by B. V. Larson
A window opened in his HUD—Zaxby on vidlink.
“Straker here.”
“Greetings, General Straker. You wished to consult with me?”
“Anything more about the wormhole engineers? The butterfly collectors?”
“Nothing specific. We need more time to attempt to communicate with them.”
“Do that later. What do you think about this setup?”
“The enemy base?”
“Yes. Why is it here? Why is it orbiting a black hole? What are they up to?”
“I should think it was obvious.”
“Not to me—obviously. Quit your mind games and explain.”
“You’re no fun.”
Straker held his temper. “Nope. Now do what you do best and talk.”
“What I do best is think—but I digress. To review: we’ve discovered stable wormholes here, as portals. They are generated by singularities—black holes, that is.”
“Got it.”
“And surprisingly, these portals grant FTL transit, via some unknown technology or technique. In common parlance, they are stargates. Portals. This is key.”
“Because if you could open a portal wherever you wanted, you could arrive instantaneously, anywhere, even inside curved space. It would revolutionize warfare.”
“I see you’re not a complete dolt. Yes, warfare is the obvious operational application of this technology. It’s not surprising you saw that first. Of course, what can be discovered and invented will also be countered—but not immediately. Whomever operationalizes this technology first will have a window of opportunity to strike directly at planets, without warning, bypassing most defenses.”
“And that window could topple empires. Even Crossroads could be taken.”
“Yes.”
“Or Atlantis and the Republic.”
“Yes.”
“And the Predators are here. Building a base right next to a black hole.”
Zaxby’s voice gained amusement. “Yes. Go on, you’re on the right track.”
“And there’s no sidespace limit on wormhole portals. Ships could be built as big as you wanted. Or... you could mount weaponry on asteroids... or planetoids. Planets!”
“Precisely, though my calculations say that a planet-sized portal would need a large black hole indeed. Still—”
“—this one here could generate a wormhole big enough to transit the base in front of us directly to Crossroads, or any other target. Hell, this could be a planet-killer too. Send a planetoid through and simply let it crash into a living world. It could wipe out all life.”
“Or, if used positively, this technology could usher in an age of easy, cheap trade and tremendous prosperity.”
“People always weaponize new technology if they can, because weapons are naked power. Look at the invention of aircraft, or atomics, or spaceships.” Straker frowned. “The Predators are here because the tech is here. They obviously haven’t operationalized it yet, thank the Cosmos. We have to acquire it—or destroy it.”
“Once a thing is known to be possible, it cannot be destroyed, Derek Straker, only delayed.”
“I know. Five-meter targets, Zaxby. Deal with what’s in front of us first. Kill these bastards, get our people back, and salvage what tech we can. The exploitation afterward will be your job—you and your science team.”
“It will be my pleasure. Zaxby out.”
Straker tried to find Redwolf, but it looked like Zaxby was still in stealth mode. No doubt he’d show up at some critical moment to play the hero—which was fine. The rubbery bastard had a knack for saving the day, and if he could do it one more time, more power to him.
And Roentgen was aboard, Straker remembered. He hoped Zaxby wouldn’t get the Thorian killed. Then he remembered that at least one descendant had returned to the Thorian ship just after fusing, so his friend lived on no matter what, in a way.
After checking in with his ground forces, Straker studied the briefing packages the ever-efficient Sinden uploaded to the network. Notes on tactics and enemy capabilities predominated. Real intelligence on the base was extremely sparse. Long-range imagery and sensor readings showed extensive surface facilities beneath a thin atmosphere, and indications of shallow subsurface tunneling and caverns too.
Fortunately, there was little defensive weaponry. The Axis clearly never expected to be found out and attacked here, and even if they were, with so many ships, they thought they were well defended.
They hadn’t reckoned with the Lithoids—or the Breakers.
Even so, the extent of the facilities indicated there would be plenty of ground resistance. They knew the Breakers were coming.
