There was a long pause. “All Colonial Militia starships and personnel are ordered to stand down and prepare to be boarded,” it added. “If you do not attempt to block our path to the refugee camps, you will not be harmed. Our war is only with the aliens and those in the Federation who support them. I say again, stand down and prepare to be boarded. You will not be harmed as long as you do not try to interfere.”
“The message is repeating,” the communications officer said.
Jean swore, wishing that the Captain was on the deck. She would have to make the decision herself. Dying in defence of the colonies was one thing, but dying in defence of aliens ... assuming, of course, that the raiders were telling the truth. She could easily see them telling the defenders to stand down, then blowing their helpless ships out of space. And they had killed over two thousand personnel on the battlestation.
“The freighters don't seem to believe them,” the tactical officer reported. “They’re opening up portals and escaping into hyperspace.”
“I don't believe them either,” Jean said. “Lock weapons on target. Prepare to engage.”
***
“They’re not standing down, sir,” Dana reported. “They’re actually holding their ground.”
Jason shrugged. After the destruction of the battlestation, he'd known that the defenders – including a destroyer that had somehow been missed by the scout – would be in an evil mood. The starfighters couldn't escape, either; their only hope was to delay him long enough for assistance to arrive from elsewhere. But unless the scouts had missed an entire battlefleet nearby there would be no help for the planet before the operation was completed and the assault fleet withdrew.
“Open fire as soon as we enter missile range,” he ordered. “I want that destroyer smashed before she has a chance to do any actual damage.”
He half-expected the destroyer to retreat as soon as it became clear that the raiders would not be deterred, but the little ship held her ground. Indeed, she was actually supported by a wing of starfighters, which lanced forward right into the teeth of Jason’s point defence. The point defence opened fire as soon as the craft came into range, forcing the starfighters to throw themselves into unpredictable patterns. Actually hitting them was a matter of luck rather than judgement, but individual starfighters were not particularly dangerous. Keeping them separate would prevent them from posing a major threat.
“Two starfighters gone,” Dana said, as the craft vanished in sparks of light. They couldn't hope to survive even a glancing blow. “Enemy destroyer entering range ... now.”
“Fire,” Jason ordered.
Havoc shuddered as she unleashed a spread of missiles. The destroyer slipped into an evasive pattern, then closed in, switching to rapid fire. Jason was impressed, despite himself; the enemy commander had picked the best tactic to inflict some damage on the raiders before the battle reached its inevitable conclusion. But the closer she came, the more likely it was that she would be hit ... phase cannons opened fire, burning into her shields and scorching her hull. And yet the destroyer kept coming ...
***
Jean swore as alarms echoed through the hull. She'd gambled and failed; the enemy crew might not have been militiamen, but they’d practiced enough to link their ships together into a single datanet. Primrose had been badly damaged; the hyperdrive generator had been knocked offline, ensuring that escape into hyperspace was impossible. If she hadn't taken her ship in too close ... angrily, she shook her head. Their death was inevitable.
“Take us right towards them,” she ordered. If nothing else, they could take an enemy ship with them. She had no idea where the raiders were getting their supplies, but surely losing a light cruiser would hurt. “And take off all the safety interlocks. Ramming speed!”
***
“Sir,” Dana snapped. “The enemy craft is on a collision course with Hammer!”
Jason cursed. “Target her with all weapons,” he snapped. He’d made a mistake and underestimated his enemy. It was rare for the Colonial Militia to use a destroyer in suicide tactics. Even during the worst of the war, suicidal tactics had been reserved for freighters – and only then in the most desperate circumstances. They had never had the ships to spare. “Take her out ...”
“Too late,” Dana said. On the display, the destroyer icon and the light cruiser icon merged, then winked out. Both craft had been completely destroyed by the impact. There was no point in searching for survivors. “They’re gone.”
“Clear the rest of the planet’s orbitals, then bring up the bombardment plans,” Jason ordered, coldly. “I want the orbitals swept clean of everything that might be a danger before we enter orbit.”
“Understood, sir,” Dana said. “Weapons locked on target and firing now.”
The squadron spread out as it approached the planet, firing constantly. Freighters that failed to escape in time were picked off, followed rapidly by the orbital installations. Most of the defences on the ground were largely ineffectual; they fired once or twice, only to reveal their location to the watching ships. KEW strikes rapidly obliterated them, ensuring that they couldn't pose a threat to the shuttles.
“Orbital space cleared,” Dana reported. She sounded satisfied, even though some of the material they'd destroyed would have been worth quite a bit on the black market. “The shuttles are loaded, ready to go.”
“Excellent,” Jason said. He couldn't help feeling a cold sensation in his chest. Bombarding a planet from orbit was one thing, but this was quite another. “Give the order. The landing force is to be deployed immediately.”
