The engagement had been building to this moment – the time when the opening exchanges would descend into a savage revelation of who could hit the hardest. Alliance railer turrets spewed an imaginable quantity of slugs into the void, each gun able to track hundreds of separate targets. Countless solid tracers of white raked the darkness, aiming to punch the incoming warheads into glittering pieces, and the disruptor drones sparkled and danced in erratic patterns, their transmission units saturating the vicinity with false signals to fool the guidance systems of the enemy missiles.
Deep inside the Loadout’s hull, Flint and his crew weren’t entirely isolated from the technological fury. The railers produced a distant grumble like the densest of rainfall striking the hull, and the booming ignition of hellburners was the sound of a distant storm.
“Interceptors launched,” said Maddox. “Shock burst deployed.”
Two hundred tiny missiles streaked from their topside launchers and sped towards the inbound missile wave, while the shock burst’s short-range propulsion carried the warhead only a few thousand kilometres before it detonated.
From the corner of his eye, Flint saw – on one of the peripheral feeds - the Lucerne’s Terrus-IV barrels jump into their turrets with the recoil of discharge. The battleship’s sleek hull glinted with red and orange from its next hellburner launch and its railers fired nonstop.
The enemy missiles travelled fast and peaked at forty thousand kilometres per second. Flint knew what the alliance countermeasures were capable of and he guessed the incoming velocity was too great for the railers and interceptors to accurately track. He banked hard, trying to gauge which of the missiles were targeted at the Loadout. A dozen red dots altered course to follow and Flint banked again, swearing when he realised how manoeuvrable those missiles were.
Suddenly, the Kantilvor and the Ferocious were engulfed in plasma flames, most of their hulls shrouded within the intolerable heat.
“Holy crap!” said Maddox. “What kind of payload are those enemy missiles carrying?”
“We need to get out of here,” said Flint, recognizing a coming disaster when he saw one. “I’d say we’re losing that refinery anyway and the loss of our warships on top of that won’t help anyone.”
He touched the tactical screen to select a short-range lightspeed transit destination, but couldn’t bring himself to push the activation button. Not yet.
Another series of rapid-fire energy beams stabbed outwards from the enemy ship, causing the Scavaron’s and the Lucerne’s mesh deflectors to activate. By Flint’s reckoning, that left both warships relying on their armour plating for the next four minutes. It was hard to keep score with everything that was happening.
He hauled on the Loadout’s controls and the heavy cruiser twisted and spun. The red dots were about to hit. Three or four vanished and Maddox announced the launch of more disruptor drones and interceptors. It wasn’t going to be enough.
An ovoid of sword cut lights on the darkness sprang into being around the Loadout as the enemy missiles detonated against the mesh deflector. One of the red energy beams struck the shield at the same time, starkly visible as it cut through the plasma.
For two or three seconds, the deflector held and then it disappeared, leaving the heavy cruiser with a single active module.
“Sir, we’re running out of options,” said Maddox.
“We’ve received orders from the Kantilvor to activate our SRTs and regroup,” yelled Garrett. “Once we’ve figured out the reason our weapons are failing, we’re to come back for another shot at that enemy warship.”
The Daklan were brave as hell but they weren’t stupid, and the officer in command of the annihilator must have known this was a lost battle. The local fleet was fighting an opponent which had soaked everything and remained as pristine as the day it flew out of the construction yard.
“The Kantilvor is in a bad way,” said Maddox. “I doubt it’ll be coming back whatever happens.”
“Sir, our ternium output is falling fast,” said Fredericks. “Once we hit that SRT, there won’t be another.”
The taste of defeat, meted out so easily by this unknown enemy warship, was bitter in Flint’s mouth. Unable to see an alternative that wouldn’t result in the destruction of the Loadout and the deaths of his crew, he crushed his thumb onto the SRT activation button and the heavy cruiser entered lightspeed.
