Odysseus Ascendant (Odyssey One Book 7)

by Evan Currie

  The enemy was occupying worlds—that was good. That put them back on a more conventional battlefield, one that Eric understood and could make far more sense of. Just annihilating planets had made no Goddamn sense to him whatsoever.

  He was aware of the academic arguments concerning space combat, and the strategies some of the more nihilistic of his contemporaries supported, but Eric had never felt that they were realistic given the logistics involved.

  Unfortunately, based on his understanding of logistical issues, Eric wasn’t sure that the occupation of the Priminae colony made any sense either. The move was puzzling.

  In many ways, war in the stars made no sense whatsoever.

  Any culture that had the capacity to wage war in the stars clearly had no reason to. Resources were easier to gather from the outer systems and in fact were more plentiful around stars that were inherently incompatible with life. The area around the location of a supernova or neutron star was far more likely to have abundant supplies of valuable materials than that of a young yellow star like Earth’s or any of those likely to have habitable worlds.

  Which meant that the Empire had more than resources in mind.

  Unfortunately, none of the prisoners they’d captured to date were willing to talk about motivations, or they honestly didn’t know. Eric was inclined to think it was more the latter than the former, given the sort of people they’d captured, but it could go either way. Motivation was one of the big missing pieces left, and without it he had no way to really figure out the puzzle.

  All he could do was react, and Eric hated being forced into a reactionary position.

  He looked over the report that had been delivered from Roberts via the Priminae and noted the next likely target star system. It was, of course, an outer Priminae colony that lay roughly along a direct-line course from the estimated location of the Empire en route to Ranquil itself.

  I suppose that tells me their likely endgame for this particular maneuver, if nothing else.

  Of course their conquest wouldn’t stop with Ranquil. They’d already shown that much in their willingness to unleash the Drasin. The Empire was an expansionist regime and a violently insane one by some metrics.

  Eric was a student of military history, to some middling level at least. He’d spent his time learning tactics and strategies from historical leaders, battles, and campaigns, and a great deal of what he was seeing in the Empire was classical expansionist strategy if one were to ignore the initial tactics involving the Drasin. He supposed it wouldn’t be the first time in history a group made use of a superweapon that ultimately worked counter to their overall goals.

  Now, however, they seemed to be operating on a more traditional strategy of taking and holding land.

  That he could work with.

  Assuming they kept to the game plan, of course.

  Fat chance of that.

  “Commander,” he called, rising from his station.

  “Yes Captain?” Miram asked, coming over.

  “We have our target,” he said. “Signal all ships, our Priminae friends as well. We’re moving out.”

  “Aye aye, Captain. Coordinates?” she asked.

  “On your station already, Commander. We’ll rendezvous with the Bell and Bo upon arrival. I need to see to the new project. Hopefully, we’ll be far enough along for it to be of some use.”

  “Aye sir. I’ll see it done.”

  AEV Enterprise

  “Communication from the Odysseus, Captain. We have a destination. I’ve sent the details to your system.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant,” James said, and he gestured to light up his personal screens.

  The details were waiting, of course, as the lieutenant had told him, and he quickly skimmed through them. As expected, they had vectors and estimated times of arrival for the Imperial forces on the next Priminae world, but so far no plan of action had been sent along.

  I hope Weston has something in mind, or this will be the shortest defense ever mounted, James thought sarcastically as he examined the data with a critical eye. He noted some addendums from the commodore personally with his name attached. What’s this . . . ?

  He whistled as he read the brief. “Well now, isn’t that an idea.”

  “Lieutenant Massey.” James looked up toward the communications officer.

  “Yes sir?”

  “Put me on with the commodore as soon as we’re close enough for a face-to-face,” James ordered. “Please inform him that I believe it to be important, and attach the information for new missiles.”

  “Aye aye, Skipper. We should be in range for real-time conversation in a little under twenty minutes. I’ll call ahead to confirm.”

  “Thank you, Massey.”

  James shifted back to the file the commodore had sent over. Unfortunately, there was no way the Enterprise fabricators could possibly produce even one of the new drones in that period of time, but it did get him thinking about some alternatives.

  James found himself rather amused by it all. I think Weston wins this round. Flying antimatter launchers beats hyperlight missiles . . . not by much, but enough. The added points for sheer balls puts it over the top. What can I come up with for round two?

  AEV Odysseus

  “Communication from the Big E, Skipper,” the communications officer said. “Flagged for your attention.”

  “Send it to my station,” Eric said as he looked over to his inbox.

  The message blinked into existence a second or so later and he brought it up, skimming the document quickly.

  Hyperlight missiles . . . well now, isn’t that an idea. Range isn’t much, he noted, but the kinetic power of the strike should make up for that.

  He quickly checked the inventory Captain James had sent along with the communication and started to tap out a fast request for a shipment of the devices for the Odysseus to use before he reconsidered his actions. Instead he signalled down to engineering.

  “Chief Garrick, please.”

  A moment passed while the command was processed and directed to the chief; then Garrick came on the screen.

  “Yes Captain?”

