Sun King (The Void Queen Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Wallace

  “Get Fox,” she ordered. “Lay down his mines.”

  “Which ones?” Manx asked.

  “Anything. All of them. Just get them down. Don’t let them slip away.”

  Led by Nineveh, the destroyers fell back to drop a minefield, scattering them haphazardly, but just in time. Sure enough, the two harvesters battered their way through Tolvern’s forces and fell into the minefield. This, combined with a massive missile barrage, brought them to a halt again.

  Tiger was bleeding from a dozen wounds. Tiger was dying.

  “Finch?” Tolvern said over the com. “I need a broadside, and I need it now.”

  The woman answered in a sharp tone. “Yes, sir. Main cannon battery ready. Awaiting your orders.”

  Void Queen swung up alongside her sister ship and maneuvered into position, but this time Blackbeard got off her cannon first. Void Queen followed. Tiger shuddered as it absorbed one blow after another. A gaping hole opened in the alien ship.

  Then Dreadnought and a small host of cruisers entered the battle. More cannon fire. More torpedoes. The battle cruisers fired their secondary cannons, reloaded, and unleashed more broadsides.

  Tiger was breaking up. A few escape pods drifted out—one no doubt carrying the enemy commander—but there were enough falcons in the air to hunt them down, one by one. The enemy bridge broke apart and exploded, followed by the engine. The remains of the hull took blow after blow. Soon, there was nothing left of the harvester but debris.

  Rhino had kept going, and now stumbled through the remainder of Fox’s mines, which were still dropping from destroyers, even as the harvester tried to clear a path in the clumsiest way possible. Yet its tough hide absorbed the damage, and it broke clear, pursued by the rest of the allied fleet. No more nonsense about reaching the jump point to Nebuchadnezzar. This time it was falling back toward Persia.

  Admiral James Drake took command of the combined fleet. He ordered all ships capable of fighting to fall in behind Dreadnought and pursue Rhino. They’d overtake it before Persia if possible, but defeat it at the planet, if not.

  Either way, once they caught the enemy, they would destroy the harvester and send its crew and commander straight to hell.

  #

  Olafsen took a tentative step toward the queen commander, who remained with her wings open, beak parted, and tongue sticking partway out in an expression that was vaguely hawk-like. She cocked her head as he moved, and fixed her eye on him. Again, her voice was in his head like a maddening itch.

  I submit to your rule, human. You are my queen, and I will be your princess.

  He lifted his gun and continued warily forward.

  You have proven yourself at the pinnacle, the apex of human, Hroom, and bird kind alike. That makes you Apex, not me.

  “You fool, I’m not even the commander of this fleet.”

  Yet only you have entered my harvester ship. You and your drones. This ship is your prize, my species is at your mercy, and I crave only to serve. Together with your machine suits and my harvesters, we will rule the galaxy.

  It was a lie. She was playing for time, trying to slip away. And even if she had been sincere, what then? Her ruling style was extermination of any lesser life forms. That sort of victory was a feast of ash and bones.

  Yet he was curious, and wondering if he should attempt to take her prisoner. The Albion scientists might learn a good deal. Were these alien forces in Persia truly the last Apex in the sector, or were there other queens out there in some as-yet undiscovered system? Did the birds maintain a home world, or were they nothing but wandering exterminators? He suspected the latter, but who could be sure? What else could they learn that would help them defeat future threats?

  No. Capturing her would take time, would delay the fleet’s return to the fight outside Sheol, where who knew how many harvesters kept fighting on.

  Tell me, human. What is your answer to my offer?

  He took two steps toward her, dropped his gun, grabbed her neck with one hand, and put his other hand on her chest. She shrieked and slashed at his helmet with her beak. It did nothing to harm him.

  “Among the Vikings, a captured commander is given a great honor,” Olafsen said. “A sacrifice to the gods. You do not merit that, but given the circumstances, I think it appropriate. We call this the blood eagle.”

  Olafsen plunged his hand into the queen commander’s chest and grabbed for her heart. She shrieked and flopped and pecked at him with her beak, but he held her in place.

