Warp Marine Corps- The Complete Series

by C. J. Carella

  “All right.”

  Heather didn’t think anything was all right, but they’d come too far to turn back.

  Thirteen

  New Texas System, 167 AFC

  The reconnaissance flotilla emerged from the warp valley linking New Texas to Capricorn. Some of the nimble frigates were damaged; the scouts had waited until the enemy was within two light seconds before jumping away, and they’d taken fire in the process. Their patience had paid off, even if their detailed report contained nothing but bad news.

  It is hard to gloat about being proven right when the evidence is about to come crashing upon you like the wrath of the Almighty.

  “The scouts’ sensor scans identified three hundred and seventy contacts,” the Tactical Officer reported before the holotank display came alive with ship icons and statistics. Admiral Kerensky absorbed the information calmly. Only the way his face became set and expressionless betrayed his feelings, but enough of the fleet bridge’s CIC crew had grown to know him enough to understand they’d been all condemned to death, and Earth and humanity along with them.

  It’s a smaller fleet than the one we destroyed, at least. Although the disparity in tonnage is actually worse than last time.

  The enemy formation was top-heavy. Two hundred of them were battleships, dreadnoughts or superdreadnoughts – about sixty of each. The rest were battlecruisers whose displacement and energy signatures were enough to classify them as pocket battleships. Their firepower nearly matched the Imperium-Lamprey armada the US had destroyed two weeks ago, and this time there was no possibility of a deep space ambush. Seventh Fleet was still repairing the damage from the previous battle, and even if Kerensky’s diminished fighter force could have maintained a patrol around New Texas, there hadn’t been time to arrange it. They’d just evacuated Capricorn and were still in the midst of doing the same for New Texas-Two and -Six, the two inhabited planets of the system. The Imperium’s impossible speed in assembling a new fleet had given them the initiative.

  That was only half of the bad news. The reason the enemy force had arrived so quickly was that only a tenth of those hulls had been built by the Imperium. The rest of the enemy fleet was comprised of ships from other Starfarer polities. Polities that had not been at war with the United Stars as per the latest threat board update, twenty-four hours ago.

  Kerensky forced himself to examine the data dispassionately. The scout squadron had taken its time identifying the enemy. The contacts were all flagged as Imperium ships, although their sensor profiles gave the lie to the transponder emissions. Which meant…

  Volunteers. Or maybe purchased, borrowed or gifted ships. I suppose the Puppies aren’t the only one willing to play that game.

  The Hrauwah Kingdom hadn’t committed to a full alliance with the US but instead contributed funds, materiel and entire ship formations that, while built and crewed by Puppies, flew under the Stars and Stripes. The Imperium must have persuaded other polities to do the same, except on a larger scale. The diplomatic maneuvering to make that happen must have been epic. Starfarers didn’t play well with each other; those ships included contingents of hated enemies and rivals sailing together in battle. Just as one example, a battlegroup of Lizard ships was sailing alongside a Blue Men squadron; the two civilizations that fought two nasty wars in the last century.

  The mysterious Class Four species known as the Leegor – better-known as ‘Shellheads’ because they were rarely seen outside their massive armored suits – had sent seventeen massive vessels; Kerensky had to do an imp search just to familiarize himself, because everything the US knew of them was second-hand. As far as he knew, the Leegor had never fought against carbon-based life forms.

  Even the Butterflies, who considered war an evil choice even when necessary, were represented: a squadron of oversized battlecruisers that served as their capital ships were there. The Ovals, who’d been swinging back and forth between friendly and hostile neutrality, had sent three dozen battleships to the dance. Thirty of those dreadnoughts were Wyrashat, for Christ’s sake! The Wyrms who’d fought alongside the US a few months ago and had only reluctantly surrendered to the Imperium had sent their ships along.

