Crimson Worlds Collection III

by Jay Allan

  “Well, that’s good news, Isaac. Let’s hope you’re right.” Holm was nodding his head as he spoke. “We weren’t able to get any prisoners on Arcadia. Maybe now we can figure out what makes Stark’s soldiers tick.” Holm turned from Merrick toward the Caliphate officers. He’d gone right into action after he arrived, and this was the first time he’d seen them. “Lord Khaled, Commander Farooq…it is a great pleasure to see you both. Fortune to you and to those who follow you.” Holm offered the standard Caliphate greeting.

  “And fortune to you, General Holm, and to those who serve you.” Khaled finished the salutation and then extended his hand. “Please accept our warm regards. It is good to see you again.”

  Holm reached out and grasped the Caliphate lord’s hand. Then he turned and offered his to Farooq. “I cannot thank either of you enough for what you have done here.”

  “There is no need for thanks between good friends, General. And as fate’s fickle nature would have it, it appears that old enemies have indeed become good friends.”

  “Very good friends. Honorable friends.” Holm offered the Janissary officers a warm smile. “And I fear we will all have need of such comrades in the weeks ahead.”

  Stark crept through the tall weeds, working his way closer to the cluster of Alliance and Caliphate officers. Armstrong was lost and, with the victorious Alliance fleet approaching the planet, there had been no way to extricate any of the legions. Stark ordered them all put down to avoid capture. It was a terrible waste, but nothing was more important than protecting the secrets of his cloning technology and neural download process.

  Spectre was ready to go as soon as he returned. The stealth ship wouldn’t have any trouble slipping past the Alliance fleet and getting back to HQ. He’d have a reckoning with Admiral Liang when he got there. He was angry that the fool had not defeated the Alliance fleet, but his rage was tempered. As long as Liang got away with most of his ships and troopships intact, it wasn’t a disaster. Armstrong was never critical. Even in defeat, it had served well to bleed the Marines white. The Shadow legions lost far more troops, of course, but then Stark had more to begin with. He could sacrifice thousands of his manufactured soldiers to destroy the Marines. And another battle like Armstrong would be the last Cain and his pitiful band of survivors ever fought.

  The Janissaries were an unexpected wrinkle, something none of his projections had considered. When he got back to Omega Base he’d have to revise some strategies to deal with the unexpected intervention. Handling another 25,000 first rate troops wouldn’t be easy, but it was doable.

  But first he had unfinished business. He glanced over his shoulder. He had two agents with him…everyone else was already aboard Spectre, ready to lift off as soon as he returned. He motioned for his companions to remain in place, and he gripped the cool plastic of his weapon’s stock, methodically checking the sight for the third time in ten minutes.

  Stark felt nervous, and he could feel the sweat on his neck. He could never admit it to himself, but he was scared to go up against Erik Cain. The Marine was the most dangerous enemy he’d ever faced off against. He had always used his opponents’ weaknesses against them. Their compassion, ethics…the squeamishness to do whatever was necessary to win. But Stark didn’t think he could count on Erik Cain displaying those vulnerabilities. In the end, he believed the Marines’ crazy but ever-victorious general would do anything necessary to win the ultimate victory. And that made him a very dangerous foe.

  He glanced at his handheld scanner. Just ahead…only a few more meters and he’d be able to see them. He slowed to a crawl, careful not to step on a branch or even breathe too heavily. He climbed up a small rise and peered over the crest. There they were…a small group of senior officers standing around, unarmored. And there was Erik Cain, right in the middle. This was going to be too easy, Stark thought with satisfaction, though he maintained his deadly focus. He refused to underestimate Cain…or any of his enemies. He had done that before, with disastrous results.

  Stark raised his rifle slowly, the movement almost imperceptible. He looked through the AI-assisted sight, checking and double-checking his targeting. He’d kill all the officers if he could, but there were a dozen guards just behind the command group. He knew he might only get one shot before he had to flee. And he was going to put that shot in Erik Cain’s head.

