by Jay Allan
As unprecedented as the other two planets were, the second one was even more astonishing. On its surface, ninety-percent land, surrounding a single, modest-sized sea, was constructed an almost unimaginable expanse of industrial plants and storehouses, mines and transport systems, many of the great structures rising a kilometer or more into the sky. As far as Darius could see, at least from the combination of hard data and AI-guesses he had, there wasn’t a square centimeter of native dirt exposed, just one planetwide stretch of metal and concrete, wrapped on one hemisphere around the small ocean, once, no doubt, blue, but now, if the scanner readings were accurate, so enormously polluted, the AI’s best guess was it reflected a sickly green cast in the intense sunlight…and gave off a putrid, oily smell, too.
What a paradise…which is all the well, because when I’m done with it, no one will even be sure it ever existed…
“Get me Admiral Garret.”
“Yes, sir.”
A few seconds later: “Admiral Garret on your line, sir.”
“It’s planet two, Augustus. That’s Vali. That’s likely where whoever runs this show is dug in.”
Garret’s response drifted in a few seconds later. “Agreed, Darius. Things are getting a little hot up here, but I could probably hold the bulk of their ships for a while, if you want to take the Eagles and hit it.”
Darius paused, just for an instant. He didn’t fool himself. His real enemies, the leaders of the Black Flag would be dug deep in the planet’s rocky crust. He could slam that planet with a thousand gigatons of nuclear death, but that wouldn’t get their high command. It wouldn’t reach the leaders. Destroying the enemy industry was a worthwhile goal, but he knew it wouldn’t win the war.
He would have to land his Eagles—probably every other soldier in the fleet too—and dig the enemy out of the wreckage, one bloody meter at a time. But first, he had to slag that planet. Even though he knew it wouldn’t be the end. Even though he knew that’s what they were goading him to do.
“I think the sooner we take out their industry, the better.” Darius had a nagging feeling the enemy was letting his forces destroy their planets. It didn’t make sense…unless they’re sure they’ll win here. He couldn’t imagine giving up such resources, and yet, in a way it made a perverse sort of sense, at least if it was part of their plan to win. If they destroy us here, they’ll have all of Occupied Space under their control. And they’ve got us spread out, splitting our forces in our haste to hit the planets.
Whoever was in command of the Black Flag, they felt unlike any enemy he’d faced, almost machine-like. He’d always considered himself cold, calculating, but even he felt out of his depth trying to understand this enemy.
“They’re letting us hit the planets, Augustus. They want us to spread out, to weaken each force.” Darius didn’t like doing what he was expected to do, but he couldn’t imagine not taking out the enemy’s industry while he could. Still, what are they planning?
“It looks that way. They’re putting up a fight here, too, with their fleet, but not as hard as I expected. I feel like we’re being herded…but I can’t figure out where or why.”
“I don’t think we can separate our main forces, Augustus, at least not too much more than we already have.” Still, Darius looked at the long-range scans. Planet four seemed to be open as well. How could they just leave it there? “What do you think of sending the Columbians and some of the other light forces to planet four? They won’t have the same bombardment capability, and they might run into trouble if there’s some defense out there we don’t see, but if they can get in, they should be able to at least take out the major production centers.”
“I agree. I feel like we’re missing something, but I don’t think we can leave that kind of industrial capacity there if we can take it out. The light forces might get burned if it’s a trap, but I think it’s a gamble worth taking.”
“Then, we’re agreed. Do it. But keep your battleline inside the orbit of planet three. That way, my Eagles are close enough to intervene if anything…unexpected…happens.
“Agreed, General.”
“Good luck, Augustus.”
Darius cut the line and turned toward his aide. “Commander, advise Commodore Allegre, we’re taking our battleline to planet two. Prepare for orbital bombardment.”
“Yes, General.”
