Winds of Vengeance

by Jay Allan

  He sighed. For most of his life such thoughts would have been anathema. He was a Marine, and Marines fought…and they did so wherever they were sent. A Marine might refuse a truly immoral order, but it wasn’t up to the leatherneck in the line to review commands, decide which ones to heed, and which to reject. It wasn’t the way the Corps worked…not for the private standing in a trench somewhere, and not for the general in command either. But Frasier had a different perspective. His wife was Ana Zhukov. Hieronymus Cutter and Zhukov had long been partners in science…and their work had almost certainly saved the fleet thirty years before.

  They had also created the Mules, an attempt to increase abilities in humans, and to eliminate sickness, weakness. It was the kind of thing that made sense, but created a chilling feeling nevertheless. Nevertheless, amid the desperate need to populate the republic in those early years, the project was approved, and one hundred sixteen superhumans were created.

  The Mules scared people, they intimidated humans possessed of more normal ability levels. They were stronger, faster, and far more intelligent. And they showed every indication of having lifespans vastly longer than those of normal humans. A perfect recipe to combine fear and jealousy…to turn people against the Mules.

  Frasier knew many of the enhanced beings. He remembered them as children, watching them grow up, the remarkable work they were doing at ages when normal boys and girls were playing games. And he’d seen the backlash, the Prohibition…and the other restrictions imposed on the Mules. He’d watched them withdraw from normal society, to remain together in their compound, researching the mysteries of the First Imperium and rarely mingling among the republic’s other citizens.

  Frasier had lost some of his empathy for the Mules, especially amid the concern that the enhanced humans would act out, challenge the laws of the republic. But Ana had let him have it, and the two had gotten into a fight the likes of which neither had ever seen. They both said things they were sorry for almost immediately, and they’d both apologized too. But the struggle had shaken Frasier, and cracked the façade of the martinet that had grown up around him over the years of commanding the Corps.

  Now he was uncertain. He had to obey his orders…and he knew President Harmon’s hands were tied. Harmon sympathized with the Mules too, but he had political realities to deal with. Frasier thought about the Mules he’d known, Achilles, Callisto, Heracles…they’d been active children, energetic and endlessly curious. They had been playmates to his own children, and frequent visitors to his home. Now was he supposed to kill them all? To gun them down and watch them die?

  “General Frasier…” The voice was familiar, but before could even place it or check the roster on his display, his AI put the information directly into his mind.

  “Yes, Lieutenant Cameron.”

  “Sir, one of my squads in on point along the northeast perimeter…and, well, sir, we were told to contact you directly with any…”

  “Yes, Lieutenant…you did the right thing. What do you want to report?”

  “We’ve got movement, sir, at the base hill below the compound. It looks like some access doors, probably from some underground level. We’ve got something coming out.”

  Frasier tensed up. He didn’t really think the Mules could resist his Marines…but then he didn’t expect them to give up easily either.

  “Send your data right to HQ, Cameron. I want nonstop surveillance. Keep your scanners on that spot.” He looked up at the compound, off to the right, about where Cameron’s people were. He couldn’t see anything from his angle, but he flashed a thought to his AI, and his helmet snapped up and into place.

  “Project visor data from Lieutenant Cameron.” He spoke the command, even though he could have just directed the thought his AI. His visor darkened, blocking the outside view. An instant later another perspective replaced it. He was fourteen hundred meters from the base of the hill. And there was definitely movement. His eyes were fixed, locked on the spot just outside of the doors. He watched as a shadow moved forward…and then he saw it…

  He felt his throat close up, his stomach tense. The object was familiar…too familiar. He froze in place for a few seconds. Then a wave of fear snapped him out of his funk.

  He cleared his visor with a thought. Then he directed the AI to put him on the master channel.

  “All Marines, pull back to primary positions. Grab whatever cover you can get, and prepare to repel any assault.”

  Frasier’s visor no longer displayed the input from Cameron. But he could still see it in his mind, standing tall, menacing…and he knew it for what it was. Death, horror…constructed in a vaguely humanoid form. And one question worked at his mind, digging at him, stirring anger, confusion.

  How the hell did the Mules get a First Imperium warbot?

  Chapter Seventeen

  From the Journals of Admiral Terrance Compton

  Thirty Years Ago – Just After the Fleet was Trapped

  All my adult life I have served. My only memories of civilian life are those of a child. My father was a wealthy man, and my early life was one of luxury, even if I was only the bastard child of the lowborn woman who gave him comfort after his wife had died. My half-brothers and sisters despised me, perhaps as much because they saw me as a rival to inherit the family’s wealth and political positions as anything else. But they needn’t have worried. I never wanted that life. And I took pity on my father, restored peace to his world by loudly declaring my intention to go to the Academy, to embrace a military life.

  I never wanted my siblings’ inheritances, nor their claims to political office. All I ever wanted was to be accepted by them…to be one of them. But I realized that was never going to happen. They were too sick with greed, too focused on becoming part of the power structure of the Alliance. So, I sought my future elsewhere, alone, someplace where I wouldn’t be the mutt, the outcast.

