by Jay Allan
But the trap was more complex than anyone on Eldaron knew…even the Tyrant. For when his people sallied forth to the surface, they would outnumber the Eagles six to one. And unlike the pathetic Eldari levies, his troops were all fully-powered infantry, just like the Eagles. Their equipment was a match for that of Cain’s soldiers...and they were well-trained. He’d read the reports from Lysandria—the scant intelligence that had made it back from that defeat—and he knew the Eagles outmatched his people man for man. But not one for six.
He smiled as he considered the scope of the plan. His army was only part of the great trap the Triumvirate had laid for Darius Cain and his mercenaries. Indeed, there were forces in motion in multiple locations. While the Eagle powered infantry was wiped out on the ground, their fleet would be destroyed in space. And far away, the fortified moon they called home would also be destroyed, their reserves and support forces wiped away. When the fighting was over, there would be nothing left of Cain’s forces. Nothing at all, save legend.
The plan was magnificent, perfect. The final and complete annihilation of the Black Eagles. And the rewards for those who led in this great victory would be enormous. Albrecht Trax would be the man who had directed the destruction of the greatest fighting force in Occupied Space. He would present Darius Cain’s broken body to the Triumvirate himself…and when he did, he would be named supreme military commander of the Conquest…and he would lead the massive forces of the Triumvirate forward to conquer all of Occupied Space.
He turned slowly, staring over his communications officer. “All units are ordered to full alert, Captain,” he said, his voice charged with excitement. “The attack begins in one hour.”
Chapter 31
Eta Cassiopeiae VII Outer System
Near the Second Moon of Eos, “The Nest”
Earthdate: 2318 AD (34 Years After the Fall)
A battle raged fiercely, vessels thrusting all around the frozen moon the Black Eagles called home. Waves of missiles detonated across the cold, empty battleground, the fury of nuclear fusion creating hundreds of short-lived miniature suns. Most exhausted their energy harmlessly, too far from target vessels to cause serious damage. But a few came close enough, and ships died as their hulls melted, and as radiation fried internal systems and killed crew.
The invading fleet had been a large force, but the Nest’s defenses and Christos Caravalla’s relentless fighter attacks had worn it down. His fighters sliced between the enemy formations again and again, blasting away with their laser cannons. With their plasma torpedoes expended, the fighters were reduced to carrion work, seeking out and destroying already-damaged ships…and they embraced this role with abandon, swinging around behind incoming missile volleys and completing the jobs begun by the heavy warheads.
Caravalla stared at his display, his eyes fixed on the sixteen icons representing his surviving ships. He had launched with forty, but he pushed that thought aside. It wasn’t the moment to mourn those lost. There would be time for that later. Now, there was a battle to fight…and victory still hung in the balance.
When the Columbian fleet entered energy weapons range, the final struggle began in earnest. Jarrod Tyler had long maintained one of the most powerful fleets in Occupied Space, and he had dispatched all of it to the aid of his neighbors. Now his cruisers opened fire with their x-ray laser batteries, the deadly bursts of focused light slicing into their targets, blasting enemy ships into twisted wreckage.
The enemy’s fire was no less deadly, and as the battle continued, Columbian ships began to die. It began with a light frigate, a small vessel positioned on the flank of the formation, but soon there were heavy cruisers in the center bleeding atmosphere and shaking with internal explosions, their own fire lessening as their turrets were knocked out one by one.
Caravalla was a veteran who had seen many battles, and he knew this one would be close. The enemy fleet, as it had first arrived, would almost certainly have overwhelmed the Columbians. But the Nest’s deadly defenses had claimed their price before they were destroyed, and it was a crippled force that stood against Tyler’s navy.
“Okay,” Caravalla said into the com, “form up on me for another run.” His fighters were worn down. The crews were exhausted, their fuel supplies quickly running out. But before Tyler’s people had arrived they’d consigned themselves to death. No matter what losses they suffered now, if even one of them survived, their situation had improved. As long as the battle was won. And to a man, they were determined to do whatever had to be done to make that a reality.
There are thousands of Eagles down there, he thought, trapped five klicks underground, and their survival depends on this fight…
Caravalla pushed on the throttle, feeding power to the engine. He felt the pressure building as he increased his acceleration to 3g. He didn’t go any farther, though his ship could handle well over 10g and his crew could survive that as well, at least for a brief period. But his fuel supply couldn’t. When his reaction mass was gone, his fighter was helpless. His reserve batteries could maintain life support for a while, but the battle would be effectively over. And he was determined to stay in this fight until the bitter end.
“Same as last time…follow me to 50,000 kilometers then break and pick your targets.” His eyes focused on the display, on one of the big enemy ships. It was almost dead center in the formation, and that meant he would have to pilot his ship through 100,000 klicks of enemy defensive zone to close. But the target was spewing out air and fluids from a dozen great wounds in its hull…and Caravalla could feel that one good strafing run would finish the giant. He could feel it, the need to kill that ship, the raw energy of a feral predator. These people had attacked his home, killed his fellow Black Eagles. Now it was time to send them to hell.
