Exodus: Empires at War: Book 8: Soldiers (Exodus: Empires at War.)

by Doug Dandridge

  “Attention,” yelled out the Command Senior Master Chief of the Fleet, watching as the men and women in the chamber, all of whom outranked him, surged to their feet. “Emperor on deck.”

  The Emperor Sean Ogden Lee Romanov, Sean the First, came through the door behind the most senior enlisted man in the Imperial Fleet. Resplendent in his naval uniform, the eight stars of a supreme commander on each shoulder board, he looked over the room for an instant, recognizing all of the faces standing around the table. They included two officers of service leading rank, Grand High Admiral Sondra McCullom of the Navy, and Grand Marshal Mishori Yamakuri of the Army, both with seven stars on their collars. Standing to the side of McCullom was Field Marshal Betty Parker, a five star, the Commandant of the Imperial Marine Corps. Across the table from them stood a pair of Grand High Admirals, six star rank, his senior fleet commanders, Grand Fleet Admiral Gabriel Len Lenkowski and Grand Fleet Admiral Duke Taelis Mgonda. Next to Len was Senior Marshal Beatrice Sanginawa, the newly appointed Imperial Army commander of Sector IV. Down the table was Lord T’lisha, the Phlistaran Head of Intelligence, right next to Ekaterina Sergiov, the Chief of the Imperial Intelligence Agency.

  The last person at the table was the lowest ranking. Lt. General Walther Preacher Jodel was the Chief of Special Ops in Sector IV, in command of the joint force of Army Rangers, Marine Force Recon and Fleet Commandos that operated against the Cacas.

  All of the faces looking back at him showed their shock, the same disbelief he felt. Eight hundred million of them, he thought as he waved everyone back to their seats and took his own. Men, women, probably tens of millions of children. Maybe more than that on other planets. There can’t be too many more than a billion, can there? Out of, what, fifty billion citizens of the kingdom?

  “This is really, unbelievable, your Majesty,” rumbled Lord T’lisha.

  “What’s so unbelievable about it,” said Lenkowski, turning a baleful eye on the civilian. “We know the bastards are the next best thing to obligate carnivores. Why would they waste the protein.”

  “We have a tremendous problem, ladies and gentlemen,” said Sean, looking again from face to face. “We have about a billion humans at serious risk of death, and we need to save them.”

  “I really don’t see how, your Majesty,” said Grand High Admiral McCullom. “If we try to take the planet, the Cacas are just going to kill them all.”

  “We might be able to get strike teams in to take out the Caca guard force,” said Grand Marshal Yamakuri in disagreement, shaking his head.

  “And how do you think we’re going to sneak a fleet in to take out their ships, so we can get your grunts onto the surface.”

  “That’s the Fleet’s problem,” said the Grand Marshal. “Just get us there, and we’ll do it.”

  “I don’t...”

  “I don’t want to hear how we can’t do it, Sondra,” said Sean, staring down the commander of his Navy. “What I want to hear is how we are going to do this.”

  “They aren’t even our people,” said Senior Marshal Saginawa.

  “They’re human, Goddammit,” yelled Mgonda, slamming a hand on the table.

  “We let enough of our own people die for tactical considerations,” shot back Saginawa, who was a native of Cimmeria. “What’s less New Muscovites than lived on my homeworld, more or less?” As she said this last she aimed a short glare at the Emperor.

  Sean felt a combination anger and guilt flow through him. Yes, Cimmeria, and her sister world, Aquilonia, had been sacrificed, along with the over seven billion people who had lived there, because it would have been disastrous to have made a stand at that time. The Cacas would have wiped out any force he could have deployed there, and that would have weakened the Fleet to the point where the later victories would not have been possible.

  “I am sorry about your homeworld, Beatrice,” he said in a calm voice, forcing down the rage, and the thoughts of sacking the Army Group commander. She was good at her job, and had every right to be angry at the man who had made the decision to let her world die. He truly didn’t believe she would give less than her all to any operation, despite her feelings, and that was all he could ask. “The strategic situation at the time demanded that action.” Or inaction. “That is not true at this time. In fact,” he said, looking around the table. “The situation at this time calls for the exact opposite. The enemy is weak, at this time and place. And the time is ripe to wipe out another of their fleets.”

