Attack of Shadows (Galaxy's Edge Book 4)

by Nick Cole

  All deflectors immediately collapsed due to some system malfunction redundancy.

  The next torpedo streaked in and slammed into the starboard hangar decks, punching through to the main transportation corridor. Gun batteries nine and ten were knocked out instantly.

  At almost the same time, Arongotoa took two torpedoes in the engines. It exploded down the length of the ship’s spine, and engineering went up like a fireball, killing more than five thousand crew within seconds.

  Captain Karka watched in horror as his sister ship went up like a supernova. A moment later the shock wave hit Victory and sent her sprawling over to port.

  “Helm!” he shouted in the sudden darkness of the bridge, with only the madness of light and fire on display through the windows. Many of the crew were screaming, or crying, and some were already running for the emergency escape pods without him having even having given the “abandon ship” order.

  As if they knew.

  As if they knew all was lost now.

  And then, as his growing horror reached a whole new level, those strange alien fighters came off the broad hangar decks of the massive enemy battleship ahead. Waves of them. At least two squadrons streaking straight for his dying ship.

  I’m dead.

  “Abandon ship!” he shouted as he scrambled to get off the tilting bridge, racing for the captain’s escape pod as stations overloaded and exploded and sirens shrieked warnings of vacuum exposure.

  12

  Republic Seventh Fleet

  Bridge of the Freedom

  0620 Local System Time

  The CIC was pointing at where both Victory and Arongotoa had been. He swept his hand out to show which routes the enemy’s fleet and superior fighter cover now had into the carrier group’s center.

  Admiral Landoo’s carrier group.

  The prize of the Republic Navy.

  “What do we have left?” she asked. The resignation and fading hope in her tone made the question sound more existential than tactical—but she meant the fighters in both squadrons and the survivors from the last strike.

  And because the CIC was an excellent officer, he knew exactly what she meant. “Maybe… a full squadron. But they’re all across the battlefield. We can’t bring them to bear at any one point as per standard fleet engagement doctrine.”

  “And Admiral Nagu?”

  “His remaining destroyers are taking a pounding, but they’re still in the game. Atlantica is a big ship. She’s been hit pretty severely—fires on multiple decks, one hangar remaining, engines dead—but they’ve got power and lots of guns.”

  A boom somewhere by the ship’s prow sent him stumbling. He quickly regained his footing and returned to tactics. “We have one detachment of legionnaires. We could attempt to board this ship.” He pointed toward the Terror. “But I don’t know how much good any of it will do at this point, Admiral. We’re not in a battle anymore. We really have no clear path to victory here.”

  Admiral Landoo had concluded as much. She’d just been waiting for the man to say it. And now that he had, a silence fell over them all.

  For a long moment she stared at the board and all its holographic minutiae of starships and fighter groups swirling in to kill one another. Forward, at the leading edge of the battle, was a maelstrom of chaos and destruction. She could only imagine the carnage. And yet they were fighting on. Waiting for her next decision. Waiting for her to order a retreat.

  “We need to begin to evacuate Tarrago.”

  She let the words hang in the silence of the bridge. The rest of the bridge crew was stunned that she’d even had to speak them. Only the murmur of sensors and the low chatter of tactical comms could be heard.

  When no one on the bridge moved, everyone waiting as if frozen in some unbelievable moment of amber, she went on. “Specifically, we need to evacuate the governor and all senior officials. And their families, of course.”

  “What about the citizens? Leading citizens, specifically,” some junior said in the ensuing silence. It was a fair and legitimate question. And the woman probably was a point from the House of Reason. So of course… they were always taking care of their own.

  “We have neither the resources, nor the capabilities, to conduct a planet-wide evacuation at this time. Of course the Repub will return within a matter of days, with several fleets, to retake this planet. So I expect they shouldn’t suffer… too much.”

  Landoo was one of the few senior officers in the navy who knew what a colossal lie that was. What she’d just told them all was, in fact, one of the Repub’s biggest, and most manufactured, of lies. And one of its most closely guarded secrets.

  “Alert the government. Tell them to be ready to evac off of Central Hall. We’ll use the Audacity to pull them off the landing platform there. Tell Nagu to hold the line as long as he can until we can collect the survivors. Then be prepared to jump at a moment’s notice. And, I will remind everyone, all of this is superseded by one fact. We cannot lose this carrier. That blow the Republic will not accept.”

  Bridge of the Corvette Audacity

  In Formation with Republic Carrier Group

  0620 Local System Time

  Desaix had his orders. Take the Audacity back in and pull the government types out.

  He’d lied to the admiral; much of the ship was still offline from the refit. But there was no way he was missing this battle. For most of it he’d been back in Deep Sensors, watching as much of the forward battle as he could from there. Here, back under the shadow of the looming super-carrier, things had been relatively quiet.

  He tapped the comm on a nearby panel. “Engineering… how are we coming on that portside thrust-displacer array? Workaround in place?”

  Approaching the landing tower platform at Central Hall would be tricky under fire. And without portside thrusters it would be a lot more tricky. But what other option did the fleet have? His ship was the only one that could do it.

  This wouldn’t even be part of the battle. Still, everyone had to do their duty.

