by Jay Allan
Sullivan had to admire the foe, at least on one level. The battle was lost. Their lines were pierced in a dozen places, and they had no chance to reform and reorganize. But there hadn’t been a single surrender attempt, nor even one confused rout. They simply continued to fight, wherever they were, at whatever disadvantage they found themselves. As General Cain’s plan moved to fruition, it became a battle of annihilation, but still the enemy hadn’t run. They just kept fighting until they went down.
He saw a cluster of the brown-armored troops caught in a crossfire between two of his squads. They all went down in a few seconds. “Kloster, Jing, move up there. If any of them are alive, take them prisoner.” General Cain wanted captives from the mysterious enemy the Eagles were calling simply, “the browns.” And since they didn’t seem to surrender, the word had gone out to try and take them when they were wounded.
He watched his two troopers move forward, carefully, rifles in front of them. The Eagles were trained to be careful, methodical—and wounded men could still be dangerous. Sullivan moved up closer, watching his two soldiers.
“Looks like one’s still alive, sir. Kloster was leaning down as he sent his report, pulling the rifle from the armored gloves of the wounded man. “He’s hurt pretty bad, Lieutenant, but I think we can get him…”
A loud explosion cut him off. Sullivan lunged forward, but it was too late. Kloster had been blown several meters, and it was obvious from his twisted and blood-soaked armor he was dead. Jing was lying next to the obliterated remains of the enemy soldier. He looked badly hurt, but he was still alive.
“Medic!” Sullivan shouted as he ran up toward the cluster of enemy bodies. He held his rifle out in front of him, looking for any signs of life. He saw one of the figures move slightly, and he didn’t hesitate. He opened up at full auto, riddling the soldier’s body with hyper-velocity projectiles. He’d been driven half by rage, but he’d have done the same thing if he’d been totally calm. He’d lost one of his men, maybe two, and he’d be damned if he was going to allow that to happen again. He had no idea who these fanatics were, but he was more than ready to send them all to hell.
He opened a channel to headquarters. “This is Lieutenant Sullivan, commanding Third Company, 1st Battalion, White Regiment.” His eyes were focused on the shattered remains of what had been Private Kloster a moment before. “I need to speak with Colonel Teller or General Cain. Now.”
* * * * *
“General, we’re getting reports from across the field.” Teller was usually the epitome of cool during battle, but Cain could tell he was upset about something.
“What is it, Erik?”
“The enemy, the unidentified troops. They’re booby-trapped, Darius. Every time one of our people tries to take a prisoner, some kind of charge detonates. We’ve got ten dead and two dozen wounded already.”
“Cancel the order to take prisoners immediately. Terminate them on sight and at a distance, if possible.” Cain’s voice was harsh, angry. He wanted prisoners, but he wasn’t willing to lose any more of his people to get them. Casualties had already been too high, and his first priority was ending the battle.
“Yes, Erik.”
Cain walked across the command post, and the anger grew inside him. This was the second mission in a row where someone was fucking with his people. He had no idea where the unidentified enemy forces had come from, but his gut told him when he dumped a pile of debris from Lysandria on Tom Sparks’ worktable, it was going to match the scraps he’d brought back from Karelia. And that would prove what he already knew. Someone was messing with the Black Eagles. And that meant someone was going to die.
“Get me an open line to the Lysandrian forces.” His people had broken the enemy encryption and compromised their communications networks an hour into the fight, for the native forces, at least. Breaking the Gold Spears’ security had been a lot tougher, and the unidentified “browns” used a security protocol that had so far defied the Eagles’ best efforts to crack.
“You’re live, General.” Lieutenant Camerici’s voice was sharp and alert, despite the fact that she’d been on duty 40 of the last 48 hours.
“Attention Lysandrian forces, this is General Darius Cain, commander of the Black Eagles.” He knew the message would go out on every communications network on the planet—military, civilian, government. He suspected the authorities would scramble to try to block it, but to no avail. He had the best technology experts in Occupied Space on his team, and no group of locals was going to beat them.
“The Gold Spears have been defeated. They are reduced now to scattered bands of refugees begging my soldiers to accept their surrenders. General Ling, their commander is dead, as is their entire senior leadership. The unidentified force that fought alongside them has also been destroyed, and my soldiers are now hunting down and wiping out their last remnants.” His voice dripped with venom, his tone evoking pure menace. Normally, it would be theatrics, intended to scare the civilians. But this time it was real. Darius Cain was livid about the losses his people had suffered. The Lysandrians had one chance. One. And then he would kill them all.
“You have not yet been attacked, but that is only by my order. Now, the moment of choice is upon you. My soldiers have suffered considerable losses facing your hired defenders, and at my word, they will fall upon you to claim their vengeance. Your laughable defenses will not stop my Eagles for an instant. Your pitiful weapons cannot match our armaments. You have but one chance to escape total annihilation, for if you spurn this offer, there will not be another. And your friends and families will share your bitter fates.”
