by Jay Allan
Now, the Senate wants me to just let them land? Form up and get their heavy ordnance deployed so they can sweep us away?
Of course, because they’re thinking of surrender, not of digging in. They’ll just look to see if they can get some guarantees about their own perquisites, see that their own asses are covered, and then they’ll sell out the billions who live here.
Thoughts went through his mind, dark and terrible images of what the savage that lived deep inside Rogan thought should be done to collaborators. He was a disciplined Marines, but he was far from sure he could maintain that posture if he was faced with Megarans aiding the enemy.
“Send a response, Colonel. Advise the Senate that we cannot possibly have received their transmission correctly. We are prepared to resist the enemy invasion at every pass, commencing with the initial landings…which I expect to begin at any moment. I suggest they retreat to their bunkers where they will be safe.” Relatively safe, at least. Rogan doubted ‘safe’ existed anywhere on Megara just then.
“Yes, sir.”
Rogan stared again at the map, trying hard to keep his anger in check. He’d always been one to follow orders scrupulously, and he was keenly aware that the Senate could relieve him of command, even strip him of his rank. But, for the first time in his professional life, Bryan Rogan didn’t care.
He didn’t even come close to giving a shit.
They could make all the pronouncements they wanted to over in the Senate Hall, and they could pass whatever resolutions their fear and their bruised egos demanded.
But, they couldn’t stop Bryan Rogan from fighting the enemy to his last breath.
Alone, if he had to, though he suspected many of his Marines—many of them—would feel the same way.
* * *
“Watch your fuel, Jake…you’re right on the line.”
Stockton shook his head, trying to shake off the annoyance he felt at Stara’s constant reminders and advice. He’d made emergency landings before, probably more than any pilot in the fleet. He damned well knew he was almost out of fuel. Why the hell did she think it served any purpose to remind him yet again?
He didn’t want to vent back at her, to release some of the tension he felt, in her direction. She was just scared. No, not just scared. She was worried to death about him. He appreciated that, but, he was scared too, and just as worried about himself. He was coming in low on everything, and, to be honest, he had no idea what was keeping his engine output going, because as much as he could read from his instruments, his tanks were bone dry. All she was doing was focusing his attention on things he couldn’t affect.
“I’ve got this, Stara. Just sit tight and make sure you get this all on vid. They’ll want this one at the Academy to show the newbs how it’s done.” He knew Stara would see through his bravado, even though he’d done a masterful job—if he did say so himself—of sounding serenely confident. He also suspected it would irritate the hell out of her, but any way he could distract her now was worthwhile. He told himself he’d manage to pull off the landing, mostly because he always had before, but just in case he lost it this time, anything that could distract her from staring at the scanners as he came in—from watching him die—was worth the effort.
Whatever happened, he had one bit of satisfaction, and it warmed his otherwise cold and shivered insides. He’d gotten all seven of his pilots through the transit point, and onto Dauntless’s flight deck. He hadn’t really believed he could pull it off, and he smiled just a bit as he thought of his people safe.
Or whatever passes for safe these days.
Getting seven damaged ships through the transit point had been a tough enough prospect, and he was sure his comrades would carry some nightmares with them from the experiences. His own hallucinations had been worse than those during any of his last transits, and, if he made it into Dauntless’s bay in one piece, he suspected he’d wake up screaming more than one night in the future.
Still, getting seven other pilots through, and all of them into the bay, was a major victory, whatever happened to him. He hadn’t tried to calculate the odds on getting everyone through, and while he was sure Stara had at least taken a stab at it, she’d so far taken enough mercy on him not to share the results.
He looked straight ahead as Dauntless loomed before his ship. He was coming in too fast, and he blasted his thrusters, cutting his velocity down. Miraculously, at least to his perception, the engines responded, still drawing fuel from somewhere.
He released the throttle. He was still moving faster than he liked, but whatever was left in those tanks, or most likely, just residue in the fuel lines, he was going to need it as he entered the bay. If he came in a little too hard, well, he could survive that as long as his entry angle was on line.
He’d done it before.
He counted down to himself, eyes darting back and forth from the range display to the forward screen. He’d flipped off most of his extraneous systems, anything to save a drop or two of fuel.
His view of space was gone, replaced by Dauntless’s looming hull. Tyler Barron had held the battleship, his flagship, back while the rest of the fleet continued its retreat. It was daring, even reckless, and if the enemy had pushed through the point in any force at all, Stockton’s landing would be irrelevant. He’d be as good as dead in the landing bay as he would be in space.
But the Hegemony forces hadn’t pursued. There were reasons for that, Stockton knew. The battle had been hard on them as well, and they were no doubt exhausted, and overwhelmed with damaged ships in need of repair. They also possessed the Confederation’s capital system, a great victory by any measure, and no doubt they were focused on gaining control of Megara itself.
They will come, though. Soon.