  “That’s not the problem, your Majesty,” said Lenkowski, looking over at his fellow admirals. “We’ll go in and kick the Caca’s asses. I don’t doubt that. The problem will be getting in, clearing the orbitals, and landing enough of a force to take their camps, before they kill all of the civilians.”

  “I think we can handle that part,” said Preacher, a smile on his face. “After all, I have twenty thousand of the toughest troops this side of hell under me.”

  “And how do you plan on getting them onto the planet?” asked Yamakuri, doubt written on his face. “Not that I doubt the quality of your people, General.” He looked over at Parker and McCollum. “Even the Fleet and Marine pukes.”

  There was some muted laughter at the table over the good natured ribbing of the other services.

  “Remember the advantage we have, your Majesty,” said Preacher. “In a word, wormholes.”

  * * *

  PLANET NEW MOSCOW.

  “I want all of the humans processed before the spring comes to this hemisphere,” ordered Great Admiral H’rastarawaa, looking across the camp where they were housing the despised creatures. The stench of their unwashed bodies offended his sensitive sense of smell.

  That gives these lazy males seven months to process these useless sacks of protein, he thought, looking at the males and females of the species that cowered under his glare. There were very few younglings visible. The humans kept them hidden. Not that it did those mouths any good to hide. The cart of bodies being wheeled out of the camp contained humans of all sizes, from adults down to infants, being sent to the processing factory. Another cart came rolling in, containing the vegetable matter and grains they were feeding the humans, food that was mostly less than garbage to the Ca’cadasans.

  “Yes, my Lord,” said the underofficer, rendering a small bow.

  He thinks that the humans of the large Empire will be coming here, thought the Great Admiral, turning to walk away from the crowded camp, heading for the entrance. And he may be right. But until they do, we will continue to do our duty.

  The males in the headquarters came to their feet as he entered. With fist to chest he returned their salutes, then moved into the Commandant’s office, which was temporarily his as long as he was here. The Great Admiral plopped down in the chair behind the desk, his eyes moving to the holo that showed the New Moscow system. What a pitiful collection of ships, he thought, watching the icons of his warships moving through the system, mostly in orbit around the star or one of its planets. In the entire kingdom of New Moscow there was only a fifth of the tonnage that had come here to actually take the polity. A mere two hundred and forty-one superbattleships, less than half of them in the system. Almost seven hundred smaller vessels, again, only half in this system. And he wasn’t sure if he would be receiving reinforcements or not.

  If not for that idiot, M’tinisasitow, we wouldn’t be in this mess, thought the other Great Admiral, who had been assigned to this post as soon as forward base had found out about the male’s surrender. They knew that he would not follow the example of the cowardly male, though H’rastarawaa hoped he would also not have to die at his post. But if he did, he did. It was all a part of his duty to the Emperor, something that other cowardly male seemed to have forgotten.

  There was always the chance that he would be reinforced. Just as there was always the chance that the humans wouldn’t come to this kingdom. He thought both chances were remote, and that there was a higher probability that he would be reinforced than there was that the humans
wouldn’t come. And when they come, they shall find none of their own to rescue. I will see the camps vaporized first, hit with kinetics from orbit, or blown to atoms by nuclear warheads underneath them, before I will see the first child of the humans taken from the camps. The camps on the other worlds had the same orders. If they were to lose this territory, then the humans who had lived here would not be around to enjoy their freedom.

  The howl of a siren split the silence. What now? thought the Great Admiral, getting to his feet and running from the office to the outside. At first he saw nothing, but he heard some screams and shouts over the siren coming from the compound. And the angry buzzing of particle beams.

  “What is the situation?” he demanded over the com, cursing under his breath when a reply wasn’t forthcoming immediately.

