by Jay Allan
But it couldn’t escape all the weapons. Stockton watched as the first plasma struck the battleship. The hit was in a secondary area—at least, he knew it would have been secondary on a Confederation ship—and it failed to penetrate deeply into the ship. But, the second and third hits, and then the fourth, one after the other in rapid succession, smashed directly into the hull amidships.
Stockton checked the readings. As best he could tell, the first hit had barely penetrated the great ship’s heavy armor…but the next two ripped right through, and a few seconds later he could see the plumes on his scanner, internal explosions blasting back through the hull from the inside.
He had no idea how the ships were organized, where their reactors or other vital systems were located…but Raptor Stockton knew a bad hit when he saw one. The enemy’s thrust dropped almost immediately, and two more plasmas—shots that would have missed had the thrust not dipped—smacked into the rear of the ship, just above the engines.
Stockton was excited as he saw the two impacts, and then again as his readings showed thrust dropping to…he watched, waited, even as the numbers on his screen dipped to zero. They had knocked out the thing’s engines!
“Good shooting, Lightnings, Vipers…damned good shooting. Now, get back to base and refuel and rearm. There’s a lot of fighting left to do.”
He brought his ship around, making a pass close by the enemy ship. It was dangerous—stupid, he suspected Stara would call it—but he wanted better scanning data. And, as he zipped by, he saw that the batteries that had fired at his people were all silent now. He didn’t know how badly the ship was really hurt, how lasting the damage.
But he knew enough to put a big evil smile on his face.
A predator’s grin.
* * *
Atara looked down at Bryan Rogan. The Marine was weak, pale…but she’d never seen him looking better. Twelve hours before, the big man had barely been alive, hanging on by a thread in cryostasis. Now, he was out of the medpod, lying on a cot in one of the portable shelters Doc Weldon had turned into a makeshift hospital.
She knew Rogan was alive because of her blood, because she possessed the specific genetic code that made her immune to the deadly biological weapon that had been used against Planet Zero during the Cataclysm…and that still remained, harmless to the descendants of the survivors, but deadly to almost all others. It was a strange feeling. It was nothing she’d done, of course, no act of heroism in battle that had saved so many of her comrades, but she felt good about it…all of it except for the fact that she hadn’t been able to give enough blood to save them all.
She was leaning forward, one hand gripping the cane Weldon had fashioned for her, and the other on the wall behind Rogan’s bed. She was shaky—Weldon had argued with her for some time before he’d agreed to let her get up and walk around the camp at all—but she could feel her strength coming back. Slowly.
“You saved his life, Atara.” Weldon walked through the door and into the open area of the room. He waved his arm around the space, gesturing to the dozen other cots, each holding a member of the landing party who, hours before, had been at death’s door. “You saved all of them.”
“We saved them.” She’d take credit for supplying the blood, but she knew it was Weldon’s brilliance and tireless work under terrible conditions that was primarily responsible for the serum. Dauntless’s surgeon, sick, exhausted, strung out on stims, had beaten every medical team in the fleet to find a cure for the ancient plague.
She sighed softly and frowned. “We saved some of them.” The good feeling slipped away, even as she turned her head up from the sleeping Rogan and looked over at Weldon. They’d saved the sickest forty…but the others were in only slightly better shape, and they were deteriorating fast. She’d give more blood as soon as she could, but she knew it was going to be too late.
“Stu…”
Weldon looked over at her. From the expression on his face, she could tell he knew what she was thinking. “We’ll do all we can, Atara. We’ve freed up more medpods, and with cryostatis, I can…”
“That’s not good enough, Stu. You’ve got to take more blood now, enough, at least, for another round of the serum.”
“No, Atara…that’s not possible. The risk to you is…”
“More than it’s been in battle?”
“Atara…please.”
“No, I’m serious, Stu. What about blood substitutes? You need the specific DNA in my blood, but I just need to have something pumping through my veins.”
“It’s not that simple. The substitute works for transfusions, in limited quantities, but it can’t replace all of your blood. I’ve already taken nearly twice the normal safe amount. I don’t dare take any more, not for at least a few days.”
“And, how many of our people will be die over those couple days? Comrades your serum can save?”
“I’ll keep as many alive as I can, Atara.”
“That’s not an answer.” She paused. “I’m willing to take some risks, Stu. We have to do more…we have to try something.” She looked right at him. “Whatever that entails.”
Weldon hesitated, looking uncomfortable.
“That’s an order, Stu.”
He remained silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “There’s one thing, Atara…but it is dangerous.” He paused. “Very dangerous.”
“Let’s do it. Now.”
“Atara…”
“Now, Stu.” She leaned onto the cane, stepping slowly toward the doctor, looking something less than steady on her feet.”
“I can put you in a medpod, and have the system take over as much as possible of your bodily function. I can draw more blood—most of what is still there—and have the pod inject you with some drug treatments, something a little stronger than what I’ve been giving you already to spur blood production.” He paused and looked at her, the uncertainty clear in his expression. “It will be very rough on your system, Atara. You could suffer permanent damage.” Another pause. “You could die.”
