by Mark Iles
“Looks like a handy guy to have around,” Selena replied.
“He is, so make good use of him and bring him back alive. In fact, make sure you bring them all back. You’re getting the very best and we can’t afford to lose any of them. Next is Sergeant Za’an.”
The screen changed to display a swarthy, grey haired, giant of a man, apparently in his late twenties.
“Doesn’t answer to anything except his surname, God knows why. He was born on Byron and brought up in the Domed City in extreme poverty. He and his twin brother graduated from the dregs of the street to extortion and drug peddling, then finally to organ smuggling. Their trouble started when they began grabbing people off the streets and whipping out parts of their anatomy to sell on the local black market. Za’an developed a taste for it, and I mean the word taste; he really enjoyed what he was doing. The man’s a psychopath and bears watching closely.
“He was finally caught and tried for the murder of a policeman, the one responsible for his brother’s death. He also made the officer watch as his children were killed, and his wife raped. Then Za’an cut them all into little pieces in front of the man, before finally killing him too. This guy is plain mean, but he’s also very good at what he does. I’ll give you one word of warning, don’t upset or antagonise him; those that do have a terrible habit of disappearing, not that we’ve ever managed to prove anything. He’s your weapons expert, combat instructor and armament controller. He knows more about killing than any man I’ve ever met, or want to meet.
“Next we have Ensign Samantha Staedler, twenty-four years of age. Just look at her. Most men would give both arms and a leg to have a woman like that, and she uses that knowledge to her advantage. A woman of many devious talents, she was convicted of grand theft five years ago, and is now one of our top communications experts. That’s her position in the team.”
Selena noted the woman’s long brown hair, dark almost-black eyes and the blue-white skin that was so typical of her Gortan race. “You’re right there, Sir. She’s stunning.”
“Watch her, Dillon. During her term of service she’s already been caught and convicted of stealing jewellery from one of our illustrious leaders, and had another ten years added to her sentence — plus ten lashes a month for a year.”
She looked at him quizzically. “That doesn’t seem quite right. Why would she do something as stupid as that, and risk further service or even death? That’s stupid and she doesn’t strike me as that kind of woman.”
The Commodore smiled slightly. “You’re bang on. She was attached to Special Ops and on a top secret mission. The guy she robbed was linked to terrorist organisations and as a result of her actions he couldn’t pay for his goods, which as you can imagine annoyed them somewhat. Naturally they killed him, which saved us the trouble.”
“Then surely she did well, Sir.”
“Not really, the jewels were never recovered.”
“Ah...”
“Like a drink, Dillon?”
“Yes, Sir: a malt whisky if you have one?”
After pouring her drink, and adding ice, the Commodore resumed his seat and passed her glass and a slim pale-blue envelope. Inside were extra pips and the orders for her promotion.
“Cheers, Commander,” he said, raising his own glass.
Just then, his phone chirped and he picked it up. “Van Pluy here, what is it? You know I told you that I wasn’t to be disturbed.” He listened for a moment then put the phone down and stared at it, before gathering himself. Looking over to Selena, he said, “Bad news, New Dallas has fallen. So we’ve now lost some of our main shipyards and all the vessels there, except the few that managed to escape.”
“My God, but Dallas is one of our most heavily defended worlds!”
“You mean it was, but not defended enough, apparently. There were hundreds of enemy ships in the attacking fleet and, as New Dallas was being over-run, their commanding officer used the planet’s self destruct, as per his orders should this ever happen. The only good thing is he took most of the enemy fleet with him.
“I have to go and speak with the Admiralty right away, Dillon, on a conference call. There’s only Pilots Bryn Clayton and Singh Lacey left in your team that we need to discuss. Like all the others they’re the top in their fields, and they hate the Manta with a vengeance. Their briefs are on the desk, read them when you’re ready and I’ll be back as soon as I can. Oh, there’s one other thing you need to know.”
“What’s that, Sir?”
“You mentioned those others, or ForeRunners, that we’ve been looking for all these years. Well, it appears that was us. Research shows that mankind had a galaxy-wide empire once before, an extremely long time ago. Human remains have been found on several worlds but it was kept secret until now because we discovered they were involved in a war then too, and lost it.
“Intelligence suggests that it was the Manta we were at war with then, as well. Somehow our race managed to survive, probably by hiding in distant colonies in a part of the galaxy that the enemy hadn’t explored; which gives us hope that the strategy can be repeated, should it prove necessary. I have to say we’re looking at those options right now. But we can’t take the risk of us losing, Commander. You have to succeed, there’s no other choice.”
Chapter Eight
“I wish they’d turn those bloody speakers off,” Bryn whispered to Singh, the small slim dar-—haired young man sitting next to him. “That racket’s driving me mad.”
“That’s classical music, you heathen; it’s supposed to soothe the mind. Relax. Look around you. This waiting room’s a bit of all right, isn’t it?”
Bryn fidgeted. “Soothe my mind? It’s doing my head in, how much longer are we going to have to wait? I’ve got better things to do.”
“You mean screw,” Singh replied with a smirk. “You’ve had your eyes on that brown-haired bird over there since we got here.”