  “Still, we held both Arcadia and Armstrong, and that is something to be pleased about.” Holm was trying to sound upbeat, but it wasn’t easy. Not after the losses they had suffered. Not when at least 20 other Alliance worlds were still occupied. He didn’t begin to understand how they were going to fight almost two dozen more battles against an enemy like the Shadow legions, not to mention deal with the escalating problems on Earth. And he was still shaken by the enemy’s homicidal end game, just as he had been on Arcadia.

  Cain nodded. “We paid a heavy price for these two rocks. I hope they’re worth it.” He sighed. “But now we need to decide what’s next. We need to connect with Admiral Garret and put together a plan to drive the enemy from the other worlds.” Cain paused. He knew mounting 20 successful invasions was a fantasy. The Corps was in ruins, nothing left save a few shattered remnants of one of the greatest fighting forces mankind had ever fielded. They were all veterans – even the trainees who’d been activated to fight on Armstrong deserved that distinction now – but they were hopelessly outnumbered. And it would take years to rebuild…time they didn’t have.

  “You may count on my people, General Holm.” Khaled moved his head slowly in Holm’s direction. “As General Cain said, there remains much to do before we have a chance of stopping our enemy.”

  “Thank you, Lord Khaled.” Holm’s voice was emotional. The promise of the Janissary commander to join the Marines’ cause – one they all knew might be hopeless – affected him deeply. “We are profoundly grateful to count your people among our friends.” He still found it odd thinking of the Janissaries as allies. For a century they had been the most hated and feared enemy of the Alliance Marines. But they had proven their friendship and risen above old hatreds for their own part, and Holm would accept no less from his Marines…and himself. Indeed, he was surprised how quickly he too was forgetting the old anger and hatred. It felt almost as if those old battles had been a dream.

  “We should never have been enemies, General. I fear our governments are to blame for those decades of needless slaughter.” Khaled was usually circumspect about discussing politics, but recent events had deeply affected his opinions. He was angry about the proscriptions…and that outrage was morphing into hatred for the immoral government that issued the orders. He was lightyears away from those responsible, but he’d sworn that if fate afforded him the chance, one day there would be a heavy reckoning. “However, we warriors will stand together, General, and when this is over, we will put the politicians in their places.”

  Holm smiled. “Perhaps, Lord Khaled.” Holm wasn’t quite ready yet to rebel outright against Alliance Gov, though he rather suspected Cain would do it without a second thought. “But for now…” Holm caught something in the corner of his eye. Movement. Something was wrong. He turned his head slowly, angling for a closer look. He paused for an instant, staring…and then forty years of combat reflexes took over.

  “Down!” he screamed as he lunged for Cain, slamming hard into his shocked protégé, pushing him to the ground just as they all heard a loud crack. A spray of blood exploded from Cain’s leg as he fell to the ground. Holm was twisting in the air, falling on top of Cain when another shot ripped through the air. Holm’s head twisted violently, and his body was pushed over Cain’s, falling hard to the ground two meters from his friend.

  Cain was lying on the cool grass, stunned, his leg burning like fire, uncertain at first what had happened. He could see Khaled and Merrick rushing to his left, panicked looks on their faces. There was more firing, too…coming from the security detachment this time. What were they shooting at, he wondered, as he tried unsuccessfully to fo
rce himself up, grabbing his sidearm as he did…what was happening?

  He saw the guards rushing toward a small cluster of heavy brush, firing away at full auto as they ran. He was about to try to get up again and follow them when he realized…

  “General?” He spun his upper body around, and he crawled over to where Holm lay. The Commandant was on the ground, surrounded by Merrick and the two Janissary commanders, all on their knees, crouched over the stricken Marine.

