Attack of Shadows (Galaxy's Edge Book 4)

by Nick Cole

  “We need to get all the external lights going on the bunker and get the inspection cams and drones up,” Thales said. “I think—”

  That’s when the lights inside the bunker failed. A moment later everything switched over to red emergency lighting.

  ***

  “Someone’s violated the seals from the magazine. They’re inside the battery.” Lieutenant Nayron had his datapad out as he and Thales waited near the main entrance to the bunker. Currently there were only six crew assigned to the main gun. The other five were scattered throughout the facility.

  “Can they get into fire control from there?” Thales asked.

  Nayron tapped and tapped. Thales could see that he was bringing up schematics.

  “Maybe,” he said slowly. But Thales didn’t like the lack of confidence.

  “One of them must have excellent code slicing skills,” he said. “The trail I’ve been following has shown that.”

  And for the first time, Thales realized that the inconceivable could happen. An external threat could get control of the orbital defense gun.

  Then what?

  If a response force showed up—the Seventh Fleet, most likely—then an entire Republic fleet would be sitting ducks.

  “We may have to destroy this facility.”

  The junior officer looked up at the captain in horror.

  Thales, blaster in hand, smiled sickly. “I know. It’s bad.”

  Then he explained to the junior officer his reasoning. The man just listened, shaking his head but not objecting. In the end he merely remarked, “We’ll be killed.” His voice was a soft whisper.

  “If we can stop them before they take control… then we don’t have to.” He paused. “So where would they be going? Where could they get control of the gun?”

  A few minutes later they were in main fire control. The officer brought up a screen. “Processors,” he began. “If he’s a code slicer, he could do it all from there. And it makes sense why they broke in through the magazines. This conduit here?” He pointed to the glowing white schematics on screen. “This comes in right under them. We use it maintain the bearings on the magazine gyros. They could cut in here and be right in processors. Only other way is through this room and back into target acquisition. And right now we’re sealed inside a vault. Unless I open this door… no one’s getting in.”

  Thales stared at the screen.

  “That’s their only way in?”

  The LT nodded.

  “What’s your armory like here?”

  “Six rifles. Six pistols.”

  Thales doubted a bunch of gunnery techs were going to take out two highly trained killers.

  “Hatch is through there?”

  The junior officer nodded again.

  “If you lose the processors, can we still fire?”

  There wasn’t even an ounce of hesitation. “Definitely. We can pull processing power from all across the base. It’s a simple re-route. About five minutes’ work.”

  “Where’s the firefighting hose?”

  ***

  Thales didn’t even give the assassins a chance to surrender. As soon as the gunnery techs had unsealed the hatch that led down into the processors, he nodded to the tech operating the flow valve and dropped the nozzle of the powerful hose down the hatch, letting the slack he’d taken up go with it also. He threw more and more of the hose down after it.

  The hose swelled quickly as water flooded through it. They’d had to disconnect it from the hydrofoam firefighting system that was generally meant for electrical fires, and reconnect it to the main water supply valve. Ice-cold water now flooded the racks of processors below.

  There was a static bang. Someone swore. And then every processor went off like a firecracker, short, sharp, and all at once.

  The iron-sharp smell of the water was replaced by the smell of burnt flesh.

  One of the techs shut down the electrical grid in that section, and Thales and the LT went in, Thales leading the way with a blaster.

  They found the two assassins. Both dead. Electrocuted.

  For now, the Republic retained control of the orbital defense gun on Tarrago Moon.

  One Voice Park

  Utopion

  Orrin Kaar walked among the cultivated plants, using the paved footpaths to avoid dampening his shoes on the newly watered lawn. One Voice Park was built to serve as a meeting place for House of Reason delegates and Senate Council members. A place where they could hear from constituents, lobbies, dignitaries, activists, and the media. All in the open, in keeping with the spirit of transparent government.

  The real deals, of course, happened behind closed doors.

  Regardless of its failure to achieve its express purpose, Kaar had always enjoyed the park. Atmospheric controllers spent untold amounts of energy making sure that the weather here was always perfect. But now, as Kaar examined his datapad, ordering Admiral Devers’s voice message be converted to text, he found that his own mood was anything but perfect. A storm of disappointment thundered and boomed inside of him as he read.

  Ground Attack on Fortress Omicron has stalled. Significant losses. Victory in doubt.

  Kaar looked into the beautiful, artificial sky and cursed.

  PART III

  09

  Levenir Orbit

  The Galactic Core

  “Absolutely incredible,” Cade Thrane said to himself.

  He hadn’t made much progress in decrypting the message any further. Sure, he had inched toward a few more seconds of audio, but he couldn’t comprehend what he was hearing, and computer analysis didn’t seem to have any more luck than he did. But the young code slicer had come upon something that had him in a state of wonderment. It was the ingenious way the comm burst “floated” on top of the comm relay system. It mixed standard and deep-space transmission protocols and worked like… like a homing missile. Locking on to its target and then recalibrating and recalculating as it went.

