They were aboard dropships and airborne in less than an hour. Hargrave had the Hussars in orbit patch him directly through to Colonel Gries, and he informed the commander of Triple T that Jim and his company was coming to drop in behind the wolves. Gries didn’t acknowledge the transmission.
“What’s that mean?” Jim asked Hargrave as the dropship climbed away from Redoubt in the Crystal Mountains.
“Can’t be comms failures,” Hargrave said. “His XO was just talking to me.”
Jim considered for a second as the Phoenix dropship’s engines screamed, lifting them up to 10,000 meters before angling westward. “Ask the Hussars TacCom for a detailed feed in and around Graball.”
“Coming in on your computer,” Hargrave said less than a minute later.
Jim watched his combat computer assemble the data and cursed out loud this time. “Crazy son of a bitch just attacked straight at the center of the Besquith lines.”
“He’s taking major losses,” Buddha said, also seeing the same data. “Why didn’t he wait?”
“Because he’s letting his pride override his tactical common sense,” Hargrave said.
As the dropships flew westward, Jim watched the remainder of one entire battalion of CASPers race through the gap they’d created and advance up the Coastal Road at high speed. Behind them, the Besquith closed ranks once more and no other units were able to get through. Jim scowled. “Get me Colonel Gries.”
“What do you want?” Gries voice came a minute later, the sounds of his CASPer audible over the radio.
“Colonel, stop your advance and hold, something is wrong,” Jim said.
“The only thing wrong is we did it without you, Cavalier,” Gries said, the scorn evident in his voice.
“They let you though,” Jim persisted.
“Bullshit.”
“Listen to him, Shane,” Hargrave urged.
“We paid a fair price for that breakout,” Gries insisted. “Once we’re a couple dozen klicks toward West Trace, I’ll come around and engage the Besquith from behind.”
Jim checked the orbital feed once more. There was no sign of pursuit from the Besquith. It had to be some kind of ambush. “I’m telling you, Colonel Gries, stop now and hold for our arrival.” Jim looked at the camera feed from the dropship he was flying in. The coast was visible in the distance as they flew at more than three times the speed of sound. Data on their flightpath was included in the feed. “Our ETA is seven minutes.”
“We’ve got this in hand,” Gries insisted.
Jim’s dropship raced on with the rest of the flight. He ground his teeth, willing them to hurry. The minutes creeped by until only four remained.
“Dropping to subsonic,” the pilot told him.
“Roger that,” Jim replied. The tactical feed showed the battalion of Triple T now ten kilometers north of Graball and stopping, apparently preparing to come around. The Besquith hadn’t moved. “Colonel Gries, we’ll be on the ground in a couple minutes.”
“I’ve already said we don’t need you, go assist the South Africans or the Scots.”
The orbital data from the Winged Hussars suddenly flashed a warning. One or more missiles had launched from Johnstown. “Colonel, you have inbound ordnance!” Jim warned.
“We know,” was Gries’ curt reply, “I have anti-air ready to—”
The transmission cut off with a squeal and Jim gasped. The forward view from the dropship’s camera turned to static. What the fuck? he wondered. A second later the image returned. A mushroom cloud centered over the last position of Colonel Greis’ unit was climbing into the sky.
* * *
CIC, EMS Franklin Buchanan, Emergence Point, Paradise System
“Welcome to Paradise!” the navigator said. He chuckled. “I always wanted to say that.”
“Less jokes,” the captain, Lieutenant Commander Eshek, said. A Sidar, he wasn’t known for his sense of humor. “More work. Launch drones. Let us find out what our adversaries are doing.”
Nigel Shirazi looked at the tan planet on the main Tri-V screen and smiled. “That planet reminds me of New Persia.”
“If New Persia is a desert world,” the captain replied, “then, yes, it should.”
“It is,” Nigel said with a nod.
“Well then, you can have it,” the captain said. “I don’t like them. The sand gets into places it shouldn’t and rubs me something fierce.”