  The event he and every other flag-rank officer in the US had dreaded had come to pass. The Starfarer community had decided the time to deal with humanity was at hand. Even though none of those other nations – seven of the fifteen major species of the galaxy were represented in the approaching armada – had declared war on the US, their ships made their position clear enough. Even if only minority factions within those polities had thrown in with the Galactic Alliance, relations between them and the US would be poisoned for the foreseeable future. Diplomats could mouth off all kinds of platitudes, but nothing could change the fact that those ships were coming over to rain death on human cities. It would be hard to do business with a species whose members had conspired to commit genocide.

  Of course, if all humans were gone, their feelings on the matter would be irrelevant.

  The QE telegraph on New Texas-Six would be passing on the information to Earth in real time, for what little that was worth. Even at best speed, the closest reinforcements at hand were four warp transits and at least a week away. The enemy wasn’t going to give them that much time. The enemy fleet would be arriving in a day or so, maybe sooner.

  “Incoming emergence detected, five hours away. Single contact, energy signature matching a battlecruiser. Estimated arrival point at two light seconds from Warp Point Three.”

  The lone ship must be a courier, although Kerensky couldn’t see what there was to talk about.

  “Target the contact, but hold fire until its intentions are clear.”

  Five hours went by. Kerensky set his questions aside and concentrated on ensuring his forces were ready for the upcoming fight. He had three hundred warp fighters at his disposal, the only weapon platforms with any hope to destroy the enemy’s capital ships before Seventh Fleet was hammered into scrap. After a brief consultation with the Carrier Strike Group commanders, he issued orders instructing all fighters to engage in the technique known as ‘ghosting.’ The risk – no, the certainty – that the maneuver would slowly but surely kill all the pilots involved, and very likely cause something similar to what destroyed the Exeter, was of no concern now.

  Have your say, Gimps, but no matter what happens today, you will provide us with an ample honor guard in Valhalla.

  * * *

  “Fleet Admiral Kerensky has transmitted the Alliance’s ultimatum to Earth,” Lord of Tactics Relentless Determination said. “A response is expected before the grace period expires, sixteen hours from now.”

  Grace-Under-Pressure’s court was once again divided. Many of her vassals thought humanity would do well to accept the enemy offer, surrender being a better fate than outright destruction. She and many others disagreed.

  It is death in either case, foolish pups, she thought bitterly. Accepting their ultimatum merely delays the inevitable. Humans are smart enough to know it.

  The price to spare humanity from the fire domes was simple: they must give up the stars.

  The terms were terse and to the point. The US and all other human polities – the Pan-Asians, in effect, since Great Columbia had no military fleet or colonies of its own – must surrender and demilitarize its space forces, scrapping all starships and retaining only slower-than-light defensive forces. And that was just merely the precondition for a cease-fire. The formal peace demanded much harsher measures.

  To begin with, all humans in the galaxy must return to one of seven assigned ‘reservation systems.’ All other colonies were to be surrendered to the Alliance. Over a hundred planets would have to be abandoned. A century of achievement – worlds colonized and terraformed, towns and cities rising from the wilderness, asteroid belts mined and inhabited by generations of spacers – would be erased with the signing of the peace accords. Even worse, those seven ‘reservation systems’ would be hideously vulnerable to any invader that decided to
finish off the troublesome species once and for all.

  There were millions of human spacers serving outside the US or Pan-Asia, employed by other Starfarers: all of them would repatriated, or their hosts would face the wrath of the Alliance. Some would no doubt escape, but they’d be a small, scattered remnant, hunted and despised.

  That was not the end of it. All warp-capable humans – slightly over half of them – must undergo permanent sterilization. Even though warp tolerance wasn’t a wholly-genetic trait, that measure would, over multiple generations, reduce their numbers drastically. Enforcing the process would require constant inspection by outside agencies, of course. A ‘neutral’ civilization – a list of possible candidates had been attached to the ultimatum: they included the Vipers and the few Snakes left in the galaxy – was to provide observers to ensure the orders were carried out. To monitor something as basic as reproduction demanded a degree of control that essentially would mean total loss of autonomy. Humans would no longer be able to police themselves or otherwise arrange their affairs.

