by Jay Allan
“I don’t know what is going to happen, Lise…but they didn’t cancel Dauntless’s refit, or call nine hundred spacers back from an overdue shore leave, for nothing. There must be something out there, and the ship has to face it alone. There are no other deep space capable fleet units here. Everything is on the Union border. I can’t let them go without me, with my spot unfilled. Any deficiency could be the difference between victory and defeat…even my empty slot.” He paused, moving over and putting his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Lise. I would stay here with you, you know that. I just can’t.”
She stood silently for a moment. Part of her wanted to argue, to fight with him…to throw everything she could at him in an effort to get him to stay. But she’d known the kind of man he was when she’d married him, and she couldn’t blame him now for being what he’d always been. And she knew he might still go, despite her begging him to stay, and that was something she didn’t want to face.
She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him. She took a deep breath, struggling to hold back her tears. “You be careful…promise me.”
“I promise.” His answer was quick, almost robotic. She knew he was telling her what she wanted to hear. She tried to believe him, to convince herself everything would be okay. But she had a bad feeling, one that had resisted her attempts to push it aside.
He hugged her tightly, and he leaned in and kissed her. Then he took a step back. “I have to go.”
She could see the sadness in his eyes, and she realized he was doing what he had to do, not what he wanted. At least not what he wanted most.
“I know,” she said softly. “Remember…be careful.”
“I will.” He smiled at her for a few seconds. Then he reached over and grabbed a duffel bag he’d laid on the small couch. He threw it over his shoulder and walked toward the door…and then out into the hall.
Lise stood watching, waiting. Then, when the door was closed, she let the tears come.
Chapter Twelve
Base Tom Wills
Planet Santis, Krillus IV
307 AC
“For the love of the Spacer’s Ghost, move your asses!” Clete Hargraves stood in the middle of the snow-covered field in front of the barracks shouting at his Marines as they loaded up the platoon’s four transports. Lieutenant Plunkett had been clear as a bell. They were to take everything they could cram onto one of the all-terrain trucks, and then destroy the rest. They still had no idea who was coming, but there was no longer the slightest doubt. They were under attack. And the last thing they were going to do was let an invader use their own weapons and equipment against them.
They’d listened to the battle on the station, the fighters attacking, destroying the platform’s weapons. Then the landings, and the ten Marines stationed there putting up a desperate battle against boarders. Sergeant Jones and his Marines had armed and organized the station’s technicians, but the attackers still outnumbered them five to one. They’d put up a good defense, but when the com line was finally broken they were on the run, half their number dead, the rest trying to organize a last-ditch attempt to hold.
An attempt Hargraves knew was hopeless. He was sure the fight was over by now. He knew the Marines would have fought hard, that few, if any, of Jones’s people would have surrendered.
If this enemy would even accept a surrender. We still got no idea who we’re fighting…
He turned away from the area where the transports were lined up, and he zipped the heavy parka all the way up to his neck. It was cold. No, beyond cold. It was damned freezing. But the last thing Platoon Sergeant Clete Hargraves was going to do was give any of his Marines the satisfaction of seeing that he was cold.
He was hard on his Marines, but he was proud of them too. They were a good platoon, and for all their grumblings, he had no doubt they would fight hard. But he was the oldest by far, and the most experienced. He knew what lay ahead. Running, hiding in the wilderness. Huddling together in the frigid night, enduring every painful moment while longing for the meager relief of morning sunlight. There would be no fires, no heaters. That would be as good as sending up a flare marking their location. And as bad as it would be in the beginning…it would get worse after a few fights.
He’d seen wounded men and women before, on the front lines, far from aid stations and doctors. He’d watched comrades bleed to death, die of injuries that could have been easily treated in any hospital. But here it would be worse, he knew, and the Marines would likely watch their wounded brethren freeze to death, shivering uncontrollably until they finally succumbed.
They were facing a nightmare, and he knew it was a good thing none of them realized the full extent of what was coming. Even the lieutenant. Hargraves respected Plunkett, and he liked him too. But he wondered if the officer had what it would take to hold his command together.
“We’re loaded up, Sarge. At least, these things ain’t gonna hold nothing more.” Joe Thoms stood in front of the lead transport, staring right at Hargraves.
“All right, Private. You know what to do.” Hargraves had already given the orders. The village was to be destroyed. All of it. Completely.
Lieutenant Plunkett had given the civilians a choice. Retreat with the Marines, move into the hills and caves and join the resistance. Or stay and surrender when the enemy landed. But either way, he had declared, the buildings of the village had to go. He wasn’t about to leave warm quarters behind for an invader to use, and that meant the civilians were screwed. They’d split into two roughly equal groups, one of them lining up to follow the Marines, and the other staying behind, ready to give themselves up.
Hargraves knew the group staying behind were as likely to be shot on sight as anything else, but he held his tongue. His own people were better off without them. The civilians they already had were going to be enough of an impediment, and a drain on the limited food supplies as well.
