by Jay Allan
* * *
“Captain…get your people back out there. We can’t pull back without the colonel…so find him!” Luther Holcott was frantic, covered in mud, and a bit of blood from a gash on the side of his neck. He was screaming orders as loudly as his tortured throat could manage.
He was also in command, at least until he could find Colonel Blanth.
He’d been right next to Blanth when an enemy shell had landed not far from their position. He remembered flying through the air, and hitting the ground so hard he was stunned he hadn’t broken anything. He’d been out for a while, though, ten minutes maybe, and in that time, his Marines had found him and carried him back from the open field that had turned into the front line.
But they hadn’t found Blanth.
That was upsetting, and Holcott was terribly worried about his friend and commander. His Marines had been pushed back, and as he stood on the small ridge, looking out over the blasted plain, he could see enemy tanks moving forward. The expanse of flat, open ground had been dangerous before, but it was about to become a killing ground. He had to get his people out, and he had to do it now.
But he had to find Steven Blanth, too.
He jumped off the small rise and began walking forward. Half a dozen Marines hastily followed.
“Major…please. You can’t go up there.” It was Captain Hoffman, one of his company commanders who was now effectively in charge of a battalion.
What was left of one, at least.
“Captain, supervise the withdrawal. You know the retreat routes as well as I…”
“No, sir.” It was disobedience, and the pain in the captain’s voice was clear. But the man stood firm.
“Captain Hoffman,” Holcott roared, but Hoffman interrupted him before he could continue.
“Sir, you’re in command of the entire defense until we find the colonel. You can’t go out there.”
“I can do whatever I see fit to do, Captain.” There was rage in Holcott’s tone…but as he finished, his expression softened. He wanted to find Blanth—he needed to find him. The colonel was the heart of the resistance, a true hero from the first defense of the planet. He couldn’t be dead, not this early. He just couldn’t. Not when his Marines needed him so badly.
But Holcott knew his duty…and what he owed to Blanth, what the lost commander would truly have wanted from his exec. He needed to find his friend…but the thousands of Marines in the field, who had just lost their commander, needed him more.
“All right, Captain…but I want this field searched, and I mean now. We don’t just bug out and leave our people behind.” Holcott knew his words carried more romance than truth. The realities of combat meant people were left behind all the time. There were Marines out there now, wounded, unable to retreat. He could send others after them, but they wouldn’t get halfway across the field. In his gut, he wanted to ignore that fact, send his Marines into the maelstrom to rescue their comrades. But his head knew the grim reality, that all he could do was get more Marines killed.
And he was going to need every fighter he could get if he was going to keep even a spark of resistance alive on Dannith.
That was something he had to do. For his duty, for the Confederation.
And for Steven Blanth.
* * *
Blanth struggled, trying desperately to wrench himself free of the iron grip holding him in place. His mind was fuzzy, and the resistance was more instinctual than anything, an animal’s need to escape from a trap.
His thoughts were swirling, and memories were coming back, slowly. He’d been out in the field, talking to Major Holcott. And then…
He’d blacked out. His body was still numb, but he’d recovered enough from the initial shock that he could feel where he’d been hit. His legs felt strange, and, as more seconds passed, awareness turned to pain. He could feel the wetness of blood, and the throb where bits of shrapnel had torn into his flesh.
“Hectoron, we have a prisoner. Based on the insignia analysis from the first campaign, I believe this to be a soldier of considerable rank.”
The words were heavily-accented, at least to Blanth’s ears, but the speech was standard Imperial, the same language spoken throughout most of the Rim. He struggled again, to no avail, and then he leaned his head back and growled at his captors, “I’m no soldier, you miserable vermin. I’m a Marine.”
“Silence!” It was the same voice he’d heard seconds before, and, almost immediately, the grip holding him tightened. He winced in pain as he was yanked backwards.
