Winds of Vengeance

by Jay Allan

  “Defensive batteries…open fire.”

  She could hear the distant hum in the background, Compton’s reactor feeding power to the needle guns, the high-powered lasers designed primarily as an anti-missile defense. The ship’s AI would normally give the authorization to fire, but Frette was old school—a dinosaur in the eyes of many of her people. Whatever the younger officers thought, she wasn’t ready to abrogate her authority to some pile of quantum computer circuits, no matter how sophisticated…especially after she’d spent years fighting against the artificial intelligences and robots of the First Imperium.

  The needle guns were rapid fire weapons, shooting bursts of concentrated light less than a millimeter in width, more than fifty times a second. Hits were largely ineffective against an armored warship’s hull, but they were more than adequate to slice into a missile, and disable its drive systems or cut open its warhead containment. The rapid rate of fire counterbalanced the extreme difficulty of targeting something as small as a missile, and the hundreds of shots it typically took to score one hit.

  Frette watched as the dots on the screen slowly winked out of existence, one at a time, as the immense barrage of the fleet’s point defense batteries fired again and again. The needle guns were a last ditch defense, their short range restricting them to a limited period of effectiveness, often as no more than one to two minutes before the missiles closed enough to begin detonating.

  The lasers had taken out two dozen missiles…and they were still firing. But Frette knew her defenses were running out of time. The warheads were moving toward the fleet at high velocity…and her own orders to accelerate toward the enemy were further reducing the time until detonation. Her ships had launched first, but now they would endure the enemy’s barrage before their own missiles launched their attacks.

  Her eyes darted to the secondary display. Her own wave of missiles was faring better than the enemy’s, almost one hundred twenty of them closing rapidly. The First Imperium point defense was as effective as hers…the difference was the fighters. She had them, and the enemy didn’t, and not for the first time since men engaged the First Imperium, the small, maneuverable craft were proving their worth.

  “All ships prepare for enemy missile detonations. Damage control crews on standby.” Thirty years before that order would have put dozens of ship crew on alert, ready to repair whatever damage their ships took from enemy missile detonations. Now, she knew, the scene down on the engineering decks was quite a different one. Even on Compton, there were only seven real engineers, plus a few techs assigned to damage control in battle. For the most part, the ‘hands’ that would work to keep her ships functioning in battle belonged to the legions of AI-controlled maintenance robots.

  Frette understood the reasons behind the automation…and she knew the bots could endure radiation, vacuum, and a whole list of other conditions that would kill her living, breathing crewmembers. But she didn’t like depending so much on machines and manufactured intelligences. It felt too close to the road the Ancients had gone down, the one that had led to their destruction…and unleashed the homicidal Regent on the universe.

  “All ships report ready for impact, Admiral. Twenty-one missiles still inbound.”

  Frette’s hands moved unconsciously toward her harness, checking that it was correctly fastened. War was a dangerous business, with enough unavoidable ways to get killed to add carelessness to the dangers stalking her. She’d seen too many comrades die or suffer terrible wounds from foolish nonsense. Like forgetting to strap in before battle.

  Her eyes were still fixed on the screen when the first of the small dots expanded, one of the missiles detonating. The circle was surrounded by concentric larger rings, each depicting the estimated areas of effect. The first circle—a sphere on the 3D display—was the kill zone, the volume of space where the heat and radiation was expected to destroy most vessels. It was a small volume, with a radius of perhaps one or two kilometers. The First Imperium’s antimatter missiles had a wider area of effect than the fusion warheads used by the humans, closer to two kilometers than one.

  But two kilometers was extremely close for combat taking place over areas of space measured in cubic light seconds, and most of the damage done by the missiles took place within the second zone, ranging out as far as three to four kilometers from the detonation. Here the damage was mostly caused by radiation, intense gamma rays slamming into ships, scrambling systems…and killing crew members. Missiles did destroy ships outright, there was even the occasional direct hit, which would vaporize even the largest battleship, but their primary purpose was to damage vessels and overload systems, just as a fleet was closing to energy weapons range.