“Happily, I’ll be the one going down there then, if needed,” Nigel said. “Desert planets are great.” He made a motion of shooting a pistol. “There’s nothing to get in the way of your shot.”
“Contact!” the sensor operator said. “There are Merc Guild forces in orbit over the planet.”
“Type and number?” the captain asked.
“Looks like three cruisers, sir, plus a number of supporting ships. Including what looks like three transports.”
“Understood,” the captain replied. “See if you can make contact with the civilian government and get a status update. On the speakers, please.”
“This is Meredith McGee,” a voice said. “I am the mayor of Underdeep. Do I have you to thank for the cessation of bombing?”
“This is Captain Eshek of the EMS Franklin Buchanan. We just arrived at the emergence point, so I doubt if it’s anything we did.”
“Well, any assistance you can provide would be greatly appreciated. I have ships in orbit bombing us and bugs in my tunnels.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Nigel said. “This is Colonel Nigel Shirazi of Asbaran Solutions. What kind of bug problem do you have?”
“I haven’t been down there, but Colonel Walker says he’s, and I quote, ‘Up to his ass in Goka.’”
“Colonel Walker?” Nigel asked. “Colonel Dan Walker?”
“Yes,” the mayor replied. “Why?”
Nigel turned to the captain. “Two things. First, Walker was with the Arion when it was chasing down the Keesius. How the hell did he get here, and where the hell is the Arion? Second, and more importantly, Walker saved my ass from a Goka attack in the Merc Guild headquarters, and he hates those things. We need to get there and help him, right now!”
“Full speed ahead,” the captain ordered. “Mayor, we are on our way.”
“Can you take the ships in orbit?” Nigel asked.
“They have three cruisers,” the captain said. “In addition to the battlecruiser Buchanan, I have four Crown-class cruisers, two light cruisers, and six frigates. My guess is that they will run, but if they want to stay and play, it will be their end.” The captain chuckled. “You will want to get your troops assembled; we will be there soon.”
Nigel spared one more glance at the front Tri-V screen. “I’d much rather kill aliens and get paid,” he said, “but if they’re putting my friend in danger, today, I’ll be happy to do it for free.”
* * *
Winged Hussars Prime Base, New Warsaw Star System
Sato spent the next week settling into his new forced seclusion. Most of his interactions were with various marines and occasionally HST, Home Security Team, members. He had full access to the various Hussars networks, both civilian, as a member of the Winged Hussars family, and military, via his rank as a member of the elite Geek Squad. With those accesses, he knew work within New Warsaw continued at a fevered pace.
Elements of the Golden Horde were furiously working to finish a decades’ long defensive project in and around Prime Base. The ancient station dated back to the great galactic war more than 20,000 years ago and was truly massive. The Winged Hussars had been working to activate old defenses and install new ones, while devising the best way to use both should the secret base ever be discovered.
Food was produced in a number of greenhouses in the little-used areas of Prime Base. However, production of food in space was problematic and limited to mass growing of algae and some small crustaceans used in space operations rations. Most of the “regular” food was grown down on the planet they simply called Home. It was a dark plan
et because New Warsaw’s sun was an ancient red giant that provided substantial infrared radiation but little visible light. Plants on Home were adapted to the atmosphere and yielded a plethora of foodstuffs.
Mining operations continued to keep the various industries working at peak efficiency. Those varied from raw materials production for ship building, to production of consumer goods to supply the thousands of dependents with the necessities of life.
Finally, there were the extensive military manufacturing operations. Consisting of six manufactories salvaged by the first Winged Hussars, they were fed raw materials from the mining operations and a few scarce materials stockpiled from out-system. Self-contained robotic factories, the manufactories created everything from computer slates to small spaceships.
One of the regular jobs Sato oversaw was managing the manufactories. While they were incredibly versatile machines which could operate with almost no supervision, including self-repairing features, they were the ultimate in savant. Sato compared a manufactory with a Jeha—it was incapable of doing anything except exactly what you told it to do.