And somewhere on that sprawling base—if she wasn’t on a ship, or somewhere else—was Carla. He had to believe she was there, still alive, still sane.
He’d fight his way through hell to get her.
Had already done so.
Straker kept half an eye on the wider situation, noting when the skimmers and two Vulp ships skirmished with each other in Trollheim’s wake. The Vulps weren’t willing to commit to battle, merely harassing the Breakers, until one of them abruptly exploded. Straker couldn’t tell exactly what happened, as with their transponders turned off, Trollheim’s sensors could only track the skimmers—and Redwolf—intermittently and approximately. After that kill, though, it appeared the remaining Vulp ship withdrew, lurking.
When the Lithoids approached the combined Predator fleet, Straker watched with helpless interest. Over four hundred enemy vessels, ranging from corvettes barely termed ships up to heavy cruisers, formed into squadrons along species lines. Only the Arattak and Korven showed some coordination between species; the other three major races fought separately, but the five clearly had no admiral, no controlling commander.
The Lithoids had inferior numbers, inferior combat power, as far as the SAI could determine—counting each Lithoid group-person as a ship—but they attacked with greater intensity and coordination.
First, they fought their way through a screen of missiles and decoys, which were backed up by attack ships and long-range fire. The conventional missiles did little damage to the rocks, but some nukes got through, blowing individual rocks to gravel or melting them to slag. The Lithoids seemed hardly to notice, absorbing their casualties and using their lightnings to zap many of the warheads before they could detonate.
When the orgy of explosions dissipated, the rocks steamrolled the attack ships and small craft. Those tried to flee back to their lines, and some made it.
Behind them came the implacable Lithoid swarm, now reduced by a few percent, still awesome and terrible in its intensity. Straker wondered if the Predators felt fear.
In their place, he’d be afraid.
The battle was taking place within Trollheim’s primary weapons range, but unfortunately the rocks were between the dreadnought and any targets. Straker had no doubt Salishan was poised to fire as soon as she could.
In fact, the big ship was launching a missile spread now. Wave after wave of shipkillers ejected themselves from tubes and lined up under positive control, cruising ahead, aiming for the battle. Straker was no space tactician, but it was clear what his flag captain was doing: as soon as there were targets—or if the Lithoids were defeated or repulsed—every missile in Trollheim’s magazines would try to finish off the rest. It was an all-or-nothing gamble with the expendable ordnance, but a good one.
After that, there would be Trollheim herself.
And the ground assault forces.
The Lithoids met the main enemy fleet with a titanic crash, the stupendous energies involved overwhelming the sensors and HUD system with inputs. For long minutes Straker could see nothing but furious destruction. Pieces of rocks and wreckage shot out of the furball. Lightnings flashed. Ships exploded.
One unlucky Dusic frigate exited the battle—to one side, from the approaching Trollheim’s viewpoint—providing a clear shot. Immediately, the dreadnought swung her nose, lined up, and fired her
massive spinal particle cannon. The bolt ripped the centipede ship to shreds. Unfortunately, that was the only opportunity Trollheim had to support the Lithoids before the end.
That end came when suddenly, a remnant of rocks—a group of fewer than four hundred chunks out of the tens of thousands of individual pieces that had entered battle—raced away, curving off to escape. Straker wondered if they’d broken, routed, or had decided to preserve themselves. Perhaps whatever piece of them was Roentgen had brought them to their senses.
Or maybe he’d driven them to battle-madness.
If they survived, Straker would ask—and thank—what remained of Elder Wiser and Roentgen.
But the Lithoids’ efforts and sacrifices had wrecked the enemy. Out of four hundred or more ships, perhaps forty remained—the strongest or luckiest ships, and all battered. With the field now clear of allies, Trollheim’s missile strike accelerated at maximum, spreading out and launching decoys. At the same time, the dreadnought herself fired, spearing their largest ship, a Croc battlecruiser. That one resisted the first shot with its shields, but a second particle beam bolt reduced it to slag.
