Ashes of Freedom

by K. J. Coble

  “Are you suggesting we scrap the offensive?” the HaustMarshal asked as she reached her office door. It slid open with a whisk of lubricated alloy.

  “I am suggesting postponement,” Dramen-Singlo replied.

  Tan-Ezatz entered her office. The chamber was large, boasting broad holographic maps and readouts, a wide desk, a long, rectangular conference table and a wall-sized work of art she’d appropriated from the rubble of the former planetary Governor’s mansion. Korvans, as a people, tended to prefer spartan living and working arrangements. Materialism was a weakness for races not blessed with a cybernetic racial memory of a thousand-thousand lifetimes. But Tan-Ezatz was old and a very senior officer and allowed the odd...quirk.

  HaustCommandant Bakta sat at the conference table, a broad-shouldered, wall of Korvan with the pinkish pale skin common of their race, data jack studs glinting along the base of his bare skull, and blotches of old scar across his forehead. The simple, monk black of his tunic had no pins of rank, no wasteful adornment that might be found on a worm uniform. His eyes met hers, an accident rather than an acknowledgement.

  “I don’t like it,” Bakta said in response to Dramen-Singlo. “Postponing the southward drive twenty-two months ago cost us heavily, even though Mondanberg surrendered without a fight. I think you underestimate the worms’ resolve.”

  “Just the opposite,” Dramen-Singlo replied. “The worms, well entrenched and with good numbers on their side are a considerable foe. All the more reason to hold off until we can muster an overwhelming force.”

  “An overwhelming force is not something we’re likely to possess on this world again,” Tan-Ezatz said, sitting down across the table from Bakta. “I don’t think I need to remind any of you that there are eighteen million worms on this world as opposed to our seven-hundred thousand. Surprise and initiative are critical.”

  “Neither of which we are guaranteed, especially after last night,” Dramen-Singlo said.

  “If we moved quickly, they would be,” Bakta replied before Tan-Ezatz had framed a response. “I estimate the addition of the 10th Ground Strike Division to the offensive could compensate the loss of aerospace assets.”

  Dramen-Singlo’s outrage snapped across the Awareness. “You cannot be serious. The Coreal Valley Military District is still an active sector. Stripping our garrisons here would encourage untold uprising.”

  On that point Tan-Ezatz had to concede. Control of the Coreal Valley was held together by thin strings of outposts, kept in supply by precarious cross-country rail-lines left over from the days of worm rule. The unruly region was far from pacified.

  “How long a postponement do you suggest, HaustCommandant?” she asked, felt a dull ache building in the rear of her skull. The old weariness haunted her often, anymore, pain in the bones, in the imperfect seams between organic tissue and cybernetic alloy.

  “Eleven months, HaustMarshal,” he answered. “By then, we will have diverted forces from the north and harvested additional Minrohausts. Perhaps we will even have reinforcements, by then.”

  Not likely. “So it is to be a Winter Offensive, then?”

  “Yes.”

  Tan-Ezatz sensed the pressing will of the senior commanders. The pain in her bones grew, buzzing behind her eyes.

  “I will consider it.”

  A flicker of relief issued from Dramen-Singlo and some of the other officers. For an instant, she tried recall the days when Korvan commanders had schemed, politicked, even begged for the chance to attack. Now they scrambled for more time, for hope when the Universe had none left to offer. The specter of defeat hovered at her shoulder, whispered cold truth. She shook herself mentally, ground the thoughts into her subconscious where they could not reach her.

  “Prepare contingency plans for a Winter Offensive,” Tan-Ezatz said to her officers. “We will determine their viability and come to a final decision, then. Does anyone have something new to present?”

  She tasted a swirl of apprehension and relief across the Awareness. The HaustMarshal wanted to spit.

  “Good day to you, then, Hausts.”

  The pressure of other minds cleared from Tan-Ezatz’s mind.

  Silence. It was not something a Korvan often appreciated, with the ever-present voice of the Awareness. But neither external sound nor thought pierced Tan-Ezatz’s consciousness for several full seconds. Bakta, familiar with his commander’s moods, let the silence drag.

  “They’re scared,” Tan-Ezatz said finally. “I never thought to sense such fear in Korvans.”

