by Jay Allan
He climbed aboard, placing his palm on the reader and opening the hatch. He started the engines, and eased the ship back, turning slowly, angling the bow toward the exit channel. The ship sputtered and poured out thick, black smoke…the AI operating the super-powered engines carefully maintaining the illusion of a barely functional wreck. He got one or two odd stares from passersby on the docks. The ships were coming into port now, not leaving. But it didn’t matter. They’d all be dead soon anyway.
He cruised slowly out to sea, watching the city disappear over the horizon. He continued for nearly an hour, traveling a fraction of the vessel’s potential speed, maintaining the illusion. Anyone watching would assume he was crazy enough to head out into a brewing storm, but they’d never imagine his ship was state of the art, with AI-controlled navigation and enough power to get through any weather. Finally, he stopped the engines and let the boat drift to a stop. He was 40 kilometers offshore, far enough to escape the effects of the hell he was about to unleash.
He flipped a lever, and part of the control panel slipped away, revealing a small workstation. He punched in a code and placed his hand on the palm scanner. He looked out through the small porthole, seeing nothing but open sea, but imagining his bustling hometown. It was late afternoon. The boats would be mostly in by now, fleeing the rough seas and heavy winds of the brewing storm. Children would be scurrying around the wharves, running to greet returning fathers and grandfathers.
He’d expected a wave of regret for what he was about to do, but it didn’t come, at least not a strong one. Thirty years of service with Alliance Intelligence had dulled his emotions, especially the useless ones like guilt and remorse. He was already a traitor to Europa Federalis, and 3 decades of working in Gavin Stark’s Alliance Intelligence had fundamentally changed his way of thinking. The citizens of Marseilles, the pathetic Saletes infesting the waterfront…they would all die in a few seconds, their miserable existences erased with a blast of nuclear fire. Lucerne realized he didn’t care…whatever loyalties he may have had to childhood friends were gone, replaced by the coldly mercenary self-interest Stark instilled in all his people.
He glanced at the chronometer then turned and looked away. A few seconds later, the sky lightened. He knew the Marseilles waterfront was an incarnation of hell itself, the temperatures at ground zero reaching millions of degrees in a fraction of a second. The destruction would go on…firestorms raging for hours and radiation contaminating the entire area for years. But most of the city’s people were already dead, those who lived along the waterfront near ground zero simply vaporized, others burned to death or crushed by debris.
He smiled, congratulating himself on a job well done as he watched the huge cloud rise up over the horizon. Marseilles was gone, wiped from the map by 20 megatons of nuclear fury. When the Europan authorities investigated they would find clues…hints Lucerne himself had placed there. That data would point to the Central European League, and almost certainly lead to full scale war between the two bitter enemies. The Treaty of Paris would be shattered, and the European continent would be engulfed by total war.
But there would be other evidence too, indications Gavin Stark had ordered him to add at the last minute. And those clues would suggest Martian involvement as well. He tried to imagine the fallout, especially after the Confederation’s nuclear attack on the Alliance. Their pleas of innocence would fall on deaf ears, and everyone would believe they had now attacked two Superpowers. Europa Federalis would probably declare war…and the other Powers would begin to fear and distrust the Martians.
He glanced at the chronometer. The shockwave would take another minute to reach his location. It would shake his little boat roughly, but the AI was well equipped to handle navigating through it.
Stark had planned the operation brilliantly. It would serve his purposes perfectly and hasten the war on Earth that was so crucial to his plans. Lucerne’s smile widened as he thought about Stark. He was always impressed by his master’s thoroughness, how he considered his actions from every angle. He reached down and hit the controls, plotting a course for Barcelona. He’d lay low in the safe house there for a few weeks. Then Stark would send him further instructions…and get him out of the impending war zone he’d helped to create. Then he would enjoy the rewards of his actions. He would have a high place in Stark’s new regime, and he would sit close to the center of power.
