by Jay Allan
The CEL had steadfastly insisted it had nothing to do with the destruction of Marseilles, but the Europans kept uncovering evidence, and most of it pointed right at Neu-Brandenburg. The RIC had tried to mediate talks between the two governments, but they’d gone nowhere…and had finally been abandoned entirely when the evidence against the CEL piled up. When the Russian diplomats gave up and returned to St. Petersburg, war became an inevitability.
Werner and his soldiers – and millions like them – were preparing to fight a conflict they had long trained for but never really expected. The Treaty of Paris had held for so long, the prospect of open war seemed somehow unreal. He knew his counterpart was somewhere on the other side, probably staring across just as he was. He wondered what was going through the Europan’s mind. He’s my enemy, Werner thought, but I wonder if he isn’t thinking the same things I am right now, staring across at me and wondering what war will be like.
“Colonel Werner, we have a priority communique coming in.” Captain Kohl was standing in front of the com tent and shouting nervously. The battalion was a front line armor unit, well-drilled but without combat experience. The prospect of actually fighting the war they’d trained for was daunting. No CEL tank unit had seen combat for a century. An infantry formation may, at least, have fired its weapons putting down civil disturbances, but the heavy armored units existed for one reason…to fight Europa Federalis. For over a hundred years they’d stood vigil, but they’d never really believed the balloon would go up. Now, that confidence had been shattered, and the soldiers of the 11th Heavy Armored Battalion waited for the orders they’d never expected to receive.
Werner jogged toward the com tent, his stomach twisted into knots. He ducked through the open flap and grabbed a headset, holding it to one ear. “Colonel Werner here.”
“Werner, this is General Beck.” Werner knew as soon as he heard Beck’s tone. “Invasion is imminent. I repeat…invasion is imminent.”
Werner swallowed hard. “Acknowledged, sir.” He croaked his reply, the best he could manage. His chest tightened, and he felt nauseous. It was unseasonably cold, but he could feel a trickle of sweat sliding down the back of his neck.
“Protocol C is in effect.”
Werner was startled. He’d expected to be purely on the defensive, but Plan C was a hybrid strategy. It called for leaving the Rhine bridges intact and allowing the enemy to cross. His battalion would engage the invaders, driving them back and then counterattacking. When the Europans retreated Werner and his people were to invade Europa Federalis. Protocol C was no limited tactical response…it was a total war scenario. Whether the CEL was behind the destruction of Marseilles or not, clearly the high command had decided to solve the Europa Federalis “problem” once and for all.
“Understood, sir.” Werner clamped down on the fear welling up inside him. He had a job to do, and his peoples’ chance of getting through the next few days depended heavily on him keeping his shit together. “Enacting Protocol C directives.”
The line was silent for a few seconds. Finally, Beck spoke, his voice soft, tense. “Good luck, Colonel.” Then the line went dead.
Werner stood still for half a minute, breathing deeply and getting control over his emotions. Finally, he turned toward the com tech. “Sergeant, please advise all company commanders to prepare for imminent contact with the enemy. Protocol C directives are in effect.”
“Incoming!” The shout came from just outside the tent. Werner couldn’t tell who it was, but a second or two later the warning was repeated. Then he heard the first explosion…followed by a second, and a third. He ducked outside the tent and saw his soldiers running around, hurrying to their defensive positions.
It was a moment of tremendous historical significance. A century of worldwide peace had just been shattered, and the implications were almost unimaginable. But Werner wasn’t thinking about any of that. To him there was only one thing that mattered. Europa Federalis was coming.
Axe sat on the edge of the crumbling brick wall, staring out across the ancient buildings and pockmarked streets of Brooklyn. He had another name once, one given to him by a mother and father he’d almost completely forgotten. He had abandoned it years before…when he left behind the life that went with it. Now he was just Axe.