Teller was standing a few meters away, his armored form turned toward his friend as he listened. Everyone in the command post was doing the same. Darius Cain wasn’t a man to be trifled with—they all knew that much. But the pure malevolence in his voice was intimidating on a new and terrifying level. The Eagles had not lost so many of their number in a fight in years, and their general was not a happy man. And he was determined to see someone pay. Preferably whoever was responsible, but if the people of Lysandria wouldn’t help him track down the guilty parties then he would make them all pay.
“All Lysandrian military units will lay down their arms and surrender immediately. All civil and political leaders will surrender at once and cooperate fully, providing all information requested by my interrogators. All civilians will consider themselves under martial law and will remain in their homes, leaving only during hours to be posted and announced, and then only on vital business.”
He paused for a few seconds, and when he continued his voice was even darker, more threatening. “Failure to comply at once and in full will result in the destruction of Lysandria’s cities, the extermination of its armed forces, and incalculable suffering of its people. If I receive complete and total cooperation, my forces will leave your world intact. If I do not, I will turn Lysandria into a graveyard.”
Cain turned toward Camerici and moved his hand across his throat. She hesitated, staring back at him for a few seconds before she turned with a start and closed the com line. Cain’s people knew there was a toughness and an icy coldness in their leader, even beyond the normal professionalism that governed him, but they had never seen such pure and unrestrained menace.
Somebody was targeting Darius Cain’s Black Eagles, trying to get his attention. Well, whoever you are, you have it now. Let’s see how much you like it.
Chapter 10
Marine Headquarters
Planet Armstrong, Gamma Pavonis III
Earthdate: July, 2297 AD (12 Years After the Fall)
“I want to thank you all for coming. I know many of you had long and difficult journeys, but this matter will not wait any longer.” Catherine Gilson stood at the podium looking out at the assembled representatives of the former Alliance colonies. She was wearing a perfectly-tailored, though old, uniform. She had left her medals behind, and her sidearm and sword as well. The planetary leaders tended to be prickly about anything that g
ave an impression of intimidation. They had all been part of the Alliance, lived under the yoke of the oppressive Earth government, but now they were independent, and they guarded that jealously. She knew part of that was the memory of the Alliance’s heavy-handed tactics, and she understood that completely. She also suspected some of them were more interested in protecting their own power than in any altruism toward those they governed. A few of the colonies were beginning to remind her far too much of Alliance Gov.
“It has been ten years since the Fall, and there has been much discussion of what is to happen to the former Alliance colony worlds, how they will govern cooperation between themselves, and the manner in which they will be defended against external threats. Over that decade, the Marine Corps and the fleet have continued to serve their purposes, providing protection for all of your planets, with limited and extremely sporadic financial support. We have managed to fund—barely—our needs by selling surplus equipment and licensing technology. However, we have reached the end of our resources. Armstrong has long carried many times its share of the cost, and that is a burden its people can no longer sustain. It is time to forge a long term Confederation to see to the maintenance of the fleet and the Corps…or both services will be compelled to downsize and serve solely as Armstrong’s planetary military force, leaving the rest of you to see to your own defense.”
She looked out over the assembled representatives, most of them politicians and heads of state. Ten years of relative peace, enforced mostly by a general lack of resources sufficient to fight wars, had dulled their sensibilities to the need for long-term security. She could see it in their eyes, most of them, at least. They liked having the Corps and Garret’s fleet out there, but they didn’t want to pay for it. Their worlds needed investment to grow, and their governments were expanding, turning into rapacious bureaucracies, consuming resources at an ever-expanding rate.
“Before I open the floor to questions and debate, I would like to bring up a man who needs no introduction, a Marine who has been in the forefront of man’s wars for thirty years. As he has been there whenever there was need, so has he come now, all the way from Atlantia.” She glanced back to make sure he was ready. Then she looked out over the audience and said, “Please welcome General Erik Cain.”
The room erupted into applause. Erik Cain was a genuine celebrity, a bonafide hero everywhere in former Alliance space. His reputation was more mixed on the colonies of the Corps’ old enemies, but he was universally respected as one of the greatest military commanders of the modern age.
Cain walked up to the podium. His uniform was of an older style than Gilson’s, and it was a bit snug. He’d added a few kilos over ten years of inactive status and nine of parenthood, though he was still in excellent shape by any measure. He moved with a hint of a limp and some stiffness. He’d had the rejuv treatments and the best medical care available, but he’d been wounded so many times, even cutting edge medical care couldn’t undo everything. He carried the scars of his wars with him, in the soreness in his body and the sorrow in his mind.
He stared out at those seated before him, planetary presidents and other politicians. They were men and women who had become accustomed to being treated with exaggerated respect, but Cain was the wrong man for that. He made no attempt to hide his contempt. The very existence of this meeting, the need for Gilson to go hat in hand and beg the leaders to attend was proof enough of what he had always believed. These people didn’t need the Corps now, and they behaved as if funding their own defense was an act of charity.
He knew when they were again threatened they would look to the Marines to save them, they would expect the armored warriors to come again, as they always had. They would forget their lack of support, the deaf ear they turned during peaceful times. What if there was no answer to their call next time? Cain knew that would be a disaster for humanity, but he couldn’t help but believe that is what they all deserved.