  “Sending you specs,” Eric said, shooting the files down to the chief. “I need some of the fabricators shifted over to producing these, fitted for Archangel hardpoints.”

  “Another project, Captain?” Garrick asked, eyes flickering to the side to read the file he’d just received. His eyes widened a moment later. “That . . . is very interesting. I will have to send my compliments to my colleague and have one of the fab units begin turning out components. We should be able to make at least a couple full loads in the time we have before estimated contact.”

  “Likely more than we’ll need,” Eric said. “I expect to be withdrawing from contact before we’d be able to reload anyway.”

  “Very well, Captain. I’ll see if there are any improvements I might offer,” Garrick said.

  “Run it past Lieutenant Chans as well,” Eric said. “Her expertise with Priminae technology may help.”

  “Yes, indeed it may, sir. I will do so,” Garrick said. “I’ll contact you if anything comes up.”

  “As you were then, Chief. Thank you.”

  Garrick nodded and the connection broke. Eric turned back to the endless paperwork he was dealing with as they approached likely combat with the Empire. He sighed and looked at the doctrine he had added to the overall strategies he was planning, hesitating a moment before he gestured and deleted the entire section.

  Hyperlight missiles. Yup, going to need to rethink doctrine for sure.

  On the plus side, Eric was quite certain that James and the Big E had just given him the final piece he needed to bring star fighters, and the Enterprise herself, right back into the fight.

  Time to get to work.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Stephan, it is useless.” Milla repeated herself for what felt like the thousandth time.

  “I don’t care,” Steph grumbled. “You don’t take away a f
ighter pilot’s gun. It’s been tried, and it never works. Leave the gun where it is.”

  “Stephan, the enemy uses ships that your cannon simply cannot damage,” she said. “It is a needlessly complicated, obsolete, entirely superfluous piece of equipment.”

  Steph chopped his hand through the air, cutting her off.

  “Then make it better,” he said. “Or leave it as is, but the gun stays.”

  Milla sighed, slumping slightly. “I will see what can be done.”

  “Thank you,” Steph said, then sighed himself. “I’m sorry, Milla. Look, call it superstition if you like, but fighter pilots really don’t like to give up our guns, okay? It’s not that much extra weight, and the system is already there. Just leave it be.”

  “I said I would see what could be done,” Milla uttered. “I will not remove your gun.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Honestly. You sound like I suggested cutting off your—”

  “Hey! Let’s not go there.”

  Around the flight deck, engineers and crewmembers looked assiduously in any other direction than toward the two arguing officers. Most suffered oddly timed choking fits, but of course no one was eavesdropping.

  That would be rude.

  CHAPTER 18

  Allied Earth Command, Cheyenne Mountain Facility

  Gracen’s boots clicked on the polished cement floor as she made her way into one of the large, seismically isolated facilities buried deep inside the mountain complex. Like two other similar complexes in Geneva and Tibet, the revamped Cheyenne Mountain facility was one of the keystone command and control complexes that provided a redundant continuity of command for all Earth- and Sol-based operations.

  She walked past two Marine guards, entering a cavernous room filled with large screens on every wall, and rows of men and women all secured in their own stations, all surrounding a massive central holographic display that was currently showing an image of the local arm of the galaxy about five hundred light-years cubed.

  Gracen walked down the stairs into the central area, eyes on the highlighted stars.

  Earth’s star was a lone green dot, while the Priminae worlds were shown in blue. A solitary red dot showed the now lost world, currently under Imperial control. The area of space around the Priminae worlds was similarly highlighted with an amorphous blue zone to show the space they claimed as part of their area of control. Earth’s green section of space was too small to show up on the current level of display.

  “Admiral,”—a young ensign intercepted her—“we’ve prepared your work area, if you’ll follow me.”

  “Thank you, Ensign, please lead the way.”

  Her work area was a large interactive desk with augmented-reality displays, designed to allow her to interact with the large central display as well as work independently. All of her files had already been transferred and were waiting for her when she took her seat. Gracen opened up the relevant ones and settled in. She quietly observed the work around her, since she was largely in a holding pattern until she got more information to work with.

  “Admiral.”

  Gracen turned slightly, nodding politely as she recognized the gray-haired man approaching her. “General.”

  General Maximillian Moore was a stocky, barrel-chested man who had started going gray in his early thirties as a captain and never tried to cover it up despite the occasional hint that he might get promoted a little quicker if he didn’t look twenty years older. Whatever effect his lack of vanity might have had on his career path had been truly offset by the Block War.

  When the initial fighting had raged along the West Coast, Moore had led the defense of California and held off Block forces for two months before a counteroffensive had been mounted to push the enemy expeditionary force back out to sea.

  Certainly, the lack of reinforcements on the other side had worked massively in his favor, but it had still been considered a noteworthy accomplishment, and when Moore had gone on to take command of the Army’s overall counteroffensive through the Pacific theater, his eventual ascension to flag rank was assured. At that point the only question was how high his flag would rise, and the answer had become pretty much as high as possible.

