by Jay Allan
The great Alliance shipyards at Wolf 359 had already been reduced to floating wreckage, and on every world the Shadow Legions had occupied, they had destroyed any facility capable of producing weapons or supplies for the armed forces. Garret’s teams had already sabotaged the space-based shipyards and orbital factories of the other Superpowers, enlisting an unlikely team of traitors and deep cover operatives to achieve the goal. When the struggle on Earth reached its inevitable final phase, the terrestrial factories that had long supplied the space-based forces of the doomed Superpowers would also be gone, reduced to piles of radioactive slag. Then Garret would see what his vaunted fleet could accomplish with no weapons, no spare parts…and no hope of resupply. The Marines who survived the impending battle on Columbia could fight their next struggle with sticks and stones.
Stark sat silently, considering his plans. His own fleet was hidden in Altair’s massive asteroid belt, ships powered down and running silent. He knew they didn’t have a chance against Garret and his forces, at least not until the great admiral was out of ordnance. Then he could send his fleet to engage Garret, using unanswered missile volleys to blast the Alliance admiral’s helpless ships to bits at long range…and destroy the “invincible” Augustus Garret once and for all. But before that day, he had one mission for Admiral Liang and his hidden fleet, a single obstacle remaining in the way of his total domination.
He was worried about Roderick Vance and the Martian Confederation. He’d planned to deal with them once he’d finished off Garret and the Marines, but now he decided to move up the timetable. Vance was enormously capable and, unlike the military leaders, he possessed the same sort of subtlety Stark himself did. The Martian spy was dangerous, and Stark had become worried about what he might be doing in the shadows, how he was feeding information to Garret and the rest of the Alliance leaders. Martian industry was still intact, and Vance could even supply Garret’s fleet if Stark didn’t do something about it. No, the Martian problem couldn’t wait any longer. Vance and the Confederation were the last variable, and it was time to eliminate that uncertainty from the equation.
He reached out and activated his com. “Admiral Liang, please report to my office immediately.” He took a deep breath. “I have a mission for the fleet.”
Vance was walking along the esplanade, staring down into the water as it flowed beneath him. One day, the Red River would meander unhindered across the plains of a terraformed Mars, but now it was little more than a decorative water feature running around the domed periphery of the Ares Metroplex. A century of tireless effort had made significant changes to the Martian environment. The nuclear engines at the poles ran night and day, melting the massive ice caps and releasing oxygen and water vapor into the slowly-thickening atmosphere.
A man still couldn’t breathe unassisted on the surface of the red planet, but the pressure had improved considerably, and the average temperature had increased by 40 degrees Kelvin. It was now possible to survive outside for limited periods with proper cold weather gear and an oxygen tank. Vance had done it himself, feeling a rush of pride in what the Confederation had managed to achieve in its 130 years of existence. He knew he wouldn’t live to see running rivers and cloudy skies, but he hoped to take a walk outside one day before he died, unaided by breathing equipment and feeling the cool air on his bare face.
He looked up through the dome. Phobos was almost full, casting a faint glow across the sandy dunes, but Deimos had already set, and its light was gone from the night sky. Mars’ two moons were small, but they were beautiful, he thought, somehow at home in the velvety night sky. The fact that he knew both of them housed extensive military and intelligence bases marred that serene image somewhat, and he momentarily longed for an age when Mars was safe, when her security no longer required people like him to stand on the line and hold off those who would see the Confederation destroyed, its people reduced to abject slaves.
He didn’t know if that day would ever come. He knew what Erik Cain would say, but he found himself grasping at faint hopes for the best. Vance had lived most of his life certain he’d never meet his match in cynicism, but that was before his path had crossed that of the grim Alliance Marine. Cain didn’t believe in much, nothing really, beyond the men and women who served at his side. He tended to expect the worst from everyone else and, more often than not, he had been right.
Vance was a cold man in many ways, and he was often seen as aloof and humorless. It wasn’t entirely a fair assessment, but he’d accepted it as part of the life he’d chosen to lead. He could have enjoyed a luxurious existence running his family’s massive business empire, but he knew his beloved Confederation existed in a dangerous universe, and he’d sworn to do whatever was necessary to ensure its survival. That often meant taking dark actions, and sometimes people died because of what he did. Often, in fact. It was part of the job, something he’d learned to live with, however uncomfortably.
His father had also been a loner, and he’d died when Vance was still a child. It wasn’t until years later he learned his father had perished in the service of Mars, leading her intelligence agencies as he himself would one day. His family was one of the wealthiest on Mars. Indeed, they were one of the richest anywhere, but he learned it also had a long tradition of service to the Confederation, a history he chose to continue.
“Mr. Vance?” The voice came from behind a row of small trees, evergreens imported from the Pacific Northwest on Earth. The trees were almost extinct on their homeworld, but the Confederation’s domes harbored samples of many plants no longer found on Earth.
