by Jay Allan
Abbas began nodding as Khaled finished. His comrade’s words had reached him, shook him to action. “You are quite right, Lord Khaled…quite right indeed. We have wasted enough time dithering…and sitting here in the hope that some answer will come to us.” He waved his arm, a directionally vague reference to the Commnet station the fleet had surrounded for almost a month. “The time for waiting is past, as is the time for timidity.” He looked back at Khaled. “Admiral Garret…and General Cain…they have acted with honor in our dealings together. Far more than our own high command has shown in its actions toward us.” The emotion in his voice, usually so tightly controlled, was escalating. “It is time to trust to new friends…and hope they prove more honorable than old ones.”
Khaled nodded. “Then we are in agreement. But the question remains…where to go? I do not believe it prudent to divide our forces.”
“Nor do I.” Abbas’ tone was strong, definitive. “We must concentrate our strength and remain as well prepared as possible for any eventuality.”
“Then only one question remains to be addressed.” His eyes drifted to the large ’pad on the table displaying the starmap. “Where do we go?”
Chapter 10
Columbia Defense Force HQ
40 Kilometers South of the Ruins of Weston
Columbia, Eta Cassiopeiae II
The hospital tent was crowded, rows of cots lined up against each of its four gray fabric walls. There were two cords draped across the ceiling, a row of lights suspended from each. They flickered every minute or two as the power cut in and out. The field hospital’s electricity came from portable generators, and the operating and critical care tents got preferential feeds. When the surgical equipment drew too much power, the lights flickered everywhere else.
The hospital in Weston had been state of the art, with first rate surgical theaters, well-lit and equipped patient wards, and an onsite nuclear plant providing a surplus of power. But most of Weston was radioactive ash now, the pride of Columbia blasted into an incinerated and poisonous ruin. The battered Columbian forces had retreated 50 kilometers to the south, bringing their wounded and supplies with them, and the small tent city was the best General Tyler had to offer his injured and dying soldiers.
“It’s no uglier than it was before. That’s something, isn’t it?” Reg White was sitting on a small metal stool next to his friend’s cot, playfully mocking his wounded comrade. He wore a fresh set of brown and green camo fatigues. It felt good to be out of his armor for a while. His suit was with the tech team getting an overhaul. Weeks spent on the line was hard on men, but it wore down equipment too. The Columbian militia had powered armor units, something few other colonies could boast. But their suits were 40 year old surplus units, leftovers from the Second Frontier War. He knew the maintenance was none too soon to keep the antique functioning. He hoped the armorer had time to do a complete overhaul…he suspected he’d be back inside the suit before long, and his survival prospects were much better if his gear was fully functional. “The doc did a helluva job on that hairy pygmy arm. Patched up that scratch real good.”
Tony Paine managed a fragile smile. He was lying on his back wearing a white hospital gown and looking uncomfortable. “Yes, you’re very funny, Reg.” He pulled himself upright on the bed, his good arm struggling to shove the pillow higher up his back. “Why exactly are you here anyway? Didn’t I get to smell you enough on the line?”
Paine laughed. “If you could smell me right through my sealed armor you better let the general know. He can transfer you to the bloodhound corps.” He reached around White’s head, pulling the pillow up for him. “Besides, I’ll have you know I finally managed to get a shower. It took some scrubbing, but I’m actually clean.”
Paine and White had been friends for years, long before they joined the militia. Paine was an effective enough soldier, but White was a natural warrior and an extraordinarily skilled killer. He was proficient at every aspect of soldering except one. He was a notorious hothead, one who constantly struggled to control his temper. He’d been promoted several times, only to have his rank stripped from him over one infraction or another. He had been a private for the third time when the invasion hit, but now he was wearing brand new sergeant’s stripes.