* * * * *
“I want that line tighter. Order…request…the Highlanders to pull in seventy thousand kilometers.” Garret hadn’t had the slightest problem working with Darius and his people, but the heads of the other mercenary companies had him about ready to tear out his hair…or, preferably, theirs. They were the worst group of egomaniacs he’d ever had to deal with, every one of them finding it necessary to argue with every request, command, or directive he sent their way. And every one of them was acutely aware of the awesome value of his or her ships and was trying to keep them from getting too close to the enemy formations. He was trying to win a battle to save human space, and they were all jockeying to have the only combat ready ships for hire when their rivals got chewed up.
“Yes, Admiral.”
“And advise all ships…we need to maintain maximum fire levels. We’ve still got enemy forces pouring out of those dust clouds, and we’ve got to hit them hard.” His own ships were performing well enough, if somewhat below the standards of his fleets from years before. But most of the mercenary company ships were sluggish, and the smaller navies, the vessels of the independent planets, were appallingly slow. He’d always suspected nepotism and cronyism were rife within the small fleets, but now he had no doubt. It seemed every man and women in uniform for some of these planets was some politician’s idiot kid or cousin.
Except for the Columbians. They’re sharp, which shouldn’t surprise me with Jarrod Tyler in charge…
“Yes, Admiral.”
Bunker Hill shook, as a pair of enemy battleships closed on her. She returned the fire, giving better than she got, but even as Garret looked around on the scanner for support, he realized all his vessels were fighting two or three of the enemy. His flagship was neck deep in the fighting, along with almost every ship he had. He was feeling the loss of Darius’s battleships, but he still agreed they had to destroy the enemy’s infrastructure as quickly as possible.
This will be a bloody day…
“Get me Admiral Harmon,” he snapped suddenly. Harmon’s ships were on the way back from their bombardment of planet three.
“On your line, Admiral.”
“Camille, if you can throw some coal in those engine fires, I’d sure appreciate it. We’re up against it here, and I’ve got a bad feeling more is coming our way.” He allowed himself a brief smile. He and Harmon had always shared an interest in old-Earth wet navies, one he’d just referenced with his ‘coal’ comment.
“On the way, sir. Better coal than canvas if we’re in a rush.”
“True enough, Camille. Every second you can shave helps. This fight’s going to be one to match any we’ve had before…so get here as soon as you can.” He cut the line, and his eyes darted to the position of her ships, heading his way from the ruins of the third planet. She’d be in range in ten minutes, eight maybe, if she really blasted her engines. His forces would take a hard pounding, but he was pretty sure they could hold out.
Except…
What is it? What is bothering you?
The edginess was still there, and the tightness in his gut.
He was staring at the enemy line. There was something about it, something he didn’t like. He took a deep breath and tried to figure out what he was looking at, what seemed so…wrong.
* * * * *
“Now. Now is the time.” Aaron Carrack sat on his raised platform, glaring out over the dozens of workstations positioned in concentric circles around him. His flagship was a massive vessel, far vaster than the old Alliance Yorktowns at the center of Garret’s pathetic force, larger even that the two Martian superbattleships. But it wasn’t the deadliest w
eapon waiting for his enemies.
“Yes, Marshal, at once.”
Carrack watched on the massive displays as the great chunks of rocks, nothing more than asteroids to all but the most intensive scans, began shifting in space, angling themselves toward the enemy as massive projectors extended out from deep bunkers.
He stared at the line of symbols, the circles and ovals and small squares that marked the location of Garret’s vessels. The enemy had sent a force of light ships to planet four…that was a disappointment. Carrack had hoped to divide the enemy’s forces even further. But the Eagles had pulled away, heading for Vali…and that left Garret and the rest of the fleet, in his grasp, every ship within range of the great weapons.
“Status report?” he snapped. It was the moment of victory, and when he had crushed the enemy, he would see to the Triumvirate as well. Humanity would have a new ruler, that much was true. But it would be no monstrosity, no vestige of subhuman clones turned into digital abominations. A man would be the supreme leader of Occupied Space. He would rule all.