“Things have been trying to kill me for the last seven years, Stu, and I haven’t run from a fight yet. I’m not about to start now. Let’s get started.”
Weldon stood still, looking for a time as though he might continue arguing, but then he just nodded and said, “Alright, Atara…if you insist on doing this, we have to get you into a pod. I have to put you in an induced coma.” A pause. “Are you sure about this?”
“I’m sure.” Her voice was firm, at least it felt that way. But, inside she was scared, in a way she’d never been against an external enemy. She trusted Weldon, as much as she did anyone, but allowing herself to become helpless went against every instinct she had. She’d come from a place where helplessness was a virtual death sentence.
But there was no choice. She wouldn’t stand by and watch her people die—she couldn’t—and she knew her blood was the only way to save them.
Chapter Forty
PUV Carcajou
Approaching Barroux
Rhian System
Union Year 219 (315 AC)
Denisov sat quietly, looking out at his bridge crew as Carcajou approached Barroux. They were edgy, and he could feel it. It wasn’t surprising, and he couldn’t deny that he felt it too. The last time his fleet had approached the rebel planet, they’d taken one hell of a beating, and they’d pulled back just in time to avoid a catastrophe. Going back, heading into those deadly guns that had blasted his ships so savagely, seemed like the sheerest folly.
Only, his ships weren’t going back, at least not all the way. At least not right away. He had another way to fight the rebels and their orbital defenses, one he’d worked his crews to the bone to create. One he’d pulled from the system’s asteroid belt, and brought to Barroux to unleash immense destruction.
He’d picked out several dozen asteroids, small enough that his engineers had been able to create makeshift drives on each of them, really nothing more than a series of nuclear bombs situated to create the needed
vectors toward Barroux. It was rough, primitive, and he suspected most of those who’d worked on the project doubted to some extent that it would work. He’d even doubted it at times. But there was no way another frontal assault could succeed, not even with the damage his forces had done to the orbital defenses in the earlier fight. That left two options—his plan, as crazy as it seemed, or going back to Montmirail, telling Gaston Villieneuve that Barroux was still in the hands of rebels and traitors.
Denisov wasn’t a politician, and he had no wish to be one, nor to spend time trying to understand political tactics and motivations. But, he was sure of one thing. Villieneuve didn’t give a shit about Barroux’s people, nor even its industrial production. He cared about having active rebels defying the Union’s authority…and setting an example for others to do the same. A cataclysmic end to Barroux’s pretensions at independence might even serve Villieneuve’s needs more effectively than a conventional assault and the planet’s quiet return into the fold.
Denisov could see the asteroids moving. Their velocities were low, at least by the normal standards of space travel, but the asteroid belt was quite close to the planet, and the speeds of the massive chunks of rock were more than adequate to turn them into devastating kinetic energy weapons.
He knew the targeting would be difficult, that the warheads he’d placed to direct the asteroids as they approached Barroux were hardly precision thrusters. Still, he was confident that at least some of the projectiles would hit their targets, and the vast amount of dust and smaller chunks of rock released by collisions and nuclear explosions would wreak havoc on the laser buoys, blocking much of their fire as his warships moved up behind the asteroids and finished off whatever was left.
There would be collateral damage, most likely an enormous amount. Many of the asteroids would continue past the high-level orbit of the defenses and enter the planet’s atmosphere. That would represent a disaster of almost unimaginable proportions, an extinction level event for Barroux. Denisov didn’t relish the idea of killing millions, of throwing a civilized, industrialized world back into the stone age. But, he knew enough about what was happening in the Union to realize he didn’t have a choice. Not if he wanted to survive.
“The lead wave is approaching planetary orbit, Admiral.”
Denisov turned toward the officer, but he didn’t respond. He just nodded. He was doing what he had to do, but he wondered how many officers in history had caused the sort of devastation he was about to unleash on Barroux.
He felt as though he should be issuing frantic orders, but everything had already been planned, and all the pieces were in place. His fleet was right behind the asteroids, ready to hit the remaining fortresses during the moment of peak disruption.
Carcajou’s weapons were prepped, as they were on every ship in the fleet. His people were nervous about hitting those defenses again, but he suspected most of them also craved revenge for the losses the fleet had suffered, for their comrades who had died. That was good. It would serve his purposes now.
He could see the enemy fortresses firing now, and he smiled. Good luck blasting those asteroids. The guns on the orbital platforms were powerful, and they outranged anything the ships of his fleet mounted…but they didn’t have a chance of affecting anything with the mass and momentum of the great chunks of rock moving toward them. The hits blasted off small chunks, but that only aided the attackers, creating clouds of dust and serving his purpose of degrading the laser fire from the buoys. He wondered if the rebels who’d taken control of the forts realized they were helping his plan, but then that was the beauty of the whole thing…what else could they do? They couldn’t exactly let the asteroids come on, toward them, toward the planet below and its helpless billions.