Bryn reread her name-tag. Ensign Staedler, it declared. “Well, she’s all right, I suppose. At least she has all her own limbs and frankly I could count those knockers all night, but she’s not exactly my cup of tea.” He looked at Singh, “While on that subject, why is it I’ve never seen you with a woman, or a bloke come to that?”
“Choosey, that’s me,” Singh muttered.
A ginger-haired sergeant sat opposite them, reading reports on a portable, with the name Kes Phillips stencilled on his chest. Next to him sat a heavily built thug, who caught Bryn’s eye. He nodded a cautious greeting and both pilots nodded back. Staedler was talking quietly to a small, slim, serious looking individual who looked like he was in his late thirties. He kept pushing his glasses back on his nose with the tip of his right forefinger and Bryn wondered why he’d never had his eyes surgically repaired. Then he recognised the man as Arthur Jones, well known in the field of robotics, in which he and Singh shared a growing interest. Jones’ fragile looking fingers fluttered as he spoke in low monotones to the girl. Just by looking at his physique, Bryn wondered how the man had ever finished training and exactly where they’d found a uniform to fit his thin frame.
Bryn’s gaze returned to the thug opposite, noting the immaculately pressed uniform and the careful cuts in his holster, which would allow a much quicker draw than normal. This guy was obviously a veteran of some experience and could get away with the unorthodox alterations.
“That’s Za’an,” Singh whispered in his ear. “Look at the top of his left leg.”
Bryn did so and saw for the first time the handle of a whip knife protruding from its carefully stitched pouch. The coiled six foot flexible weapon was used at closed quarters and when whipped out the vibrating blade would wrap itself around any limb or chunk of flesh, cutting effortlessly through bone and tissue alike when jerked back. It was a weapon favoured by the criminal underworld, although a few soldiers had also adopted it in preference to the Japanese katana swords which had proven so effective against the enemy at close quarters.
The robosec called them all out
by name, and told them to enter a lift to their right but to leave their weapons behind in the secure arms lockers next to its desk. The lift stopped and opened into a corridor, at the end of which a human secretary and a lieutenant with flag officer’s epaulettes sat waiting. Weapon supported cameras tracked them as they walked up to the pair, who were obviously scanning them from their desk before showing them through to a conference room. The lieutenant told them to help themselves to coffee and to take a seat; the Commodore would only be a moment.
Bryn looked about the room. Apart from a long wooden table, chairs and deep red carpet the room, was empty.
Then the door opened and the Commodore walked in, accompanied by a stunning blonde. Singh hid a grin as he heard Bryn gasp.
“At ease,” the Commodore said. “Please, take a seat. For those of you who don’t know me, the name is Van Pluy, and I’m sector head of intelligence. This is Commander Dillon, your new CO. I take it that you’ve all had the chance to study the chips I sent you, and have destroyed them accordingly?”
As the senior officer looked about the table for acknowledgements, Bryn watched the Commander. She was a beauty, with bumps and curves in all the right places. She moved like a cat and when she sat down she looked at them each in turn, before favouring him with a cool appraising gaze that set his pulse racing.
“Clayton?”
“Sir? Yes, Sir, I’ve read it.”
“Is there something on your mind, Lieutenant?”
“No, Sir; just thinking about those chips.”
“I’m sure. Let’s get back to the present then, shall we?”
Dillon favoured Bryn with a long searching but neutral look as he glanced back at her, before dragging his eyes back to the Commodore as he continued.
“Well, as you’ve all studied the information so well I can get straight down to the point of this meeting. You know now that we’re losing this war and that you’ve been selected for a special mission, one that might make a huge difference by destroying the enemy’s home world. What you don’t know is just how bad things really are, and that mankind’s very survival depends on your success. To put it simply, if you fail, we die, all of us. That’s just the way it is. We estimate that at the maximum mankind has a year, most probably less, before we’re over-run. Things have been going badly and the recent loss of the shipyards will seriously affect our build capacity from now on. We don’t stand much of a chance because we couldn’t replace our shipping losses quickly enough before this recent tragedy, let alone find the trained personnel to man them. Now, does anyone have any questions?”
The silence stretched as he looked at them, one by one.
Bryn saw a glimmer of annoyance in Commander Dillon’s face as she suddenly seemed to realise that she’d been staring at him and that a little knowing smile was playing across his face. Kes Phillips had caught the byplay and was watching them both intently. She quickly covered her annoyance and focused her attention on the Commodore.
Van Pluy flicked a switch and continued speaking. “Having studied the chips you’ll know everything we do about the Pilorum system. As you can see, we’ve named the enemy home world Mantis. It’s protected by five moons, indicated here in green. Each of these will have a squadron of at least five interceptors, probably more; thus allowing them to deploy a large defensive force rapidly. Further out there’s a chain of twenty or so battle stations. Their design leads us to believe that they won’t have any interceptors at all. Now these stations are spread throughout their system, but if you look here you’ll see a cluster of six stations close to one of the asteroid belts. You may ask why they would want to protect one of those God-forsaken places. Well, here’s your answer. We got this photograph from one of the RoboRecons, just before we lost contact with it.”