“Weapon systems powering up, Marshal. Projected time to full charge, two minutes.”
“Hold fire until all guns are ready, Commander. I want the first shot to be a full barrage.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carrack thought about how long he’d worked, strived, all in the shadow of Gavin Stark’s clones, waiting, counting the moments until the genetic failure endemic to all the Shadow Legion clones claimed them. Stark’s flawed creations rarely lived longer than thirty years, and almost never thirty-five, and the images of the great man himself were no different. But all Carrack had waited and prepared for had been snatched from him. The hideous creatures had somehow transferred their minds into the old First Imperium computer they had found.
Now, I will have to do it the old-fashioned way…assassination. Or whatever killing a computer was called. But later. First, this…
He stared at the screens, watching the status boxes, one after the other turning green. Until all indicators showed ready.
“All batteries charged, Marshal.”
Carrack smiled. He remembered Augustus Garret, Erik Cain…many of the others who had thwarted Gavin Stark so many years before. Now, at last, they would taste defeat. Death.
“All batteries, open fire.”
Chapter 32
Just Outside Planet Three’s Orbit
Draconia Terminii System
Earthdate: 2321 AD (36 Years After the Fall)
“All ships are to advance. The attack will proceed as planned.”
“Yes, General.” The aide was one of Jarrod Tyler’s longest serving. She’d been one of his officers since the days when he was merely Columbia’s army commander, and not the planet’s absolute ruler.
Tyler sat on Lucia’s bridge, looking out over the small control center of one of Columbia’s four homebuilt ships. Most of the ragtag fleet he’d been able to put together for his world had been assembled from older, surplus craft, bought as often as not in trade for Columbia’s exports, particularly the valuable pharmaceuticals manufactured from its native plant life. But his flagship and her three sisters were the core of the force in every way, designed and built in Columbia’s lone orbital shipyard. They were a source of planetary pride, a statement that Columbia belonged in the first tier of post-Fall worlds. Now, they would enter battle for the first time.
Lucia was only a cruiser, however, and while the ship was less than ten years old, her design dated back to the years before the Shadow War. Columbia was prosperous, certainly, with a vibrant economy, but she’d been in the path of war too many times, and she carried the debts of a planet that had been compelled to rebuild its infrastructure several times in the last century. That drain weighed on growth, and there was only so much military ordnance Columbia could produce, or buy, despite Tyler’s best efforts to overcome those constraints.
Tyler’s relentless drive to maintain and expand his planet’s military had been born of the very tragedies Columbia had suffered, but that didn’t lessen the costs of what had happened. Even Tyler couldn’t ignore basic mathematics, and he’d had to make difficult choices. In the end, the fleet had become a subordinate priority to the army, if only because it was more realistic to maintain a force that could hold the planet on the ground than it was to construct a fleet powerful enough to keep an invader at bay.
Now, Columbia’s ships, both newly-built and secondhand, were approaching planet four. Squadrons from three dozen other planets accompanied them, a chaotic swarm heading for the enemy’s outermost inhabited world. The ships were all light, and none of them mounted the half-gigaton monsters the battleships carried in their missile launchers. But Tyler was confident his hodgepodge force had enough power to obliterate the target. He might not be able to turn the world into the utterly barren, scarred nightmare Garret’s ships had left of planet three, but he’d make damned sure there wasn’t a factory or refinery, or a simple storehouse left standing to support the enemy war effort when he was done.
“We’re picking up energy readings, General.”
Tyler’s head spun around. His natural paranoia flared up. “On my screen.”
He looked down, trying to figure out what he was seeing, exactly what the numbers on his display portended. He was an infantry officer at heart, not a naval leader. He could manage a bombardment well enough, but if something else was going on…
Then, it happened. All at once, ten blasts of energy lanced out at his fleet. Half of them missed, ripping past his ships and into the depths of space behind. But the others found targets, and in every one of those cases, the vessels hit had been utterly destroyed, not even twisted, floating wreckage remaining where seconds before, a warship had stood.
