by P. L. Nealen
And the second, larger formation on an approach vector to the planet. Dozens of ships were surrounding a mammoth dreadnaught of a design Scalas was not familiar with.
“We have limited scanning ability left,” the Duchess said quietly, “but it is clear that that dreadnaught carries more firepower than this fortress has remaining. It is unlikely that we will be able to fend it off as we have the lesser starships. We might survive for a while inside the fortifications, but anything in the air for long will not. You have a greater chance of going undetected—and therefore avoiding an orbital strike—if you go overland.”
“And if we are cut off from our ships on the other side of the volcano, then we will not be able to get your son and his troops off-world,” Soon pointed out. “Then the entire effort will be a failure.”
“That is why you must not tarry,” the General-Regent said. “As my wife said, we can hold out here; it will take even that monstrosity some time to batter through our defenses. But only for so long. Trust me, Centurion; I will not allow your ships to be destroyed on the ground if I can help it.”
That all the Valdekan defenders would likely be dead if that happened went unsaid.
A flashing light drew every eye to the control panel in the room. The elder Rehenek clumped his exoskeleton over to it, pressed a key, and spoke briefly in Eastern Satevic. He frowned at the reply, and then said what sounded like an affirmative, before turning back to the holo.
A comms window opened up in midair. It showed a man with longish hair and a full beard. His olive skin was lined but still hale, his pale eyes bright. He wore a coat with shoulder boards and a tall collar, heavy with gold braid. He was immediately recognizable from the first message that Rehenek had played for them. Geretesk Vakolo was making contact again. “Hello, Bozhidar, old friend,” he said. There was a strange lilt to his Trade Cant, but Scalas could not place it. “Isn’t it time to end this?”
“’Friend?’” Rehenek spat. “Is this how Sparatans show ‘friendship?’ You have wrecked my world, slaughtered my people…”
“As my message made clear when our forces arrived, Bozhidar,” Vakolo said calmly, “the goal ahead of us is far too important. I warned you what resistance to the Unity would cost, and you chose to resist. You went into this war with both eyes open, Bozhidar. Do not attempt to say otherwise.”
“I have nothing more to say to you, Geretesk,” Rehenek said, “that I have not already said with laser, railgun, particle beam, and powergun.”
The bearded man sighed, rather like a disappointed father. “You will not surrender? Not even seeing that your last fortress is on the brink of failure, and my forces are legion beyond numbering? See reason, Bozhidar.”
Instead of answering, Rehenek barked what might have been a curse in Eastern Satevic, and aimed an unmistakable command back at the control panel.
But the window did not close. The bearded man leaned closer. “Unfortunate,” he said coldly. “The Unity will not be stopped. Galactic civilization can never progress while all its peoples still live scattered and leaderless, focused only on their own small, tiny concerns. I had hoped that you would see sense and submit. Instead, the Unity will be built upon your bones.” His eyes shifted. “I would warn you, Caractacans, to depart, but your kind will ultimately have no place in the order that is to come. Your deaths on this world should serve as a message to your comrades. I might consider letting one of you live, to send back to your Sector Keep to tell the others.” Only then did the comm channel cut out.
Rehenek turned to the control panel. His face was pale, and for a brief instant, Scalas could see just how shaken the old man was. And no wonder; how many shocks of impending doom could one man withstand?
But Rehenek spoke urgently to whatever comm tech was on the other side of the panel’s intercom. When the conversation was finished, the General-Regent looked at his wife, stark fear in his eyes. “The tech says that he tried to cut the connection, and failed,” he said quietly. He spoke in Trade Cant, apparently for the benefit of the Caractacans in the room. “He was in complete control of our own comm systems.”
“Do you think that his people on the ground got a virus into your systems?” Costigan asked.
But the General-Regent shook his head. “The techs are looking for one, but comm security has been paramount since the war began. Something should have been detected.” He shook his head again, his eyes haunted. “No, it was as if he simply reached down and took control.”
