by Jay Allan
Stark’s forces were trained in Marine tactics, the nuts and bolts of their way of battle. They even had the partial memories of veteran Marines replicated in their own minds. But they were still actors playing a part. The motivations, the thoughts and emotions deep within a Marine that made him behave as he did…these were foreign ideas to the Shadow Legion soldiers, just as they were to their commander. Something they could try to copy but never truly comprehend.
Stark stared down at his desk, trying to understand, but failing utterly to grasp the difference between his soldiers and Marines like Erik Cain. He was a cold, calculating machine, almost devoid of human emotion, and for all his enormous intelligence, he simply couldn’t understand certain basic motivations. Only two people had ever drawn any kind of real feeling from him. Alex had been one of them. Something about her seduction was irresistible. He told himself he’d fallen prey to her sexual charms, that it had been weakness of the flesh only, and not true emotion. But something about the cool, intelligent beauty had reached him on another level, one deeper than pure lust. Briefly, fleetingly, in his deepest thoughts he’d allowed himself to see her as a female version of himself, a fit consort for the man who would bring all humanity under his rule. But Alex had betrayed him, let herself be derailed by useless emotions…and his affection for her had turned to rage and hatred, further fueling his evolution into what he had become.
Jack Dutton was the only one who’d ever really been able to control Stark’s behavior. He had been Alliance Intelligence’s longest-serving agent…and Gavin Stark’s mentor. The old man had been the only real friend Stark ever had and the sole restraining influence on his megalomania. The ancient spy had known how to handle Stark, to channel his energies. But Dutton was five years dead now. Even the Alliance’s master spy hadn’t been able to cheat death forever. And with Dutton died the only chance of restraining Gavin Stark’s ambitions. Indeed, the loss of his only confidante had accelerated his progression into the pure monster he’d become.
Stark was brooding grimly when the com sounded, and Anderson-2’s nearly monotone voice came through the speaker. “Sir, we have an incoming transmission.” A brief pause. “It is marked Priority One, sir.”
“Send it down at once,” Stark snapped, shaking himself out of his thoughtfulness.
“Yes, sir.”
A few seconds passed…decryption, Stark thought. Then his screen filled with decoded text. He stared down at the report. The news was staggering. The CAC fleet had finally engaged Garret’s Alliance forces in a climactic battle…and Garret had annihilated them. He hadn’t just won a victory. He’d completely obliterated the CAC fleet. No more than 4 or 5 ships escaped; all of the rest were destroyed or captured. For all practical purposes, the CAC navy no longer existed.
Stark had mixed feelings as he read the communique. It was what he’d planned…what he needed. Garret had rid him of the CAC fleet, just as he’d expected, and opened up CAC space to invasion. But the victory was so decisive, so complete it left Stark with an uncomfortable feeling. He reminded himself what a dangerous enemy Augustus Garret truly was. He had wanted Garret to defeat the CAC…but he’d never considered the prospect of such total and complete annihilation.
He looked at the estimates of the Alliance fleet’s losses. They were considerable. That was good news, certainly. And Stark knew Garret’s weapon stockpiles had to be close to exhausted. Still, he wondered if Garret could ever be beaten. Was the admiral simply too brilliant, too perfectly attuned to war in space for anyone to defeat him?
He sat staring at the monitor, a small grin working its way onto his face. Stark answered his own question. Garret was the closest thing to an irresistible force in space combat. Admiral Liang was a perfectly competent naval commander, but Stark was a cold-blooded realist. He knew the renegade CAC admiral could never defeat Garret, not without a massive superiority in arms he knew he couldn’t provide.
Stark’s grin widened. He’d always planned for Liang to deal with the Alliance fleet. But he had never intended to have the former CAC admiral face Garret. No, that was something Stark had seen to himself. Augustus Garret would die before the decisive battle…right on his own flag bridge. He would die never having guessed one of his own officers was actually one of Stark’s pawns.
But he wasn’t done with Garret yet, and there was other work to do. He’d managed to keep his fleet out of Garret’s reach while he instigated the war that sent the CAC navy after the Alliance admiral…and ultimately to its destruction. He had intended to wait it out, and then send his ships to destroy Garret’s battered survivors. But it wasn’t time yet. First he had to take other action.
He leaned over and hit the com. “Anderson-2, activate Plan R immediately.” Now that the CAC fleet was gone, Stark’s hidden strike forces would invade and occupy five of the Combine’s most valuable colonies. The CAC would almost certainly blame the Alliance, and any chance to prevent escalation of the war on Earth would be gone. Its fleet destroyed, the CAC would have no way to strike back except to escalate the war on Earth. And Stark’s interstellar empire would gain the resources of five more handpicked worlds, every one of them a treasure house of priceless minerals.
“Yes, sir.” Anderson-2’s perfunctory response.
He smiled. Another useful intensification of the war on Earth. Stark needed the CAC and the Alliance to destroy each other. He needed all the Superpowers in ruins before his plans could succeed. His agents had already instigated a tactical nuclear exchange between the CEL and Europa Federalis, but the two powers managed to pull back from the brink. He hadn’t expected the first incident to spark the final battle, and he was confident his plans for Earth would come to fruition. He had more schemes in place, backups after backups. Whatever it took, he would see to it that Earth’s Superpowers savaged each other in an orgy of destruction.
