Into the Darkness: Crimson Worlds Refugees I

by Jay Allan

  * * *

  Greta Hurley’s face was like carved stone. “Put me on fleetwide com,” she said coldly. Peltier had threatened her, and in the process he’d released an elemental rage. The day I let Gregoire Peltier intimidate me is the day I eat a fucking bullet.

  “Yes, Admiral.” The com officer worked his hands over his controls for a few seconds. “On your line.”

  Hurley picked up her headset and put it on. “Commander Quincy, you are to bring your squadrons to full alert. All fighters are to arm with double-shotted plasma torpedoes, and be prepared to launch upon command.” Her voice was frozen.

  “In the event that any vessel of the Europan contingent—or any other ship in the fleet—opens fire on any of the fighters now enroute to planet four, you are to launch all squadrons immediately. Your fighters are to attack and destroy any vessel that fired on our fighters or shuttles.” She paused for a few seconds. “Is that clear?”

  There was a short silence then: “Umm…yes, Admiral. As you order.” Quincy’s voice sounded a bit uncertain, but Hurley knew the veteran would obey her order.

  “This is Admiral West,” came another voice blasting through the com. “As acting fleet commander, I confirm Admiral Hurley’s orders. All fighter squadrons are to obey. All loyal ships are also hereby ordered to fire upon any ships attacking the fighters and shuttles heading for planet four.” A long pause then: “And you are to maintain fire until the offending vessel is destroyed. We are deep in enemy space under emergency conditions. There is only one punishment for mutiny.”

  Hurley let out a long breath. She appreciated the support, but she also knew West had upped the ante. She’s got balls of steel, Hurley thought. She just might face down this crisis…either that, or all hell is about to break loose.

  “Alright people,” she said, flipping the com back to her squadron channels, “let’s go get the admiral.” She nodded toward Wilder, and the pilot hit the thrusters.

  Hurley felt herself slammed back into her seat as 8g of thrust engaged.

  Now we’ll see what Gregoire Peltier is truly made of…

  * * *

  Udinov stared at the image of Midway on the main display. It wasn’t very often that ships had actual visuals of their adversaries. Space battles were fought over hundreds of thousands of kilometers, and anything under 10,000 klicks was considered point blank range. But Erica West had brought Midway within three kilometers of Petersburg. That was bold beyond compare, indescribably close in for a ship that itself was almost two klicks long.

  “Admiral, Midway’s weapons systems are powered up and ready to fire.”

  Udinov didn’t answer, he just sat quietly, staring at the massive Alliance flagship and wondering what to do. Petersburg’s weapons were armed too, but she didn’t have Midway’s firepower. He’d never even heard of two ships engaging at a range this short. The massive power of Midway’s heavy x-ray laser batteries firing from so close would tear his ship apart. He doubted Petersburg would last more than a minute once the shooting started. Conventional wisdom suggested firing back at an attacker, but Udinov realized that was pointless. He could hurt the Alliance vessel, but not destroy it before Petersburg was blasted into a lifeless wreck. No, if Midway opened fire, he would destroy the refinery. There was no way West could stop him from doing that before he died…and he suspected that is why she hadn’t opened fire yet.

  To make matters worse, Admiral Peltier had knuckled under to Greta Hurley’s threats, and he’d meekly allowed her force to pass by his ships, bound for planet four. Udinov had no idea what was causing the heavy jamming there. It was possible Compton was in real trouble, maybe even dead. He felt a wave of guilt as a burst of hope came on him. Things were bad enough now, but West was only in unchallenged command of the Alliance forces. The other contingents, except perhaps the PRC, would probably sit out any fight that took place—and that left Udinov and his allies with a stronger hand. But if Compton was back in Midway, the CEL, Martian Confederation, and SAE forces would almost certainly rally to him…and even some ships in Udinov’s allied contingents might reconsider their allegiance. The Russian admiral knew Compton was a good man, and an honorable leader. But he was also dangerous. Whatever Udinov was going to do, he had to do it now. Time only increased the chance that Hurley would find Compton.