His lip twisted into a bitter smile. “And take out that alien camp from orbit,” he added. It wouldn't do to ignore their stated purpose in attacking the planet. After this, no one would want an alien camp anywhere near their star system. “I want it smashed flat.”
“Yes, sir,” Dana said. There was a dull thud as the assault shuttles disengaged from the starship, heading down towards the planet. “The nukes are on their way.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sandy had been told almost nothing about the plan, let alone the target, until the countdown had almost reached zero. The tactical staff had speculated endlessly, like spacers everywhere, but none of them had even guessed at the truth, right up to the moment the portals opened and they arrived at Xenophon. None of them would have believed it, she realised, as the destroyer and the starfighters fought their brief futile battles. Xenophon had been heavily defended, at least by colonial standards.
There was a battlestation, she thought numbly, as the last of the starfighters rammed a raider destroyer, only to flare out of existence against the craft’s shields. But there was nothing more than a cluster of debris where the battlestation had once been. How the hell did they take it out?
She watched, helpless to intervene, as the raider fleet closed in on the planet. It fired constantly, blasting satellites and weapons platforms out of space – and targeting any freighter too slow to escape into hyperspace. Sandy knew that there would be no more sympathy for the raiders among the colonials, not now that innocent and desperately needed freighters had been destroyed, but the thought provided no consolation. There was no one left to help Xenophon before the raiders descended on her.
Her console bleeped. Firing plans had just been sent to her from the flagship, assigning targets to Extreme. She skimmed them quickly, wondering just what they were; the targeting staff hadn't bothered to include any identification details when they’d sent the targeting data, either as a mercy or to discourage mutiny. They could be anything from alien refugee camps to schools and orphanages for human children.
They wouldn't shoot at civilians, she tried to tell herself. But the attack on Xenophon was an order of magnitude more savage than any previous attacks. Taking out the battlestation alone had killed over a thousand Colonial Militia personnel; targeting the freighters was both a direct and indirect attack on civilians and their livelihoods. For some reason, the raiders had switched to diff
erent tactics and there was no way to know what they were being ordered to target.
Sandy glanced over at her superior, wondering if she could mutiny successfully. But she knew that she was unarmed, while the collar around her neck could paralyse or kill her within seconds, once they knew that she was turning against them. And she was hardly essential personnel; she might have manned a tactical console, but all she really had to do was implement the firing patterns sent from the flagship. A trained monkey could have done as much without being paid. There was nothing she could do to save Xenophon.
Hating herself, she tapped a switch. The light cruiser started to launch KEWs towards the planet.
***
President Coffey had not rested on his laurels. A war hero, the son of two other war heroes, he’d taken advantage of the end of the war to set up a hidden command and control station near the city, but far away enough to ensure some safety if – when – Xenophon was attacked again. After all, the planet was a supply hub and a known source of manpower for the Colonial Militia. The real surprise would be never being attacked again. His security team had whisked him to the bunker as soon as the orbital battlestation was destroyed. There, he'd watched helplessly as the destroyer and starfighters were obliterated one by one.
“They’re heading down towards the low orbitals,” the operator informed him. “We’re losing orbital stations now.”
Coffey wasn't surprised. It wasn't easy for anyone, even the Federation, to monitor events in orbit and deep space from the ground. Taking out the orbital satellites blinded the defenders in more ways than one. Once they had secured the orbitals, they’d start hammering the planet into submission ... or merely start destroying the cities and settlements from orbit. And the thrice-damned alien refugee camp. The memory made him scowl. He’d wanted to talk his government into allowing the aliens provisional citizenship – they did know how to work with captured Dragon equipment – but the scars of the war ran too deep. Congress had voted against it five to one.
“Get the troops spread out,” he ordered. It was pointless – the defenders were already scattered – but he couldn't just say nothing. “And then ...”
He shook his head. “Was there any response to our distress call?”
“Nothing,” the operator said. “And now the satellites are gone, we cannot pick up any response that might be sent.”
“Makes you wonder what we pay taxes for,” Coffey muttered, although he knew the answer. Their taxes had paid for the giant orbital battlestation, the same battlestation that was now nothing more than a cloud of debris. Xenophon should have been safe – and secure. If they survived this, he promised himself, heads were going to roll. “We’ll just have to pray ...”
“Incoming,” the operator snapped. “They’re launching projectiles!”
Coffey came to his feet and stared at the display. The projectiles were scorching their way through the atmosphere, coming down in and around the city. None of them, he noted, were targeted on the bunker; whatever security leak had allowed the raiders to take out the battlestation hadn't been completely comprehensive. But then, no one off-world had been told about the bunker. It had been Xenophon’s secret.
That paranoia might have saved our lives, he thought numbly. The projectiles had targeted military bases, communications centres and government buildings, but they'd completely missed the bunker or the landline network they used to issue orders. There has to be a leak on Fairfax. A big one.
