Planetary Assault (Star Force Series)

by B. V. Larson

  SystemLord and Monitor only realized what was happening when those Sentry posts beyond his position began to disappear; everything was being destroyed nearly at lightspeed, and not even radio could give sufficient warning to take action. The blasts of railgun shot were the flyswatters, and Meme installations the flies.

  Clusters also targeted every other asteroid of significant size, over three hundred thousand of them. Those containing Meme installations that had maneuvered, stayed safe. Those that had not, disappeared in the same destructive sweep. The millions of clusters of relativistic grapeshot rolled across the system and obliterated everything that remained in their way.

  Larger groups had targeted planets and moons, out of an abundance of caution and capability. EarthFleet had no way of knowing whether some of these were inhabited but it was cheap and easy to lay a cluster onto each smaller planet, moon or planetoid.

  Though the steel storm scourged the system’s immobile pieces, when it reached the Underling planet it was only minimally successful. Most of the artificial satellites had been moved to different orbits days ago, and had continued to vary their positions at random intervals for just such an attack. Thus over ninety-eight percent of the orbital installations survived the railgun blast.

  The target planet’s single moon was more fortunate; the EarthFleet attack struck its tide-locked outer side on the analytical presumption that military and observer installations would face away from the planet. However, except for a few telescopes and communication repeaters, all of the vital facilities survived on its inside facing, turned perpetually toward the world below.

  Unbeknownst to the Humans perhaps, SystemLord thought with some small satisfaction, the moon structures were not crewed by normal Underlings but by Purelings, cloned Underling bodies whose blank brains easily accepted the loyal Meme mitoses cleaved from the pure race. Such programmed warriors would fight and die with perfect obedience, insuring the superficially similar Underlings on the planet could never upset the natural order of things.

  The commander wondered to himself to what use those installations would be put, as it observed with cold rage a ferrous sleet of over one million spheres impacting the atmosphere of the planet itself.

  Such small objects vaporized in the upper atmosphere, creating spectacular and dangerous effects of heat and shock, but not true devastation to the billions of Underlings and savages below. Had the individual shot massed even ten kilos each, they would have denuded half the planet of higher life.

  But this group had apparently been optimized to spare the population. The shockwave knocked Underling aircraft out of the sky, blew down delicate structures such as communications dishes and towers, and shattered the economy of half the world, but caused surprisingly few casualties, except at certain military sites.

  SystemLord’s initial reaction was one of grief and outrage: the Underlings, while not pure Meme, were nevertheless citizens of the Empire and deserving of life and his protection. Once he recognized the Humans’ strategy, however, he grudgingly accorded them credit for cunning. To the hybrids and natives on the planet the attack might seem merciful, to spare their civilians.

  Despite his losses, he believed he still had sufficient resources. His mobile Sentry network remained intact. The score of cruisers and two score of frigates he had ordered gestated would be his pods of destruction. Those ships and Monitor itself had escaped all damage from the attack, so SystemLord still possessed over ninety percent of his military power.

  However, most easy consumables had been demolished; if the battle lasted too long, his ships might run out of ready food and water, or spend undue amounts of time chasing crumbs of matter. He began to ponder a strategy to mitigate this problem.

  ***

  Probe R-05 observed the results of the EarthFleet’s salvo with a computer’s dispassion. It gathered its data and stored it, waiting to fulfill its purpose. As the enormous number of missed projectiles exited the system on the opposite side, this condition tripped a protocol. That subroutine ordered it to power up all of its capacitors, to direct its powerful laser communicator to the decelerating Conquest, and then to commit radio suicide.

  Self-murder by Meme was an appropriate description, for within one minute a roving Sentry detected its broadcast. While its complete load of data flashed by laser toward the approaching Earth fleet, the robot drone broadcast an abbreviated version in all directions via radio, and it was this that the living defender of the system homed on.

  The probe emitted for almost three minutes before an organic projectile blew it to flinders; plenty of time for thousands of incoming EarthFleet missiles to receive vital situation updates before carrying out their kamikaze missions.