  Theoretically, as long as there was at least one comm relay within deep-space reach, it could receive the message. Then the message would convert itself to a local comm relay to get farther in, changing its stripes as necessary.

  It was a masterful bit of work that marked a leap forward in the evolution of galactic communications. Certainly, when a sizable section of the comm relay was down, as was the case in Tarrago, it would still take a while for messages to get through. But they did get through.

  This should be standard comm tech. Leave it to the Republic to withhold something like this from the rest of the galaxy.

  This was a technique Thrane could use to his advantage. It would take maybe ten minutes to rework his own comm system to operate like the “ghost relay,” as he’d taken to calling it. And then he could reach anyone at any time.

  He only wished he could crack the encryption.

  The code slicer snapped his fingers. Another set of eyes on the encryption—from someone he trusted—might speed up the process. Of course, Thrane would have to be careful not to reveal too much. Just get some leads or opinions on the best way to get going.

  Garrett Glover was the slicer he had in mind. The wonder kid had fallen off the grid after getting mixed up with pirates, but if anyone could help, it would be Garrett.

  After twenty minutes, Thrane had refitted his comm system and sent a burst with standard mouse-slice encryption. Easy to break for a coder worth anything, and making him instantly identifiable to someone who knew what to look for. Now he just had to hope the comm address he had for Garrett was still a good one.

  Black Fleet

  Bridge of the Imperator

  Off Tarrago Moon

  0457 Local System Time

  “Admiral,” murmured the comm officer charged with monitoring the private channel between Goth Sullus and the fleet. “Message.”

  Admiral Rommal immediately stepped over and keyed the contact. It was only a voice, the same voice he’d been talking to, and the man’s menacing calm was unnerving.

&
nbsp; What did you expect? Rommal asked himself. Rage? Anger? Some promise of pain and suffering?

  But the calm in Goth Sullus’s voice was unmistakable. “Admiral… I shall deal with the orbital defense gun myself. Move the fleet in to take Tarrago now. Engage the fleet upon their arrival. They shall be here soon.”

  And the link was cut.

  How did he know that? Yes, the plan had always anticipated the arrival of the Republic’s Seventh Fleet, but no one actually knew whether they would come storming in immediately, or first gather their forces in some nearby system for a counterattack. On the planning schedule, they had anticipated this might take days.

  So how did he know?

  Not even Crodus and all his spies, who seemed to be everywhere, knew.

  How?

  Admiral Rommal strode back to the real-time tactical display in the center of the lower bridge. He studied the map for a brief minute. It seemed alive, which seemed ironic in light of all the death it represented.

  The situation, in-system, at the current moment was this. The fleet had three fully operational battleships. Three wings of fighters with tactical support complements. And three full divisions of shock troopers—one engaged on Tarrago in support of the primary objective of taking the shipyards, one meeting heavy resistance against the final defenders at Fortress Omicron, and one more ready to be committed as needed.

  Right now, Rommal would throw that third division into a drop on the fortress if he felt it would do any good. Except Goth Sullus had said he would deal with it himself.

  Of course, the plan had always been a trap. Lure the Republic’s Seventh Fleet into a battle.

  Right here, and right now. They were coming now.

  According to him. The man in black.

  Don’t think that. Don’t even think that. Goth Sullus. Don’t call him what everyone else does. Because maybe he can hear you. Which was an insane thought.

  But according to him—Goth Sullus—the Seventh was coming.

  That was key.

  Rommal’s aides and adjutants hovered about him. Watching his face. Knowing that the order they’d been waiting for ever since operations had begun… was about to be given.

  And still for one minute longer he studied the board. Waiting for something…

  Then…

  “Concentrate most of our jamming assets on blocking any comm with the fortress. We cannot let the Republic know of the situation there. Total blackout. Launch all wings. Bring the fleet about.”

  Suddenly everyone was scrambling. Speaking orders into comm stations. Setting plans in motion. All that could be known was already known. They’d merely needed the order to begin.

  Rommal straightened, adjusted his tunic, and watched the tactical displays all the more.

  Republic Seventh Fleet

  Bridge of the Freedom

  Hyperspace, En Route to Tarrago

  0500 Local System Time

  Admiral Landoo sat down in her command chair and checked the bridge jump clock once more. Forty-five seconds to target destination.

  If every ship transited jump in formation she’d have… what sounded like one hell of a fight on her hands. The Republic had never trained for anything of this magnitude. At least not in her career.

  She stared out the front bubble of the bridge and saw nothing but the raw intel data on those three super-massive ships as provided by the captain of the Audacity. Assessment and Intel had decided to tag them as battleships.

  Oh my, she thought. Actual battleships. The Republic hadn’t seen action against those since the Savage Wars. She wondered what they were capable of. She’d be far more comfortable if she had more ships on her side. Perhaps she should’ve let Audacity jump with them rather than ordering them on to Utopion. But that ship was only half working. It would have been of little help against these new enemy ships and their strange fighters.

  Where had these ships come from, anyway?

  Thirty seconds.

  “Approaching target destination,” called out the bridge captain.