Hargraves watched as his people moved around the village, preparing the explosives. The civilians stood in the center of what passed for the village’s ‘street,’ watching morosely as the Marines worked to destroy their homes, their workplaces. He sympathized, to a point. But he knew Plunkett was right. Anything they left behind for the enemy only worked against whatever miserable chances they had of getting through this alive.
“Sergeant?”
Hargraves turned around. It was one of the civilians, a manager of some kind by the looks of his clothing.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t have any choice. We gotta destroy all this so the enemy don’t…”
“I understand that, Sergeant. But the tritium tanks…”
“The what?”
“The tank farm with all the tritium. We’ve got a hundred megaliters of refined tritium sitting in those tanks.” The civilian paused. “Fuel, Sergeant. Spaceship fuel. If an enemy is attacking Santis, that is why. They want the tritium. And the production facilities.”
Hargraves held up a hand. “Wait,” he said, grabbing the com unit clipped to the outside of his parka. He fumbled with it for a few seconds, before he sighed hard and pulled the bulky glove off his hand.
“Lieutenant, I’ve got…” He turned toward the civilian.
“Avery, Sergeant. Darren Avery. I’m the senior engineer.”
“I’ve got one of the civilians here. Darren Avery. He’s the top engineer. He says we gotta do somethin’ about the tritium, sir.”
“It’s too late, Sergeant.” Plunkett was trying to sound calm, but it was clear he was rattled. We’ve got assault shuttles inbound. We’re out of time. Get ready to bug out. Now!”
Hargraves turned toward Avery. “Sorry, Mr. Avery…but the enemy is on the way. It’s time to get the hell out of here.”
* * *
Arn Millius sat against the hard metal of the lander’s inner hull. The craft had gyrated wildly on the way down to the surface, partially the result of the speed of insertion, but mostly from the evasive maneuvers that were standard, even when the defenders were
unlikely to possess any real surface to air interception capability.
Santis had a thick atmosphere, and that only made things worse. Millius remembered his earliest days in the legion, and his first combat drops. He’d been prone to space sickness…and his first hard ride down to a planet’s surface had threatened to turn him inside out. At least he’d been a line trooper then. The sight of a Praefectus vomiting all over his comrades would be unseemly to say the least.
The fight for the station had never been in question, but a doubt tugged at him from the back of his mind. There had only been ten of the Confederation Marines on the platform, and they had fought ferociously. His forces had outnumbered them ten to one, five to one even counting the civilians they had armed. Still, the battle had gone on for over an hour, and in the end, a dozen of his troopers were killed and as many wounded before the enemy had been wiped out. It was a far higher toll than he’d expected, and he wondered if it was a fluke…or if the Confed marines were simply that good.
It didn’t matter, he told himself. Alliance stormtroopers did what they were ordered to do, they prevailed, whatever the cost. Based on the size of the enemy settlement, he expected his forces would have a large numerical advantage once they got to the ground. Still, he’d requested that the second cohort follow up the first wave immediately, and Commander Rigellus had approved without question.
“Six kilometers.” The voice of the lander’s AI was loud in his headset.
He could hardly move, strapped into the thick harness, clad in body armor and loaded down with his weapons. Alliance stormtroopers went into action ready for battle, even the senior officers, and he carried everything his troopers did.
The ship banked hard to the right, angling down directly toward the LZ. The enemy’s records on the station confirmed the scanning reports. There was only a single settlement on the surface, situated right next to the massive coastal refinery that separated the precious tritium from seawater.
That will make things easier. One place to assault, one group of Confeds to…
Millius had seen Commander Rigellus spare the miners on the outer Confed colonies. But he knew his people would face a different situation on Santis. They weren’t passing through. This wasn’t a raid. They were here to take the planet…and hold it. When the fleet arrived, its ships would need to refuel. And his people had to make sure the tritium they would need was waiting for them.
And I don’t have enough strength to worry about prisoners…
Commander Rigellus hadn’t given him any orders about how to handle ops on the ground. The decision was his. And while he was no more inherently bloodthirsty than Invictus’s commander, he already knew what he had to do. The mission came first, whatever was required. It was the way.
“Three kilometers.”
“Alright, troopers…double check all weapons. We’re going to hit the ground in two minutes.”
He glanced down at the heavy assault rifle laying across his legs, and punched a finger at the small control on the side to activate the self-diagnostic routine. The Gallius-VII assault rifle was the leading edge of Alliance weaponry. The AI-assisted gun incorporated considerable technology of subjugated planets, and in its superior capabilities, it manifested the Alliance’s mantra of strength through conquest.
Millius was still starting down when the small light turned green. Check.
“One kilometer.”
Millius closed his eyes for a moment, centering himself. He’d been in battle before, many times, and it was the same with each drop. He knew the slogans…Alliance warriors weren’t supposed to feel fear. He also knew that was nonsense. They didn’t admit fear, didn’t discuss it, didn’t allow it to dictate their actions. But he would have bet anything that every Alliance stormtrooper and spacer felt it.