Chapter Five
For Lieutenant James Vance and his platoon, life on the Tibulon refinery was so dull that some of the soldiers had resorted to the most idiotic of methods to pass the time. When – two weeks ago – Private Eric Drawl had reported his arm broken, Vance had to threaten to break the other before the soldier confessed to having bet one of the Daklan – a brute called Rendos who should have known better - a day’s wages that he could handle three full-strength punches on the aforementioned arm.
Drawl had lost the bet and Vance had docked the man five additional day’s wages before sending him off to the medical facility to have his humerus force healed. In hindsight, Vance thought he’d let Drawl off lightly and it was only because he was sympathetic to platoon’s plight in being stationed out here on Tibulon that he’d been so lenient.
And, admittedly, much of the blame was his – Vance was old enough to recognize it and he kicked himself for being lulled by the daily routine and letting the soldiers slide into the same state of ennui. Since the broken arm incident, Vance had kept his platoon busy with outdoor drills, along with various wargames both in and out of the facility buildings.
The refinery was home to thousands of personnel and Vance was outranked by many of the senior scientists, researchers and even some of the operators, albeit they were assigned to a different section of the military and had no direct authority over him or his soldiers. These personnel were, in general, content to get on with their own work and let Vance get on with his, even if that involved fully equipped soldiers running through several of the low-priority buildings, shooting at imaginary opponents.
Like many planets, Tibulon was – in the parlance – hot enough to fry an egg during the day, and at night, cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. The shortest of intervals existed between day and night, during which the surface temperature was pleasant, though the atmosphere was so thin it wouldn’t have been advisable to venture outside in flower-patterned shorts and a T-shirt, not even had a day’s pay been wagered. It was during this time which Vance had called an early-morning muster.
He kept his expression neutral and his eyes roved among the twenty-nine soldiers, keeping them in suspense. To his left, also facing the platoon, Sergeant Hunter Gantry carried his MG-12 repeater pack like it weighed no more than a standard loadout.
To the right, the Daklan Sergeant Tagra – eight-and-a-half feet tall and with a scowl that could make a new recruit shit their spacesuit at a hundred paces – carried an evil-looking Rodan room sweeper. A Rodan was designed to eject a cluster of tiny slugs in either a wide or narrow spread and was the equivalent of an ancient shotgun updated for the modern era. What it lacked in range over a standard gauss rifle, it made up for in punch.
The soldiers were dressed in full combat gear, the appearance of which borrowed from both Daklan and human designs stretching back almost twenty years. This made the troops outwardly identical, except for the variations in their sizes, the average Daklan male being almost two feet taller than the average human male.
A harsh glittering in his periphery told Vance that the Qastus-91N star was rising, and he glanced along the road – formed by machine smoothing of the planet’s natural surface - which ran between the warehouses east of the barracks and allowed a view across forty or fifty kilometres of uncaring rocky plains to the far horizon. Directly overhead, a pair of massive shuttles flew slowly side-by-side towards the far mountains, the drone of their engines muffled by the lack of atmosphere to carry the sound.
“Listen up!” Vance bellowed on the troop comms channel. “Today, we’re taking a run from this
barracks building to the eastern perimeter and back. You’ll be carrying full loadouts.” He smiled thinly behind his visor. “That means everyone.”
Vance kept a close eye on those who carried the heavy rocket tubes and repeaters. They didn’t complain, though the coming exercise would be harder on them than the others.
“Maybe you could challenge Lieutenant Sizemore and his platoon to a race, sir,” said Private Drawl. “I’d hate to think they were sitting on their behinds and losing their fitness.”
“Thank you for the suggestion, Private,” said Vance. “I think you should deliver it personally to Lieutenant Sizemore.” He thumbed over his shoulder at the two-storey barracks building directly behind. Sizemore was a miserable bastard and was widely considered to have swapped his sense of humour for a handful of magic beans at some point early in his life. “You know where to find him.”
“Maybe we should show his platoon how it’s done first, sir,” said Drawl weakly. “It’ll give them some motivation when they see how fast we cover the ground.”
