by Jay Allan
“Hieronymus?” Compton shifted his gaze to the scientist.
“My people will be ready, Admiral.” He didn’t sound much happier about the time constraints than Barcomme had, but he didn’t ask for more either.
“Very well then…it is decided. Now, before we adjourn…I know there is much work to be done before the expedition departs. I would like to remind everyone just how potentially dangerous this mission will be. Hieronymus, I know you are anxious to discover as much as possible about the First Imperium, but I caution you—no, I order you—to exert the utmost caution. You must be very careful what you disturb and take every effort not to trigger any warnings or alarms that may still be functional.” That’s a potential advantage of a wartorn world. With any luck, systems like that were long ago destroyed.
“Yes, Admiral. I understand.”
“And you, Commander.” His eyes moved to Barcomme. “I know you are charged with producing a massive amount of food very quickly, but I must caution against the use of too much energy. This entire operation rests on the edge of a knife. If an enemy vessel should pass through the system and detect power generation, the fate of the expedition will be likely be sealed.” He had a hitch in his throat, a momentary reaction as he thought about the danger she was walking into. “And with it the fleet’s…for we wait on the success of your efforts, upon which hinge our hopes for survival.”
“I understand, Terrance.” She slipped and used his first name, but if anyone noticed or thought it was odd, they didn’t let on. “We will be careful.”
“Good.” Compton stared down the table, to the hulking form at the opposite end. “Colonel Preston?”
“Yes, sir!” Preston replied, his voice cracking like a whip. James Preston was a Marine, through and through, and he looked and sounded every bit the part.
“I want you to command the ground forces. You will leave four companies for shipboard duty, and take the rest of the Marines with you.” The fleet had some other ground forces, an understrength orta of Janissaries, some Europan and RIC mobile forces. But Compton had faith in his own Marines, and this operation was too important to make decisions based on anything but tactical ability. A homogeneous force of Marines would operate better in a crisis situation than some multi-national conglomeration designed to salve the egos of the fleet’s nationalities. Compton had seen the Marines in action many times, and if anyone could keep his people on the ground safe—keep Sophie safe—it was Preston and his leathernecks.
“Yes, Admiral.” Then, a few seconds later, “Don’t worry, sir. The Marines will see it done. Whatever happens.”
“I have no doubt of that, Colonel.” He looked at Barcomme then at Cutter. “Colonel Preston will be in overall command of the expedition. I want both of you to understand this…his orders are final, and they are to be obeyed without question…as if they are coming from my own lips. Understood?”
“Yes,” Barcomme replied. “Understood.”
Compton stared at Cutter. “Hieronymus?”
“Yes,” the scientist replied, a little more grudgingly than Barcomme. “Understood.”
* * *
“Max, thank you for coming. I know it’s late. Come in…sit.” Compton was seated at a chair just inside the door. The room was mostly dark, just a single fixture on a dim setting throwing off any light at all. Max Harmon stood in the doorway, a dark shadow against the bright illumination from the corridor.
Harmon stepped into the room, and the door slid shut behind him. “Of course, sir. Whatever you need.” He stood at attention, just inside the room.
“For the love of God, Max, sit. I’m getting tired just looking at you standing there like that.” Compton had called Harmon in the middle of the night, something he knew was not conducive to his recent campaign to get his aide to relax more. But he’d made a decision, and he wanted to tell Harmon. He’d expressly told the aide not to worry about what he was wearing, just to come however he was. But somehow, Harmon looked ready for a parade inspection, his uniform spotless and perfectly pressed, and every hair on his head exactly where it belonged, as if each of them had been ordered to lay neatly and wouldn’t dare disobey.
He is his mother’s son, isn’t he?
Compton waited while Harmon sat in the chair opposite his own. The captain almost looked more uncomfortable in the seat than he had standing ramrod straight a few seconds before. Compton would have told himself his aide would lose that perfect discipline when he saw some real action…but Max Harmon had been in enough tough battles to melt the heart of a lesser man. And still, there he is, at 3am ship’s time, looking like an image of spot on perfection.
“Max, I want you to do something for me.”
“Of course, sir. Whatever you wish.”
“I want you to go with the expedition.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“I don’t want you to stay. I need you here. But I have to know everything is in place and going well. I want you to stay a week and then come back and report.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“I’m detaching Wolverine. She will stay in orbit with a skeleton crew and wait for you. She’s one of the fastest ships left in the fleet, and I’ve authorized her commander to burn as much fuel as necessary to catch up with us.”
“Very well, sir.” A pause. “If that is all, sir, I should go get ready. The expedition is set to depart in four hours.”
“Yes, Max. And thank you. I’d like to land myself and have a look around…but I can’t risk something like that again. And your eyes are the next closest thing to mine.”
Harmon stood up, looking almost relieved to be on his feet and at attention again. “Of course, Admiral. Don’t worry…I will bring you a complete report.”
“I’m sure you will.” He nodded and watched as the aide turned toward the door.
“And Max?”
Harmon stopped and turned back toward Compton. “Sir?”
