The Fall: Crimson Worlds IX

by Jay Allan

  “Elizabeth…” Garret felt her words like a punch in the gut. He walked over and put his hand on her shoulder. “I miss him too. And I’ll never forgive myself for what I did.”

  Arlington stared into Garret’s eyes, hearing the pain in his voice, and realizing for the first time that it was always there. She couldn’t imagine the guilt and burden Augustus Garret carried, the cumulative pain that was the inevitable byproduct of his long and storied career.

  Arlington was still devastated by Compton’s loss, but hearing Garret blame himself so profoundly stirred another response in her. “It wasn’t your fault, sir. There wasn’t a choice. I know that. I always have.” Her voice was cracking, but she kept her eyes locked on Garret’s and continued. “He…he knows it too, sir.” She paused, drawing in a ragged breath. “You know he does.”

  Garret nodded. “Yes, I know.” He noted the present tense in her comment. He hoped she managed to cling to belief that Compton was still alive out there somewhere, but he tended to doubt it. Arlington was as cold a realist as he was, and they both knew how many First Imperium ships were in that system. Compton was an extremely talented officer and a veteran of almost 50 years of interstellar warfare. If anyone could have gotten his people out of that system, it was him, but the odds were very long indeed. “In fact, I never told you this, Elizabeth, but the last message we received from him told me to pull the rest of the fleet out and blow the warp gate. He knew there wasn’t another alternative.” Garret understood everything he was telling her, but he also knew that realization did nothing to ease his own guilt and pain. He doubted it would for Arlington either.

  She stared back at him with a sad, thoughtful expression on her face, but she didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. Compton was gone, and nothing either of them could do would change that. Now, she had done what she felt she had to do, and she knew she would do it again in the same situation. She would accept whatever punishment Garret chose to level at her, but she wasn’t sorry for what she’d done, and she wouldn’t lie and say she was.

  Garret looked at her silently for a few seconds. “Well, Elizabeth, as much as I want to scold you, I can’t argue that you saved thousands of Marines on the ground, far more than the 24 crew that were lost on your expedition.” Garret had never intended to punish her seriously. In the end, he’d asked himself what he would have done in her situation. He tried to lie to himself, but he couldn’t. He knew he’d have gone in as well, and if he’d had a commander who might have overruled him, he’d probably have pulled the same thing she had.

  “So, let’s just say congratulations on pulling it off. I spoke with General Gilson, and I believe the Corps is going to award you a medal – assuming any of us survive this campaign, that is.” He smiled at her, trying to ease her concerns. Elizabeth Arlington had enough pain without him adding his disapproval to the mix. “As far as any reprimand, let’s just say you will come to me next time…and trust me to support you. And we’ll leave it at that.”

  “Thank you, sir. I will…trust you next time.”

  He forced a tiny smile onto his lips, and he was glad to see she managed one too.

  Elaine Samitch worked feverishly under the harsh portable lights. She was awash in blood, desperately trying to save a young Marine. The kid had been shot to pieces, and she wasn’t sure how he’d even made it to the aid station alive. His suit’s trauma control system had proven its worth and then some.

  He couldn’t have been more than 21 or 22, one of the last wave of new recruits to make it through camp before the fighting on Armstrong had put a stop to Marine training and recruitment. The Corps had been under enormous pressure to replace losses after the brutal battles of the First Imperium War, and the vaunted Marine regimen had been drastically shortened, its vast program of physical and academic training cut to the bone.

  The casualties had always been higher among the newest Marines, a blood tax war exacted from those newest to its horrors. Samitch had seen that since the days of the Third Frontier War. But these latest young Marines had been rushed through training and sent half-ready to the battlefields. Their losses had been nothing short of catastrophic, and there weren’t many left from those last few classes.

  Samitch was in charge of the entire medical team on Columbia. She’d come down with the second wave and set up the main field hospital and two aid stations. She had more people landing with the third wave, and she intended to set up a forward hospital closer to the action, handing off the unit in the LZ to her second-in-command.

