by James Evans
“Update and discuss, yes, but there’s a briefing pack you’ll want to absorb in full before we make any decisions.”
“A briefing pack? I don’t believe I’ve received anything,” said Councillor Dunbar, poking at her tablet.
“The pack will be with you later this evening,” said Johnson, Denmead’s aide, “but this is sufficiently important that the issue can’t wait.”
“The micro drones have ranged far and wide,” said Denmead, launching into the next part of her presentation before anyone could object further, “and the children have been prototyping a new type of ultra-lightweight glider with an enhanced camera lens system designed for high-altitude, long-range imaging. The first versions flew yesterday morning. They’re solar powered, completely autonomous and very simple to make.”
“We all know this, Governor,” said Smith, “it’s very impressive but so what?”
“Since noon yesterday,” Denmead continued, ignoring Smith’s interruption, “when the first gliders passed beyond the areas covered by the previous generation of drones, our AIs have been scanning the images looking for anything of interest. Unfortunately, they found this,” she said, flicking an image onto the big screen at the end of the room.
“As you can see, this image shows an object that is clearly not natural and the AI directing the drones sent two more to the area to build up a detailed picture.”
The image changed, jumping from a blurry, low-resolution image to a hi-res version of the same thing.
“That looks like a habitat,” said Grimes, leaning close to inspect the image, “and some sort of manufacturing or production plant.”
“Are those chimneys?” asked Smith.
“That bit looks like a defensive wall with gun turrets,” said Councillor Armstrong said, her brow furrowed as she squinted at the image.
“And this definitely isn’t one of ours?” asked Grimes, leaning back in his seat, his face now set in a grim expression, “I mean, I don’t remember building anything like this but maybe one of you...” he fell silent as he looked around the table. It was an absurd suggestion and he knew it.
“It’s about eight hundred kilometres to the south-west,” said Johnson, “well beyond the area we’ve colonised and far outside even the outer limits where we’ve constructed solar farms, storage facilities or hydroponic farms. Our development plan won’t have us putting anything out that far from Ashton for at least fifteen years, and that assumes a consistent level of success and continued population growth.”
“And you’ll note that the architecture is definitely not similar to our own designs. The domes, we think, are purely decorative, affectations maybe, or throwbacks to their collective history. Either way, this is clearly a Russian-influenced settlement built by the Deathless,” added Denmead.
There was a moment of shocked silence as the councillors absorbed the news, then the questions began, all at once.
“What do we do?”
“How many people?”
“When was it built?”
“How big is it?”
“How do we destroy it?”
Denmead held up her hand and gradually the room fell silent.
“Let me put the scale up on the image to give you an idea,” she said, tapping at her tablet. “At just over two thousand metres long and almost a thousand metres wide, this is by far the largest structure on the planet.”
“It’s the largest surface structure within several dozen light years,” muttered Grimes, impressed despite the obvious scale of the threat.
“Quite,” said Denmead, “and in some places, it is a hundred metres tall. We have no way to know how far it extends beneath the surface but even if half of it is given over to manufacturing and food production, there’s still enough volume within the walls to hold fifty to a hundred thousand people.”
“How could they possibly have built this without us noticing?” asked Councillor Armstrong, her tone ratcheting steadily towards ‘very angry’.
“Ah. I think perhaps you mean ‘Whose incompetence allowed this to go unnoticed?’, Councillor? As it happens, this city has been built in an area that wasn’t routinely covered by our satellites. After all, there’s no need to monitor areas that aren’t populated,” Denmead retorted.
“The last flyover was about eighteen months ago and, yes, we’ve checked. It wasn’t there then, so the whole thing is less than eighteen months old. Whenever they started, to build so much so quickly speaks of an impressive amount of organisation and an astonishing quantity of material delivered right under our noses and through our orbital cordon without detection.”
That shook them. Nobody wanted to consider the implications of a hostile nation slipping through their defences to build a city in secret.
“So this could have appeared any time in the last eighteen months, and they’ve just been sat there all that time?” Councillor Stoat asked, incredulously.
“Yes, Councillor. With the information we have, that’s all we can be certain of. It seems likely to me that they have only arrived much more recently though. The problem is, how did they build such an installation so quickly? How could they do it at all? We have no sure way of knowing, at this point,” Denmead said.
“Is it populated?” Grimes asked. Denmead hesitated, then nodded.
“We think so. Electromagnetic emissions suggest active communications from the inside. They’re encrypted, obviously, so we can’t know what they’re saying, but it appears to be a near continuous stream of activity. There’s some activity outside the structure - there’s a road leading to the nearby mountains where it seems they’ve been mining or quarrying for something - but it’s impossible to say how many people might be inside.”
“So it could be empty?” Councillor Dunbar asked, “It could just be an automated facility entirely devoid of life.”