“I need that report no matter what. And I need you too.” Compton paused. “So if the expedition runs into trouble, if there is heavy fighting…your orders are to leave immediately and come back and report to me.”
Harmon paused, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Of course, sir. As you command.” His voice was sharp, almost stilted, despite his obvious efforts to hide his feelings about making a run for it while the landing party was under attack.
“Very well, Max. Now go and get ready. I’ll speak with you again before you leave.”
“Sir!” Harmon snapped, and then he turned and walked out of the room.
I know, Max. I understand how hard it will be if you have to leave—to run—while your comrades are fighting…and perhaps dying. But I must know what is happening down there, and all the more if disaster strikes.
He sighed and looked across the dimly-lit room.
Civilians must imagine that fighting is the hardest thing we do, facing our fears and plunging into the maelstrom. But it is not. Not for officers like us, Max. No, for us, abandoning our brethren is the worst nightmare…yet if that is what duty demands of us, then we have no choice. For duty is first, above all things.
Chapter Four
Command Unit Gamma 9736
The humans paused their advance in system 17411. Their fleet then halted for an extended period before continuing on through the warp gate to system 17419. This is unexpected behavior. They recently paused to refine fusionables for their primitive energy generation systems, and based on an analysis of their vessels and the extraction system they were able to construct, they should not require additional fuel at this time. Even if they did, perhaps in the instance of some leakage or malfunction we have not detected, system 17411 is an unlikely choice. It has a single gas giant, one that is notably poor in the heavy hydrogen and helium-3 their reactors require.
So why would they pause? They have proceeded on their course for a considerable period of time now, and they have not halted save to replenish their fuel supplies. So what has changed? Have they detected the
stealth probes? Indeed, while possible, that seems highly unlikely. The probes are far beyond their science, and based on all data collected since we first encountered them, they have almost no ability to manipulate or even to effectively detect dark matter and energy.
Probe 4302 reported a brief passage through an abnormally dense particulate cloud, one that could have temporarily reduced its stealth capability. But the behavior of the enemy fleet since that time had been unchanged. And even if they had detected the probe, why would they stop? My analysis suggests the overwhelmingly likely reaction would be to destroy the probes if they could be located…and failing that, to accelerate their flight, to seek to escape the forces they would infer are following them. I cannot discern any rational plan that would involve remaining in place so long.
I lack the data to develop an effective hypothesis. I will send a new force to investigate. And to capture a prisoner if possible. I must know more about these creatures. The Regent’s orders are to destroy them all, but my commands do not expressly preclude analysis and questioning before termination.
Yes, I must have a prisoner. I will send the orders at once.
X48 System – Planet II
“Plymouth Rock”
Approximately 14,000,000 kilometers from AS Midway
The Fleet: 144 ships, 32,808 crew
“I want everyone to stay inside the defensive perimeter until the scouting parties report back.” James Preston stood in front of the crowd of scientists, members of Barcomme’s and Cutter’s expeditions. There were a few impatient looks in the crowd, but not many people argued with a fully-armored Marine standing a few meters away…and no one did when that Marine was Colonel James Preston.
“I understand the importance of your work and the urgency of allowing you to begin, but security comes first.” There were Marines everywhere, running around in a way that seemed like a wild scrum but was actually a perfectly choreographed operation. Two companies were moving out, setting up defensive positions around the entire camp. Others were sweeping through the area, searching for live defensive systems or other potential dangers.
There was no longer any question that a massive battle had been waged here long ago. The debris remained scattered around everywhere. The high tech materials of the First Imperium equipment had survived the ages of wind and rain and decay, at least to a point. Preston could tell the scientists were straining at the leash, dying to dive into the wreckage, to study the amazing technology of the ancient race that had fought a cataclysmic battle here so long ago. But he knew Admiral Compton was counting on him to keep everyone safe, and that was the primary consideration. If that meant everyone had to stand around and wait then so be it.
Preston looked at the row of shuttles lined up a few dozen meters behind the scientific crews. There were over a hundred Marines posted around them, fully armored with weapons at the ready. The craft had brought the personnel down to the surface, but most of their capacity had been used to carry the seed the agricultural crews would need. Barcomme’s people had worked tirelessly in preparation for the expedition, genetically modifying the seeds in the fleet’s dwindling stores, creating the most nutrient dense and fastest-growing crops known to mankind’s science. He knew the cargo was beyond price. It was all the fleet had, and if he let his guard down, of some enemy force penetrated and destroyed those shuttles, thousands on the fleet would starve to death. Not today, not even tomorrow. But soon.
He turned and looked out over the plain that had been selected as the landing zone. It was a long section of flat, open ground stretching kilometers in every direction, with only a single large rock outcropping to break up the endless flatland. Preston wasn’t sure who had started calling it Plymouth Rock, but he appreciated the humor. Still, he wasn’t sure it was a very suitable name. The men and women who’d landed at Plymouth Rock were settlers…they had come to stay. And James Preston couldn’t get off this haunted planet soon enough.