Denisov had never considered himself one who would commit genocide, and he was still fighting to justify what he was doing. He doubted Gaston Villieneuve would have the same reservations, but it had taken all of Denisov’s discipline—and his self-delusion, too—to fend off the doubts, the urge to stop the attack. Now, at least, his self-control was superfluous. There was no way to divert the asteroids, not anymore. It was far too late.
Not a single station had been hit yet, nor had a rock the size of his fist entered the atmosphere. But there was a cold inevitability to it all now. Barroux’s rebels could surrender, throw down their weapons and beg for mercy…but it would all be to no avail. Their fates were sealed. Their victory in the first battle had led to their doom.
Denisov stared straight ahead, watching, waiting…and trying to hold back the humanity that threatened to overwhelm him, to consume him.
I have wrought this. I have destroyed a world.
* * *
“What the hell is going on?” Remy Caron stood in his makeshift control center, clearly trying to make sense of the reports coming in.
“I don’t know, First Protector. The orbital scans confirm the enemy ships have returned, but…”
“But what?” Caron was angry, but as Hoover stood and watched Barroux’s dictator pacing around the command center, shouting out pointless and repetitive commands, he realized that, mostly, the man was just plain scared.
“There are other contacts. The orbital stations report meteors, asteroids…a dozen of them, no more. Several dozen. All heading toward Barroux.”
“That’s impossible.” Caron shouted at his officer, his rage right at the surface, but his fear not far below.
Hoover thought about all Caron had done, the brutality he’d inflicted, the thousands—no, probably millions—who’d died under his short rule, and he felt revulsion at the dictator’s lack of personal courage. He’d detest anyone who’d done what Caron had done, but he found it particularly loathsome from a coward.
Hoover had seen only Remy Caron, the merciless strongman of a communist revolution, but he’d heard stories of another man, a lowly factory worker, one who’d been reluctant to even join the uprisings against Union rule. His years with Confederation Intelligence had shown him many things, and it had stripped him of any doubts on the level of depravity to which human beings could sink. He suspected Caron had risen initially by circumstance, and then found himself in a position of power that overwhelmed him. After a lifetime of helpless obedience to his Union masters, he just plain liked the taste of power…and he craved more, longed to safeguard what he’d gained, whatever the cost. That was all conjecture, but Hoover would have bet a small fortune he was close to the mark.
Hoover had seen such things elsewhere, though Caron seemed to have become so corrupted very quickly. He hated working to support the dictator and his regime as much as Breen did, but he was in charge, and he understood that the Confederation’s interests outweighed his—or his second’s—personal feelings. Still, he felt anger watching Caron storm around the control center, and he was sorry he hadn’t been able to side with the resistance.
He felt a touch of sadness, too. He didn’t doubt Remy Caron could have been a tremendous leader for his people, that he could have brought them freedom, prosperity. But, instead, he’d become what he had fought against, perhaps even a worse version, and his principles were sacrificed to the lust for power, the cravings for the luxury the defeated Union leaders had left behind.
Hoover wished he could accomplish his mission by supporting the resistance, but Caron was the one in charge, and the Confederation wanted Barroux to hold out as long as possible. If only…
His thought was interrupted by a loud sound, coming from out in the street. It was an explosion, he realized, and even as he was trying to understand what it could have been, the muffled sounds of gunfire erupted outside the building.
Caron spun around, gesturing toward his guards standing against the wall. “Go find out what is going on out there!”
Hoover stood still, his training taking charge. His expression was impassive, the perfect poker face. He was evaluating the situation. His first thought was that Union forces had somehow gotten through, but he quickly realized that was impossible. He
was at a loss for a moment, and then it came to him, a few seconds before Ami Delacorte raced into the room, a column of her armed troopers right behind her.
“It’s Bernard and his rabble,” she said, as she waved her arms, directing the soldiers to various positions around the room. “They’ve lost their minds. They’re attacking the command post.” She moved toward the far doorway and looked into the hallway beyond. “You three,” she shouted down the corridor, “get in position and cover that door.” She looked back toward Caron. “They’re crazy, Remy. And filthy traitors, too…hitting us when we’re trying to defend the planet. But, don’t worry…we’ll make this an opportunity to wipe them out, every last one of them.”
Hoover watched as Delacorte spoke to Caron, and as she raced around the room, positioning the troops she’d led into the control center. He was surprised, at first, but then it all started to make sense. He’d underestimated Bernard, but now his respect for the rebel grew. The resistance didn’t have the strength to take on Caron’s and Delacorte’s forces planetwide, or even in the capital. But a decapitation strike…
It made all the sense in the world. And despite Delacorte’s reassuring words to Caron, he suspected the resistance fighters outside had a good chance.
A damned good chance.
He turned and glanced back toward Breen, and instantly, he knew she was thinking the same thing. It was a good bet she was also plotting how to help the fighters outside. Hoover still wasn’t sure that was the right move for defending Barroux, but if the Union forces were hurling asteroids at the planet, he wasn’t sure it mattered anymore.