White had struggled in his relationships with the non-coms and junior officers of the militia during peacetime, but General Tyler was well past worrying about minor behavioral issues. When he heard about a gunner who’d killed so many of the enemy they’d begun to direct their attacks around his position, he signed the promotion order immediately and sent Reg White both a new set of stripes and his profound thanks and congratulations for his work in the field.
“So when are they letting you out of here anyway?” White was staring at his friend’s bandaged arm. “I’ve been curious how long you could freeload off a scratch.”
“They told me a week.” Paine frowned. “The suit did a decent job of managing the wound, but apparently running around for a ten days with a bullet in your shoulder is not conducive to quick healing.”
“Who would have thought?” White laughed. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be as good as new when they’re done.” He stood up. “But it’s not vacation time for all of us, I’m afraid. I’ve got to report in. Time to get back to work. I don’t want to be late.” He looked down at the stripes on his arm. “I think I’ll try to keep these this time.”
“Try not punching out any officers.” Paine smiled. “That’ll probably help.” He was silent for a few seconds, the grin slowly fading from his face. “Take care of yourself, Reg.” He looked up, his eyes meeting his friend’s. “I mean it. I don’t like you being out there without me.”
“You know me, old friend,” White responded teasingly. He paused for a few seconds and looked down at his friend. The humor drained from his voice. “I will, Tone. I’ll watch my ass until you’re back to watch it for me.” He reached out, firmly clasping Paine’s good hand. “You get better. Listen to the doctors and don’t be a pain in the ass. You gotta get back on your feet.” He slowly released his friend’s hand. “We’re gonna need you out there.”
Jarrod Tyler sat alone in his command tent, a sliver of bright light slicing through the partially open flap onto the dirt floor. He was silent, brooding, thinking about what to do next. He was also struggling with a crushing fatigue. All he wanted to do was walk out of the tent and keep going…deep into the countryside. He longed to shed the responsibilities that weighed so heavily on him, to turn his back on his obligations and run away.
His nuclear attack on Weston had been an enormous success. He’d caught the enemy completely by surprise. They had moved into the city in force, on the heels of the retreating Columbians, rushing right into Tyler’s trap. As soon as the last of the native forces cleared the minimal safety line, Tyler ordered the bombardment. Three-quarters of Weston disappeared in a few seconds, consumed by the nuclear fire of 24 tactical warheads. The enemy had been heavily concentrated, packed together chasing his people through the city streets.
The bombardment inflicted enormous casualties on the enemy, almost wiping out the attack force and sending the few survivors reeling in ignominious retreat. The latest casualty estimates exceeded 5,000 enemy dead. Entire units were wiped out, and hundreds of soldiers were wounded and exposed to dangerous radiation levels.
The invaders had been pushing his people back since they landed, but now an uneasy stalemate had settled over the battlefield. The enemy retreated from the ruins of Weston and were reorganizing their shattered formations. The respite gave Tyler a chance to give his exhausted soldiers a badly needed rest…and to set up a new defensive line. As badly as he’d hurt the invaders, they still outnumbered his force at least 2-1…and they were 100% powered infantry facing his own hybrid force. They were shocked and disordered by the unexpected repulse, but he knew they’d be back on the offensive soon. And he was damned sure going to be ready for them.
The enemy hadn’t responded in kind to his nuclea
r attack, at least not yet. But he still had his forces dispersed, organized to face atomic weapons. He figured it was only a matter of time. Adopting nuclear battlefield protocols presented a serious challenge. He had to spread his troops over a wider area to minimize vulnerability to nuclear bombardment, but that weakened their defensive strength against a conventional attack at any specific point. He’d been trying to set up a defense in depth but, however he organized his forces, their flanks were vulnerable. The deeper his formations, the narrower…making it easier for the enemy to slip around the flanks and attack in enfilade.
He’d been moving units around his tactical map all morning, but all he’d managed to do was increase his frustration. He just didn’t have enough troops…the enemy was still too strong. When they resumed their offensive, his people could slow them down, but he knew they weren’t going to stop them.