  There was no heart, or whatever it was he found was not what he’d have recognized as such. But his clenched fist came out with bone and gore aplenty to do the job. The flopping weakened, the pecks turned feeble. The glittering, deadly eyes of the queen commander went dim and glazed over.

  When it was finished, Olafsen cast aside the limp body of his enemy. The Apex queen commander was dead.

  #

  Rhino never reached Persia. Instead, the combined fleet, now reinforced by most of McGowan’s task force—Peerless herself was lagging behind with a number of other damaged ships—caught the harvester four million miles short of the planet. Only two of Olafsen’s blackfish and roughly a hundred raiders remained behind, gutting Hammerhead from within while holding the ship until science officers could figure out how to thaw the thousands of Persians and other people who remained in stasis in the enemy’s larders.

  The rest of the fleet surrounded Rhino and attacked it relentlessly from all sides. Its engines leaking plasma and its surface pitted from dozens of missile and torpedo strikes, the final enemy ship tried to fight its way clear of the human and Hroom ships pursuing it, but the sheer mass of concentrated firepower brought it to a halt.

  Catarina pulled Void Queen around in front of Rhino, with Blackbeard and nine smaller Punisher- and Aggressor-class cruisers taking up position alongside. The enemy tried to push through, but they drove it back with rolling waves of cannon fire. Corvettes, destroyers, and torpedo boats nipped its flanks, while Dreadnought battered it from above, and star wolves tore at its flanks. Other ships dove in, fired, and retreated. Again and again and again.

  The enemy ship had plenty of firepower left, and destroyed a cruiser and star wolf in short order. Two more wolves, one of the general’s sloops, and a destroyer died in fiery explosions over the next hour. A total of eleven more ships fell back from the battlefield after suffering heavy damage. Dreadnought herself came under heavy attack and had to withdraw for emergency repairs, forced to sit out the next wave of attacks as nothing more than a long-range missile platform.

  But slowly, surely, the final harvester ship was losing the battle. Plasma burst from the containment field around the engine, and soon it could no longer move on anything but auxiliary power as it drifted slowly toward Persia. Missile batteries gradually fell silent, until only the upper and port guns could mount an effective counterattack, and it was easy enough to stay clear of the weapons and fire on the unprotected flanks.

  And then the enemy just stopped. Stopped firing, stopped trying to escape. Stopped firing countermeasures.

  Drake called a council of his top captains. Destroy the enemy, or send in the marines and raiders? Destroy it, Catarina said. They already had a harvester to study in the Hammerhead wreckage.

  But what about the prisoners in stasis? Drake wanted to know.

  Tolvern pointed out that men and women would die in an invasion of the enemy ship. Another captain reminded them that every hour spent in securing Rhino would lead to more deaths on the surface of the planet. If they wanted to save Persians, they needed to land ground forces as soon as possible and liberate the surviving population.

  Other captains concurred, and they maintained the assault. No more nuclear torpedoes in the arsenal, so they had to use the standard variety, plus cannon fire, energy pulses, missiles, serpentine batteries, pummel guns—anything and everything short of direct physical contact with the enemy.

  Three hours later, the final enemy ship broke apart in a series of
explosions. They continued to pound away on the larger pieces until only scattered debris remained.

  McGowan and his small force caught up with the fleet roughly six hours later. Peerless’s shields lay in tatters, and her engines operated at seventy percent power. The bombproofs protecting the main cannon had been melted.

  Drake organized his forces and moved on Persia. The allied fleet had lost dozens of ships and thousands of crew and marines, but still contained over a hundred ships. Against that, the enemy had nothing, but still needed to be rooted out of their surface bases. The first step was to silence the guns on the orbital fortress, and Drake ordered a long-range bombardment. The enemy attempted to return fire, but the fortress’s range was shorter than that of the missile frigates, who camped out at a safe distance near the planet’s moon.