  “Dramen-Singlo is a coward.” Bakta’s thoughts burned with contempt. “Without his bleating, the others would be less daring. On Homeworld, the Omniptorate would already have stripped him of his rank, perhaps even expelled him from the genotype. You should consider his removal.”

  “We cannot afford a shakedown at this point,” Tan-Ezatz replied, allowing the slightest hint of exasperation. Bakta was a tremendous Chief-of-Staff and a soldier, but a HaustMarshal had to consider the political. “Morale remains good, but only tenuously so. Re-organization after last night’s defeat stands a strong chance of imperiling that. And the Dramen-Singlo genotype is not without its influence.”

  “He schemes against you.”

  Tan-Ezatz did not respond. She alone on Lurinari—not Bakta, not anyone—had the rank to truly know the labyrinthine plots and subplots twisting through Dramen-Singlo’s mind, know the cesspool of insecurity, fear and paranoia festering just beneath. But she could not fear him any more than she could allow herself to fear the mere HaustLieutenant in the field, cursing her name across the Awareness as his unit was committed to battle.

  Bakta’s tone relented. “So, we’re going to scrap the Spring Offensive?”

  “We may have no choice,” Tan-Ezatz answered. “They have a point. Without aerospace control, the attack becomes a gamble.”

  Of course, it had always been a gamble, even prior to the disaster of the worm orbital raid. But she was a gambler by nature, known to ignore advice, estimates, tables and analysis. It was how she’d reached her hallowed rank, what made her Tan-Ezatz, HaustMarshal and individual.

  “If you think so.” Bakta most obviously did not.

  “This subject pains me, and I have enough aches,” Tan-Ezatz said. “We will think on this no more today. What other annoyances have you lined up for me, this morning, Bakta?”

  The HaustMarshal knew quite well what need done this day, could access it most easily in the databanks of the Awareness or her own onboard AI. But a good Chief-of-Staff could judge the ebb and flow of a commander’s tolerances far better than any computer algorithm and from that adjust a schedule or workload.

  “Meeting with Orbital Defense. Then, Logistics and Supply. The worm Governor, Kavanaugh, is here to plead again. And there is the matter of HaustColonel Zarven.”

  Zarven. I almost forgot that headache.

  Tan-Ezatz leaned forward, elbows to the table where they could support her weight. “Zarven first. The others can wait. And I’d like to be alone and undisturbed for at least an hour, Bakta.”

  “Certainly.” Bakta rose and strode around the table. On his way to the exit, he brushed her shoulder with a hand. A needless gesture of tangible comfort and a mortal offense if undesired. But Tan-Ezatz and her Chief-of-Staff were old comrades, indeed, and intimate on...many levels.

  The door hissed shut behind him.

  Tan-Ezatz let her eyes wander from the featureless top of the conference table to the work of art across the wall. Holo Sculpture, pure holographic expression, in this case, a re-interpretation of the ancient earth myth of Lucifer’s expulsion from Heaven by a local artist.

  Swirls of cloud kicked into lightning-shot fury by swarms of sword-armed angels who dueled across the tormented sky with fork-tongued demons. The piece never looked the same, changing dependent on the angle at which it was viewed, the time of day, even the nature of the person viewing it.

  If Tan-Ezatz looked at it long enough, the angels and devils beca
me starfighters in a dogfight across the stars.

  HAUSTColonel Zarven was the essence of flamboyance. Two and a half meters tall, he would already be difficult to ignore with a broad, wedge-shaped upper body and massive fists that looked capable of doing grievous damage. He wore regulation black marred by fiery red trim, epaulettes glittering with a row of three diamond patterns of his rank across each, and a high collar highlighted by twin ruby skulls that seemed to mock Tan-Ezatz with their flashing grins.

  The emblem of the Omniptorate Special Commandos.

  And there was his smile. Amongst a race to which outward displays of emotion were not just useless, but discouraged, the expression wrinkling his broad-jawed, scarred visage was nothing less than arrogant defiance.