Scalas knew of no way that was possible without some kind of virus attack, but realized that the fear and the strain of the last weeks, watching their defenses crumble under a never-ending onslaught, would have tended to make even the most hard-headed of rationalists start to see unnatural power in their enemy. It did not mean that Vakolo had the power they feared, but under the circumstances, it made little difference.
He suddenly thought of the inhuman, swarming behavior of the clones on the battlefield, and felt a little shudder. Perhaps there was more to the Valdekans’ fears than just the grinding strain of shell-shock and the seeming inevitability of defeat. There was something strange, something disquieting on a deep, fundamental level about the so-called “Galactic Unity’s” forces. He had no doubt that it was by design.
The General-Regent looked at Kranjick. His eyes were haunted, with something that went deeper and farther back than what had just happened. He turned back toward the vanished comm window. “There is something different about him,” he said hoarsely. “That is not the Geretesk Vakolo I knew in the Tyrus Cluster. He has changed, somehow. Geretesk was a hero of his people, and with good reason. But now…” He stared at nothing for a long moment. “We were of an age, all those years ago,” he said. “But he seems younger, haler, somehow. And I never heard of a man who survived a M’tait borer who came out of it stronger.”
“He was hit with a borer?” Scalas asked in some disbelief. He’d seen the damage one of the wicked M’tait weapons could do. A borer was a near-miracle of micro-engineering, a projectile that slowed just before it hit, then slowly tore its way through the victim’s flesh. It was designed to avoid vital organs for some time, prolonging the agony of the victim’s death for as long as possible. And it was not the cruelest of M’tait weapons.
General-Regent Rehenek nodded gravely. “I saw him just before they lifted him off the asteroid,” he said. “They had managed to seal his suit, but there was blood all over his leg. It had gone in his foot, you see.” Every Caractacan, hardened combatants though they were, winced a little at that. An entry wound in the foot would give the borer the most time to slowly shred its victim from the inside. It was not a pretty way to die. “It was the last I saw of him; they told me that he had been taken back to Sparat for treatment.” He looked over at the armored specters of the Caractacans. “Well, that was the last I saw of him until a few weeks ago.”
The floor beneath their feet shuddered, ever so slightly. But given the great mass of reinforced steelcrete and solid stone that formed the fortress, that shudder portended something far, far worse.
A tinny voice reported from the control panel. Rehenek answered, and turned to the holo, which zoomed back in to highlight the fortress. A billowing mushroom cloud was rising above an emplacement on the upper tier of the fortress, near the steeper slope of the volcano.
“That was Particle Cannon Five,” Rehenek said. “That dreadnaught just hit it with an X-ray laser. Through the atmosphere, the dust, and the smoke. And they aren’t even to high orbit yet.”
Kranjick glanced at Scalas. That was not good news. Whatever that dreadnaught was packing, it was far more powerful than anything any of the Caractacans had heard of before. And to be able to hit such a relatively small target from that distance…
But Kranjick said nothing yet. He simply studied the holo tank silently. “Can you display the dreadnaught’s trajectory?” he asked.
Rehenek frowned, apparently nonplused by the question. Perhaps he expected that the Caractacans would
get moving at once rather than continue to ask questions. But he nodded, and touched a series of keys.
A gossamer, glowing golden line traced out from the holographic dreadnaught, passing close to the planet and curving around it. Kranjick still said nothing, though a few voices murmured quietly at the altitude where the ship’s trajectory curved around its lowest point.
“Low orbital insertion,” Soon said quietly.
“And if it is entering orbit, then there is our window,” Kranjick said. He looked down at Rehenek. “I understand your concerns, General-Regent,” he said. “But you have said it yourself; Valdek is ready to fall. Should I leave my ships here and this fortress fall to the enemy while we are in transit, then it is all over. The war, the Valdekan resistance, Caractacan assistance…all of it.” He pointed to the holo. “If that ship enters low orbit, then we will have an approximately thirty-minute window while it is below the horizon to launch and get over the mountain. From there, we can rendezvous with the Commander, get him aboard, and get off the planet.” He laid a heavy hand on the old man’s shoulder. Rehenek was no longer looking at him, but staring at the holo tank, his face weary and haunted. “I gave you my word that we would see him off this planet, to rally the liberation. This is the best way I can do that.”
