Crimson Worlds Successors: The Complete Trilogy

by Jay Allan

  “Alright, Eagles, let’s go. We’re going to cut right across that line…between our people on the ground and the Marines. First run we dump the FAEs, and then we strafe the hell out of them on the way back. And make it count, because that’s the climactic battle going on down there.”

  Darryk was leading 27 fighter-bombers, every one of the original sixty that could still fly. He’d lost half a dozen to the enemy AA fire on the last ground assault…and more than twenty in the desperate battle in space. The horrors of that struggle were still fresh in his mind. Black Eagles didn’t like to accept the possibility of defeat, but Darryk knew without a doubt that all his birds—and the ten Eagle capital ships—would have been blown to plasma without the timely intervention of Admiral Garret and the Marine fleet.

  And from the looks of things, Colonel Teller’s folks on the ground were in deep shit too.

  He tied his display into one of the scanning drones. It gave him a closer look at the Marine forces advancing into battle. They looked just like the Eagles, leapfrogging forward, using any cover the ground offered, firing with everything they had to keep the enemy suppressed.

  He angled his fighter down, lining up for the attack. He flipped a row of switches, arming the FAE warheads his bomber carried for this run. The fuel air explosives were almost weapons of mass destruction against unarmored enemies, but even powered troops caught in the primary blast areas would be in big trouble. Along the main axis of the drop, temperatures would soar well beyond the melting points of the alloys in their fighting suits. Darryk didn’t imagine having your armor literally melt around you would be a pleasant death. But right now he didn’t give a shit.

  He banked the fighter around, setting his course as close to parallel to the Eagle and Marine lines as possible…and right between them. Then he dove, angling down as sharply as he dared. He brought the fighter to an altitude of less than two hundred meters…and then he said a single word to the ship’s AI. “Drop.”

  He could hear the clicking sounds as his bomb bay cradles opened, leaving a trail of small canisters behind the ship. The explosions began almost at once, and the ground below his fighter erupted into billowing columns of flame.

  He tried to imagine the devastation, the enemy troops running to escape the primary blast zones. But escape was a fool’s hope. Even those who survived his own bombs were moving right into the target areas of the fighters on his flanks. He’d concentrated the attack, and his wings were carpet bombing a pinpoint area on the front lines.

  He pulled back on the throttle, his craft climbing to over a thousand meters as he brought the bird around for his strafing run. He’d almost gotten into position when he heard the high pitched screech of his warning system. He knew what it was immediately, but the AI nevertheless confirmed it. “We have been acquired by multiple tracking systems. Estimate six surface-to-air missiles locked and inbound.

  Fuck.

  He hadn’t known where the AA had come from on the last mission days earlier…but now he realized that these mysterious soldiers had their own equipment, and all of it had been shielded from the EMP attacks. And it included a heavy anti-air capability.

  He jerked the throttle wildly, glancing back at his crew. “Hang on…I’m gonna try to shake these missiles.”

  He dove slightly then turned upward and went into a steep climb. Darryk knew he was a good pilot, but he also knew he wasn’t likely to escape from six missile locks. Still, he had to try.

  He turned hard to the right, and he pushed the thrust to full power. He could hear his ship creaking as over 10g of pressure slammed into him. He felt faint, but he struggled to hang onto consciousness. He sucked in a pitiful mouthful of air, forcing it into his lungs.

  Then he cut the thrust suddenly, and let the fighter drop a few hundred meters. It was all wild, random…the best way to confuse the tracking AIs in the approaching missiles. And it worked. On three of them at least. But three more were coming in. He heard the rattling sound of the defensive railguns, the AI firing the weapons, desperately trying to destroy the remaining missiles.

  He saw one vanish…then another. But the last one was still coming…

  “Impact in eight seconds,” the AI warned, its voice unemotional, disturbingly so, Darryk thought, considering the situation.

