The Fall: Crimson Worlds IX

by Jay Allan

  Sarah struggled to stay focused through the fatigue. “Well, I haven’t had time to examine her. It was actually one of my staff who stabilized her and treated the gunshot wounds.” Garret’s Marine guard had shot Rourke four times, but none of the bullets had hit vital organs. A fully-equipped Marine’s assault rifle would have torn her body to shreds, but Garret’s guard had been unarmored, and he carried a small carbine for shipboard use.

  Sarah took a weary breath. “But if I was pressed to take a wild guess, I would say Gavin Stark is behind this somehow. He is fond of using all sorts of experimental conditioning techniques, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d been acting under some compulsion she couldn’t control.” She paused, glancing again at Rourke’s still form. “I’d say there is a good chance this was an assassination attempt by Stark and that Tara Rourke was a pawn, as much a victim in this as Augustus himself.”

  Harmon nodded. The whole thing sounded insane…until you considered the players. Then it made perfect sense.

  “I will examine her now, but I would also suggest you run a check on where she has been the last few years. Leaves, detached missions, hospitalizations…anything. Stark would have had to get his hands on her to implant conditioning this powerful, so see if there has been any time when you can’t confirm her whereabouts.”

  “I’ll take care of that right now, Sarah.” She turned to leave but stopped and look back over her shoulder. “And, again, thank you. We’ve all lost so much, so many of us gone. If we’d lost Augustus too, I don’t know if the fleet could have survived it. Everyone has a breaking point.”

  Sarah just smiled. She knew Harmon was talking about herself as much as anyone in the fleet.

  Chapter 28

  Stealth Ship Spectre

  Asteroid Belt, Sol System

  Cain leapt out from behind the crate, his good arm slipping around his victim’s neck. He felt a wave of pain from his stricken shoulder despite his efforts to use only his right side. His muscular arm tightened like a vise, and he twisted, breaking the man’s neck in a single quick motion.

  He let the body drop slowly to the ground, looking around, making sure he was alone. He wondered for an instant if he could have incapacitated the man instead of killing him, but he quickly put it out of his mind. He wasn’t going to take any chances. Unconscious men woke up. Bound men escaped their bonds. But dead men were reliable. They stayed dead.

  Besides, he thought, Stark’s crews were made up of scum and criminals, men and women who’d signed on to serve the psychopathic bastard. The Shadow Legion clones might be victims, slaves created to serve their evil master, but the spaceship crews had joined of their own free will. Cain had only one thought on that. Fuck them all.

  He searched the man, finding a key card and shoving it in his pocket. The dead man had no weapons, and Cain hadn’t been able to find any in the hold. He’d have to make do. At least any Shadow Legion guards he ran into on the ship would be unarmored.

  He stepped up to the door, sliding his hand over the plate. It slid open, revealing a doublewide corridor. There was a lift at the far end, and a ladder next to it, leading both down and up.

  Cain hurried down the hallway, stepping as softly as he could and listening for any sounds. There was a faint hum, the type of noise common on spaceships, but he didn’t hear any footsteps. He reached out and grabbed the ladder, climbing down, quickly and quietly, to the lower level.

  The humming was louder, and he walked toward its source. He knew the engineering spaces would be at the base of the ship, and he intended to disable the ship. He was determined to kill Stark, but if he failed…if he died in the attempt, he could give his comrades another chance to prevent their enemy from escaping.

  He heard voices ahead, at least two different ones. They were having a discussion, but they didn’t sound alarmed, so he figured no one knew he was there yet. He rubbed his hand along his waist, wishing he had a pistol or even a knife, but wishing didn’t accomplish anything. He’d do this with what he had, even if that was only his bare hands.

  He crept down the hallway, slowly, cautiously, remembering to keep guard behind him as he did. One Shadow Legions soldier coming down the ladder could end his quest for vengeance in an instant.

