Even Villeneuve didn’t know most of the details of the Weber Protocols. Even at Phase Two, the preparations were organized on a cell basis. The Protocols were a precursor to defeat or surrender—but Phase Two, at least, was reversible.
At Phase Three, those cells started pulling holes closed behind themselves and the scientists they’d taken with them—often with explosions. He and Casimir had discussed it over the last month as well—at Phase Three, all records that BugWorks had ever existed would be wiped—and the station itself would be abandoned and destroyed.
Once Phase Three was done, the United Earth Space Force would have destroyed itself. Phase Two was bad enough, but in this situation it could only be the first step.
Mandela swallowed but nodded firmly. “It will be done.”
“I’ll go talk to the Council,” Villeneuve told the younger man. “I can activate Phase Two, but everything after that is up to them.”
#
The Chief of Operations of the United Earth Space Force entered his office next to the command center and threw up the video conference onto the walls around him. The argument he expected was already ongoing.
“We cannot blithely surrender Earth to invading monsters!” the American Councilor was bellowing. “My president will not permit this council to so blatantly betray its purpose.”
“And what will you do when the rest of the world kneels to reality?” the Chinese Councilor replied. “Rely on farmers with guns to stop orbital bombardments?”
“Perhaps we should ask Admiral Villeneuve his opinion,” the English Councilor interjected, quelling her compatriots.
There were twelve members on the Governing Council. Like the UN Security Council it had grown out of, there were permanent seats for China, Russia, England and the US. Franco-Germany and South Africa had claimed permanents seats on the new body—in exchange for vast quantities of money and manpower for the initial Space Force. The other six rotated through the other nations, all of whom supplied at least some of the resources for Sol’s defense.
Resources they were now learning were vastly insufficient.
“I have no desire to add my name to Marshal Pétain’s on the list of French commanders to resign in the face of overwhelming force,” Villeneuve said quietly. “But you pay me for honest advice. The United Earth Space Force lacks the resources to withstand this enemy. The lightest of the warships we face, assuming any rational balance of technology versus a galactic empire, can likely destroy our entire fleet.
“We cannot hold. I have already ordered the initiation of the first phases of the Weber Protocols.”
“We just signed off on a ten-trillion-dollar modernization program,” the American Councilor snapped. “I expect better than ‘we lack the resources,’ Admiral!”
“Tornado is the only truly modern ship in the Space Force,” the Admiral replied. “Alpha Squadron and her escorts have been updated with interface missile launchers, and the battleships have been fitted with compressed matter–laced armor plating over critical components.
“The rest of the UESF…is worse than useless,” Villeneuve said quietly. “If you order it, Alpha Squadron and Tornado will engage these A-tuck-Tol.” He did his best to imitate the clicking sound used by the alien. “I will resign my commission before I will order the other squadrons into battle. Without interface drives, interface missiles or compressed-matter armor, it would be murder.”
The Council was silent. Finally, the Franco-German Councilor leaned forward into his camera.
“N’abandonne pas,” he said finally. “This Council, the Space Force—we were created to guard the peace of Terra in the face of threats both internal and external. We cannot, Admiral, throw down our swords without at least trying.”
“We will fail,” Villeneuve told him. His words fell like anvils into the silence, and he knew the Councilors already knew. “Our men will die for nothing. For that matter, Councilors, you all stand to benefit if these A-tuck-Tol incorporate our current structures into their colonial government.”
The Councilors were silent again, glancing at each other, until the South African Councilor sighed and shrugged. She was an attractive black woman that Villeneuve had known for years.
“Many of our countries have suffered under human colonial regimes,” she said flatly. “We would betray our people, our oaths, our nations to kneel before an alien conqueror. Fight, Admiral. We understand the likelihood of victory, but we must stand regardless.”
Villeneuve bowed his head. He’d worried they hadn’t understood. They had. They just didn’t see a choice. And unless he was willing to mutiny to surrender, that meant he would send his people to a war they couldn’t win.
“In that case, Councilors, I request authorization to fully activate the Weber Protocols.”
Chapter 7
Keeping pace with the fusion torch battleships of Alpha Squadron was painful. Left to her own devices, Tornado could have intercepted the A!Tol ships dozens of millions of kilometers away from Earth. Forced to stay with ships still operating under Newton’s laws—ships now burdened with tens of thousands of tons of armor they had never been designed to carry—meant they were going to cross paths with the aliens barely ten million kilometers from Earth.
The experimental cruiser’s bridge was silent. Annette had nothing to say, and her people went about their business in silence. More than anyone else in the system, this crew knew how hopeless the battle they were about to enter was.
“Ma’am,” Rolfson said quietly through her headset. “Raptor is moving. But she’s…”
Annette looked at what the tactical officer was seeing and sighed.
“Unmanned and unarmed,” she confirmed. “She’s operating under computer control—they’re going to drop her into the sun. We’re scuttling her, Harold.”
“Are we surrendering, then?” he asked.
“I don’t know. The deadline isn’t quite up yet.”
