Crimson Worlds Collection I

by Jay Allan

  YZ Ceti was an Alliance-held system. A backwater with no real garrison, but not the place she'd expected an invasion to come from. She hadn't expected an invasion at all.

  But Alex was not one to ignore reality because it seemed implausible. If the enemy was here it was because they were after the same thing she was here for. And they knew as well as she did the strength of the defending fleet. If they didn't have the force to beat it, they wouldn't be here.

  She barked at her AI while she hurriedly dressed. "Get me Colonel Evander. Now!" Evander was the commander of the new garrison of Directorate troops. Your men are going to get their test, Colonel, she thought. She hoped they were up to it, but she doubted it.

  "Evander here." His voice was tinny on the com, impatient.

  "Colonel, I need to discuss the dispositions of your troops as soon as possible."

  His response was arrogant and dismissive. "I do not take orders from an engineer. You are not to disturb me again."

  "Colonel!" He had been about to cut the line, but her voice had become commanding and bone-chillingly icy. He hesitated while she continued. "I have come from the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns." She had to force back a smile as she uttered the code that identified her to him as a member of the Directorate.

  "Ah...my apologies, Director." His voice was high-pitched and cracking with fear. "I beg your forgiveness, Director." She was silent, enjoying the man's squirming. "I am at your command, of course."

  She let him sweat a few more seconds and then said, "Be at operational headquarters in 30 minutes, ready to give me a full briefing." She cut the line without waiting for his response. Pompous ass. She hated these Political Academy bottom-feeders. The ones with real power were bad enough, but this guy's father was probably a magistrate in New Wichita.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and sighed. This ass and his rookie soldiers are all we have here, thanks to the Directorate's decision to get rid of the Marines. They were well-trained, at least reasonably so...she knew that. But she also knew in her gut that if there were Janissaries or CAC stormtroopers on the way they would cut through Evander's newbies like a knife through butter.

  She commed the excavation supervisor. We've got to get this stuff hidden back in the caves, she thought. The enemy's coming.

  Admiral Josh Franklin sat in the control center of the AS Sheridan, reviewing incoming data on the enemy force now emerging into the system. There were sensors deployed near the warp gate, as there were near every active gate, and they flashed information back to the fleet at the speed of light. The enemy's escort vessels would try to destroy them all and blind the defenders, but the scanning devices were numerous, small and well protected by ECM.

  As more ships transited into the system he began to realize he wasn't going to be able to hold them back. Sheridan was his only capital ship, and the enemy had at least five battlegroups, possibly with more to come. Normal doctrine called for an evacuation; the navy didn't usually throw away task forces in hopeless battles. But his orders were clear...hold at all costs.

  He'd have to fight a close in defense, combining the ships and the planetary fortresses and defense satellites into his combat net. It would expose the planet to enemy attack, but there weren't even any colonists left down there, so Franklin wasn't concerned about it as he would be in a more populated system. Maybe they could inflict enough damage to convince the enemy to withdraw. He knew better, but hopefully it would give his crews some hope. He intended to make the enemy pay dearly for the system.

  "Starting to get capital ship IDs, Admiral." Lieutenant Commander Stone had just arrived a few weeks before, but Franklin already considered the communications officer indispensible.

  "Feed it to me as you have it, commander." Unless these were new ships, the battle computer would have a complete breakdown on armaments and capabilities. He needed to figure out any weaknesses as soon as possible.

  "Admiral..." Stone paused, staring at his screen in startled disbelief. "Three of the capital ships have been identified as the Bolivar, the Emperador, and the Caracas." He turned to face the admiral. "The South Americans are here in force, sir."

  Franklin nodded acknowledgement. He wasn't surprised the empire had finally jumped into the war, but he couldn't understand why they were here in Epsilon Eridani. He didn't even know why he and his ships were here. Carson's World was the only useful planet in the system and, while it had been a fairly rich mining colony before the epidemic, it was nothing that rated a reinforced battlegroup permanently stationed in defense.