  ***

  “Sir, I have an initial INTSUM coming through.” Ensign Kris Johnstone brought the short, rough intelligence summary up on the main display. She was alone at the Intel board this watch, as most of her function was merely to relay information from the analysis teams in Conquest’s belly. “The header says it’s synthesized from the R-05 update we received thirty-five minutes ago. Intel says they will have most of the detail in the 0600,” referring to the first briefing of the day. “Orange icons are new hostiles, sir.”

  Pictures blossomed in the holotank, with hundreds of colored markers and icons showing positions of friendlies, enemies, and natural bodies in the Gliese 370 system. Absen remarked, “So it looks like, what, two dozen cruisers and thirty-some frigates. Tough, but with those numbers, we win.” He did not have to manufacture confidence: he was telling the flat truth. If the enemy ships were similar to the classes encountered in the Sol system, his thirty-seven ships, with their hundreds of fighters, thousands of drones and missiles, and eight Marine battalions, were more than a match for their foes – not even counting the dreadnought Conquest herself.

  “Looks like they are completely disorganized,” he mused. “Anyone know why?”

  Silence reigned until Kris hesitantly spoke up. “Sir…they might be feeding.”

  “Of course,” Absen agreed, “Good catch. We’re days out, so they are stocking up on raw materials and gestating weapons. They must be chasing down the remnants of the asteroids and comets our railgun strike broke up. Nice to see those had some effect.” He pointed at a flashing icon lurking behind the scattered enemy, back near the orange dwarf star itself. “What’s that?”

  “It’s tagged as an unknown ship type, sir. It’s too close to the star to get much detail but…great…these…” Kris rattled to a halt, a dazed expression on her face.

  “What is it, Ensign?” Absen snapped.

  Scoggins from Sensors started to move toward the Intel console but Ford at Weapons beat her to it, to look over Kristine’s shoulder. “It’s a ship all right, a hulking big one, skipper. The readout says over one hundred billion tons.”

  Absen stood up to stare at the holotank, as if by doing so he could wrest forth its secrets. “That’s heavier than this whole task force. More than ten times the mass of a Destroyer. How big is it?”

  “Ah…” Ford punched an icon, then another. The Ensign’s fingers danced over the touchscreen and brought up the details, turning to look up at the Commander, who read it. “It varies its configuration but as a rough sphere, about six kilometers across.”

  “Damn. One of the reasons we chose this system was because we’d detected traces that its garrison of Destroyers had left. What the hell is this thing then?”

  “Some kind of system guardian I bet, sir,” answered Ford, turning his habitually scowling face toward the Admiral. “A mobile fortress.”

  “Then why isn’t it near the planet?” Absen asked. “Why isn’t it hiding? That would be a nasty thing to have lurk behind its moon and jump out at us.”

  “Perhaps it is gathering energy from the star,” Okuda’s bass voice interjected. “And if I were a Meme, that’s where I would put my admiral. Just like we do, the biggest, most survivable ship will hold the brains.”

  “No doubt. And he’s giv
ing us a choice – come after him, or come after the planet. Standard space control doctrine would suggest we take him out before we move against the planet, but if we do that, we’ll lose ships, maybe the very ships we will need in the assault. If we go for the planet we let him choose the time and manner to fight. If we split our forces we risk defeat in detail, especially if he surprises us with something.” Absen stroked his chin. “Ensign Johnstone, inform Intel I want them to tease out everything they can on this Guardian. That’s what we’ll call it.”

  Chapter 7

  While not so vast a swarm as the billion railgun spheres, twenty thousand enemy fusion drives still struck fear into SystemLord’s complex molecules. Academically he knew this wave might be no more dangerous than the unexpected kinetic attack, but now he began to wonder just what else the Humans had prepared, and it worried him deep in his life code.

