Crimson Worlds Refugees: The First Trilogy

by Jay Allan

  “We’ve got enemy activity, Dr. Barcomme. Lots of it…coming in from half a dozen directions.”

  She felt her stomach tense. The camp was well protected, with twelve hundred fully armored Marines, prepared and dug in. But still, the idea of a full-scale enemy assault was terrifying. And even if the camp held out, there was no way to defend hectares of rapidly maturing crops. The plants were fairly durable, but a few firebombings would make short work of them.

  “How long until they hit us?”

  Preston turned to face her, and then she saw the confusion he was trying to hide with his Marine scowl. “That’s just it, Doctor. They’re not heading for us. In fact, they’re completely ignoring us.” He paused and looked off toward the city.

  “They’re moving to attack New York?” It had taken a while for Barcomme to adopt the expedition’s nickname for the First Imperium ruins, but the moniker had caught on widely, and she’d eventually acquiesced and joined the others.

  “It appears so. We’ve sent a warning to Camp Alpha…but they still haven’t had any contact with Major Frasier or any of the exploration party.”

  Barcomme sighed softly. She’d been trying not to think about the fact that Hieronymus and Ana—and the scientists and Marines with them—had been out of contact for several days. She’d told herself it was some kind of malfunction—or perhaps some material under the city that blocked transmissions and reception. Still, that was becoming harder and harder to believe with each passing hour. She didn’t want to allow herself to imagine her friends had run into some disaster, that they all might be dead deep under the ancient city. But she was finding it harder and harder to banish the thought.

  “What do we do, Colonel?”

  Preston paused, a frustrated look taking hold of his face. Barcomme had come to know the Marines well over the last year, and she understood. Preston had no idea what to do…except stay put. And standing firm, waiting to see if your people made it back, was something that never sat well with a Marine.

  “There’s nothing to do, Dr. Barcomme. I’ve ordered Camp Alpha to evac immediately. They’re too close to the city, and they don’t have nearly enough strength to fight what is coming there.”

  “But what about Major Frasier and the others?”

  Preston looked down, right into her eyes. “Sophie,” he said as gently as she’d ever heard him speak, “I think we need to accept the fact that the exploration party has run into some kind of problem.” He paused, his normally firm voice cracking slightly. “That they may not be coming back.” He hesitated again, and then he added, “And I can’t justify adding everyone at Camp Alpha to the toll. I’m sorry.”

  She felt tears welling up in her eyes, but she struggled to hold them back. She just nodded. She understood, and she couldn’t help but agree with his rationale. But it made everything hit home, brought the terrible reality that her friends were probably gone directly to the center of her thoughts.

  “So what do we do here?” she asked when she managed to regain her control. “About the base camp, the plantings?”

  “We hope they don’t attack us when they’re done with the city.” He looked over her shoulder, out over the waves of crops, visible in the hazy moonlight. “And I suggest you see what you can do to move up your harvest schedule. Because when the fleet gets here, we may have to bug out as quickly as possible.”

  Assuming we’re still here, she thought, completing his sentence for him.

  * * *

  Frasier stood in the plain waving his arms. He could see the shelters of Camp Alpha just ahead, barely visible in the fading dusk. But there were fewer than there should have been, no more than a third as many as stood there when the exploration teams left less than a week before. It took him a few more seconds to realize what was happening.

  They’re bugging out. What the hell is going on…

  He ran forward, jumping higher and waving with greater force.

  “Fuck it,” he said. Then, to his AI, “Flare.”

  “Flare,” the familiar voice responded.

  Frasier held up his arm and pulled the small trigger inside his glove. The flare worked through the grenade launcher, and it was all automatic—loading, prepping. All the Marine had to do was point, aim, and shoot. And Frasier didn’t need to do much aiming. Straight up was just fine.

  He looked up and watched the explosion, the lingering trail of light as the shell reached its apogee and began to fall back to the ground.