  He ran his hand over the door plate, but nothing happened. “It’s locked,” he muttered to himself, his voice thick with frustration. Then he remembered the keycard he’d taken in the cargo hold. He pulled it out and put it into the slot. The door slid open, and he stepped inside, turning his head quickly, getting a comprehensive view of the room.

  It was small, even by the tight standards of spaceship architecture. The reactor was to the side, behind a shield of reinforced polycarbonate. It was a compact design, and the core was no more than two meters in diameter. The engines were directly to the rear, two small units, with access panels for maintenance and repair. The room itself was no more than five meters square, and there were two crewman standing in the middle. They’d been speaking to each other, but they turned when Cain walked in.

  “Who are you?” One of the engineers turned and walked up to Cain. He had a suspicious look on his face, but he wasn’t overtly hostile.

  “I’m Simon. Alex Simon.” Cain took a few slow steps, trying to get within striking distance without arousing suspicion.

  “I don’t know any Alex Simon.” The engineer looked at his partner then shot his eyes back to Cain. “Stay where you are. I’m going to call the bridge.”

  Cain sprang like a tiger. He was on the first man in an instant, driving his fist under his adversary’s ribcage with every bit of strength his muscular body could produce. The engineer doubled over and vomited up a spray of blood, falling to the ground, his eyes wide open, fixed, staring at the ceiling.

  Cain knew his victim was dead, and he moved immediately toward the second man. His shoulder was wracked with pain, but he ignored it, swinging his leg around, taking the technician in the head with a powerful roundhouse kick. Marines fought most of their battles in powered armor, but their comprehensive training program taught them how to kill using whatever was available. Erik Cain was a deadly combatant, even with nothing more than his hands and feet.

  The tech fell back, his head snapping around grotesquely on his broken neck. Cain rushed over, confirming he was dead and searching him for anything useful. Neither of the dead men had any weapons, but he grabbed their keycards and shoved them in his pocket with the first one.

  He ran over to the control panel, sitting at one of the workstations. He looked at it for a few seconds, but he didn’t touch it. Without any passwords it was too risky to mess around with the computer system. He looked around the room, trying to find something, anything he could use to scrag the reactor. He knew he was short on time. The crew might not monitor the surveillance system on a constant basis, but sooner or later someone would see the bodies in engineering or try and contact the two dead technicians.

  Nothing. There was nothing useful. If he’d had his armor he might have accomplished something, but he couldn’t think of a way to disable the ship, not with what he had.

  “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath as he moved back toward the door, tapping the plate and opening the hatch.

  “You! Stay where you are.” The voice came from the end of the hall, and Cain reacted instantly. He leapt back into the room just as the guard charged down the hallway, opening fire as he did.

  Cain felt a sharp pain in his leg, and he looked down as he combat rolled back into a standing position. The burst of fire had caught him in the leg. It was just a flesh wound, but it hurt like hell.

  He ran over to the side wall, moving around toward the door. The hatch had closed again, but he knew the guard would open it and come in firing any second. Worse, the whole ship would know there was an intruder aboard.

  He pressed himself up against the wall, right next to the hatch as it slid open again. He was ready, focused, adrenalin coursing through his veins. It was time to kill again. Or be killed.<
br />
  “Scan again. Look for energy leakage, a particle trail. Anything. But find that ship.” Mondragon barked into the com, his voice angry, demanding. He had a whole squadron out looking for Stark’s ship, but they hadn’t found a thing. One minute it had been right there on their plots and the next it was gone. And that wasn’t an answer he was about to accept. Not with Gavin Stark on the verge of escaping. Not with Erik Cain on that ship on his own.

  His flagship was between his searching squadron and the rest of the fleet positioned around the enemy asteroid. The ships near the base were landing Marines, sending the help Teller and the other survivors of Cain’s team needed. With any luck, they’d secure the facility and get Teller’s people out of there before they were overrun. But Cain was a different story. By all accounts he was alone, trapped on Stark’s ship, and his own fleet couldn’t even find the damned thing. If they didn’t manage to detect it soon, it would be gone. And as good as Erik Cain was, Mondragon didn’t think he could take on Stark’s whole ship by himself. Not and live to tell the tale.