The screen switched to a picture of an immense alien battle fleet, so numerous and with ships so massive and heavily armed that if it sailed there would be no stopping it. The vessels ranged from the smallest of fighters to moon-sized dreadnaughts, each protected by independent energy shields that flared occasionally as they were hit by space debris.
“Jesus wept!” Singh gasped.
“He would have, if he’d seen this,” Bryn said, with a low whistle. “If they hit us with that lot, we’ve had it.”
Van Pluy cocked his head, selected a new cigar and lit it with a flourish. “It’s not as bad as it seems. Look again, more carefully this time.”
The camera zoomed in and this time they could plainly see that something wasn’t right with the fleet; there was something strange about them. They just lay there, as if cast aside like forgotten children’s toys. Some of the energy shields had obviously failed, for here and there one could see great rents in some of the vessels’ hulls while others were obviously total wrecks. Many of the remainder were holed in numerous places, perhaps by meteor strikes or perhaps even weapon fire. There was an overall impression of great age about the ships, and then they realised that the fleet in front of them was derelict.
The Commodore’s voice dragged their attention from the screen. “We think this is the fleet they used to reach the Pilorum system after the last war, or perhaps it’s the remains of an ancient battle-group that they discarded after they’d won. It’s obvious the Manta were once more numerous and far powerful than they are now. It’s been suggested that they’ve been in some form of hibernation for a long time but something woke them again, perhaps our ships tripped their perimeter alarms. If they manage to regenerate that fleet then we’ve had it. But at the moment you’re looking at a ships’ graveyard, and if you’re churchgoers then you should thank the Lord for it.”
The commodore paused to take a drink of water from a glass in front of him. “Now, the majority of the enemy’s population is concentrated on Mantis itself. If we can destroy that planet then we stand a chance of winning this war, but the main problem is going to be getting into their system; let alone getting past the asteroid belt and those battle stations, and if you get that far then there are the moons to deal with.”
“A piece of cake,” Za’an growled, sarcastically.
“Yea gods,” Singh stared at him in feigned astonishment. “It can speak!”
To Bryn’s surprise, Za’an smiled.
“If we use what little’s left of the fleet to attack,” Bryn said thoughtfully, “it would leave the rest of our worlds undefended. On top of that, the Manta would see us coming and pick us off as we slowed down to manoeuvre. That leaves us with only one alternative, a single powerful and well defended ship. The trouble is we haven’t got any left that fit the bill.”
“You’re close, Lieutenant; but there’s a third alternative,” the Commodore replied. “If they don’t see the ship coming, then they can’t defend against it, can they? Has anyone here ever heard of the Trojan Horse?”
* * * *
The Flag Lieutenant served coffee, along with delicate pastries. As Bryn bit into one, he studied the other members of the team and thought about what the Commodore had said. The idea was to use a hollowed-out asteroid to gain access to the Pilorum system, hidden in the edges of a meteor cloud. The vessel, known as the Dutch Lady, would be filled with planet-buster bombs and all they had to do was crash the ship directly into Mantis. At least they had a snazzy souped-up lifeboat to escape in. Finishing the pastry he wiped his lips with a serviette and took a sip of coffee before looking up, as Commander Dillon said loudly:
“We haven’t a lot of time, people. So after equipment acquaints most of our training will be done during deep-sleep transit. But before we start, I’d like to wish you all good luck. Now, are there any questions?”
When no one spoke and the silence stretched, the Commodore added, “Good, now before you go, I have one final piece of information for you. It appears the alien ships regularly need return to their home world. There are several theories regarding this. Some believe it could be a physiological requirement, but most of our top scientists agree it’s more likely to do with their supply chain. Capture
d alien vessels show there’s been a marked deterioration in the onboard food. It appears the Manta might be unable to grow their crops anywhere apart from on their home world, again we don’t know why. In addition we’ve never seen a supply ship, which leads us to believe their mental set up means they guard what is theirs quite fiercely, and so need to return home to claim what’s theirs. So, if we can destroy their home world and food source it will be game over for them.
“One of our spy and research ships, the Scott, was investigating this food theory when she disappeared with all hands. If she has indeed discovered the reason behind the mystery of their food and the aliens have captured her, and obtain that information, then we could be in big trouble, particularly if the Manta never discovered the reason themselves. It’s a race against time, ladies and gentleman. If the enemy do get that information and can use it before we destroy their world then, quite simply, we’re doomed. It’s game over.
“Now, good luck to you all – you’re dismissed.”
Chapter Nine
In the early hours of the next morning, Selena started them on hard physical training, to ensure that they were at the peak of their condition. It was just like being back in basic training, but with her doing all the shouting. This was followed by updates and familiarisations with the equipment and controls they’d be using on the Dutch Lady. Despite the latest FTL drives, they’d still be in suspended animation for some time. Selena drove them savagely all week, for they all knew that their survival would depend on physical fitness, as it wasn’t uncommon to hear of deaths of the unfit or ill during hibernation.