Crimson Worlds Refugees: The First Trilogy

by Jay Allan

  “And it is permanent, right? Once it’s done, it’s done?”

  “The initial process creates a self-sustaining situation, so yes, in that sense it is permanent. The treated areas become a reasonable facsimile of Earth normal soil…so standard enrichment processes are still necessary for maximum yields…things like fertilizer and the like. And normal depletion is still an issue, so if the colonists do not rotate fields to allow normal recovery of nutrients, they will need to treat the soil more aggressively on an ongoing basis.”

  “Permanent…when you say permanent, do you mean for any amount of time?”

  “Well,” she said, clearly getting an idea where he was leading, “we’ve got hundred fifty year old colonies with farms still producing from an initial treatment…but that’s about the extent of our experimental base. Of course, many of these worlds required new treatments to expand the amount of arable land available as populations increased.”

  Cutter nodded slightly. “What would you project? Over the longer term…a thousand years, ten thousand?”

  “Or five hundred thousand?” She shook her head. “I see where you are getting, but I don’t think that question is answerable with anything but wild guesses. I can only speculate, but the first things that occur to me is that over a long period of time—and especially if the fields are no longer in use—the areas that were treated would dissipate. Erosion, wind, geologic activity…remember, we’re talking about small areas on worlds that remain otherwise in their natural state. Without active efforts to preserve the arable areas, I would have to assume they would eventually revert back to their natural state.”

  “Is there any reason an entire world couldn’t be treated? And if it was, would that change your long term assessment?”

  “Treat an entire world?” Barcomme stood, shaking her head. “That would be a project on the scale of terraforming a planet.” Mankind had scoured space for worlds hospitable enough to settle, but in all that time, only one major terraforming effort had been undertaken…Mars. And the Martian project had entered its second century, still not close enough to completion that a child could look forward to seeing blue skies and open water before he died.

  “Have you considered the density of habitable worlds in the systems we have passed recently?” Cutter’s tone grew firmer, as if he’d come to his own conclusion. “I have,” he continued, without waiting for an answer. “It is 3.4 times the norm for Occupied Space.”

  “Are you suggesting the First Imperium terraformed dozens of worlds?”

  “More likely hundreds. Even thousands. At least if we extrapolate from what we have directly encountered and assume the same density of habitable planets throughout the Imperium.”

  Barcomme took a deep breath and stood, silently looking out over the fields. Then she finally said, “Are you suggesting the soil enrichment and the apparent terraforming are related?”

  “I’m not saying anything yet. I just believe that all of this is…interesting.”

  “But, even if they terraformed these worlds…” She emphasized the Earth-centric portion of the word, as if to point out its inherent inaccuracy when discussing First Imperium worlds. “…that wouldn’t explain the soil makeup. Our samples are almost identical to Earth norms. Identical, Hieronymus. It is one thing for First Imperium worlds to be modified to their own standards…even for those to be somewhat near Earth norms. Terraforming is one thing. Any life form similar to our own would require oxygen, water, moderate temperatures. But the soil is a different issue entirely…it’s almost as if they treated this planet to make it a match for Earth.”

  Cutter didn’t reply. He just stood and looked back at her, but in his mind he had a single, disturbing thought.

  Or the other way around. What if Earth is not the original, but just one of the copies?

  * * *

  “Take this with you, Captain.” Cutter handed Harmon a small data chip. “It contains all of my reports, including my assessment of the soil conditions Dr. Barcomme discovered and some theories to explain it.”

  Harmon reached out and took the tiny chip from Cutter’s hand. “I will, Hieronymus…thank you.” He slipped it into his pocket. “I will give it to him as soon as I land.”

  “There is also an updated version of my virus on there, Max…” Cutter’s voice deepened, a darkness creeping into his tone. “Just in case…anything happens here. In case we don’t make it back.” A pause. “That way he will have the most sophisticated version.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to the expedition, Hieronymus. You’ll all be back in a couple months.” Harmon tried to hide his true concern…and he hoped he’d done a decent job. In truth, he’d been worried about the mission since he first heard the plan. He knew there was no alternative, but he had a feeling things weren’t going to go as planned.

