Crimson Worlds Collection III

by Jay Allan

  Chapter 13

  Sector A

  Midtown Protected Zone

  New York City, US Zone, Western Alliance

  Axe smashed the entry plate with a chunk of broken masonry, exposing the mechanism beneath. He’d stopped to rest half a dozen times on the way up, but he was still breathing hard, his neck and back soaked with sweat. He’d stopped counting the flights of stairs less than halfway up, but he knew it had been over 300 to the top.

  He stared at the wiring of the door lock, looking for the override switch. Breaking into apartments was a useful skill for a gang member, one he’d learned years before. It wasn’t terribly difficult, especially since this unit was in a high security building in a section of Manhattan that was normally protected like a fortress. In normal times, he’d have never gotten into Sector A, and certainly not into the building itself. The apartment lock itself wasn’t terribly formidable since no one was supposed to get in the building uninvited.

  He slipped his finger under the catch and pulled. He heard a loud click as the door popped out of the locking mechanism. He stepped in front of the now-unlocked hatch and pressed his hands hard against it, pulling it slowly open.

  He stopped when the door was halfway open, and he slid through the opening, holding his pistol in front of him, ready for any trouble. He was at the top of one of the best buildings in Sector A. He figured he might as well go right for the top. He didn’t want to stay too long. He just wanted to get the best plunder he could in a few hours and get out. Besides, the wealthier and more influential the occupant, the likelier it was they’d been able to get out before the Cogs broke through and began their rampage, and that meant the apartment would probably be deserted. Axe wasn’t looking for trouble. He’d fight if he had to, but he was just as happy to ransack an empty apartment or two.

  He stepped out of the entryway into an expansive room, at least 20 meters long. There were floor-to-ceiling windows along two walls, and they looked out above the Protected Zone and across the Hudson River. The furnishings were the finest Axe had ever seen, massive sofas and chairs covered in silk and other expensive materials.

  One look at the opulent luxury was enough to remind him why the Cogs had burst into the Protected Zone with blood and hatred in their hearts. Axe knew the owners of this apartment hadn’t created anything of value or earned their money through hard work. They’d had the good fortune to be born into a family with strong political influence, and they owed their plush lifestyle to that fact alone.

  Axe felt a surge of anger, a revulsion that this system had gone on for so long. He wondered what had gone through the heads of the Politicos who hadn’t been able to escape, their last thoughts before the despised mobs tore them to pieces in the streets. They’d never had a reason to fear the Cogs, and they’d come to view them as less than human, some sub-species beneath themselves and the others in the Political Class.

  Axe knew he was a deeply flawed man, a killer and a manipulator, but at least he had done the things he’d done to survive, and to drag himself from the hopeless squalor. He hadn’t viewed his victims as being beneath him. His outlook was more feral, a contest for survival that pitted men against each other. He’d lived fairly well as a gang leader, but the luxury he was now witnessing was as alien to him as it would have been to any factory worker from Brooklyn or the Bronx.

  He moved from room to room, gathering everything small that looked valuable. He’d found a duffle bag, and he was filling it. He’d stared in wonder at the sack, slowly realizing it was real leather, and that it must have cost more than a Cog worker made in a year.

  He worked his way down a long hall, to what looked like a study or an office. There was a large desk, and he moved over to it, setting the bag down as he tried to force open the locked drawers.

  He looked around the top of the desk, searching for something he could use to pry it open when he heard a sound coming from across the room. His eyes snapped up and he held the pistol in front of him, ready to fire. He stood still, listening.

  He heard the sound again, and he moved toward it. It was coming from behind a small, locked door. He picked up a heavy marble bust and smashed the access plate. He reached his fingers inside and poked around. The override control was the same as the one in the main entrance. He pulled the release, and he heard the latch click, disengaging the lock.

  He gripped the door hard and shoved it to the side, sticking his head through the opening and looking around the room. He caught movement, and his arm snapped up, bringing the pistol to bear. He was ready to shoot, but his eyes focused on the room’s occupant, and he stopped. There was a girl huddled against the wall, cringing, trying to conceal her face and her tears. She couldn’t have been more than 14, maybe 15, and she was covered in bruises and small burns.

  The girl was terrified, curled up in a fetal position in the corner. She was wearing a thin white slip, shivering both from fear and cold. She was thin, almost emaciated, but he could see immediately she was very pretty. His stomach clenched as he realized why she was there, and he felt his body tense with anger.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” He spoke slowly, his tone soft, soothing.

  The girl shied away, pressing herself against the wall and burying her face in her hands. Axe stood in the doorway for a few seconds, trying to decide what to do. He was in a hurry. He wanted to be out of Manhattan by dark, and he didn’t have time for this.

  He turned to walk back into the study, but he stopped after a few steps. He could hear the girl sobbing softly. He looked back and got a better glimpse of her. She was thin as a rail, and he suddenly realized she’d been locked in the room with no food and very little water. There was a heavy stench, sweat and piss and shit. She’d obviously been trapped there for days without access to a bathroom.