“It’s warm,” said Johnson, “and these structures here look like cloning facilities, so even if it were empty a few months ago, it isn’t now. The scale of these facilities suggests an output of maybe thirty clones a week and our analysis suggests there may be more than a dozen of them, although there could be far more underground that we can’t see. If they’ve been running for a month, then we could be looking at a population of one to three thousand. Unfortunately, since we don’t know how long they’ve been there or how many cloning bays they have…” he trailed off without finishing the sentence, but the logical conclusion was obvious.
The councillors groaned.
“But they could just be banking blank clones,” Smith pointed out, “setting them aside for a mass colonisation. They haven’t necessarily deployed colonists to them.” It was thin, and they all knew it. Body banks were commonly used throughout the populated solar systems, but even a large city would hold only enough to cope with natural deaths which, given the advanced nature of the available medicine tended to be few and far between. No-one, not the British, not the Chinese or the Japanese, stockpiled huge numbers of clones on the off-chance they would want them later. After all, they required upkeep; you couldn’t just stick them in a freezer and defrost them four years later after a natural disaster.
“So we’re back to considering our response to the further invasion of our colony,” said Councillor Stoat, “and I say we wipe the Deathless from the face of our planet.” There was a chorus of nods from around the table, although not all the councillors were in favour. “We have the prior claim, we’re longer established, and our colony is recognised by interstellar law,” he went on, “and they attacked us. Nobody would object, it would be self-defence.”
“And what would you propose?” Denmead asked, playing devil’s advocate.
“A nuclear strike, obviously,” said Stoat promptly to a round of varied agreement and horror, “As soon as Vice Admiral Staines arrives, this Council should order him to bombard them from orbit. He’ll have the arsenal to do it, one or two fusion warheads dropped into that valley would destroy the settlement entirely and preserve our safety.”
Denmead held up her hand for silence then banged it on the table when nobody took any notice of her.
“Thank you for your opinions. Captain Atticus and I have already discussed such options, and discarded them on good grounds.”
“You take a great deal on your shoulders, Governor,” said Stoat sharply, “this is something for the Council to decide upon since it affects every person in this colony.”
“We should at least hear the reasons,” said Grimes in a conciliatory tone. Lots of nodding around the table.
“Of course,” said Denmead, “and really it’s very simple. While launching such a strike would, indeed, obliterate the contents of the valley, it would not resolve the larger war. We would have irradiated a large part of our own planet, but that would not prevent the Deathless from setting up a colony elsewhere or landing further settlers, including military expeditions. Which, we can assume, they would immediately protect with anti-ballistic missile systems.”
“In addition, the settlers living in that city are people. Their soldiers might wage war on us, an unjust, unprovoked, illegal war, but that doesn’t give us carte blanche to do as we please.”
“It’s a bit more than an unprovoked war,” snapped Stoat, “they’ve bombed our city, murdered our civilians and destroyed our facilities.”
“Do you think they would think twice before nuking us?” demanded Smith.
“They haven’t nuked us,” pointed out Johnson reasonably, “and the bombardments have focussed on our governmental and military structures, such as they are.”
“I can’t believe you’re defending them,” said Stoat, horrified, “they’re alien scum who deserve to be eradicated!”
“Dammit,” snapped Denmead, slapping her hand on the table again, “they’re still people, and we share a common ancestry, regardless of how they might have diverged since their Ark left Sol.”
“Even if the nuclear option were morally defensible, which it isn’t,” Denmead went on, “there are still two insurmountable problems. Firstly, any plan that involves the use of WMDs needs approval from the local military command, which is Captain Atticus. I have to tell you that he has already stated that he will be unable to approve any such action under his current rules of engagement unless or until there is a very considerable escalation in hostilities.”
“Secondly, and more important from a strategic position, we have no information whatsoever about the enemy’s other cities or their true capabilities. A nuclear attack would invite a nuclear response and our only opportunity for survival would be to destroy the Deathless utterly. As we neither know what other facilities they have on the planet nor what they might have in orbit or in transit, we cannot launch a pre-emptive strike, since to do so would be to guarantee our own destruction.”
Denmead paused to allow this to sink in before continuing more calmly.
“For now, our only option is to continue the fight against the conventional forces. Captain Atticus is already altering his plans to allow for the impact of this city but, from a civilian perspective, we have to get used to sharing our planet.”
There was a degree of angry muttering from around the table.
“Sooner or later, we’ll need a diplomatic solution,” Denmead went on, pausing as the councillors mumbled angrily again, “every battle is a prelude to negotiation and peace.”
Smith snorted. “But what sort of peace?” he muttered, shaking his head.
“And what sort of battle?” asked Grimes.
“Quite,” said Denmead, looking around at her councillors. Then she nodded and stood. “The full briefing pack will be with you this evening, and we can discuss this situation again tomorrow.”
Then she strode from the room, Johnson hurrying behind, leaving the councillors to discuss and squabble amongst themselves.
22
Warden had made them follow a roundabout path, purposefully guiding the convoy through a dust storm to conceal their route and prevent the Deathless from following them as they returned to Fort Widley. It had added hours to their journey, but Warden had thought it better to be cautious - they had already pushed their luck a long, long way.
