The Guardians of Sol

by Spencer Kettenring

  "For once, I don't care what kind of information you might have for us to extract," The bereaved son told the wounded Centurion. "All I care about is that you die right here and now. None of your superiors will know whether you failed or succeeded until it is too late for them. Die knowing your insignificance."

  Christoph drew his own sword, and stared at it for a few heartbeats before he gripped it tightly and slammed it point first into the Centurion's head with all of the power that his grief could give him. The Castigar captain sank to his knees, and removed his battle mask, sobbing. A small sound drew his attention, and somehow, miraculously, his father was still alive as his nanobots tried in vain to repair the damage.

  "Don't speak, Dad. I'll get a medical team up here soon," Christoph told his father, desperately cradling the man's head. "You'll get through this."

  Michael smiled and gently touched his son's face. "Too late..." the old soldier wheezed. “Always... so proud..."

  "Dad? Dad! No! Not yet!" the son cried. But his father had stopped moving. His father had stopped breathing. The leader of the Confederacy of Nations and the Guardian Corps was dead, but he died smiling, looking upon his only son.

  34

  January 21, 2290. The Liberation, Observation deck

  Telamon looked down at the pad that held his notes. This was probably the hardest thing that he had ever been asked to do. His neck had been healed for days, but it still hurt to move it. He moved it anyway. The room was filled with visiting dignitaries and people who had been important to Michael. On the front row were Christoph, and Michael’s wife, Jackie. Jackie was trying her best to appear stoic, but Telamon could see the signs that she had been crying. To the other side of Christoph were the five men in charge of each division of the Corps. Behind them sat the civilian governing council. The captains of the Specials were spread throughout the room in their full dress uniforms. Even Joshua looked saddened by Michael's fate, and the two had hated one another.

  Jackie caught Telamon's eye and gave him a small, encouraging smile. The old Spartan felt a lot older, but held his gaze steady at the audience and the cameras transmitting the funeral to the entire system.

  "People of the Sol system. I am saddened that I must speak to all of you on such a mournful occasion," Telamon paused, his throat catching. "A cowardly attack perpetrated by the Centurion invaders has taken from us the man who embodied the best in us. Michael McCullough was the Sentinel for over twenty years. While a man of peace, his stewardship saw many wars and battles. Michael was not afraid to make hard decisions, and he ended all such conflicts as quickly as possible. About most men, we would say that anyway, but Michael always strove to find the end that served human kind in the best way. He sought peace. He sought unity. He sought strength. Where most men would be content seeing to those in his care, Michael always thought about the impact his decisions would have upon every human life."

  "I first met the man during the same conflict where I met my wife," Telamon said with a smile. "I was fresh from the academy and had been assigned to his personal guard. During that time, I once asked him why the Sentinel wore grey. Instead of immediately answering, he asked me a question in return: Why are we called Guardians? Who do we guard? I gave the obvious answer that we are called Guardians because we fight and protect the people of the Confederacy. He agreed, but told me that it was more profound than that:

  We are called Guardians so that we will never forget our purpose."

  "Any military force can protect its populace. Yet those same forces are too often used to conquer and destroy. When have Guardians ever conquered anything? I thought to respond with a variety of answers but he cut me off. Defeating an enemy who attacks you is not the same as conquering his nation. The Guardian Corps has never been used to offensively conquer territory. Once attacked, we become an implacable foe who will destroy our attackers until they have neither resources nor will to continue attacking. And then we go back to our homes and our families. Hell, we'll even help the ones who attacked us to rebuild. In this, we are like our American forebears. We, however, do not keep military forces in our foe's territory indefinitely. The Confederacy does not grow through conquest, but rather diplomacy. We lead through example, as all who are free should lead. You can bring a horse to water, but you cannot make him drink. Other nations that lose sight of freedom lose sight of that simple truth."