The thoughts of the enemy blanked out, as his ship moved toward the opening in Dauntless’s hull leading to the landing bay. He was still coming in too fast, but he didn’t dare feed any fuel to the engines. Not yet. It would be enough of a miracle if he had what he needed. He would wait until the last instant.
The ship streaked into the bay itself, and Stockton immediately saw Lightnings, battered, scorched from combat, lined up anywhere there was space. He had no idea how many ships Barron had taken onto Dauntless, but he guessed it was over a hundred.
Significantly over.
He was maybe three meters over the deck, with about two hundred meters in front of him before the looming bulkhead. It was time. If he had enough fuel, he just might make it.
If not…well, he could see the fire containment teams already deployed. Barron had waited for him, taken great risks to give him a chance. He couldn’t take offense at the admiral putting some precautions in place.
He flipped the breaking control, an almost instinctive move…and the positioning jets fired. His body lurched forward—hard—and a wave of pain took him across his chest, and in his neck.
He writhed for a few seconds, unsure what had happened. Was he badly hurt? Dead?
Then, he realized. His ship was still, sitting on the deck about five meters from the bulkhead.
And, while his body hurt like hell, he could move all his appendages, and he could breath, if with a bit of mild distress.
He’d made it.
Somehow.
* * *
Bryan Rogan looked up at the cold dawn sky. He couldn’t see anything, not yet at least, but there was no mistaking the scanner data. The landings had begun.
It wasn’t Rogan’s problem anymore, at least not in an official capacity. He’d listened to the transmission himself as, he suspected, half the Marines on the planet had. He was relieved of command, and under arrest. He was to surrender to the nearest Marine authorities pending later action by the Senate.
He was amazed at the politicians’ timing. Now was the time…the time to hurt the enemy, to make them pay a price. And, the Confederation Senate itself had virtually paralyzed the entire defensive operation. As far as he’d been able to tell, they hadn’t even appointed a replacement yet
.
He turned and looked at Prentice. The colonel had been silent since the Senate’s orders had arrived, but now he stared at Rogan and said, “To hell with the Senate, Bryan.” It was the first time he’d used Rogan’s first name and not his rank. “I’m with you, and I’d bet my last credit most of the Marines are. Tell the politicians to drop dead. We’ve got a world to defend, a battle to fight…and we can’t do it without our leader.”
Rogan resisted his aide’s urgings, as he did those coming from within himself. He would fight, of course, there was no authority that could command him to surrender himself, and he suspected many of the Marines would feel the same way. Still, they’d be disorganized, scattered, with no real way of making a difference.
Can I do this? Will they even listen to me?
The obedient Marine inside him was giving way, even as he stood there, replaced with raw defiance, patriotism. Suddenly, he knew what he had to do.
“Get me a forcewide line, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir!” Prentice’s enthusiasm was nearly uncontainable. He worked his hands over the portable unit, and then he just nodded to Rogan, gesturing toward the general’s headset.
“All Marines on Megara. All defensive forces, whatever affiliation, this is General Bryan Rogan. I am—was—the commander of all defensive forces, but I have been relieved because of my refusal to stand our defenses down, to facilitate the craven and cowardly surrender the Senate is currently negotiating.”
Each word pushed strength into him, and anger. He damned well wasn’t going to give up, and he’d lead any man or woman who would follow him into battle. He would fight until the enemy put him down…if they could.
“I call on all of you now to stand with me, to fight the enemy, to defy calls for surrender. I warn you all, those who stay with me risk court martial, or worse. Rallying to my cause will be called mutiny, even treason…but I ask you all to decide the true meaning of duty, of patriotism. Is it surrendering, putting down our arms so our leaders can preserve some portion of their status? Or, is it fighting with our last breaths to preserve all we hold dear, everything we care about? I am a Marine, and I will die as one…and today, if need be. But, I will never surrender!”
He shut down the line and turned toward Prentice. “We’ll see what happens now.”
“I’m with you, General, all the way. And, after that speech, I don’t want to even look at the Marine who isn’t.”
“Well, Dan…let’s see how we did. We’ll start with the missile bases, and see how convincing I was to them. We’ve got landers inbound, and I’d damned sure like to shoot some of them down before they reach the surface.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Hegemony Headquarters
Port Royal City
Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 317 AC
Shouting, crashing, the sounds of gunfire all around.
Blanth pushed hard, shoving the bulk of the Kriegeri trooper off of him. The last minute or so had been a hazy mess, and he was still trying to remember it all. There had been a fight for the Kriegeri’s gun…and he’d lost that, his hand slipping off, just as the two landed on the ground.
Some kind of instinct had taken hold of him, guided his hand to the large combat knife hanging from the man’s belt, even as he heard the loud crack.
As he felt the strange feeling, more pressure than pain. It took a few seconds for him to realize he’d been shot, and in that time, he’d somehow managed to grab his enemy’s blade…and drive it up under the trooper’s armor plate.
He hadn’t been sure how badly his opponent had been wounded, but the trooper’s body hit the ground with a dense thud, and he remained stationary. Blanth turned to the side, tried to pull himself up, but he didn’t have the strength. As he looked down, he could see his shirt was covered in blood.