Yet forty ships could still put up a strong point-defense. The missile wave only destroyed or neutralized about twenty of them by the time Trollheim faced the remaining twenty. Normally, twenty to one would be a hopeless fight, even given that a dreadnought was worth at least five heavy cruisers.
Fortunately, the enemy was battered and hurt. Trollheim was in good shape, and crewed by elite spacers, veterans who’d been through battle after battle over the last ten years—against fellow humans, against Opters, and against the fearsome Crystals. They knew how to get the most out of their systems, knew where to hit an enemy ship to do the most damage—and knew they had a fighting captain. Her given name might be Mercedes—meaning “mercy” in one of Old Earth’s languages, Straker knew—but behind her back they called her “No Mercy” Salishan.
She showed no mercy now.
Straker allowed himself to vicariously revel in her ruthlessness as she dismantled ship after ship with deadly efficiency. As Trollheim closed to short range, her primary weaponry bolts—one every ninety seconds or so—became unstoppable. They blew through shields and hammered the ships they struck. Even if the targets were not destroyed, they were taken out of the fight. That was the true value of size, of a big ship. The big gun.
It soon became clear there was only one thing for the enemy to do.
Move in for an-out attack.
Chapter 31
Hell’s Reach, SBS Trollheim.
In Straker’s HUD view the last fifteen enemy ships and gaggle of remaining small craft accelerated toward Trollheim. The dreadnought’s shields at her prow flared with repeated strikes from beams, railguns and a couple of shipkillers the Predators had kept in reserve. Her heaviest armor and reinforcement were there, on her nose: her narrowest, thickest part. As intended, the defenses resisted and absorbed all that damage, preserving the ship through the storm—but only barely.
Straker could see the damage control board blossom with yellows and reds.
As the ship’s bow defenses began to fail, she fired one last spinal shot and spun laterally. The particle beam took out the enemy’s biggest remaining ship, an Arattak cruiser, and then Trollheim flew sideways through space, presenting her undamaged broadsides. Impellers spun the ship like an immense rifle bullet—making it difficult for any enemy to line up on any one part and punch through.
This technique also allowed the ship’s many secondary beams and short-range railgun turrets to roll into forward arc, fire, and then roll out, recharging before they came around again. Straker was reminded of old sailing warships that—if they had a large enough crew—would yaw to port and starboard, bringing alternate broadsides into play.
The multiple secondary weapons slashed at the enemy even as they fired back. Arattak aimed their top-shaped ships and fired all their beams together in a web of laser light. Korven tried to grapple onto the dreadnought’s hull, a few making it down to stick like lampreys. In the absence of battlesuited marines, the crew and the automated defenses would have to handle any boarders that cut their way in.
That reminded him... “Straker to Loco.”
“Loco here.”
“Where are you?”
“In the armory, climbing into a spare battlesuit and getting ready to ask you where you want me.”
“There are a few Korven grappled to the hull. Take charge of repelling boarders. Once the ship is secure, join the assault or do whatever you think will help.”
“Got it. Good hunting.”
“You too. Straker out.”
Outside, Trollheim was fighting the remaining twelve or so battered enemies to a standstill. She blasted and chopped at the enemy, doing damage, but was losing turrets and weaponry in equal measure. It became a race to see who ran out of guts first, like two fighters in a ring, barely able to stand.
Suddenly, two Arattak cruisers disappeared in blossoms of nuclear fire. Straker saw no missiles, and the dreadnought’s magazines were empty, so what—
Beyond the dwindling enemy fleet, two skimmer icons flashed briefly as they dipped in and out of underspace. Straker cheered, whooping behind his faceplate until he remembered nobody could hear him unless he opened a channel. The skimmers had quite properly waited for the right opportunity—ships with shields down, exposing them to float mines, their crews no doubt distracted by the intense battle in front of them.