His eyes slipped away from the display and settled on the floor. Tactically, his plan had been a stroke of brilliance. If he hadn’t inflicted such a heavy blow against the enemy, his army would have been defeated by now, crushed by the invaders’ numbers and material superiority. When the fighting was raging he didn’t doubt himself, but the lull had given him time to think. Too much time. Weston was the most cosmopolitan city in all of mankind’s interstellar domains, a symbol of a bright future, one marked by unparalleled growth and prosperity. Now, the city was a smoking, radioactive ruin, destroyed by a single command from Jarrod Tyler. Was it, he wondered, a symbol now of man’s more probable future…self-inflicted devastation instead of wealth and happiness?
The weight of his temporary dictatorship was pressing down on him, the responsibility almost more than he could bear. He was charged with defending his home world…of somehow saving it from subjugation by an enormously powerful enemy. But did that charge entitle him to act like God, to destroy whatever he saw fit? Was a Columbia in ruins, its people starving in refugee camps, its soldiers dead on the field, worth saving? Did the price of freedom exceed its value?
“Can I interrupt the general’s deep thoughts for a minute?”
Tyler recognized the voice immediately. He jumped to his feet. “Lucia!” He walked over and threw his arms around her. She was his oldest friend, his companion since they’d been two kids exploring the hills and woods around Weston. She was also the president of the Republic…or had been until she turned over her powers to Tyler, investing in him absolute authority for the duration of the crisis. The Columbian constitution strictly limited the power of the government, except in time of war. A battlefield in all three of the frontier wars and in the rebellion, Columbia had been repeatedly devastated by invaders. Its people, scrappy and protective of their freedoms in most areas, placed the highest priority on defense. When they drafted their constitution, they borrowed from ancient Rome, providing for a single general to assume dictatorial powers during times of extreme crisis.
Jarrod Tyler was the first officer invested with that authority, and he had used it to destroy the capital and force hundreds of thousands of Columbians into refugee camps. He wondered how they felt about the constitution now…whether his name had become a curse yet, spoken in angry tones in the cold and rain-soaked shelters that housed most of his people.
She held on to him for a long hug, and then she looked into his eyes and smiled. “How are you, Jarrod?” There was kindness in her tone, but also concern. She felt the tension in his body when they hugged, and she could see it in his eyes too. He had assumed an overwhelming burden, and it was taking its toll.
“I’ll survive, Lucia.” He managed a smile for her, the first one to cross his lips in weeks. “Hard times. For everyone.”
“Harder for you, my old friend.” She walked over to the makeshift table he was using as a desk, sitting down on the end. “So let me ask you again, Jarrod Tyler – and no bullshit this time – how are you?”
He sat back in his chair and looked at her silently for a few seconds. He couldn’t fool Lucia; he’d never been able to slip anything past her. She always saw through his bravado. “I destroyed Weston, Lucia. Our people are sleeping outside, fleeing from camp to camp ahead of the enemy’s advance. Half my soldiers are dead or in the hospital, and I don’t know what’s been keeping the others on their feet.” His eyes slipped from hers, dropping down to look at the floor. “I can’t do this, Lucia. I’m destroying everything. I’m failing.”
She reached out and put her hand on his cheek, gently lifting his face until he was looking at her again. “You listen to me, Jarrod, and you listen good.” Her voice was kind and sympathetic, but strong and forceful too. “Weston was bricks and steel. Nothing more. We can build it again; we can build it better than it was.”
He started to turn away again, his expression turning sour. She put her other hand on his face and pulled it back to her. “Cut the shit, Jarrod. Your soldiers would follow you into hell if you led them there, and if you think our people would trade their freedom to save some buildings, then I need to slap some sense back into you.” She stared at him, holding his face in her hands. “Jarrod, those people in the camps aren’t Earthers…they’re Columbians, by God. Do you think sleeping in tents is going to break their spirit?”