“Good work, Decaron. Your troops are to be commended. The plain is clear, and we have established a secure zone ten kilometers out from the primary landing zones.” The figure, at first a shadowy image at the edge of Blanth’s peripheral vision, moved closer, and became clearer. It was an armored soldier, and like the others, he had implants, chunks of metal protruding from inside his body. Blanth had been a Marine all his adult life, and he’d always considered himself to be tough. But the sight of the man standing in front of him, the look of the dark, metallic—what was it, an exoskeleton of sorts?—gave him a chill.
“What are you called?” The voice was deep, so much so it almost had a mechanical sound to it. Blanth stood for a few seconds before he realized the soldier had been speaking to him.
“Blanth,” he said, his tone raw, hostile. “Colonel Blanth.”
“You are an officer? You rank highly in the command structure of the defensive forces?”
Blanth stood, silent, unmoving.
“You are required to answer.”
The Marine stood, mustering every bit of defiance he could.
“You will answer my questions…or we will employ sanctions.” The man’s voice was without emotion, and yet there was a threat implicit in every word. But Blanth was a Confederation Marine, and as far as he was concerned, these circus freaks could shove it.
“Eat shit.” He’d somehow imagined a wittier response when he’d thought of himself facing an enemy as a captive. But it would serve.
He struggled to hold in his cry as something slammed into his lower back from behind. It was hard, steel or something similar, and at first, he thought it was a weapon. Then he saw the metal gloves most of the soldiers wore. At least they didn’t look surgically attached…though on closer inspection, the troopers all seemed to have small studs protruding from their wrists.
“You will suffer needlessly if you resist. We are not here to harm you…it is your own refusal to yield that makes destruction and suffering necessary. Submit, aid us in bringing your people into the embrace of the Hegemony so they may assume their rightful place in an ordered society. The Masters will welcome you, and they will guide you, lead you, as they do for all of us.”
Blanth wasn’t sure what to say, what response could communicate what he thought of the words he’d just heard. All he knew was “eat shit” didn’t even come close.
“Prepare the grid,” the man said, after a moment of silence. “We will see what endurance the prisoner possesses.”
Blanth didn’t like the sound of that one bit…but he’d known something of the sort was coming. The sooner these half robot soldiers knew what they were facing, the better. Do your worst…
The thought roared into his mind with all the defiance he had in him. But he was scared shitless, too. That was okay, normal…as long as he didn’t let them know it. Showing the enemy his weakness would be his true defeat.
“Attach the prisoner to the grid.”
Blanth tried to suppress a shiver, but before the soldiers could drag him to whatever nightmare awaited him—and they would have to drag him—a voice called out.
“That will not be necessary, Hectoron.”
Blanth turned his head toward the sound, and his eyes set on a woman standing several meters away, with four of the armored warriors flanking her, two to a side.
She wore what appeared to be light combat armor, but she had none of the implants Blanth had seen on the other soldiers. In fa
ct, she looked almost like a model dressed up as a soldier, the kind of thing from a movie, where an actress was far more attractive than the individual she was playing. It wasn’t even that she was beautiful, in the sense of pure sexual attractiveness. She was nearly…perfect. Her proportions, her facial structure, the thick, but closely cropped, hair on her head.
This must be a Master…
That thought was confirmed when the soldiers all around him dropped down to one knee. “Master Carmetia…of course, as you command.”
Blanth found the whole genetically-organized societal setup of the Hegemony—at least as much as he knew about it—to be repugnant. But something about—Carmetia, was that a name, a rank, some kind of designation?—was mesmerizing in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
“There is no need to mistreat the prisoner. His caution is quite understandable.” She turned toward one of the soldiers standing beside her. “Lintilus, this man is to be taken to my ship.” Blanth stood fixated as her eyes moved over his body. “He is injured. See that he receives medical care at once.”
“Yes, Master Carmetia.” The soldier snapped his reply with a sharpness Blanth would have approved of in any of his Marines. “Come,” the man said gruffly, extending an armored hand toward the stunned Marine.”