  “Eject,” he yelled, and he pressed the large red button on the side of his chair. He felt himself jerked hard, so hard he blacked out for a few seconds. When he came to, he was outside, still strapped to his chair. There were three parachutes above, and he was falling slowly toward the ground.

  But where? He twisted around, trying to get a look at the ground. Was he coming down in enemy territory? In the firestorm his own bombardment had created?

  He tried to find the other chutes, his crew. Had any of them made it out? Or was he the only one?

  Don’t panic. At the speed you were going, the four of you could be spread out over kilometers…

  He could see the fires on the ground…he was coming down well past them, beyond the front lines. He felt a wave of relief. He’d lost his bird—and God knew how many of his fighters had been shot down on the raid. But he couldn’t do anything about that. And for all the worry, and even the guilt he might feel for those he had lost, he had to admit to himself he wanted to survive. He was glad he had made it out, that his chutes were bringing him down somewhere he could land.

  He could see the ground coming up…closer, closer…

  Then, with a single hard thud, he was down. He pulled at the latch, unhooked himself from the harness and jumped to the ground. He was pretty sure he had come past the battle zone, but he reached down for his sidearm anyway. But the instant his hand dropped to the holster he heard a harsh command.

  “Hold!”

  He froze, and suddenly he was aware of a cluster of figures moving toward him. They were armored, and they looked much like Black Eagles. But they weren’t.

  He turned slowly, keeping his hands from moving. “I am Major Darryk, attack wing commander for the Black Eagles.”

  Then he felt gloved hands upon him from both sides, grabbing him, holding him like a vice. A third armored figure moved up toward his front, and an instant later the helmet retracted to show a woman in her late twenties. “I am sorry, Major,” she said, her voice pleasant but watchful. “We’ve had enemy infiltrators trying to get through our lines, so we have to be careful.” She flashed a glance at her comrades, and they released him.

  “I am Corporal Gerian, Armstrong Marine Corps. Come with us, Major, and we’ll get you back to our HQ. I’m sure General Gilson will want to speak with you immediately.”

  * * * * *

  Albrecht Trax stared into the monitors at the ruins of his army. He didn’t understand what had happened. The plan had been perfect, meticulous. Everything had been in place. Yet all across the field there was nothing but defeat. His forces were broken, his units scattered and facing total destruction.

  He’d thought to order a retreat to the bunkers, to pull his forces back to the secret bases where they had hidden before launching their attacks. There were weapons there, defenses. Perhaps, he had thought, our enemies will break themselves attacking us there…and we shall regain the initiative. But then the orbital bombardments began.

  The fleets in orbit targeted the underground bases, guided by data collected by their satellites. Another failure—if our fleet had prevailed, there would be no satellites…and no enemy ships to bombard our bunkers. Trax had stood in the field outside his headquarters and stared at the mushroom clouds rising above his bases. In an hour, the entire infrastructure that had hidden and housed his 30,000 men was gone, reduced to radioactive slag.

  He’d ordered his soldiers to stand firm nevertheless, to fight to the last man, but across the field, many broke their conditioning, fear overcoming the deeply-planted compulsion to obey. They ran, dropping their weapons, losing all discipline and seeking only to save themselves. Their efforts had proven futile, however, and Trax had activated the E
ndgame protocols for the few who had managed to flee the fury of the Eagles and the Marines. The reward for those who had broken through to seek escape was instant death, as the deepest of all their programming sent the signal to stop their hearts cold.

  Omega forces do not surrender, Trax thought grimly…and they do not run either.

  He realized his own end was near as well. He was an Omega general, and he knew well enough what awaited him back on Vali if he somehow managed to escape. The Triumvirate did not tolerate failure from anyone, but he was a commander who had been defeated despite outnumbering his enemy almost ten to one, despite a long-planned and carefully-laid plan. He could only imagine what terrible end awaited him. No, he would not go back in disgrace. As soon as he had seen to the disposition of his forces, he would activate his own conditioning. He would die here, the last of his force on Eldaron.