He punched the designated coordinates into the nav computer. He was still hitting keys when the AI executed one of its secret files, and the ship’s entire fuel supply detonated, leaving nothing larger than fist-sized bits of debris.
Gavin Stark did not leave loose ends.
Chapter 7
North of the Sentinel
Planet Armstrong
Gamma Pavonis III
Cain’s HQ was as makeshift a facility as he’d ever seen, just a few small portable shelters and half a dozen workstations. The army had been falling back continually, setting up one hasty defense after another. The desperate stands had cost heavily, but they’d given Eliot Storm’s troopers a chance to slip out of the enemy’s trap and pull back from the river line all the way through the Sentinel. Storm’s people had linked up with Cooper Brown’s wing along the northern edge of the great forest, ready to continue the withdrawal. All except the Obliterators. They had remained behind, ready to execute Erik Cain’s daring plan.
Cain flipped on his com. “Colonel Clarkson, you may commence your operation whenever you are ready.” The words came slowly, sticking in his throat as he forced them out. Clarkson’s attack was the right tactical move…Cain was sure of that. The enemy was inexperienced with the giant Obliterators, uncertain how to counter their attacks. Clarkson’s people had a good chance of disordering the enemy force and stalling their advance. And if they could do that, the rest of Cain’s retreating Marines would have time to march farther south and set up a strong defense. But it was also a suicide mission, and Cain knew he’d be stunned if any of the colonel’s people survived.
“Yes sir.” Clarkson’s voice was sharp, crisp, his enthusiasm cutting through Cain like a knife. “We’re moving out now.”
The veteran colonel knew what his people were about to do; he understood the odds. But he also knew there was no other choice. The Marines on Armstrong were hopelessly outnumbered…low on supplies and near defeat. His Obliterators might just buy the time they needed to pull back and set up a last ditch defense north of the capital. It probably wouldn’t make any difference in the end, but there wasn’t anything a doomed force could do except play for time.
Cain sighed. Sending people to their deaths…it was something he’d done before, far too many times. It never got easier. Clarkson and his people would join the legions of lost Marines Cain knew waited for him. They used to haunt his sleep, their cold dead faces staring back at him in the dark of night, but somewhere along the way he’d made a peace of sorts with them. Most of them, at least. He knew he would join them one day, that one of his many battlefields would be his last. Cain was a cold-blooded butcher, but when he sent his Marines into the meatgrinder he shared the danger with them. They’d seen him in the front lines time and time again, assault rifle in hand, fighting alongside the rank and file. When he ordered them forward into the fires of hell, they knew, all of them, that Erik Cain had been there himself…and would be again. He was reckless for a general, too ready to charge into the thick of the fighting. Earlier in his career he’d been repeatedly ordered to take fewer chances…commands he’d unilaterally ignored. His loss would be a disaster for the Corps, and a crushing blow to the morale of his Marines, but none of that mattered. Cain did what he had to do. He knew it was the only way he could live with himself.
“Good luck, Colonel.” Cain’s voice was somber, grim. He flipped off the com, closing his watery eyes tightly for a few seconds, indulging his grief. Then he forced Clarkson’s people out of his mind and turned back toward the retreating columns moving past him on their way north.
&nb
sp; “Cooper, let’s speed things up here.” He was staring at the retreating Marines as he commed Brown. He could see they were beaten. They walked past him slowly, hunched over, dragging their feet through the muddy grasslands. Their armor was black and pitted, showing the signs of weeks of hard fighting. He’d been in dozens of desperate battles, but this was the first time he looked out over his men and women and realized they were broken. He couldn’t fault them. They didn’t lack for courage or dedication. But they’d gone right from the brutality of the war against the First Imperium into the hopeless battle for Armstrong. There was a limit to what men and women could endure, even Marines. And Cain knew his people had reached it.