“Go with my guards…” Her eyes fell to his rank insignia. “…Colonel. No harm will come to you, you have my word. My people will see to your wounds, and then we can…talk.” She nodded, almost imperceptibly, as two of her soldiers took position on either side of Blanth.
The Marine just stared back, stunned, and then he moved forward, allowing the enemy soldiers to lead him. There was no reason to disobey. No one was asking him questions, nothing that could harm his Marines or the defensive effort…and his leg hurt like hell. If they were really going to tend to his wounds, he couldn’t see any reason to resist.
Besides, he wouldn’t get very far trying to escape now. His legs could barely hold him. Once they treated his wounds…well, then he just might manage to find a way out.
That seemed wildly unrealistic, but then, Blanth was a Marine.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
500,000 Kilometers from CFS Constitution
Miramar System
Five Transits from Dannith
Year 317 AC
“All right everybody, listen up.” Olya Federov sat in her cockpit, and her anger and impatience grew with each passing second that passed, as the cacophony on the main comm line continued unabated. “Quiet!” she finally roared, allowing her rage and her frustration—not to mention the pain she felt at Stockton’s absence—to pour into her words. Fighter pilots were a notoriously unruly bunch, but the sheer force of her will, and the ferocity of her final shout, brought total silence. She hadn’t come to a full realization yet, but in the depths of her subconscious, she was pulling the threads together. She was the leader of the fleet’s strike force now. Perhaps even the entire fighter corps of the navy.
At least until Stockton made it back. That seemed impossible, but she hadn’t given up yet either. She just couldn’t let him go, not yet.
She looked at her scanner. The enemy fleet was approaching, as vast and apparently every bit as invincible as it had been at Dannith. The fighter wings had fought hard there, what seemed like just hours before, though she knew it had been almost two weeks since then. Still, that was a very short time between full-scale battles.
Especially in this war, where the squadrons carried so much responsibility for engaging the enemy. Returning fighters were refit and turned around almost immediately, with just enough time for fuel and ordnance to be loaded and exhausted pilots to wolf down a sandwich, and grab an hour’s rest…maybe. Assuming they could find a way to sleep amid combat, jostled by desperate maneuvers and assaulted by the shouts of the inured and dying.
It wasn’t fatigue Federov was worried about, nor fear. It wasn’t the dedication that was missing, either. The pilots had always given that. The fighter wings knew what they had to do, and they knew what would happen to their comrades, to the Confederation…to their friends and loved ones at home, if they didn’t give all they had.
But, for the first time in this war, they were going in without their leader. Without the legendary hero who had set the example they had all followed for so long. The one pilot that every man or woman strapped into a Lightning revered above all others.
Federov had served alongside Jake Stockton since the two were both squadron leaders on the old Dauntless, and even then, she’d been mesmerized by the pilot’s seemingly magical talent. She still remembered the day then-Captain Barron had arrived to take command of the vessel…and the adventures they’d all shared, the exploits that seemed almost unreal across the fuzzy stretch of intervening years.
She smiled for an instant, remembering Stockton’s close relationship with Kyle Jamison, Dauntless’s strike force commander in those days…and also an anecdote that made her smile. The two men had been the best of friends, brothers, as close as any she’d ever seen…but apparently not close enough for quite all their secrets to be surrendered. Federov had long kept a secret from Stockton, from everyone on both vessels named Dauntless and, later, Repulse as well. She and the usually-straitlaced Kyle Jamison had briefly been lovers, a torrid, wild, and completely inappropriate relationship…and one she was sure Stockton had never known about.
She’d mourned Jamison bitterly, though their affair had been long over by the time he’d fallen…but she didn’t have the luxury now of feeling grief over Stockton’s loss. She had to take his place…and she knew doing so, being there to help the fighter wings through their ordeal, was the greatest honor she could give to her friend.
Through it all, she refused to quite accept he was gone. A spark in her mind clung to the belief that he would turn up again, separated from the strike force, but not lost. It seemed almost impossible, but she told herself when—if—he did return, she would tell him about Jamison…and the two could share remembrances of their old comrade and friend. But there was no time for such thoughts just then, no room for weakness or melancholy remembrances as the enemy approached.
