by Jay Allan
They both paused for a while, perhaps half a minute, each of them staring at the map and the columns of figures scrolling along the edges of the ‘pad. “I think we could pull more from the base on Farpoint.” Compton was reading the deployment notes on the ‘pad, though he already knew them by heart. “Honestly, we could just about close the base entirely. Forty years ago it looked like that was going to be a hotly contested sector, but now there’s no enemy within 6 transits.”
Farpoint was a continuing lesson in the need to employ long-term thinking when naming worlds. At the time it was founded it was the deepest into space man had yet ventured, but now the name was somewhat of a joke. The planet served as an ersatz capital and administrative center for the Alliance’s rimworlds, but it was at least four transits from the frontier along any warp path.
“I think you’re right.” Garret glanced down at the map, sliding his finger to move Farpoint to the center of the display. “We need to keep the base functioning to support the transport and colony ships heading to the Rim, but we can go to a skeleton crew.” He paused for an instant, thinking about the forces currently stationed there. “Let’s leave Stingray, Raptor, and Hornet….” The three vessels were fast attack ships, and they would serve well for general patrol and policing. “…and reassign the rest of the 5th Fleet to the Armstrong forces.” He looked up at Compton. “What do you think?”
“I’d do it.” Compton inhaled deeply, holding the breath for a few seconds before exhaling. His tone was tentative, uncertain. “There’s no rational reason not to, but something about it still bothers me. It feels wrong to leave a base that size with such a small squadron.” He rubbed his fingers along his temples – the small headache he’d had when the strategy session started was getting worse. “I still say do it, though. We need those ships to cover Armstrong…at least until the stationary defenses are upgraded.”
The planet Armstrong had been fairly well-protected, but its new status as headquarters for the Colonial Confederation’s military forces demanded an entirely new level of fortification. A dozen orbital installations were under construction, each bristling with weaponry and defensive systems. But it would be several years before they were complete, and until then the nerve center of the Alliance military would be protected by mobile fleet units.
“OK, so we’ve got First Fleet at Armstrong.” Garret was sliding his fingers along the ‘pad, moving ship names into place in a series of columns. “I will take direct command there.” He stared down at the screen, double-checking the list of ships. “I can split my time between headquarters planetside and the flagship...” He looked at the list again. “…which will be Lexington.”
Garret paused, his eyes still focused on the lists of available vessels. “The forces you have here at Wolf 359 will be the redesignated Second Fleet.” His fingers slid more ship names into a box marked Second Fleet. “You’ll continue to command here.” He glanced up at his companion as he spoke.
Compton nodded. “I think we can defend both systems against any realistic threat.” He looked back at Garret, his expression troubled. “But what about a reaction force?” He slid his finger across the ‘pad, centering a box with a large Roman numeral III on it. “Third Fleet is a joke. There’s not enough there to counter any serious enemy attack.” He glanced next to the Third Fleet box to a similar area marked with a IV. “And Fourth Fleet is even worse. Calling it a fleet is a bad joke.”
“I know.” Garret leaned back in his chair. “But there’s nothing to be done about it….except…” He slid a datachip across the table. “I worked out a plan, but I want it kept secret. I don’t even want it on the network.” He hated having to think that way, especially in his own navy, but after his experiences at the hands of Gavin Stark, he trusted almost no one. Stark’s organization had infiltrated the navy far more effectively than Garret would have thought possible, and he wasn’t going to forget that.
Compton reached out and picked up the chip. He too had become more careful since the true extent of Alliance Intelligence scheming was exposed. But he was worried about Garret. His friend had become truly paranoid, suspecting everyone except those very few who were closest to him. Compton understood, but he also knew how much damage it could do. The navy was a team, and a good team had to function based on trust. Garret had always had faith in the men and women who served under him, and they had followed him to hell and back. Now he looked at them all and wondered if they were spies.
“I’ll review it.” He lowered his voice, though it was just an instinctive reaction to the secrecy. They were alone, and the room was sealed. No one could hear them. “What is it?”
“It’s a plan to subdivide First and Second Fleets into tiered task forces.” Garret also spoke softly, though it was unclear if it was intentional or if he was subconsciously emulating Compton. “It will allow us to evaluate any enemy action and detach segments of the fleets to reinforce the reaction forces. The tiers are based on threat levels. If an enemy attack is big, we know they’ve tied down a lot of their forces and won’t have them available to move on Armstrong or Wolf 359. That will let us peel off squadrons from the garrisoning fleets to supplement our reaction forces.” He shifted again in his chair, but he couldn’t get comfortable. He was on edge – too little sleep, too much work. The back of his neck was one big knot. “The tiers are carefully organized to complement the reaction forces. That way we have well-organized fleets rather than ad-hoc combos of whatever ships are around. The AIs of the ships in the tiered forces will all have protocols for both fleets. They will be able to instantly plug into either command structure.”