When it was over, the terrified survivors crawling through the wreckage wouldn’t have a chance to resist his Shadow Legions. They would bow down before his soldiers, swear their eternal allegiance to him in return for scraps of bread. Mankind would willingly sell itself into eternal slavery.
Stark smiled broadly, thinking of his plan. But his grin began to fade as his thoughts drifted. The terrified masses of Earth, picking through the radioactive debris would be far easier to break than the colonists. His expression soured further. It was always the damned colonists. They were naturally rebellious, especially on the Alliance worlds. None of them knew how to do what they were told. He wondered how many he would have to kill…in the war certainly, but afterwards as well. How many would his soldiers have to drag from their homes to disappear in the night before the will of the survivors was finally broken? He didn’t know, but he intended to find out.
But first, there was one thing he had to do. A problem he had to solve once and for all. He leaned over the com. “I want the reserve legions activated immediately.” He was committing his last available forces. The rest of the inactive troops were hidden on Earth or committed to the CAC strike forces. He had no way to get the terrestrial legions into space, and he needed them where they were anyway. He’d already lost the Dakota force, and he had barely enough strength left to take control after the Superpowers destroyed each other.
“Yes, sir.” Anderson-2’s response was vaguely monotone as usual. A few seconds later: “Orders transmitted, sir. Force readiness estimated in 4 hours.”
He looked around the room, seeing only the bare rock walls, but imagining the asteroid field all around…and the battlefleet he had hidden among those boulders and planetoids.
He would take that fleet, and the reserve infantry…and he would finish things on Armstrong. He would destroy the Marines, all of them. And he would find Erik Cain and rid himself once and for all of the accursed Marine. Personally.
Chapter 20
Columbia Defense Force HQ
40 Kilometers South of the Ruins of Weston
Columbia, Eta Cassiopeiae II
“Let’s go, Hernande
z. How the fuck long does it take you to reload that thing?” Reg White was firing his own autocannon as he barked out orders to the other three gun crews under his command. The enemy was making a big move, and White’s guns were cutting into them, killing hundreds. The action had been hot and heavy for the last two days. Whatever was going on, the lull was definitely over. The enemy was back, and they meant business.
“Almost done, Sergeant.” Hernandez’ answer was slow, distracted. White knew he and Sand were loading the autocannon as quickly as they could. But it still pissed him off how slow they were.
When he first got back to the front, he found that he’d already been reassigned. The army’s new position was a series of trench lines, connected by heavier strongpoints every three-quarters of a klick. White was in charge of the fort on the extreme left. His four guns were backed up by a squad of powered infantry. It was quite a jump in responsibility for a discipline case who’d been a private just a few days before, but for the first time in his life, White was focused, serious, disciplined…determined not to let the army down.
He was on the opposite flank from where he had been, and his command was drawn from a different unit entirely. There were no familiar faces, no old comrades to greet him when he arrived. He didn’t know anyone assigned to him, but he could see immediately he was in charge of the most vulnerable spot on the line. His stomach heaved a little when he realized how crucial his small force was to the overall position, but he adapted quickly and took charge. Now the enemy was pressing them hard, trying to force the flank. And Reg White was pushing his small unit, determined to stand no matter what came at them.
“Now, Hernandez.” White was impatient…and completely disgusted with the standards his inherited gunners displayed. Did these guys ever fucking practice, he wondered to himself, or did they just sit on their asses until the enemy came knocking? “If I have to come over there and do it for you, I promise you’ve never been that fucking sorry.” It felt strange giving orders again. It wasn’t new…he’d been a sergeant before. But this was the first time he’d ever commanded anyone in action. White was wearing stripes for the third time, though he had promised himself his big mouth and volatile temper weren’t going to get him busted back down again.
“Yes, Sergeant. Firing now.” There was a pause, at least ten or twelve seconds, before White could hear the autocannon firing. Hernandez had bullshitted him a little, but there was no time to worry about it now. Later, maybe…if they both survived.
The enemy had launched a series of direct frontal attacks, all of which had been decisively repulsed. But now they were moving to the flank, trying to get around the Columbian left. And White and his gunners were the extreme end of that flank.
White had positioned his own gun slightly back from the front, with a field of fire covering any attempt to move around. He’d been hosing down the area, inflicting heavy losses on the enemy formations as they came around. But he couldn’t kill them all…and that meant the enemy was going to get through…and outflank the whole position.
He flipped his com to the HQ line. “This is Sergeant White reporting from strongpoint 9.”
There was a short delay then: “Sergeant White…hold for General Tyler.”
White was stunned, and he had to force the words from his suddenly-dry throat to acknowledge. General Tyler? He’d expected to speak with an aide or a tactical officer. What did the army’s commander want with a sergeant on the line?
“What’s happening, White?” It was Tyler’s voice, crisp, calm, demanding.
