by Jay Allan
He felt the g forces as Tarkus decelerated. His personal yacht was an extraordinary vessel, the indulgence of a man who, despite the massive financial losses incurred in the Fall, was still one of the richest in Occupied Space. Tarkus was fast and maneuverable, and she had a weapons suite capable of mounting a credible defense if she was attacked. But she hadn’t been built to assault fortified bases.
Thank God, Darius Cain came prepared. Though ‘prepared,’ he realized was a charitable term. He suspected the council would see it differently. No doubt they would be quite alarmed to know that four of Cain’s ships and two battalions of his deadly fighters had been hiding in the outer system the entire time he’d been on Mars, awaiting his orders. Though what could they do about it? Attack the Black Eagles? Not likely. Try to take Darius Cain prisoner? Then they would know the wrath of his veteran warriors. Vance didn’t know Erik Teller, but he’d heard enough of Cain’s second-in-command to have a pretty good idea how he would react to Darius’ arrest—or kidnapping, as he would see it.
Vance didn’t know what was waiting on Eris, what he would discover there about recent events and how they were related to each other. But he had been through many crises in his life, and he didn’t think there was much chance the news would be good—and if it was as bad as he expected, he knew he had to move quickly.
A coup. It is amazing how life leads us places we couldn’t have imagined. For all of Roderick Vance’s cold devotion to duty, the last thing he’d have expected was to lead a move to seize power. The Vance’s were among the earliest colonists to set foot on the red planet. One of his ancestors had been an officer on the first colony ship. Preston Vance was Roderick’s great-great grandfather, and the statue of the great man still stood proudly.
Though now it presides over the cold, abandoned ruins of the Ares Metroplex, while the people still live crowded together in underground shelters. That is because I underestimated Gavin Stark…because I didn’t move quickly enough, forcefully enough. I will not make that mistake again. Not ever. If I must go down in Martian history as a tyrant, so be it. But I will not see another enemy inflict such grievous harm on humanity. No matter what I must do.
* * * * *
“Evasive maneuvers. Now!” Cain sat on Eagle One’s bridge, watching as the crew sprang into action. He’d been about to get down to the bay and spend some time with Kuragina’s people, but the attack from the enemy base had stopped him cold. There were missiles coming toward his ships. Not the small, close range weapons most ships used in the post-Fall era. No, these were massive 500 megaton ship killers, the kind Augustus Garret’s deadly fleets had carried in the massive wars of the previous generation. And there were a lot of them.
“All personnel, secure for high-gee maneuvers.” The pilot’s warning blasted from every Speaker in Eagle One. A few seconds later, Cain felt the pressure as his ship blasted at eight gees, changing course radically, trying to fool the AIs in the approaching missiles.
He knew the ships of his father’s day had been capable of much greater acceleration and deceleration, but the massive tanks needed to keep men alive during such maneuvers was beyond even the resources of the Black Eagles. The fleets that had fought the Frontier Wars and the struggles against the First Imperium had been built in an age when the labor of billions could be poured into the tools of war. But after the Fall—and the subsequent Second Incursion—the best estimate was that something less than two hundred million human beings were still alive, and half of those were scraping by at sustenance level on Earth. Ships had become smaller, and maneuvering at 35g was an unaffordable luxury, at least outside of specialized courier and spy ships.
Cain struggled to draw breath into his straining lungs. “All defensive batteries, prepare to open fire.” Eagle One and her sister ships had been carefully designed, and Cain had spared no expense to make them as formidable as possible. Since few ships still carried long-ranged nuclear armament, it had become rare to outfit vessels with extensive point defense suites, most shipbuilders opting instead to increase primary laser batteries. But Thomas Sparks had helped Cain design the Eagle-class, and he had developed an efficient weapon that served as both point defense and a highly accurate gun for close-in fighting. So the space the Eagle vessels deployed to anti-missile use also provided them with a way to target enemy vessels with pinpoint accuracy, disabling engines and knocking opponents out of the fight.
