a ridge, using the small back slope as cover. It was a good position, at least as strong a spot as the bombardment-ravaged countryside offered. The enemy didn’t seem susceptible to fear, but they did seem to adhere to normal tactics, abandoning positions and withdrawing, for example, when a situation became disadvantageous.
He turned and looked back at his Marines. They were battered, exhausted, their morale fading. Did they have one last crazy maneuver left in them? Could a sudden attack turn the tide? It would be the last thing the enemy would expect, and he’d only need a minute to get his people across and push into the enemy’s shallow trenches.
Surprise was a potent weapon, he knew, but how much did an enemy without fear dilute from its punch? The terrain behind the enemy line was a perfect killing zone. If the Black Flaggers pulled back, his people could bring up their autocannons and gun them down in their masses as they tried to retreat and reform.
But if they’re sharp, if they react immediately…
Cain imagined his force shattered, the small command he’d cobbled together to hold the army’s vulnerable flank wiped out. He felt doubts, hesitation that had never been there before. He’d executed bold maneuvers his entire career, took whatever risks were necessary, without pause. Part of him knew he had to do something. If he didn’t, the army would be enveloped, the shelters overrun…Armstrong and everyone on it lost. But he felt himself hanging on a precipice, the old Cain shouting to do something, but a newer voice, softer, counseling caution. Was it the years in captivity? Had his jailors stolen even more from him that he’d realized.
Or am I just old? Perhaps even a Marine has only so long for war…
He shook his head…no, there is no time for this, no place for pointless worries. He could feel the old strength coming back, not as strong as it had once been, perhaps, but maybe just enough.
“Captain Horn, Captain Rieger…get your people ready. We’re going over the top in two minutes.”
There was a long pause, no doubt shock on the part of the two officers. Finally, Rieger answered, his voice hesitant. “Yes, General.”
“Yes, sir,” Horn added, sounding no less stunned than his comrade.
“Don’t worry, don’t analyze…there’s no time for that now. Just get your people ready. And don’t give them time to think about it. Let’s go…ninety seconds.”
Cain felt his own heart pounding, and he pushed back against the inevitable fear. Unlike most of those under him, he knew just the kind of thing they were about to try, and he’d been there before, seen the terrible losses even from success.
He’d seen failure too, but the less thought about that now, the better.
“Alright, Marines, here’s the drill.” He spoke loudly, his voice strong, not a hint of the doubt he felt escaping his lips. “We’re going to rush that enemy line, and we’re going to cover that ground as quickly as we can. Forget cover, forget leapfrogging and diving to the ground and crawling. That field is too open for that anyway, and we don’t have the strength. Surprise is our weapon here, and the sooner we’re over the edge of their trench, the better. We’re going to win this one, Marines, and we’re going to do it with armored fists and blades.”
Cain was giving it all he had, reaching for every scrap of the legend of the Marines’ fighting general. He knew so much of it was bullshit, so many stories he’d heard of his supposed battles pure fiction. But that didn’t matter now. He’d use anything, a sharp and accurate recount of one of his fights or a drunken, barroom fabrication by someone who allegedly ‘knew someone who was there.’ Truth didn’t matter, not now. The more he worked up his Marines, the better chance they had. If they gave in to fear—even to common sense—they were lost. This had to be about pure faith…in themselves, in the mystique of the Corps.
“I’ll be there right with you…so, follow me, Marines. Follow me, and let’s drive these bastards back to whatever pit of hell spawned them.”
He could hear the cheers, the bloodthirsty shouts. It had been a long time since Cain rallied a force of Marines like he just had, and he was glad to see the ability remained. He was tired, exhausted…the thought of jumping up over the lip of the trench and racing into another fight was almost overwhelming. But now was the time. In a moment it would be lost.
He jumped up, screaming, “Attack!” as he did. He ran forward, zigging and zagging a bit, but mostly pushing his armored legs as hard as the nuclear reactor on his back could power them. He leaned forward, did everything he could to keep his body low, to avoid bouncing high, giving the enemy an even better target than he already presented. His mind flashed back, sixty years, to basic training back on Earth, the first time he’d worn a fighting suit. The drill instructors had pounded the same thing in his head…pay attention, stay low. It was one of the first things a Marine was taught, and yet he’d seen hundreds killed because they’d forgotten that lesson, even for an instant.
He could see some of his people dropping even now, perhaps half of them because they’d allowed their enthusiasm to overwhelm them, and they’d bounded high into the air. But the losses were light. The enemy might be fearless, but it was clear their training was inferior to that of the Marines. There was no established doctrine of war that would suggest an enemy as weak and battered as the Marines would attack—could attack—in a situation like this. And now the Black Flagge
rs were paralyzed, the reality of what was happening slowly sinking in.
Cain felt a burst of satisfaction, but he checked it hard. They were only halfway across, and now scattered enemy units were opening fire. It was ragged, poorly coordinated and aimed, but it started cutting his people down nevertheless. The Marines were out in the open, clear targets. Their armor protected them against some of the small arms fire, at least, and he saw more than one Marine knocked down by mortar fire rise up almost immediately, without serious injury. But his losses continued to mount. He flashed a glance up at the display inside his helmet. Ten percent losses, his AI was reporting. Cain knew that could be inaccurate in either direction by a good bit, but his gut told him it was just about right.
He was close now, less than one hundred meters. He opened up with his own assault rifle, more to suppress the enemy’s own fire than to inflict hits, but he caught at least one of the Black Flaggers, just moving to the front of the trench and lining up to fire himself…a bit too carelessly. His shots tore off the top half of the trooper’s helmet, leaving a spray of blood and various other fluids and semi-fluids. Cain knew better than anyone what a messy enterprise war was.
He took one last leap toward the trench, slapping the assault rifle back into its clasp and clicking the small switch that sent the blade protruding from its sheath in his armor’s sleeve. It was a shiny silver when viewed along the flat side, and almost invisible along the honed edge.
He slashed hard, putting all the power of his powered arm and shoulders behind the strike. The blade hit one of the Black Flaggers right between the neck and shoulder, and it sunk in deeply. The man stood for an instant, his arms flailing helplessly, and then he dropped hard to the ground as Cain ripped the blade back out.
All along the line, his Marines were pouring into the trench, engaging the still-surprised enemy troopers. The Marines had maintained a tradition of close arms training, and their skill with the blades were far superior to that of their adversaries. They were outnumbered, but that didn’t hold them back, and the fight in the trench quickly turned into a one-sided affair. Even young Marines, those whose first taste of combat had come in the days and weeks before, fought hard, swept up in the emotion, in the feeling of victory, however local that was, however short-lived it might prove to be.