by Jay Allan
Abbas stared down, watching the reflection of the ceiling light dance on the polished metal of the table. Finally, he raised his head and turned back toward Khaled. “Do you think it is possible that whatever is happening in the Alliance is related to…to what happened with us?” His voice was halting, uncomfortable. The two had hardly discussed the events that led to their flight from Caliphate space. Neither of them wanted to seriously consider the fact that they’d been betrayed by a government they had served brilliantly and loyally for decades. They had both suppressed the rage they felt, and the guilt at leading the thousands of naval crew and Janissaries in the fleet into a life as fugitives. There was no place for doubt and recrimination, not now. There would be time for self-flagellation later, if they survived. Now they both needed all of their wits. There were decisions ahead, cold-blooded ones that would determine if their people lived or died.
“It is certainly possible.” Khaled paused, uncomfortable even at the mention of the proscriptions that almost took their lives. “The entire unfortunate action was unexpected. It never occurred to me that there would be a plot against us. We haven’t discussed it, but let us now ask the question…what could have instigated the whole sorry affair? I am aware of nothing we did that could have caused our loyalty to be questioned.” Khaled was addressing something the two had pointedly avoided discussing. His voice was becoming sharp, strained. He struggled to control his anger, to suppress the part of him that wanted to take the fleet back to Earth and challenge at gunpoint whoever had ordered the purge. It was probably that miserable bitch, Li An, he thought, his hands subconsciously curling into fists as he did. The CAC was involved too. It had butchered its own commanders…and whisperings of treason from the murderous head of C1 would find sympathetic – and paranoid – ears within the Caliph’s inner circle. Perhaps the sequence of events leading to their flight had their roots in Hong Kong.
He took a breath, centering himself, forcing his focus back to the matters at hand. “Clearly, there is more going on than we are aware of.” His eyes bored into Abbas’. “The Alliance government is at least as capable of perfidy as the Caliphate’s. Do you think it is possible they have made a similar move against their own military leadership?”
Abbas returned the gaze but didn’t answer right away. Certainly, he thought, Alliance Gov and its brutal intelligence agency were capable of anything the Caliphate was. It was possible that Garret and Cain and the others were unreachable because they were fleeing Alliance assassins. Indeed, perhaps they were already dead, the victims of a successful proscription. But it didn’t feel right. Admiral Garret and Generals Holm and Cain were unquestionably the most capable military leaders in the service of any of the Superpowers. The Alliance’s command structure was their greatest military asset, the primary factor making them the preeminent power in space. Would they be so quick to sacrifice that advantage, the one factor that made them unquestionably the strongest force in the international balance of power? And even if the Alliance had inexplicably decided to assassinate its gifted commanders, Abbas wondered what kind of professional killers could manage to outwit both Augustus Garret and Erik Cain. He had a hard time imagining either of the brilliant but paranoid Alliance commanders falling into a spy’s trap.
“I don’t know…I just don’t know.” Abbas spoke slowly, considering the situation from all angles as he did. “But we’re not going to find out here.” He reached out, running his fingers across the large ‘pad on the table in front of him. It displayed an image of crisscrossing lines representing the warp connections between systems. “From the communications we’ve been able to intercept, we now know that a minimum of 21 Alliance colonies have been invaded. Whether these operations were conducted by an outside enemy or internal Alliance forces, we do not know.”
Khaled sat upright in his chair, his posture rigid as always. “Before we analyze the situation further, we must make a fundamental decision. There is clearly a widespread conflict underway. We are sorely lacking details about the nature and the status of the fighting, but there is no doubt it is occurring. The question we must answer is essentially a simple one…are we prepared to involve ourselves in this struggle?”
Abbas took a deep breath. “That is the crucial decision, isn’t it?” He sat quietly for a moment then asked, “What is your opinion?”
“We do not have sufficient information to make a rational decision. Nor do we have any way to obtain it within a reasonable timeframe.” There was a touch of nagging uncertainty in Khaled’s tone. He was a deliberative man who typically approached problems in a sober and unemotional way. He wasn’t comfortable making uninformed choices. But he was a realist too, and he knew this decision was going to be made on a hunch, not on a review of facts. “We know we cannot go back to the Caliphate. And we cannot remain indefinitely in deep space. Our supplies are finite; our ships will need maintenance and repair.” His chest heaved with a deep breath. “If we eliminate the non-options, I do not believe we have a choice. Our Alliance allies – if indeed they remain such – are our only real hope. We must trust to the friendship of those we have bled alongside. We must seek them out and aid them in whatever struggle they now face.”
Abbas began nodding as Khaled finished. His comrade’s words had reached him, shook him to action. “You are quite right, Lord Khaled…quite right indeed. We have wasted enough time dithering…and sitting here in the hope that some answer will come to us.” He waved his arm, a directionally vague reference to the Commnet station the fleet had surrounded for almost a month. “The time for waiting is past, as is the time for timidity.” He looked back at Khaled. “Admiral Garret…and General Cain…they have acted with honor in our dealings together. Far more than our own high command has shown in its actions toward us.” The emotion in his voice, usually so tightly controlled, was escalating. “It is time to trust to new friends…and hope they prove more honorable than old ones.”
