Handing it off to someone else would give her a chance to do her real job: gathering information. The records of the oldest known civilization in the galaxy were a priceless intelligence find, even if most of the data would be useless to all but the most dedicated historians. That aside, the system was a major trade nexus where a sizeable portion of the known galaxy’s commerce passed through. The opportunities to buy, steal or cajole valuable information would provide work for hundreds of intelligence officers. The CIA had so far sent her five. She needed to get on top of that.
Captain Gupta had been droning on about something while her mind wandered. She smiled and nodded while her imp provided her with an instant replay.
“Yes, sir,” she said after a barely perceptible pause. “Our first priority was to see to the defenses in Malta, and to the security of the warp network around it.”
“Now that you have activated its weapon systems and the power plants needed to operate them, the system’s defense should be easy enough.”
Something about the man’s tone told Heather the good captain didn’t think she’d done either of those things quickly enough to suit him. Perhaps he blamed her for all the death and destruction that had ensued during the first Lamprey attack. The victims had included an entire destroyer squadron and over a hundred Marine, Navy and State Department personnel. The fact that she blamed herself didn’t make it any easier to accept the unspoken reproach.
“Yes, sir. Once the systems were up, we were able to deal with the follow-up enemy attacks easily enough.”
The second Lamprey attack had been a complete disaster for the aliens. Third Fleet had been on the scene, and the Lhan Arkh force had been weaker than the one she’d helped destroy during the First Battle of Xanadu. Third Fleet would have been able to handle the sixty-ship enemy formation on its own. Paired with the gigantic habitat’s devastating firepower, it’d been over in a matter of minutes. The useless sacrifice had surprised her. Perhaps the Lhan Arkh hadn’t believed the initial reports. They certainly believed them now.
In any case, the loss of two fleets had cost them dearly: Third Fleet had launched a counterattack into Lamprey space, and destroyed two enemy colonies before pulling back. Further attacks would have to wait until reinforcements arrived, however, and most new ships were being funneled into more important fronts.
The Imperium had attempted a reconnaissance in force a couple of months later. Twenty medium vessels had warped in, their energy signatures masked to simulate a civilian freighter convoy from a neutral polity. Their attempt at subterfuge hadn’t fooled Malta’s sophisticated sensors, however. The luckless Gal-Imp ships had been shot down on arrival, while their crews were still recovering from transit. After that fiasco, nobody had sent hostile forces into Xanadu. Its reputation as an impregnable target was now fully restored.
“Security should no longer be an issue,” she said. “And we’ve been gradually restoring power and life support to more areas of the habitat. At this point, we could easily house ten times as many people as we’ve already got.”
Gupta nodded. “Good. We are going to be relocating an increasing number of personnel here. Mostly displaced civilians with the proper mix of skills and experience. Our main problem is securing enough transport to bring in everyone who is able and willing to move here. Even with those limitations, the current plan is to resettle a hundred thousand workers and their dependents within twelve months. And to increase that number tenfold over the ensuing year.”
Mighty ambitious, not to mention optimistic, Heather thought. The Navy officer would soon find out just how big a job he had ahead of him. Even with most automated systems up and running, too many things could and would go wrong on a nearly hourly basis, and after the destruction of most of the stations’ army of service robots, just building replacements would require more fabber operators than they had.
Still, she’d done what she could. Two of the massive fabricators in Malta – out of several dozen they’d discovered – were working three shifts now, and the scratch crew of Navy personnel and civilian volunteers she’d been bossing around for the previous few months had made a good start in setting up a naval shipyard. Once Gupta managed to bring a hundred thousand workers here, Xanadu System could start building the best ships in the galaxy.
