Blood on the Stars Collection 1

by Jay Allan

  “Belay that last order. I want twenty laser buoys in orbit around the planet…and ten around each moon.” It still might not work, but it increased the complexity of the trap. “Deploy two assault shuttles to ferry the buoys to the moons.”

  “Yes, Commander.” A pause. “That will delay our departure from orbit.”

  “Yes,” Kat replied, “but not by much. Calculate a course for the shuttles to swing around each moon and pick up a gravity assist to match our velocity. They can dock with us en route to planet five.”

  “Yes, Commander.” Wentus was clearly trying to sound normal, but Kat could tell he was picking up on her edginess.

  Good. Better he take this enemy seriously than succumb to arrogance and carelessness. Our propaganda could get us killed if it spawns overconfidence.

  “I want a spread of probes launched as well, Optiomagis. Equal-spaced geosynchronous orbits.” If her trap failed, at least she could get some information on what she was facing if the enemy came near the planet.

  And if they don’t, at least Millius’s stormtroops will secure the planet without interference.

  “Yes, Commander Rigellus.”

  Kat held her stare, her eyes locked on the screen even as her mind drifted.

  Who are you out there? Are you soft, like everyone says of Confeds? Or are you something else? Your people held off the Union three times…there was more than softness in that. Are you cut from that cloth? Or are you a stuffed uniform, a blade dulled by two decades of peace?

  Kat knew what the high command would say. What the intelligence operatives would tell her. But the feeling in her gut was something different. And it had proven more effective at sensing danger in the past than any other resource she possessed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Near the Ruins of Base Tom Wills

  Planet Santis, Krillus IV

  307 AC

  There was a loud pounding on the door. Rivera jumped, startled. He’d had his eyes closed, savoring the first warmth he’d felt in days and days. But now he reached around, pulling out the pistol the Marines had given him. He looked at the others one by one, trying to decide what to do. The gun felt strange in his hand, but if it was an enemy guard out there, he was going to need it.

  He stared right at the door, holding his arm out, pistol aimed. “Go ahead,” he said to his companions. “Open it.”

  The two other techs paused, looking uncertain, afraid.

  “Open it…if that’s one of the enemy, he’ll call for help if we leave him out there. We’ve got to kill him.”

  The two men looked at each other, and then one stepped over and pushed the button on the control panel. The door slid open, and a wave of frigid air blasted into the room.

  Rivera aimed his gun, his finger tight against the trigger. He was about to pull it the rest of the way, but something stopped him. Recognition. The figure standing in the doorway wasn’t one of the enemy. It was Plinth.

  The Marine was soaking wet, half refrozen water covering him to the waist as it had on all of them. Plinth’s arm was red too, covered with blood from what looked like a gunshot wound.

  Rivera’s gun hand dropped to his side, and he ran forward toward the Marine. “Sergeant, you’ve been hit.”

  Plinth came the rest of the way through the door and leaned against the wall, sucking in a deep, labored breath. The tech by the door hit the button again, and the hatch slammed closed, cutting off the cold once more.

  “I’m okay.” Plinth’s voice was hoarse, strained. He sounded anything but okay.

  “Corporal…your arm…”

  “I said I’m okay, Rivera. We’ve got work to do.” Plinth pulled himself up off the wall. “Which way?”

  “That way.” The tech pointed down the corridor. “It’s not far. We should be in and out in fifteen minutes.” Rivera wasn’t as confident as he tried to sound. The truth was, he’d only been down on this level two or three times, and there were kilometers of corridors and passageways. And if they were going to put the refinery out of service and wreck the tank farm, they had to plant the explosives in the right spots.

  “Let’s go then. We don’t know how much time we’ve got.” Plinth started off down the hallway.

  Rivera could see the Marine was limping badly, but he held his tongue. He’d come to understand just how tough the Marines were over the past few days…and it didn’t matter anyway. The mission was the mission, no matter how battered Plinth was. And, frankly, the warmth inside the refinery was worth the danger. They’d all been freezing their asses off for weeks without a break.