  There, do you see that?

  The activity from the camp an instant later confirmed they had. Spotlights came on, intermittently located around the perimeter. It was clear a lot of the equipment had already been taken down in preparation for departure. And, regardless, Frasier and his people were still too far out, at least five hundred meters past the lit area.

  “Let’s move,” Frasier shouted. “But carefully…they may still think we’re an enemy.” Moving toward a fort that was almost certainly bombarding you with communications, with requests for ID you couldn’t answer, couldn’t even hear, was dangerous. The silence would only increase suspicions…and every Marine on the planet walked around waiting for a First Imperium bot to leap out of the shadows at any minute.

  The whole group scrambled forward, moving quickly, but not running…nothing that would look like an attack. “Spread out,” Frasier snapped. “Let’s move up to the lights and then stop, let them get a good look at us.”

  He heard a chorus of acknowledgements from behind him. “And Hieronymus, I want you in the rear with that…thing.” He gestured toward the cylinder. “Just in case they misunderstand and open fire. We wouldn’t want a random shot destroying it.” Then he felt a personal urge, a need to keep Ana safe. “Ana, you stay back with him. You’re not armored.” And I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you.

  Cutter paused for a few seconds, as if he was about to argue, but then he just nodded and said, “Okay, Duncan.” Then he slipped back a few meters, behind the Marines.

  Ana hesitated too, looking back to Hieronymus and then to Frasier. But she, too, nodded without a fight and fell back.

  Frasier looked ahead and continued walking, increasing his pace, pushing himself five or ten meters in front of the others. He could see movement around the camp.

  A patrol coming to investigate?

  That was standard procedure, but he wouldn’t have been surprised at a more trigger happy response, especially with so much enemy activity since they’d landed.

  He walked another couple hundred meters, until he was well within the lit area. Then he stopped and stood perfectly still, making no moves that could be interpreted as an attack. He looked straight ahead. There was definitely a patrol coming…it looked like a squad.

  He waited as they approached, calling behind him for the others to halt as well, and wait. The advancing squad had spread out, covering him from every angle. He was impressed with their discipline, with the tightness they were showing in their maneuver. Impressed…and proud. These were his Marines, after all.

  Suddenly, he could see them relax, at least slightly. They had ID’d his armor.

  “This is Major Frasier,” he shouted as loud as he could. “We have a com failure.”

  One of the approaching Marines was coming directly toward him, with two others in support. The armored figure didn’t answer; he just kept coming.

  Frasier waited until he was closer, and he repeated himself. The Marine was perhaps forty meters away. He still didn’t reply, but Frasier could see the assault rifle in his hands drop slowly from its ready position. He ran up the rest of the way and stopped about two meters from Frasier. He retracted his helmet, revealing his face. Frasier recognized the officer immediately.

  “Major! Welcome, back, sir. We’d almost given up on all of you.”

  “I can see that, Lieutenant.” Frasier gestured toward the half-disassembled camp.

  “Colonel Preston’s orders, sir. We’ve got First Imperium forces incoming.”
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br />   “I suspected as much, Lieutenant.” Frasier waved behind him for the others to come up. “And I couldn’t agree more. Let’s get the hell out of…”

  His head spun around, turning toward an incoming sound. Aircraft.

  There were ten of them, streaking across the sky, heading right for the city. And in the distance behind he could see warbots, several hundred of them, racing across the ground.

  Cutter was right. Some kind of final battle is about to begin.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton

  I have spent virtually all of the last thirty-six hours in my seat on the flag bridge or in the tanks. During this time I have made no log entries. Indeed, I would not have done so where any of my people could hear me, for my outlook is bleak, and I owe them more than words of despair and hopelessness. My gloom is mine, and I must keep it to myself. My officers and spacers deserve better.