  "So why does that Sentinel wear grey? Why is he called the Sentinel? Everything about the Corps is steeped in symbolism. Our soldiers wear black because they walk with death. Our intelligence personnel are called Venators, hunters, because they hunt for truth and deceit. Our main forces are called Vindicators because they are the champions who do most of the protecting for the people. Our heavy forces are called Castigars because they punish those foolish enough to take freedom from others. So why does the Sentinel, the first watcher, the one we trust to lead us in preserving freedom and life wear grey? He wears grey because he is the recognition that all men, and women, who desire to protect others from the darkness of death and tyranny must protect that bright innocence by taking a bit of the darkness inside themselves. The Guardians who do this are not evil, no. They are the Grey Riders, the Grey shields, who hold the line against the darkness. That is why the Sentinel wears grey, my friends."

  Telamon took a sip of water and a deep breath. He glanced at the grey sleeves of his new uniform. "Michael was the best of us. He was a man of thought as much as action. He cared even when he was forced to kill. Michael would not want us to mourn his death, but rather celebrate and honor his life. He gave his life holding the line against the tyranny of the Centurions. What better legacy could he hope for than a united Sol system living in peace and prosperity free from the depredations of fools like the Centurions who think us weaklings? To the nations that accepted the Centurions' offer. Reject them, and we will stand with you as brothers. To the nations straddling the fence. Join us, and preserve your independence. To the nations that never doubted our course. We will hold the line, and we will see the light again. As for myself, I will hold that line of grey. There is nothing less I could do to honor the man who was closer to me than a brother."

  Telamon clenched his fist over his heart, and swiftly brought it out, open palm up, in salute to those gathered. The old Spartan removed himself from the podium as the funeral service went on. He sat next to Jackie and gently put his arm around his best friend's widow.

  "That was exactly what he would have wanted. Thank you, Tel," she told him tearfully.

  Telamon simply squeezed her tighter for a moment and thought about his new responsibilities as the acting Sentinel. Neither the civilian nor military councils had blamed Telamon for Michael's death. And while everyone (perhaps most vehemently Telamon himself) admitted that he was not their ideal candidate, they knew that no one else could even begin to unravel all of Michael's programs and schemes in the middle of a war. The councils were already searching for a proper replacement, however. Telamon wished them the best of luck. So, he thought to himself. I'll do my best to honor the position for you until I'm relieved of the duty, brother.

  35

  February 9, 2290. Aphrodite research satellite.

  This was not how I wanted to spend this week. I can tell you that. For one thing, it was a Sunday. Who wants to do anything on a Sunday? For the other thing, my first Valentine's Day with Rachel was the coming Friday and I was going to miss it! Because of these asshole Centurions thinking they could take Sol system! I wasn't having any of that, I assure you.

  The closest offending Centurion leveled a rifle at me, but I swept it aside with my shield and slammed my hammer into his head to shatter his helmet, jaw, and... Probably just about everything else in there. Rachel had customized my shield by taking out a curved section by my hand so that it wouldn't obstruct my gauntlet's weapons and as the next enemy thrust one of their strange recurving swords at me I ducked under it and pinned his foot in place with my knuckle blade. Hektor drove his plasma spear past me an
d into the man's neck.

  I moved my shield to block a thrust at Hektor's midsection, and my hammer demolished the enemy's arm. Meanwhile, Hektor spun and blocked a stream of fire that was flying towards me. A flare of silver fire flew past the Spartan's head and killed one of the men shooting at us. An armored form of black and silver flipped past Hektor to spear two Centurions with his twin swords, and disemboweled another. The man from the Specials Beta company third squad was quickly followed by his teammate into the melee. Both of the Archangels were tearing into the Centurions ferociously enough to give Hektor and me a chance to catch our breath. I hit my com system.

  "Haywire, tell me those scientists are ready to move!"

  "We've got them, their research, and their families secured. Beginning the transition to evacuation shuttles. We should only be ten more minutes, tops."

  "Alright. You and Shot-put are still in command. Make sure Rhakshasa squad is clear on their priorities."