  “Admiral Mondragon, Captain Frieden reports that the Marines have landed, and they are moving into the facility.” The communications officer was reading the incoming message aloud. “General Teller’s people are still holding the control center, sir.”

  “Very well.” Mondragon nodded perfunctorily. That was good news, but the prospect of losing Stark was weighing on his mind.

  He turned back and stared toward the com station. “Any updates on the scanning sweeps?” It had been less than five minutes since he’d asked.

  “No, sir.” The com officer’s voice was somber, all traces of his elation at the Marine landing gone. “There is no sign of it, sir. It’s just gone.”

  Mondragon felt his fists clench in frustration. He stared at the screen, his thoughts a blur as he began to realize Stark was going to escape again. He wanted to scream, but he held onto his self-control. It wasn’t over yet. There was still hope.

  “Keep scanning, full power.”

  Teller heard the sound of combat outside the door. He and his companions had barricaded the entrance to the control room, ready to fight it out to the end if that’s where things led. They had no idea how many of Stark’s soldiers were still on the station, but they knew how many they’d killed, and they figured there couldn’t be too many left. Enough to wipe them out certainly, but they’d resolved to hold the control room until the reinforcements arrived.

  Now it sounded like relief was at hand. He ran back to the command chair – Stark’s chair, he reminded himself – and tapped the com unit. “This is General James Teller, calling any Marine forces on this base. Please respond.” He stared back at the unit, almost willing someone to answer.

  “General Teller, this is Major Stanford Winston.” Teller could hear the sounds of battle coming through the major’s com. “We are almost to your location, sir.”

  A broad smile erupted on Teller’s face. “Understood, Major.” He turned toward the other three Marines trapped with him and nodded. “We are looking forward to your arrival.

  “James, there’s something wrong with this readout.” Breyer was sitting at one of the workstations, eyeing the screen as he kept watch over the bound prisoners of Stark’s staff.

  Teller walked over. “What is it?” He leaned over Breyer’s shoulder, taking a look for himself.

  “I don’t know, sir. Some kind of power spike.” He stared back at Teller. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  Teller turned toward the cluster of prisoners. “What is this?” He reached over and pulled up one of the captives with his armored hand, dragging him to the station.

  The officer was defiant at first, but Teller squeezed his shoulder until he let out a yell and looked at the workstation. He stared for a few seconds and gasped. “The reactor is building an overload.” His voice was shrill, surprised.

  “What would cause that?” Teller turned the man around to face his armored form. His blade slid out of the sheath on his arm. “I want an answer. Now.”

  The quivering man could hardly speak, torn between fear of Stark and now the newer terror of this deadly Marine holding a molecular blade a centimeter from his neck. But most of all it was what he’d seen on the screen. “I don’t know what is causing it, but this station’s going to be blown apart if we don’t stop it.”

  “How long?” Teller’s voice was harsh, demanding. “I said how long?” He tightened his hand, squeezing the man’s shoulder until he cried out.

  “I don’t know. Fifteen minutes. Maybe less.”

  “Can you stop it?” Teller loosened his grip slightly.

  “I don’t know.” The man’s voice was heavy with fear.

  Teller motioned for Breyer to get up. “Well sit down there and try.” Teller dropped the man in place. “And don’t do anything stupid, or I’ll pull your head off like a bug’s.”

  The room shook with a sudden explosion, and the wreckage of the door fell to the sides. Half a dozen fully-armored Marines ran into the room, weapons ready.

  “Major Winston reporting, General. The station is secured.”

  Teller turned toward the new arrivals. “Well done, General.” He glanced back toward Stark’s terrified officer, motioning for him to get to work. “I’m afraid we have another problem, however.”

  The hatch opened, but the enemy guard didn’t enter. Cain stood still, holding his breath, not making a sound. The seconds passed by until his eye caught the shadow of his adversary, moving slowly forward. Cain watched and tensed his body, ready to strike.