He breathed deeply, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Five times. Like he did every time. He had no idea what was waiting for them, but he knew a civilian’s lucky shot could kill him as dead as a sniper’s bullet to the head. There was no room for carelessness in battle. None.
“Landing in ten seconds…”
“Okay, troopers…it’s time.” He gritted his teeth, prepared himself for the landing. A few seconds later, the craft hit the ground with a jarring thud. Then the harnesses popped open and the back hatch dropped, controlled by the ship’s AI.
Millius watched as his troopers poured out, in perfect order, the first few running out about ten meters and crouching down, forming a defensive perimeter in case of an enemy counterattack. The others followed, pushing farther forward, repeating the same tactic until the lander was empty.
Millius looked north and south. The other three landing craft were down too, the troops onboard repeating the same procedure. They were ready for a resistance, prepared for a fight. But there was none. There was nothing. No enemy soldiers, no hastily fortified positions. Just columns of smoke ahead, and the pungent residue of explosives in the frigid air.
“Scouting parties, forward.”
Millius was nervous. He knew many considered the Confeds weak, but he’d expected at least some kind of fight, an effort to defend their world before they tried to surrender.
What did they do? Run? Hide in the wilderness?
He pulled the collar of his coat tightly around his neck. It was damned cold.
They’ve got to know we can track any fires or heat sources. What do they think they’ll achieve making us hunt them down? Where could they even go?
He looked all around. He was edgy, worried about some kind of trap. But there was nothing. The LZ had been carefully selected. The enemy settlement was just on the far side of a large rise, blocking the use of any line of sight weapons the defenders might have. But the plumes of smoke pouring into the air left little doubt that the Confeds had destroyed their own town.
An odd thought—unwelcome, disturbing—went through his mind. Destroying one’s home, denying its use to an enemy. It seemed like an action worthy of Alliance citizens and warriors. But the Confeds were supposed to be soft. Weren’t they?
Destroying everything and pulling off into the hills…was it just unfocused fear? Or do they intend to carry on the fight from there?
He was just about to turn and organize scouting parties to send out into the hills when his eyes caught movement at the top of the rise. It was a group, moving up over the crest and toward his troopers. They appeared unarmed, disorganized. And they had their hands up in the air.
The Confederation sign of surrender…
Millius felt the tension in his body. Perhaps the Confeds were giving up after all. But he was wary of treachery. Was this a ploy, a way to trick his soldiers into letting down their guard?
“Centurion Tinnius,” he snapped into his com. “Take a party forward. Surround and secure that group of Confeds.”
“Yes, sir.” Tinnius was the commander of the first century, the troops currently on the ground.
Millius turned back, taking a few steps toward the lander and looking toward the pilot standing alongside the craft. “Optiominus, you may lift off and return to retrieve the second century.”
The spacer nodded. “Yes, sir.” He turned and climbed back inside the landing craft. A few seconds later, the hatch closed, and Millius could hear the sounds of the engines powering up for launch.
He looked around. Nothing but the forty or so civilians—apparent civilians—on the hillside. No resistance, no fire…nothing. Still, he decided he’d be happier when he had his other two centuries on the planet. He had no intel, no idea what size force the Confeds had. It was nothing but a guessing game. And Millius hated guessing.
His eyes fixed on Tinnius’s troops, moving behind the disorganized mass, shouting, directing them into a rough line. The civilians—prisoners now—seemed to be obeying.
Perhaps they are just sheep, as the propagandists would have us believe. No Alliance civilians would surrender without a shot fired, march willingly into captivity…
But something still nagg
ed at him, a worry he couldn’t quite zero in on. The ragged band yielding so meekly to his troopers didn’t seem like the type who would burn their homes, condemn themselves to living outside, enduring the freezing cold just to deny shelter to an enemy. That was an act worthy of Alliance Citizens.
He would find out. These prisoners didn’t look like the kind of men and women who would resist questioning for long…and when he had gotten everything out of them he could, he knew what he would have to do. He’d had his doubts, but watching them march up with their hands in the air had sickened him. They were weak, and the Alliance had no use for weakness, no respect for those who lacked the courage to fight for themselves.
Disposing of this lot would be like taking out the trash…
Chapter Thirteen
CFS Dauntless
Wheel Nebula
Two Transits from Archellia
307 AC
Tyler sat on Dauntless’s bridge, staring into the 3D display as though if he gazed intently enough, all the answers he sought would appear in the flickering holographic light. It had been a week since he and his people had left Archellia after what had turned into a crazed race to get his ship ready for action.
Dauntless had already been in spacedock when the alert came, and the crews had to hastily reassemble every system that had been torn open for refurbishment. Then the battleship had to be fully re-equipped and re-provisioned. Food, water, medical supplies, reaction mass…and weapons. Dauntless was heading out to investigate a distress call…and that meant all the ordnance—laser cores, plasma torpedoes, missiles, fusion mines, fighter payloads—that had been painstakingly removed to allow for the refit had to be reloaded.