  “Commander, issue orders to the rest of the contingent. All ships are to move toward the planet and assume positions to support us.” Everybody knew Erica West was as cold as they came. But Vladimir Udinov was no coward, and he was determined to hold his own in the duel between the two commanders.

  “Yes, sir.” The com officer sounded nervous about Udinov’s escalation, but he complied immediately.

  Udinov had just looked into West’s eyes and raised her bet. She’d have to do something. If the rest of the RIC ships got into position, it would be Midway that was outgunned, and he knew the iron-willed Alliance admiral would never allow that. She could withdraw. Yeah, he thought, and maybe space will open up and swallow her ships. No, there is no chance of Erica West skulking off with her tail between her legs. Zero.

  She could attack immediately. She just might. But the same problem remains…she can’t stop me from destroying the refinery. And half the fleet still hasn’t refueled. She might figure she can redistribute enough tritium around the fleet to keep everyone going until she found a new gas giant. But that’s dangerous, and it puts the rest of the contingents at great risk. Ten percent chance of that, maybe.

  She could do nothing—stay in place, all her guns trained on Petersburg. If the rest of the contingent gets this close, it assures Midway’s destruction…but it won’t save Petersburg. She might sit just where she is and bank on that fact to stay our hand. Am I willing to sacrifice the ship—and myself—if she pushes me? I don’t know…perhaps I might, if I truly believed it would allow the others to escape. But if we kill West, the Alliance spacers will go berserk. They’ll never let the rest of the contingent go…

  Udinov sat silently in his chair shaking his head. No, she won’t do any of that. She’ll…

  “Admiral, the Alliance and PRC units are moving to intercept our inbound vessels.” A short pause then: “Admiral West is on the main channel, sir.”

  “Put it on, Commander.” Udinov sighed. He didn’t have to hear it. He knew exactly what she was going to say.

  “All Alliance and PRC units. You are to immediately engage and destroy any RIC, CAC, Caliphate, or Europan ship that closes to within 100,000 kilometers of planet five…or any such vessel that takes offensive action of any kind.”

  She had raised him back.

  * * *

  “What is that coming in?” Compton was standing outside the command post, staring up at the sky. There was a cluster of lights in the deepening dusk, rapidly descending. To an untrained eye they could be meteors, fragments from a comet, even bits of a satellite crashing to the ground. But Terrance Compton’s eye was not untrained, and he realized immediately they were some kind of spacecraft.

  The Marines had wiped out the enemy warbots, though not without cost. The fighting had been sharp, made vastly more difficult by the lack of effective communications, but the enemy force had turned out to be small, just over a hundred of the bots. The Marines had 38 KIA and another 100+ wounded.

  Compton realized the force they had faced was probably only a small portion of the ancient city’s defensive complement. The rest was probably lying dormant, decayed beyond functionality by the brutal passage of time. Compton wondered what the defensive system had been 500,000 years before, just what kind of force had defended a metropolis where millions of people once lived.

  The landing party had been packing up and preparing to head back to the fleet. Once Colonel Preston had declared the area secure, Compton had agreed to give the research team a few more hours to gather up artifacts—there was enough just laying around to keep every scientist on the fleet busy for years. His tactical sense had told him to load everyone up and get the hell off the
planet, but he remained focused on why they had come in the first place. It was far beyond idle curiosity. His people were stuck in enemy space, and anything that allowed them to understand the First Imperium—and to bridge the technology gap between them—was essential to their chances of survival.

  Preston had been uncomfortable with the delay, at least in getting the admiral back to Midway. He’d argued multiple times, urging Compton to return at once. He’d insisted that security on the planet’s surface was too uncertain. But his efforts were to no avail. Compton had declared firmly he would return when the entire expedition did and not a moment before.