  “Some humans tried to fight back when we came to harvest the tender meat, my Lord,” came the voice of an underofficer working the interior of the great camp. “When we shot them down there was a general uprising. We are putting it down at this moment.”

  “Waste as little meat as possible,” ordered the Great Admiral, thinking of what particle beams could do to hundred kilogram bags of flesh. “Any killed are to be rushed to processing immediately.”

  “It shall be done, my Lord,” said the underofficer.

  “And maybe we should start issuing your people stunners,” said the Admiral, thinking about the implications of such an order. It might embolden the humans to greater resistance, but he didn’t think that would do anything for them except get them to the meat processing plant sooner, and with much more intact protein. He switched frequencies on the com and was soon talking with the camp Commandant.

  “I’m not sure that is a good idea, Great Admiral,” said the male, who held the rank of Low Admiral.

  “What you think really doesn’t matter, Low Admiral,” growled the Great Admiral, anger rising at the challenge of a subordinate. “Issue your guards and harvesters stunners immediately. Only the reaction force is to have particle beams.”

  “And if humans from outside the camp attack?”

  “There are no such humans,” said the Great Admiral after a short barked laugh. “The only humans here are under our control. This will never again be a human planet.” He would see this world burned to a cinder before the humans got it back, even in violation of the edicts protecting worlds. The priests can go to the hells if they think I will let the vermin reestablish themselves here. I would rather suffer a thousand years tormented by demons in punishment.

  The big male was still outside, looking into the camp, when the first cart of the badly burned bodies were rolled out. Most of the human cadavers were missing twenty or more kilograms of mass, vaporized away by the particle beams. Among those bodies were a few smaller forms, some with only a torso or lower body remaining. Not only had the humans not protected their children when the adult protectors had been burned down. They had also lost the ones they had been trying to guard. The Great Admiral gave a satisfied snort as he looked over them, the tantalizing smell of cooked meat coming to his snout. If we can just get this over with, and ship all of this protein out of here and back to forward base, perhaps command will order our recall. He smiled at that hopeful thought, knowing he would rather meet the humans as part of another conquest fleet, rather than the commander of an outnumbered occupation force.

  * * *

  KINGDOM OF NEW MOSCOW SPACE.

  This deployment was much easier than the last. Commodore Natasha Romanov still wished that they were deploying back to the Republic, where she could again connect with friends and family, what were left of them. Unfortunately, they were at war, and for the duration her ships and her life were not her own. The light cruiser Orleans, her flagship, was still in top condition despite being on station for over a year. With modern technology, especially nanotech, wear and tear was not a common phenomenon. Battle damage, yes. But most modern systems were self-repairing and maintaining. Skilled technicians were able to take care of the rest. They could recycle food, water and air as long as they had power. As long as they were resupplied with antimatter, they were good to go for as long as the crew was alive.

  They had been resupplied before moving, which resupply included another light cruiser and three more destroyers, all Imperial ships. They joined her flagship and the five Republic destroyers already assigned to her force. This was the first time she really worked with Imperials, who she had always seen as competitors, if not enemies, in the past. She was finding them very competent, at least those she had communicated with, which were mostly the command staff of the ships. The lower decks, as they were called, were, according to the scuttlebutt, already bandying about her name in jest, since Romanov was a very aristocratic moniker in the Empire. Even their damned Emperor had a Romanov somewhere in his name.

  “We’re in position, Commodore,” called the Imperial destroyer Klein over the wormhole com. The ship was sitting six light years to rimward, filling in the detection net of that part of the Kingdom of New Moscow. Three more ships were still moving into position. On the last deployment, in the slot between New Moscow and the Republic, they had crept into position, all the while worrying that an enemy might come along and hit the screen while it was still detectable. This time there were task forces in position closer to the Ca’cadasan Empire, scouting groups that were gathering intelligence on the enemy forward deployments. Those groups would be falling back for operations in New Moscow, and her squadron, as part of a larger task group of sixty ships, would be called upon to provide the early warning line when the Cacas came back. And no one had any doubt that they would be coming back.