  “I want you to listen to me.” Axe was cursing himself in his head for getting involved, but he just couldn’t bring himself to leave her without one attempt to reach her. “I have nothing to do with the people who lived here, with whoever did this to you.” He took a single step forward, and she flinched. “I am just here to steal anything I can use, and then I am leaving Manhattan.” He thought honesty might convince her better than anything else.

  She was sitting in the corner with her legs bent at the knees and her arms wrapped around. Her head moved slowly, looking tentatively in his direction.

  “I do not want to hurt you. I will leave you alone if you want, but I am going somewhere safe, and you can come with me if you’d like.” He paused, standing still, making no moves toward her. “My name is Axe.”

  She was silent for a moment, sitting and rocking her body back and forth nervously. “Ellie,” she finally said. “My name is Ellie.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “Ellie, there is no power or water on, but I’m sure we can find you something to eat and drink.” He stood stone still, not wanting to scare her now that she was responding. “Can you walk? We can go to the kitchen and see what is there.”

  She stood up slowly, wobbling a bit as she did. Axe could see how weak she was. She turned and looked at him. “You will let me go?”

  Axe nodded. “Yes.” He gestured toward the hallway. “Let’s get you something to eat, and when you’re done, you can come with me or you go anywhere else you want. Your choice.”

  Axe knew he wasn’t a good man, not by any reasonable definition, but he was suddenly overcome with disgust at the monsters who ruled the Alliance. Generations of unquestioned power and unchecked privilege had turned the entrenched Political classes into a hideous grotesque, a remorseless group of creatures focused only on their own power and personal pleasure.

  He tried to keep a pleasant expression on his face. The last thing he wanted to do was scare Ellie away. He knew the girl wouldn’t last an hour on the streets alone. He wasn’t sure why he cared, but he did.

  “Come on.” He motioned toward the door. “Let’s go see what we can find to eat. I’m hungry too.”

  She moved slo
wly, cautiously toward the door, hunger and thirst momentarily pushing her fear aside. She limped as she moved across the room, and Axe could see she bruises at various stages of healing. It looked like she’d been beaten at least several different times recently. He stood still as she passed by him and walked into the study, and then he followed her toward the kitchen.

  For all his external show of calm, inside his mind his rage was boiling and hatred was seething. He knew one thing for sure. The next Alliance Gov hack he ran into was going to die, and probably not pleasantly.

  “Preliminary reports suggest that the CEL nuclear attack on the eastern front has halted the Russian-Indian advance. It is too early for meaningful casualty reports, but it is clear they are substantial. It is unlikely the RIC forces will be able to regroup and resume the offensive, at least for some time.” Anne Jackson was one of Warren’s key people at Alliance Intelligence. He had grudgingly named her Number Two, and tasked her with acting as his effective chief of staff.

  He’d initially planned a relatively bloodless transition as president but, in the end, consolidating his position with a minimum of risk had required a significant amount of killing. He’d had most of Oliver’s staff terminated, replacing anyone of suspect loyalty with his own agents. He might have been less draconian if the situation hadn’t been so dire, but he couldn’t take any chances of internal disruption, not now.

  He looked up at Jackson. “Please continue, Number Two.”

  “The Russian counter-barrage appears to have been extremely effective. The CEL positions were hit with three successive bombardments.” She paused. “I am making suppositions, but I would say it is very unlikely that any CEL formations have survived on the eastern front, or at least none that are likely to return to combat effectiveness. If the RIC is able to reassemble and resupply a significant force, they will have an open road into the CEL.”

  Warren sighed. “Well, I suppose a temporary stalemate is the best we could have hoped for on the CEL-RIC front. We’ll just have to hope the RIC’s history for poor organization and logistics continues uninterrupted.” He leaned back and stared at the large map on the display. “It appears, at least, that General Werner has survived on the western front and has managed to reorganize at least a portion of his army group.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” Jackson swiped a finger across the small ’pad in her hands, and the display zoomed in to show the area around Paris. “It appears that he has two corps-sized formations advancing on the Europan capital even now. It is unclear what resistance the Europans are able to mount, but it is likely that Werner will soon take the city.” She hesitated and looked at Warren. “We must consider the likely Europan response if their capital falls.”

  Warren nodded. “Indeed we do.” The loss of a capital meant different things to the various Powers. The fall of Washbalt would be a costly loss, but the Alliance had numerous other major urban and industrial centers. But Paris was in every way the heart of Europa Federalis, and the French politicians who ran the Superpower would probably react rashly to its loss.

  “Perhaps you should contact the Chancellor, sir, and encourage him to order General Werner to delay his advance.”

  Werner exhaled loudly. “That would probably be the best idea right now, Anne, but consider the CEL position. They have been on a total war footing for over a year. They have had over 5,000,000 casualties since the fighting began, and that doesn’t include what they lost in the nuclear exchanges over the past three days. They are exhausted, unable to mount even a token defense in the east. General Werner and his armies are the only positive they have, and their only hope is to win the war in the west so they can send their great commander and his survivors to the east.”