  Now, he wondered what was coming down on them. A rescue mission from the fleet? It was certainly plausible. Indeed, he’d expected some kind of response to his expedition’s sudden radio silence. But he realized they had also awakened some long-dormant defensive system, and he couldn’t exclude the possibility that the incoming vessels were hostile.

  “Sound the alert, Colonel,” he said quietly. No sense taking chances.

  “Yes, sir,” Preston snapped back. He turned and walked toward a small cluster of officers. With the jamming, it was easier to communicate face to face—or at least the armored equivalent with external speakers and receivers.

  Compton looked back up. The craft were closer, and he cranked up his visor’s magnification. There was something about them, something familiar…

  “Colonel!” he ran after Preston, turning his speakers to maximum volume. “Colonel!”

  Preston stopped and turned to face the admiral.

  “Cancel that alert, Colonel.” Compton turned and looked back at the landing ships. “Those are Alliance Lightning fighter-bombers.”

  The first two ships flew over the camp, dropping down slowly and landing in the field beyond, closely followed by the others. Compton moved toward them as quickly as he could without tripping over his armored feet.

  “Wait, Admiral…let me assign some guards to you.”

  Compton ignored the Marine’s caution and continued toward the two fighters. He could hear Preston snapping out orders, commanding a detachment to follow. The veteran Marines were considerably more adept at moving quickly in fighting suits, and they caught up with Compton about halfway to the fighters. But the time he reached the LZ, he had two dozen Marines surrounding him, weapons at the ready.

  The hatch of the lead ship was already open, and a few seconds after Compton reached it, a head popped out…Greta Hurley’s.

  Compton looked up, an expression of surprise on his face. “Admiral Hurley, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to ask you to get onboard. We need to get you back to Midway as soon as possible.”

  Compton felt his stomach clench. Hurley hadn’t come herself just to check on him.

  “What is it, Admiral?’

  She leaned forward looking down at him. “Half the fleet is in rebellion, sir. Admiral Udinov is in charge. The mutineers want to break off and try to find a way back to Earth.” Hurley’s tone communicated her tension, and that told Compton all he needed to know. “Admiral West assumed command,” she continued, “and she sent us to get you.”

  Compton felt a wave of anger sweep over him. Anger at Udinov—and at Zhang, who he was sure was behind the whole thing. And at himself, for indulging his curiosity instead of staying at his post.

  “Colonel,” he said, turning toward Preston, “take over the withdrawal.” He stepped toward the fighter and looked up at Hurley. “Open the loading gate, Admiral. I’ll never get up the ladder and through that hatch in this armor.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton

  I am a fool. I accompanied the landing force down to the surface because I wanted to see the First Imperium ruins myself, to satisfy my own craving for knowledge. I convinced myself I needed to go, that I had to learn about the enemy if I am to find a way for the fleet to survive. And indeed, I do believe that. We have no hope of a purely military victory, and there seems little doubt to me that flight is a short term solution. Eventually, an enemy as massive and powerful as the First Imperium will track us down—whether we were to head toward home or continue into deep space. Our only hope is to learn more about this mysterious race, and through that knowledge find a way to destroy…or coexist with them.

  But my timing was poor. I underestimated the discontent in the fleet, the speed with which my opponents would act. I knew I faced continuing opposition, but I didn’t imagine they would be so reckless so soon. I should have better understood the primal fear of being lost and how it would affect otherwise courageous officers. In assuming I had more time, I opened the door for the mutineers to gain an advantage. Now, there are no easy options.

  We may lose the refinery over this, with much of the fleet still low on fuel. Indeed, we may destroy each other in combat. For though on one level I sympathize with the mutineers and their desire to seek a way home, I cannot allow them to go, whatever I must do. Our experiences on the planet only reaffirmed my caution. One moment we were exploring an eons-dead world and the next we were being attacked by the remnants of an ancient security system. We do not know—we cannot know—the enemy’s abilities. Our battle successes have caused us to forget that our adversaries are vastly ahead of our technology. We can only guess at when they are watching…or if they are following.