He lay back on the floor, gasping for breath, trying to gather the strength for another attempt to get up. The noise all around was getting louder, and the gunfire closer.
It was Holcott and the Marines. It had to be. They were launching a decapitation strike.
He felt a moment of excitement, but it quickly faded. An assault into the city was almost certainly an act of pure desperation, one with almost no chance of succeeding. It was a signal he couldn’t deny. The resistance was finished. It was expending its last flash of energy, even as he lay on the cold floor listening to it all.
He’d expected one of the Kriegeri to come over and finish him, but the seconds turned into minutes, and still, he lay where he was, ignored, as the shouting grew louder and more urgent, and the gunfire drew ever close.
Is it possible? Can they really do it?
He sucked in a deep breath, wincing at the pain it caused. Then he gritted his teeth and tried one last time to push himself up.
He didn’t know if his Marines had a chance, but he knew they needed him in the fight.
* * *
Luther Holcott pushed himself forward, whipping around the stairs and angling his rifle upward, hosing down the landing above and catching one of the Kriegeri in the deadly blast. The Hegemony soldiers were fearsome adversaries, as Holcott knew from bitter experience, but the attack had taken them by surprise, and they were pulling back, upwards into the building.
The enhanced soldier dropped where he was standing, and a quick glance confirmed he was dead. Holcott didn’t waste any time, and he continued to race up the stairs, his Marines right behind him as he did. There was no time to waste. Whatever edge his people had gained by the pure, unfiltered daring of their desperate attack, it wouldn’t last. Half the troops stationed in the city were almost certainly already on the way, and that meant his Marines had only minutes left.
At best.
He leapt up another fight, gesturing to the side and snapping out orders as he did. Five Marines burst through the door and onto the fourth level, as they had on each that had come before. Holcott and the rest of his people continued upstairs. He had no real reason to believe the real brass would be at the top, but it seemed the likeliest place to look. His people couldn’t take the whole building, or, at least, they couldn’t hold it. But, they just might manage to scrag a few Masters, and shake up the occupiers. There was nothing they could do anymore to save Dannith, or to drive the invaders away, but Holcott would damned sure prefer to die on the attack than he would crawling around in some hole somewhere, hiding in the mud like a scared rodent.
He ducked back around the corner, an instinctive reaction more than one based on conscious thought or processed vision. His gut was right, though, and the area just ahead was blasted with enemy fire. At least three or four Kriegeri, he guessed, and they were firing on full auto.
The top commanders are up there. The enemy troopers were on the top floor, and they certainly seemed to be desperately trying to hold the line at the stairwell. He turned toward the Marine behind him, reaching out. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His Marine knew what he wanted…and she handed him the small sphere.
It was an explosive, somewhat homemade, assembled from what few supplies remained, and he’d hoped to use it when he found something like a control room. But, his people weren’t getting any farther unless they could clear that top landing.
He didn’t hesitate, didn’t even think about it. He just set the bomb for a five second delay, and then he leaned forward, and threw it up the last half-flight of stairs as hard as he could.
He ducked back, and the makeshift grenade exploded, sending chunks of debris flying all around. But, he didn’t wait to see what damage had been done, or even if the top of the stairs was clear. He just raced forward, climbing up as quickly as he could, and firing as he did.
* * *
Carmetia was snapping out orders, even as she fired into the swarming mass, her perfect vision quickly picking out the resistance fighters from the Kriegeri. She’d put down four already, even as she’d sent out the call for reinforcements and directed the defense all around her.
Develia
was fighting, too, and she was also giving out orders. Carmetia was upset with her comrade, annoyed that a highly rated Master had done such a poor job of bringing an end to the last of the resistance. The fact that the few survivors of the Dannith defenses, a ragtag group of Marines low on weapons, ammunition, and probably even food, had managed to mount what was clearly a decapitation strike—and one that might still succeed—did nothing to alleviate her anger. She was a firm believer in the genetic rating system, but she’d long been concerned that too many Masters claimed rank by virtue of their birth and their genes, while they lacked the experience to do their jobs effectively.
Develia would be lucky to be directing a colony of Defekt miners on some radioactive moon, though, when this was all through.
Assuming any of us make it out of here.
She turned her head, remembering Blanth suddenly, glancing back to the chair where’d he’d been sitting. It was gone, splintered into a hundred pieces, and there was no hint of the Marine. Had he gotten caught in the crossfire? Or, had he escaped, jumped into the melee? She’d come to respect Blanth, and even like him after a fashion, but she didn’t doubt he would join his warriors given the slightest chance.
A chance like the one he just got…
She spun back around. She was worried about the Marine, about what he might do…even that he might get himself killed. But, there was no time to look for him now. She had two thousand Kriegeri on their way, but none of that would matter if her people couldn’t win the fight there, or at least hold out for a while longer.
She turned again, scanning the room one more time for targets.