Rokoff’s stance looked a little uncertain. He looked back and forth between the two older men, as if he was wondering why his superior wasn’t just laying down the law. Scalas knew, though. If Kranjick did not persuade Rehenek of the wisdom of this course of action, the General-Regent could give orders to prevent the ships getting launch clearance.
But Rehenek bowed his head and nodded. “I suppose,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, “that I had hoped to see my son one more time before I die. But you are right, Legate. Go. Prepare your ships. And may the Universe watch over you.”
***
The landing silo shuddered and shook with the pounding the fortress was taking from above. Deep, thrumming vibrations heralded the Valdekan return fire. They were taking a beating, but they were still fighting. Scalas was impressed. These were tough, stubborn people. They would go down; their eventual defeat was now impossible to stave off. But they would keep fighting until they had no way left to fight.
Of course, they were also trying to buy time for the Caractacans to get their core resistance force off-world. The sooner they completed their mission, the fewer Valdekans would die.
Maybe. He somehow doubted that the Valdekan harrowing would end with their surrender. Again, the sense of inhumanity and somehow alien strangeness that clung to the Unity’s clone forces sent a crawling shiver up his spine.
His men, those who were left, were finalizing their own loading. The Valdekans had offered supplies, including more powergun ammunition, and the Caractacans had accepted gratefully. Their numbers were severely depleted, but more firepower would be welcome where they were going.
It wasn’t just his own Century in the troop bay, loading into the dropships. There were Valdekans coming with them, and the survivors from Century XXXIV had been spread out among the four remaining ships, including Dunstan.
Scalas’ eyes found Dunstan, sitting with about half a squad of his remaining Century, his Centurion markings still on his shoulder pauldrons. He somehow didn’t look nearly as dirty as the rest of the men of the Century, and the sight set Scalas’ jaw a little. The disgraced Centurion would have been in a holding cell aboard the Boanerges if they had not needed every Brother for the fight to come.
Viloshen was still with them; he had managed to survive the close-quarters fighting outside the spaceport, and had replenished his powergun magazines once they had returned. He was standing next to Cobb, talking to another man in the green and black of the Valdekan commandos.
When Scalas walked up to them, Viloshen turned to look at him. “Centurion, this is Warrant Officer Atelevek. He commands company of First Commandos. He will be with us on trip over mountain.”
Atelevek was a younger man, with a flat, pugnacious face and small, mean-looking eyes. There was a certain cruelty to the permanent grimace on his face, his mouth slightly twisted by a vicious scar that had clearly nearly taken one of his eyes. He looked at Scalas dully, without the borderline awe that some of the other Valdekan troops had displayed.
While Scalas had little use for the hero-worship that the Caractacans occasionally encountered, there was something about the Valdekan Commando Warrant Officer that bothered him. There was something predatory about the man, a sense of sullen brutality just waiting for an opportunity to be let loose. He had met such men before, including in the Vitorian Commandos, and had always been wary of them.
In fact, he had always had a contingency plan in his mind to kill such men before they could do too much damage.
It was possible, he reflected, that he was judging too much by Atelevek’s appearance. The man might just be ugly; Brother Simonum, whom he had trained with, and who had departed to the Poran Sector Legio many years before, had been the ugliest man he had ever met, and had been one of the most staunch, honorable friends he had ever known. But when Atelevek looked at his outstretched hand, sneered, and then shook it with enough of a perfunctory manner that it was almost an insult, he suspected that he wasn’t judging the man harshly enough.
“Our launch window should be opening soon,” Scalas said coolly. “We should start getting equipment secured and strapping in.”