  "I've split them up. Half are in front with John and his team, and the other half are bringing up the rear with my team. We'll keep everyone safe, Cap."

  "Keep me updated. The rest of us will head your way in a few minutes," I glanced to where the Archangels had finished off the enemy squad. "Rommy, begin a countdown for defensive squads throughout the station. Five minutes and then head for evac."

  "All squads have been notified."

  "Thank you, Rommy."

  "Trance, Harper," I called to the other Specials. "Let's rendezvous with the rest of your squad. Hektor, you've got the rear."

  The rest of the Archangel squad was waiting for us along with Voodoo and Squatter only one deck and three intersections away. The Archangels armor was simple and elegant and etched with 'angelic' script. The two crossing four-point stars on each of their large shoulder shields were their squad's sigil. A few moments before we reached them I received some ominous news.

  "Captain Roche!" I called as we approached. "What's the word?"

  "This level is clear, but we weren't the reason that it happened. One moment we were swamped and the next the Centurions were retreating in good order."

  "That kind of thing is never good where Snappers are concerned," I turned my attention to Rommy. "How are the other squads fairing?"

  "All squads are reporting the same withdrawal as Roche. Mainline casualty rates are holding steady at forty percent. Specials casualties are so far limited to one wounded still operating under his own power."

  "Damn. Alright, if we're all clear then end the countdown and get everyone to the shuttles. Things aren't sounding very good outside," I clapped the man next to me on the shoulder. "Let's get on our merry way, gentlemen."

  *****

  Surprisingly, we met no resistance on our way to the docking bays. Inside the other Castigars were already entering their assorted shuttles. Evacuation was proceeding as fast and as smoothly as anyone could hope for, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Centurions may not have been as mean in combat as Castigars (or as mean as I had originally thought), but they almost never gave up a fight until they were either dead or there was some sort of trick afoot.

  The last few men were bringing their fallen comrades into the last few shuttles, and I led my men and the Archangels into a mostly empty assault shuttle. I had Rommy open a link to all the pilots.

  "Alright, boys, we're ready enough. Let's get a move on. Any shuttles with noncombatants stick to the center of the formation. I want assault shuttles at the fore and flanks to shield the folks in the middle. Let's go hitch a ride home."

  The ship lurched hard, and even with the artificial gravity on full in the passenger section, the acceleration threatened to pull me from my seat. I adjusted the straps surrounding my armor to hold me steady and had Rommy patch me into the shuttle's external visual feeds. Inside my helmet I got the same three hundred and sixty degree view of space that the pilots were getting. Above the solar plane the ships defending Aphrodite station were battling the Centurion task force. There was enough debris that I could see to suggest that several ships had already been wrecked. One of the ships flared and suddenly shattered. The Judgement of Paris was no longer so much a Bastion-class cruiser as much as it was a navigational hazard.

  "Our ride just exploded. Unless you see another one for us target our convoy directly to the jump gate," I ordered the pilot.

  Or at least I tried to. Aphrodite station turned into a fireball behind us. The force of the explosions sent it sinking towards the dense Venusian atmosphere almost immediately. I swore, as was appropriate. Ahead and Earthward, the Centurions pummeled several of the remaining Aegis-class destroyers into oblivion. One of the ships used its last moments to ram its pointed prow into an enemy cruiser, destroying them both.

  I looked at the fleet count in the area and it was looking worse by the second. A few Saber-class gunboats were flying circles around the larger enemy vessels and devastating the more agile fighters that went after them, but that couldn't last. Not when the only capital ship in the area had just been destroyed and its support ships were quickly getting picked off. Rommy highlighted incoming shapes on my HUD. It looked like a full wing of Centurion fighters were coming up on our topside port. This time I swore a bit more vehemently, because there was no way everyone was getting out of this in one piece. Our only hope, the jump gate, was coming up fast as we all but skimmed the atmosphere. We weren't going to get there fast enough. The enemy fighters launched missiles.

