Shattered Spear

by Jack Campbell

  Instead, the heavy cruiser had detonated its power core at the precise moment when the enigma warships were darting in to administer a death blow.

  Wrathful cheers erupted on the bridge of Pele as only six enigma warships staggered out of the field of destruction created by the heavy cruiser’s deliberate sacrifice.

  “He got six of them,” Kontos breathed. The Kapitan turned to sweep the bridge with his glance, silencing the celebration. “That leaves twenty-eight alien warships for us,” he reminded his crew.

  Marphissa drew in a long, slow breath. As the tracks of the enigma warships steadied out, she could see the projected track for her own flotilla intercepting them before they could reach the planet. “And all of those who died bought the time their people needed. We will honor their sacrifice by completing the task they could not, and ensuring the safety of those they died to protect!” It sounded like something an Alliance officer would have said, full of idealism and honor. Maybe she had spent too much time around Captain Bradamont.

  But none of the crew seemed surprised or unhappy at what Marphissa had said. Instead, they appeared ready to cheer again, but cast worried glances at Kontos. He made a small affirmative gesture, and then they did cheer.

  Because she was leading them into battle with a force that had just annihilated a flotilla similar to their own.

  Kontos must have been reading her thoughts. He shrugged. “Humans are crazy, too.”

  “Yes,” Marphissa agreed. “But it’s our crazy. We were willing to leave them alone to their crazy; they wouldn’t take the deal, so we’re going to show them what happens when you push people too far.”

  She took another look at the planet looping about its star. Above the planet were the symbols marking the three Syndicate troop transports and four Syndicate freighters. From the over-an-hour-ago images visible, the troop transports were still busy landing every passenger they carried, while from their movements the shuttles servicing the freighters must be dropping their cargo haphazardly to save time. It was past time for her to make another decision.

  First she made another call to Colonel Rogero. “I can detach our troop transports at any time, Colonel. Do you wish to proceed with the landing?”

  “Yes,” Rogero replied without visible enthusiasm. “I’m not in the habit of giving up before trying, and staying on the transports wouldn’t give my soldiers any chance of fighting back. I haven’t heard back from anyone with the Syndicate ground forces. If what we were told by the Syndicate flotilla commander is correct, there must be a lot of snakes enforcing Syndicate loyalty on the surface of that planet. There’s a chance that when we get close enough to the planet my people will be able to find a way to contact some of the Syndicate soldiers through circuits the snakes aren’t watching. That’s my best hope at this point. I’ll also be able to get a better look at the enigma presence by using the sensors on the transports to scan the planet.”

  “Good luck, Colonel.” There wasn’t anything else to say. As soon as that message was over, Marphissa called Leytenant Mack on HTTU 332. “Leytenant, you are hereby placed in charge of both troop transports, subject to the orders of Colonel Rogero. You are to detach from our formation and proceed on a direct vector to meet the planetary objective in its orbit at the best velocity you can manage. Are there any questions?”

  Mack did not look particularly thrilled at the assignment. “What will our escort be?”

  “You’ll have a distant escort, Leytenant,” Marphissa said dryly. “This flotilla. Nothing I could detach to go with you would be strong enough to stop any of the three enemy warship formations in this star system, so instead I will keep them occupied while you land our ground forces.”

  “Yes, Kommodor,” Mack said. “I understand and will comply.”

  “We will do our best to cover you,” Marphissa said. “Once you get the soldiers landed you won’t be nearly as attractive a target for enemy attack.”

  She ended the call, feeling extremely guilty.

  Kontos gave her a sidelong look. “What if the enigmas spring their ambush as soon as the transports get close to the planet?”

  “Then we couldn’t stop them from reaching the transports anyway! The transports’ track will diverge slowly from ours,” Marphissa insisted, gesturing to the projected courses arcing through space on her display, “so we’re not going to be far from them when they reach the planet.”

  By the time the transports finished braking into orbit and landing the soldiers, though, Marphissa’s formation would be well past and going very fast away from them. She knew that, Kontos knew that, Mack knew that, and very likely Colonel Rogero knew that. It just couldn’t be helped. “If I had twice as many ships . . .” Marphissa muttered.

  Kontos nodded wordlessly, his mouth a thin line. He knew just as well as she did that the transports would have a very small chance of survival when they had finished doing as she had ordered, and that any other course of action she might have ordered would have been even worse for the chances of everyone in the flotilla.

  She tried to find some satisfaction in knowing that the situation had simplified a bit with the destruction of the Syndicate flotilla. Now it was only a three-way fight in space, as well as a looming three-way fight on the planet.

  * * *

  ONLY a down patch had sufficed to get Colonel Rogero some rest in the hours leading up to the assault on the planet. His stateroom on this troop transport, having been intended for at least sub-CEO rank in the Syndicate, was actually comfortable, but that hadn’t helped. He slept only intermittently, and was awake an hour before his alert time, feeling anything but alert.