He gave her a forced smile but didn’t say anything. He knew she was trying to help him, but he had trouble seeing beyond the blood on his hands and the crushing burden that was his alone. He’d made the enemy pay dearly, but he still didn’t see a path to ultimate victory. Once his forces were finally defeated, would things just be worse for the people? Would the enemy exact revenge for their losses? He imagined the Columbian civilians paying the price for the casualties his actions had inflicted on the invaders.
“Listen to me, Jarrod. You’re my oldest friend, and I would do anything for you. But I am also the president of Columbia.” Her voice became firmer, more authoritative. “I tell you now that, seeing what you have done with the power I gave you, I would not hesitate to do it again. I am proud of you and, as a Columbian, I will follow you wherever you lead. If we do not prevail then we will at least keep our honor. I would welcome death if it comes defending all that we value…and I would prefer it a thousand times to a craven life as a slave.” Her voice was loud and defiant now, all traces of friendliness and familiarity gone. “And so would the rest of our people.”
He stared back at her silently, deeply affected by her words, but still not entirely convinced. She leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips, holding it for just a second. “Now get back to work, General Tyler. All of Columbia is with you.”
She stood up and turned around, slipping out of the tent without another word. He sat still, watching her slide through the tent flap and out of sight. He smiled as he thought of what she had said. She was part of his earliest memories. He’d know her his entire life, his closest friend and his companion in any adventure. There had never been anything romantic between them in those many years, just unconditional friendship. He had been there for her when her short-lived marriage failed, and she’d lived at his bedside when a rare Columbian pathogen almost took him down. There wasn’t a major event in his life she wasn’t part of.
All those years, he thought…the adventures, the hours-long conversations, the joy of just being together. When, he wondered…when did I fall in love with her? He wanted to run out of the tent and tell her, but he knew it wasn’t the time. He didn’t have the strength now to deal with his emotions if she didn’t feel the same way. And if she did, what could he give her now except more misery. He knew very well the odds his forces were up against…and if his army was going to die in the blood-soaked fields of the war zone, there was no way in hell Jarrod Tyler was going to survive to mourn it. No, he was not going to give her more grief. If they both made it through the fighting, if they lived to see peace again…there would be time enough then to tell her.
He took a deep breath, and slammed his fist down on the table. No more despondence, he thought, no more self-doubt. Only one thing mattered now. Victory. He was fighting f
or duty, for honor…for his home. But mostly, he was fighting for Lucia. And he wouldn’t fail, no matter what it took, what it cost him. He couldn’t disappoint her, and he wouldn’t leave her defenseless against a conquering enemy. The thought of her, alone and afraid…beaten, raped, murdered by the victorious invaders…it was more than he could stand to imagine. He felt the rage inside, the savage energy coursing through him.
He stared back at the tactical map, his eyes poring over every terrain feature. He imagined every line of advance the enemy might take, every scrap of ground where his people could set a trap. There had to be a way…something…and he would find it. He would find a way, somehow, to win this war. He would destroy every invader who dared to sully the ground of his beloved homeworld.
Chapter 11
Sub-Arctic Tundra
2,200 Kilometers North of Arcadia City
Unassigned Territories
Arcadia – Wolf 359 III
Kara Sanders sat on a large boulder deep in thought. She was on the edge of the column, staring off across the semi-frozen plain that stretched out of sight in all directions. They’d marched 25 kilometers since she had roused the army at dawn, and she was determined to make another 25 before dark. But right now she was taking a few minutes to herself while her soldiers rested.
Ed Calvin had come over to make sure she was OK…and Captain Mandrake too. She’d told them both the same thing. She was fine…she just wanted a few minutes alone. They’d respected her wishes, but she knew they were both worried about her. She’d become quiet and withdrawn over the last couple months. She obsessed over the army and its operations, seeing personally to her soldiers’ every need, but otherwise she kept to herself. The Kara who sat around the heater talking far into the night was gone, replaced by the grim creature she’d become.