Khaled nodded. “Then we are in agreement. But the question remains…where to go? I do not believe it prudent to divide our forces.”
“Nor do I.” Abbas’ tone was strong, definitive. “We must concentrate our strength and remain as well prepared as possible for any eventuality.”
“Then only one question remains to be addressed.” His eyes drifted to the large ‘pad on the table displaying the starmap. “Where do we go?”
Chapter 10
Columbia Defense Force HQ
40 Kilometers South of the Ruins of Weston
Columbia, Eta Cassiopeiae II
The hospital tent was crowded, rows of cots lined up against each of its four gray fabric walls. There were two cords draped across the ceiling, a row of lights suspended from each. They flickered every minute or two as the power cut in and out. The field hospital’s electricity came from portable generators, and the operating and critical care tents got preferential feeds. When the surgical equipment drew too much power, the lights flickered everywhere else.
The hospital in Weston had been state of the art, with first rate surgical theaters, well lit and equipped patient wards, and an onsite nuclear plant providing a surplus of power. But most of Weston was radioactive ash now, the pride of Columbia blasted into an incinerated and poisonous ruin. The battered Columbian forces had retreated 50 kilometers to the south, bringing their wounded and supplies with them, and the small tent city was the best General Tyler had to offer his injured and dying soldiers.
“It’s no uglier than it was before. That’s something, isn’t it?” Reg White was sitting on a small metal stool next to his friend’s cot, playfully mocking his wounded comrade. He wore a fresh set of brown and green camo fatigues. It felt good to be out of his armor for a while. His suit was with the tech team getting an overhaul. Weeks spent on the line was hard on men, but it wore down equipment too. The Columbian militia had powered armor units, something few other colonies could boast. But their suits were 40 year old surplus units, leftovers from the Second Frontier War. He knew the maintenance was
none too soon to keep the antique functioning. He hoped the armorer had time to do a complete overhaul…he suspected he’d be back inside the suit before long, and his survival prospects were much better if his gear was fully functional. “The doc did a helluva job on that hairy pygmy arm. Patched up that scratch real good.”
Tony Paine managed a fragile smile. He was lying on his back wearing a white hospital gown and looking uncomfortable. “Yes, you’re very funny, Reg.” He pulled himself upright on the bed, his good arm struggling to shove the pillow higher up his back. “Why exactly are you here anyway? Didn’t I get to smell you enough on the line?”
Paine laughed. “If you could smell me right through my sealed armor you better let the general know. He can transfer you to the bloodhound corps.” He reached around White’s head, pulling the pillow up for him. “Besides, I’ll have you know I finally managed to get a shower. It took some scrubbing, but I’m actually clean.”
Paine and White had been friends for years, long before they joined the militia. Paine was an effective enough soldier, but White was a natural warrior and an extraordinarily skilled killer. He was proficient at every aspect of soldering except one. He was a notorious hothead, one who constantly struggled to control his temper. He’d been promoted several times, only to have his rank stripped from him over one infraction or another. He had been a private for the third time when the invasion hit, but now he was wearing brand new sergeant’s stripes.
White had struggled in his relationships with the non-coms and junior officers of the militia during peacetime, but General Tyler was well past worrying about minor behavioral issues. When he heard about a gunner who’d killed so many of the enemy they’d begun to direct their attacks around his position, he signed the promotion order immediately and sent Reg White both a new set of stripes and his profound thanks and congratulations for his work in the field.
“So when are they letting you out of here anyway?” White was staring at his friend’s bandaged arm. “I’ve been curious how long you could freeload off a scratch.”
“They told me a week.” Paine frowned. “The suit did a decent job of managing the wound, but apparently running around for a ten days with a bullet in your shoulder is not conducive to quick healing.”
“Who would have thought?” White laughed. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be as good as new when they’re done.” He stood up. “But it’s not vacation time for all of us, I’m afraid. I’ve got to report in. Time to get back to work. I don’t want to be late.” He looked down at the stripes on his arm. “I think I’ll try to keep these this time.”
“Try not punching out any officers.” Paine smiled. “That’ll probably help.” He was silent for a few seconds, the grin slowly fading from his face. “Take care of yourself, Reg.” He looked up, his eyes meeting his friend’s. “I mean it. I don’t like you being out there without me.”
“You know me, old friend,” White responded teasingly. He paused for a few seconds and looked down at his friend. The humor drained from his voice. “I will, Tone. I’ll watch my ass until you’re back to watch it for me.” He reached out, firmly clasping Paine’s good hand. “You get better. Listen to the doctors and don’t be a pain in the ass. You gotta get back on your feet.” He slowly released his friend’s hand. “We’re gonna need you out there.”
Jarrod Tyler sat alone in his command tent, a sliver of bright light slicing through the partially open flap onto the dirt floor. He was silent, brooding, thinking about what to do next. He was also struggling with a crushing fatigue. All he wanted to do was walk out of the tent and keep going…deep into the countryside. He longed to shed the responsibilities that weighed so heavily on him, to turn his back on his obligations and run away.