  “Perhaps so,” Cutter replied. “But at least this way, no matter what happens, the admiral has the virus…in case another chance to use it comes along.” The scientist still wasn’t sure how much his virus had been the cause of the AI in the First Imperium Colossus obeying his commands six months earlier, but either way, it was still one of the most effective tools in the fleet’s arsenal against the enemy.

  “I’ll see that he gets it.” Harmon extended his hand. “Good luck, Hieronymus. We’ll be back for you in a couple months.”

  Cutter reached out and grasped Harmon’s hand. “Thank you, Max. With any luck, we’ll know a lot more about the First Imperium technology by the time you get here.”

  Harmon nodded, and then he turned and walked back to the shuttle. It felt strange to be leaving, just as the expedition was starting its work. But he knew he belonged with the fleet and not here on the ground. There was nothing he could do to help either Barcomme’s or Cutter’s teams…and with Preston and most of the Marines deployed, the safety of those on the planet was in the best hands available. But it was still unsettling to leave them all behind.

  He walked up behind the shuttle. The rear bay door was already closed, the soil samples and a selected batch of First Imperium artifacts already loaded up. He walked around the side and climbed up the small ladder to the secondary hatch. He put one foot in the door and then turned, taking one last look over the bustling plain. Barcomme’s people had thousands of hectares already cultivated…in just one week. And Cutter had a large shelter set up as a lab, with literally thousands of bits and pieces of First Imperium tech being analyzed. Everything was going according to plan…indeed, both teams were well ahead of projections. So why did he feel so unsettled?

  He stepped the rest of the way into the ship. There were twenty seats in the cabin, and they were all empty. He was the shuttle’s entire mission…its sole purpose to ferry him up to Wolverine. He sat down in one of the seats in the front row and twisted his torso into the harness. He had his survival gear on under his uniform, and he twisted and turned, trying to get as comfortable as he could in the binding suit. It wasn’t much protection, but with the helmet in place, it could keep him alive, even in space…at least for a while.

  He pressed the com button on the armrest of his chair. “I’m aboard and strapped in, Lieutenant,” he said softly. The pilot and co-pilot were the only others on the shuttle.

  “Very well, Captain.” Harmon heard a loud clank, the hatch he’d come through closing tight. “We should be lifting off in a minute, sir.”

  “Whenever you’re ready, Lieutenant.” Harmon closed his eyes and leaned back. Truth be told, he’d never much like planetary landings or liftoffs. His stomach was strong enough to handle high gee maneuvers, free fall, and most of the other things that tended to put junior spacers through the ringer…but blastoffs were tough. He knew a lot of it was in his head. He’d had a close friend at the Academy, almost like a brother…but he’d died in their final year, killed in a landing accident. Ever since, Harmon had been happier when he was in deep space.

  Where I will be again, soon.

  He realized he’d become so comfortable in the
cramped confines and sterile environments of spaceships, he hardly missed the fresh air and cool breezes of an Earth-type planet. He suspected he owed some of that to his mother and her position as one of the Alliance’s top fighting admirals. His father had been another hero of the military, but he’d been a ground pounder, a Marine. He might have offset his son’s preference for living and working in space, but he’d died when Harmon was young, just one more victim of the Corp’s disastrous defeat on Tau Ceti III, early in the Third Frontier War.

  The status light flashed yellow, and Harmon could hear the hum of the engines as they kicked in. A few seconds later the indicator turned green—all systems go—and the shuttle lifted up, borne from the ground on its positioning thrusters. The craft hovered for a second, and then the nose lifted higher, and Harmon felt his weight pushing back into his padded chair. Then the main engines blasted, and eight gees slammed into his chest, knocking the breath from his lungs.