  It felt strange to be in charge. She’d spent years as Sarah Linden’s executive officer, but now she was tasked with running the show without her friend and mentor. Sarah was on the hospital ship Boyer, and if fleet rumors had any substance, she was close to breaking the conditioning of the man who was still the only Shadow Legion prisoner taken in the war.

  Anderson-45 had been a senior officer, captured on Armstrong in a freak circumstance, when his suit malfunctioned and failed to execute its kill function. The idea of an army killing its own soldiers rather than risking their capture was just another of the many horrors to spring forth from Gavin Stark’s twisted mind.

  The Marines, who’d been fighting a brutal deathmatch against Anderson-45’s comrades, were shocked to find that their new prisoner seemed to harbor no hatred or bad feelings toward them. Indeed, he’d shown a remarkably unemotional point of view toward the fighting.

  Sarah had been working feverishly since they’d taken the captive, trying to find a way to undo the mental and emotional conditioning that compelled the Shadow Legions to blindly follow their orders. It had been a long and frustrating process, but Sarah had finally made some substantial progress.

  She’d planned to put her work on hold to go down to Columbia and head up the medical operation, but Generals Gilson, Merrick, Heath - all the Marine top brass – tried to convince her to stay at her work. Sarah Linden had led the medical team for every major invasion for 15 years, and she argued vehemently against staying behind. But when Admiral Garret threw his lot in with the Marines, she’d grudgingly given in and turned command over to Samitch.

  She knew they were right in their arguments. If she could finally break through Anderson-45’s conditioning, she might be able to develop a way to make the Shadow Legions stand down en masse. If she was successful, she could end the war almost immediately, without spilling another drop of Marine blood.

  Samitch was sure Sarah would find the answer. Sarah Linden wasn’t just the senior medical officer in the Corps, she was one of the most brilliant doctors of her generation, one who had saved thousands of lives through her tireless efforts. If there was anyone in the Corps who could do the job, it was her. Every Marine officer from Gilson to Samitch agreed on that.

  Samitch knew her own job was to fill Sarah’s enormous shoes, to do whatever it took to save the men and women who were fighting the battles, to patch their broken bodies together and to keep the operation running tirelessly, no matter how long it took or how many wounded Marines came in. She had admired Sarah for years, served under her, learned from her. The two had been friends as long as either could remember, and there was no way Samitch was going to fail – either Sarah Linden or the Marines who needed her.

  She stared down at her bloodsoaked hands, clenched into fists of frustration and anger, and she wanted to scream. The kid on the table was dead.

  “I don’t even know how this is possible, Isaac.” General Catherine Gilson was walking quickly across the muddy, pockmarked ground. “It’s been almost a year and a half since the initial invasion, and you can see how much force the enemy pumped into here.” She was fully armored, but like Merrick, she had her helmet retracted. “How could the native army still be in the field?”

  “It would be a mistake to under-estimate a partisan force, Cate.” Isaac Merrick walked alongside Gilson. Especially one that is well led.

  Merrick had come to the Corps by the strangest of routes. He’d begun as their enemy. Merri
ck was a member of one of Earth’s top Political families, and he’d been a general in the Alliance army, sent to Arcadia during the rebellions to put down the local forces. He’d gotten a taste of just what good men and women fighting for their homes could accomplish, and he never forgot it.

  He’d also come to realize he’d been fighting on the wrong side and, after the rebellions ended, he emigrated to Armstrong where he served as a consultant to the Marines for a while before the Corps recognized his general’s commission and inducted him formally. It was the first and only time someone from a different fighting force had been taken into the ranks.

  “I know, Isaac, but they must have been outnumbered 5-1.” She paused. “No, probably even worse than that. And the difference in equipment and armaments had to be enormous.”