  The group walked slowly down the corridor, Rivera stopping twice at intersections, trying to remember the right course. He was pretty sure they were on track, but doubts still nagged at him, making him second guess his choices.

  Rivera was smart. He’d been offered jobs at a dozen research institutes, but he’d chosen to go to Santis. The mining combine always paid enormous salaries to technicians and engineers willing to do a two-year stint on the frozen radioactive hell. They’d absolutely thrown money at Rivera, enough to virtually set him up for life, giving him freedom to pursue the research of his choice. It had simply been too good to turn down.

  And now I’m going to die here…

  He didn’t want to give up, but he was too smart to believe any of them had much of a chance.

  “We’re here.” He’d stopped suddenly outside a large hatch as familiarity flooded into his mind. “This is it.”

  He pulled the ID card from his pocket and swiped it in the scanner at the side of the door. It clicked loudly and slid open, revealing a huge chamber beyond.

  “Come on,” he said, waving his arm. “The radiation is high down here. Techs who come down here wear rad suits.”

  “Well, we ain’t got no rads suits.” Plinth pushed forward, his eyes scanning the room, clearly looking for enemies. There were a dozen maintenance bots moving about, but no sign of anyone else. “So, let’s get this done, eh? I’ll watch the door and you guys get those bombs planted.”

  Rivera nodded, pulling a satchel from his back.

  “You got it, Corporal.”

  * * *

  “They’re running, sir. I’ve got the whole century pursuing now. We’ll get them, Praefectus.”

  Millius was standing in the middle of the high plateau, facing the sea cliff a hundred meters away. “What are those troopers doing over there?” He had listened to the optio’s report, but his eyes had caught the activity along the top of the cliff.

  The optio turned, looking now himself. “I don’t know, sir,” he admitted sheepishly. “I will find…”

  “No…let’s both find out.” Millius walked quickly across the rocky field toward the cliff. “You soldiers,” he shouted as he approached. “What’s going on here?”

  “Some of the enemy troopers climbed down the cliff.” The report was matter-of-fact at first, but then the soldier recognized Millius. “Sir!” he added sharply.

  “Did any of them escape?”

  The soldier hesitated. Letting enemies get away was not something a stormtrooper wanted to admit to a Praefectus.

  “Answer me, soldier.” Millius’s tone was ominous.

  “I believe one escaped, sir. Or two.” Another pause. “Perhaps three…”

  Millius sighed.

  I wish these troopers realized nothing angers an officer like this shit.

  “Maybe they just ran here to escape, sir. Perhaps they couldn’t catch up with their fellows.”

  Millius turned his head, looking in the direction of the enemy retreat.

  No, nonsense speculation angers an officer even more…

  “No, Legionary, I don’t think so. If you look at our lines of advance and their initial position, they could easily have withdrawn with their fellows. No…they went this way for a reason…” His voice trailed off as he looked over the cliff toward the eerie glow of the massive structure looming along the coast.

  “The refinery…” He took two ste
ps closer to the edge of the cliff. The refinery wasn’t far, less than a kilometer.

  Damn!

  He spun around. “Optio…I want the refinery on full alert. Immediately.”

  “Yes, sir…” The junior officer sounded confused.

  Millius looked in the direction the Marines had run. “And call off the pursuit.” It galled him to let the bastards escape, but he had bigger problems than chasing down half a dozen enemy fugitives who had been nothing more than a diversion. “All forces are to move on the refinery at once.”

  Millius was angry with himself. He’d allowed arrogance to dictate his thoughts. He hadn’t even imagined a few enemy troops would dare to move against the refinery.

  And if you lose that production facility, you’ll have singlehandedly blown the mission.

  “Now, Optio. All forces converge on the refinery now!”

  * * *

  Hargraves felt like he couldn’t take another step…but somehow he did. And another after that. His legs were screaming, the weight of the wounded Marine wearing him down.