He watched, helplessly, as the targets were destroyed. Thankfully, if one good thing had come out of the first raids, it was that they had an evacuation plan in place for both civilians and soldiers. If the enemy had hoped to cripple resistance, they would be disappointed. And if they tried to land, there would drop right into the teeth of the planet’s firepower.
Red icons blinked up on the display. “They hit the alien camp, sir,” the operator said. “The weapons were dirty nukes, not conventional KEWs. If any of the buggers survived that strike, they’ll be dead of radiation poisoning within the week.”
“So much for their claims,” Coffey snarled. Whatever the so-called Colonial Liberation Front wanted, screwing up the local ecosystem would convince most of the colonies that they were dangerous lunatics with starships. “They want to kill us, not set us free.”
Another red icon blinked up, then faded away. “That was the last projectile, sir,” the operator informed him. “It’s gone quiet.”
“They’re planning to land at the spaceport,” Coffey guessed. There was one target on the soil that might be worth a raid, rather than a quick bombardment followed by a retreat into hyperspace. It would require audacity, but the raiders certainly seemed to have that. “Warn the defenders to be ready. I want those bastards hurt.”
***
“Bombardment pattern complete, sir,” Dana reported. “All targets destroyed; I say again, all targets destroyed.”
She paused, significantly. “One target needed to be hit twice. The tactical officer flubbed the first shot.”
“You can see to his discipline,” Jason promised her. KEWs were easy to produce if one had an asteroid and a few hours to do some mining, but it was the principle of the thing. A sloppy operator could not be tolerated. Besides, missiles and torpedoes were far harder to replace. The colonials would probably get a great deal stricter about weapons transfers though their space after Xenophon. “And now ...”
He paused, considering the situation. They had control of the orbitals, they could see everything that moved on the planet below ... and they had at least an hour, maybe longer, before help could arrive from the nearest star. There was time to move ahead with the second objective.
“Deploy the landing force,” he ordered. “I want everything in that spaceport in our hands within an hour.”
***
Corporal Jackson O’Hara watched nervously through the passive sensors as the enemy shuttles headed down towards the spaceport. He’d expected to die at any moment, smashed flat by a KEW before he even realised what had happened, but it seemed the brass were correct and the raiders wanted the spaceport. No one seemed entirely sure if they wanted the supplies or if they intended to turn it into a bridgehead to land more troops to overrun the planet, yet it hardly mattered. All that mattered was that they were finally coming in range of his weapons.
“Hold your fire until they're right on top of us,” Sergeant Prendergast muttered. “And then set the system to automatic and run.”
Jackson nodded, checking that his rifle was still where he’d left it. Their vehicle was dug in and camouflaged, but they all knew that they would only get one or two shots off before the enemy returned fire. The HVM-launcher was a makeshift piece of crap compared to some of the armoured vehicles the Federation had designed; the colonies had had to work with what they had, rather than the Federation’s unlimited resources. Among other things, it lacked the sophisticated countermeasures the Federation brought to the battlefield. The moment they fired, they'd tell the enemy exactly where they were.
The enemy shuttles seemed overconfident, he noted, or untrained. They weren't dropping armoured troops, not like the Dragons or the Federation Marines; they seemed to expect no resistance at all. Unless it was a trick, of course. But the shuttles continued to descend, their drives slowing their fall as they came towards the spaceport. Jackson checked the firing system and let out a sigh of relief when it worked perfectly. It wasn't uncommon for a piece of equipment to fail out in the field, for no apparent reason, particularly when it was needed desperately.
“Fire,” the sergeant ordered.
Jackson flipped a switch, then stood, caught up his rifle and ran for the hatch. A dull roar echoed through the vehicle as the first high-velocity missile launched from the rack above their heads, heading straight for the enemy shuttles. Unless the enemy were very lucky, they wouldn’t have time to register the attack, let alone evade the missiles. He heard the second and third missiles launching as he ran from the vehicle, knowing that they h
ad split-seconds to get away before the enemy returned fire. They jumped into the trench twenty metres from the vehicle and turned, just in time to see the first enemy missile strike the ground. It missed its target, but the second was dead on. Their vehicle vanished in a colossal fireball.
“Good God,” the sergeant muttered.
The enemy attack had been shattered. A dozen vehicles had opened fire, taking out at least thirty shuttles before the remainder had started to deploy countermeasures and return fire. He could see fires burning where the enemy shuttles had crashed, coming down so hard that even armoured troopers were unlikely to survive. It was hard to hear anything over the din as the enemy missiles slammed into the spaceport; he clutched his rifle and waited for the enemy to land. If they made a proper assault after this, they’d meet the defenders on the ground.
And we might have taught them a lesson, he thought. But he knew that it wouldn't end well if the enemy broke off completely. They'd almost certainly hit the spaceport from orbit, just out of spite. If they couldn't have the supplies, they wouldn't want anyone else getting them either.
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