Like all Hudathans Bora-Sa was huge, and Dietrich couldn’t help but smile, as he imagined marines flying in every direction. “Yes, sir. I’ll go get him.”
“Thank you,” Santana replied. “And tell the private that he’s going to pull every shit detail that Sergeant Telveca can come up with for the next thirty days.”
“I’ll tell him,” Dietrich agreed grimly. Then, having eyeballed the officer’s flawless Class B uniform, the noncom raised an eyebrow. “You’re looking pretty sharp today, sir. . . . If you don’t mind my saying so.”
Santana knew that was Dietrich’s roundabout way of asking where he was going, whom he was about to see, and ultimately why. “It seems that the commanding general is flying from ship to ship in an effort to meet as many senior officers as he can,” the legionnaire explained. “Colonel Quinlan was invited, and since the XO isn’t available, General Kobbi tapped me to sit in for him.”
Dietrich nodded. The XO had been injured in a vehicle accident back on Adobe—and had therefore been unable to lift with the rest of the regiment. Most of the enlisted people thought Santana should be named acting XO, but no announcement had been made, and now it looked as though Kobbi might be about to force the issue. All of which was well above Dietrich’s pay grade, so the noncom was careful to keep his face expressionless, as he made his reply. “Sounds like fun, sir. Have a good time.”
Santana had a deep and abiding hatred of meet-and-greet evolutions, a fact that Dietrich was well aware of. Which was why the officer said, “Screw you, Top,” before executing a neat about-face, and exiting the compartment.
Meanwhile, all of those who had been busy listening to the conversation witnessed the interchange, saw Dietrich smile, and chuckled appreciatively. Entertainment was in short supply aboard the Enceladus—so any diversion was welcome.
Crowded though conditions were on the troopship, battalion commanders had been given cabins of their own so they would have a place to meet with subordinates. When Santana arrived outside Quinlan’s quarters, the officer saw that the hatch was closed and assumed another visitor was inside. Military courtesy required him to knock three times and wait for an invitation to enter. When nothing happened he knocked again and counted to thirty.
Still not having received a response, and expecting to find that Quinlan had departed without him, the officer palmed the entry switch just in case. Much to his surprise the hatch cycled open. A few tentative steps carried Santana inside. And there, slumped over his fold-down desk, was Colonel Liam Quinlan.
The officer was drunk, judging from the half-empty bottle of gin at his elbow, and completely motionless. “Colonel?” Santana said experimentally as he reached out to touch the battalion commander’s arm. “Can you hear me?” Quinlan attempted to lift his head, mumbled something incomprehensible, and began to snore.
Conscious of how the scene would look should someone pass by, Santana hit the door switch, and waited for the hatch to close before returning to the desk. The colonel was in love with meetings, especially ones where he could clock some face time with his superiors, so why was the bastard drunk?
Having noted that the battalion commander was facedown on a sheet of official-looking hard copy, Santana placed a hand on top of the other officer’s nearly bald skull, hooked his fingers over Quinlan’s forehead, and pulled upwards. That freed the piece of paper, which the legionnaire removed prior to lowering the other man’s head onto the desk.
The BuPers printout, because that’s where it had originated, was a bit blurry where some of Quinlan’s gin had come into contact with the ink, but still readable. As with all such messages, it was brief, formal, and brutally direct: “Dear Colonel Liam Quinlan,” the message began. “It pains us to inform you that your daughter, Lieutenant Junior Grade Nancy Ann Quinlan, was killed in action off CR-0654 in the Rebor Cluster. Please accept our heartfelt condolences regarding this terrible loss. More details regarding Lieutenant Quinlan’s death, plus remains, if any, will be forwarded to your address of record. Sincerely, Major Hiram Fogles, Commanding Officer ComSec, BuPers.”
Santana swore softly as he put the printout down and looked at a picture he hadn’t had any reason to pay attention to until then. The face that looked back at him was young, surprisingly pretty given her father’s porcine features, and locked in an eternal smile. The possibility that Quinlan might have a family, and have feelings toward them, had never occurred to Santana.