But now, Cain was just grateful he’d ignored the calls to eliminate the point defense entirely. His embrace of an unorthodox design was about to save his life—and those of 1,500 of his Eagles. At least he hoped it would.
“Defensive batteries live, sir. Targeting AI is engaged.”
Cain could hear the strain in his tactical officer, but also the strength. He doubted there was another group of spacers anywhere who could match his people at eight gees. Eagles were Eagles, whether they landed on a planet clad in powered armor or operated the ships that got them there.
The door of the main lift opened, and a man in a powered chair slid out. “General Cain, if I may interrupt…” The voice was weak, the speaker out of breath as his lungs strained against the g forces. But few men were as used to combat conditions as Fleet Admiral Augustus Garret.
Darius turned his head, his gaze falling on the greatest living naval tactician in Occupied Space. “Of course, Admiral Garret.”
Darius had suggested Garret come along because the old admiral had been one of his father’s closest friends. It was a matter of respect…and if he was being truly honest with himself, he also did it to piss off his brother. Elias had suggested Garret remain behind on Mars where it was safe. That had rubbed Darius the wrong way. Augustus Garret was old and becoming increasingly infirm, but he was still one of the greatest warriors in human history. If Garret wanted to go into a battle, Darius Cain would carry him if need be.
“I have a few suggestions on how to deal with these missiles.”
“Please, Admiral.” Cain stared at the old officer. Whatever age was doing to Garret’s body, it had left his magnificent mind untouched. Darius had realized that the moment he’d seen the admiral on Mars. “In fact, would you be willing to take command of the fleet? It would be a great honor. Not to mention, we all have a better chance of getting through this with you at the helm.”
Garret nodded, at least as much as the crushing g forces allowed. “Yes, General Cain. I believe I can help get us through this.” He paused for a second. “Thank you, General.”
“The fleet is yours, Admiral.” Cain forced a tiny smile. He knew whoever built the base his people were facing had clearly prepared it to face intruders. But did you plan to deal with history’s greatest admiral?
* * * * *
Axe lay on the small bunk, struggling to breathe as the g forces pressed down hard on him. Unlike the others onboard, he was not an experienced spacer. The short trip to Mars had been his first venture outside Earth’s atmosphere, and now he was on his second. He was far stronger than he had been, his gunshot wounds completely healed and the cancer that had been eating away at him reduced to a vague tenderness in his chest. But the overwhelming feeling of eight times his body weight pressing against him was almost unbearable. He couldn’t imagine how Cain and his crews could actually function under such conditions.
Things had been bad enough before the missile attack. But the wild maneuvers the ship had made to avoid the nuclear explosions had almost turned him inside out. He’d vomited at least ten times. The ship’s maintenance robots had cleaned most of it up, but he knew he stank from head to toe—and he felt like his insides had been ripped out and stuffed back down his throat.
He’d heard the alarm bells and felt the ship shake several times—damage from nearby detonations, he suspected. But everything appeared to be functioning normally, and the lights hadn’t so much as blinked, so he figured they had gotten through with minimal damage.
None of it mattered, though. Axe knew he had to be here, no matter what danger or discom
fort he faced. Vance had tried to convince him to stay behind. And Sarah Cain—and Elias. They had all told him he had no place on the mission, that if his people could be saved, the Black Eagles would see it done.
Only Darius had refrained from arguing with him. Axe had realized immediately. The commander of the Black Eagles understood him like no one else could.
Everything had been stolen from him—everyone he cared for had been kidnapped and taken to Eris. Axe suspected that nothing in Occupied Space—or beyond to the core of the galaxy—could have made Darius Cain stay behind if he’d been in Axe’s shoes, and the mercenary commander hadn’t even argued. Instead, he’d offered Axe a berth on Eagle One. Axe realized Darius knew there were things worth fighting for, worth dying for—and he had not denied that right to his new acquaintance. He was grateful, and he began to understand why Cain had so many loyal followers.