Ten had found two Deathless APCs in a garage at the southern end of the Deathless base. They had, like the rest of the enemy’s kit, turned out to be robust and well-suited to their purpose. They were also gigantic, with eight wheels and space for a whole platoon, support personnel, powered armour and heavy weapons.
Warden had crammed them full of kit pilfered from the enemy mothership then rifled through the rest of the garage and taken all the light patrol trucks they could find. They'd even found an ambulance, which Milton had insisted that they take.
When they finally reached Fort Widley and drove into the huge cavern that acted as the main garage, they found Captain Atticus and a company of the newly minted Militia of Bristol waiting for them.
“Just wanted to be sure, Lieutenant,” said Atticus as he led Warden, Milton and Marine X to the command room. Someone had rigged a load more monitors and they were showing live images of the Deathless base, a direct feed from the small swarm of micro-drones the techs had left behind.
“There’s incoming,” said Johnson, Governor Denmead’s aide, who had been watching the enemy ship as it entered orbit, “Two dropships, we think, heading for the base and due to land in a few minutes.”
Ten grinned, playing with a remote control, almost bursting with excitement.
“You were successful, Lieutenant?” asked Governor Denmead, although the very presence of the Marines pretty much answered the question.
“Mostly, Ma’am, although we took casualties at the quarry, I’m sorry to say.”
Atticus nodded grimly as Warden ran through the pertinent events.
“We can talk about that later, Tom,” said Atticus, “your casualties are already being redeployed. I’m not sure what more you could have done.”
“Dropships approaching the base,” said Johnson, leaning forward in his seat. The others peered at the monitors until, suddenly, three black shapes appeared as if by magic in the micro-drones’ fields of view.
“Two dropships, Johnson?” asked Denmead, eyebrow raised.
“Or maybe three, Governor,” conceded Johnson, “the resolution isn’t all that good on the near-space sensors.”
“You brought back two Deathless APCs, Lieutenant. Anything else?” asked Atticus as the dropships slowed toward the base.
“Small arms, munitions, armour, vehicles. No game changers, I’m afraid, but plenty of useful kit. We do have some potential intelligence finds that might be worth looking at if we can spare someone.”
“And we left them a couple of surprises, Sir,” said Ten, still playing with his remote trigger.
“Hmm,” said Atticus, eyeing him suspiciously. He turned to the techs. “Can we zoom in on the dropships? I want to see what happens when they land.”
Robinson flicked at the controls, and the monitors switch to showing larger views of the three dropships as they closed on the base.
“They’ll be down in about thirty seconds,” said Robinson, “they’re well below the micro-drones now.”
The room was silent as the dropships completed their descent, coming to rest inside the base, all neatly lined up. The ramps dropped, and scores of Deathless disembarked, dashing clear of their transports as if afraid they might be toxic.
“Looks like they’ve got the hang of rapid deployment,” said Ten, grudging respect heavy in his voice, “but they’re a few hours too late to do any good.”
“Zoom in there,” said Atticus, pointing at a clump of figures that were clearly inspecting the damage to the mothership. The view jumped down, not far enough to read facial expressions but far enough to show body language. “They don’t look too happy, do they?” asked Atticus rhetorically as the clones, clearly officers, wandered around the base inside their protective cordon of troops. One, high-ranking maybe, kept pointing at things, sending his troops scurrying hither and thither.
Then he turned toward the mothership and gestured angrily. A squad of the rank and file Lizardmen clones disappeared into the giant ship, and most of the officers followed a few seconds later. The ones left outside, maybe feeling a little exposed and unwilling to take more risks than were strictly necessary, hunkered down at the edge of the spaceship and pulled their cordon of troops a little more tightly around them.
“Like a child with a comfort blanket,” muttered Warden.
“And about as dangerous,” murmured Ten, so quiet that only Milton heard. She shot him a look, and he grinned expansively, all teeth.
“I think that’s about as good as it’s likely to get, Lieutenant,” said Atticus.
“Very good, Sir. Let’s pull the view back a little so we can see the whole base again.” He paused while the techs adjusted the view. “And Happy Christmas!” He activated an icon on his HUD. There was a pause, a few heartbeats only, but long enough that Warden wondered if it had worked.
Then the mothership was rocked by a series of explosions, in several locations near the engines and around the hull. Bright flashes could be seen through viewing ports around the ship. A huge gout of flame shot out from the open boarding ramp, hurling debris into the back of the troops waiting nearby. A lone figure stumbled out of the ship, raised its hand as if to signal for help then collapsed.
There was a muted murmur of appreciation from the people in the command centre.
“Well done, Lieutenant,” said Atticus, nodding to Warden.
The troops who had set themselves up behind the convenient arc of cover in front of the boarding ramp began to stand and turn toward the ship.
“One second, Sir,” said Warden, activating another icon in his HUD. Explosives concealed in the conveniently positioned crates that the Deathless had been using as cover, detonated, scything down the troops nearest the ship.
“Even better,” said Denmead to general agreement.
“If I may, Sir?” said Ten, waggling his own trigger.