His nuclear attack on Weston had been an enormous success. He’d caught the enemy completely by surprise. They had moved into the city in force, on the heels of the retreating Columbians, rushing right into Tyler’s trap. As soon as the last of the native forces cleared the minimal safety line, Tyler ordered the bombardment. Three-quarters of Weston disappeared in a few seconds, consumed by the nuclear fire of 24 tactical warheads. The enemy had been heavily concentrated, packed together chasing his people through the city streets.
The bombardment inflicted enormous casualties on the enemy, almost wiping out the attack force and sending the few survivors reeling in ignominious retreat. The latest casualty estimates exceeded 5,000 enemy dead. Entire units were wiped out, and hundreds of soldiers were wounded and exposed to dangerous radiation levels.
The invaders had been pushing his people back since they landed, but now an uneasy stalemate had settled over the battlefield. The enemy retreated from the ruins of Weston and were reorganizing their shattered formations. The respite gave Tyler got a chance to give his exhausted soldiers a badly needed rest…and to set up a new defensive line. As badly as he’d hurt the invaders, they still outnumbered his force at least 2-1…and they were 100% powered infantry facing his own hybrid force. They were shocked and disordered by the unexpected repulse, but he knew they’d be back on the offensive soon. And he was damned sure going to be ready for them.
The enemy hadn’t responded in kind to his nuclear attack, at least not yet. But he still had his forces dispersed, organized to face atomic weapons. He figured it was only a matter of time. Adopting nuclear battlefield protocols presented a serious challenge. He had to spread his troops over a wider area to minimize vulnerability to nuclear bombardment, but that weakened their defensive strength against a conventional attack at any specific point. He’d been trying to set up a defense in depth but, however he organized his forces, their flanks were vulnerable. The deeper his formations, the narrower…making it easier for the enemy to slip around the flanks and attack in enfilade.
He’d been moving units around his tactical map all morning, but all he’d managed to do was increase his frustration. He just didn’t have enough troops…the enemy was still too strong. When they resumed their offensive, his people could slow them down, but he knew they weren’t going to stop them.
His eyes slipped away from the display and settled on the floor. Tactically, his plan had been a stroke of brilliance. If he hadn’t inflicted such a heavy blow against the enemy, his army would have been defeated by now, crushed by the invaders’ numbers and material superiority. When the fighting was raging he didn’t doubt himself, but the lull had given him time to think. Too much time. Weston was the most cosmopolitan city in all of mankind’s interstellar domains, a symbol of a bright future, one marked by unparalleled growth and prosperity. Now, the city was a smoking, radioactive ruin, destroyed by a single command from Jarrod Tyler. Was it, he wondered, a symbol now of man’s more probable future…self-inflicted devastation instead of wealth and happiness?
The weight of his temporary dictatorship was pressing down on him, the responsibility almost more than he could bear. He was charged with defending his home world…of somehow saving it from subjugation by an enormously powerful enemy. But did that charge entitle him to act like God, to destroy whatever he saw fit? Was a Columbia in ruins, its people starving in refugee camps, its soldiers dead on the field, worth saving? Did the price of freedom exceed its value?
“Can I interrupt the general’s deep thoughts for a minute?”
Tyler recognized the voice immediately. He jumped to his feet. “Lucia!” He walked over and threw his arms around her. She was his oldest friend, his companion since they’d been two kids exploring the hills and woods around Weston. She was also the president of the Republic…or had been until she turned over her powers to Tyler, investing in him absolute authority for the duration of the crisis. The Columbian constitution strictly limited the power of the government, except in time of war. A battlefield in all three of the frontier wars and in the rebellion, Columbia had been repeatedly devastated by invaders. Its people, scrappy and protective of their freedoms in most areas, placed the highest priority on defense. When they drafted their constitution, they borrowed from anci
ent Rome, providing for a single general to assume dictatorial powers during times of extreme crisis.
Jarrod Tyler was the first officer invested with that authority, and he had used it to destroy the capital and force hundreds of thousands of Columbians into refugee camps. He wondered how they felt about the constitution now…whether his name had become a curse yet, spoken in angry tones in the cold and rain-soaked shelters that housed most of his people.
She held on to him for a long hug, and then she looked into his eyes and smiled. “How are you, Jarrod?” There was kindness in her tone, but also concern. She felt the tension in his body when they hugged, and she could see it in his eyes too. He had assumed an overwhelming burden, and it was taking its toll.
“I’ll survive, Lucia.” He managed a smile for her, the first one to cross his lips in weeks. “Hard times. For everyone.”
“Harder for you, my old friend.” She walked over to the makeshift table he was using as a desk, sitting down on the end. “So let me ask you again, Jarrod Tyler – and no bullshit this time - how are you?”
He sat back in his chair and looked at her silently for a few seconds. He couldn’t fool Lucia; he’d never been able to slip anything past her. She always saw through his bravado. “I destroyed Weston, Lucia. Our people are sleeping outside, fleeing from camp to camp ahead of the enemy’s advance. Half my soldiers are dead or in the hospital, and I don’t know what’s been keeping the others on their feet.” His eyes slipped from hers, dropping down to look at the floor. “I can’t do this, Lucia. I’m destroying everything. I’m failing.”