  But none of these things was as disturbing as the fact that when Tan-Ezatz looked at the man, when she reached out her mind to touch his, she found nothing. Not a blank, not a mind wiped of content. Nothing. A null, as if the man before her was not there, was, for lack of a better term, dead to her. Such was the power of the Omniptorate. Its lowliest member could not be probed, could shield their mind from even the highest scrutiny not brought from within their own Order.

  Of course, she had sensed his presence, in a way. A ripple of fear passed through the Awareness wherever the Omniptorate went, a shock wave shuddering through Korvan minds as they passed.

  Tan-Ezatz allowed a long enough pause for composure. Her rank kept her free of Omniptorate screening and only a mandate directly from the Uberminds on Homeworld could override that. But you never really knew.

  “HaustColonel, welcome to Lurinari.”

  “Thank you, HaustMarshal. A pleasure to be here.” His words felt blank, without inflection or the faintest hint of emotion.

  “I apologize for the rough nature of your arrival,” she said. “The worms have no sense of timing.” Zarven and his 18th Special Commando Battalion had been in the last stages of shuttling down from the corvettes that had ferried them in-system when the worms struck.

  He laughed out loud, a booming noise, startling not only because of its volume but because it shattered the serenity of the chamber. For a moment, Tan-Ezatz thought he might be brazen enough to speak out loud, as well.

  “Quite all right.” Zarven’s words carried politely across the Awareness, though it was clear in them that he sensed the senior officer’s discomfort. “My command is groundside and safe. Any lost material can be replaced.”

  “Excellent,” Tan-Ezatz said. She paused again. It was infuriating that she could not sense, not know what went on behind Zarven’s challenging blue eyes. She was forced to concede it frightened her. “Before we begin, HaustColonel, I must ask if you have any Special Orders for me from Homeworld?”

  Zarven’s smile remained in place but changed.

  The bastard’s enjoying this.

  “No, I have none,” Zarven said after a pause that could not be an accident. “I and my command are here at your request.”

  “Most excellent.” Tan-Ezatz forced relaxation before she continued. “I trust you have reviewed our situation on Lurinari?”

  “I have. Not uncommon, unfortunately, among our occupied worlds. Although the level of destabilization is decidedly more critical here. Pacification appears to have been considerable less thorough.”

  “Many of the occupied worlds are frontier planets with sparse populations,” Tan-Ezatz said. “Lurinari had twenty-four million when we first landed. We had to kill or harvest twenty-five percent of the inhabitants just to get this far. It’s an ugly war, HaustColonel.”

  “No disrespect intended,” Zarven said, his words annoying because Tan-Ezatz was not aware that she’d allowed her irritation to show. “Merely an observation. In fact, I look forward to the challenge.”

  Meeting Zarven’s gaze, Tan-Ezatz could not escape the sensation of viewing something feral. Part of her recalled that the Zarven genotype was known for curious mutations—one of the reasons the strain was tolerated. More often than not, products of the Zarven line were purged for exceeded racial tolerances. Occasionally, it produced officers noted for eccentricity. Once in a while, it produced something extraordinary.

  “You will operate in the Coreal Valley,” Tan-Ezatz said as one of the holographic displays on the wall came to life with a map of the region. She savored a surge of wicked pleasure when she thought of Dramen-Singlo hosting a battalion of the Omniptorate’s hand-picked thugs. Little victories...

  “We seized this sector twenty-two months and four days ago. Some of the worst resistance came from natives of the valley who disbanded into the forests and mountains days prior to Mondanberg’s surrender. They have proven to be very devious worms, indeed.”

  “The valley is held under sway by our outposts throughout the region, by the railroads, by traffic along the Estrek River, and by the cooperation of the ‘collaborator’ factions we’ve turned into something like a worm government in the major settlements. In the last ten months, however, escalating partisan activity has come to threaten this co-existence. The rail-lines have been cut repeatedly and the work-crews sent to repair them ambushed. Patrols have been attacked; outposts bombed. Assassination has taken its toll on leading collaborator citizens and recently we’ve even found mines planted in the river. Taken separately, these are annoyances. They are fleabites—worm-bites, if you will. Together, they constitute a growing epidemic.”