He’d been born a Cog, like almost everyone in Brooklyn, but he rejected the life to which his birth had consigned him. He possessed a level of initiative and street smarts that allowed him to break out of the life he’d been fated to live. He’d risen through the ranks to become the leader of the largest gang in Brooklyn, a man who was feared and respected by all the other New York gangs…and the half million pathetic Cogs who lived in the areas he controlled.
His people terrorized the Cogs and stole from them what little they possessed. The Gangs were predators, feeding on the helpless sheep, oppressing them more completely than the government could ever manage. The Cogs were afraid of the government, but they were even more terrorized by the gangs.
The gang members clashed with the police from time to time, but the law enforcement agencies mostly ignored what went on in the ghettoes. Major conflicts were usually limited to gang incursions into the upper class areas like the Protected Zone. The gangs ran the illicit drug trades, and the police waged a half-hearted war against their influence in the elite neighborhoods. It was all a charade of sorts…the wealthy wanted their drugs of choice, whether legal or not, and they relied on the gangs to keep the supplies coming.
Axe glanced at the small reader, his eyes moving slowly down the screen. Nothing. Still no response. He sighed, frustrated that he couldn’t get through to his contact.
The gang leader cultivated an image of course, one of uneducated brutality. But there was more to Axe than met the eye. He was extremely intelligent and quite literate. He’d taught himself to read, and he had a voracious appetite for knowledge. He planned the operations of his gang meticulously, considering its actions from multiple points of view. He was far from the typical gang leader.
The Cogs knew the gangs well, but there was one thing they couldn’t have imagined…a bit of knowledge that was known only to the highest ranking gangers. The gangs were allied with the government.
The liaison was handled through Alliance Intelligence, and it was a pragmatic arrangement. The government wanted the Cogs compliant and obedient, and the gangs were in a position to keep the working classes terrorized to the point of impotence. The gangs also siphoned off the likeliest leaders of any civil disobedience, giving the most aggressive members of the Cog class a route to prosperity that didn’t involve rebellion against the government.
The two sides allowed a certain amount of conflict to occur between the gang rank and file and the police, mostly for appearances, but the gang leadership was guaranteed safety in exchange for keeping the Cogs under control. It was a bizarre arrangement, but one that had worked well for decades.
Now, however, the tables had turned, and the gangs were seriously threatened by their former victims. The starving Cogs had taken to the streets, a surging, bloodthirsty mass, killing all in its path. Fear was a powerful tool, but its effectiveness waned when the victims lost the last of their hope. The Cogs were starving; they had nothing left to lose. Without the restraint of fear, generations of repressed rage emerged. The Cogs, so long downtrodden, now exploded in an orgy of violence and hatred. They swarmed into the streets, killing, burning, laying waste to everything in their path.
Axe had lost track of most of his people. He knew a lot of them were dead already, murdered in the streets by the masses of Cogs they had victimized for so long. He’d been staying out of sight, avoiding the vengeful mobs. That’s why he was still alive. He’d tried to reach his contact at Alliance Intelligence, but there had been no response. The Alliance was falling apart, its economy a shattered wreck and its armed forces on full alert, waiting for word that they were at war with the CAC. No one gave a shit what happened to the gangs. The Cogs were driven by justifiable hatred, an
d Alliance Intelligence had more important matters to handle. Now, Axe realized that the gangs had never had a real partnership with the government. He and his people been an easy means to an end for Alliance Gov, but they’d always been expendable.
Most of the gang members were like stupid, vicious children. They’d come from the ranks of the Cogs and gone feral, feeding on those whose natures were less predatory. But Axe was different. He was as savage as any banger, but he was a lot more intelligent than most…smart enough, at least to know it was time to get out. Loyalty was a quaint concept, but not worth getting torn to shreds on the streets of Brooklyn.
He would leave as soon as it got dark. He’d considered slipping away alone, but now he was thinking he should take a few of his people with him. He didn’t expect the roads outside New York were going to be safe. It was clear the entire Alliance was unraveling, and a couple extra guns could be the difference between getting out of a jam and ending up a rotting corpse along some abandoned highway.