  Once the enemy guns were silenced, star wolves and destroyers shuttled hundreds of raiders and thousands of marines to the surface of Persia, while other ships bombarded enemy forces from orbit whenever they offered resistance. The orbital domination neutralized the most powerful enemy weapons—the battle striders, monsters of flesh and machinery that had devastated planetary populations across the sector. Without them, Apex facilities and forces had little capability to resist. Whenever drone armies organized, pummel guns and Royal Navy cannon pulverized them from space, while ground forces mopped up the survivors.

  Seeing their liberation at hand, the beleaguered, hunted population of Persia rose up from mountain redoubts, from hidden settlements in forests and desert canyons, and joined the fighting. Admiral Drake emptied armories across the fleet to arm the resistors.

  Between the newcomers and the desperate inhabitants of the planet, the outnumbered, outgunned Apex forces on the surface collapsed within days into scattered pockets of survivors. Two more weeks of hard fighting followed before the planet was declared liberated.

  Navy patrols combed the Persia, Nebuchadnezzar, Xerxes, Euphrates, and Zoroaster System. No enemies were found. No hidden colonies, no escaping seed pods.

  Apex had suffered the same fate they’d attempted to inflict upon other civilizations. The ruthless alien race had been utterly vanquished.

  Exterminated.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Four months after the final battles, Catarina found herself waiting with several others around a conference table in the operations room on Fort William. A viewport window opened on the far side of the room, with the cool blue-and-green sphere of Albion rotating beneath the orbital fortress. Nearly two years had passed since she’d set out at the head of her colonization fleet, and she studied the planet with fresh eyes.

  The continent of Britain lay below, moving from day to night, with a brief, shifting band of twilight between. Cities lit up like glowing jewels across the landscape as they fell into darkness, with the largest cluster of lights at the heart of the continent, where York Town was once again rising on the ashes of the atomic bombardment it had suffered at the hands of a Hroom death fleet. Albion was still young and vigorous, still expanding.

  Catarina imagined a future where her own planet—New Albion, as they insisted she call it—filled with cities, farms, ports, and mines. A growing, healthy population, which she would guide and direct—the master of the planet, but never a tyrant. Those who came would come willingly, would stay willingly, and help her build.

  Her dream was so close now, but would Drake give it to her? He had promised, but now that she’d returned from the inner frontier, maybe he thought of her as an embarrassment, a mercenary at best, a pirate at worst, who had been given promises of future power and wealth only so the kingdom could secure her compliance for the duration of the war.

  Admiral Drake entered the operations room, accompanied by Captain Fox, formerly of HMS Nineveh. The others rose around the table: Tolvern, McGowan, Nash, General Mose Dryz, and a handful of other captains Catarina hadn’t known before. Tolvern had whispered their names: McCreery, Gillis, O’Henry, and Harbrake. McCreery looked about eighteen, although he’d apparently been commanding one of Drake’s corvettes, and Tolvern said he was the son of a famous Albion captain.

  The officer corps must be thinner than she’d thought, if brevet promotions threw kids and former pirates into commanding roles. From Fox’s wide smile as the admiral led him into the room, he was apparently another beneficiary of the manpower shortage in leadership roles.

  Drake took his seat and spoke with little preamble. “With the heroic death of Captain Broderick, the crown has appointed Captain Fox to the admiralty.”

  Catarina’s eyebrows went up, and Tolvern shot her a glance. A promotion, indeed. Straight onto the Board of Admiralty. How old was Fox, twenty-five, twenty-six?

  The young man sat next to the admiral, and the others in the room returned to their seats.

  “Fox will take the helm of HMS Citadel when she leaves the docks at the end of the year,” Drake added. “He’ll patrol the lanes between Odense and Viborg to make sure the Scandians behave themselves.”

  “Excellent,” McGowan said dryly. “Commanding a torpedo boat six months ago, promoted to captain and given a destroyer, and now with his own battle cruiser after fighting two or three engagements.”

  “At least he fought,” Tolvern said.

  Catarina couldn’t resist. “We all fought, Captain Tolvern,” she said. “McGowan, too. It’s not realistic to expect every commander to be a hero in all occasions. Some are needed in the reserve.”

  Tolvern nodded. “Good point. McGowan was pretty shot up, anyway, and mostly a decoy so that Olafsen and his men could play the hero against Hammerhead.”

