In Her Name: The Last War

by Michael R. Hicks

  Antonov nodded, considering. “Very well. Notify me immediately when you regain contact. And update the tactical display as our forces come to full readiness.”

  “Yes, sir!” they chorused in response.

  With that, he turned and headed back to join Korolev, thinking, Voroshilov, you old bastard, I hope you know what you are doing.

  * * *

  “Collision alarm!” Hanson heard someone shout as the Constellation’s klaxons bleated their warning tones through the ship. In the tactical display, just moments after emerging from the micro-jump, she saw that the combined human fleet had indeed emerged on the far side of Riga, but their formation — or, rather, the Confederation ships’ formation, she thought bitterly — was a deadly mess. Untrained in the peculiarities of this type of jump, there had been small inconsistencies in their formation and velocity that had been magnified tremendously during the micro-jump, putting some of the ships in dangerously close proximity.

  “Task force base direction zero-nine-zero mark zero!” she shouted at her flag captain, ordering her ships to turn to the same heading to help avoid colliding with one another. “All ships reduce speed to station-keeping until we get this sorted out! Communications,” she barked to the flag communications officer, “get me Admiral Voroshilov!”

  “Aye, commodore!”

  On the main display, her ships quickly wheeled around to their new heading and reduced speed, and in a few moments were starting to slide back into their assigned positions in the formation.

  “Damage report?” Hanson asked.

  “None, commodore,” her flag captain reported, relieved. “Some close calls, but not so much as any scraped paint. We made it.”

  Hanson nodded, greatly relieved. It could easily have been a disaster, but certainly no worse than going up against a vastly superior Kreelan fleet. On the other hand, she thought acidly, Voroshilov could have given us some warning as to the dangers.

  “Commodore,” Admiral Voroshilov’s image suddenly appeared on her vidcom, “welcome to Riga, an autonomous republic under Saint Petersburg’s beneficent protection.” He gave her another one of his mirthless smiles. “I congratulate you on your successful jump, commodore, and my compliments to your crews. On our first task force micro-jump during an exercise, we lost two ships to interpenetration. You did very well.”

  Hanson choked down the hot remarks she had been about to give the admiral. The Russians had made it look easy, their ships still in perfect formation. But many had obviously died in the perfection of their technique. Maybe we didn’t do so badly, after all, she consoled herself. Instead of biting his head off, she said, “Thank you, sir, I’ll do that. What do we do now?”

  “We must regroup quickly, before we move out of Riga’s shadow and again come under direct observation of the enemy,” he told her. The jump point had left them on the far side of Riga from Saint Petersburg, temporarily shielding them. “I believe that the large transports will stay only long enough to deploy their troops, then they will leave. After that, we may stand a fighting chance against the remaining covering forces. In the meantime,” he went on, “I must make contact with the Rigan government: they must prepare as best they can.” While the Party had decreed that the Kreelan menace was nothing more than Confederation propaganda, Voroshilov had seen more than enough to convince him the alien threat was real.

  “What about Chairman Korolev?” she asked him.

  Voroshilov shrugged. “I am already a dead man in his eyes, I am sure. Giving him one more reason to have me shot is a worthwhile trade for saving human lives.” He paused. “My wife is from Riga. Something tells me she would not be happy if I did not warn them of what is coming. While I am doing that, get your ships in order and prepare to reengage the enemy, commodore.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” she said. “We’re with you.”

  * * *

  After closing the connection with Hanson, Voroshilov told his communications officer, “Get me President Roze.” The officer merely gaped at him. “Did you hear me, comrade?”

  “Yes...yes, comrade admiral,” the man answered uneasily, turning away to his console, his face bearing a fearful expression.