“Yes sir.” Cooper Brown was exhausted too, but there was something keeping him going, helping him deal with the desperation and defeat hanging thick in the air. Brown had fought one of the first battles against the First Imperium. He’d been a retired Marine living on the planet Adelaide when the robotic legions invaded. He led the planetary militia through one of the worst holocausts imaginable. His soldiers – and the surviving citizens – were trapped for months in underground shelters, short on supplies and facing terrible deprivation. He’d been forced to impose strict discipline and rationing on the miserable, suffering civilians, driving them almost to starvation.
Intellectually, he knew he’d saved their lives, but he found it impossible to deal with the hatred they directed at him. He knew it was driven by the suffering they had endured…by the grief and despair over those they’d lost. But it tore at his insides, and came close to costing him his sanity. Adelaide had been his adopted home, and he’d given all he had to pull its people through the horror of the invasion. And now he was the most hated man in the colony’s history.
Part of Cooper Brown died in those tunnels. He left Adelaide forever and returned to the Corps, fighting alongside Cain ever since. He found a new purpose, and he was grateful he’d been allowed to serve again with his brothers and sisters. The Corps was the only real home he had, one he wished he’d never left. But he had. Adelaide was part of his life too, and he’d carry the psychic wounds he’d taken there until the day he died. He had originally excused the way the civilians there treated him, but as time passed, he became angry and resentful too. Some days he was proud of the work the Marines did defending the civilians of the Alliance. Others, he was bitter, wondering if they were worth the sacrifices his brethren made every time they went into battle. He found a kindred spirit in Erik Cain, another Marine who gave everything he had to defend a humanity he didn’t really believe in. Cain knew there were some people worth saving, but not most of them. Still, when the bugle called, he was there, rifle in hand.
Whatever his feelings and motivations, however, Brown had served well as a returned Marine and contributed his share to the constant fighting. But he felt like he was living on borrowed time. He’d been ready to meet his death since the day he walked out of the shelter and into the light of Adelaide’s sun. It hadn’t caught up to him yet, but he knew one day it would.
Cain took a deep breath. “Cooper, I need your help.” His voice sounded weak, uncertain. Cain was near the end of his endurance. More than anything he wanted to take his rifle in hand and march south toward the enemy. Dying in action would be quick and merciful…a fate vastly preferable to watching the last of his beloved Marines broken and killed.
“I’m with you, Erik.” Brown could see Cain’s agony. He understood it in a way few others could. “Whatever you need me to do.”
“I want you to go north and start setting up a defensive line.” Cain’s voice was dead, monotone. “They’ve had it…” – he gestured toward the column of battered Marines marching north – “…and I don’t want them to die running.” His tone changed, still grim, but with some of his old fire returning. “If this is the end of the Corps, then we’re going to make it a fitting one. We’re going to make a last stand to be proud of.” He turned and stared into Brown’s eyes. “You understand?”
Brown nodded. “Yes, General.” In that instant he understood the raw determination that drove Erik Cain. He knew Cain had lost all hope of winning the fight on Armstrong. But he still wouldn’t give up, not while there was still a breath in his body or blood pumping through his arteries. Brown felt his face tighten, and his hands balled into fists. Erik Cain would never give up…and neither would Cooper Brown. “I understand, sir.”
“These three are critical cases. They need to stay in their life support units. We have to find room for them on one of the transports.” Sarah Linden stood in the muddy clearing, her head snapping around from one direction to the other. Her hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, but a few dozen hairs had worked their way free, and they blew wildly in the breeze. Her eyes were red and bloodshot, the result of fatigue and way too many stims, and her light blue overalls were covered with dried blood.
Supervising the bug out of the field hospital was enough of a job, but she was in charge of the civilian withdrawal as well. Erik had ordered everyone to evacuate and move north, and he’d put her in overall command of the operation. The Marines were falling back, planning a last ditch defense just north of Astria. That meant giving up the capital, but there wasn’t a choice. There was no defensible terrain between the Sentinel and Astria.