  Romanov watched the plot as the last of the ships moved into position, the Imperial light cruiser Neu Schwanstein taking up the forward position along with two destroyers, the other six destroyers arrayed in an oblong around Orleans. As soon as the last one moved into position she was on the com to the task group commander.

  “We’re ready, Admiral,” she told the middle aged woman, Rear Admiral the Countess Constance Romanov, who she thought might be a very distant relative. “All plugged in and ready to go.”

  “You’re the first,” said the Admiral with a frown.

  “We’ve had practice,” said Natasha, a smile on her face.

  “Then I expect you to set the example for the rest of us. I’m sure most of my crews are going to get bored with this duty very quickly.”

  Natasha nodded. Most naval duty consisted of patrols, which meant looking for possibilities of things happening, while updating the data on the systems visited. But at least on patrol the crew was doing something other than routine maintenance. They were navigating, doing sensor sweeps, flying side missions, basically running the ship, much like the British fleet during the Napoleonic Wars. The real danger here was boredom, and the very real risk of people getting lax on communications discipline and letting the Cacas know they were there.

  “We’ve never had a lapse of discipline, Admiral, and I don’t expect to have one on this deployment.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said the Admiral, the frown never leaving her face, making Natasha think that the woman’s basic personality was set to angry. “I’ll hold you to that, and expect the same kind of discipline while you are under my command.”

  “Yes, ma’am. We won’t let you down.”

  The Admiral nodded, and immediately cut the com.

  Well, this should be a pleasant deployment, thought the Commodore, making a point in her mind to communicate through her com officer in the future. It really wasn’t fair to that officer, but rank indeed had its privileges. And not talking to sour assholes when it was possible to get out of it was one of them.

  Chapter Two

  The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it.

  Albert Einstein.

  IMPERIAL ARMY ASSAULT TRAINING CENTERS, SECTOR FOUR, FEBRUARY 16TH, 1002.

  Lt.
General Samuel Baggett stood on the reviewing stand and watched as his first division, a Phlistaran formation, passed, battalion after battalion of half ton sentients encased in multiton armor. It was probably his most heavily armed division, the 512th Heavy Infantry, despite it lacking the number of main battle tanks of other heavy divisions. Phlistarans in armor were among the most fearsome soldiers in the known Galaxy, and there was one armored battalion attached. But because of the transport penalties of such sentients, and in the interest of balance, their divisions were structured a bit differently than those of humans.

  The first company of the fourth battalion passed by, the four armored feet of each trooper pounding the street in unison, rifles held at salute in the two powerful arms thrusting out of the torso. Helmeted heads turned toward the stand, retracted face plates showing fearsome toothed snouts and the incongruously gentle brown eyes. The company commander held a ceremonial blade high, while the guide on bearer raised the flag, then lowered it as the General returned the salute.

  They’re like flippen cavalry of old, thought Baggett, recalling the charges the Phlistaran division in his old corps in Fenri space. Like armored knights. Each had the snouts of heavier weapons thrusting over their backs, like the antipersonnel turrets of light armored vehicles.

  Phlistarans gave the illusion of invincibility. Unfortunately, there was no such thing as invincible, no way to pile enough armor on a living being. While they were fast moving and hard hitting, the ultimate shock troops, they were also big targets. On the Fenri campaign they had caused the enemy no shortage of death and destruction, while suffering horrendous casualties themselves. One reason he preferred human units was their staying power, which was mostly based on their ability to get low to the ground and present the smallest target possible.

  The next three companies marched by, heading down the road on the way to the shuttle field. Five more battalions marched by, then came the one armored battalion of the division. Most vehicles were not made for Phlistarans. Because of that, even almost wholly Phlistaran units had other sentients assigned to them for vehicle operation. In this case, the three companies of main battle tanks and two of lights were manned by Malticons, diminutive humanoids, barely a meter and a half tall and the physical opposites of the Phlistarans. The thousand ton main battle tanks were enough to make up for that. Even the two hundred ton light battle scout vehicles were fearsome killers that made the small aliens fearsome killers in their own right.