  He felt a small rush of panic, the same as he always did during planetary takeoffs and landings, but he pushed back on it, and it only lasted a few seconds. This was one thing he’d never spoken of, never told anyone about, not even the admiral. Especially not the admiral. He was a naval officer, a captain. He could be commanding his own ship. And his mother was known throughout the navy as a ‘hard as nails’ admiral and the likely successor to the legendary Augustus Garret. He couldn’t imagine admitting to anyone that lifting off in a shuttle scared the hell out of him.

  He felt his hands gripping the armrests tightly, and he purposefully loosed each one, willing himself to calm down. He adapted to the gee forces, and focused on breathing, forcing air into his lungs, concentrating on expanding his chest against the pressure of eight times his body weight. Slowly, or at least it seemed slow—in fact it was only fifteen or twenty seconds—he regained his calm. It never took him much longer, but no matter how hard he’d tried, he’d never managed to prevent the initial burst of fear and discomfort. He’d been in battle dozens of times, stared death in the eye more than once…but he simply couldn’t banish his unease at taking off and landing on planets.

  The heavy acceleration continued for a few minutes as the shuttle blasted its way into the upper atmosphere and up to orbit. Then he felt the thrust stop, and in an instant the crushing pressure was replaced by the relief of freefall. Weightlessness was the culprit that stalked the guts of many a midshipman and new recruit, but it had never bothered Harmon. All he felt was relief—at the completion of the liftoff and the disappearance of the heavy gee forces.

  “We’re in orbit now, Captain.” The lieutenant’s voice was slightly tinny on the com. Harmon was grateful that no one had been in the cabin watching him during takeoff. It was bad enough without struggling to hide his distress as he usually had to. “Wolverine’s eta is about eleven minutes. So just sit back and relax for a…”

  The lieutenant’s voice trailed off, and Harmon knew immediately…something was wrong. A few seconds later he got his confirmation. “Captain, please stay in your harness, sir…” The officer’s voice was higher pitched, almost shrill. Harmon knew the sound as soon as he heard it. Fear.

  He punched at the controls next to his chair, activating the cabin’s main display. He almost flipped the com back on and asked for a report, but he knew the lieutenant was busy…and that his life depended on the actions of the two men in the cockpit.

  He punched at the controls, bringing the pilot’s feed up on his display. He could see a symbol a few centimeters from the shuttle, a blue circle, fairly small. Wolverine.

  Then he saw the other icon. Red.

  Fuck. Enemy.

  The shuttle bucked hard as the engines engaged again. He could see the thrust vectors on the display. The pilot was trying to flee the enemy…and reach Wolverine before the First Imperium vessel opened fire. The shuttle was unarmed, and its lightly armored hull wouldn’t provide much protection against enemy lasers. Escape was their only chance.

  Harmon stared at the red triangle, feeling a detached sort of fear. There was a knot in his stomach, a nausea building up inside him, not as much for the danger he faced as the implications for the rest of the fleet. For six Earth months they had eluded the vessels of the First Imperium. Harmon hadn’t joined some of the more optimistic officers in the fleet, those who had dared to hope they had shaken the enemy for good. And he knew Terrance Compton had remained downright certain they hadn’t seen the last of their deadly foe. But now that moment had arrived, and the implications were terrifying. It was just a Gremlin, the smallest of the enemy craft, but as he stared at the shimmering icon, he realized it might as well be Death himself, astride his pale horse, come to rip hope from the fleet.

  He tried to follow the pilot’s escape attempt, wondered why there was only one ship. But all of that slipped aside, and in his mind there was just one thought. It floated in his consciousness, as frigid as space itself.

  They found us…

  * * *

  Fleet unit V11945 had moved swiftly into the system from the warp gate. It was running on partial power, minimizing its profile to any enemy scanning efforts. Its mission was simple…to scout planet two, to investigate the human landing force, and to determine the most effective way to take a prisoner. The Command Intelligence’s orders were clear. It wanted one of the humans. Alive.