“Yes, Colonel.” Sergeant Carlyle stood rigidly, his voice firm and confident. “I’ve got another 5 light transports on the way. They should be here in…” – he glanced at his chronometer – “five minutes. We should be able to get those wounded on them…and another 20 of our staff as well.”
“Excellent, Sergeant.” Sarah was impressed. She couldn’t even imagine where the resourceful non-com had found another 5 trucks, but she was grateful he had. Carlyle had been a workhorse, performing wonders arranging transport for the wounded and her staff alike. He was tireless, and he drove the small force under him mercilessly. He reminded her in many ways of a young Erik Cain. He had the same coldblooded determination, the single-minded obsession with getting the job done…and the same ability to inspire those he was pushing to the limits of their endurance. He wasn’t a Marine…not yet at least. But Sarah promised herself if they made it through this battle she’d see him admitted to the Corps and sent to the Academy. Ian Carlyle was just the kind of warrior the Marines needed to fill the depleted officer ranks. If the Corps was going to survive, she thought, they’d have to find a lot of Carlyles.
“What else do you need done, Sarah?”
She spun around, glaring at the hunched-over figure standing before her. “What the hell are you doing out of bed, Isaac?” General Isaac Merrick had led a forlorn hope against the newly-landed enemy forces, buying time for Brown’s people to form a defensive line. He was wounded badly in the fighting, but his survivors dragged him back and Sarah patched him up. “I told you to stay in bed, didn’t I?” She shook her head. “You’re just as bad as Erik,” she added, fighting to keep a smile off her face.
Merrick stood in front of her, leaning on a pair of crutches, obviously in considerable pain. “I’m fine, Sarah. At least I can stop being totally useless and help with the withdrawal.” He still faced a significant recovery time, but he knew Cain needed every man. He might not be able to take his place in the battle lines yet, but he’d be damned if he was going to lay around in a hospital bed while Marines were fighting for their lives.
She sighed. The doctor in her wanted to send him back to his bed, even if it took half a dozen guards to get him there. But the Sarah Linden who had spent most of her adult life as Erik Cain’s companion knew when to compromise. Some brick walls were just too thick to break through.
“OK, Isaac, but only what I tell you to do.” She looked right at Merrick, the intensity of her stare leaving no room for discussion. “Because if you tear open those wounds, I swear to God, you can patch them up yourself next time.”
He forced a smile. “Got it, Sarah.” He tried to straighten up, wincing as he did. “You’re the boss.”
She grinned,
not believing his humble acquiescence for a second. “But first, go see Samitch. She’ll give you an extra dose for the pain.”
He shook his head. “I’m OK. It’s not too bad.” Merrick knew they were running low on medical supplies. “Save it. We both know there’ll be more wounded before this is done.”
She nodded. “OK, tough guy. But promise me if it gets too bad you’ll take something.”
“Who could say no to you?” He grinned. “If Erik hadn’t gotten to you first…”
She smiled. “That’ll be enough out of you, General Merrick.”
“Very well, Doctor Colonel Sarah. Now, how can I help?”
“Actually, there is something you can do.” She paused. “I think I’ve made a few breakthroughs with our prisoner.” Sarah had been working on breaking down Anderson-45’s conditioning. She knew the Marines’ sole prisoner was the key to understanding their clone enemies. Progress had been slow, but she felt she was starting to get somewhere. “You can keep an eye on our prisoner. Talk to him…about anything. I think the more interactions he has, the easier it will be to get through his conditioning.”
Merrick smiled again, amused at Sarah’s cleverness. She’d managed to come up with a task requiring no physical activity at all, but one that was too important for him to refuse. “Of course, Sarah.” He winked at her. “And congrats, Doc. I doubt I’ll work up much of a sweat chatting with our guest. Or tear open any newly fused wounds.”
She smiled and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Well, you looked like shit when they carried you back here. I have to protect my handiwork, don’t I?”