  The third zone, the farthest line out, stretched out as much as seven or eight kilometers, a range at which residual radiation from the blasts could damage scanners and exterior-mounted systems. The damage suffered at this range was mostly easily repairable, though not necessarily in the few minutes ships had before the energy weapons opened up. Scragging a ship’s scanners right before the energy weapons fight could be the difference between victory and defeat.

  The screen lit up as more and more tiny dots grew into larger symbols surrounded by the wider circles. Frette gasped she saw one of the blue squares representing her ships caught in the first zone of one of the explosions. The icon stayed for a few seconds as the symbols representing the missile disappeared…but then it followed, winking out of view.

  Then Kemp’s voice, grim, somber, telling her what she already knew. “Evermore was destroyed, Admiral.”

  Frette nodded. It had been a long time since she’d watched ships die. A few had been lost fighting the waves of residual First Imperium forces, but those were her only experiences watching people she commanded die. She’d been too junior during the old fleet’s terrible battles, though she’d listened more than once as Erika had recounted stories from her flag bridge, guilt and sadness that had remained with her, despite her reputation as the coldest officer ever to mount an admiral’s station.

  “All ships, I want up to the moment damage reports.” There was no point in dwelling on Evermore. She was gone, along with Captain Hume and the sixty-one other members of her crew. That was one lesson Erika had beaten into her head. Forget the dead, there’s nothing you can do for them…and the living still need you.

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  Frette stared back at the display. Evermore had fallen to a lucky shot, and it was the only one of her ships to do so. Falcon and Greely were caught in the heavy impact zone and suffered significant radiation damage…and both ships reported fatalities as well. Frette could imagine the conditions on the two vessels, radiation everywhere, systems failing. Wounded crew lying in the compartments, struggling to reach the overloaded sickbays. She didn’t have complete casualty figures yet, but none of that mattered. Not yet, at least. Her mind was focused on only one thing…the firepower each of her ships had ready to go.

  “Falcon is reporting intermittent power drains, Admiral. Captain Swann is trying to keep his main batteries online.”

  “Very well, order Falcon to fall back out of the formation.” Doug Swann was a good officer, but he was very young, and he’d been Falcon’s captain for less than a month. She was confident he could complete repairs on his ship, but if the cruiser took more damage, it could end up a total loss.

  “Falcon dropping back, Admiral.”

  Frette stared at the display, at the last of the enemy missiles. Her eyes focused on one…heading directly toward Compton.

  “Full thrust, course 340.110.045!” She snapped her head around, staring at Kemp. “Now, Commander!”

  “Yes, Admiral.” Kemp was hunched over his board, punching at the controls.

  Frette leaned back in her chair. She could feel the faint sensation as the positioning thrusters spun Compton around, lining the ship up for the course she’d ordered. Then the roaring sound, the faint feeling of gee forces pushing beyond the dampeners’ ability to offset them.

/>   Her eyes were fixed on the screen, waiting for the detonation she knew was coming. She knew her ship was shifting, the heavy thrust altering its vector, pulling it out of the missiles’ trajectory…even as the weapon sought to match her move, to change its angle to intercept.

  This is going to be close…

  Then the antimatter warhead exploded, and ten gigatons of energy blasted out from where the missile had been…and right toward the republic’s flagship.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Special Order 9

  Maximillian Harmon, President, Republic of Earth Two

  All units of the First Marine Regiment are hereby ordered to proceed immediately to designated assembly point Alpha, in full armor and prepared to put down an insurrection in progress at the Cutter Research Compound. The enhanced hybrids, more commonly known as the Mules, are in armed rebellion, and they have refused multiple demands to surrender.