It wasn’t easy to drag the portly colonel over to his bunk, roll him onto it, and arrange his body so that he looked reasonably comfortable. Then, having thrown a blanket over the officer and dimmed the lights, Santana slipped out into the corridor. There was a gentle hissing sound as the hatch closed, and the red “Do not enter,” sign appeared over the entry.
The meet and greet with General-453 was already under way by the time Santana entered the ship’s wardroom. Kobbi was seated at the far end of the compartment and shot the company commander a questioning look as he slipped into the room. But there was no chance to talk as a marine colonel rose to pose a question. “What about weather, sir?” the grizzled leatherneck wanted to know. “I understand winter’s on the way—and we don’t have the proper equipment.”
Santana was seated next to Kobbi by that time, and the two men exchanged glances, both thinking the same thing. The cold-weather gear that Santana and Dietrich had “requisitioned” from the navy was aboard, but wouldn’t be issued until the very last minute, lest the swabbies find out what was going on.
Meanwhile, General-453 was perched on the corner of the head table and seemed to enjoy the interaction with his subordinates. “I understand the nature of your concern, Colonel,” he said smoothly. “Gamma-014 is well-known for the severity of its winters. Fortunately, our forces will be able to land and eradicate the bugs before the really nasty weather sets in. It may be necessary to leave an occupying force behind of course—but the Hegemony will supply them with whatever they need. Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” Kobbi said, as he came to his feet. “I wonder if the general could provide us with more information regarding the capabilities of the Civilian Volunteer Army. . . . Specifically, how much training they’ve had, what role they will play, and for which units?”
General-453 didn’t like the question, as was clear from the expression on his face and the contemptuous way in which his response was worded. “Kobbi is it? Well, General Kobbi. . . . Had you taken time to read the Plan of Battle, especially the subsection titled ‘The Role of Civilian Volunteers,’ you would already know the answer to your question. But, since you didn’t, I will reply by saying that each volunteer is genetically qualified to fulfill his or her role, is already an expert in one of three clearly defined support specialties, and has been through four weeks of rigorous military orientation. That training includes familiarization with the chain of command, roles and responsibilities for each rank, and the appropriate protocols.”
Everyone watched as Kobbi, who was still on his feet, nodded respectfully. “Sir, yes sir. . . . But can they fight?”
That produced a nervous titter, followed by a series of coughs, and a rustling noise as some of the officers repositioned themselves. The clone, who was visibly angry by that time, seemed to spit out his words one at a time. “Yes, General. The CVA can fight if need be. But if you, and your troops, do the job properly, they won’t have to. Will they?”
The caustic interchange might have continued had it not been for one of Four-fifty-three’s aides, who took the opportunity to intervene. “I’m sorry to interrupt gentlemen, but the general is due aboard the Mimas two hours from now, and his shuttle is waiting.”
The meeting broke up shortly after that, and Santana was forced to wait as more than a dozen officers stopped by to thank Kobbi for asking about the CVA, before filing out into the corridor. Finally, once they were alone, Santana had the opportunity to tell Kobbi about Quinlan’s daughter. The senior officer winced and shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid things ar
en’t going well, Tony—not well at all.”
Was Kobbi referring to Quinlan’s daughter? General- 453’s arrogant leadership style? Or to the conduct of the entire war? There was no way to be sure—and Santana knew better than to ask.
5
There is no better fate than a glorious death in the face of insurmountable odds for the sake of one’s clan.
—Grand Marshal Hisep Rula-Ka
The Warrior’s Way
Standard year 2590
ABOARD THE BATTLESHIP STERN-KRIEGER, NEAR PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Except for the LEDs on Fleet Admiral Cory Trimble’s workstation, vid screen, and bedside clock, it was pitch-black inside her cabin as the com began to chirp. Trimble swore as she surfaced from a deep sleep, fumbled for the handset, and brought it up to her ear. “Yes?”