Chapter 9
CWS Sulieman
Deep Space
Avalon System
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. We’ve been sitting here a month, and we haven’t been able to reach Admiral Garret. Or General Holm.” Admiral Abbas sat at the end of the conference table, a frustrated scowl on his face. “Wherever the Alliance fleet is, they’ve gone deep, somewhere without Commnet access.” Or, he thought grimly, the brilliant Augustus Garret had finally been defeated. He kept that thought to himself, though he was sure Khaled was thinking the same thing. Abbas didn’t want to seriously consider the prospect, but a lifetime at war had taught him never to discount anything.
Ali Khaled sat on the side of the table to Abbas’ left. He’d been staring down at the polished metallic surface, but now he looked up, gazing at the admiral. “It is clear that Alliance space is experiencing some kind of extreme disruption. There has been fighting in many systems. We cannot even know the status of their Commnet chain. Perhaps the integrity of the system had been compromised. It is possible that our communiqués are being blocked or intercepted at some point, even that we have been fed inaccurate data. Or, more likely, the system has simply been cut between us and the Admiral.”
“That is true, Lord Khaled.” Abbas leaned back in his chair, returning the Janissary commander’s stare. He always addressed Khaled formally, as the general did him. The two had learned to work together battling the First Imperium, and they’d been pushed to ever closer cooperation by their joint escape from assassination, but they weren’t friends. In truth, neither man particularly liked the other, though they did share a sort of mutual respect. Each knew the other was skilled and reliable, and both subscribed to a rigid code of honor. There was trust between them but no warmth, admiration but no camaraderie. They were both gifted officers and, despite their differences, they made a highly effective team.
The two sat quietly, each deep in thought. They had to decide what to do next. For decades, Abbas and Khaled had been loyal Caliphate officers, but now they were fugitives, fleeing from a nation that had put them both on a proscription list and sent agents to kill them. The whole fleet and most of the Janissary corps had rallied to them, throwing in with their beloved and long-time commanders. They fled the Caliphate, leading their people to the temporary safety of deep space. They had no home anymore, no flag to follow, no place to go. But they did have their counterparts in the Alliance, long-time enemies now become friends of a sort. They’d fought the First Imperium War alongside Garret and Cain and the rest of the Alliance forces. Now those new friendships would be put to the test. Where they real…strong enough to erase years of enmity and war? Would their new allies stand by them now that they were renegades? Or had the cooperation between their forces been a passing expediency, a last-ditch necessity to fight off an overpowering enemy trying to destroy them all?
Finally, Khaled broke the silence. “I believe that we need to investigate what is happening to the Alliance. We must determine once and for all…does our future lie along a path of friendship and cooperation with Admiral Garret and his people? Or are we truly on our own?” He exhaled loudly. “From the communications we have intercepted, it is clear there has been considerable fighting, but we have no idea who it is they are battling…or who has the upper hand. We must find out exactly what is taking place.” He paused, thinking silently for a few seconds. “Is it possible they are experiencing a second series of rebellions?” The two renegade Caliphate officers had watched with considerable amusement as the Alliance had almost torn itself apart a few years before. They’d been enemies then, drawing satisfaction of a sort from their adversaries’ distress. But things had changed enormously in the years since. The Caliphate officers were themselves rebels of a sort now, commanding a powerful renegade fleet. They possessed a force of enormous capabilities, but with no support, no bases, no home.
Abbas stared down, watching the reflection of the ceiling light dance on the polished metal of the table. Finally, he raised his head and turned back toward Khaled. “Do you think it is possible that whatever is happening in the Alliance is related to…to what happened with us?” His voice was halting, uncomfortable. The two had hardly discussed the events that led to their flight from Caliphate space. Neither of them wanted to seriously consider the fact that they’d been betrayed by a government they had served brilliantly and loyally for decades. They had both suppressed the rage they felt, and the guilt at leading the thousands of naval crew and Janissaries in the fleet into a life as fugitives. There was no place for doubt and recrimination, not now. There would be time for self-flagellation later, if they survived. Now they both needed all of their wits. There were decisions ahead, cold-blooded ones that would determine if their people lived or died.