  All companies of First Battalion are to be equipped with stun guns and flashbang grenades. If at all possible, the citizens of the republic currently in rebellion are to be apprehended by non-lethal means and returned to Victory City to face trial and judgment.

  If the use of non-lethal weapons is insufficient to complete the mission while preserving the safety of Marine combatants, all units are to fall back to station Alpha and await authorization to attack utilizing standard weapons.

  Cutter Research Compound (Home of the Mules)

  Ten Kilometers West of Victory City, Earth Two

  Earth Two Date 11.26.30

  “President Harmon is trying to show you he doesn’t want this to go any further. Why else do you think he sent that transmission in the clear so you could receive it?” Cutter had been sitting on the sofa along one corner of the suite the Mules had provided for him. His creations were holding him against his will, but they’d treated him with the utmost respect and kindness.

  He’d been wracking his brain for ways to stop the tragedy he saw unfolding. Then Achilles came through the door. The Mule was calm, impressively so for the leader of a band of rebels about to be surrounded by a regiment of armored Marines.

  “Father, you know I respect you…we all respect you. But your attempts to advocate for President Harmon are clumsy, and they do not do your intellect justice. I know you feel we should have waited to take action, and I understand your motivations, the way your loyalties and opinions are divided. But we have waited twenty-five years, and our patience has only served to allow us to become further marginalized…and this despite the outsized contributions we have made to republic society.” Achilles walked across the room, sitting in a chair facing Cutter.

  “You speak well of the president, and indeed, I agree with you more than you know. Harmon is a good man, I do not question that. But you are as capable as I of analyzing conflicts beyond the primitive constructs of good and evil. Neither side in this impasse is evil. President Harmon has failed us out of weakness, not malice. He has allowed restrictions against us, humored the fear people feel of us, because it was expedient for him to do so. And unless we take action, there is little rational reason to believe that will change. And I reject the assertion that we are morally wrong in pursuing our most basic natural rights. Many claim we are arrogant, that we think ourselves more than human. But have we not been treated as less than human all these years?”

  Cutter wanted to answer, but he simply didn’t know what to say. He saw the Mules’ insurrection as a disaster, one that would damage, even destroy the republic. But he knew his creations had legitimate issues, that their complaints were valid. And it was inarguable they had been patient. How could he convince them after twenty-five years that waiting longer was the answer?

  “I know you feel what we are doing will harm the republic—and perhaps you are correct. But if the cost of preserving the republic is the sacrifice of our basic rights, indeed, if it is the controlled genocide of our people, that is too high a price to pay.”

  “I wish you would stop calling it genocide, Achilles. No one has harmed a single Mule.”

  “Your people are fond of superficiality, of exaggerating the importance of words while ignoring the realties at play. What group in human history would have tolerated a complete moratorium on their reproduction, on being condemned to age and die and disappear from the universe?”

  “And yet you say, ‘my people,’ as if you are something other. Can you not see in your own arrogance why people fear you? Can you honestly assert that you see in the population of Earth Two your fellow humans?”

  “We are what we are, Father. You created us not in the image of mankind, but as an improvement. That was your purpose, to develop beings better than men, was it not?”

  Cutter shook his head. “No…never when I was working on your people did I once consider them anything other than human. I wanted you to be smarter, less susceptible to illness and weakness, stronger. But I never intended for you to be different—much less to consider yourselves a superior race—any more than an athlete would view himself as a different lifeform than a physically weaker person.”

  “But we are not entirely human, Father. We carry the DNA of the Ancients.”

  “That DNA was already part of humanity, Achilles. The Ancients long ago engineered the chromosomes of mankind’s ancestors. I just continued with their work.”

  Achilles paused. “That changes nothing, Father. Whether we acknowledge our superiority or attempt to hide it, none of us have ever harmed anyone. We have done nothing but work tirelessly to unlock the secrets of the Ancients. Are we to be condemned to extinction because the others fear one day we may do something? Is there justice in that?”