He frowned. The primary consideration in selecting a landing site had been suitable conditions for planting. And that it certainly was. But it was a shitty spot to mount a defense—he’d decided that the instant he hopped out of the shuttle and took a look around. Wide open, no cover, no trees, not even any significant undulation in the ground. If his people had to fight a battle here, it would be a bloodbath.
But defensibility was secondary to food production. He was worried about the possibility of combat, but it was a fact that people were going to die without the food they’d come to grow…and that took absolute precedence. Sophie Barcomme had selected the LZ, and that had been the last word on the subject. He understood…and he knew his Marines would handle things, somehow. Like they always did.
“The perimeter is in place, Colonel. We’ve got a hundred fire teams covering every approach.” Connor Frasier’s voice was gruff, but over the years he’d lost most of the remnant of the moderate brogue he’d brought with him to training camp.
Many of Earth’s accents had faded away over the years, as the Superpowers had encouraged homogeneity within their borders. The politicians had long understood that it was easier to whip their downtrodden subjects into wild fits of nationalism if racial and ancestral stereotypes were used effectively. But the Scots had defied that trend, at least in the region of the Highlands. The area had repeatedly rebelled against Alliance diktats, until finally an agreement was reached, one that granted a level of local autonomy. The perceived ‘victory’ over the central government caused a burst of hereditary pride, saving the Scottish accent from history’s dustbin. But nearly twenty years of service—and the realization that few of his fellow Marines could understand what the hell he was saying—had worn away at Frasier’s accent, until there was just a touch of it left.
“Very good, Major.” He watched as Frasier trotted the last few meters and stopped in front of him. It didn’t really matter where they stood—they were buttoned up in their armor and talking on the com—but certain affectations had proven to be hardwired into the human mind. Including the ‘face to face’ conversation. “I want you to organize sweeper teams to go through the camp area. For all we know we could be standing on top of undetonated ordnance.” Preston knew that was unlikely after half a million years, but the point was still valid. There were a hundred other potential dangers, and that meant they had to know everything that was in the area. Fast.
“Yes, Colonel. Right away.” Frasier paused. “Sir…when you release the research party…have you considered what security to send with them?”
Preston paused. It wasn’t like Frasier to poke around the edges of a topic. The massive Scot was as direct and to the point as anyone Preston had ever known.
Except when he’s trying to be subtle and get assigned to protect the scientists…a group that just happens to include his girlfriend. And he’s about as good at subtlety as most Marines…
“Let’s worry about getting everything in place here, Con…then you and your Scots can escort Ana Zhukov and the rest of the scientists. Alright?”
“Yes, sir,” Frasier replied, sounding as contrite as a veteran Marine ever did.
Technically, Frasier wasn’t in the normal chain of command. He was the CO of the Scots Company, an elite commando formation—and the remnant of the battalion his father had led in the Third Frontier War. But he was also the second-highest ranking Marine officer in the fleet, and Preston had made him his unofficial exec.
Preston watched as Frasier jogged off waving his arms as he no doubt fired off commands to a formation of Marines thirty meters in front of him. He smiled for a few seconds as he watched his number two herding them into action. Frasier was one of the toughest Marines Preston had ever commanded…ever known…and it was amusing to think about how hard he had fallen for Ana Zhukov. It was no surprise, really. The Russian scientist was beautiful—there was no question about that—and she was one of the nicest, most pleasant people Preston had ever met. And Frasier had seduced her in the most Marine way possible…saving her life, almos
t getting killed in the process.
He wished Frasier and Zhukov all the best, but he felt a doubt creeping up, and he wondered if he should assign someone else to the guard detail for the exploration team. He knew why Frasier wanted the job, but his training and experience were telling him duty and romance were bad bedfellows.
He almost commed Frasier to tell him he’d changed his mind. But something held him back. No, we’re not in a normal situation anymore. This is no conventional battlefield, and the fleet is no normal military force. We’re going to need to think differently if we’re going to survive…and Connor Frasier is one of the best Marines I’ve ever known. I trust him.
He paused for another few seconds then he turned and started walking back toward the command post. If things ever get to the point where I can’t trust a Marine like Frasier…we’re as good as done for anyway.
* * *
“The expedition has landed, Admiral. Scanners report all shuttles have set down safely.” Jack Cortez was a first rate aide, fit to serve any admiral. Compton knew it, and he had no complaints about the tactical officer. Save that Cortez had the misfortune to be filling Max Harmon’s chair…and that was a comparison no naval officer wanted to face.
Compton had been hesitant to make a change in his flag bridge team, but he realized Harmon was long overdue for the promotion. Besides, he needed an aide he could truly trust to work on his own…more than four meters away from his commander’s chair. And that was Max Harmon.
“Very well, Commander.” Compton stared at his display, the blue and white semi-circle of the planet as seen from Midway’s exterior scanners. He knew his people were down on the surface now…and in many ways he understood they had the fate of the fleet in their hands. Barcomme’s food, and possibly Cutter’s scientific advancements, were the keys to their long term survival. Nothing was more important than their mission.