  Cain felt his stomach clench as he held himself partway up and stared down at his friend, his mentor. Cain’s eyes filled with tears as he screamed urgently, “General? General Holm…”

  Chapter 29

  Outskirts of Astria

  Planet Armstrong

  Gamma Pavonis II

  The silence of the ice-blue morning was shattered by the wailing of the pipes, the haunting notes of Amazing Grace floating through the clear cold sky. The Corps was assembled, those few who remained after the savage bloodbaths that had decimated its ranks. These veteran warriors were somber and heartbroken. Soon they would be dispatched to other worlds, to continue the war…to face an enemy that hopelessly outnumbered them. To grimly fight another hopeless war. But first, they were gathered to bid farewell to their leader, the very heart and soul of the Marines.

  Not a word was spoken; not a sound broke the stillness save those mournful tones, and on the faces of these thousands there was not a dry eye. Men and women who had marched stone-faced into the fiery hells of a hundred bloody battles wept openly, unable to hold back the crashing waves of grief. For this time, among the thousands of dead from their desperate battles, lay a man they had all loved and respected, one who had led them across the galaxy, who had always been there to pull them through their endless struggles.

  Elias Garrison Holm had fought everywhere man’s hand had touched, and he had led his Marines wherever battle called them. He had saved the Corps from destruction and the shame and despair of Rafael Samuels’ treachery. He’d given the Marines back their pride and rallied them to face one dire threat after another.

  He had nurtured the newest Marines, many ripped from incomplete training programs to join the battle lines far too early, and he had shared an unspoken connection with the old sweats, the veterans who’d followed him from battle to battle over the years, even decades. They were gone now, most of the old guard. They had poured their life’s blood into the cold sands of a hundred worlds, stood in the breach and held back the foe, the forces of destruction that would have consumed civilization. Now Holm was with them, gone to command the legions of lost brothers and sisters in whatever Valhalla awaited fallen Marines.

  Erik Cain stood rigidly at attention, staring at the flag-draped coffin of his friend, his mentor. His wounded leg throbbed, but he was aware of it more as a detached fact…an awareness of pain that seemed so unimportant it was almost unreal. Elias Holm had been more than a commander to Cain, more than a father. Cain couldn’t describe what Holm had meant to him. Words failed; thoughts failed. There was only a raw ache, an emptiness he knew could never be filled.

  Cain had seen things no man should see, sent untold thousands to their deaths on worlds throughout human space, his stony resolve through endless horrors a legend in the Corps. But now that monolith was broken, and tears streamed silently down his cheeks. His hand was pressed to his forehead, firm and unmoving in a perfect salute. A last tribute to his fallen leader.

  Sarah Linden stood a few meters behind Erik, an image of icy perfection, her black dress uniform perfectly pressed. But it was a façade, her face a mask of pain, wet with tears. She’d been devastated already, wracked with grief and guilt over the death of her sister, Alex. The loss of Holm so soon afterward was too much to bear, and she felt empty…dead inside.

  Despite her own agony she wanted to go to Cain, to comfort him somehow. She, more than anyone here, knew just how badly he was wounded, the hurt he was feeling…pain he would keep to himself until his time came to join his fallen commander. She wanted to ease his suffering, but she just stood rigidly, looking out over the ceremony in stony silence. There was nothing to do; she knew that. Part of loving Erik Cain was accepting the immovable rigidity of the man.

  The Marine guard stood unmoving, at rigid attention, polished rifles held perfectly aloft. This was no normal detachment, but an assemblage of veteran non-coms from Holm’s many battles. Gray-haired and grim faced, many of these warriors had fought under Holm since the early days of the Third Frontier War, following him unquestioningly wherever the bugle sounded. They were the few, the last survivors of a dying breed now almost lost. They were among the toughest and strongest subjects the human race had ever produced, but now they were broken inside, wracked by a grief they could hardly contain.

  Ali Khaled stood off to the side along with Farooq. They had come to bid farewell to the great leader, but they took their place at the periphery, not wishing to upset or offend the Marines. Both Caliphate leaders had tremendous respect for Holm, but they were aware that they had spent most of their lives as his enemy…as the enemy of all those gathered here, and they had elected to pay their respects quietly and without fanfare.