  My father got me my appointment—I’m far from certain I could have passed the entrance exams—and he came to visit me twice. I remember him from graduation, and I think he was truly proud. But I had always been a complication in his life, and even as he hugged me that day, I could feel that I had lifted a burden from him by leaving home. And though I do believe he loved me, my perceptions proved to be true. My father lived almost forty years from that day…yet I saw him fewer than half a dozen times during that period. Part of that was the call of war, my own duty and responsibility that kept me in space most of the time. But I think we both knew things were better this way. He had his real family back home, following in his footsteps. And I was well-cared for, and successful in my chosen career. It was easier to fall back on long distance messages and holiday greetings.

  I was at war when he died, commanding a fleet in action. I didn’t find out until almost two months after it happened. I have long been at peace with my relationship with my father. What is past is past. Yet, if I could change one thing, I would have seen him one last time. I have reasons for resentment, and for gratitude as well, but none of that matters. In the end, he was my father, and I hadn’t seen him for a decade before he died.

  These old thoughts serve me now, for every man and woman in the fleet must adapt to the fact that we are alone here, that anyone left behind the Barrier, friends, parents, siblings…they are gone to us, as gone as my father is to me. How much unfinished business was left between them and their loved ones? How many will crave just what I do, one last meeting, the warmth of a hug, an hour to talk about old times, to smile at memories of days past.

  The First Imperium is a threat, perhaps the most dangerous in all the galaxy. But as the realization of what has happened to us sets in, how much pain will my people carry…and how can I make them know I understand, that I feel the same sense of loss they do?

  Main Engineering Deck, E2S Compton

  System G-35, Eleven Transits from Earth Two

  Earth Two Date 11.26.30

  “I don’t care if the indicators read normal. Get down there and check out that co
nduit meter by meter. Now!” Ang Minh stood in the middle of Compton’s main engineering section, shouting out orders rapid fire.

  “Yes, Commander.” The voice was artificial sounding, electronic. The newest AIs had voices that were indistinguishable from those of humans, but no one wasted time putting leading edge voice synthesizers in engineering maintenance bots.

  Minh had a dozen people working under him too, but Compton was a vast machine, with endless kilometers of corridors and vast amounts of wiring. He would give the orders, and he would send his precious few engineers to double-check the most important systems…but he knew it was the bots who would keep Compton functioning through the battle. Or not.

  Admiral Frette’s last minute thrust order had probably saved Compton, pushing the ship just far enough to escape the lethal zone of the ten-gigaton detonation. But there were burnt out systems all over the ship, and he suspected the outer compartments were heavily contaminated. It was an easy fix, given time. But right now he had seventeen minutes. Seventeen minutes before the flagship entered energy weapons range of the enemy.

  He’d considered asking the admiral to pull back out of the line…but he knew that was impossible. Compton was a huge portion of the fleet’s firepower, the most massive and heavily-armed warship ever built by man. He suspected the fleet could win the fight even without the mighty flagship, but the longer it took them to wipe out the enemy ships, the more losses they would take. Holding Compton back meant more damage to the other ships, systems blown to scrap…men and women killed. Besides, Admiral Frette would never agree to stay in the rear of the battle, not while her ship could limp forward at half a gee. She was old school all the way, a disciple of the great Terrance Compton, and when she sent her people into battle, she went with them.

  “The main batteries are still offline, sir.”

  Minh spun around, turning toward the voice. It was Davis Horn, standing almost at attention, a painfully earnest expression on his face. Horn looked like a child to Minh, though he knew the lieutenant was twenty-five. Horn had been first in his class at the Academy, but he’d given up the position on the command track that was his due to pursue the engineering that was his first love. Minh would never admit it to the kid, but he suspected Horn could already go toe to toe with him on engineering knowledge.

  “That’s unacceptable, Lieutenant. We’ll be in weapons range in sixteen minutes, and the admiral needs those guns.”

  “I’ve run a complete diagnostic. It checks out, but we’re not getting energy flow to the main accelerators.”

  “Fuck.” Minh took a deep breath. The reactors were fine, operating at one hundred percent well within designated safety parameters. And he doubted the radiation from the missile blast could have done any damage to the acceleration chambers themselves. He knew the problem had to be bullshit, some five-minute fix of a burned out circuit, but Compton’s main batteries were three kilometers long, mounted right into the ship’s spine. It could take a full shipyard crew a week to find the problem. But he had fifteen minutes.

  “Take a dozen bots, Lieutenant…and scour every centimeter of that fucking thing. But I need it fixed, and I need you out of the chamber in thirteen minutes.”

  Horn looked like he was going to argue, but Minh spoke first. “Just do it, Lieutenant.” Then he turned around and walked over toward the main control panel. He felt the urge to go with Horn, to prowl along the acceleration tubes himself. But he was responsible for the entire ship, and there were a hundred burnt out systems that needed his attention. And he had to admit to himself, if Horn couldn’t get it done, he probably couldn’t either.