  The ultimatum’s lesser points – surrendering the recently-conquered Xanadu System to the Alliance; war reparations that would beggar the US; public oaths by all humans who reached adulthood to never engage in FTL travel – only added insult to injury. The amount of time allotted for Earth’s leaders to make a decision made it blatantly clear that the Alliance didn’t expect their ‘generous offer’ would be accepted.

  The entire farce was an empty gesture meant to allay the conscience of other Starfarers. Grace was sure the attempt to ‘peacefully’ conclude the war had been a major factor in convincing several polities to add their ships to the fleet poised to invade New Texas. The other one was the growing fear that humanity might one day dominate – or destroy – the rest of the galaxy. If humans surrendered, then the matter would have been handled in a civilized manner. And if the uppity barbarians refused those terms, then the problem would be solved more harshly, but be solved nonetheless.

  What hasn’t occurred to those nations is a third possibility – that humans will prevail, and remember who turned on them during their darkest hour.

  “What do you think, Your Highness? Will America surrender?”

  Grace turned towards her Lord of Guns; her stony gaze made him lower both head and tail.

  “I believe that the humans will surprise us all. Not necessarily in a pleasant way, mind you. But no, I do not expect they will surrender. Not while their blood runs through their veins and their jaws remain hinged and able to rend and tear.”

  She looked upon her court, very likely for the last time.

  “No. Today we fight.”

  * * *

  The Imperium courier made transit, bearing President Hewer’s and Premier Cho’s answer. At the end of his declaration, Hewer had appended the word ‘NUTS!’ over his signature. It’d taken a Woogle search for Kerensky to understand its meaning. When he did, he couldn’t help but to smile.

  If humans had to go into the night, they would do it on their feet, not their knees.

  “We are at DEFCON-One. To all Seventh Fleet personnel: it is my greatest pride to serve with you on this day. The enemy will arrive soon, and it is up to us to give him a warm welcome. Today we stand on New Texas, and like the heroes of Old Texas’ El Alamo, we will not run. But unlike them, we will prevail and turn the enemy back. Once we break his fleet, he will have nothing left to give. And then will come a time of retribution.”

  Kerensky closed his eyes, visions of Heinlein-Five burning in his mind. Retribution would be sweet indeed, but first they must hold here and now.

  “Remember your training, and rely on it, your comrades in arms, and the Grace of the Almighty. God Bless America. That is all.”

  * * *

  Lieutenant Gus Chandler jogged towards his War Eagle while the General Quarters signal blared in his ears.

  No boring deep space patrols this time, mostly because they hadn’t been possible. There was no way Seventh Fleet could spread out its carrier elements in the allotted time, and it’d been hard enough to do it with nearly five hundred fighters. Two thirds of that number just couldn’t cover enough space to find the enemy initial emergence point in time to do any good. So they were going to fight this the old-fashioned way: sit next to the inner planets and wait for Echo Tango to show up.

  He’d been in the pilot’s lounge when the surrender demands were announced. Everybody had known the ETs’ terms would be rejected out of hand. Any remfie who tried to take that deal would be lucky to be set on fire after his lifeless body had been hung from the nearest utility post, rather than before. People used to think the Gimps weren’t so bad, not when compared to the Lampreys or Vipers, but as it turned out they were worse than the damn Snakes. At least the Risshah had been honest about being genocidal maniacs; the Gal-Imps wanted to act virtuous and self-righteous before they started burning down human cities.

  Retribution. Admiral Kerensky’s word had a nice ring to it. And if the pilots could work some arrangement with the Foos, they might live long enough to get some payback from every enemy of the country. The kind of payback they wouldn’t recover from.

  Gus’ smile would have scared the flight crew, but his face was hidden under his pilot’s helmet. His buddies could pick up on his mood, but most of them felt the same way. Most.

  “You do not know what you are doing,” Grinner Genovisi sent out, her thoughts touching every mind she could reach, which in her case was every fighter pilot in Seventh Fleet. “Do not talk to the Warplings! They will deceive you, betray you!”