  Cutter sighed. “No. How you have been treated is unjust. But you are giving President Harmon no choice, Achilles. He sympathizes with you…he feels regret and guilt for the Prohibition. But you are leaving him no alternative. He is a strong man, one who will do what he must, even if it goes against his own feelings.” Cutter shook his head. “He will crush your revolt with force if you leave him no choice. He won’t like it…but he will do it.”

  Achilles looked right at Cutter. “I hope not, Father. For we cannot back down. Here we stand, demanding justice, and without it we will never yield.” He paused. “And I fear you defend Harmon for doing as he must and yet deny us the same consideration. He may have the Marines at his disposal, but we are capable of defending ourselves.” He stared at Cutter. “More than capable.”

  Cutter was shaken by the coldness in Achilles’ tone, the absolutely certainty. “Achilles…”

  His words were cut off by a loud buzzing sound, an alarm. Then the com unit on Achilles’ collar buzzed.

  “Achilles, there are Marines approaching the compound. Five kilometers out. They appear to be moving to their flanks…it looks like they intend to surround us.”

  Cutter recognized the voice.

  Perseus. Another of Achilles’ inner circle…

  Achilles looked at Cutter for a few seconds before his eyes dropped down and he responded. “Very well…let them surround us. It only thins their line and makes them more vulnerable at any given point.” A pause. “Activate the defensive AI…and authorize the deployment of the bots.”

  “Achilles…”

  “I am sorry, Father. But we will not allow them to invade us, to turn us fully into slaves.” Achilles stood up and turned toward the door.

  “President Harmon will be fair…”

  “I cannot rely on that, Father. All I can say is we do not wish to harm any of them…and we will not be the first to attack.” An ominous tone crept into Achilles’ voice. “But if we are compelled to defend ourselves, we will do whatever we are forced to do…even if we have to kill every Marine who moves against us.”

  He stood where he was for a few seconds, looking toward Cutter, but avoiding direct eye contact. Then he turned and walked across the room and through the door.

  * * *

  General Connor Frasier stood on the hillside, watching as his Marines moved ou
t. The small columns maneuvered with precision, working their way around the perimeter of the compound. The Cutter facility was the source of most of Earth Two’s technological advancement, and he knew the republic owed much—if not most—of its prosperity to the Mules who lived and worked in the sprawling complex.

  He was clad in full armor, as all his people were, but his helmet was retracted. He marveled, as he still did every time he suited up, at how much more comfortable the modern suits were than the one he’d worn in the days of the fleet. The AIs in the old suits had interpreted the wearer’s movements, providing a powered assist through the suit’s servos to help move the massive weight. But the new ones tied right into the cerebral cortex, and the AI literally read a Marine’s mind. He found the whole thing a little creepy, but he had to admit it was a massive improvement, one that turned a multi-ton iridium-armored suit into something that felt as graceful as a light robe. It also cut years off the training time necessary to teach a recruit how to move around in a suit of armor.

  Frasier had been a Marine all his life, and he’d served under some of the most legendary warriors mankind had ever produced. He’d never given a second thought to his chosen profession. His father had been Angus Frasier, the commander of the old Scots regiment, and one of Erik Cain’s closest comrades. There had never been any question what career Connor would choose, and he’d rarely regretted the path that had been cast for him in stone. Whatever else he might have been, he was a Marine, now and always.

  But today was one of the few days he questioned all he normally believed without the slightest doubt. Commanding Marines on a mission felt natural, normal…his life’s work. But this time his people would turn their guns not on the robots of the First Imperium, not even on the soldiers of a rival superpower. No, his people were here to confront the Mules, the very beings responsible for the technological advancements he so noticed in his suit.

  Arrest…it sounds so reasonable, so clinical. But the Mules will not yield…and they will not be taken down easily. So when the veneer is stripped away, I am here to shoot down my fellow citizens, to turn the guns of the Corps on those we are sworn to defend…