  He wanted to drop Garavick, to run for his own life. But thirty years of service made that unthinkable. It was base fear that made him even think such a thing, and that was something Hargraves had never allowed to rule his actions. The part of him that was Marine through and through didn’t want to live if he had to throw a comrade’s life away to buy his own.

  Besides, I wouldn’t make it anyway…they’re just too close…

  He was surprised he was still up. He’d heard dozens of rounds zipping by, but his luck had held. Toughness, strength, skill, training, courage—they all had their place on the battlefield. But luck was the most powerful of all. He was a veteran, but that did little to make an enemy miss him while he ran. That was largely fortune’s domain.

  “Hang with me, Garavick. Don’t you die on me, Marine.” The private had been whimpering when Hargraves first picked him up, but now he’d gone silent. He was still breathing—Hargraves could feel the warm air from each exhale on his arm—but he was unconscious now. Or close to it.

  Hargraves pushed, digging for everything he had, but he knew he was almost done. Even a Marine was subject to the physical laws, and he was out of juice. He needed to rest, even for a few minutes. But he didn’t have time. The enemy was right behind.

  Wait…are they?

  The bullets were no longer whizzing by his head.

  He stopped, dropping low, laying Garavick on the ground. He turned, pulling his rifle from his back as he did and looking back the way he had come. He could hear something rustling in the tall grass, but it was receding.

  He stood stone still, not quite believing that the dozens of soldiers that had been at his heels were all gone. But a minute later there was still nothing. Then two minutes.

  He took a deep breath. Even the short rest had done him some good. His arms and legs were still exhausted, but they weren’t quite as dead numb as they had been.

  He stared down at Garavick. The Marine looked bad. He was definitely unconscious, and he had lost a lot of blood.

  And we don’t have shit in terms of medical facilities…just a few aid kits and one box half full of drugs…

  He put it out of his mind. There was nothing he could do. If he got Garavick back and the Marine died…well, that was war. But he wasn’t about to leave him behind, not when there was any chance at all.

  He reached his arm under his comrade and struggled to get up, lifting Garavick back over his shoulder. He felt waves of pain, soreness, exhaustion. But he trudged forward. It was a long way back to the refuge, but with no one chasing him down he was sure he could make it.

  * * *

  “Almost done, Corporal. Another five minutes, and we’ll be ready to go.” Rivera was hunched over, reaching down to affix explosives to one of the cooling pipes.

  “The sooner the better. We’ve been lucky so far, but it ain’t gonna last.” Plinth was standing next to the door with his rifle in his hands, ready for anything. He’d already pulled off the wadded piece of cloth he’d shoved on his shoulder and cleaned the wound the best he could. He’d reflexively shuddered as he took his coat off, and then his shirt, but then the expected wave of cold hadn’t come. The room was heated, indeed, in more normal times he’d have been uncomfortably hot. But now he savored every degree of warmth he could get.

  “I’ll try to make it three minutes. Is that good en…” Rivera’s sentence cut off. There was noise in the hallway outside, and they’d all heard it.

  “Get down behind something,” Plinth said, his voice hushed. The Marine moved swiftly across the room, swinging around the edge of a small console. His hand snapped around toward the techs. “Down, I said…now!”

  The techs slipped behind the machinery near where they had been taping the explosives to the heavy lengths of pipe. The refinery’s cooling system was vast, and they’d only managed to get half the bombs in place.

  The main door opened. Then nothing happened. For at least ten seconds, Plinth crouched down, ready to open fire on anything that came through. But nothing did.

  Then something flew through the air, tossed in from outside.

  “Grenade!” the Marine shouted, ducking down lower under the console, and hoping the civilians had the good sense to do the same.

  Then an explosion. Loud. Deafening. He felt a wave of shock, and he struggled to maintain his composure.

  A flashbang. A stunner. That means…

  He saw the shadowy images moving through the doorway, and he heard the sounds of their assault rifles firing.