The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Flag Captain Hol Baraki. The two officers had known each other for more than twenty years, so when Trimble heard the tightness in his voice, she knew something was wrong. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Admiral,” Baraki said formally. “But we need you on the bridge. The first elements of what we assume to be a Ramanthian fleet dropped hyper five minutes ago.”
Trimble felt an iron fist grab hold of her insides and start to squeeze. Here was one of the scenarios that she and her staff had warned the Joint Chiefs about when President Nankool took 10 percent of the already-anemic home fleet and sent it off to take part in the attack on Gamma-014. But the knowledge that she and her staff had been correct brought Trimble no pleasure as she said, “I’ll be right there,” and put the handset down.
Klaxons had begun to bleat by that time, but could barely be heard within Trimble’s tightly sealed cabin, as the ship’s crew went to battle stations. The Stern-Krieger (Star Warrior), was a sister ship to the famous Gladiator, which had been lost to a Ramanthian ambush only months before. Her five-mile-long hull was protected by energy shields, thick armor, and an arsenal of weapons that included both energy cannons and missile launchers. And, like any vessel her size, the Krieg was accompanied by more than two dozen escorts, including a couple of heavy cruisers, a medium-sized carrier, six destroyers, and a variety of smaller warships, supply vessels, and a fleet tug. All of which sounded impressive, but was only one-third of the force assigned to protect Earth prior to a long series of peacetime budget cuts, increasing apathy on the part of the planet’s citizens, and the steady erosion of assets associated with the war.
But there wasn’t a damned thing Trimble could do about that as she took the time necessary to apply some makeup before donning a fresh uniform. Not because she was vain, but because it was important to look the way she usually did, especially during a time of crisis. The face in the mirror had a high forehead, wide-set hazel eyes, and lips that were too thin to be sexy. It was a flaw the officer had always intended to fix, but never gotten around to, like so many things related to her personal life. Her hair, which was silvery, barely touched her collar.
Once dressed, Trimble took one last look in the mirror, threw her shoulders back, and left the cabin. A pair of marine guards came to attention, offered rifle salutes, and followed the admiral up the corridor toward the bridge. It was a short trip, and intended to be, since her sleeping cabin was located just aft of the control room.
The battleship’s primary Command & Control (C&C) computer was generally referred to as Gertrude for reasons lost to history—and was currently making use of onebillionth of her considerable capabilities to communicate with the Krieg’s crew. “This is not a drill. . . . Secure all gear, check space armor, and strap in. Primary weapons systems, secondary weapons systems, and tertiary weapons systems have been armed. All fighter aircraft are prepared for immediate launch. . . .”
The two smartly uniformed marines posted just outside the control room crashed to attention as the admiral approached, and remained in that position until the hatch hissed open, and Trimble entered the bridge. The marines assigned to protect her remained outside.
An ensign shouted, “Attention on deck!” but Trimble waved the honor off, and made her way down a gently sloping ramp toward the center of the dimly lit control room. It consisted of a huge windowlike vid screen, that was largely useless at the moment, since there was nothing to look at except a couple of escorts that were half-lit by the sun. So Trimble went straight to the 3-D holo tank located at the center of the bridge, where Baraki and two members of his staff were monitoring the Ramanthian incursion.
The entire solar system could be seen floating inside the containment, including a miniature sun, eight realistic-looking planets, their moons, numerous planetoids, asteroids, comets, and even the larger pieces of man-made junk—like the abandoned hab in orbit around Venus. And there, headed toward Jupiter, were the green geometrical shapes that represented the home fleet. The other officers looked up as Trimble stepped into the glow that surrounded the holo tank. Their faces were lit from below, and their expressions were grim. “So, how does it look?” the admiral inquired hopefully.
“Not good,” Baraki said darkly. The flag captain had neatly combed dark hair, serious brown eyes, and a long face. “Especially now. . . . Look at what popped out of hyperspace two minutes ago.”