“General Gilson has spoken to you in quite measured tones. She has respected your positions, and the offices and awards you have largely appointed for yourselves.” His voice was caustic, an undisguised growl. “For those familiar with my reputation, you know you will get no such courtesy from me. You will hear the truth, and if that offends you, please understand this very clearly. I do not give a damn.”
Cain was a massive war hero, but his gruff manner and his unwillingness to pander to those around him had gradually chipped away at his popularity. The working people of the former Alliance worlds worshipped Cain, and they told and retold stories of his battles. His old veterans could count on parades in their home towns and free drinks wherever they went. But Cain was less popular with the emerging new leadership classes, mostly because he was far too willing to call them out for exactly what they were. Erik Cain did not offer false respect. If you wanted his admiration, you earned it; you didn’t steal it with lies or crooked elections.
Cain didn’t care what politicians thought of him. Indeed, the destruction of the Alliance and his subsequent retirement had removed the last needs for him to even pretend. But when Gilson called, he had come. Immediately, without question or delay. Whatever else he might do, however he might spend the rest of his life, he was a Marine. The Corps had his loyalty. Always. When it needed him, he would come.
“I have fought many wars, each one a desperate struggle with millions of lives in the balance. They were all different, save for one thing. Each was thought to be the last one. Every terrible battle, every war fought to the bitter end is believed to be the final struggle, the war that would finally cure mankind of the habit. And since the dawn of history, this belief has been wrong. No matter how horrific the struggle, no matter how many lay dead on the field and in blasted, ruined cities, men have found new reasons to fight, grievances to levy against fresh enemies. And, beyond men’s fondness for killing each other, the memory is still fresh of our first, disastrous encounter with another race. There is always another war. The old flags will inevitably be removed from the place they were stowed, unfurled again to answer the renewed call to battle.”
Cain paused and looked out again over his audience. They were silent, listening to his words, but he knew they weren’t hearing them. Not really. As inevitable as the next war had always been, people never expected it. They ignored or ridiculed those who predicted it, those who warned against complacency. They convinced themselves peace would last, that they needn’t devote resources to remain vigilant. When threats arose, they resorted to denial and appeasement before resistance. Cain knew he owed the words he was speaking to Gilson and to the Corps. But he also knew they would be ignored.
“The Alliance is gone. The billions on Earth whose work funded and sustained the Corps and the fleet are gone. It has fallen to you to take the full responsibility for your defense. Your economies, which were so heavily based on exports to Earth have suffered massive dislocations. You have scrambled and struggled to repurpose industry, to adjust to a post-Earth reality.”
His eyes narrowed, and he brought a balled fist down on the podium. “Yet none of this changes the basic facts. If you would be defended against the next threat…one that will surely come…you must commit resources now. You must do your part. If you do not, in five years…or ten…or twenty, when the balloon again goes up, when some enemy comes to take what is yours, to enslave and kill your people, you will have no one to blame but yourselves when you stand alone. It will be a bitter reckoning, and as you fall, as you watch the fires of devastation sweep across your worlds, as they did across the Earth, you will know you allowed it to happen.”
Cain stepped back a meter and allowed Gilson back to the podium. “Thank you, General Cain. I am sure our guests will give serious thought to your words, particularly since there are few human beings who have witnessed the reality of war the way you have.” Her voice had a tone of surprise, as though she hadn’t expected him to be quite so honest.
Cain nodded toward the audience, flashing Gilson a tentative smile before he t
urned away and walked from the stage. They won’t give serious thought to anything I said. They will say, ‘they are so dramatic, the soldiers.’ Then they will ask to pose for a photo with us, something they will take home and use on their campaign posters. But they will not commit the funding that is required. They will shirk their responsibility, until danger comes. Then they will be whining, begging for help, as if we can manufacture armored Marines and battleships out of thin air.
He could hear Gilson’s voice in the background, through his thoughts. “So, now let us move to debate. Who would like to begin?”
* * * * *
“So, just as I expected.” Cain’s voice was raw, angry. He’d expected exactly what happened, but it still hurt to see it. He was bitter. How many brave men and women had died protecting these people, defeating the forces that would have enslaved or massacred them all?”
The meeting had ended with all kinds of accolades and expressions of gratitude, but no promises of support. There had been a litany of excuses, but in the end, only Jarrod Tyler had argued forcefully for the planetary leaders to step up and provide the support the Corps and the fleet needed. Tyler was the famous commander of Columbia’s planetary military, a man who had assumed temporary dictatorial powers and led his world through the Shadow Legion war before voluntarily resigning that position. He’d remained the commander of the armed forces over the intervening decade, fighting a gradually deteriorating struggle against the political forces demanding disarmament and the diversion of military spending to social programs.
Tyler’s wife, Lucia, had been Columbia’s longtime president, and she had been forced to remain home because of an election, one she was expected to lose, largely over the same issues. Columbia was a world with a difficult past, having been invaded multiple times, but in the aftermath of the Shadow War, there was a feeling that a long period of peace would ensue, a theme that had been exploited by Lucia’s political opponents. It had taken ten years of relentless assaults in the press and elsewhere, but finally they were on the verge of ousting the once enormously popular president.