  “But sir, the fall of Paris is more likely to instigate a major escalation than to end the war in the west.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you, Number Two, though I’m not sure I would if I was in Chancellor Schmidt’s shoes.” He stared at his new chief of staff. “And there is the rub. The CEL is more desperate than we are at present, and wild gambles are more likely to appeal to them.” He paused. “I will speak with the Chancellor, but I doubt he will order his top general to stop on the threshold of seizing the enemy capital. Would we exercise that kind of restraint if we’d suffered 5,000,000 casualties?”

  Warren didn’t wait for an answer. “Let’s move on to other matters. Any status updates on the other fronts?”

  Jackson shook her head. “I’m afraid not, sir.” She tapped her ’pad, and the map of Europe disappeared, replaced by one of Africa and western Asia. “General Lauria is all but defeated in Africa. We have effectively lost the resource zone there, and the Caliphate is in almost total control of the continent.” She glanced up at the map, gesturing toward a cluster of small blue squares representing the last Alliance forces. “It is time to consider a plan to evacuate General Lauria and his army before they are completely destroyed.”

  Warren stared at the map. “How many effectives is he down to?”

  “He claims 275,000, but reports from our agents on the scene suggest a considerably lower figure, perhaps 120,000.”

  “Fuck Lauria.” Warren’s voice was thick with disgust. “He barely put up a fight, and he’s spent most of the campaign retreating across the continent. We’d be lucky to get 75,000 of his troops out of there even with a full effort, and it’s not worth the resources to try it. Not to save the shattered and demoralized remnants of a broken army.” His face was twisted into a determined frown. “Maybe when they realize there is no escape they’ll at least put up a decent fight.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jackson’s voice was businesslike, non-committal. She had no stake in whether the troops in Africa escaped, but she was surprised at Warren’s decision. She’d known him for a long time, and she’d thought he lacked the brutal decisiveness his job required. Now she was reevaluating, trying to figure out how Warren was adapting to his myriad new responsibilities.

  “So we have been driven out of Asia, driven out of Africa.” He stared at the map, but he wasn’t seeing anything. He was deep in thought. “It appears we are at a stalemate of sorts, and not one that is not to our advantage. The Caliphate and the CAC have no easier time reaching the rest of our possessions than we do of striking theirs, but they now possess superior resources than we do.”

  “That is true, sir. Though, at least we have time for further mobilization and reorganization.”

  “And what will happen while we are calling up reservists and training new recruits, Number Two?” Warren stared right across the table. “The RIC and Caliphate will get organized and crush the CEL.” He took a quick breath. “And the CAC will focus on the PRC. With enough support from the Caliphate, they may even successfully invade. Admiral Young has performed admirably, but I doubt he can defeat the combined CAC and Caliphate navies, and if the enemy is able to establish local dominance, the PRC could be in trouble.”

  “So what do you propose, sir?” Jackson returned Warren’s stare, a nervous look on her face.

  “Well, it’s a sideshow, but we have to knock the South Americans down. They’ll never successfully invade up Central America, but bogging them down in the jungles isn’t enough. We’ve got to weaken CAC-Caliphate power bloc any way we can, and right now the empire is the most vulnerable to our forces. Advise General Dougherty I want a detailed plan for the destruction of the empire. And I want it by the end of the day tomorrow.”

  “Yes sir.” She hesitated, waiting to see if he would add anything. “And what else, Mr. President?” she finally said.

  He looked back at her, and for an instant his mask of confidence failed him. “I have no idea, Anne.”

  She was about to respond when the com unit buzzed. “Mr. President, I have an incoming communication for you, sir.”

  Not now, Warren thought. I don’t have time for this. “Who is it?” he barked.

  “It is Minister Li from the CAC, sir. And she says it is urgent.”

  Chapter 14


  Flag Bridge

  MCS John Carter

  Near Saturn

  Sol System

  Duncan Campbell coughed hard, choking on the smoke and toxic fumes hanging thick in the air of his savaged flag bridge. John Carter was a wreck floating through space, a broken vessel trailing great plumes of frozen gas and liquid behind its twisted and battered hull. She had given her all to the fight, struggled with every scrap of might and resolve she and her crew could muster.

  Campbell picked up a portable mask and strapped it on his head, breathing deeply. It was hard to position the breather with one arm, but that’s all he had. His left arm was useless, broken in several places, and bleeding heavily where a piece of shattered bone had punctured the skin. The stricken appendage throbbed, and any movement at all sent a red hot pain racing up to his shoulder. The lower half of the arm was twisted out at a grotesque angle, a visual manifestation of how badly mangled it was. The medics had rushed to his station when they first arrived, but he’d ordered them to tend to the others first. Many of his people more seriously injured than he was.

  The pure air cleared his head almost immediately, and he looked around at the battered wreckage of his command center. The bridge was dimly lit, and only the emergency lights and the most vital workstations were functioning. John Carter was gutted, and there were still fires raging throughout the vastness of her hull. Her exhausted damage control teams worked tirelessly to save what was left of the ship, and gunners, navigators, stewards – everyone else onboard – had been drafted into the effort. Campbell had ordered Carter’s last functioning reactor shut down, for fear the damaged unit might lose containment. The lack of power wasn’t helping the repair effort, but Campbell couldn’t take the risk. Even a microsecond’s failure of the containment field would turn John Carter into a small, short-lived sun.