  We spent fourteen hours in the tanks, accelerating first at 30g and then decelerating to bring our velocity to a controllable level to facilitate transit. We will begin moving into X48 within twenty minutes, and I have decided that Midway will lead the fleet through. It is contrary to all orthodox tactics for the flagship to move first into a system that may—indeed, mostly likely does—contain major enemy forces. But I did not make this decision based on conventional tactics, nor on lessons learned at the Academy. No, for this I have relied upon my heart—and my gut—looking to basic fairness, to an action I can live with.

  Erica West’s task force has served as a rearguard on this campaign…and then led the way into the X49 system. It is unthinkable to order them through in the lead again. Her people have done their part, and I cannot place them again in such a position. I will not. And though I feel guilt for the thoughts that rule my judgment in this, I simply cannot trust any but my own Alliance spacers with so important a task.

  I must cut this entry short and return to my post. Indeed, I do not foresee again leaving it. I do not see how we will survive whatever awaits us in X48. Unless I am mistaken about the enemy forces lying beyond the warp gate, I believe this will be my final log entry. When I sign off, I will go to the flag bridge, take my position, and lead my people in their final battle. I will jettison this log before Midway meets its end.

  In the unlikely event this log is one day recovered by any of my people, know that your brethren were here once, that a human fleet explored this space…and that it died courageously, fighting against an enemy bent on destroying all like us. And if you have come, some future and powerful incarnation of humanity…if you are here to destroy the First Imperium, know that men and women like you were here before…and that we are with you in spirit. Avenge us.

  AS Midway

  X49 system approaching X48 warp gate

  The Fleet: 102 ships, 26178 crew

  “Thirty seconds until transit, sir.” Cortez sounded firm, unafraid. Compton knew that wasn’t possible…all of his people were scared, himself included. But he suspected his tactical officer had made his peace with death. He had no idea how many of his people harbored beliefs they might survive whatever was waiting in X48, but he doubted Cortez was one of them. The commander was a realist, and he didn’t seem prone to self-delusion as so many others were.

  Compton himself harbored no doubts. The enemy had driven them back, all the way through the Slot, blocking every possible route save one. His fleet was being herded to its destruction. He knew it…he knew it as clearly as he’d ever known anything. But there was still nothing he could do about it. He’d wracked his brain for other options, but there simply weren’t any. It felt like a chess game, a move or two from checkmate, but with no way out, no alternative to escape the trap.

  “Very well, Commander.” There was nothing more to say. His people had their orders. His engineering crews would spring into action the moment Midway emerged in X48, doing whatever meager bit they could to urge along the natural process of the ship’s systems returning to functionality.

  And if there are enemy ships waiting like there were in X49, they will have a minute, perhaps two, to fire at us before we can shoot back. Then we will fight. As we will do, each of us, until they have destroyed the fleet utterly.

  “Ten seconds to transit.” It was Captain Horace on the shipwide com. Midway was his ship to run, to fight. And Compton knew there wasn’t a better man or woman in the fleet to be at the helm of his flagship.

  He leaned back, closed his eyes as the ship slid into the still-poorly understood phenomenon that allowed men to traverse the stars. Warp gates had allowed humanity to colonize a thousand solar systems, but the science behind them was tenuously understood, at best.

  Compton usually felt a bit nauseous in transit. It was mildly unpleasant, nothing he couldn’t handle. But he tended to hold himself still and try to breathe deeply. It wouldn’t do for the fleet admiral to lose the contents of his stomach in front of his crew. Somehow, he felt that would tarnish the image, the myth that had built up around him. And the near-worship his legendary status inspired was far likelier to drive his spacers to greater efforts than would their amusement at a partially digested ration bar soiling his uniform.

  He felt the little shift, the rippling through his insides that told him Midway had left X49. She was now in X48, which his astro-navigators told him was 7.1 lightyears away.

  The flag bridge was silent. His officers understood the situation, but there was nothing for them to do, at least not until their systems came back online. Warp transits hit a ship’s inner workings hard, generally scragging everything—reactors, computers, scanners, com. It rarely caused any lasting damage, but it knocked a ship out of commission for anywhere from a minute to five or six. More if the crews weren’t in top form.

