“Yes, yes,” Nero said, returning the salute as if waving away the formality. “Tell me about my installation.”
A captain cleared his throat and directed a holomap to display a meter in front of the general’s head. It showed the multiple levels, sections, and corridors of the massive factory capable of producing the capital ships needed to conquer the Republic. “As you can see, General, we have full control of more than eighty percent of the facilities, with fifteen percent contested and likely to fall shortly, and the remaining five percent firmly in control of the Republic Marines. Mostly these are areas where they have formed a last-stand defense, sealing off access and barricading themselves into defensive positions.”
Nero waved his hand. “These are of no concern. Gas them. What of the reactors?”
“These were guarded by local security, and surrendered with virtually no resistance.”
“Good. Anything else?”
Eyes shifted nervously around the room. A strong-chinned officer with a rare but distinctive scar from a cleft lip—probably edge-born, his parents unable to do a natal reversal—cleared his throat. He wore the white embroidered symbol of an intelligence officer: two stylized trees with twisted, intertwining trunks. “We have received a report that a Republic kill team has been dispatched to Tarrago Prime.”
Nero viewed the room from beneath his brows, his eyes moving left to right and taking in the expectant, worried looks of his officers. “And what is your source for this intelligence, Captain—?”
“Condaras,” the intelligence officer answered. “This information did not come through our own channels, General. It was sent through command by Admiral Devers, the Republic defector.”
Nero nodded. He had heard of Devers, of course. The entire galaxy was familiar with the Hero of Kublar. Whether he was worthy of the reputation was immaterial; the patronage of Senator Orrin Kaar was all the admiral would ever need to succeed in the Republic. And to suggest otherwise—say, in a whispered conversation in some darkened corridor on board a destroyer, with the hope that the thrumming of sublight engines kept one from being overheard—was career suicide. Because conversations, real conversations, took two people. And in the cutthroat world of the Republic Navy, you didn’t give anyone an advantage over you, like the person on the other end of your conversation. Friendships were few and frail.
For his part, Nero knew little about Devers beyond the man’s public persona. He was a point, and that in itself suggested incompetence. But not always. Nero could have learned more, if he had wished, but he’d left the Legion long before Kublar, and hadn’t had the inclination to reach out to acquaintances still serving to hear the scuttlebutt. They wouldn’t have answered anyway unless from a sense of guilt about what happened to… her. And that was something Nero desperately wanted to do without. So no, he would not have called to find out just how heroic the Hero of Kublar truly was. It was of little concern.
But the information Devers had provided, if true, was of tremendous concern.
“Do you have any reason to doubt the veracity of this report, Captain Condaras?”
“We are… uncertain how to grade the reliability of intelligence from defecting forces,” Condaras admitted. “But efforts have been undertaken to prepare for the potential of a kill team incursion.”
“A sound course,” Nero agreed. “This kill team will need to be eliminated. All of them. This mission cannot afford even one Dark Ops legionnaire to move unchecked in this sphere. Tell me, Captain… what you imagine this kill team has been sent to do.”
“The report from Admiral Devers was… dramatic and bombastic, if I may say so…”
Nero looked at the captain with a cold eye. “You may… this time. But I would advise you to have a care in disparaging rank, even rank within the Republic.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Continue,” Nero said, setting his cap on a table.
“Yes, sir. The report seemed to name every possible course of action as the sure one. I’m not sure the reason for this…”
Nero supplied the answer with a humorless smile. “This is in order that the admiral would be right no matter what happened. It’s a standard means of communicating intelligence among those with positions and reputations to maintain within the Republic. A fine way to kill a squad of legionnaires. Continue.”
“Ah,” the captain answered, looking around him for help, clearly uncertain over how to respond. “Sir, it is our belief that the team will attempt to infiltrate the shipyard and rally any surviving marines for a counterassault to regain control of the facility until reinforcements can be sent from a Republic battle fleet.”
General Nero pinched his lower lip between two fingers and gently pulled at it, as if thinking this through. “A sound and rational interpretation,” he observed after several moments of deliberation. “However… the wrong one. A kill team is sent at the behest of the Legion. And the Legion’s desire will be to destroy these shipyards.”
“But General,” protested the major who had accompanied Nero into the room, “Kesselverks is far and away the most important shipyard in Republic space. Its production schedule is unmatched, and it can build any vessel. It would take months for the Republic to repurpose one of the smaller corvette shipyards in the mid-core. Surely they won’t suffer its loss.”
“The Republic?” Nero asked rhetorically. “Certainly, their desire would be to save the shipyard for the very reasons you name. They may even resort to finding their favorite Nether Ops branch to attempt just a thing. But the Legion knows that this battle is lost. Just as I do. And the kill team they’ve dispatched will attempt to deny us use of this facility.”
He turned and examined the holomaps behind him. He spoke softly to himself. “It’s what I would do.”
The major asked, “What would you have us do to defend Kesselverks, General?”
“Prepare your soldiers to defend the installation. Let no one in, and whatever you do… don’t allow your soldiers to be drawn outside. The struggle will be inside these shipyards, I assure you.”