  …they’re coming.

  He swung to the side, bringing his rifle around the edge of the console. He flipped the switch to full auto, and his finger tightened.

  He saw one of the figures drop. Then another. And then he pulled himself back as a blast of fire hit the front of the console.

  He twisted himself around, moving toward the other end of the workstation. As he went, he reached behind his back—he was sure he had a grenade left, but his hand had trouble finding it. The pain in his shoulder was brutal, and despite his best attempts to ignore it, it slowed him down.

  There…

  His hand was on the grenade. It was no stunner, it was a frag. And if he put it in the right place…

  He pulled the pin and hurled the thing over the console, not waiting for the explosion to dive to the far end and open fire.

  There were at least a dozen soldiers in the room. His fire took down one, and the grenade hit three more. But the others returned fire. He felt the pain as a round hit his arm. It was a heavy slug, fired from a high-powered weapon, and it almost tore his arm off. The wound was grievous, a massive chunk of flesh torn away, exposing the gray-white bone below.

  He rolled over on his back, howling in pain, his rifle falling to the floor, out of reach now. The agony was overwhelming, and it was all he could think about.

  No…

  He gritted his teeth, struggling to endure, to ignore the searing pain.

  If I lie here, I’m dead. We’re all dead. And the mission…

  He heard gunfire behind him. Then a cry. It was one of the techs.

  He fought to climb back up to his knees, letting his savaged arm hang to the side. His other hand reached to his belt, and he pulled out the pistol Hargraves had given him when they set out. He snapped his arm up, firing twice, just as an enemy trooper swung around the edge of the console.

  More shooting from behind. And another scream. A familiar voice.

  Tomas…

  He turned his head, looking back. There were troops everywhere. And Tomas Rivera was down, surrounded by a pool of blood.

  Plinth felt a wave of rage, a need to lash out, to kill as many of these soldiers as he could. But the Marine inside him clamped down. There was a mission. The techs had gotten some of the explosives in place. There was no hope of escape, of survival. Only a last chance to see the mission completed. At least partially.

  Tomas has the detonator.


  He lunged from his cover, almost without thinking, diving for Rivera’s body.

  Plinth felt pain, like a hammer slamming into his back. Then another, as a second bullet ripped into him. He felt his breath sucked from his body, and more pain. He knew he was done, but he kept pushing ahead, reaching for the small control unit clipped to Rivera’s belt.

  He hit the ground hard, grunting as he did, pain flaring everywhere in his tortured body. He extended his arm as far forward as he could, but he was almost a meter short.

  He could hear the sounds of enemy troopers moving, shouting to each other. Then more pain, his leg this time. He could feel his awareness slipping away, the heaviness growing in his limbs. But he crawled, clawing forward with his remaining hand. Then he lunged one last time…and he felt the hard metal of the unit. He closed his hand on it, his fingers feeling around for the button.

  He wanted to pause…one last thought of home, of his mother and father. And his sister. She was only fourteen, but they had always been close. She would be inconsolable, he knew, when she found out. She would cry her eyes out.

  No, Cyn, don’t cry…just be happy…live your life, for both of us…

  His finger pressed down, just as his enemies moved over him and began riddling his body with bullets. But amid the agony, he felt the click under his finger, and he smiled back at his killers. And then, for an almost imperceptible instant, he heard the sound, the explosion that ripped through the massive chamber. Then silence, darkness.

  Chapter Nineteen

  From the Commentaries of Rance Barron

  War is hell. Death, suffering, despair. Yet there is glory too, a shimmering reward that looks best from afar, when the costs it extracts are unseen. Still, for all the blood and suffering it demands, glory itself is intoxicating—unless you resist. I have been given decorations, awards…I have ridden at the head of parades and stood before cheering throngs. And each time, amid the adoration and the chanting of my name, I have tried to remember those who served with me, the legions of brave men and women ignored by glory, whose only legacy for combat and struggle is pain and death.