On paper, what they had accomplished here should have all but won the larger war. The Hrauwah Kingdom – a.k.a. the Puppies – were sending massive amounts of supplies and ship components now that they had a direct line to American space. Even more importantly, the massive Galactic Credit accounts the US force had ‘liberated’ from the former owners of the system had been large enough to pay all the debts owed to the Kingdom, with plenty to spare. It was always better to settle things in cash than to depend on the kindness of even friendly aliens. Xanadu generated enormous revenues from transit tolls collected from dozens of polities that depended on the multiple warp lines linking the system to most of the known galaxy. With one swift stroke – and the sacrifice of hundreds of American lives – humanity had gone from being poor up-and-comers to wealthy and powerful Starfarers. The only problem was, capitalizing on those advantages was going to take time, time they might not have.
News of the disaster at Drakul had reached them just a few days after their victory here. Two Gal-Imp armadas were ponderously pushing through Wyrashat space, and word was that the Wyrms, Earth’s only official allies, would soon give up completely. Their surrender would allow the Imperium to consolidate its forces and mount an assault directly into US space. The only question remaining was whether humanity would be able to stop them long enough for the rearmament program to matter.
All she could do is her job. She’d consult with the new base commander, of course, but she looked forward to returning to her real job.
“By the way, Lieutenant, your new orders came in the same ship that brought me here. I’ll upload them to you now.”
It only took a few seconds to find out that she wouldn’t be going back to her old job any time soon.
* * *
“Can you believe this shit?” Lance Corporal Raymond ‘Gonzo’ Gonzaga shouted. The little bastard looked about ready to start throwing punches.
Corporal Russell ‘Russet’ Edison was just as outraged as his buddy, but he’d learned the hard way not to take things personally. Gonzo was normally a cool customer, but their new marching orders had turned several months of hard work into shit. At this rate they were both going to leave the Corps as broke-ass as they had gone in, other than their short-lived pensions.
“Detached duty! Again! Motherfuckers!”
A waitress came over with fresh drinks. Nice-looking girl, but she looked scared. Russell couldn’t blame her. There were a lot of Charlie Company grunts in the bar, and they’d all gotten the bad news at the same time. A bar full of pissed off Marines didn’t make for a safe work environment.
“It is what it is, Gonzo.”
“Did someone in the company screw with a general’s daughter or something? Are they trying to kill us all?”
“Seems like an awful lot of trouble just to get rid of a few leathernecks. They could just send us off against the Lampreys instead.”
“No, that’s not good enough. We might just end up kicking alien ass and surviving. No, this detached duty shit is going to do us in, man.”
Russell couldn’t disagree with that. They had taken it on the chin every time Charlie Company had gone off on its own, or when Third Platoon had been left to its own devices. They were still putting things together after the last time. The Marines of C-Company had taken the biggest space station in the galaxy pretty much all by themselves. They’d taken the biggest space station in the galaxy using mostly improvised spears, knives and entrenching tools, for fuck’s sake. And instead of giving everybody medals and about two years’ worth of leave, which they richly deserved, they were sending them off on detached duty again.
His fists were clenched so hard his knuckles were turning white. Russell realize
d Gonzo wasn’t the only one getting worked up about the unfairness of it all. He had to force himself to relax, because if they both lost their shit, things would get real ugly. The kind of ugly that ended in court-martials.
Then again, what else could they do to them? Send them on a more suicidal mission than the one they’d just been given?
“Not to mention, it’s going to ruin all the stuff we just set up,” Gonzo added.
Russell nodded and clenched his teeth. After all the blood and sweat they’d spent taking the place – and holding it in the face of a Lamprey fleet, let’s not forget that shit – this had turned out to be a damn good posting. Lots of space traffic, which meant lots of opportunities to do well while doing good. Most of the ships passing through didn’t dock on the giant space station, but a few did, each bringing new sources of income. The place was also huge and full of alien goodies. They’d sold a few trinkets they’d stumbled on, and were hatching plans to liberate some more. In a month or two, they would have pulled enough scores to retire comfortably. Until their new orders arrived. Detached duty on some Survey starship, destination classified, objectives classified, duration classified. The only thing they hadn’t bothered classifying was that it was going to suck ass.