Captain Condaras cleared his throat. “We have shock trooper patrols in the wilderness around the shipyards in an effort to deny any Republic forces who escaped the initial attack from rallying for a counterattack. Some have reported contact by reconnaissance from Republic forces, though the S-comms proved unreliable after the initial reporting. Shall I attempt to recall them?”
“I think—” Nero began, but he was cut off by the concussive sound wave from a massive explosion somewhere in the distance. Datapads fell to the floor of the makeshift command room. A silvene sculpture of a Republic destroyer broke free of one its supporting synthwires and swung on a downward arc into Nero’s ribs. The general was knocked into a table, striking the other side of his rib cage. As officers rushed to his side, the room lights flickered erratically, their artificial rays revealing clouds of dust drifting down from the ceiling, disturbed by the blast. The lights didn’t stabilize, but instead continued to flash an epileptic nightmare.
“Explosion recorded at the primary generators!” shouted a sensor tech.
“The kill team?” asked the major, visibly alarmed.
“So… ungh… it would seem,” Nero answered, pulling himself back to his feet. Every word was marked by a sharp pain. A knife point piercing his lungs. Nero knew cracked ribs, from experience. But they would have to wait.
He waved away the outstretched arms of well-meaning lieutenants. “Generator… defense?”
“Three squadrons of shock troopers,” answered the major.
“Sir,” a comm officer shouted, leaning back from his chair to call upon the major. “I am receiving no response from Red Platoon.”
“Send Blue Platoon to investigate!” ordered the major.
Nero raised his arm to protest, but the rush of pain took his breath away. Soon, a new problem drew the command center’s attention.
“Incoming distress transmission from Triad Platoon,” another comm officer said. “They�
��re experiencing heavy contact from an overwhelming force.”
“Patch… it…” Nero paused to groan in pain. Again the lieutenants rushed in to help him, and again he waved them away. “… through,” he finished.
Distantly, he heard Captain Condaras ordering someone to summon a medic. He became aware of a coppery warmth on his tongue, and bringing his fingers to his mouth, saw them come away coated with blood and saliva.
The comm officer synced the incoming distress into the central command center audio.
“Repeat!” a shock trooper shouted amid a fury of blaster fire. “We’re being pressed upon by an unknown force with overwhelming fire superiority. We are cut off from the rest of our force, and I do not have accountability… I… I think they’re dead. We need close air—”
The words stopped, though the comm feed stayed on. The command center heard the whistling sound of an incoming projectile, followed by an explosion. Comm officers looked at one another with mounting tension. Whatever was happening outside sounded bad.
“Triad One, this is Command. Are you still with us? Triad One?”
“Shhh…” came a rough and urgent whisper over the comm.
“Triad One?” the perplexed comm officer tried again.
The sound of blaster fire erupted, sounding close to the comm source, close to the shock trooper reporting the destruction of his platoon.
“What’s that noise in the background?” the major asked. It sounded like voices, but the shock trooper, if he was still alive, wasn’t the one talking.
“I’ll try and isolate and amplify.” The comm officer worked his fingers over his console, turned to the major, and nodded.
“By authorization of the Legion, you are to be terminated,” came the low and terrible death sentence of a war bot.
More blaster fire erupted, and the S-comm went offline.
The command center buzzed with conversations and status reports. Every comm officer was glued to their station, hands working frantically to ping, log, and record what was happening outside the shipyard.
“War bots,” the major said, his face ashen. The color returned as he turned on Nero. “Since when did kill teams deploy with war bots? I tell you, General Nero, they are seeking to retake the shipyard. And with so many of our troops stalled on the moon, we won’t be able to stop them!”
“No…” Nero said, his voice weak from whatever damage had been done to his insides. “This is an attempt to draw out our forces from the shipyard to fight ghosts.”
“Ghosts?” the major shouted. “Did ghosts destroy our platoons on patrol?”
“Sir,” a comm officer chimed in, “I’ve re-established S-comm connections with Lightning and Silo Platoons—but no one is answering my hails.”
“Dead!” the major screamed, drawing his own conclusion. “General, this is an invasion. The Republic is attacking en masse. We must send our shock troopers to repulse the impending attack!”
Nero stood erect, closing his eyes involuntarily from the pain. A trickle of thick blood escaped from the corner of his mouth. “You are being lured into a web of confusion,” he admonished the major. “And I won’t stand for any more of your panicked overreactions. All shock troopers are to stay inside the shipyard and be alert for Dark Ops infiltrators!”
“With all due respect, General Nero,” the major said as a pair of medics appeared on either side of his commanding officer. “You’re wounded, and I believe it is impairing your judgment.”
The major turned to expectant comm officers. “Ignore the general’s commands and have every platoon set up a defensive perimeter.”
“Damn you! I will not have my orders questioned!” Nero bellowed. He drew his blaster and fired a bolt into the abdomen of the major, who slumped onto the ground with a look of shocked horror.
This was not the sort of discipline Nero expected from his officers. His army was to be built upon battle-tested men, showing the full measure of competent ability, and this major was lacking. There had simply not been enough time to truly know his men. Nero wondered whether the wounded major was a pretender, exaggerating his skill set in order to seek fame and fortune in Goth Sullus’s new order. There were such men in the universe, and not everyone in the revolution would be as pure as Nero. Such was the reality. The true condition of man.