Compton smiled. “That is brilliant, Augustus.” He scolded himself for not thinking of it. “It’s as close as we can come to cloning those ships and having them two places at once.” His head was really pounding now despite the two analgesics he’d taken before the meeting. How, he wondered, can they regrow lost limbs but still not come up with a decent headache remedy?
Garret arched his back in the chair, still trying to get comfortable. “It doesn’t really give us more strength, but by doing some planning now we’ll be ready to react more quickly. If we have to do some shuffling of forces, it will be better organized than some last minute cut and paste job.”
The two of them sat quietly for several minutes, both deep in thought. Finally, Garret rose slowly, stretching slightly to drive away the stiffness in his arms and legs. He started to roll his head, but he decided that getting rid of the tension in his neck was a lost cause. “Well, Terrence, I think I will get a couple hours of sleep if I can manage it.” He turned as his companion rose, and he extended his hand. No salutes between these old friends…just a warm handshake. “I’ve got to leave early tomorrow. You have things in hand here, and I need to get back to Armstrong.”
“Take care, Augustus.” Compton’s voice was friendly, but a touch subdued. “I’ll hold down the fort here. You just get that mess in Armstrong under control.” He smiled at his friend and superior. “After all, I wouldn’t want to make you look bad.”
“No…” Garret smiled warmly. “We couldn’t have that now, could we?” He turned and walked toward the doorway, the hatch opening automatically as he approached. He glanced back from the entry. “I’ll see you before I leave, Terrance.”
Compton nodded and watched Garret walk out into the corridor, the hatch sliding shut behind him. He stood quietly for a couple minutes then walked slowly toward the end of the room. “Open outer shield.”
“Opening outer shield, Admiral Compton.” The ship’s master AI had a pleasant sounding voice, highly professional, with just a touch of casual familiarity. There was a soft sliding sound as the heavy armored doors along the end wall pulled back, revealing a large expanse of clear polymer. There weren’t a lot of portholes or windows on warships, but this was one of his favorite things about Bunker Hill. It was a luxury, pure and simple…an aesthetic provided for a fleet admiral flying his flag from a Yorktown class battlewagon.
&nb
sp; The view was spectacular, the glory of space laid out before him. It was so majestic, so peaceful. He thought sadly to himself – you’d never know to look at this, what a blood-soaked warzone we’ve managed to make it. An entire universe, endless and magnificent, and we still fight over every scrap. “Man really is a wretched creature.” He spoke to himself, so softly it was barely audible.
He looked out over the forward hull of Bunker Hill to the glowing sphere of Wolf 359 V. The gas giant was as beautiful as any artwork he’d ever seen, a hazy blue globe, with just a hint of a ring floating around it. The orbital shipyards weren’t visible. As huge as they were to man’s sensibilities, at this range they were infinitesimally small, far too tiny for the eye to see.
“Well, we’ve done the best we can.” Compton was still speaking to himself as he gazed into the void. Finally, he sighed and tuned away from the window and moved slowly toward the door. “At least all of this is theoretical. The other Powers are all too beaten up to start a war anytime soon.” He stopped at the doorway and glanced back one last time. “We’ll have the time we need before we have to fight again.”
Chapter 5
Foothills of the Southern Spur
Near Colony One
Newton - HP 56548 III
Tremaine could feel his heart pounding in his ears like thunder. He gripped the rifle tightly, his fingers white from squeezing. It was hot, almost unbearably so, and his overall was soaking wet and plastered to his back. He was scared, so terrified he could barely hold a thought in his head. But he was determined not to let the fear take control. His people needed him…now in this darkest hour more than ever.
Half the colonists were already dead. He’d managed to get the survivors out of the wreck of the village and into the hills, but that had only bought them some time…and very little of it. He had no idea whether Colony Two had also been attacked; the invaders knocked out the satellite before they landed, and when it went down so did the contact with the second settlement.
The weapon felt odd in Tremaine’s hands…cold, hard, unfamiliar. He’d never fired any kind of gun before. He’d always abhorred all forms of violence, and all his life he’d sought peace and tranquility. He’d led his people to the edge of explored space to escape the savagery and horror that men continually inflicted on one another…to find a chance at a simple life. But war had found them anyway.
Now he felt emotions new to him. Dark, primitive feelings...like nothing he’d ever experienced. Tremaine wanted to fight…to kill. He wanted to destroy the enemy. He couldn’t force the images from his mind, the horrific memories of his friends and neighbors massacred, their mangled bodies lying motionless in the blistering sun. The dead children, murdered by the invaders, sprawled horribly alongside their butchered parents.
Always before, Tremaine had looked at society’s horrors, at the endless war and desperate suffering, and he’d clung to his beliefs, to his conviction that men could achieve something better, something higher. His faith, his devotion to his ideals, had never deserted him as his quest took him from one of Earth’s worst slums to Columbia, and finally to the very edge of explored space to build a new world. His resolution had remained firm through it all, despite oppression and delay and heartbreak. Until now.