  Even so, he was thankful that he had an accurate count of their missiles and a rough prediction of their targets. Crossing the system boundary at less than one third of light speed, the weapons would take scant hours to reach vital installations. The Meme commander transmitted instructions to his flotilla to gestate countermeasures specific to this type of attack: myriads of simple interceptor midges.

  These tiny seekers were given just enough brain to sense, close with and attack the enemy weapons. They could be sown in their paths and be activated at the right time, like mines. Frigates and cruisers began to spew forth these countermeasures like fish laying eggs. Soon, hundreds of thousands of midges took their places, blind sacrificial defenders of the Empire.

  This strategy met with moderate success; more than ninety percent of the Human weapons were destroyed as they approached but that still left over a thousand missiles to home in on targets of opportunity. Seven newly-born cruisers and thirteen frigates perished in nuclear fire, a number that would barely be replaced by the time the enemy ships arrived. SystemLord shed futile molecular curses that Monitor absorbed, exciting the great ship further. He sent the beast questing after additional ice and ore. I need more ships, the Meme commander raged.

  SystemLord watched as the remainder of the missiles searched for and found the Underlings’ orbital and planetary defense installations, obliterating most of them. Through his mobile Sentry network he watched as the hybrids desperately defended themselves, destroying many incoming weapons, but they simply were not equipped to handle hundreds of attackers at high speeds. Physics could not be overcome by the technologies available, and thus the planet he was supposed to protect was stripped almost bare of defenses.

  Only the great Weapon on the inner face of the Underling planet’s moon remained untouched, even undiscovered, for its Meme controllers’ orders had not included firing on missiles that targeted others. Thus they had stood silent as the orbitals below died to the enemy missiles.

  SystemLord cursed himself yet again for not issuing general directives to engage any threat, but accepted the advantage his mistake had unwittingly preserved: the Humans probably did not know of the vast underground complex and its destructive engine originally intended to crush any Underling rebellion.

  The longer that place remained hidden the better, for once the enemy fleet had given up its incredible speed, had slowed to enter and possess the system, it would also give up the vast kinetic energy necessary for such devastating strikes. The Humans would have to close to natural weapon ranges and fight their way in, and if SystemLord guided his forces correctly, the Weapon could turn the tide of battle.

  ***

  Admiral Absen eyed the bridge displays with his chin in his hand. Task Force Conquest had crossed into the Gliese 370 system sixteen hours ago at approximately .1C. Under Master Helm Okuda’s guiding hand he watched the ships decelerate intermittently and randomly. Combined with lateral maneuvers, he hoped this dodging would allow them to close with the enemy unscathed.

  At the present rate it would take almost one hundred hours to reach Afrana. We have to threaten what they value, Absen thought, to bring them to battle. The worst thing that could happen would be enemy ships dancing out of reach, conducting long-range attacks, and harassing the colonization. We have to decisively cleanse the system of enemy. With the Meme’s living ships, give them enough time and the threat will grow back again like weeds.

  “Conn: Bogeys, multiple bogeys,” Commander Scoggins on the primary Sensors console abruptly called. “Inbound small hypers, count one hundred sixty-six. Stealthed drone launchers. Marking.”

  Soft bleeping alarms highlighted flashing red icons on the main 4D holotank. To Absen it seemed as if a swarm of red bees had appeared out of nothing to interpenetrate the task force. “Counterfire on automatic,” he heard Commander Ford at Weapons report. The admiral growled, “Comms, sound Battle Stations. All ships prep damage control parties.”

  Rick Johnstone had already conveyed the alert to the fleet on his own initiative.

  Forty-eight massive primary lasers, half the cruisers’ complements, flashed out and plucked the same number of enemy sentry drones from space. In keeping with Meme doctrine those had not maneuvered but had let the launch of their own missiles push them aside in hopes of dodging any return fire and returning to stealth status while gestating new missiles.

  Using primary lasers against such small targets was like using sledgehammers to swat flies, but in this case the sledgehammer could be spread wide, encompassing enough space to catch the little flies before they slipped away. Another forty-eight beams fired while the others recharged, destroying almost thirty more Sentries.