The aliens had slowed down as their deadline approached, staying outside the range at which they would be able to fire on Earth…assuming their missiles were comparable, at least. Alpha Squadron was cutting that distance, millions of kilometers now behind them as they closed on the aliens.
If even Vice Admiral Harrison knew what the plan was once they reached their own missile range—roughly ten million kilometers—she hadn’t shared it with anyone.
“Ma’am, we’re being looped in on a transmission from the Governing Council to the aliens,” Chan told her.
“Show it,” Annette ordered. Everyone knew they were at most ten minutes from a suicide charge. There was no point keeping secrets.
The main screen settled into an image, mostly likely computer assembled from multiple feeds, of all twelve members of the Governing Council sitting around a conference table facing a central camera.
“Tan!Shallegh,” the black woman in the center opened, nailing a guttural stop that almost perfectly matched the beak snap the alien had used. “We are the Governing Council of the United Earth Space Force, tasked by the people of this world to secure their peace and liberty against all threats.”
It seemed somehow right and perfect that a woman from a culture that had suffered from Earth’s own colonialism delivered the planet’s response to being asked to surrender to a new colonialism.
“You have asked us to kneel. You say it is for our own good,” she said flatly. “We have heard these words before, from the worst of our own. We have believed them in our own past, and millions have suffered for it.
“This world is ours. We will not kneel. Leave or be driven from this place.”
The screen cut to darkness and Annette swallowed hard.
“That’s it, then,” she told her people. “Stand by all weapons systems. Prepare to bring the drive to full power—I don’t know what the plan is yet, but we sacrifice our greatest strength if we stick to a ballistic course.”
A moment later, a note dropped onto Annette’s console telling her she had a direct link from the f
lagship—and Orbit One.
The command headset came with a fold-down screen that fitted over her eyes, providing a mostly private method of conversation if the Captain was quiet. It wasn’t perfect—for real privacy, she would have to leave the bridge—but it was the best she was going to get in a battle.
The link resolved into two images, one of Admiral Villeneuve in an office above the main command center—behind him she could see the big amphitheater through the glass—and the other of Vice Admiral Harrison on her flag bridge, wearing an identical headset to the one Annette wore.
“Admiral, Captain,” Villeneuve greeted them. “Your orders, as approved by the Governing Council, are to make a high-speed pass of the A-tuck-Tol,” the Admiral had a lot more trouble pronouncing the click than the South African Councilor had, “force and hit them with as many missiles as you can deploy. Admiral Harrison”—he sighed—“you are to close and attempt to force a point-blank engagement with your heavy lasers as well. With their likely maneuverability, that will be difficult, but your lasers are the second most powerful weapons we have available.”
“I understand, Admiral,” Harrison replied, her voice surprisingly level for a woman who had to know she’d just been condemned to death. “We will do you proud.”
“So you both know, and you are authorized to share this with your crews if you choose, we have activated the full Weber Protocols,” Villeneuve said quietly. “Research facilities are being evacuated and set for demolition across the star system. Even I don’t know where any of the backup facilities are. We are preparing for a resistance—but we need to know as much about our conquerors as we can learn.”
“That seems doomed to failure, sir,” Annette told him, her voice even quieter than needed to keep the conversation private. “Without a space force, without ships, what can that resistance accomplish?”
“Which brings me to your mission, Captain Bond,” the Admiral replied. “You’re familiar with the concept of a letter of marque?”
“Authorizing a privateer, yes,” she confirmed, wondering where he was going.
“You possess the only armed hyperspace-capable ship in this star system,” he explained. “While you will join Alpha Squadron in the initial missile engagement, you will not close to laser range. You will pass the A-tuck-Tol force and enter hyperspace. From there…” He sighed again. “From there, I must leave what to do to your discretion, Captain, but we will shortly be tightbeaming you everything Dark Eye has picked up in the last twenty years. Hopefully, you’ll find something of use.
“Attack their shipping. Steal their technology. Learn their weaknesses—find a way to free our world.”
Annette stared at him in silence for a long moment. The mission sounded like a nightmare—operating with no logistics, no support, in the service of a fallen world. She saw no end to it but her death and the death of her crew—but her gaze was drawn to Admiral Harrison.
Alpha Squadron was being asked to die to cover her escape. Harrison hadn’t hesitated for a second to accept that fate.
Could she do any less?
“I’ll make it happen,” she promised. “Somehow.”
“Good luck, Captain, Admiral,” Villeneuve said softly. “May God go with you.”
#
The Governing Council may have rejected the A!Tol ultimatum, but the alien fleet seemed entirely unbothered by the approach of the Terran battleships and their escorts. They moved back up to ten percent of lightspeed, closing the distance between themselves and Alpha Squadron at a mind-boggling rate.
The six fusion torch battleships had pushed their rockets and artificial gravity as hard as they could but still had built up barely a twentieth of the velocity of the alien force. The accompanying dozen fusion cruisers could have pushed a bit harder, but unlike the battleships, they had no compressed-matter armor. Just interface missiles.