He couldn’t think about the invaders without shivering, a chill running through his body despite the searing heat. The image of them moving across the plain toward the village, huge and hulking, yet fast and agile too. They looked somewhat like the Marines and CAC troops he’d seen on Columbia during the war, but bigger and far more terrible. Relentless, moving inexorably forward, ignoring every attempt by the colonists to communicate…to surrender.
Tremaine was shocked at the brutality of the invaders. He had been on Columbia when the CAC forces attacked years before. The CAC troops were brutal in many ways, but nothing like this. Many civilians died in the fighting on Columbia, but they weren’t deliberately targeted and killed. These new enemies were systematically exterminating the colonists, as if removing an infestation. They had no hesitation, no mercy, no pity.
A vision of hell had been unleashed on the colony, and Ian Tremaine’s faith, so long the guiding force in his life, at last deserted him. He felt empty, as though all he had ever believed had been a lie. His blood surged through his veins, and he was consumed with hatred and an overwhelming ache for vengeance. He longed to kill the enemy, to visit upon them the destruction they had loosed upon his peaceful and defenseless people…to repay blood with blood, murder with murder. He would give his life in an instant if, by his death, he could lash out at these terrible foes. These were unfamiliar feelings, and while he hated himself for having them, they were real nonetheless.
He looked back over his shoulder. The survivors were crouched down behind rocks, taking advantage of what cover they could. Tremaine hadn’t even wanted to include weapons in the colony’s equipment manifest, and he’d only relented because of the aggressive predators inhabiting the planet’s jungles and equatorial regions. They’d never had to use one on an animal, but he was glad to have them now.
There had only been 20 rifles in the weapons locker, and he’d given them to those he’d been able to reach during the chaos of the attack. He doubted it would make a difference; his terrified little band had no real chance against these horrific invaders. But now that he faced his own imminent destruction, he knew in his heart that he’d rather die fighting. If these enemies were going to kill his people he was going to make them pay…or at least he would try.
He saw the shapes approaching, small, barely visible at first, but moving quickly. They were well over two meters tall, massively armored and bristling with weapons. They looked like warriors sent from hell as they moved grimly forward…unstoppable, merciless. Tremaine knew they were coming for him…for him and for his people. He tightened his grip on the rifle and stared forward, transfixed on the approaching shapes. He was looking at his own death, and he knew it. He almost gave in to panic and tried to run, but then a strange calm settled over him. He raised his rifle, preparing to fire. It would all be over in a few minutes. He tried to keep his focus, but his mind drifted…back over the last few fateful days.
The nightmare had begun two days before. The colonization and supply fleet, so long awaited, had been attacked barely a day out from Newton. The colony had been joyous, anxiously awaiting their new neighbors and the supplies they so desperately needed. Then, disaster.
The transmission had been received first with disbelief then with shock and anguish. Word spread quickly throughout the small village, and the people flocked to the community center, where the communications from the fleet were broadcast. They listened silently to the battle unfolding in space, and they knew the fleet was doomed. None of the Newton colonists had military experience, but they knew enough to understand that the acceleration rates and warhead yields being reported were extraordinary. One by one they received the Delta-Z codes until, finally, the com was eerily silent.
The two colonies communicated feverishly, but there was little they could do. Newton had no defenses…none at all. It didn’t even have a Commnet station yet, so the colonists couldn’t call for help…not that any could have arrived in time. The planet’s lone satellite detected distant ships approaching, and it transmitted its sketchy data to the surface. Then, suddenly, a blast of energy impacted it and it was gone, leaving the two small colonies without eyes or even a communications link with each other.
Haven was alone, cut off even from its sister settlement. Blind, deaf, defenseless, the village waited…it waited to see what would come next. The people gathered together, praying for salvation few of them really expected. The next twelve hours were the most trying in Ian Tremaine’s life. He spent that long night moving among the people, comforting those he could, reassuring any who would listen. He tried to give them hope, even as his own drained away. He knew it was a lie, but still he went among those terrified, huddled masses with comforting words and empty promises of hope.
No one from Haven scouted the landing zone, so no one saw the side doors slide open and the great armored figures pour out onto the dusty brown sand. Their formations were meticulous, perfect. There was no hesitation, no need to pause and form up…they just moved out spaced at exact ten meter intervals.
The attackers moved quickly, traversing the 10 kilometers to Haven in less than twenty minutes. They paused two klicks out and opened fire. They carried a full magnetic auto-cannon on each arm, and their hyper-velocity rounds ravaged the settlement, tearing right through buildings, vehicles, equipment…and colonists.
The settlers panicked, running through the village, screaming, desperately searching for cover that simply didn’t exist. At least a third of the Havenites were killed in the first two minutes, the rest stampeding through the town in blind terror.
Ian Tremaine walked slowly through the town common in shock, seemingly oblivious to the chaos and destruction around him. He’d been in the communications hut since the landing ships were first spotted, trying vainly to contact the enemy, broadcasting the planet’s surrender on every frequency. His panicked mind raced, trying to decide what to do. He couldn’t understand. Why wouldn’t they respond? Why wouldn’t they accept the surrender? His people weren’t warriors; they weren’t a threat to anyone.