After his disturbing meeting with Nemo and undergoing a procedure on his pinplants, Sato was escorted back to his quarters. The marine, Private Shev, showed little interest in whether Sato was successful in fixing his professed problem. He simply made sure the scientist was returned to his quarters and secured. Sato dropped into his bunk and rested while his brain processed the changes.
As usual, he awoke to the insistent automatic alarm he’d set next to his bunk. The difference that morning was he remembered something. He remembered floating in a strange circular passageway inside a ship he’d never been in. How could he remember it? Was that a dream? He wondered. He didn’t know, because he never dreamed. At least, until now.
As he went about the business of using his private autochef to make a breakfast of tea, toast, and some boiled fish, Sato began to wonder if the pinplant modifications were a mistake. Using those very same pinplants, he called up the schematics and examined them. Nemo assured him the connections to his higher brain functions wouldn’t affect Sato’s day-to-day mental faculties. Who better to assure him than an alien who’d had his tentacles inside your brain?
His pinplants seemed to be working fine. The modifications wouldn’t make them work any differently until he needed the new functionality. Assuming he’d get a chance to use it one day. Putting the strange nighttime memories aside, he went back to work examining the manufactories’ progress in their various assigned tasks. He was at the end of a week’s work when his boss finally visited him.
Sato looked up from his lunch of rice and fish as his door buzzed. “Come,” he said and cleaned up the last of his food. The door slid aside to show a familiar elSha standing there. “Hello, Kleena,” Sato said. “Nice of you to finally stop by.” Sato gestured for Kleena to come in, and he did.
“I’ve been off overseeing the final refitting work on Dragon,” Kleena said.
Sato nodded. The Fiend-class drone carrier was undergoing a refit he’d designed. The ship would be the first of a new class dubbed Intruder, and they would carry the Avenger-class space bomber. A craft which was also his design, and currently being produced by Manufactory #2. “How’s it coming?” Sato asked.
“We’ve had a few issues with the robotic recovery system, but I think Larras figured it out.”
Larras was one of the Geek Squad’s Jeha. He was particularly good at solving direct engineering and robotics problems. Jeha were known as exceptional ship builders, just not exceptional designers. Like the other two Jeha in the squad, called Thing 1 and Thing 2 by the colonel, Larras wasn’t a master of creating new things. Their ships tended to be improved or upgraded versions of older designs. They also maintained massive ship refit and repair yards which suited them quite well.
“Good,” Sato said. He remained seated as the elSha stood regarding him. The elSha resembled Earth geckos, including the ability to look in two directions at the same time with independently moving eye turrets. Both were focused on Sato, a sure sign he had the alien’s complete attention. “Sato, you fucked up.”
“So I’ve heard,” Sato said dryly.
“No, I’m serious this time. Colonel Cromwell has tolerated your behavior in the past because you’ve accomplished great things for the Winged Hussars. But entropy, Sato!” He shook his head and sighed, a sure sign of how long Kleena had been around Humans.
“That ship needed to be investigated,” Sato insisted.
“Yes, I had planned to do it.”
“Without me, of course,” Sato said in a surly manner.
“Frankly, I hadn’t made up my mind yet. We were going to board with marines, just in case, and once we were sure the ship was safe, the Geek Squad would have boarded to begin our assessment. At some point, we’d have brought you in.” Sato snorted. “You think that would have been a bad idea? Your actions confirmed it would have been the correct course of action. Sato, people died. An entire planet almost died!”
Sato didn’t know how to respond, so he just asked a question. “Then what happens to me?”
“Frankly? I don’t know. Colonel Cromwell will have to make that decision. We’re at war, so you won’t get exiled…yet.”
Sato gave a little gasp. Would they really throw him out of New Warsaw? Someone like him wouldn’t have a problem finding a living. The Hussars paid him well, and he had nothing to spend it on. All his needs were provided. Last time he’d looked, his account was well over five million credits. Money wasn’t the problem. But if he was exiled from the Winged Hussars, where would he find such incredible challenges and new discoveries? The idea was horrifying.