Only for war.
“There’s no point ignoring the thing that’s on everybody’s mind,” she continued, practically screaming into the comm and struggling to keep her own grief out of her voice. “Raptor was our leader, and for many of us, our friend. He was the best fighter pilot I’ve ever known, perhaps the best that ever served the Confederation.” She paused. She still held a hope her friend was alive, but with cold calculation, she’d decided the pilots of the fleet’s strike force would gain more from rage and vengeance than from hope, that there and at that moment, there was advantage to be gained from them avenging Stockton, throwing themselves into the fire, like wild demons drunk on blood.
She forced out her next words by pure strength of will, determined to awaken the darkest depths of her people’s minds. “But he’s gone now, lost, as so many of our other comrades have been. And yet, he is here with us, too. He always will be. He built this strike force, led us into battle, and helped us develop the tactics to engage this new and deadly enemy. Mourn our lost leader, drink to him when the battle is over…but for now, think only of the one thing you can still do for him. Avenge his death.”
She paused for a few seconds, and then continued. “You can only fail him if you allow grief to rule you now. The enemy is there. Go forward, engage…and make ‘Raptor’ Stockton proud…because he’s watching over us.” She shut down her outgoing comm and listened, waiting for a resumption of the wild and raucous banter. But there was nothing. Only grim silence.
She turned back toward her screen, and she gripped the controls of her fighter, sucking in a deep breath as she readied herself once again to take her ship in, to put her torpedo right into the guts of one of those massive battleships.
To avenge Jake Stockton.
* * *
“Bring us around…thrust 6g directly to port.” Sonya Eaton pushed herself back
into her chair, leaning into the cushioning and bracing for the force she knew would hit any second. The last hit Repulse had taken had spared her vital systems, her weapons and power generation. But, in a fluke, the dampeners had gone down completely. The complicated system that absorbed much of the force of acceleration was completely dead, and it didn’t seem likely it would be back online anytime soon, especially with the vessel’s two senior engineering officers both out of action.
Repulse had been doubly fortunate in the gifted engineers running its damage control operations. Walt Billings was an incredibly capable officer, and one who’d learned at the feet of the master, Anya Fritz. Despite her position as the fleet’s overall engineering officer, Fritz herself had ended up on Repulse, both her and Billings sliding into their old, familiar roles.
And now both of them were in sickbay, poisoned by radiation and near death from the reports she’d last received. Sonya hadn’t been part of Tyler Barron’s old Dauntless crew, as many of her people had been. Barron’s old veterans were a close-knit group, and all throughout Repulse’s corridors, she knew many of her people were devastated as the rumors flew around, their thoughts on their stricken comrades as they worked feverishly at their battle stations. She’d heard some talk that Billings and Fritz were dead, but she knew that wasn’t the case, at least not as of her last report five minutes before.
Those who’d never served on Barron’s legendary vessel had cause to mourn as well, for not one of them would still be alive without the efforts—and the sacrifice—of the two engineers laying below decks, entombed in medpods and desperately clinging to life.
“Engaging thrust now…” Fuller’s report was loud, his voice strong…a warning to the rest of the bridge crew to prepare for what was coming.
An instant later, Repulse lurched abruptly, her positioning thrusters reorienting the ship for the new thrust vector. Sonya and the rest of her people felt six times their body weight slamming into them. It was hard on her and on the rest of her people, and it would almost certainly degrade their combat effectiveness. But, mostly, she was worried about the casualties down in sickbay. Fritz and Billings, of course, but also the eighty or so of Repulse’s complement who’d been wounded in the current fight. The battle had been raging for almost ten hours, and Admiral Winters had directed the fleet with a skill that bordered on wizardry. He’d split the line into multiple segments, maneuvered constantly to bring his heaviest units toward the weakest spots in the enemy formation…and he’d struggled to keep his units clear as often as he could from the enemy’s deadly railguns.