  “Sir,” his flag captain asked quietly, “may I ask what you are doing? Some of the officers are not...” He paused and looked around quickly before whispering, “Some of the men are beginning to be concerned over your actions, comrade admiral. You have so much as declared that you are committing mutiny by allying us with the Confederation fleet. And now contacting Roze directly?” He looked at Voroshilov with undisguised concern. “The crews in the fleet know your wife is Rigan, sir, and they will think you are doing this only for her sake. You know this is a political decision that must be made by the Party leadership, comrade admiral. Please, I beg you to reconsider!”

  Voroshilov looked at him. “Yuri Denisovich, my friend,” he answered quietly, “I am doing what I feel I must. Yes, my wife is Rigan, but that is not why I must speak with Roze. It is because Riga is part of our small star nation that is under attack. It will not help our cause to leave Riga blind and deaf when the invaders turn their attention to them: if Riga is prepared, they will be able to kill far more of the enemy than if they are not. Chairman Korolev does not see this, any more than he believes the invaders are aliens. Tell me, Yuri, do you still believe the invaders come from the Confederation after seeing their ships?”

  Captain Yuri Denisovich Borichevsky had known Voroshilov most of his adult life, and had served under him his entire career. More than anyone beyond his immediate family, he trusted Voroshilov. “No, comrade admiral, I do not believe they are from the Confederation,” he said. “That does not help with the crews, however. They are losing faith in you.”

  Voroshilov turned again to his communications officer. “Open a channel to the fleet,” he ordered tersely.

  “Including the Confederation ships?” the man asked.

  “Nyet,” Voroshilov told him. “Only our own.”

  “Yes, comrade admiral,” the man answered quietly. “Channel open.”

  “Comrades of the Red Navy, men of the fleet!” Voroshilov said. “Some of you no doubt are wondering at the course of the actions we have taken, why we have joined forces with the Confederation ships that we initially fought, and why now we have jumped to Riga while enemy forces surround Saint Petersburg, the motherland to most of us.” The “most of us” was for the benefit of the fleet’s crewmen — mostly officers — who were Rigan. “Many of you have no doubt heard that I took these actions without the consent of the Party leadership, that I acted on my own authority. This is true.”

  Around him, every man in sight turned to stare at him. In the last twenty years, since shortly after the war with Earth and the Alliance had ended, such a thing would have been considered unthinkable. The Party had been everything, particularly to the younger officers.

  “I assure you, comrades,” he went on, steadily meeting the stares of those around him, “these are not actions that I have taken lightly. Comrade Chairman Korolev and Marshal Antonov are fully occupied with organizing the ground and air defenses of our motherland. I know the chairman still believes that the ships attacking our world are humans from the Confederation. However, I cannot accept this in light of what we have seen with our own eyes and sensors: these ships that have come to our system are not of human design. With our world under attack, we cannot blind ourselves by what we want to see, ignoring what truly is. Our families, our people, are depending on us to save them, and the only way we can hope to do that is to understand what we are up against. In the past, the Party has often tried to shield us from unpleasant truths; in this hour, we cannot afford such a luxury.

  “For those who are concerned about why we are now above Riga, it is not because it is the world of my wife’s birth.” Some of the faces around him looked away with embarrassment. Like Flag Captain Borichevsky, they had all served with Voroshilov most of their careers, and had come to know him well. When faced with such a bl
unt statement, their unvoiced thoughts about him acting purely out of personal desires were shown to be hollow and untrue, yet another manifestation of the negative side of human nature. “We are here because Riga is part of our kollektiv, and we have an obligation under the constitution to protect her. This is indisputable, even by the Party. I cannot now spare any ships to stand guard over her people, but I will provide them with information and what encouragement I can by speaking with President Roze.

  “Once that is done and we are again fully prepared for battle,” he continued, “we will mount another attack against the invaders. And this time,” he promised, “they will not simply dance away from our guns like ballerinas!

  “Comrades,” he concluded, “do your duty to protect the motherland and the Party. Our world depends on it.”

  With that, he snapped the connection closed. And if that does not mollify them, he told himself, they can all go to hell.

  “Comrade President Roze is on the vidcom, comrade admiral,” the communications officer informed him.