Nero looked down upon the major. “Now we’re both injured, and seeing as how both our judgments must now be impaired…”
Surveying the shocked command center, Nero gave a final order, every bit as vitriolic as his cries for the death of the Republic before this operation had started. “My orders will be followed!”
Captain Condaras stepped forward to address the Black Fleet. “You heard the general. Keep shock troopers deployed inside the shipyards and prepare for a kill team infiltration.”
The command center sprang to life as Nero’s orders were put into action.
One of the medics, along with a trio of junior officers, lifted the major and carried him off, no doubt to the shipyard infirmary. Nero stayed to watch his officers work for a few moments longer, then turned to walk to the infirmary under his own power. His injuries would be little more than a memory within the next eighteen hours; the infirmary was stocked with hospital-grade equipment.
But upon reaching the door, he heard a report that would keep him from the medical attention he’d need for the foreseeable future.
“Sir,” a comm officer said, his tone weary. “Our sentry posted above the northwest spire is reporting possible visuals on the kill team.”
“Which spire is that?” Captain Condaras asked.
“One of the unused repulsor spires they attached the near-completed capital ships to before they’re tugged to the launch bays.” That spire provided a panoramic view of the area surrounding the shipyard—that’s why it had been selected as a sentry location.
“Put him through.”
Nero slumped against the door jamb to hear this report. He wanted now, more than anything else, to have solid intel. How many legionnaires? Were they moving alone or with a strike force? Did they carry with them any crew-served weapons, or were they moving for stealth and speed?
The promise of answers came with the S-comm feed’s relay into the command center.
“Report to Command,” the comm officer instructed the sentry.
“Copy,” the shock trooper sentry replied, his voice calm. “I have visuals on a Republic kill team.”
“How many?”
“Just one for now. He’s peeking from behind the warehouse opposite the shipyard entry.”
This comment caused the officers in the command center to exchange glances. The kill team was already inside the perimeter. The officers’ faces betrayed the dread they felt at the idea of a kill team, capable of killing them all, being so close to where they now sat.
“Feed in the visual feed from the sentry’s helmet,” Captain Condaras ordered.
Nero stared at the grainy visual, hued in the red of shock trooper night vision, as it appeared on the holodisplay. A Republic legionnaire kept looking around a corner, his helmet the only part of him that was visible. The resolution was abysmal at the display’s distance—and yet, there was something odd about the rhythmic way the helmeted soldier appeared, looked from left to right, and then disappeared back behind the building. And then… the helmet’s ultrabeam came on for a half second. As if the legionnaire wanted to be seen.
“Decoy!” Nero shouted, and then labored through a cough. “Decoy!”
But the warning came too late. A gloved hand obscured the shock trooper’s visor, sending the holodisplay into darkness just before the sentry screamed and the display spun violently, giving the watchers in the control room a sense of vertigo as the shock trooper tumbled down from the top of the spire.
They heard his screams all the way to the ground.
15
Things are going well, Wraith told himself. The kill team had re-formed and was making its way through the compound. And so far, none
of the shock troopers in the facility seemed to have any clue to their whereabouts—if their panicked S-comm transmissions were any indication.
It was hardly any wonder why.
Wraith had greatly enjoyed watching the effects of the first missile’s impact with the power generators. The ground had shaken, and every light in the compound had flickered out before coming back to life at half strength. With any luck, a recovery squad of shock troopers would be sent to the site just in time for the next missile to strike.
An incoming chime from KRS-88 sounded in Wraith’s bucket. “Enemy squadron eliminated,” the war bot reported in a deep and ominous tone. “Awaiting orders.”
“What’s your operational status?” Wraith asked as he leapt over a toppled barrel of coolant. The team was in a relatively open stretch of a shipyard dock, making their way from pallet to pallet of freight and materials. Looking back, Wraith realized that he’d pulled out a good distance ahead of the others.
“System integrity is ninety percent,” the war bot replied. “Weapons systems near depletion. Ten percent capacity remains.”
That wasn’t much. Certainly not enough to overwhelm another squad of shock troopers should the bot get the drop on them… again. It seems that the patrols on duty hadn’t been expecting much of anything by way of resistance. The legionnaires, after all, were supposed to all be stationed on Tarrago’s moon.
Surprise, surprise.
“Make your way back to the Six,” Wraith ordered, coming to a halt just outside an open dock bay door. He checked to make sure there was no one waiting in ambush, signaled for the rest of Victory Squad to hurry up, then bounded toward the massive, open-platform freight elevator that could take them down to the super-destroyer’s build level.
“Affirmative,” KRS-88 answered. “Calculating direct route to designated location.”
“Try and avoid any further engagements,” Wraith said, reaching the freight elevator and scanning the surrounding area for targets as the kill team caught up. They were all fast, even Bear, who brought up the rear, but Wraith was faster. He’d always been a fast runner, and somehow when he put on his armor, he felt faster still.
Sword of the Legion (Galaxy's Edge Book 5) Page 12