  “Fuck.” He muttered under his breath. It had been bad luck—just bad damned luck—that a missile had detonated so close to Compton. Admiral Frette’s tactics had been brilliant, and ninety-five percent of the incoming warheads had been intercepted. The odds against a detonation inside the danger zone of the flagship had been heavy. But it was a reminder to all of them, veterans who’d seen twenty years of peace, and the unblooded young crews that made up most of the fleet’s numbers…combat was unpredictable, and whatever could go wrong often did.

  He stared up at the main display. He had over three hundred repair bots on Compton, and every one of them was committed right now. The flagship’s damage was nothing he’d normally find especially worrisome, at least not if he had time to conduct repairs. But fourteen minutes before the ship moved into close range and engaged the enemy battle line, it was a major problem.

  He stared up at the screen, his eyes darting back and forth over the sections his bots were occupying. He sighed hard. “Units thirty-seven and thirty-eight…report to Lieutenant Horn at once.” The two bots had been working on one of the guidance arrays. It as a critical repair, as per the ‘book,’ but Minh knew he could work around it, cover the function with backup systems, at least for a while. But if the main batteries were still down when Compton entered firing range…

  * * *

  Nicki Frette sat in her chair, bolt upright, her eyes locked on the battle display. Maneuvering toward the enemy fleet, firing missiles—having missiles fired at you—it was all part of war in space. But to her, and most of the other veterans, it was the struggle that began when the fleet entered energy range that was truly the battle. The missile exchanges had their place, but between the vast distances involved and the sophistication of detection, jamming, and interception technology, the enormously powerful warheads were effectively relegated to a secondary system.

  Though we came close to proving that assertion wrong almost blundering into that missile…

  I hope that near miss wasn’t a sign of things to come…

  Frette was extremely competent, a sharp, quick-witted officer…but she wasn’t completely immune to the superstitions that pervaded the service. And under the surface of her thoughts, her carefully-planned stratagems, she was wondering if she’d gotten the bad luck out of the way…or if it had just been a sign of things to come.

  Her hand moved toward the com unit, but she stopped before it reached the controls. Ang Minh would let her know when the main batteries were back online. And she knew the gifted engineer would do everything possible to restore the weapons’ functionality. Humoring the commanding officer was a skill most successful engineers eventually acquired, but it was a waste of time. And she wasn’t about to lose even thirty seconds of precious engineering time just to make Minh humor her.

  “Admiral, Commander McDaid’s birds have all landed. He reports minor damage to two ships. No losses, no injuries.”

  “Very well.” She exhaled softly. She’d been a little worried about getting the fighters back on board before the final struggle began. She felt the urge to order the fighter-bombers rearmed for anti-ship operations, but she knew it was impossible. Compton had taken too much damage from the freak missile detonation, and most of the fighter bay crew and bots had been transferred to damage control ops.

  She considered authorizing her other capital ship captains to launch their own fighters, but she knew a disorganized, piecemeal commitment of her wings would only result in more casualties. And if the fleet was going to move forward after the battle, she wanted her squadrons intact.

  She glanced at her the readout at the corner of the main display. One minute to energy weapon range.

  “Commander Kemp, fleet order…all batteries prepare to fire.”

  “Yes, Admiral.” Kemp relayed the command. A few seconds later: “All vessels report ready, Admiral.” Another pause. “Our main batteries are still offline, but all secondary and tertiary weapons charged and ready to fire.”

  Frette’s eyes moved across the main display. The fleet was in battle formation, her six capital ships clustered together, surrounded by the cruisers and lighter escorts. Her missiles had cleared away the forward enemy line…eight ships destroyed and four badly damaged. The energy attack would clear away the crippled ships, and then she would push ahead, split the enemy in two. Then the battle line would divide, moving aga
inst each enemy wing, and hitting the First Imperium ships from two sides.

  “Reduce engines to one-quarter power. Divert energy to weapons systems.” The fleet had been decelerating, reducing velocity as it approached the enemy. Frette didn’t want a flyby attack, one where the two fleets zipped by each other, exchanging a few fleeting shots. She was looking for a battle of annihilation, and that meant staying in the combat zone as long as possible.

  “All ships report engines at one-quarter. Ready to fire on your command.”

  She stared ahead, watching the seconds count down. She felt strange, the sensation of imminent battle strangely familiar, almost as if the intervening twenty years had never happened. And yet on another level, combat seemed a distant memory, almost as if she’d imagined it all. But it had been real then…and it was real now. And Admiral Nicki Frette knew what she had to do.

  “All ships…open fire.”

  * * *

  “I want full power to the main batteries…I don’t care where you find it.” Josie Strand was standing on Starfire’s bridge, shouting into her com unit. She knew she should be strapped into her chair like the rest of the bridge crew, but she was too fidgety, too restless. She was commanding her ship in battle. The seventy-seven other members of her crew were depending on her…as was Admiral Frette and the rest of the fleet. She’d been scared as she’d watched enemy missiles coming toward the fleet, and again as Starfire moved forward toward energy weapons range, but now that fear was mostly gone, or at least relegated to some deeper place in her mind. She was edgy, tense, her mind racing, trying to keep track of her ship’s fire, its damage…its place in the fleet.