Two more ships exploded, then another.
With the sudden loss of a third of their number, the seven remaining ships ran, blasting laterally to escape along the axis of Trollheim’s stern, where most of her weaponry couldn’t reach. The dreadnought couldn’t turn easily due to gyroscopic precession—the resistance a spinning object had to changing its axis—so they got away. The two skimmers—the third one must be still guarding against the lurking Vulps—harassed the fleeing enemy. Straker was no expert, but he thought he could call the space battle a hard-fought victory.
“Salishan to Straker.”
“Straker here.”
“We’ve got a temporary stalemate, sir. Best I can do. I’m slowing for drop, but I can’t afford to take up orbit—we’d be a sitting duck for enemy reattack. You get one pass, and we’ll have to come back for you. Any further instructions?”
“No, Mercy. Tell the crew for me that they’ve done a heroic job. Now it’s our turn.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“See you on the other side. Straker out.”
The flight deck controller beeped into the channel and droned, “All assault forces, prepare for launch. Launch in order on the green. I say again, launch in order on the green. Mechsuits, you’ll be last. Hold for drop signal.”
Blocky landers powered up, their running lights activating briefly before turning off again. Straker could see the pilots behind the slabs of transparent duralloy framing their cockpits. He switched to the mechsuiter channel. “Straker to Hetson.”
“Hetson here.”
“You ready, killer?”
“Born ready, sir. Who wants to live forever?”
Straker thought about the golems, and the rejuvenation tank, and living forever. “Time to kick some ass. We drop straight out the doors. Stay together and cue off me. We’re the heaviest hitters, the punch, the fire brigade. We’re here to kill every Predator we see. No quarter, no surrenders, no prisoners, no regrets. Anybody got a problem with that?”
The responses came as one. “No, sir!”
“Do your best to avoid harming any captives we find. Six Breakers were taken here. We’re going to bring them home.”
“Roger that, sir.”
Alive—or dead, they understood his unspoken subtext.
Straker’s HUD feed showed the planetoid looming as the dreadnought slowed and slowed further, matching rotation. Secondaries stabbed downward, blasting the few fixed defense turrets and missile launchers they identified, clearing the way for the vulnerable
landers.
When the flight doors opened and the drop lights turned green, those landers shot out into space. As the last of them cleared the opening, Straker unclamped and walked carefully across the deck. The plates there weren’t designed for the pressure of a mechsuit stride. When he reached the opening, the drop lights turned red again.
“Mechsuits hold fast,” the controller said.
Straker waited for the signal.
Long seconds passed. The controller was giving the mechsuits the best profile possible, dropping them when Trollheim was lowest and slowest. “Ten seconds. Nine. Eight... ”
When the ten seconds had passed and the green light blazed brightly, Straker stepped out into space. The other mechsuits followed. “Drop forces clear,” he reported.
“Drop forces clear aye. Good hunting, sir.”
“Death from above. Straker out.”
He shifted his attention to the mechanics of the drop, always a tricky operation for a mechsuit. Below him, the enemy complex was spread out over tens of kilometers, and it was clear from the scale of excavations that the place was intended to grow much larger. A quick calculation showed him the population was potentially unlimited. They could deploy millions, maybe billions of troops on a planetoid like this, larger than any fortress. If suitably armed and supplied, and if it could be sent via wormhole gate, it would become an assault platform of unrivaled size. Thousands of ships could ride along, and millions of landers could make a short trip from the surface to a target world. The ancient, horrifying dream of true alien invasion, where whole planets were subjugated and enslaved by massive, irresistible occupation forces rather than by orbital bombardment, could become a reality.
The falling mechsuits quickly struck the thin atmosphere, and Straker popped his canards to control his fall. They gave the illusion of flight. In reality, the angle of dive was so steep that without bleeding off velocity, the five mechsuits would end up as permanent parts of the landscape.