PFC Keith ‘Grampa’ Gorski joined them in their booth at the newly-opened enlisted bar. It was a pretty damn nice watering hole. A couple of retired Marines from New Parris had moved to Xanadu and set up the place just like the one they’d run back there, with plenty of mementos from their time in service decorating the walls. About the only difference was that the bar was more spacious and less dingy than the original. There was a lot more elbow room all around, courtesy of being located in the largest space station in the known galaxy. A station that was now US territory because Russell and about a hundred of his closest friends had butchered the previous owners with knives and e-tools. Or, in the case of the fat alien in charge of the whole shebang, their bare hands – well, gloved hands; Marine combat gloves were almost as good as brass knuckles when it came to punching someone in the face. In the end, they’d just stomped the fat bastard. Best time to kick some alien to death was when he was down. Those happy memories did little to remove the scowl from Russell’s face, though.
“It’s a bitch, ain’t it?” Grampa said as he sat down.
“They’re trying to kill us, is what they’re doing,” Gonzo said. He emptied his drink and looked at the glass as if considering the best way to weaponize it.
“Way I heard it, it was that Major’s idea to have us along, and this whole mission is on her.”
“What Major?” Gonzo’s expression became calculating and almost wistful. If someone, O-4 or not, gave you shit, there was always a chance that someone could be made to go away.
“Zhang.”
Gonzo carefully set the glass on the table and lay his face next to it.
“We’re fucked.”
Russell wanted to disagree with his buddy, but he really couldn’t. Major Zhang was the weirdest Marine in the entire Corps, bar none. That lady could do warp drops without using a catapult. Russell had seen the vids. It was one of the few shows where the naked chick onscreen was the least-interesting part. The look on the admiral’s face when he returned the nude Marine’s salute was priceless. Word was that Zhang was crazy on top of being a witch.
Russell had met another witch, back at Parthenon. Deborah Genovisi was a former bubblehead warp navigator. Gorgeous but spooky as hell. She was back in the Fleet, as a warp fighter pilot, which didn’t surprise him one bit. Deborah could read minds, more or less, which if Russell had any sense would have been a damn good reason to run away from her as fast as possible. Instead, he’d spent a few very memorable days with her. After that, he’d written her a couple of e-mails, and gotten answers each time; he didn’t know what that meant.
“In all fairness, the Major saved our asses,” Grampa reminded them.
“If she’s involved, you know it’s going to be something crazy.”
“We’re just going to be running ground security, right?”
“Sure, Gramps. Because it’s always as simple as it sounds, right? Like the one time we were just supposed to do a dog and pony show for a bunch of ETs? Remember that one?”
They all looked down for a moment. A lot of their buddies hadn’t made it.
“And almost half of the people in the company are new,” Gonzo went on.
“No boots, though,” Russell said. “We’re getting set up as an elite battalion, the 101st. They let us keep all them new weapons and armor, too. This is turning out to be a prestige post.”
“Ain’t gonna be enough.”
“Save that can’t do shit for the Army.”
Privately, though, Russell thought Gonzo was right.
Two
CRURON 23, McCormick System, 167 AFC
Admiral – former Fleet Admiral – Nicholas Kerensky watched his enemies burn in the bonfire he had prepared for them.
The twelve ships of Cruiser Squadron 23 fired as one: a total of forty-eight heavy graviton cannon unleashed their fury onto their targets just as the pirates realized the American formation had emerged from warp a mere light second away. The alien vessels were arranged in a ragged column tens of thousands of kilometers long, each of the thirty-odd ships moving at its best speed with no thought about keeping formation. The sudden appearance of the American squadron on their flank had caught the Horde raiders by surprise. Executing an ambush was no easy feat in space engagements, but Kerensky’s people had performed the maneuver flawlessly, performing a warp jump before the invaders’ sensors had time to alert them that an American fleet was in the system.