“It is certainly possible.” Khaled paused, uncomfortable even at the mention of the proscriptions that almost took their lives. “The entire unfortunate action was unexpected. It never occurred to me that there would be a plot against us. We haven’t discussed it, but let us now ask the question…what could have instigated the whole sorry affair? I am aware of nothing we did that could have caused our loyalty to be questioned.” Khaled was addressing something the two had pointedly avoided discussing. His voice was becoming sharp, strained. He struggled to control his anger, to suppress the part of him that wanted to take the fleet back to Earth and challenge at gunpoint whoever had ordered the purge. It was probably that miserable bitch, Li An, he thought, his hands subconsciously curling into fists as he did. The CAC was involved too. It had butchered its own commanders…and whisperings of treason from the murderous head of C1 would find sympathetic – and paranoid – ears within the Caliph’s inner circle. Perhaps the sequence of events leading to their flight had their roots in Hong Kong.
He took a breath, centering himself, forcing his focus back to the matters at hand. “Clearly, there is more going on than we are aware of.” His eyes bored into Abbas’. “The Alliance government is at least as capable of perfidy as the Caliphate’s. Do you think it is possible they have made a similar move against their own military leadership?”
Abbas returned the gaze but didn’t answer right away. Certainly, he thought, Alliance Gov and its brutal intelligence agency were capable of anything the Caliphate was. It was possible that Garret and Cain and the others were unreachable because they were fleeing Alliance assassins. Indeed, perhaps they were already dead, the victims of a successful proscription. But it didn’t feel right. Admiral Garret and Generals Holm and Cain were unquestionably the most capable military leaders in the service of any of the Superpowers. The Alliance’s command structure was their greatest military asset, the primary factor making them the preeminent power in space. Would they be so quick to sacrifice that advantage, the one factor that made them unquestionably the strongest force in the international balance of power? And even if the Alliance had inexplicably decided to assassinate its gifted commanders, Abbas wondered what kind of professional killers could manage to outwit both A
ugustus Garret and Erik Cain. He had a hard time imagining either of the brilliant but paranoid Alliance commanders falling into a spy’s trap.
“I don’t know…I just don’t know.” Abbas spoke slowly, considering the situation from all angles as he did. “But we’re not going to find out here.” He reached out, running his fingers across the large ’pad on the table in front of him. It displayed an image of crisscrossing lines representing the warp connections between systems. “From the communications we’ve been able to intercept, we now know that a minimum of 21 Alliance colonies have been invaded. Whether these operations were conducted by an outside enemy or internal Alliance forces, we do not know.”
Khaled sat upright in his chair, his posture rigid as always. “Before we analyze the situation further, we must make a fundamental decision. There is clearly a widespread conflict underway. We are sorely lacking details about the nature and the status of the fighting, but there is no doubt it is occurring. The question we must answer is essentially a simple one…are we prepared to involve ourselves in this struggle?”
Abbas took a deep breath. “That is the crucial decision, isn’t it?” He sat quietly for a moment then asked, “What is your opinion?”
“We do not have sufficient information to make a rational decision. Nor do we have any way to obtain it within a reasonable timeframe.” There was a touch of nagging uncertainty in Khaled’s tone. He was a deliberative man who typically approached problems in a sober and unemotional way. He wasn’t comfortable making uninformed choices. But he was a realist too, and he knew this decision was going to be made on a hunch, not on a review of facts. “We know we cannot go back to the Caliphate. And we cannot remain indefinitely in deep space. Our supplies are finite; our ships will need maintenance and repair.” His chest heaved with a deep breath. “If we eliminate the non-options, I do not believe we have a choice. Our Alliance allies – if indeed they remain such – are our only real hope. We must trust to the friendship of those we have bled alongside. We must seek them out and aid them in whatever struggle they now face.”