  Voroshilov glanced at the man and noticed that there was indeed a change in his expression. He was perhaps yet unsure of this strange path they were taking, as in a way was Voroshilov himself, but he was no longer acting like a dog afraid of being whipped. “Thank you, comrade lieutenant,” he said. Then, turning to the face that had appeared on his vidcom, he said, “Hello, Valdis.” Voroshilov had known Valdis Roze for many years: the man’s sister was the admiral’s wife.

  “Lavrenti,” the president of Riga answered cautiously. “This contact is a bit...unusual, is it not?”

  “It is,” Voroshilov told him bluntly. “Valdis, have your military people been monitoring what has been going on in-system?”

  Roze hesitated a moment, clearly wondering if Voroshilov was trying to entrap him. Then, thinking better of it only because he knew that Voroshilov was a man of honor, even if the Party he served held such a quality as a vice, he said, “Our astronomers noted that there were two energy spikes that conform with nuclear detonations in space. Other than that, we have little to go on: we were totally cut off from the datasphere a few hours ago. And, as you know, we have little in the way of sensors that can see in-system.”

  Voroshilov frowned. He had repeatedly argued with Marshal Antonov to upgrade Riga’s defenses, but he had steadfastly refused, even with the suggestion of keeping Saint Petersburg military personnel in charge. Now it was too late. “Valdis, we are being invaded,” he told his brother-in-law. “The Confederation reports of an alien attack on Keran were true; now they have come here. Over two hundred enemy ships are dropping troops all over Saint Petersburg, and it is only a matter of time before they come to you.”

  “And what are we to do?” Roze asked hotly. “The only military forces here are yours, and are intended to keep us in our place, not to defend from invasion. We are helpless.”

  “No,” Voroshilov corrected him. “I know that you have an extensive underground militia, a resistance. I recommend that you have them and as many of your people as possible evacuate the cities. From the account of the battle of Keran, the enemy seems to concentrate on the cities. I will give orders to the garrison commander that he is to place himself under your command.”

  Roze scoffed. “He is a Party lapdog, Lavrenti. I know you are doing this without Korolev’s permission, and so will he. He will spit in your eye.”

  “Indeed.” Turning to Borichevsky, Voroshilov said, “You will detach the destroyer Komsomolskaya Pravda to provide early warning coverage for Riga, on my direct orders. The ship’s captain is to place himself under the direct command of President Roze. He is also to send a party to the garrison commander and deliver my orders that he do the same. Let them understand that if the commander refuses, they are to shoot him on the spot. If the garrison resists, the Komosomolskaya Pravda is to destroy it from orbit.” The ships of the Saint Petersburg fleet were equipped with weapons that were designed for orbital bombardments, for occasions just such as this. “Is that clear, flag captain?”

  “Perfectly, comrade admiral!”

  Voroshilov nodded, and Borichevsky began barking orders to the fleet controllers. “I know that is a token effort, Valdis,” he said, “but it is all I can do for now. We have Confederation ships with us, and I will ask their commander to ensure that one of them is sent back to their government to request that supplies and, if possible, troops be sent as quickly as possible. I would detach more ships to defend Riga, but I fear we already do not have enough ships to defeat the force that faces us.”

  “I...I appreciate what you’ve done,” Roze said. “You are a good man. I can imagine what it will cost you in the end.”

  Voroshilov gave him a wry smile. “I have much to survive before Korolev can shoot me,” he said. “Good luck, Valdis.”

  “You, too, Lavrenti.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The two ships, joined now by the grapples Li’ara-Zhurah’s crew had fastened to the human vessel, turned slowly together in space like dreaming lovers. In her armored space suit, she led her surviving warriors to the Messenger’s ship. She ignored the spectacular scenery around her: the millions of stars, the brightly colored disk of the human planet below, and the shimmering spears of flame that were the hundreds of assault craft penetrating the planet’s atmosphere. She had seen things like these before at Keran, and shut them from her mind: they brought her only unpleasant memories.