  I’m not worried about that. At least not on Midway.

  Compton was proud of all his people, but his own staff—and Horace’s crew on Midway—were above and beyond even the others. He knew they would do their very best, no matter what, without prodding from him.

  “Scanners coming online.” Horace’s voice came blasting through his com. His flag captain would keep him in the loop, let him know Midway’s exact status, he was certain of that.

  He turned toward Cortez. “Okay, Jack…we’ve got scanners coming back online. Let’s get a sweep going…and get our other ships on the display.”

  “On it, Admiral.” The tactical officer was hunched over the screen. A few seconds later, “No enemy contacts, at least not in the immediate vicinity.” His face was pressed against the scope for perhaps another half minute. Then he looked up and over at Compton. “Confirmed, sir. No enemy contacts…anywhere. The fleet continues to transit. Twenty-one ships through already, sir.”

  Compton sat still in his chair. He knew he should feel relieved. The quick scan was far from comprehensive, but the results were the best he could have expected. But that’s not how he saw it. If anything, he was even more certain his people had been driven into a trap.

  “Concentrate a deep scan, Commander. I want to know if there are enemy ships waiting farther in system.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cortez replied, as he turned back toward his workstation.

  Compton flipped his com back to Horace’s line. “James, everything back online?”

  “Pretty much, Admiral,” came the nearly instantaneous reply. “We’ve got a couple small burnouts, and some secondary computer systems are still rebooting. But we’ve got engines, weapons, reactor…she’s ready for whatever you need, sir.”

  “Very good, Captain. Prepare for high gee maneuvers. If the scans don’t pick up any enemy activity, we’re going to hop in the tanks and see how quickly we can get to planet two. Maybe we’ll get lucky…and we can grab our people and get the hell out of here before that pursuing force transits in.” He didn’t believe it, not a bit. But he hoped his voice suggested hope.

  “Very well, Admiral. We’ll be ready when you give the order.”

  Compton closed the channel.r />
  “Admiral, concentrated scan shows no activity in the system. No signs of any vessels, and no energy trails suggesting recent passage.”

  Compton just nodded. He was surprised. They were alone in X48…or at least that’s what it looked like. But he knew that couldn’t be right. You’re still in a trap, he thought to himself. But he had no choices anyway. All he could do was do was go pick up the landing party…assuming any of them were still alive. If he got that far, if the people on the ground had survived through some miracle…then maybe. Just maybe.

  “Commander, as soon as all ships have transited, we’re going to execute a 30g sustained acceleration toward planet two.” It would be another hour, at least, before the fleet was assembled in X48. And anything could show up on the scanners in that time.

  “Yes, sir. I will advise each vessel as it rejoins the com link.”

  Compton sighed softly, to himself. He still expected to die, probably within the next few hours, or a day at most. But he disciplined himself. His people deserved more than fatalism, more than a commander who had given up hope. He would push, fight with the last of his strength…he would never give up. And he wouldn’t let any of his people yield either.

  “And Commander?”

  “Yes, sir?

  “All ships that have transited are to conduct immediate systemwide diagnostics. We’re not losing anybody because of a routine burnout or a basic system failure.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  That will keep them busy…and their minds off the danger.

  The crews hated diagnostics. And if they could pass the next hour grumbling about their SOB commander rather than thinking about the hundreds of ships they knew were chasing them, so much the better.

  * * *

  “Still nothing. I just don’t understand.” Terrance Compton was walking toward one of the shower jets along the wall. The floor was slick with the viscous fluid that filled the tanks during high gee maneuvers. Compton had seen a lot of rookies take nasty spills trying to extricate themselves from a tank, but he’d done this more times than he could even guess, and his legs compensated by instinct, adjusting every time his feet slipped.