  "Admiral!" Franklin could hear the surprise in Stone's voice. "A sixth capital ship has transited. Scanners indicate it is the Prince de Conde."

  Franklin swore quietly, under his breath. "Europa Federalis? So we've got two new enemies." But he couldn't get the thought out of his head...why are they here? "Commander, we need to get this data to Fleet Command. I assume the interstellar net to YZ Ceti has been cut." Epsilon Eridani had only two warp gates, and the second one led down a dead end path. His mind raced - how am I going to get a report through?

  "Affirmative, sir." Stone turned to face the Admiral. "The relay station broadcast Code Z protocols before transmission ceased." Code Z meant the imminent destruction of a ship or station that was beyond hope of saving or even abandoning.

  The interstellar transmission system consists of a network of small stations positioned as closely as practical to each warp gate. Communications are flashed at lightspeed within the system, so a transmission reaches the station in a matter of hours or minutes. Messages are then downloaded into a robot drone and sent through the warp gate. Once the drone has transited to the destination system, the messages are transmitted to and from the station on the other side before the robot ship reenters the gate and returns. Priority messages can travel at an effective speed of 4-12 hours per system.

  "I want twenty priority dispatch drones launched, full ECM suites." The drones would take AI-generated evasive paths around the enemy fleet, attempting to transit to YZ Ceti. The onboard AIs would then determine the best way to get their messages through - most likely through the warp gate to Kruger 60, which was the most secure route through Alliance-held space. As soon as a confirmed Alliance vessel or facility was identified, the encrypted priority message would be transmitted. The drones were large, sophisticated pieces of equipment, and Franklin was expending all of his in the hope that at least one would get through. He figured the odds at 50-50.

  "Acknowledged sir." Stone barked orders into his com, then worked the controls at his board. "Drone programming sequence underway. We can begin launches in four minutes."

  Franklin nodded. "All drones are to be launched when ready." He looked down at his screen. "Send data from the warp gate scanners to my console. And get a schematic of the enemy fleet dispositions as soon as we have it...up on the main screen."

  "Yes sir." Stone's fingers flew over the keyboard. He could have told the AI what to do, but Stone was old school, and preferred to enter his data manually. "Warp gate data coming to your console now, sir. Initial projection on enemy fleet formation in..." He paused to listen to something on his earpiece. "...two minutes, thirty seconds."

  Franklin glanced down at the data now coming to his screen. The enemy had come in slow, so they'd have to build velocity to traverse the distance to Carson's World. The warp gate was not a distant one, much closer to the primary than most, but it would still take at least two days for the enemy to reach the planet.

  "Hal, prepare a course to bring the fleet into supporting position of the Carson's World defenses." Franklin typically relayed orders to Stone; it was more formal to go through a subordinate officer, and the admiral was a bit of a martinet. But Stone was busy working on the enemy fleet projections, so he went right to his AI.

  "Yes, Admiral Franklin." The machine's reply was cold, unemotional - something Franklin liked. The fact that he'd named the thing after a fictional insane computer from ancient literature was an odd co
ncession to humor from an officer who was known, with some affection and some grumbling, as "Ramrod" among his crews. "Course prepared, Admiral. Estimated time to arrival and full task force deployment 7 hours, 40 minutes."

  Franklin looked up from his console, to the main screen where Stone was just starting to display projected enemy fleet dispositions. "Transmit instructions to all ships. Execute in two hours."

  "Yes, Admiral Franklin. Displaying countdown to maneuver on secondary chronometers."

  "Commander Stone, schedule a video conference with the ship captains in 30 minutes. I will address the fleet in one hour."

  "Yes, admiral."

  Franklin stared up at the screen as formation after formation was added to the enemy force. Yes, he thought, I will address the fleet. But what will I say? How will I tell them they're all going to die in four days?