“Uh, sir…” – White had no idea what he was doing talking to the general, and he could feel the nausea in the pit of his stomach – “…sir, I want to…”
“Relax, White. I was a sergeant once too. Just tell me what’s happening. I’d rather hear it from you up on the line than through six echelons of bullshit.” White didn’t know it, but Tyler had given him his stripes…and handpicked him to command the strongpoint at the end of the line, overruling the former private’s immediate superiors, who still considered him a discipline problem. But he was an unmatched fighter when he was in action, and Jarrod Tyler needed men who could kill the enemy.
“Yes, sir.” White took a deep breath. “The enemy is maneuvering around our left flank. We’ve inflicted heavy casualties, but they have a substantial advantage in numbers…and now they are widening their axis of advance.” White paused and took another breath. “They are now moving considerable forces on an arc outside our effective range and around the flank.”
There was a brief pause on the line…Tyler digesting what White had told him. “Alright, Sergeant. I want you to keep up the fire as hot and heavy as you can.” A short pause. “We’re going to try to hit the enemy flanking force with a counter-attack, so I want your people to be careful about firing at friendlies…you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” White snapped off his reply. He had no idea where Tyler was going to scrape up the troops for a counter-attack. But, he thought, I guess that’s why he’s got those stars.
“And White?”
“Yes, sir?”
“When the enemy pulls back…I want your guns to rip them a new asshole.”
“Yes, sir…with pleasure, sir.”
“Attention, Columbians.” Tyler stood on top of the body of the battle-scarred tank. The main gun had been torn off, and the autocannons were all twisted wreckage…but the thing still functioned as a vehicle. Without weapons, it wasn’t much good on the front lines, so he’d swapped it for his command car and its fully-functional dual autoguns. His army didn’t have resources to waste. If it had some kind of weapon, it was up on the front lines, not serving as the commander’s glorified taxicab.
He’d managed to organize a counterattack against the enemy flanking force, driving them back into the maelstrom of White’s guns. It was a nice little victory, but he knew his people couldn’t do it again. He’d put everything he had left, teams of reassigned mechanics marching along limping groups of walking wounded. They’d done the job, but now they were finished. Many of them were dead, the rest wounded, exhausted, broken. The next time the enemy attacked the flank, they would succeed. Their troops would stream around the end of the line and roll up his entire army. There was no choice. Stubbornness would only bring certain defeat. He had to abandon the line. And that meant giving up everything…the camps, the field hospital. Everything.
“Attention, Columbians,” he repeated, shouting as loudly as he could. The mic relayed his words to the speakers set up around the crowd, but he knew there weren’t enough to relay the message to the tens of thousands gathered around. Some would hear his words directly; the rest would have to rely on their friends and countrymen to pass the message on. “Your army is fighting 10 kilometers north of where we stand, battling against an army that outclasses us in both numbers and equipment. They have fought this war with everything men and women can give…with their blood, their bodies, their hearts.”
He gazed out over the mass of people. His people. They were staring up at him silently, attentively. “I cannot lie to you, Columbians, and tell you we can hold that line forever. We cannot.” He felt his own voice begin to falter. But then he looked out over the faces closest to him, those pressed right up against the tank…and he saw defiance. Lucia was right, he thought. These are Columbians, by God.
“Our enemy is too strong, their resources too vast. We have lost half our numbers…and inflicted horrific losses on the invader. But now we must make a difficult choice. Do we yield to our enemy, surrender and give ourselves over to their will?”
The crowd roared, “No, never!” Tyler looked out as thousands of Columbians, tens of thousands, pumped their arms in the air as they shouted, “Never, never, never…”
He waited for the screaming to die down. He knew the hardest part was still to come. It was easier to cheer mindlessly, but far harder to face cold realities. “Then we must flee to the Badlands. We must seek refuge in that untamed wilderness…make our enemy pursu
e us onto terrain that becomes our ally. This will become a guerrilla war. Behind every thicket and in every swamp our soldiers will be waiting. If the invader pursues us, we will turn the Badlands into their graveyard. If not, as long as we stand together, we will keep our freedom alive until help arrives.”
The crowd shouted again, though with considerably less enthusiasm this time. The Badlands were enormous, a vast wasteland full of swamps and scraggly forests…and Columbia’s most aggressive native fauna. It would be hard to sustain the planet’s population there, probably even impossible. Thousands would die, perhaps hundreds of thousands. Famine and pestilence would run rampant. It was easy to shout defiant cries, quite another to embrace a plan so desperate and dangerous.
The comment about help arriving bought its own rumble from the crowd. When the enemy first invaded, the Columbians expected the Marines to come, as they always had before when enemies attacked. But the weeks of combat turned into months, and no one came…no relief force, not even any word. They sacrificed their capital to nuclear devastation to damage the enemy and buy time, and still no one came. The Columbians were beginning to lose faith; they were coming to believe their world had been abandoned. That they were truly on their own.
“Will you follow me, Columbians? Will you come with me to the Badlands…to face whatever hardships and sufferings await us? Will you battle at my side until our world is ours again?” Tyler had his arm high in the air, hand balled tightly into a fist.