  He had every reason he could wish for to cancel this operation. No one would blame him in the least if he pulled the plug right now. Not General Drakon, not President Iceni, not the Kommodor, not Honore Bradamont whose worry had been ill concealed when they parted, and certainly not his own soldiers, who knew enough about combat operations to know how ugly this one was.

  But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t give up without trying. It wasn’t pride, he told himself. Partly it was the knowledge that more than once seemingly impregnable enemy positions had proven to be surprisingly vulnerable. There was no way to be certain until you actually tested the defenses, especially in a case like this where practically everything they knew about the enigma base was pure speculation.

  Partly it was knowing that his soldiers, relieved or not at the cancellation, would wonder if he had lacked confidence in them.

  Partly it was knowing how many enemy warships were already in this star system, and how many more the enigmas might have concealed if the Kommodor’s guess was right, and what those warships would do to these transports if they got a shot at them.

  Partly it was thinking of those poor bastards already on the surface. Not just Syndicate ground forces but also who knew how many civilians who had been dragged into this mess by the Syndicate. Rogero didn’t care whether or not the snakes who were holding guns on everyone were themselves massacred by the enigmas. He actually liked the idea. But there didn’t seem to be any way to make that happen without the civilians also being wiped out.

  The civilians. That was mainly it, wasn’t it? He and so many others had kept fighting for the Syndicate because they wanted to protect their families from both an Alliance that didn’t care who died in their bombardments, and from the Syndicate that would retaliate against anyone who failed to follow orders. But now the Syndicate had brought the families into the war zone. Hostages to keep the mobile forces and the ground forces in line.

  He didn’t know how many snakes the Syndicate still had. But if word of this got around, it wouldn’t be enough. Not anywhere.

  Rogero donned his battle armor, then clumped glumly through passageways large enough to accommodate him in that heavy outfit. He passed parts of his brigade, the soldiers all suiting up with the careful efficiency of those who had done t
his plenty of times already. That was an odd thing to think about. They had taken losses since revolting against the Syndicate, but not nearly as many as had been the norm during the war. He had a growing proportion of veterans in his unit, men and women who had accumulated experience in the grim art of war.

  He reached the bridge, where the transport’s commander awaited him.

  Leytenant Mack saluted with rigid precision. “My ship and HTTU 643 are ready to land your ground forces upon your command, Colonel.”

  “What are the Syndicate transports doing?” Rogero asked.

  “They took off when we reached the planet. Them and the Syndicate freighters.” Mack pointed off in a direction that meant nothing to Rogero. “Running. I don’t know where. They’re heading along the track their flotilla took, which means they’re running toward the enigmas. I don’t know what’s up with that.”

  “They’re staying together?”

  “No, sir.” Mack shook his head, looking uncomfortable. “The transports have been pulling steadily away from the freighters. Leaving them behind.”

  Rogero looked at Mack, knowing even with his helmet visor up he still appeared very menacing in combat armor. “Why does that bother you, Leytenant?”

  Mack glared back at Rogero. “Because it’s not right. I understand running to try to live. But those Syndicate transports haven’t a chance in hell anyway. Somebody or other is going to blow them apart before they can jump out of this star system. They should have at least put on a good show and stood by the others.”

  “At least,” Rogero agreed. “Now, what about the planet? I’ve got the data from your sensors showing what they can see of the Syndicate position, but not anything on the enigma base.”

  “Yeah,” Mack said reluctantly. “That Syndicate ground position is a mess, huh? Looks like they just dropped people and stuff any which where. Panic, seems to me. I bet those freighters still have some critical stuff on board that anyone on a rock like that will need to live long-term.”

  “Long-term living requirements are the least of their worries,” Rogero said. “Why don’t we have anything from our ground-penetrating sensors on that buried base?”

  Mack brought up an image that floated before them, a segment of the planet below lit up in various colors to enhance the information. “You have everything that we can see,” Leytenant Mack advised, waving at the display. “We’ve tried every trick, every sensor for remotely seeing what’s on the surface and what’s beneath the surface, and that’s all we get.”

  Colonel Rogero scowled at the image. One of the advantages of real assault transports was that they came equipped with active sensor systems that could penetrate objects like the surface of a planet to map underground installations. When aboard warships he had asked for that kind of support and been met with blank stares. The warships depended so heavily on passive sensors that collected everything that could be seen across every band of the spectrum that they were shocked at the idea of sending out energy using active systems like the advanced radars on a troop transport.

  But this time the transports’ sensors weren’t helping much. “It’s just a blob covering a huge area,” Rogero complained.

  Leytenant Mack nodded. “That’s all we can see,” he repeated. “There’s something in the surface soil blocking our scans across every frequency and wavelength. At least we know whatever the enigmas are hiding is somewhere under that.”

  “What could they seed across hundreds of square kilometers that blocked everything?” Rogero wondered. “They must have a way to vent heat, at the very least.”

  “You could do it underground,” Mack said. “My sister’s a geologist. Did I ever tell you that? We were talking once and she said you could either dump the heat into an underground river or into a really big underground reservoir. That would get rid of the heat and disperse it so much that the source couldn’t be pinpointed.”