  Chapter 7

  Space Station Tarawa

  Gliese 250 System

  The aftermath of battle was in and around the mammoth space station. Damaged ships, floating debris, the twisted, irradiated wreckage of entire sections of the station itself. And of course, people.

  My people, Garret thought grimly as he walked down the corridor from the station's main med facility. They looked to me to lead them. They died following my orders. They were wounded, broken, and burned manning the positions I gave them.

  They were hailing Garret a hero, saying he'd covered himself in glory and won the greatest victory in interstellar history. One day I wish I could feel the glory, he thought, but all I ever see is its terrible cost. If only they knew how much I hate this.

  People tend to think combat in space is somehow cleaner, less brutal than its messy ground-based cousin. But Garret's ships had been buffeted by massive thermonuclear barrages, multi-megaton warheads detonating all around. A direct hit meant death, even for the largest ship, but most of the missiles were near misses, miniature suns exploding a few kilometers away. Ships were ripped apart piece by piece from the shockwaves and armor-plated hulls melted from the atomic infernos.

  Men and women operated these ships, and their bodies, not being made of reinforced plasti-steel or high-density ceramic armor, were not built to withstand such forces. Crews from outer compartments were sometimes exposed to radiation so intense the victims could actually feel it, a strange tingling sensation that meant imminent death. Others were crushed under collapsing structural members or seared by the extreme heat of nearby nuclear explosions. Their pressure suits helped a little, but you couldn't operate a space ship wearing Marine power armor, so the protection was limited.

  The corridor was dimly lit; the station had taken heavy damage in the final stages of the battle, and one of the reactors had been scragged. Garret had ordered strict conservation measures for all non-essential functions. And for now, essential meant medical, damage control, and prep work for getting his task force ready to leave for Columbia. A few high-ranking functionaries who'd been caught on the station complained about the inconvenience, but Garret had told them not only to go fuck themselves, but specifically how to do it. One persistent gasbag had harassed him so much he'd almost ordered one of his officers to draw a diagram of the anatomically challenging suggestion he offered the self-important fop.

  The Admiral spent a lot of time in the med centers and sick bays after a battle. He considered it a core part of his duty, and no crisis, no VIP, no pressing project would keep him from it. He would make the time to pay his wounded their due and to personally insure they were getting the best care possible - they deserved nothing less.

  The battle had been a hard one, and it had taken days to reassemble the fleet and organize care for the wounded. Men and women died on heavily damaged ships, waiting to be transferred to vessels with functioning med facilities. Damage control parties worked throughout the fleet, slowly beginning the process of recovery.

  There had almost been another fight after the battle. The enemy had fled back through the warp gate, but the cruisers of their first wave were far in-system, still decelerating when the retreat orders were given. By the time they had started back toward the warp gate, Garret's forces were already there, having pursued the retreating enemy battleline. The taskforce commander tried to negotiate terms, offering to transit back to Alpha Cephei without further hostilities, but Garret would accept only unconditional surrender. For a few minutes it looked as if the fleets would engage, but the enemy commander blinked first, and 14 cruisers surrendered. No enemy vessels remained at large in the system, save two.

  On the far side of the primary, two CAC cruisers hurtled into deep space, beyond detection range. Their engines destroyed, they were unable to decelerate; their communications knocked out, they couldn't call for help. Spacefarers had few fears more intense than ending up on one of these "ghost ships," a prison first then, when the life support finally fails, a tomb. No one knew just how many missing ships from man's wars in space were hurtling into unexplored darkness, their frozen crews transfixed at their posts.

  But now was not the time for introspection; Garret had other work to do. The fleet had been hard hit, but things could have been much worse. Most of the ships had taken serious damage, and putting together a scratch force that could depart in seven days was proving to be difficult. He stepped into the lift, shifting ships on and off his mental list as he barked at the AI to take him to the control center. The lift was operating at reduced speed, victim of his own power management orders, and he was impatient to get back to work.

  "Status report on the Cambrai?" Stepping off the lift, he snapped out the inquiry without preamble.