  The crossing between ships was merely a matter of jumping across the few body lengths of space separating the vessels where the hatch opened. The hulls would have been even more closely bound were it not for the profusion of unsightly antenna arrays, turrets, and various other protrusions with which the humans chose to encumber their ships.

  Had they been making a combat boarding, she would have simply found a patch of hull and burned a hole through it to the interior compartments, but that was not an option in this case. She had no idea where the Messenger might be inside the ship, and thus had to exercise caution.

  Instead, they moved across the hull of the Messenger’s ship toward one of the holes that had been blown in it by the attacking human vessels. The damage there was already done. She led her warriors inside the blasted compartment, noting that it had contained the force of this particular shell’s explosion: there were no major breaches in the interior bulkheads or the hatch. She approached the latter, carefully placing a boarding airlock — essentially a double membrane with sealable flaps down the middle — around the scorched hatch coaming. The edges stuck to the metal with a molecular glue that fused the membrane material to the steel.

  Once that was accomplished, she stepped inside the airlock, sealed the membranes behind her, and then carefully cut a small hole in the hatch with a small cutting torch. The membrane suddenly inflated with a loud pop as air from the other side of the hatch flowed through the hole she had cut, pressurizing her side of the airlock. She used the torch to cut the hatch’s jammed lock, then swung it open to reveal a red-lit corridor beyond.

  Darting her head through the hatch to check in both directions, she saw that the way was deserted. “Come,” she told her accompanying warriors, “we must move quickly now.”

  After gratefully shedding her armored suit, she stood guard while her warriors entered through the double airlock in pairs. In a few minutes, all had entered the ship.

  “Which way, mistress?” one of the warriors asked. Li’ara-Zhurah was the only one among them who had ever been on a human ship, another of her experiences during the battle of Keran.

  Li’ara-Zhurah considered: they had entered the hull roughly two-thirds of the way aft. If this ship was anything like the ship she had boarded at Keran, they were near the engineering section. The command deck, which is where she assumed the messenger would be, should be somewhere forward of that. The corridor they were in ran fore-and aft. “This way,” she said, leading them in the direction of the bow, the front of the ship.

  At the first turn, they came upon seve
ral humans who lay slumped against the walls and sprawled on the floor. All had vomited profusely, and had blood streaming from their mouths. She did not have to see their faces to know that the Messenger was not among them: she had never seen his face, and had only heard his voice the one time over the radio. Yet she knew instinctively that she would recognize him when she saw him. It was a paradox that she did not understand, nor did she try to: it was as elemental to her as breathing.

  One of her warriors raised her sword to kill the humans, but Li’ara-Zhurah signaled with her hand to leave them be. “Leave them,” she said as she moved onward. “We must find the Messenger.”

  They moved forward as fast as they dared in the eerie red lighting, skirting around the many damaged areas of the ship. The passageways were filled with swirling smoke and the bitter reek of burned metal and plastic, along with the stench of bodies that had lost control of their digestive systems. Li’ara-Zhurah momentarily regretted leaving her vacuum suit behind, for her species had an extremely acute sense of smell, and the stink was nearly overwhelming.

  They came upon more humans, unconscious or dead in the passageways. She surmised that those whose stations were out here, close to the outer hull, must have absorbed a great deal more radiation than those further in toward the ship’s central core. She prayed to the Empress that the Messenger had been deep in the ship, protected as much as possible.

  Descending a ladder, she suddenly came face to face with two humans who, if not healthy, were nonetheless able to move about. They stared at Li’ara-Zhurah, and she stared back as her warriors quickly formed up behind her. The humans began to edge backward, eyes wide with fear.

  Suddenly, they turned and began to run away, screaming in their native tongue. Three of her warriors instantly had shrekkas, deadly throwing weapons, in their hands ready to throw, but she said, “No! Follow them, for they may lead us to the Messenger. Let any humans alone unless they resist or interfere.”