Viloshen translated his words, and Atelevek looked at the Caractacan Centurion as if insulted that Scalas had bothered to tell him that. Scalas kept his expression carefully neutral. He would not let this man see that his attitude had succeeded in irritating a Caractacan Centurion. Atelevek said something in a careless tone of voice to Viloshen, waved at him casually, and walked away, toward the drop ships that had been detailed to carry the Valdekan ground troops.
Viloshen watched the Warrant Officer go, then glanced sidelong at Scalas. The Centurion did not look at him, but asked the question the old corporal was obviously waiting for.
“Will he be a problem?”
But Viloshen shook his head. “I do not think so,” he said. “He will follow his orders.”
“Do you know him?” Scalas asked.
Viloshen shook his head again. “No,” he said. “But he is First Commando. There is selection process.”
Scalas watched Atelevek’s back. “Perhaps,” he said. He had certainly seen murderers and conscienceless killers slip through selection courses before. He’d seen some men become such after selection. He resolved to keep an eye on Atelevek, as much as he could. “Get to your dropship and strap in,” he said. “We’re leaving soon, and I need my interpreter.”
Viloshen nodded resignedly, and followed Kahane toward First Squad’s lander.
Scalas found his own couch, dogged down his helmet, and strapped in. He brought up his holo display in front of his visor. He needed to know what was happening, right up to the moment they were back on the ground.
The holo showed him the curve of the planet and the location of the spaceport. Above coursed the enemy starships, the fearsome dreadnaught at their center, still firing on the fortress, but nearing the horizon.
Soon, the enemy would be below that horizon. Then, they would launch.
Chapter 16
The massive Galactic Unity dreadnaught did not look like the swarms of blunt, angular, pyramidal ships that formed its escort. It out-massed them by an order of magnitude, at least, and resembled little more than a monstrous, eight-sided ziggurat, slightly flattened on two flanks. Its mountainous hull bristled with HEL emitters, powergun turrets, and missile banks.
Presently, its enormous drives, each thrust bell nearly large enough to swallow one of the smaller Unity starships, were pointed along its line of travel, glowing a brilliant blue, slowing the enormous ship so that Valdek’s gravity could swing it into orbit.
Even as the gigantic ship slowed to enter low orbit, its weapons still rained destruction down on the planet’s surf
ace, flickering lines of plasma and coherent radiation stabbing down into the storm-wracked and dust-laden atmosphere, aimed with inhuman precision at targets that the naked eye could never resolve.
Return fire was barely visible, faintly indicated by glowing pulses of superheated air and dust as beams punched skyward through the roiling atmosphere.
Another brutal white pyramid of a Unity cruiser took a direct hit from a particle beam that carved off a fifty-meter chunk of its flank. Outgassing and sublimating metal started the ship tumbling, and the HEL strike a moment later snapped the ship’s spine in half. Out of control, it continued to tumble on its course, pulling ahead of the decelerating formation. It would continue on an unstable orbit until it eventually struck the atmosphere, several years hence.
A brilliant point of light appeared on the dreadnaught’s flank, as an HEL beam struck. But the beam did not punch through. The bright spot glowed and grew, turning into a bright, greenish dot on the huge ship’s hull, then faded as the beam cut out. A few kilometers away, a similar beam punched through a cruiser’s reactor, detonating it in an actinic flash.
The faint, bluish line of a particle beam reached up from the planet below and struck the dreadnaught. Or, more accurately, it came close. Less than a meter from the hull, the beam suddenly broke up into coruscating curtains of blue and green light. The beam never actually touched the hull.
The fire control techs on the ground had to have seen how ineffectual their fire had been. They soon had other concerns, as even more powerful beam weapons momentarily linked the leviathan with groundside weapons that had dared fire on it. X-ray lasers blasted the HEL and the particle beam cannon into glowing dust in a fraction of a second.
Finally reaching its ideal velocity and altitude, the dreadnaught’s drives cut out, and it rotated to bring more of its weapons to bear on the surface. The Unity’s dreadnaught had entered low orbit over Valdek.