  “We’ve got it as good as it’s going to get, sir,” replied the engineering repair team leader back near the power-management relays. “But it’s not guaranteed. And if you go to full, there’s a chance it could lock up and we won’t be able to disable it. We’ve had to jettison some armor near that system, so… any damage will be right up against the inner hull. And if it locks up, we literally have to blow the whole system to regain control. Honestly, sir…” There was a long pause. “This is absolutely suicidal. You should understand that, completely, sir. I’m serious about this.”

  Desaix didn’t bother to respond. He walked forward along the narrow passage that led back to the flight deck, passing techs bent over their various stations. Some looked up at him with worry. No one looked up at him like they were excited about what needed to be done next.

  He arrived at the flight deck.

  Both pilots were busy with the nav, plotting their approach and exit from Tarrago Prime.

  “All stations reporting ready for departure?”

  The co-pilot turned and gave him a thumbs-up. He still had his headphones on, and he seemed to be listening to some fleet-wide traffic. “We’ve got fighters inbound,” he said, his eyes far away as he relayed the message. “They’ve broken away from the battle. Coming for the carrier.”

  Great, thought Desaix. The battle’s finally coming to us and we’re getting sent off to rescue some bureaucrats.

  “Take us out then. Inform the carrier we’re departing.”

  The pilots bent to their tasks, and within seconds the hammerhead corvette was shifting away from the massive carrier and down into Tarrago.

  In the distance, those strange alien fighters, the ones the fleet was now referring to as tri-fighters, were racing toward the carrier, and the carrier was launching what little remaining fighter cover it could throw up against them. Point defense turrets were rotating to engage.

  Black Fleet Shock Troopers, Third Group

  Kesselver
ks Shipyards

  0425 Local System Time

  The firefight, after the running battle through the morning-dark shipyards in and among the sleeping giants of starships under construction, was over. Bombassa’s section and the rest of the platoon had stormed the Repub marine barracks guarding the gates that gave access to the shipyards. Fraggers first, and then they’d rushed, team by team, under heavy fire from a crew-served N-50. In minutes, both guard towers were taken and the dead were being dragged out to be lined up in rows.

  That was when General Nero arrived on scene.

  Bombassa was leading his section in getting one of the crew-served N-50s back up and oriented out to repel an inevitable attempt to retake the shipyards. Drone intel said the marines were staging a few streets away, and the assault could come at any moment. A few Repub Lancers had tried some close air-support runs on the mechs, taking out a few, but they’d been knocked down by the anti-air torpedoes Third Group had brought with them. There weren’t many ground-to-air weapons left, but supposedly some team was now hacking local defenses and the automated turrets would be online shortly.

  One of the few remaining mechs, a Hunter-Killer Scout Walker lumbered across the wide yard before the gate. The HK-SW would make a difference, thought Bombassa, when the marines came at them again. Dawn was just an hour away, and they were ahead of schedule.

  General Nero and his command staff surveyed the damage.

  Bombassa had much respect for the man. Even in the Legion he’d been a feared and legendary combat commander. But he too had run afoul of the system in some way that remained nebulous. And now, here he was. He’d jumped in with the troops. Less like a general, and more like a real leader.

  “You got to admire that man,” Bombassa said in his low, deep voice. The troopers in his section didn’t reply. They’d learned that Bombassa was the quiet type. They’d been through six months’ training on Tusca at the fort out in the wastes in order to be turned into a high-speed, low-drag fighting unit. But unlike the legionnaires, the shock troopers had small talk drilled right out of them by the almost malevolent cadre of TACs and scarred drill sergeants who ran the sadistic training regimen. Rumors were that many of them were Tyrallian war criminals. NCOs who’d fought at places like the Sayed Massacre and the Maraan Slaughterhouse.

  When the crew-served N-50 was secured and manned, Bombassa caught sight of his LT huddled around some commandeered supply sleds with the rest of the command staff.

  “What do you think is next?” asked TAF44.

  Bombassa knelt down and laid his subcompact assault blaster on the ground. He switched off night vision on his bucket because there was enough light from the security illumination this close to the guard station. Instinctively he began to disassemble his brand-new but recently well-used weapon for a quick field cleaning.

  TAF44 took a knee and watched the horizon, taking in the gate, the other troopers, and the most likely avenue from which enemy contact would come next.

  This too had been drilled into them, not unlike the Legion. No moment was ever wasted in the shock troops. Even when making seemingly idle chatter.

  Bombassa disconnected the short barrel from the lower receiver of the blaster and laid that aside. “Counterattack is what the plan calls for,” he said in a low voice. “But there were provisions for targets of opportunity… so maybe that’s what they’re discussing for us next.”

  Taking the lower receiver, he delicately teased out the firing crystal and assessed it. The HUD in his bucket recommended replacing; it had seen a lot of action in just the short time he’d been using it across the shipyard. Bombassa had double-tapped maybe twenty workers—third shifters who’d had no idea what was happening—and had then gotten, all alone, into a serious firefight with three Repub marines who’d inked up. They were all dead now somewhere in the dark of the shipyard.