  Now serving as chief of staff of the Army for the Americas, Moore had been expected to accept an appointment to the position of secretary of defense upon his mandatory retirement at age sixty. Gracen had won a pretty sum when she bet against that, and had been proven right when Moore accepted a presidential waiver to allow him to continue in his current capacity until the end of the current war.

  “Not often we get to see you come down from on high, Admiral,” Moore said with an affable smile. “Good to see you again.”

  “While I prefer the view from Unity, I can be of more value here in the current situation. We don’t need to add even another second or so delay in communications. We’ll have enough problems of that type as it stands.”

  “Very true.” Moore looked to the holographic display with frustration. “I feel like a useless tool here, Admiral. All the heavy lifting is going to be done by your boys and girls.”

  “Only if we win, Admiral,” Gracen said, “and that’s not likely I’m afraid. If, and when, we lose the fight in the skies, you get to show your stuff.”

  Moore chuffed, shaking his head. “Well, suddenly I find myself hoping to be a useless tool. There’s a sensation I’ve never had before in my life. Thanks ever so much for that, Admiral.”

  Gracen smiled, amused by the gruff man’s tone. “We have a chance, General. I have a couple cards I’ve been holding back, and I wouldn’t count the commodore out of this just yet either. He has a way of surprising people, I’ve found.”

  Moore grunted. “Not his biggest fan, but I won’t argue with that. Fought under more than one sky he made friendly, or at least neutral. You really think he can turn something this big around?”

  “I said I wouldn’t bet against him,” Gracen said before she deflated slightly, “but this time I don’t think I’d put much on him either. It’s a tall order, General. At least twenty times his weight of metal, maybe ten times his firepower. If that was the only thing, he might be able to pull something out, but those Imperial ships are damn tough.”

  “I thought the Heroics were supposed to be tough too.”

  “They are, but with the concentrated fire of more than ten ships to our one? Not that tough I’m afraid,” Gracen said. “And what I’m most concerned with is that, based on interrogations, even this is probably only a small fraction of the Imperial forces. So beating them might just result in them sending even more ships the next time.”

  “Remind me not to bring the president over for you to cheer up,” Moore said. “I’d be half afraid of you talking him right into a noose with that sort of pep talk. I guess it’s a good thing we’ve been increasing militarization across the planet in case those Goddamn space spiders ever came back.”

  “If we’re going to stop the Empire, we need to make them think twice before they ever want to come back into our space looking for trouble,” Gracen said. “Frankly, there’s not too many ways we can hope to do that. I’ve got a card or two . . . but right now, I don’t know if we have the time to shuffle the deck in our favor. The commodore’s orders are simple, General . . . Beat the enemy like a drum, but failing that? Buy us all the time possible and hope like hell that it’s enough.”

  “I’d ask you about these cards you’re holding back, but I don’t doubt they’re in the briefings I’ve not been able to make heads or tails of already,” Moore said, shaking his head. “This is a younger man’s job. All this sci-fi horror bullshit isn’t what I trained for. I came up killing terrorists, Admiral. Not fighting space aliens.”

  “None of us trained for this, General. We adapt or we die.”

  “Not curling up yet,” Moore said, “don’t worry about that. I’ll do my job. I just wish there were someone better for it.”

  “I wish there were someone better for your job too, General. Hell, I wish there
were someone better for mine . . . and the commodore’s. We’re up at bat, and we don’t get to call in a pinch hitter.”

  “Right you are, Admiral, right you are. I’ll leave you to your work, then. Send along any new briefs when you can. The secretary of defense will want to be up on all the latest before the president comes demanding updates again.”

  “You’ll have them before you get back to your desk, General.”

  Moore nodded firmly before taking his leave. Gracen watched him go for a moment before sending along the files she’d promised him.

  He was right about one thing.

  She wished there were better people for all their jobs too.

  Humans built such fun and yet oddly dreary places.

  Gaia didn’t often observe the world through a single perspective. It was simply unnecessary, really, and so limiting. Billions of eyes, ears, and senses of all kinds were a superior way to experience the universe. Occasionally, though, she liked to intentionally narrow her perception to a single position, not entirely unlike humans might experience the world, at least in terms of limitations. Focusing her perception to one location had taken a great deal of practice and experience over the centuries and millennia and more. She couldn’t exactly limit herself to human perceptions, of course. Hearing was impossible for her, strictly speaking, as she didn’t have ears. She sensed things through the electromagnetic spectrum, and sound waves were kinetic energy passing through a medium.

  She could detect the effects those kinetic waves had on the environment, however, so adjusting for that lack was not difficult. Glass would vibrate, and she could see the vibrations as they altered the path of light, for example. It was easier, of course, if a human was present, since then she could expand her senses just enough and use their eardrums in much the same way.

  Underground in a polished stone maze, however, she had to get creative.

  Presenting herself for all who might see her in passing as a uniformed Navy commander with all the appropriate clearances, altering computer records along the way, Gaia mimicked the intent march of those around her as she moved through the base known to modern humans as Cheyenne Mountain.