  Not being anywhere near Grinner’s level when it came to FM, Gus couldn’t hear the responses of the others, except in a diffuse way, like trying to separate ‘Yeas’ from ‘Nays’ with everyone shouting at the same time. His feel was that the ‘Yeas’ had it by a mile, though. Most pilots were too angry – and scared, not that any of them would admit it – to go with half measures. They were going to be flying missions until they dropped or every carrier was destroyed and they ran out of gas and bullets. And they’d been ordered to ghost from the get-go. Admiral Kerensky knew that move provided the only chance of victory. Gus was no tac officer, but he knew Seventh Fleet wouldn’t last long in a standard exchange of broadsides. The fighters needed to do the heavy lifting, and the only way to live long enough to do so was by ghosting.

  And the only way to survive ghosting was to follow Beak Dhukai’s lead.

  The intense little bastard had been making the rounds, and he was more convincing than Grinner, whose only advice seemed to boil down to ‘grin and bear it,’ which as a plan was damn suboptimal. Grinning and bearing it would get them all killed and lose the battle. If dealing with the Devil was what it took…

  “For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world but lose his whole soul?”

  “Nice try, Grinner,” he told her, reaching out with his mind. “Mark 8:36. I’m the Catholic in the squadron, not you. You don’t even believe in the Bible, so don’t be quoting Scripture to us.”

  “Dammit, Bingo.” She didn’t sound angry. More like sad and tired.

  “Way I see it, my soul isn’t all that much to gamble when there’s another eight billion on the line.”

  “If the worst happens, all those souls are at risk.”

  “Still better than dead.”

  “You’re the Catholic in the squadron, Bingo. How can you say that?”

  He wasn’t sure how to respond, but launch prep signals interrupted their mental argument. The enemy fleet had made their second and final in-system launch; and emerged five light seconds away; they would reach New Texas-Six in under an hour and a half. Seventh Fleet would advance and meet them at the halfway point, planning on a running battle as it slowly fell back towards the planet and its orbital and ground defenses.

  “All right, kids, it’s time to go play,” Papa Schneider said on the squadron’s imp channel. “Now, there is a lot of discussion about the Foos. All I can say is, do as your conscience dictates.
And respect everybody’s choices, even if you don’t agree with them. Life is too short.” He paused. “And it’s likely to be as short as it gets in a little while.”

  Everyone laughed at that.

  “We’re ghosting. Those are our orders. Concentrate on staying in one piece during transit and hanging on the threshold. The Tango ack-ack is going to be nasty; their battlecruisers are going to be right close to the capital ships to provide close point-defense support; they’ll chance friendly fire if that means they can get us.”

  Gus swallowed. Destroyers and light cruisers were bad enough, but most ET battlecruisers mounted big-ass guns even for their secondary batteries. No War Eagle was going to survive a near-miss from a fifteen-inch or larger grav cannon; the beam’s ‘wake’ would spill over the fighter’s warp shields and crush it like a tin can. He’d seen how that song went: twelve little fighters become eleven little fighters on the first sortie, and each verse got a little worse than the last. Even ghosting, some of that firepower might get through to them.

  “If we can’t stop the ETs, there’ll be Hell to pay,” Papa continued. “Fleet orders are, if our losses reach a certain level, we have to run. You know doing a general warp jump under fire will likely double those losses. Not to mention there’s about twenty million civvies in-system we’d be leaving behind, plus three other systems wide open to attack with even fewer system defenses.”

  There was a chorus of mental growls at that. Leaving civilians to be burned alive was the most shameful thing a Navy officer could do. Gus doubted Admiral Kerensky would obey that directive. Not personally, at least; everyone knew his flagship wasn’t leaving New Texas. Most of the carriers would buy it, too, because they were prime targets for the enemy. Might as well go out with a bang.

  “You know the job. Let’s go get some.”

  * * *

  “Missile launch. It’s…” The Tactical Officer hesitated for a moment. “The Shellhead ships are firing an unknown kind of missile. Much faster and smaller. Only slightly bigger than a crowbar, launched via some sort of magnetic rail system… Those bastards are moving at point-oh-two of c, sir. Twice as fast as regular missiles, with much lower sensor profile, and there are fifty thousand of them.”