  “Well, I guess we will see.” He gestured ahead to the cluster of armored Marines gathered around two men wearing older, bulkier fighting suits with helmets retracted.

  The two senior officers moved toward the group. Gilson looked at General Heath. “Well, Rod, what have we got here?”

  Heath gestured toward Callahan. “Major Callahan’s people made contact, General.” He took a step back and looked at the two strangers. “General Catherine Gilson, may I present Lieutenants Reginald White and Tony Paine of the Columbia Defense Force.”

  “Gentlemen.” Gilson nodded toward the two Columbians. “I must say, I am surprised to find you still in arms after all this time.”

  Paine spoke first. “General Gilson, I can’t tell you how happy we are to see you. You and all your Marines. It has been a difficult fight, and we sorely need your help.”

  “I suspect you vastly understate what your people have been through, Lieutenant. It is a testament to your endurance and élan that you are still in the fight.”

  White allowed himself a grim smile. “That is General Tyler’s doing. We would have fallen long ago without his leadership.” White’s voice was somber, but his respect for Tyler was clear.

  “Did you retreat to the swamps after the enemy nuked Weston, Lieutenant?” Gilson’s voice was gentle, sympathetic. She suspected most of the surviving Columbians had lost friends and relatives when the capital was destroyed.

  White glanced over at Paine then back to Gilson, a confused expression on his face. “No, General. We fought on for quite some time in our lines south of the city before we retreated into the swamps.” He paused for a few seconds. “And the enemy didn’t nuke Weston.” He glanced at the assembled generals. “We did.”

  “You did?” Merrick spoke first, the shock in his voice relaying what they all felt.

  “Yes, sir. General Tyler ordered the city evacuated when we couldn’t hold it any longer, and we staged a fighting withdrawal while the civilians escaped to the south.” He panned his eyes over the assembled Marines. “When the enemy was moving through the city en masse, General Tyler launched the bombardment. We think we killed as many as 5,000 in that attack.”

  Gilson looked over at Merrick, unable to keep the surprise out of her expression. She turned toward the two guests. “Well, Lieutenants, I can see everything I’ve heard about Columbians was correct.” She turned toward Merrick. “Isaac, take our guests back to headquarters, and have them show you exactly where their people are. I can only imagine if they’ve got the whole population hunkered down in those swamps they must need food and meds. Badly.”

  “Thank you, General.” Paine’s voice betrayed the stress and tension his people had been under. “That would be most helpful.” He glanced at White and nodded. “And weapons too, if it’s not too much trouble, General.” His face hardened. “Because our stocks are almost exhausted, and it’s time to clear these vermin off of Columbia once and for all.”

  “Of course, Lieutenant. Go with General Merrick, and we’ll get you everything we can.” She took a look at Paine and then turned her head toward White. They were both thin and gaunt, their eyes sunken deeply in heavily-lined faces. She could see they had the hearts of lions, but she wondered when they’d had their last decent meal. She looked over at Merrick. “And make sure our guests get something to eat, Isaac.”

  “Yes, General.” Merrick gestured with his arm. “If you gentlemen will accompany me.”

  Gilson watched them walk back toward HQ, but there was only one thought in her mind. She’d heard the stories about Columbia before, about how the people were crazy, how even the children in the street would fight against an invader. She’d never especially believed any of it. Until now. The legends fell far short. The Columbians were 100% certifiably insane. And she loved them for it.

  Chapter 13

  Sector A

  Midtown Protected Zone

  New York City, US Zone, Western Alliance

  Axe smashed the entry plate with a chunk of broken masonry, exposing the mechanism beneath. He’d stopped to rest half a dozen times on the way up, but he was still breathing hard, his neck and back soaked with sweat. He’d stopped counting the flights of stairs less than halfway up, but he knew it had been over 300 to the top.