  We are close to moving past the jamming surrounding the planet, and soon we will have clear communications with the fleet. Then I will find out what is happening…and I will have to give difficult orders. It is with heartfelt sadness I contemplate the possibility that we made our unlikely escape from X2 perhaps only to destroy ourselves here. Yet, that is so like man. It is our legacy. Perhaps it shall always be so.

  But I know one thing for certain. I will allow no one to lead the enemy closer to Earth. Whatever I must do.

  AS Midway

  System X18 – Low Orbit Around Planet V

  The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,817 crew

  Erica West sat in the command chair—Compton’s chair—and stared at the main display. Petersburg was a powerful ship, but she was no match for Midway’s 1.8 kilometers of bristling weapons. If the two fought, West had no doubt who would win. But that wasn’t what was on her mind.

  Can I destroy that ship before they take out the refinery?

  She had every weapon locked on the Udinov’s flagship, from the primary x-ray laser batteries to the small anti-fighter turrets. When…if...she gave the order to fire, an unprecedented amount of energy would be directed at Petersburg. And at a mere three kilometer’s range, almost all of it would reach the target. The pride of the RIC fleet would be blasted to plasma in less than a minute, she was sure of that. It was exactly how long that would take—and what Udinov could do with those seconds—that she was considering.

  “Captain Kato is on the com, Admiral. He has maneuvered his ships to oppose the CAC contingent, and he requests permission to engage.”

  “Negative. He is not to engage unless fired upon.” West had a reputation as a hard-nosed admiral, even a hothead. But she wasn’t going to be responsible for starting a civil war that could destroy the fleet—not unless she did it herself by attacking Petersburg.

  But that’s different. Saving the refinery is more important than anything else.

  “Any response from Admiral Wittgensen?”

  “No, Admiral. Not since his initial communique.” The CEL commander had declared that his forces would not become engaged in an intra-fleet battle unless they were fired upon or Admiral Compton expressly ordered it. Wittgensen was a cautious man, one who tended to operate by the book. Compton was the fleet’s duly authorized commander, and he would accept such fateful orders from no one else.

  West couldn’t blame him. She was third in command of the Alliance forces, but that succession didn’t necessarily extend to the whole fleet. It was hard to compare exact ranks from different powers, but some of the other contingent commanders had more seni
ority than West—including Wittgensen himself.

  She looked again at the tactical display. So far, her threat had held things at a stalemate. The mutinous ships had moved closer to planet five, but none had crossed her stated 100,000 kilometer blockade zone. Her fleet units had moved to enforce her orders, and the Alliance forces were deployed in a large semi-circle, facing off against the rebel units. But the only ships inside the 100,000 kilometer mark were Midway and Petersburg.

  * * *

  “With so many of our weapons locked on the refinery, we will barely scratch Midway if it comes to a fight.” Rostov’s voice was grim as it came through the com. “Perhaps we should redirect some of our targeting. We’ll still be outgunned, but it…”

  “There’s no point, Sergei,” Udinov said, his voice heavy, tired. “We don’t have a chance in a standup fight with Midway no matter what we do. The refinery’s our only bargaining chip. We can destroy it, and they all know it.”

  And I know enough about Erica West to be sure she’d blow us to hell in a heartbeat if we weren’t holding the refinery hostage.

  “So what do we do, sir? Just sit here? And what happens when Admiral Compton gets back?”

  “I don’t know, Sergei.” Udinov was staring at his screen, but he wasn’t seeing anything. His thoughts had drifted off, imagining how he’d ended up in this position. He’d been so sure it was the right thing to do, to give his people a chance, at least, of returning home, of reuniting with loved ones. The plan had been complicated by his need to fuel the last of his ships, but he’d still kept it as simple as possible. Just a few hours of tense standoff—long enough to get perhaps half a tank in each vessel—and his people would have been gone. But now he was filled with doubt as he stared at West’s massive ship, knowing every one of its heavy guns was locked on Petersburg.