Axe wondered about Ellie, about the others. And Jack. Of all of the captives from Jericho, Jack Lompoc had gone willingly, at enormous risk to himself. Indeed, they would know nothing at all about the base without Lompoc’s efforts. The ex-Alliance Intelligence enforcer had redeemed himself, atoned for his old sins. Now it was time to rescue him, and the others.
Or was it all too late? Axe had to admit, even to himself, that the response of his new allies had been more than he’d dared hope for. When he’d first set eyes on the slavers’ camp, he hadn’t imagined it possible to assemble so much force to deal with the enemy. His initial thoughts about following the slavers and rescuing his people had been pipe dreams, fantasies with no chance of success. But now there was a real prospect of defeating the enemy and saving everyone. Saving Ellie.
But it’s been almost a month now. They could all be dead. No, he thought. No one would go to the trouble and expense of transporting them to the fringe of the solar system just to kill them. But are they still here? Or are they gone, shipped off somewhere else in the depths of space where I can never find them? Will we be able to get to them? Or will the enemy massacre them all as soon as Cain’s people attack?
* * * * *
“All batteries, cease fire.” Cain stared at the screen, watching as the ship’s AI reviewed the scanning data and updated the damage reports. His ships had been bombarding the surface for over an hour, targeting anything that looked remotely like a weapon. Eris was a planet about the size of Pluto, with no appreciable atmosphere—and that made surface targets highly vulnerable to lasers fired from orbit. The Eagle ships, built from the ground up to carry and support ground forces, had extensive surface bombardment batteries, and those had been put to good use.
The four Eagle ships had come through the enemy attack in far better shape than Darius had dared to hope. Eagle One had suffered minor damage from the missile barrage, and Eagle Four had taken one particularly bad hit, but overall, Garret’s innovative combination of defensive fire and evasive maneuvers had brought the Eagle fleet through the missile attack with all ships fully functional. Casualties had been light—2 killed and four wounded—but Cain still felt each one.
“All batteries silent, General.”
Cain had been worried the base would have orbital laser platforms and other close-in defenses, but that hadn’t proven to be the case—the missiles had been its primary armament. Whoever built it didn’t imagine any ships of today could survive that kind of barrage. But they didn’t plan for the Eagles…and certainly not for Augustus Garret.
“Damage assessment?”
“Data coming in now, sir.” A brief pause. “All identified weapons systems have been destroyed, General Cain.”
“Very well. Bring the fleet to lower orbit, and prepare to commence the landing.” Cain flipped the com switch on his chair. “Colonel Kuragina, is the White Regiment ready to launch?”
“Yes, General.” Her voice was crisp and clear. “We are ready.”
“Very well, start your final diagnostics, and prepare to begin landing operations in twenty minutes.”
“Yes, sir!”
“And Cyn…”
“Yes, General?”
“Save a slot on the first wave. I’m going down with your people.” If that doesn’t prove they have my confidence, I don’t know what will.
Chapter 21
Concourse A
Beneath the Ruins of the Ares Metroplex
Planet Mars, Sol IV
Earthdate: September, 2318 AD (33 Years After the Fall)
Jackson Devane stood alongside one of the large structural supports, looking out over the bustling concourse. The large chamber was full of Martian civilians, going about the dreary tasks of their subterranean existence. The concourse was one of several in the underground vastness of the Ares Metroplex. It served a dual function, as a gathering place and also as a shopping pavilion. It wasn’t an ideal location for his purposes, but he’d been stalking his prey for almost a week, and this was the most exposed he had been.
Devane moved slowly, cautiously, keeping his eyes fixed on his target as he worked his way closer. He needed a clean shot. There were Martian Security personnel everywhere. He’d only get off a couple rounds before they took him out.