  It is one thing to be in a battle, surrounded by enemies on the ground, or "ground" as the case may be, but it is another entirely to do so when your only course of action is to trust in the skills of another person. The turrets from the five combat shuttles managed to pick of a few of the incoming artillery, but the three assault shuttles (one of which held me and my team) maneuvered around the core group to take the hits. I momentarily regretted those orders when the shuttle shook so badly that my teeth rattled through the hull and my armor. But the assault shuttles came through reasonably unscathed, which was why I ordered them to fly cover in the first place. The thick and durable hulls they sported for ramming and infiltrating enemy ships worked just as well for defending as for their intended purpose. They were not invincible, however, and if someone managed a clear shot at their aft the assault shuttles were just as prone to exploding as anything else. Outnumbered more than four to one, it wasn't looking good for our chances.

  The enemy fighters got close enough to begin firing their other weapons, which, while not solid like bullets, created an annoyingly repetitive pinging throughout the entire shuttle. Rommy reassured me that the damage the fire caused the assault shuttle was minimal. There was so much of it that the assault shuttles couldn't shield the combat shuttles from enough of it. One of the trailing shuttles lurched to the side belching smoke, and skipped off of the Venusian atmosphere before exploding. My heart stuck in my throat.

  "Rommy?" I inquired quietly.

  "The shuttles with the rest of your squad and the noncombatants are still intact. That shuttle contained three Castigar squads as well as Specials B company squad 6, the War Dogs."

  "No soldier should die that way," I replied, but shamefully, I felt relief that my friends were still alive. I hadn't met any of the War Dogs yet, and it was unlikely I knew any of the mainliners. Still, the relief I felt filled me with a burning guilt.

  The shuttle shook again as we took more hits. The pilots of the assault shuttles began to coordinate a little better, and with only four combat shuttles to protect much less enemy fire was getting through. The combat shuttles were having some small success either driving off or destroying our attackers, but not enough. Rommy ran a few numbers for me and if we could survive the next four light seconds then we would have a good chance of making it all the way to the jump gate. Three light seconds, the enemy fighter wing blew through our formation. One of the fighters got in front of an assault shuttle and was torn to pieces by it. The shuttle came through just fine since fighters are much mor
e delicate than the skin of a warship.

  Two light seconds, the shuttle formation scattered, but we hadn't lost anyone else yet. The enemy wing swung around about two hundred and seventy degrees to put them directly behind us, but fast in pursuit. One light second out, we lost one of the assault shuttles, but we made it past the survival line. The shuttle pilots wove around the debris field that had drifted from the battle. A few of the fighter pilots were not as skilled, and collided with the obstacles. In my shuttle, at least, we breathed a collective sigh of relief as the jump gate finally came into view.

  Three light seconds away from our goal, and we seemed to be in the clear. The Guardian ships defending Venus were finally gone. The research station was gone. Hell, a large percentage of the terraforming platforms had been destroyed. Thousands of civilians and Guardians had been killed. Thousands, and as far as I knew the little over two hundred people on the six surviving shuttles were all we had left in this area. Thinking about it made me angry, made me feel more guilt. Survivor's guilt? I hoped not. I hated talking to the trauma counselors.

  Then three enemy cruisers exited their jumps next to the gate. We watched in horror as one of the strange, conical vessels unleashed a stream of charged particles that ripped through a small portion of the gigantic structure. The damage was enough. The jump gate began to twist itself apart as we watched. This was it then, enemies behind us, enemies in front of us, and no where to run. What a shitty way to die! I fumed internally. The pilots must have been frustrated, but they kept maneuvering, keeping us just ahead of enemy fire.

  Just as suddenly as the enemy cruisers appeared, so too did another group of ships. This new group of ships wasn't much to look at, except for their central feature, a vessel, a dreadnought, that dwarfed any ship I had ever seen. The Aegis destroyers surrounding it looked more like playthings than anything next to its bulk. Rommy patched me into the pilots' com band.