  He stared at the wiring of the door lock, looking for the override switch. Breaking into apartments was a useful skill for a gang member, one he’d learned years before. It wasn’t terribly difficult, especially since this unit was in a high security building in a section of Manhattan that was normally protected like a fortress. In normal times, he’d have never gotten into Sector A, and certainly not into the building itself. The apartment lock itself wasn’t terribly formidable since no one was supposed to get in the building uninvited.

  He slipped his finger under the catch and pulled. He heard a loud click as the door popped out of the locking mechanism. He stepped in front of the now-unlocked hatch and pressed his hands hard against it, pulling it slowly open.

  He stopped when the door was halfway open, and he slid through the opening, holding his pistol in front of him, ready for any trouble. He was at the top of one of the best buildings in Sector A. He figured he might as well go right for the top. He didn’t want to stay too long. He just wanted to get the best plunder he could in a few hours and get out. Besides, the wealthier and more influential the occupant, the likelier it was they’d been able to get out before the Cogs broke through and began their rampage, and that meant the apartment would probably be deserted. Axe wasn’t looking for trouble. He’d fight if he had to, but he was just as happy to ransack an empty apartment or two.

  He stepped out of the entryway into an expansive room, at least 20 meters long. There were floor-to-ceiling windows along two walls, and they looked out above the Protected Zone and across the Hudson River. The furnishings were the finest Axe had ever seen, massive sofas and chairs covered in silk and other expensive materials.

  One look at the opulent luxury was enough to remind him why the Cogs had burst into the Protected Zone with blood and hatred in their hearts. Axe knew the owners of this apartment hadn’t created anything of value or earned their money through hard work. They’d had the good fortune to be born into a family with strong political influence, and they owed their plush lifestyle to that fact alone.

  Axe felt a surge of anger, a revulsion that this system had gone on for so long. He wondered what had gone through the heads of the Politicos who hadn’t been able to escape, their last thoughts before the despised mobs tore them to pieces in the streets. They’d never had a reason to fear the Cogs, and they’d come to view them as less than human, some sub-species beneath themselves and the others in the Political Class.

  Axe knew he was a deeply flawed man, a killer and a manipulator, but at least he had done the things he’d done to survive, and to drag himself from the hopeless squalor. He hadn’t viewed his victims as being beneath him. His outlook was more feral, a contest for survival that pitted men against each other. He’d lived fairly well as a gang leader, but the luxury he was now witnessing was as alien to him as it would have been to any factory worker from Brooklyn or the Bronx.

  He moved from room to room, gathering every
thing small that looked valuable. He’d found a duffle bag, and he was filling it. He’d stared in wonder at the sack, slowly realizing it was real leather, and that it must have cost more than a Cog worker made in a year.

  He worked his way down a long hall, to what looked like a study or an office. There was a large desk, and he moved over to it, setting the bag down as he tried to force open the locked drawers.

  He looked around the top of the desk, searching for something he could use to pry it open when he heard a sound coming from across the room. His eyes snapped up and he held the pistol in front of him, ready to fire. He stood still, listening.

  He heard the sound again, and he moved toward it. It was coming from behind a small, locked door. He picked up a heavy marble bust and smashed the access plate. He reached his fingers inside and poked around. The override control was the same as the one in the main entrance. He pulled the release, and he heard the latch click, disengaging the lock.

  He gripped the door hard and shoved it to the side, sticking his head through the opening and looking around the room. He caught movement, and his arm snapped up, bringing the pistol to bear. He was ready to shoot, but his eyes focused on the room’s occupant, and he stopped. There was a girl huddled against the wall, cringing, trying to conceal her face and her tears. She couldn’t have been more than 14, maybe 15, and she was covered in bruises and small burns.

  The girl was terrified, curled up in a fetal position in the corner. She was wearing a thin white slip, shivering both from fear and cold. She was thin, almost emaciated, but he could see immediately she was very pretty. His stomach clenched as he realized why she was there, and he felt his body tense with anger.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” He spoke slowly, his tone soft, soothing.