  “We should have brought a geologist,” Rogero said. “Despite knowing these are aliens, I keep expecting them to do things like we do. To have the same capabilities that we do. But they are obviously a lot better at camouflage.”

  “Where do you want to drop?”

  Rogero gazed at the display. To one side of the underground blob that marked the enigma’s masking efforts were a cluster of symbols that marked the Syndicate personnel and equipment that had been hastily landed. They might be directly over part of the alien installation. Or not. “I might have to fight those Syndicate ground forces as well as the aliens, but I am supposed to protect the citizens with those ground forces from the aliens.”

  “I wouldn’t come down too close to them,” Mack cautioned. “Keep a few kilometers off, at least outside the range of their hand weapons. Odds are they’ve already been targeted.”

  “Odds are so has this transport.” Rogero took a slight, perverse pleasure from seeing Leytenant Mack’s anxiety when that was pointed out. “I think the enigmas are going to wait and see if we and the Syndicate ground forces start fighting before they attack either of us.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  Rogero sat back, folding his arms and frowning as he spoke. “That’s been their usual tactic. From what Captain Bradamont told me, the enigmas might have tricked the Syndicate into starting the war with the Alliance, and once it was going the enigmas apparently leaked to both sides the hypernet technology that ensured we would keep fighting longer. The Alliance thinks the enigmas expected humans to eventually figure out that the hypernet gates could be used as nova-scale bombs to destroy the star systems where they were placed, and then to use the hypernet gates against each other until both the Syndicate and the Alliance had been totally gutted by the mutual destruction.”

  Mack’s mouth had fallen open in shock. “Seriously?”

  “Yes. Why waste time and effort killing enemies who were willing to kill each other with a little encouragement?” Rogero nodded firmly. “I am certain that they will wait here to see if we are attacking the Syndicate ground forces. If so, they will wait until one side or the other has triumphed, then hit the survivors with enough force to wipe them out.”

  “That would be smart,” Mack conceded. “Ugly as all hell, but smart for them. That sounds like we should at least mimic a combat drop aimed at the Syndicate ground forces. But if the Syndicate troops see you coming like that, they’ll open fire on you.”

  “The snakes will order them to do so,” Rogero agreed. “I am hoping we can fool both the snakes and the enigmas.”

  “Too bad the snakes and the enigmas won’t kill each other off while we watch,” Mack commented.

  Rogero started to smile politely at the weak joke, then paused. What if . . . ? “Leytenant, I advise you to leave orbit and chase after the flotilla once you have dropped off my people. There’s no telling what kind of antiorbital weapons the enigmas might have or how long their range is. I want to start the landing in one hour, when we’re in the best orbital position for the shuttles. In the meantime, I need to send another message.”

  There were always at least two levels in any system of communication. The openly used and officially controlled level that was supposed to be the only one that existed, and the backdoor or hidden level that workers quickly improvised for informal communications among themselves. Internal security devoted immense efforts to trying to shut down every backdoor system as quickly as possible, but no matter how many were uncovered and blocked, more popped up. The complexity of comm systems and unit networks created a huge number of places where potential back doors could be cobbled together by the sort of software manipulations that left no fingerprints for frustrated snakes to trace back to a source.

  General Drakon had lent Rogero the services of Sergeant Broom, the most devious hacker available to him. “Sergeant, I need a way into whatever back door those Syndicate ground forces are using.”

  Broom scratched his head, grimacing slightly. “That
back door will still have virtual barricades to any intrusion attempts by us, Colonel. Workers learned the necessity for those the hard way a long time ago.”

  “This isn’t for an intrusion. I want to be able to talk to those ground forces without any chance the snakes will intercept it.”

  “We’re close enough I might be able to find their net now,” Broom murmured, his hands racing across virtual controls as he gazed at information flows on his specialized display. “It depends how much they’re talking and . . . aha. The snakes are making this easy.”

  “What did they do?” Rogero asked, peering at the cascade of unfamiliar data.

  “Constant pingbacks on all command circuits,” Broom explained. “The snakes are maintaining constant checks on the comm nets to spot anything that shouldn’t be there.”

  Rogero shook his head. “I don’t understand. I thought our systems did automatic checks for intrusions.”

  “They do, Colonel,” Broom advised. “But the checks are randomized and not continuous so they don’t overload the comm net and send out enough noise to make it possible for someone on the outside to spot the net parameters. The snakes have set the net down there to do the checks constantly. I will guarantee you that the tactical data feeds for those ground forces soldiers are being slowed significantly. And . . .” His frown changed to a grin. “Oh. That is tray dough!”

  “Dough?” Rogero asked, raising both eyebrows.

  “It’s an old expression where I come from,” Broom explained. “It means really great, or something like that. All that snake activity is lighting up their net perfectly. I know exactly what to look for, so I should be able to find any back doors pretty fast.”

  “We’re pressed for time, Sergeant,” Rogero said. “How fast?”

  “Ten minutes, Colonel.”