  Tan-Ezatz folded her hands before her on her desk, as if doing so would help her order her thoughts. “I have seen this on other worlds. Ground Strike Divisions are superb tools of conquest but they are sledgehammers, not fine tools. Legions of Minrohausts are ill-suited to the task of counter-insurgency.

  “You have free reign, HaustColonel. Kill the worms. Find their holes and burn them out. Put the entire valley to the sword, if you must.

  “Pacify.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The band of partisans moved through the forest at a smooth but cautious pace, hardly more noticeable than a breeze gently stirring tree and shrub.

  Sandy Schweppenberg had point, eyeing, then deciding to avoid a narrow trail worn by a rahillabuy—the lithe herbivores one of the few species to actually thrive alongside Coalition colonization, with their natural predators hunted nearly to extinction. Sunlight cut beams through the trees, hot on her back. The stink of sweat dampening the inside of her hide jacket touched her nostrils.

  She moved in quick bursts, low to the ground, her battered rifle nearly dragging the dirt. Her head and eyes panned sharply about, the motions of a hunted animal. This was dangerous land, swept often by Invader patrols. Why the Coalition had inserted their offworld spy-man here eluded her logic and angered her because it risked them all.

  He’d better be worth it.

  Sandy halted by a large evergreen, sinking low amongst brambles. She eyed her surroundings, cautious for sudden motion that might give away ambush. She hated moving during daylight. So easy to be spotted.

  The wind blew, a cool breath chilling her damp clothes. The sun passed behind a cloud, the forest dimming for a moment. She waited. Light returned a minute later, bringing the terrain back into sharp detail.

  She raised her hand and gestured for the next guerilla in line to come up. They all took turns at point, one hour shifts to keep each sharp. Each was trusted, had survived this region and this war longer than most. All except the offworlder. He they kept in the center, unfamiliar with the ground, a danger, a risk.

  She sensed her replacement’s approach more than heard it. She caught a shadow in her peripheral vision, felt a hand pressed to her back. She touched the fingers with her own, patted them. Sandy risked a glance over her shoulder to smile at her twin sister before she took over the lead position.

  Cynthia Schweppenberg wore hides similar to Sandy’s, the speckles of white over greens and browns blending quickly into the forest as she moved ahead. Her hood lay back and she wore a battered Militia cap with earflaps, leftover from the days when Lurinari had a Defense Force. B
raided auburn locks poked out from beneath the hat.

  Cynthia carried a drum-fed submachine gun, was a terrible shot compared to her twin. The light rounds had a poor chance against body armor, but if the air was full of them, one was likely to find a soft spot.

  The rest of the group moved by Sandy, shadows and sounds. She heard the offworlder, cursed the noise of his gear, the tear of fabric snagged on spine-root, the weary cadence of his breathing. She turned to watch him go by, determined to scowl, to let him know how much he endangered her and her comrades.

  He was a tall man, this Crozier, big with muscle and a layer of subcutaneous fat that bespoke regular meals and time to let them settle. He clutched his modern blaster weapon tightly, almost protectively. She marveled at the way his fatigues, battle armor, even the bulbous helmet matched their surroundings. She had seen similar gear on the Invaders but dared not scavenge it off their dead—even the uniforms could be traced, a fact many partisans had discovered too late in the early days.

  The spy-man’s movements were uncertain with fatigue and soreness, his frame and reflexes still unaccustomed to Lurinari’s pull. She’d seen it on offworlders often enough. The first few weeks would exhaust him, but he’d soon shed the excess, weather down to a sharp point like all of them.

  Or he’d die. She’d seen that often enough, too.

  The helm visor hid his eyes, but the rest of his face was visible, tan and darkened further with stubble across a hard-looking jaw. A drop of sweat fell from his broad nose. As he stepped by, he smiled at her, teeth even and white enough to draw admiration and envy.

  Sandy’s anger with him grew as the gesture of human friendliness drew a reflexive smile in response, gapped and yellowing. Her grin became a snarl as he passed. Shame at her state tingled in her chest, and rage that he made her feel so, reminded her of her filth, reminded her that she was less than a woman.

  But, as she took her place at the rear of the band—no less nerve-racking, as she had to be wary of pursuit—she could not shake a new feeling worming its way up into her heart.