“Any other bright ideas?” asked Vance. He looked casually at the ammunition readout on the stock of his gauss rifle, as if he wasn’t really listening for an answer.
The other soldiers were wise enough to keep their mouths shut. They shuffled impatiently and waited for the next order. Vance turned his gaze along the planned route. Four thousand metres separated the barracks and the eastern perimeter, and the road ran past the main research building and into one of the storage areas where cargo and transport vehicles sped between the low-roofed buildings.
Vance was on the verge of giving the order when a green request light appeared on his suit comms unit. He recognized the name and accepted the channel.
“Lieutenant Vance?” The voice was that of Research Lead Victor Moseley, the most senior of the facility’s scientific personnel.
“What can I do for you, RL Moseley?” asked Vance.
“I’d like you and your platoon to escort a package to Basalt, Lieutenant. It’s ready for collection in the central research complex. You’re to board one of the shuttles and fly up to the heavy cruiser Loadout which will be waiting for you at a hundred kilometres above the facility.”
Thirty soldiers seemed excessive for the task, though Vance didn’t say anything. He knew which spaceships were currently stationed at Tibulon and the Loadout wasn’t one of them, so it must have been sent specifically for this mission. It was a significant commitment of resources. A shuttle flight to the heavy cruiser and a trip to Basalt would be a chance to learn what was happening and would also be a good way to break up the boredom.
“When do we lift off?” Vance asked, squinting towards the research building.
“The Loadout’s crew are expecting the shuttle’s departure in approximately twelve minutes.”
Vance shook his head in disbelief. “We’re mustered, but it’s a ten-minute run to the pickup point.”
Moseley cleared his throat. “I appreciate that, Lieutenant. I’ve had a lot on my plate and I didn’t consider the need for an escort until now. This is important. Extremely important.”
“We’re on our way, RL Moseley. I’ll contact you once we’re at the research building.”
Moseley ahemmed again. “It’s an additional ten minutes from the collection point to the shuttle pad, Lieutenant.”
“I already worked that out. We won’t be onboard that shuttle in twelve minutes, RL Moseley. I’ll leave you to pass on the message.”
“Just come as quickly as you can, Lieutenant.”
Vance closed out of the comms channel and switched once more into the dedicated platoon channel. “There’s been a change of plan – we’re making a fast run for that research building along there, collecting a package and taking it by shuttle to a heavy cruiser that recently dropped out of lightspeed.” He smiled. “And you’ll be pleased to learn we’re heading to Basalt.”
“Are we staying there, sir?” asked Private Ken Raimi, leaning against his rocket tube.
“I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you, Private,” said Vance, reflecting that he probably should have asked.
“So what’s this package we’re collecting, sir?” asked Private Titus Enfield. He was the platoon explosives expert and carried a battered cloth pack bulging with charges designed for every occasion.
Vance closed his eyes for a moment. “What did I just say? I don’t have any more information.”
“Uh, sorry, sir.”
Vance hefted his gauss rifle and absently patted the grenades dangling from a row of side clips. His HUD readout indicated the air temperature was rising, though he couldn’t feel it through the insulation in his suit. “Let’s move,” he said.
Setting a hard pace, Vance sprinted for the research building. His feet thudded almost soundlessly on the grey stone road and his breathing deepened. At forty-two years old, he should have been slowing down, but Vance felt as fit and strong as ever.
He kept his gaze locked on the destination. Out here in the depths of the universe there wasn’t a requirement for elaborate architecture and the building was little more than a windowless, four-storey cube of alloy, deposited on the surface of Tibulon by whichever primary lifter had brought it here.
A gravity car – one of the five-seater versions used by personnel for day-to-day transport – shot out of a narrow side road, sped directly in front of the platoon and then vanished between the two buildings opposite. The occupants of the car were hidden by the reflective windshield, but that didn’t stop a few of the soldiers offering an inventive variety of obscene gestures at the unseen driver.