  V11945’s scanners swept space in front of the ship. There were no contacts. The human fleet had been here, but now it was gone. There were trace particles around planet two, the output of the enemy spaceship drives. The human ships had been here recently…and in force.

  The planet was too distant for the unit to scan its surface yet, but the vessel’s intelligence suspected the enemy landing force was still there. V11945 was a light combat vessel. It carried a small ground force—four armored landers and eighty medium combat units. If the human expedition on the surface was large the unit would have to call for assistance. The enemy’s inexplicable prowess in combat could not be ignored…and the need to take a prisoner precluded any heavy orbital bombardment before landing.

  Suddenly the alarm system activated. There was an enemy ship approaching. Scanner beams lanced out, gathering data, identifying the vessel. It was one of the humans’ small attack units…weakly armored, but fast and equipped with a powerful primary weapon. The intelligence directing V11945 knew immediately the enemy was a threat, its plasma torpedo short-ranged but very powerful. V11945 had longer-ranged weapons…and its tactical guidelines called for it to open fire, to disable or destroy the enemy vessel before it could bring its plasma weapon to bear. But the orders of the Command Intelligence were clear. Take a prisoner.

  Its directives conflicted. If it opened fire at long range, its targeting would be less accurate. It might destroy the enemy ship or cause sufficient damage to kill all the biologics aboard. If it waited until close range, where superior targeting would allow it to disable the ship prior to boarding, the humans would fire their plasma weapon…and a well-placed hit might damage V11945, even destroy it.

  The vessel’s intelligence analyzed its options, considering every detail, inserting every conceivable variable into the equation. It was an exhaustive review, yet it was done in a millisecond. It would be preferable to retrieve a prisoner from the vessel on its scanners, to avoid the vagaries of dealing with the yet unknown strength of the enemy ground force. But not sufficiently so to risk the destruction of V11945…and the danger the human ship presented was too great. It had to be neutralized. If there were survivors then a prisoner could be taken from among them. If not, V11945 would have to land and deal with the forces on the ground.

  Systems hummed as the intelligence directed more antimatter to the reaction chamber. Power fed to the engines, to the weapons…even as the targeting system locked on to the enemy vessel…

  Chapter Seven

  Command Unit Gamma 9736

  I have received the initial reports from the scout vessel dispatched to system 17411. The main human fleet appears to have left
the system, though there is some detectable activity remaining. This is contrary to the enemy’s recent pattern of moving quickly through each system, without pausing for exploration. In the two instances where they stopped to refuel, their entire fleet remained in the system. This is the first time they have divided their forces since the battles in X18.

  The best available data suggests they have landed a force on the planet, though the probe was too far away to conduct detailed scans before sending the latest communique. I am left to develop a series of hypotheses to explain, though without more data, any scenarios are pure conjecture.

  Indeed, the location itself presents an added challenge to my analysis…a lack of detailed information. System 17411 is redlined, under the Regent’s direct control…as it has been since the Troubles. I have only basic astrographic data available, as well as historical information preceding the demise of the Old Ones.

  My forces have long been restricted from entering 17411, or any of the other redlined systems. Yet the Regent has also ordered close pursuit of the enemy. The enemy’s course has created a contradiction between these commands, allowing me to overrule the ancient ban and obey the more recent orders…and explore the system. I have ordered the scoutship to conduct an extensive planetary scan…and to land a combat force, if necessary, to secure a prisoner. The need to interrogate one of the enemy has become even more crucial.

  I must understand. Why have they chosen a redlined system to land?

  X48 System – Planet II

  30 kilometers south of “Plymouth Rock”

  The Fleet: 144 ships, 32,799 crew

  Cutter sat on the top of the land rover, staring out as the vehicle zipped forward at 50kph. The treads absorbed some of the shock, but the ride was still rough. The flat plains around the encampment had given way to an area of low, rocky hills, and the rovers zipped up and down the hillsides. There were wide cuts slicing through the rises, visible for kilometers from the hilltops…the remnants of ancient roads or train lines, he guessed.