“E-exiled?” he asked with a stutter. Kleena nodded. “But there’s so much more I need to do. Work on 2nd level hyperspace and the salvage we brought back, the new CASPers, the design for the new class of battlecruiser, and a hundred other things.”
“You aren’t the only scientist here,” Kleena reminded him.
Sato considered and was forced to admit Kleena was right. He might be the smartest, even the most able, scientist in the Hussars’ employ, but the others together probably surpassed his abilities in the whole. Chikushō, he thought. “What can I do?”
“Work hard,” Kleena said.
“I am,” Sato said, pleading. “Every day.”
“No, I mean just work. Work your ass off, as you Humans like to say. Work, and don’t cause even a tiny problem. If you so much as screw with a computer terminal, I won’t speak up for you when the colonel gets back.”
“We’ve been friends for years,” Sato said dejectedly.
“Yes,” Kleena said, “and I’m still your friend. The Winged Hussars are my family, too. People died, Sato. You have got to learn to use your head for more than science.” Then, in his typical elSha manner, Kleena departed without another word. Sato was left with a profound feeling of betrayal.
Of course, the personal feelings had nothing to do with his abilities. Even as he considered the conversation, he went back to work finalizing changes to Manufactory #6. The machine was the least reliable of the six and was constantly falling out of trim in producing its assigned materials. Nobody had noticed it was producing at a gradually reduced effectiveness. The loss was only five percent total, but Sato noticed, of course.
What do I do? he wondered as he worked. My creativity has always been one of my strongest assets. “People died, Sato,” Kleena had said. They worked for a mercenary company; of course people died. Sato designed weapons system, after all. Sato didn’t use the weapons himself; he left that to others. He’d never killed anyone. That’s not true. The thought made him shudder. And this isn’t the first time.
“I’ve been a fool,” he said and sighed. Self-introspective moments were few and far between for Sato. It didn’t help being brought up Japanese—a proud, creative, and industrious people. He’d also been brought up to never admit a mistake, almost a cultural prerogative. Yet here he was, being forced to admit Klee
na was right. He’d fucked up, and other people had died for his fuck up.
Sato went back to work, digging into his various projects with a vengeance. He was so absorbed with his work a technician had to come visit him and ask if his autochef needed replenishment. Sato was working with such single-minded determination he’d been unaware he was selecting whatever the machine still had in inventory. He had subsisted for two days on toast and tea, not extending his powerful brain beyond his self-assigned tasks.
Four days after Kleena’s visit, Sato had amassed a considerable list of completed tasks. He’d handled reassignments on three of the manufactories, a job that usually took most of a week for each operational change. He’d reviewed the performance reports on the Avenger bombers filed by Hussars instructors and SalSha test pilots. After those reviews, he submitted retrofit instructions on the existing models, and updated the template in the manufactory tasked with making the bombers.
Sato also entered more than 200,000 words in a report on the Keesius doomsday ship, including recordings salvaged from his modified CASPer and personal observations gleaned while interacting with the ship’s simple AI. It was impressive what you could do if you only slept two hours in every 24. He was determined Kleena would have nothing to report on him except a huge list of accomplishments.
With those tasks finished, he took a slight break from pure brain-work and tended to his CASPer. It had been dutifully moved to his lab the day after his return. Without thinking about his personal commitment, he made upgrades on his CASPer to avoid future shutdowns similar to what the marines had done to it on the Keesius. He also incorporated a dozen other improvements, then left it on the diagnostic rack before going back to other work.
He went back to a particularly interesting item—an artifact brought from 2nd level hyperspace. It was a shuttle stolen from a derelict ship by Corporal Rick Culper and Sergeant Eva Johansson. But the shuttle wasn’t from the derelict, it belonged to another race, possibly one native to 2nd level hyperspace.
A Pale Dawn Page 19