  "Captain Arlington advises she will be ready to depart in ten days." Lieutenant Simon had transferred over to the station along with the boss, and she cringed as she passed on Arlington's report. She'd been with Garret long enough to know what he was going to say.

  "Unacceptable. Advise Arlington that she has five days. On day six she will be ready to maneuver into formation for departure."

  "Yes sir." Simon really hoped Captain Arlington didn't argue. She'd seen the results of that before, too.

  "Other reports?" Garret dropped hard into the command chair. They were on the station, not on the ship, so he'd discarded the pressure suit for a set of well-worn duty fatigues.

  "The Cromwell will be ready in 24 hours. Captain Charles reports he'll have all main systems at 95% or greater operational proficiency by then." Byron Charles had been Garret's flag captain for five years; twice he'd turned down promotions to flag rank to stay and command the Cromwell for the admiral. "The Saratoga will be ready in one day as well, though Captain Krill advises that the landing bays will still be non-operational until she can get the ship to a space dock." The Saratoga was one of the big new Yorktown Class monsters, the only one with light enough damage to make Garret's tight departure schedule.

  It's not like we've got the fighters anyway, Garret thought bitterly. Only 20% of the fleet's fighter-bombers had made it back in the end, though their daring attack had played a huge role in the victory. He couldn't understand why the survivors didn't hate him, but they knew how desperate the situation was, and they were aware just how much their sacrifice had bought.

  He hated to abandon the more seriously damaged ships of his battered fleet to someone else's command, but he doubted the enemy would be back soon, and he had promised to return and complete Operation Sherman. Garret had forged a kinship with General Holm, and they both agreed that their people had been under occupation long enough. He too had seen the reports, the images...he'd even met some of the survivors. He simply could not allow those types of atrocities to continue a day longer if he could do something about it. The force he was taking to Columbia included every decently functional ship in the fleet - three capital ships plus cruisers and escorts. They were depleted and low on missiles and other supplies, but Garret had sent his instructions ahead; the supply ships would meet his force at Columbia. Normally he could refit at the base at 12 Ophiuchi, but that facility had been stripp
ed bare to support his defense of Gliese.

  The trip to Columbia was fairly long, with five transits and several long cross-system legs in between. Just one of those systems had warp gates leading to enemy possessions, but he intended to be cautious; the task force was in no condition to fight, not until he could resupply.

  Lieutenant Simon sent the updated order of battle for the task force to his console. He'd be light on cruisers, which he didn't like. The enemy had stripped their battlegroups of their cruisers to assemble their first attack wave, but the loss of heavier supporting firepower proved decisive when the battlelines fought it out. He didn't like the idea of exposing himself to turnabout, but he only had two cruisers in good enough repair to make the trip. So two would have to be enough. Otherwise, the OB looked good, or at least as good as it was going to get, so he pressed his thumb against the reader on his command chair, approving the document. He sent it back to Simon so she could get started relaying orders to the ships of the force.

  Garret's mind had wandered back to the med center, to the wounded and the dying - though most of the ones that had gotten there still alive would make it no matter how badly they were wounded. They might have a long recovery, but once they got help their chances were good. How many died at their posts, unable to get medical attention in time he didn't know. Simon's voice finally brought him out of his trance.

  "Sir?" She paused. Simon was a very proper officer, and she disliked addressing the admiral other than to respond to him or provide him with information. But she knew he'd been up for days. "I am starting to worry about you. It has been several days since you slept."

  Garret smiled. Technically, she was being insubordinate, but he knew she was genuinely concerned. Ah, my dear Jen, he thought, if only you knew how very long it has been since I truly slept. "There will be time for sleeping later, Jen." He hoped his voice was sympathetic and appreciative; she was a good kid. He poked at the small screen adjacent to his command chair. "For now, I'd like the updated repair schedules for the station. I want the defense grid up and running before we leave and take half the fleet's remaining firepower with us."