He knew he was on a suicide mission, but he didn’t care. It was an odd feeling. There were strange bursts of concern, tiny panic attacks, his psyche rebelling against the prospect of imminent death. But his conditioning countered those almost immediately. He had a purpose, and that was all that mattered. He was here to serve the Plan. And nothing else was a consideration.
Devane followed his program perfectly. He acted almost robotically, without emotion. Emotions were a waste of mental resources. He had felt them once, he knew, long ago, but the past was no longer part of him. He had memories other than his training, that was true, but they were fractured, without clear meaning. There were images too, strange scenes of other people—and of destruction, recollections of hardship, of hunger and pain. He was grateful to those who had saved him from whatever nightmare those images represented. They had rescued him from Hell, made him a part of something, and his loyalty was unshakable. He lived now only for the Plan, and dying in its service made him one with it. The small attacks of fear, they were vestiges of that terrible past, and he knew he must not allow them to deter him from his purpose.
He glanced over toward the nearest security detail. There were two of them. They were close, too close. But that was the best vantage point. He looked around the room, trying not to raise any suspicions. Mars had tight security everywhere. Indeed, he’d had a difficult time even gaining access to the colony.
No, there was nowhere else. At least he’d have surprise on his side. The small pistol wasn’t an ideal assassination weapon, but it was all he had. And every meter closer he could get would improve his accuracy. He’d get a couple shots off before the guards reacted, maybe three or four at most. Then they’d take him down. The Martian Security personnel weren’t just guards, they weren’t police. They were military units, and well-trained ones at that. The Confederation’s army had assumed all civilian security duties after the Fall, he remembered from the mission dossier, and they had never relinquished that responsibility.
He turned slowly, taking one last glance at the two guards. One of them will kill me, he thought in passing. Then his gaze settled on a table outside a restaurant—and at the man sitting there alone. It is time.
* * * * *
Elias Cain sat quietly at a small table, watching the crowds go about their business. What a depressing place, he thought sadly as his eyes panned over the mostly gray walls of the large room. He was in a small café, sitting at what passed as an outdoor table, though “outside” was a relative term when you were over a kilometer underground.
It was hard for Cain to imagine people living this way, spending their entire lives scurrying through drab, colorless tunnels—no sky, no sun. He’d lived on Atlantia his entire life, a planet of magnificent coastlines, perfect blue skies, and temperatures so ideal they almost seemed artificial. But Atlantia had been spared t
he ravages of the Fall, most of them at least, and Mars had not.
The Red Planet wasn’t a hospitable place, but before the final battles against Gavin Stark’s Shadow Legions, its people had lived on the surface, under massive and beautiful domes built of pure hyper-polycarbonate. They didn’t have Atlantia’s windswept shorelines, but they did have the sun—and the stars. But now those domes were cracked, the perfectly-ordered little cities below now dust-covered and abandoned.
Mars isn’t a poor world, even now. Why haven’t they rebuilt the domes? Why do they live like this after thirty years?
He knew the answer, at least the one Roderick Vance had given him. Rebuilding the domes and rehabilitating the cities was an enormously expensive proposition—and the Martians had another priority. Since almost the day men had set foot on its red sands, their eyes had been focused on a single goal. Terraforming. One day, they had sworn, almost as one, men would walk on the planet’s surface without special suits. Plants would grow and waves would crash onto rocky shores. And since the first colonies had planted themselves, the Martians had been united in this goal.
They sacrifice comfort, live their lives like rats in a maze…all so they can devote the resources to terraform the planet. Even knowing almost no one alive today will live to see the end results.
Cain hadn’t believed it at first, at least not that the common people had made that choice. The wealthy, the leaders—even underground they lived in considerable luxury. Perhaps they had chosen their legacy over improved living conditions for the masses, but surely the people themselves seethed under the enforced penury. He’d imagined considerable efforts were required to suppress dissent and to keep the people in line. But then Vance had told him the Martian Council had held a plebiscite less than a year after the Fall. Eighty-four percent of the population voted to keep the terraforming program as the top priority, even at the cost of abandoning the surface cities.