  By this time missiles spat from launchers on all ships, one at each remaining enemy Sentry. These easily closed with and destroyed all but three of the rest, which slipped away into the black.

  Neither of these weapon systems bothered with the inbound hypervelocity missiles themselves; evading at hundreds of gravities, they simply could not be intercepted at long range. The lightspeed delay itself made it impossible to hit them as they flew their serpentine courses, jinking in all directions as to make even lasers miss. As they got closer to their targets, the task force’s multilayered integrated missile defense system came into play.

  First came the laser drones, scattered by the hundreds in a cloud throughout the fleet. Inevitably some of the hypers crossed paths with these tiny pickets and their lightspeed weapons, and were damaged or destroyed; a few missiles turned to attack the little EarthFleet shiplets, annihilating themselves in the process.

  “One hundred twenty-eight still inbound,” Scoggins intoned. The bridge crew stared at the approaching red icons – just the first shower of darts that presaged the storm to come.

  Next came short-range charged particle beams, deliberately focused wide to catch the jinking hypers. These weapons generated enormous electrical energies that penetrated the living missiles they hit, scrambling their nervous systems and destroying their brains, causing them to tumble harmlessly off course.

  “Forty-six…forty-three…” Scoggins counted down the tally as the impact clocks descended toward zero. At nine seconds out she called, “Thirty-eight got past the CBPs. Everyone’s on their own.”

  Finally, electromagnetic shotguns on the surface of targeted ships engaged incoming projectiles at point-blank range, spewing forth millions of tiny tetrahedrons that shredded the enemy missiles. So great were the energies of these broken hypers that they still struck their targets, but instead of impacting in tight, deadly punches, they splattered themselves against EarthFleet armor and did not penetrate.

  Even so, a few of the missiles dodged all attempts at interception and bore in to draw their first human blood.

  One struck the massive forward armor of the battleship Bukavu, penetrating almost a meter before its energies dissipated, a bare pinprick. Two more impacted Conquest herself with no more effect. Five found forward faces of beam cruisers as they turned their glaces outward, achieving nothing. Three flew into the missile boxes of frigates, destroying swaths of weapons but sparing lives.


  Despite all efforts one smashed itself through the thin plating of the assault carrier Giessen and entered one of its four service decks at thousands of meters per second. Kinetic energy equal to many tons of explosives spewed debris across the hangar, cutting down crew chiefs, technicians and Marines alike, and destroying the eight StormCrow fighters resting there. Fires went out almost immediately as automatic systems sealed the flight deck off from the rest of the ship, leaving it and its grisly contents in vacuum.

  As the word came in, Absen knew the Giessen’s dead were the first in a long litany of casualties sure to come. He cursed himself for assuming attacks would come from the front, where the fleet’s long-range sensors reported enemy warships and the Guardian. It had been a clever ruse to maneuver the stealthy little drones into their path like mines, and he had no doubt the Meme commander aboard that enormous ship would have more surprises.

  He thanked the powers that be that hypers this small never held atomic warheads. A nuke would have taken out the Giessen.

  ***

  Vango Markis ran through his preflight checklist as the numbers on his opticals counted down. The digits seemed to float in front of him but that was only an illusion caused by the direct feed to his optic nerve. When they hit five minutes the shiplink enabled and his consciousness expanded.

  It was almost orgasmic, this rush of virtual sensation. He could hear the multilevel chatter of other preflights, could feel the thrum and pulse of his StormCrow Weaver, of idling fusion engines; he could see in all directions around him, he could taste and smell the healthy readiness of the weapons and systems.

  Dangerously immersive, every Crow jock longed for this seductive state of being; to be fully integrated into a powerful, deadly machine. Perhaps only the Helmsmen who piloted starships shared this sensation. Even a wizzo in the back seat experienced only a fraction of it. In this place and time his legs were engines, his arms were wings, his hands were drones, his fingers railguns and lasers, and his eyes…once they got into space his eyes would see the universe.