“I should set up this MG-12 and give those bastards something to think about,” said Sergeant Gantry.
“Forget about it, Sergeant,” said Vance. “It’s not worth worrying about.”
A tiny red light began blinking on his HUD, indicating a status change in the facility security. Vance requested details and an automated response from the ground control mainframe advised him the base was under attack.
“What the hell?”
“Sir, have you received that warning?” asked Sergeant Gantry, running alongside.
“Yes, Sergeant, I have,” said Vance.
“I have no authority to obtain further details,” said Sergeant Tagra.
From the lack of reaction amongst the platoon, the rest of the soldiers hadn’t even received an alert. It was probably for the best, since it meant the platoon channel was quiet.
Vance requested a link to the facility control station, where he’d get a response from a real person instead of a computer. Expecting the comms to be jammed with traffic, he was surprised when Captain Burt Laney answered.
Laney was one of the relief officers for the stationed fleet and his voice was taut. “Lieutenant Vance I don’t have long - we’re under attack from an unidentified enemy warship. I’m told you’re escorting the exium - make best speed to the collection point.”
“We’re going up in a shuttle?” asked Vance. “With an incoming warship?”
“I’ll let you know if anything changes,” said Laney curtly.
The channel was cut from the other end, leaving Vance cursing at the sudden change of circumstances. He lengthened his stride and pulled out a lead over Gantry and the others.
“We’ve got an enemy warship incoming,” he said, talking quickly between breaths. “The pickup is still on, as is the shuttle ride to the Loadout.”
“You’re shitting us?” said Private Ossie Carrington. “I’d rather filter my coffee through a pair of Drawl’s week-old undershorts than spend ten minutes on a shuttle with an enemy spaceship on its way.”
Vance understood where she was coming from. Ground troops always had it rough and the risk level climbed markedly during transportation. The thought of being helplessly destroyed by a plasma warhead launched by a bunch of murderous aliens half a million kilometres away had always made Vance angry and it was an effort to stop his teeth grinding together.
“Who�
�re we facing?” asked Private Faye Raven, one of the newest additions to Vance’s platoon.
“Who do you think?” asked Sergeant Tagra, his already hard-edged voice developing an additional rasp from his fraying temper and ragged breathing.
“The Kilvar?” asked Private Kari Banks. “I thought they were a myth.”
“Be quiet,” said Vance with a surge of anger. He hated being in the dark, he hated stupid questions and he hated the thought of the coming shuttle flight. Stirring them together was enough to make the blood pound in his temples.
Anger and adrenaline combined and he outstripped the rest of the platoon to the research facility airlock. Only a couple of minutes had passed since the alert went out and the vehicles he’d seen earlier were either gone from sight or heading for cover. Vance cocked his head and he couldn’t even hear the shuttles which usually flew in numbers above the facility. He couldn’t blame their crews for setting down as quickly as possible.
The airlock – one of two dozen which accessed the building – comprised an outer door, an inner door, and a red-lit space in between. Vance hurried inside and his platoon followed. The airlock was large enough to accommodate all thirty but without much spare.
While the pressure equalised, Private Drawl complained that somebody had groped his ass. Usually the accusation would have generated a response of one kind or another. This time, nobody bothered, not even Private Rocky Bautista, who could usually be relied on to keep a joke going long after the laughter had stopped.
For long seconds, the inner door light remained red. The Tibulon facility had never seen action – in the same way most personnel and facilities in the alliance had never seen action – and Vance wondered if the security alert had locked down some of the doors. He requested a comms link to RL Moseley and received an automated response telling him the intended recipient was talking in a different channel.
At last, the light green appeared and Vance hauled down on the lever-like handle and crashed his shoulder impatiently into the thick inner door. It swung open easily and he heard the sound of the alarm, which blared through the interior loudly enough to be unmissable, yet without making conversation impossible.
Dark of the Void (Forged Alliance Book 1) Page 5