* * * * *
Garret blinked, staring back at the display, trying for an instant to convince himself he hadn’t seen what he had just witnessed.
The flash had been bright on the scanner, but it was the data, the numbers, that truly gripped his gut and squeezed. They dwarfed even the massive energy output of the enemy’s huge superbattleships, and they made the great main guns of Bunker Hill seem like flickering candles by comparison. But the true horror struck when he got the damage report from Petersburg. The former Russian-Indian Confederacy ship was old, certainly, but she was also one of the largest vessels in Garret’s fleet, massing almost as much as one of this Yorktowns, and carrying even thicker armor plate. Right now, according to his scanners, this great warship was wracked by internal explosions and pouring great geysers of flash freezing fluids and atmosphere through the massive rents in her hull. Petersburg was without power, her engines and weapons down. And he’d be stunned if half her crew hadn’t been killed. At least half.
Petersburg had been untouched just seconds before, newly arrived on the battleline. Now she was close to wreckage. No, she is wreckage. Garret knew the ship was done. All that remained was to try to save some of her crew.
If that was even possible. Then the realization hit him hard…his priority wasn’t saving a few hundred crew on a stricken battleship, it was saving his fleet.
He could hear the tension in the communications firing back and forth between ships, in the chatter on the flag bridge. His people were as aware as he was what had just happened, and the implications. It wasn’t panic…yet. His people were too disciplined for that. But it wasn’t far away either.
He stared at the display, watching as more reports streamed in. Petersburg hadn’t been the only victim of the first barrage. Abe and Ortega had also been hit. The two cruisers weren’t gutted and half-consumed by internal fires and explosions, as Petersburg was—they were just gone.
Garret’s hand balled up into a fist, and he pounded it against his thigh, the frustration he felt finding a way out. For an instant, he felt like an old man, finished, exhausted, ready to sit and watch the world end. But that only lasted a few seconds. He felt a burst of adrenalin, and his mind cleared. The old courage came back, perhaps a bit more slowly than y
ears before, but strong nevertheless. There was no panic, no confusion in his mind. He knew what he had to do. It was in times like this his people needed him most, and after being there for them for eighty years, he wasn’t going to fail them now.
He analyzed the situation, quickly, concisely. Fear wasn’t a factor for him now, nor fatigue, only data. The enemy had heavy fixed guns, that was clear. Advanced ones, certainly—probably with some First Imperium tech in them—but still, just a tactical factor.
One made worse by the fact that they hid them, and enticed you toward them. And you followed, like a damned fool cadet in some Academy simulation designed to teach caution and humility.
Still, they were finite in number, something that could be overcome. Dangerous, but not invincible.
His mind raced. He had two choices. Keeping the fleet in its current position was not an option. It would be suicide. He didn’t know the rate of fire of those things—and he was hesitant to take a wild guess. The stretch of seconds that had passed since the first shot was a good sign. The longer it took to recharge, the fewer shots the enemy could take, but if he stayed where he was, those guns would gut his fleet.
He could pull back, steer clear of the heavy weapons’ field of fire. But he had no idea of their range. He could assume he was at the very edge of their target area, but he couldn’t be sure. If he’d set the trap he had just blundered into, he would have waited until his victims were deep within range before opening fire, so even flight would be a doomed strategy.
Or, he could advance, bring the fleet into range and blast those things to atoms before they did the same to him. Assuming he could close before his fleet was reduced to shattered hulks and clouds of plasma.
He could think of a hundred arguments for retreat. Certainly, the almighty book counseled caution in situations with as many unknown factors as this one. Pull back, take stock of the situation, that’s what his Academy professors would have said. But Garret had never had much use for the damned book anyway, nor for the pompous windbags lecturing endlessly about theory, as if war was something that could be structured with a set of rules.