Tornado followed the older ships, fifty thousand kilometers above them and struggling to stay slow enough to match their speed. The moment would come for Annette to fully unleash her ship’s capabilities, but that time would be after the fight was joined.
Every one of the “stopgap” interface drive missiles—built into chassis far larger than needed to allow the older ships to launch them—had been loaded onto Alpha Squadron. The nineteen ships under Admiral Harrison’s command were the only vessels with even the slightest chance of standing up to the aliens.
“They’re not breaking off,” someone reported on the command channel linking all nineteen ships. “Do we order them away or…”
“No,” Harrison said firmly. “We fire at eight million kilometers or when they do. No more warnings.”
Rolfson was paying attention, as a timer and distance counter to that line in the sand appeared on the main viewscreen. Not even two minutes.
“Amandine,” Annette called. “I want a two-light-year hyperspace run plotted before we even open fire.”
“Already done, ma’am,” he replied instantly. “I have courses for one through twelve light-years, opening the portal one million kilometers past the A-tuck-Tol.”
“Well done,” she told him. In other circumstances, his prompt competence would have earned an attempt at a smile. Not today. Not when everything was coming apart.
“Chan, have we received a data dump from Command?”
“We’ve got six,” the comms officer replied. “One from Orbit One, four from different Dark Eye platforms. Sixth looks to be from BugWorks. All are finished downloading but are encrypted and require your code for access.”
“Good. Rolfson.” Annette turned to her tactical officer. “No pussyfooting around with these bastards, but I don’t want to use more than ten percent of our ammo.”
“That won’t go far,” he warned. “Ten salvos, that’s it.”
“I know.” She shrugged. “I have no idea when we’ll be able to rearm, though. Pick one of the cruisers and dump full salvos into it until we have an idea of just how much compressed-matter armor the assholes have.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Annette glanced at the timer. The A!Tol were maneuvering to open up their formation. The smallest ships were dropping back—definitely transports of some kind—while the cruisers and battlewagons were clearing their lines of fire. Even the Terrans had been in range for a while now, so she was sure the tentacle freaks had ranged on them a while back.
“Specified engagement range in ten seconds,” Rolfson reported. “Bogey C-Five is dialed in.”
Annette leaned back in her command chair and rotated her own personal screen to show her Earth. As the last few seconds ticked away, she took a last long look at her homeworld.
#
The Terran battleships fired first. Despite being built for a combat environment where weapons that weren’t facing the enemy was useless, the ships were smaller than Tornado and only carried four launchers in each broadside.
Of course, they had four of those side-mounted weapons batteries—and interface missiles didn’t need the extra velocity the launchers provided. Each of the six battleships launched sixteen missiles, followed by eight from each of the old cruisers. Tornado added her own twenty-four missiles, and a torrent of unspeakably fast weapons streamed toward the invaders.
Those invaders seemed remarkably unperturbed. Long seconds passed as missiles flashed across space at sixty percent of lightspeed—and then, finally, as if sighing in disgust at the foolish barbarians, the A!Tol responded.
Tornado’s sensors proved unable to resolve individual missiles in the swarm that emerged from the alien ships. Hundreds of weapons came swarming out—moving at seventy-five percent of lightspeed.
“Take us to maximum velocity and start evasive maneuvers,” Annette ordered, her voice cold. Alpha Squadron was doomed. Even Tornado might not survive what was coming—and the alien missiles would hit before the Terran weapons.
“Rolfson, engage incoming missiles with the lasers,” she continued. Tornado’s lasers, big and small, had been explicitly designed wi
th the sensors and mobility to target weapons significantly faster that her own. Thankfully, Alpha Squadron had received many of those same upgrades.
“Amandine…” Annette paused and swallowed hard. “Set course for your hyperspace entry point.”
There were no acknowledgements, but she saw her people set to their tasks. The fusion torch ships couldn’t match Tornado’s maneuvers. All she could do for Alpha Squadron was pray.
Lasers flashed in space, vast amounts of energy lashing out at the inbound missiles. Some died. Most didn’t.
Tornado lurched as missiles struck home. Her artificial gravity hadn’t needed the overpowered generators the other warships used to avoid their acceleration—which meant far too much of the impact made it through.
Annette was hammered into her safety straps, cursing as the tight fabric cut into her.
“Status report!” she snapped.
“We’re still here,” Kurzman said in her ear. “Minor fractures along the plate lines; damage control is on it.” He paused. “Ma’am, we took six point-seven-five-cee kinetic hits. That’s incredible.”
“Not enough,” she said quietly. “What’s Alpha Squadron’s status?”
“The cruisers are gone,” he replied sadly. “So are two of the battleships. Challenger survived; they continue to fire.”
Annette blinked. She’d expected to hear that Admiral Harrison’s force was gone. The armor plating had done even better than they’d dare hope. Despite the hammering, four battleships had survived and continued to spit fire at the aliens.
Now it was Earth’s turn and she focused her attention back on the screens, focusing on Tornado’s salvo as it crashed down on one of the mid-sized vessels the UESF had labeled cruisers.
The Terran Privateer Page 5