  Cain stepped forward, leaning on his cane and willing every shred of strength remaining within him to make the walk to the dais. Sarah had treated his wound, but he still moved slowly, painfully. Catherine Gilson had offered to give the eulogy, to spare Erik the weight of the task. The two had inherited the Corps from Holm, and both were heartbroken by his loss. But Gilson knew Erik’s agony was something even beyond her own, and she couldn’t imagine what it would cost him to mount that podium and shoulder this burden. But Cain had said no. He owed this to Holm, he and he alone. He was the son to the man with no family, who’d given his life to the Corps, just as the fallen general had been a father to Cain. Erik would not let himself fail in this final duty. That would be unthinkable.

  He stood behind the podium, silent, looking out over the assembled multitudes. He felt the yawning pit inside him, and for a moment he couldn’t bring the words. Bidding farewell to friends was part of a Marine’s life; Cain knew that well enough. It would have been difficult under any circumstances to say goodbye to Holm, but this was worse even than any scenario Cain had imagined. The valiant general hadn’t died leading a heroic attack or standing firm in the breach, holding back the enemy. He’d been murdered, shot down in the open after the battle had been won. He’d died saving Cain from an assassin’s bullet. Killed by a sociopath so evil, even Cain’s cold-blooded mind failed utterly to comprehend his motivations.

  He reached down, summoned all that remained of the strength that had sustained him through the horrific battles he had fought. His hands gripped the podium, and he stared out at the silent masses. Finally, slowly, he forced the words from his quivering lips.

  “We are here to bid farewell to a great man, a man to whom no poor words I can muster will do justice. Elias Garrison Holm was more than a general, more than a Commandant. He was an example for all of us, the perfect warrior…noble, honorable, a father to every Marine.” Cain’s voice was cracking, struggling, but he pressed on. “He saved the Corps from treachery and destruction, and with his own force of will he pulled us from the brink, led us through our darkest hour, gave us back our pride, our dignity…reminded us that we are Marines…and what that truly means.”

  His fingers tightened on the edges of the podium, but he continued his speech. His voice was halting…but he went on. “He was a Marine, and a Marine he shall always be. Wherever we go into battle, wherever our successors and those Marines who come after us carry the flag, he will be there. As long as the Corps endures, General Elias Holm will never be truly gone.”

  Cain paused, staring out at the crowd. There was silence over the field, save for the sounds of men and women sobbing softly. Tears streamed down Cain’s cheeks as he stood there, drawing on what little strength remained to him.

  “General Holm was a Marine’s Marine, from the day the Corps adopted him
as a lost teenager, as it did so many of us, until the moment he fell…and he remains such, down whatever paths he now treads.” Cain sucked in a deep breath of air, and forced himself to go on. “Farewell, General Holm, Commandant, mentor…friend.” He forced himself to stare out again, panning his eyes across the multitudes. “A grateful Corps offers you its heartfelt thanks…its everlasting gratitude and admiration. Rest, General…rest in the peace you have so profoundly earned.”

  Cain bolted to rigid attention and snapped his hand to his forehead in a salute as crisp and flawless as the one he’d offered moments before. Despite his rank and years of service, Cain’s salutes had always been notoriously poor. But not today.

  Every man and woman present answered Cain’s salute and held it, as he did, while a single bugle sounded the grim notes of taps. Finally, he let his hand drop to his side and walked silently from the podium, to the platform where Holm’s coffin lay, draped in the flag of the Alliance. He stood silently, hundreds of eyes upon him, then he pulled the sword from his side and lay it on top of the casket. It was the blade he’d been given at his graduation from the Academy so many years before. Now it was a tribute to his lost friend.

  Cain turned and walked slowly from the field. He could feel a change inside with each step. The grief was still there, as he knew it would always be. But it was changing, becoming harder, colder. Erik Cain was a fearless warrior, a relentless force in battle. But this was something different, something new. It was as frigid as space itself. There was no roiling anger, no quivering rage that would quickly burn out. It was a silent, frozen hatred in his heart so strong it scared even him.