  He could hear his enemy’s breath, see the shadow on the floor moving slowly, cautiously. He took a deep breath, feeling the tension in his legs, his arms. Then he sprung around, hitting the guard in the stomach with his foot.

  The man doubled over, falling forward to the ground and dropping his pistol. Cain swung around behind his victim, driving his knee into the guard’s back and reaching his arm around his opponent’s neck. He pulled back hard, clamping on his enemy’s throat, choking him.

  Cain’s shoulder was on fire, and he could feel the blood pouring down his arm as his dressings tore and his wound opened again. But he held firm, his grip like a deadly vice, draining the life from his adversary. He could feel the thrashing slow and then stop, and he gradually loosened his hands. He closed his elbow around his victim’s neck and twisted hard, the sickening snap his insurance that his enemy was dead.

  He scrambled around, reaching out and grabbing the gun laying on the ground a meter away. He shook his head, trying to push the pain out of his mind as he hauled the body over and searched for anything useful. He found two spare clips for the pistol, and he was about to search the man’s utility pockets when he heard boots climbing down the ladder in the hall.

  Time wasn’t on his side. He was bleeding and losing strength, and the ship was alerted to his presence. He had to finish this now.

  He took as deep a breath as he could and gripped the pistol hard in his hand. It’s time, he thought. It’s finally time. He jumped up and ran through the door, firing at the descending guard as he did.

  He saw the man lose his footing and fall to the deck, trailing blood behind him. Cain finished him with two shots to the head and threw himself against the wall next to the ladder, staring up cautiously.

  He thought of Sarah, and he wondered if the image of her in his mind would be his last. He felt the ache, the terrible pain of realizing he would never see her again, never feel her soft hair in his hands. He only allowed himself an instant of remembrance, but no more before he pushed her back into his memories and focused on the matter at hand. After all these years of combat, of brutal fights all across occupied space…all the thousands dead, friends lost…he could feel it in his gut. He was about to enter his final battle.

  Chapter 29

  Outskirts of Paris

  French Zone

  Europa Federalis

  Warren’s command car raced down the blasted streets east of Paris, swerving a
round the gaping shellholes and piles of shattered rubble. He still couldn’t believe the last message, and its meaning had only partially sunken in.

  It had been a special top level communique, and the coded message it carried was one he’d never expected to hear. Black Zero. The CEL’s code for an imminent full scale strategic nuclear attack. Armageddon.

  He’d frozen in place when he first got the message. Then he’d resolved to stay where he was and die in his headquarters, surrounded by his men. All that had taken perhaps 30 seconds. Then his officers had grabbed him and forced him into the truck. He was the hero of the CEL, revered by the men he had led to victory, and they intended to save him anyway they could.

  The truck screeched to a halt, and a cluster of soldiers pulled open the doors. “Please, sir, there isn’t much time.”

  Werner stepped down from the truck, half under his own power and half dragged by his men. They pushed him forward to a waiting chopper. It was one of the few aircraft left on the western front - in the whole CEL, in fact – and they’d commandeered it to get their commander to safety. Or whatever would pass for safety in the post-apocalyptic world that was coming for them all.

  Werner turned and stared back at his men, still arguing he intended to stay with them, but they pushed him onboard and slammed the doors shut. He looked out, and his eyes caught Potsdorf, standing in the middle of the cluster of officers, staring up toward the chopper. He caught Werner’s stare, and he stood firm and saluted the general one last time, just as the aircraft lifted off.

  “No, go back.” He stared up toward the cockpit, but the pilot didn’t move.

  “I’m sorry, General, but we have to get you to safety. There is no time.”

  “I don’t want to be separated from my men.” Werner’s voice was hoarse, ragged. He stared down through the window to the cluster of soldiers gathered together, watching the chopper hurry away. They were all doomed, and they knew it. Paris would be targeted by multiple city-killers, warheads with yields of 20-100 megatons. Werner’s officers were less than 8 kilometers from the city’s center, still in the 95% kill zone.