The holotank in the Tactical Command Center had detailed visual icons for the enemy forces, designated Sierra-One through Sierra-Thirty-four. Like all Horde raiding fleets, it was a ragtag collection of hulls from a dozen different civilizations, with new weapons and systems added as opportunity or whim dictated. Command and control was spotty at best.
That didn’t make the individual vessels any less dangerous, however; underestimating the Horde was hazardous to one’s health. The larger pirate ships had the tonnage and energy signatures of a battlecruiser or even a pocket battleship, and there were a good dozen of those; the rest were somewhere between a light cruiser and a frigate in displacement, all heavily armed, and all manned by members of a warrior culture whose only pleasures were combat and pillage. In a head-on confrontation, Kerensky’s squadron would have been outgunned and likely taken losses even with the huge advantage warp shields conferred on American vessels. The enemy had given him a perfect chance to avoid a fair fight, however, and he planned to make the most of it.
Three large enemy icons and nine smaller ones flashed red before they turned black and vanished from the tactical display, indicating confirmed kills. Kerensky’s ships had gone after the leading contacts, which belonged to the swiftest pirate vessels. In this case, the quick had become the dead.
“Their shields were down,” Kerensky commented dryly as the performance of the squadron’s opening salvo was processed and presented to him. “They were in too much of a hurry to reach McCormick-Seven, I suppose.”
CRURON 23 advanced towards the disorganized pirates, pounding them with steady main gun volleys as it closed the distance. Six more enemy icons disappeared from the tactical display before the Horde ships altered course and raised their shields. Most of the survivors were already damaged. The plan had worked even better than Kerensky had expected. The raiders had diverted most of their power to their propulsion systems, trading defensive capabilities for greater speed. Since the aliens were over an hour away from McCormick-Seven’s orbital defense stations, they’d thought it was a safe maneuver. It wasn’t the sort of mistake a professional navy formation would normally make, but the Horde were barbarians.
“Sierra-One is down,” Tactical Officer Mendez reported. That had been the flagship of the enemy force, a big whale of a boat that had started life as a pair of Viper d
estroyers – of different classes, from the uneven look of their lines – before the Horde had welded them onto the larger hull of a Botari freighter and tacked an extra fifteen kilotons of armor plate and a dozen forty-inch grav cannon of Lizard make to the ensuing mess. Kerensky wouldn’t have cared to exchange broadsides with that bloated monster, not from the bridge of any of the City-class battlecruisers that comprised his squadron.
Not too long ago, he had commanded Fifth Fleet from the CIC of a dreadnought that could have wiped out the entire pirate flotilla without bothering to warm up its main guns. He’d been stripped of that command and sent off to rusticate in a remote frontier for the rest of the war. Deservedly so: he had led Fifth Fleet to disaster and defeat, and fled the system he’d been charged to protect, abandoning millions of innocents to their deaths.
Fourteen million, eight hundred seventy-three thousand and ninety-seven innocents, to be exact. He’d memorized the final tally once a relief force liberated the system and rescued a scant three hundred thousand survivors. 14,873,097 dead. He could provide chapter and verse of the victims’ demographic data. Average age of twenty-three, which in a civilization with anti-aging treatments meant a large percentage of children. Thirty-eight point-seven percent: 5,755,889 total victims under eighteen years of age. He had the exact number of children he’d left to die forever engraved in his mind and soul.
The ghosts of those dead children were part of his mental background as he impassively watched the battle unfold, giving orders only when necessary. After assuming command of CRURON 23, Kerensky had drilled every ship mercilessly. Once he was sure every cruiser captain knew how to do his or her job, replacing those who didn’t with all due haste, he mostly let them run their ships at their discretion. His preparations had paid off. Not that this was much of a battle, of course. It could technically be called a massacre, given how little the enemy could do to change its outcome.
Warp Marine Corps- The Complete Series Page 100