He stared straight ahead, nudging the throttle to the side, changing his vector to a direct line toward his prey…
* * * * *
“The enemy fire is weakening, General Tyler.”
Jarrod Tyler stood on Lucia’s flag bridge, gripping the handhold next to his chair and staring at the main display. There wasn’t a hint of emotion evident, not elation, not the slightest discomfort for the thousands his people had just killed.
“The center division is to close and maintain full fire. The flanks are to accelerate and move around the enemy formation.” His voice was cold. “None of them are to escape. Not one. We must send a message to anyone who would dare send warships to Eta Cassiopeiae.”
“Yes, General.” The response was crisp, sharp. The men and women who served Jarrod Tyler knew quite well what their leader expected of them, and for all his coldness and the brutal side of his rule, they loved him and gave him their unfaltering loyalty.
Lucia shook hard as an enemy laser blast took her amidships. Tyler’s flagship was barely a heavy cruiser by pre-Fall standards, but it was a large and powerful vessel relative to current fleets. The Columbian navy wasn’t the strongest in Occupied Space, but it was in the top tier. Its weapons and equipment were modern, its crews well-trained career military. And it was led by Jarrod Tyler.
Tyler had been the commander of Columbia’s military during the Shadow War, when the planet had been invaded and devastated by the Gavin Stark’s Shadow Legions. He had assumed dictatorial powers during that emergency, in accordance with Columbia’s constitution, and when the crisis had passed, he dutifully surrendered them back to the duly-elected government.
The young Tyler had no interest in governing and no stomach for politics, despite the fact that his wife, Lucia, had been the planet’s president for almost fifteen years. But as the years slipped by, he saw the fickleness of the electorate, the way they finally cast Lucia and her compatriots aside for the empty promises of political rivals. The new government dismantled Columbia’s strong military, and they channeled the funds that had gone to support it into a series of programs designed to increase their hold on power. They ushered in a period of heavy regulation and corruption the likes of which the political
ly naïve Columbians had never seen. And then the Second Incursion began…and Columbia was invaded yet again, this time by the robot legions of the First Imperium.
The planet, which had once been almost fanatical in its approach to self-defense, was caught utterly unprepared. Tyler came out of retirement, called his veterans back to the colors, and they held the invaders at bay, at enormous cost, until Erik Cain arrived with the Marines. The fighting was desperate, and thousands were killed…including Lucia Collins. Columbia’s castoff president had taken to the battlefields, rifle in hand, and rallied the people everywhere she went. She organized militia battalions, led desperate defenses of towns and cities…and she died in the final battle, holding the line while the Marines landed behind the enemy’s flank.
Jarrod Tyler changed at that moment, his soul freezing in an instant like liquid expelled into deep space. He was devastated by the loss of his wife…and he blamed the people of Columbia. For those they had elected, for their shortsightedness. They were too foolish to make their own decisions, he decided, too unwilling to educate themselves to make wise choices at the polls. They had to be led…controlled. Prevented from allowing their folly to ever again cause such suffering as the planet had endured in the war just concluded.
Tyler was again the hero, the savior of the planet, and the remnants of the army were fanatically loyal to him. Once he’d decided to seize absolute power, the actual coup itself proved almost comically easy. His soldiers were devoted, and after the losses they had suffered, they had their own resentments toward those who had left them so unprepared for the terrible conflict.
The battered population had no will to resist, and Tyler quickly disbanded the entire apparatus of democratic government, installing himself as the absolute and unquestioned ruler, with a small band of military officers as aides. He made no effort to disguise the fact that he was a dictator, established no ineffectual assemblies or congresses, no rigged votes or plebiscites. He ruled with a naked fist, and his justice was swift and merciless.
Yet that justice was, for the most part, just as well. Tyler was an anomaly, a strongman not driven by ego and lust for power. He viewed his position as an obligation, a duty…and while his growing paranoia caused him to look at almost everyone with a certain degree of suspicion, he interfered little in the day to day affairs of his people. The planet quickly recovered its economic prosperity. Corruption, at least in government, virtually ceased to exist. Tyler was a zealot, with no interest in securing personal gain from his position…and those who pursued corrupt paths soon found themselves mounting a scaffold or shot against some dull gray wall in a non-descript cellar.
Columbia’s dictator was popular too, and resistance to his rule was almost non-existent. Some said, quietly and in small groups, that even though they were prosperous and well-protected, the loss of freedom was too high a price to pay. But the vast majority of the population looked at the rapid rebuilding since the war, the economic boom that had continued for over a decade, and they barely thought of the liberty they had once possessed.
“Entering short range now, General.”
“All units, continue firing at full.” Tyler knew the battle had reached its final stage. He had already dispatched his flanking forces, and now there was nothing left for his center except to drive right down the enemy’s throat, firing all the way. It was a slugging match, ship against ship, with victory hanging in the balance.
* * * * *
“General Tyler, I thank you, on behalf of General Cain and the entire Black Eagles company. Your intervention was not only timely, it was downright crucial. Had you not come to our aid when you did, the Nest would surely have been destroyed.” Cranston spoke slowly, solemnly. His voice was professional, but there was emotion there too, the true gratitude to an ally who had not only fought alongside the Eagles, but who had also suffered terrible losses in doing so.