The enemy fleet was represented by geometric symbols. Each signified a particular type of ship, and all of them were red. However, the incoming object that Baraki had referred to didn’t conform to any known classification of warship. It was too big for one thing, shaped like a sphere, and seemingly under the protection of the bug battle group that was clustered around it. “I see it,” Trimble acknowledged. “But what is it?”
“We’re not absolutely sure yet,” the other officer answered cautiously. “But it looks like the Ramanthians strapped a hyperdrive to a small planetoid, and are using pressor beams to nudge it toward Earth. Kind of like a soccer game.”
“My God!” Trimble exclaimed, as the implication of that became clear. “They plan to push the planetoid in, hit the planet, and lay waste to the surface!”
“Yes,” Baraki agreed bleakly. “That’s the way it looks.”
“Well, they aren’t going to succeed,” Trimble said grimly, as she brought a fist down on the rail that circled the holo tank. “We’re going to hit that thing with everything we have, knock it off course, and send those bastards to hell! Notify the escorts, accelerate to flank speed, and prepare to engage.”
Baraki nodded. “Aye, aye, ma’am.” Then, having turned to his XO, the flag captain growled, “You heard the admiral. Let’s grease the bastards.”
ABOARD THE BATTLESHIP REGULUS, NEAR PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
In marked contrast to human warships, where the bridge was often located toward the vessel’s bow, Ramanthian architects preferred to bury their control rooms deep inside the hull, where they were that much safer. So that was where the newly promoted Admiral Ru Lorko was, standing in front of a floating holo, with pincers clasped behind his wings. The naval officer had large compound eyes, a pair of antennae that projected from the top of his head, a hooked beak, and an elongated exoskeleton that had been holed in battle and patched with a metal plate. A shiny rectangle that was the genesis of the nickname, “Old Iron Back,” and of which he was secretly proud.
Though once considered too eccentric for promotion to higher rank, Lorko was the officer who had been responsible for the destruction of the Gladiator and her entire battle group. The victory had brought the commodore to the Queen’s attention, catapulted the often-irascible officer to the rank of admiral, and led to his latest mission: Attack, occupy, and govern Earth. A difficult task under the best of circumstances, but made even more so by the presence of the warrior queen, who was forever asking questions, making unsolicited comments, and offering gratuitous advice. And now, as the enemy came out to meet him, she was there at Lorko’s side. “You were correct,” the royal said unnecessarily. “They took the bait.”
The naval officer’s response w
as little more than the Ramanthian equivalent of a grunt. But the Queen had been briefed regarding Lorko’s personality and took no offense. Because to her way of thinking, the admiral and the rest of her staff were tools, and so long as the tools functioned as they were supposed to, nothing else mattered.
Even though the two fleets were coming at each other at incredible speed, many hours were to pass before the leading elements of each battle group would make contact. There were plenty of things for Trimble to do at first. But eventually, after the proper notifications had been made, all the admiral could do was wait as the distance between the two fleets continued to diminish. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Ramanthians were within range. The first missiles were fired, and even though Trimble knew most of them would be intercepted, she was looking forward to drawing first blood. But then, just as the first weapons neared their targets, the enemy fleet disappeared!
Both the Admiral and the other officers who were gathered around the holo tank assumed they were looking at a technical glitch, until Gertrude’s calm, nearly inflectionless voice came over the PA system. “With the exception of the spherical object, presently designated as P-1, all other enemy vessels reentered hyperspace. Destination unknown.”
The immediate response was a loud cheer, as the bridge crew celebrated what looked like a rout, as the fleet continued to close with P-1. But Trimble felt something cold trickle into the pit of her stomach as the Ramanthian planetoid continued to grow larger. No damage had been inflicted. No casualties had been suffered. So why abandon the field of battle? There had to be a reason. A strategy of some sort. But what was it?
When Duty Calls Page 9