  His thoughts were dark, grim. He’d joined the Omega forces to seek power, and he had risen high indeed. Victory on Eldaron would have propelled him even farther, to the very highest military commands in the Triumvirate’s military. But such thoughts were moot now. They could accomplish naught but to mock him.

  He thought bitterly of the Eldari, at how ineffective their forces had been, and he took solace in knowing the Tyrant, too, would pay the ultimate price for failure. If the Black Eagles didn’t get to him, the Triumvirate surely would. Either way, Trax thought with malicious satisfaction, the Eldari monarch faced a grim and unpleasant end.

  He looked down at his displays, and he knew what he had to do. There were still thousands of his soldiers in the field…and some units were still in battle, holding on grimly, even as their comrades gave way, exposing their flanks and opening them up to total destruction. Trax knew his soldiers could kill more of their enemies, but he was also aware of the futility of such action. His chance for victory was gone…and if he waited much longer he risked capture. Enemy spearheads were breaking through all across the line, driving deep past his few remaining units. No, there was no point, no purpose in prolonging things.

  He felt a rush of fear, and he almost lost his resolve, nearly slipped into a panic he couldn’t control. But he held his control, barely. I must not fear death. My alternatives are far worse…

  He punched his command codes into the workstation, entering the overrides to activate Endgame for his entire force. He would do one last duty…he would live long enough to see the enemy took no live prisoners. Then he would follow his soldiers.

  He pressed the primary control, and he watched as the figures scrolled down the screen, unit designations, confirming that Endgame had taken each of them. He tried to imagine the confusion of his enemies as the soldiers they were fighting simply dropped in place.

  No doubt they had orders to take prisoners. The enemy still knew shockingly little about the Triumvirate, and so it would remain. They would have armor and weapons to inspect, little different from those they themselves employed. And they would have dead soldiers. But there would be nothing else. Endgame was as thorough with the army’s AIs and databases as it was with the troops.

  Trax could see the officers in his headquarters dropping around him, as the Endgame sequence reached its final stage. He hadn’t given any warning…there was no purpose in allowing any of them to try to stop him, to make a hopeless play for survival.

  He looked all around him, and he knew that he was the only one left. In the headquarters, and all across the battlefield, not an Omega soldier remained alive save him.

  Another thought invaded his mind, a last attempt of fear and self-preservation to win the day. He could surrender. He was the Omega commander, invaluable to the enemy. They would spare him…indeed, if he bartered what he knew, he might obtain a pardon. He could survive the debacle, escape the retribution that surely awaited him on Vali.

  But then he felt a pain in his head, and a voice speaking to him, from the very depths of his mind. It was more conditioning he knew, though he had no knowledge of what it was. It was strong, far more powerful than his ability to resist…and its purpose was clear. Endgame, he could hear in his head. Endgame.

  And he felt his hand slipping toward the workstation, a single finger moving to the flashing red button…

  * * * * *

  “General Gilson, I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see anyone in my life.” Erik Teller walked across the field, stepping over at least half a dozen enemy bodies before he reached the Marine commander.

  “And you, Colonel Teller. I feared we were too late.” Her voice was hoarse, the fatigue in its tone betrayed her years.

  “And you almost were. But almost late is another way of saying just in time. So, again, thank you.” His voice became lower, more concerned. “What do you think happened to them all at the end there? I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  “I have,” Gilson said grimly. “In the Shadow Wars. Some kind of suicide program, intended to kill any soldiers before they surrendered or were captured. Gavin Stark had something like it for his Shadow Legions.”

  Teller was silent. He knew that Catherine Gilson was one of the Marines’ best, an officer who had seen action for sixty years, and who had served alongside—and against—the greatest warriors mankind had fielded. He thought about the kind of leaders who could recruit soldiers, train them, enjoy their loyalty…and then dispose of them in such a frigid way. But it was too disturbing. And he didn’t have time now for soul searching or philosophical exploration. The mysterious offworld forces were gone, apparently dead to a man. But the Eldari still sat in their battered defensive lines…and in the massive ramparts of the Citadel.