  A couple more firefights followed that, and finally the big shootout at the gate. So yeah, this crystal was done.

  He swapped it out.

  “You still good with all this, Sergeant?”

  The question was informal. The man had used only his rank. That bit of unofficial protocol had developed all on its own, and the TACs and drills hadn’t seemed to mind it much. Or at least, there’d never been any kind of official memo or punishment-based reinforcement training saying they’d couldn’t.

  “Good with what?” asked Bombassa delicately. But he knew. He knew what the other trooper was asking. He was just unsure why.

  But here was the problem—at least to Bombassa. This new thing, whatever it was, was different than everything they’d known back in the Republic, and the Legion. Sure, everyone had complained about the Republic. And maybe that had even affected any supposed chances one might have had of climbing up the nebulous ladder of the Republic’s arcane social structure.

  But this new organization… the shock troopers and the fleet. They’d all signed on because they weren’t just going to take back the Republic from the House of Reason and all the cronies and phonies who ran it for themselves. They’d been promised something new. Something like nothing the galaxy had ever seen before.

  And whatever this new was… it didn’t like criticism.

  It liked unity. It liked purpose. It liked accomplishment. But in the few examples, and stark ones they had been, that had occurred since they’d all begun to train out there in the salt and burning iron wastes of Tusca, that one silent message had come through loud and clear to everyone.

  This new thing doesn’t like to be criticized.

  The first example had taken place early on. Before they’d been given identifiers. When they’d all been known merely as recruits. “Re-cruits.” Said like it was a dirty word.

  One of their own had left a nasty message about the harsh conditions and pointed out the brutal nature of one TAC in particular. Ellersdurf. A brutal malevolent bullpig of a man who always carried a flat rubber strip to slap people with.

  Within two hours of first formation the next morning, the offender had been dragged from their ranks and whipped without mercy. Whipped. Who’d ever heard of such a thing? In the modern age of a galactic republic… who’d ever heard of a man being whipped? Flogged within an inch of his life, really? Who’d ever even heard of such a thing?

  And yet they’d all seen it.

  And then they’d dragged the lifeless wreck of blood and torn flesh away, and he’d never been among their ranks again.

  There had been other incidents. Nothing had escaped the constant surveillance of their leaders, and implementers, of this grand new military force. They must’ve had eyes and ears everywhere. Because nothing got by them. Nothing went un-noted, and especially, nothing went unpunished.

  So when TAF44 asked if Bombassa was “good with all this”… well, how does one answer? thought Bombassa to himself. One knows how one once might’ve answered a soldier’s simple ironic complaint, or question, about the powers that be and their approach to the mission. The proper response must’ve been as old as time immemorial: complaining, and yet still getting the job done. That had always ever been the soldier’s lot. To complain.

  But not here.

  Motivation here wasn’t just defined as high or low. Here, in the shock troopers at least… it was akin to a cult. Sacred. Holy. Revered.

  Without question.

  “It’s all good with me, 44,” replied Bombassa wisely.

  That was the smart answer.

  Anything else was taking your life in your hands. Because who could know for sure that 44 wasn’t some kind of informer? A member of some kind of secret police no one knew about, inserted within the ranks of the shock troopers. A thought police to police the thoughts, and loyalties, of them all—in order to keep the motivation high. And the mission on point.

  Then again, maybe it was just a soldier’s question about the big picture, and the meaning of it all. Maybe it was just conversation in the dark after a night of killing.

  Maybe the guy was just dealing with all that
had been done.

  Who knew?

  The LT came toward them now. He was circling his fist while tapping something into his field datapad. Bombassa had finished cleaning his weapons, so he fitted the barrel back onto the lower receiver and gave it a twist so that it locked into place. He ran a quick systems check and rallied with the LT a moment later.

  “Listen up, Big Man.” Big Man was what the LT who’d been a Legion officer called Bombassa. Bombassa liked the LT. He was sure he’d been in the scouts back in the Legion, so that made him good at craft. “I need you to follow the other NCOs over to the shipyard motor pool and grab us three vehicles. We’ve been tasked. We’re gonna try and grab a high-value target of opportunity before the Repub can pull him off Tarrago.”

  “Can do, sir,” replied Bombassa. The sadistic TACs had liked that. Liked when orders were responded to with that phrase. It was rapidly, if not already, becoming unofficial SOP. Standard Operating Procedure.

  “KTF, Big Man.”

  There was a pause.

  “We don’t do that anymore, sir,” replied Bombassa jokingly. He hoped… jokingly.

  The LT laughed. Bombassa could tell his officer was pumped for this mission. The guy was a killer. And a good leader. So of course he wasn’t part of the Thought Police that didn’t exist. Probably. Hopefully.

  So there was that, and the implications of all things being more than what they seemed. And yet, to Bombassa, doing something new… was worth it. At least for now. As long as he never had to go back to Kimshana. Cursed may it be.

  Eastern Gun Bore

  Fortress Omicron

  0529 Local System Time

  Goth Sullus was on his feet. There was a hole in his armor where the surge shotgun had blasted him at point-blank range. A small flow of blood seeped through the armor’s opening and trickled down his side, leaving round splatters on the deck of the eastern wall.