  McGowan glared. “I was no bloody decoy. Hundreds of good crew died in the fighting, so if you could show a little respect for the dead—”

  “Nobody is impugning your crew,” Catarina said.

  Drake winced. “Please, officers. Enough.”

  General Mose Dryz turned to the admiral. “I am confused, James Drake. Is this not an accurate statement on behalf of the two female captains? If every soldier could be a hero, the word itself would be devalued. As for Olafsen being the hero of that particular engagement, one might quibble with the use of the word. However, in the case of Edward McGowan—”

  “Tolvern and Vargus were being sarcastic,” Drake told the Hroom. “They were baiting McGowan to provoke a reaction.”

  The general blinked his large eyes and hummed in the back of his throat. “Yes, I see that now. Suggesting with pointed language that Captain Edward McGowan did not overly distinguish himself in battle. That he has something of a reputation for cowardice.”

  McGowan sputtered, face reddening.

  Drake lifted a hand. “Of course you aren’t a coward. You did what you needed to do, and you’ll be rewarded for it with a promotion.”

  “Oh.” McGowan settled back down. “How so?”

  “By His Majesty’s command, and the consensus of this admiralty—consensus being shorthand for the decision I made on all of your behalf, in this particular case—you will take command of the Second Fleet as rear admiral.”

  A smug expression crossed McGowan’s face. “Very well, I accept. Peerless should be ready to leave the yards shortly, although I have been thinking that a larger overhaul, such as what was bestowed upon Blackbeard, would be welcomed. Peerless, once upgraded to battle cruiser—”

  “Yours will be a stationary command,” Drake interrupted. “Another officer will be given command of Peerless.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “You will direct the Second Fleet from an orbital fortress above Persia. I need you to remain personally at the planet. The population is starving, the economy in tatters. You will oversee reconstruction, the rebuilding of cities, and the formation of civil administration while the fleet ensures the safety of the surrounding systems.”

  “That’s not a rear admiral’s position, that’s a royal governor,” McGowan protested.

  “More or less,” Drake said with a nod, “except that the planet will be under na
val jurisdiction.”

  “I don’t understand. What did I do to deserve this?”

  “You have shown yourself excellent in defensive situations,” Drake said, as if it were indeed an honor, and not, as Catarina thought, a bit of a dig. “Adept at directing other forces to the attack while keeping yourself safe from harm.”

  “Sir, please. This is not what I want at all.”

  “Nevertheless, that is what your king requests of you, and that is the command you are being given.”

  McGowan opened his mouth, then shut it again. He shot poisonous glances at Catarina and Tolvern as he slumped back in his chair. As much as Catarina enjoyed watching McGowan squirm, she had other concerns on her mind.

  “Excuse me, sir. What will become of Dreadnought? Will you be on the inner frontier, or patrolling the lanes to Singapore?”

  “Dreadnought will be in the yards for an extended repair before she is battleworthy again. Six months, maybe longer.”

  “That is more or less how much time I need to get my own fleet together and return to the Omega Cluster,” Catarina said. “I’ll have to haul through a bunch of semi-lawless systems to get to the jump, and by now the whole sector knows what I’m up to. Apart from Void Queen and Pussycat, most of my fighting ships have been destroyed or wrecked. I would like to request a military escort to New Albion. You could lead it yourself, if that’s not too presumptuous.”

  “I am afraid I’ll be engaged elsewhere,” Drake said, “but you’re on the Board of Admiralty now, Vargus. Make a request for naval resources from your fellows at this table, and I’m sure they will see you escorted safely to the other side.”

  McGowan stared. “Wait, you mean you’re really going to pay off Vargus and let her haul away all those goods?”

  “Of course. That was the arrangement.”

  “That was a stratagem, a trick to ensure Vargus’s compliance for the duration.”

  “It was a stratagem. But that’s different from saying it was a lie. I needed her fleet of mercenaries, her prefab manufacturing facilities, her trained colonists, and I was willing to tell her what she wanted to hear.” Drake fixed McGowan with a firm gaze. “But I never lied about it.”