  Teller knew that Darius was almost certainly dead. The plan had been to take the Citadel on day two, but it was now day seven. He couldn’t imagine that Darius and two hundred Eagles, even the best of the best, had managed to hold out inside the enemy’s main fortress for so long. It seemed impossible. But none of that mattered. Darius Cain was Erik Teller’s commanding officer…his friend. His brother. And until he knew for certain, until he looked upon Cain’s body with his own eyes, he would never give up.

  “If you’ll excuse me, General, my people are about to move against the enemy fortress.” He paused. “We must…see to…General Cain.”

  “With your permission, Colonel Teller, I would join you.” Gilson paused. “We will see now if Erik Cain was ever here. He was my comrade for many years, and I would be there when we…when we find out what has happened to him.”

  “Of course, General Gilson…it would be an honor to have you along.”

  Chapter 39

  The Citadel

  Planet Eldaron

  Denebola System

  Earthdate: 2319 AD (34 Years After the Fall)

  “Your Excellency, General Davidoff’s forces have surrendered. The enemy is moving toward the Citadel itself.”

  The Tyrant leapt to his feet and thrust his fist into the air. “That coward! That miserable traitor. If he ever falls into my hands I will have him devoured by sand wolves!”

  He stared around the command center, and his insanity was clear in his eyes. “What am I going to do,” he stammered, oblivious to those around him. “What am I going to do?” His voice was thick with fear.

  “Excellency, we must look to the defense of the Citadel.” It was General Calman. He stood and stared at the Tyrant.

  “Indeed, General Calman? Is that what we must do? Should I take your advice? It was you who recommended that traitor Davidoff, was it not?”

  “There is no time for that now, Excellency. The Citadel is strong…and they will not bombard us with heavy weapons, not while their people are trapped down on the detention level.”

  “Yes, they are still trapped aren’t they? Because your men have been unable to wipe out a small force of invaders. For almost three days you have fought them down there…and yet still they hold out.” There was an uncontrolled wildness to his tone.

  “It is difficult to attack down narrow corridors, Excellency. It nul
lifies our numerical advantage…and the soldiers down there are highly skilled…even for Black Eagles.”

  “Excuses, General? Is that what you have to offer me?”

  Calman stood his ground, but he didn’t respond immediately. He just held his gaze and waited, his hand at his side, slipping closer to his sidearm.

  “Of course!” the Tyrant roared. “Darius Cain is down there. If we control Cain we will control his Black Eagles.” His eyes locked on Calman’s. “Go down there, General. I command you to lead the forces. You must attack. Attack, attack, attack. Slay the Black Eagles…but bring Darius Cain to me as a prisoner.”

  Calman took a deep breath. His expression was doubtful, full of disgust and repugnance for his leader. But after a few seconds he just nodded. “Yes, Excellency. At once.” He paused another few seconds. Then he spun around on his heels and walked away.

  * * * * *

  “Let’s go…move your asses! The General’s down here, and every second counts.” Bull Trent was at the front of his company, racing through the corridors of the Citadel. He knew there were data centers and weapons stations on the upper levels, but he’d pushed his way relentlessly downward, ignoring everything else. It wasn’t sound militarily, but he was driven by one thing above all others. Darius Cain had entered the enemy fortress seeking the detention area, and that was where Trent was most likely to find the general…if he was still alive.

  Kuragina’s White Regiment had assaulted the Citadel a few hours before. The Eldari had put up a brief fight, but then the Eagles blasted their way in and chased the routing defenders deep into the old fortress. The colonel had dispersed her forces to find and seize control of the Citadel’s key facilities…and she had given Trent his orders. Find the general. At all costs.