“We are allies, Major Cranston, and that is something my people take very seriously. Never has there been a doubt in my mind that the Eagles would have succored us in our time of need, and we too stand by our obligations to a friend.”
“Again, General, you have our eternal gratitude. I am certain General Cain will wish to repeat our thanks when he returns, but on my own authority, I request that your people forward us the names of those lost in this battle, so that we may honor them alongside our own dead in our logs and histories.”
“We will do so with honor, Major…and respect for a truly worthy ally.” Tyler paused. “I just received an update as well. None of our vessels are able to land fighter-bombers, but Captain Caravalla and his surviving crews have been recovered. I’m afraid they had to ditch so that our shuttles could pick them up…but we are taking steps to secure the fighters themselves as well. We will hold them until you are able to restore landing facilities.”
“Thank you, General.” The relief in Cranston’s voice was obvious. He hadn’t imagined any of Caravalla’s people had survived. “We had almost given up hope. Until we managed to restore this single com line, we were completely cut off from what was happening around us.” He tried to ignore the fact that eleven surviving ships meant that almost three-quarters of Caravalla’s people had been lost.
“Several of Captain Caravalla’s people required medical care, which they are now receiving.” Another pause. “I must commend you on the bravery of your fighter crews, Major. I cannot express how crucial their repeated attack runs were to our ultimate victory.”
“Captain Caravalla is an old school veteran, General. So he survived?”
“Yes, Major. The Captain was among the wounded, but my medical team assures me he will live.”
Cranston nodded. “Again, General, my thanks.”
There was a brief silence, and then Tyler said, “I understand that much of this is best discussed later, in person rather than over open com channels, but do you have any idea where that fleet came from?”
Cranston paused. The communication was fully encrypted…and to his knowledge no one had ever breached Eagle protocols. But he knew of Tyler’s reputation for paranoia, and he decided to humor it. “Yes, General, I believe we have encountered this enemy before…though I’m afraid we have extremely limited intelligence about them. And we had no idea they were capable of mounting an attack of this size.”
Cranston wasn’t sure this enemy was the same that the Eagles had faced on Eris and Lysandria, but he wasn’t a strong believer in coincidence either, and there seemed to be few alternate theories.
“Perhaps we can have a brief conference…if you can be spared for a short while.”
Cranston looked around the control center. His first impulse was to politely decline. It just felt wrong to leave his post after the Nest had suffered such extensive damage. But Tyler was important…and the only reason every Eagle in the Nest wasn’t dead now.
Besides, he thought, looking around at the cool competence surrounding him, they all know what to do. They don’t need me hanging over them.
The Eagles were professionals, and throughout the Nest they had sprung into action, repair crews working through prioritized lists, other personnel dividing into teams to assist the technicians and engineers. The entire base was a beehive of focused activity…and Cranston knew his people could do without him for a few hours. What they couldn’t do without was Tyler’s protection, at least until General Cain returned with the fleet.
“I’d be happy to join you, General Tyler,” he finally said, “but I’m afraid my only egress at present is an emergency tube leading to the surface. And I haven’t got a functioning shuttle or a bay to launch one from. I’m afraid you’ll have to send someone to get me.”
“My pleasure, Major. Send the coordinates when you are ready, and I’ll have a shuttle there in thirty minutes.”
“Very well, General.” He gestured toward Captain Anders. “Send the coordinates,” he said, momentarily holding his hand over the com unit.
Anders nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“General
Tyler, we’re sending the data now. I’ll go suit up, and I’ll be there in forty minutes. I’m looking forward to seeing you."
And he was. The Black Eagles weren’t used to needing anyone’s help, and the entire organization had become infused with Darius Cain’s cynicism. They were as good as they were partially because they didn’t expect anyone else to come to their aid. So when someone did, they truly appreciated it…as a rare and admirable act.
The Eagles and the Columbians had always had friendly relations, but now Tyler had put his own forces at risk, and Columbians had died in the battle, fighting bravely to save the Nest. Most people would appreciate such an act, but to the Eagles it went far deeper. It was a debt, a significant one. And the Black Eagles always paid their debts.
Chapter 32
Obelan Foothills
Five Kilometers from Eldaron City
Planet Eldaron, Denebola IV
Earthdate: 2319 AD (34 Years After the Fall)
“Colonel, take your first battalion now and set up a defensive line. “I’ll get over there and bring your second battalion right behind.” Erik Teller was standing in the middle of his command post snapping out orders. Kuragina’s entire regiment was fresh, but only one battalion was ready to move forward immediately. The other half of her unit had been dispersed to assist with the unloading of supplies. It would take twenty minutes to get them formed up for battle…and right now he didn’t have that time.
His eyes darted up at the display inside his helmet. There were so many icons on the one side of the projection, it looked like a single pulsating light. His AI had been updating the scanner reports for him, providing strength estimates for the units now moving against his rear. He’d stopped listening when the numbers hit twenty thousand.