  All across the immaculate white bridge, ethereal holographic screens stood ready to capture tactical system data in real-time.

  “Slowing from jump in twenty-nine… twenty-eight… twenty-seven…” announced the helm.

  Landoo had argued with the High Command that there should’ve been some kind of contingency for a major fleet action. She had argued that many times. It was in the record. And they’d ignored her. The House of Reason had ignored her, really. “We have fifteen full fleets,” they’d all murmured at her every time she’d tried to pin them down on spending. “There’s no other political entity in the galaxy that can field a force of that size.”

  And then they’d countered with a standard-issue platitude about concern for her safety. And a smug satisfaction that they always knew the right thing to do. That even fleet admirals didn’t know as much about military planning as they, the elite governing class, did.

  Except on paper there was no elite governing class. And yet it existed. It survived. And really, it thrived when others withered. So mind your manners and be a good little admiral. We’ll tell you what to do next.

  And she’d gone along. Gone along to get along. Made fleet admiral by buying off on their lies. And here she was flying into a battle against an enemy fleet with at least three battleships.

  She pushed all that away.

  She was a tough old bird, she told herself. She’d made rank on brains and guts instead of favored-alien-species-of-the-week diversity promotions. Even if she was a woman and they’d promoted her just to feel some kind of gender diversity self-righteousness, she had still required herself to be worthy of every advantage they’d foisted upon her.

  If this enemy fleet wanted a fight…

  “Twenty-one… twenty…”

  … then they were about to get a pretty big one.

  She slid her command datapad across her chair, brought up her unit roster, and readied her long fingers to key in her orders as soon as she saw what the hell was going on in Tarrago.

  Atlantica, the fleet’s super-destroyer, would jump in on lead. In support of that massive beast were seven destroyers.

  Destiny of Purpose.

  Liberty.

  Arangotoa, riding picket on the port flank.

  Emergent.

  Victory.

  Bantusu.

  With Aressima at the rear.

  “Ten… nine… eight…”

  Then came the carrier group.

  Anticipate, she told herself. Be where they don’t want you to be. Her fingers hovered over the datapad. She could feel the eyes of everyone on the bridge turn toward the forward bubble. The quiet murmur of comm and signal, the soft lighting, all of it was supposed to be calming. Landoo wondered how calm everything would be once they started the engagement. Once they started shooting at each other.

  “Five… four… slowing from light speed now!” ordered the bridge captain.

  Suddenly the streaking stars stood at a dead standstill as the mighty Seventh tumbled out of hyperspace, the inevitable collision avoidance alarms going off across all ships in the fleet.

  “Launch all fighters!” ordered Admiral Landoo as sensors brought up targeting data on the three massive ships bearing down on them.

  Within seconds the massive supercomputers below the combat information center had crunched the bare minimums of time, speed, and distance to each ship. Holographic overlays for engagement ranges for the various weapons systems began to come in seconds later.

  “Raise Omicron—I want to talk to the base commander.”

  The enemy fleet was passing through Tarrago Moon’s orbit inbound for Tarrago Prime, presenting their starboard sides. But they were well outside the orbital gun’s engagement window.

  And these ships were truly massive. Far bigger than even the super-destroyer just ahead off her carrier.

  “Admiral,” replied the comm officer. “Negative contact with Omicron. They’ve gone dark.”


  Landoo target-grouped the battleships and ordered all three wings of fighters to engage. She would deal with Omicron soon. Right now the Seventh had more pressing matters to deal with.

  “Landoo to fleet captains. Follow the fighters in and engage at close range. Concentrate on the lead ship. Admiral Nagu, you have tactical command forward of the carrier group.”

  Admiral Nagu acknowledged from the bridge of Atlantica.

  Republic Seventh Fleet

  Bridge of the Atlantica

  0502 Local System Time

  The Republic’s state-of-the-art capital warship opened up at max range with her powerful forward ion gun. The beast of a weapon was mounted atop the slender super-destroyer, forward of the bulbous engineering section and the eight massive engines at the rear of the ship. The first shot sped down the length of the hull and passed over the forward command decks.

  Secondary heavy turrets were unlimbered and began to fire from just beneath the cap that covered the upper decks. Charged bursts of ionized energy spat forth into face of the approaching enemy fleet. The first volley struck Imperator’s deflectors, blowing three decks worth of capacitors offline. Internal lighting flickered across half the hull, and the ship heeled to port as if reeling from the blast.

  Crewmembers erupted in a cheer across the twilight-blue command bridge of the super-destroyer.

  Admiral Nagu ordered his support ships to follow the massive Atlantica forward into the enemy’s approaching line. In a few moments he would hold station and order all flanking ships to envelop the enemy fleet, in order to bring maximum firepower to bear on their shields. Hopefully the Atlantica would stand up to whatever the massive ships returned fire with.

  Everything about this battle was an unknown, and Nagu did not like unknowns. It’s why he and others of his species seldom left their forest world. As humanoid avians, they were happiest in their trees making their songs and art. Service in the navy had been chosen by very few from that world.