“Yes, Jaquin, it’s me.” Vance held back a sigh. He’d arranged the meeting himself, but now he was resenting the intrusion into his quiet time. It wasn’t rational, but he’d begun to think about how little of Roderick Vance truly remained beyond the servant to duty. Quiet, introspective moments had become precious to him, and he’d come to guard them jealously. He knew he wasn’t likely to have much time to himself in the near future, not with the disasters unfolding all around him.
He quickly put aside such thoughts and forced his mind back to the present. If the Mars he dreamed about was ever to exist, Vance knew it had to survive first. He had to stay focused, do what duty called on him to do. His toils would buy the Confederation the future its people deserved, and generations of Martians would have a chance at life and freedom.
He turned to face his agent. Jaquin Diervos was one of his most reliable men, just back from a long and dangerous mission. “What do you have for me?”
“Well, sir…” The agent spoke softly, his voice tentative, uncertain. “…you were correct. The Caliphate orbital factories at Persis have been destroyed in series of nuclear explosions. The official position is that Admiral Abbas and his fleet are responsible, that they are heretics and traitors who have defected from the Caliphate.” Of course that was the official position only for communications with those already aware Abbas had declared his fleet unaligned with the home government. The masses living in the Caliphate, and the millions serving in its armies on Earth had no idea anything at all was amiss in the colonies.
“Abbas, my ass.” Vance took a deep breath. “Abbas wouldn’t have taken action against a Caliphate colony. He only went rogue because the Caliph proscribed him, along with dozens of other officers guilty of no offense beyond serving bravely alongside the Alliance navy in the war with the First Imperium.”
“That is what they are saying, Mr. Vance.” The spy’s tone suggested he didn’t believe it any more than Vance.
“Garret wouldn’t have done it either. Not when he was allied with the Caliphate fleet.” Vance looked out over the river, the lights of the city rippling off the slowly moving water. “It had to be Stark.” He paused, thinking quietly for a few seconds. “But why would he bother with a target like that? With the Caliphate fleet gone rogue and Persis still loyal to the home government, what purpose was served by blasting a bunch of unused factories to slag?”
“There have been simil
ar incidents, sir.” The agent stepped out of the shadows and moved closer to Vance, lowering his voice as he did. “Facilities have also been destroyed on San Rafael, Constantia, and several other worlds.” He paused. “It appears that all of the interstellar production assets and shipyards of the Superpowers have been targeted and destroyed in incidents that resemble terrorist activity.”
Vance stood quietly, imagining the brilliance it had taken to mastermind such a widespread series of operations. He reminded himself again to be cautious, to never underestimate Gavin Stark. “He is systematically destroying every facility capable of supplying an interstellar fleet.” Vance stared down into the water, the lights of the city dancing on its gently rippling surface. Why, he thought, why would Stark waste resources and take the risk to destroy those facilities? Most war production was still Earth-based, so…
Of course! It all made sense. Stark was betting on the destruction of the Earth-based facilities as well. All of them. That was how he planned to defeat Garret. He was going to starve him of supplies and ordnance and wait until his fleet was helpless. Vance felt a cold chill in his stomach. Stark was really planning to take his insane scheme all the way. He was going to manipulate the Powers into full-scale nuclear exchanges, a final battle that would destroy all the cities and factories on Earth. Once the Superpowers had obliterated each other and Garret’s helpless fleet was destroyed, Stark would have all the time in the world to establish control. There would be no one left to oppose him. No one but Mars.
Vance’s head snapped around, staring back at his surprised agent. “We need to get back to headquarters. Now.” He turned without explanation, waving for the agent to follow. He’d assumed Stark was holding his fleet back to preserve its strength for an eventual showdown with Garret. But if he was going to starve Garret out, that meant he could use his fleet someplace else. And if the Superpowers on Earth slipped into their final death struggle, there would only be one place left in occupied space where Garret’s ships could rearm and resupply. Mars.
Chapter 5
LZ Holm
30 Kilometers East of Weston
Columbia, Eta Cassiopeiae II
Rod Heath crouched down behind piles of shattered masonry that had once been a small building, peering carefully out toward the enemy lines. The commander of the first wave was far forward, too far, he knew General Gilson would have said, but there wasn’t much in the way of a rear area anyway. The LZ was small, and the enemy had been hitting it relentlessly, trying to pinch out the beachhead before the rest of the Marines could land. His people had been struggling to widen the tiny scrap of Columbia they controlled, but the enemy had reacted rapidly to the landing, and the Marines had fought hard for every meter of ground, paying the price in blood.
His people hadn’t died passively though. The ground in front of his position was covered with the bodies of armored enemy soldiers. They had hit this location and hit it hard, but the defenders had held firm, driving them back with heavy losses. He could see from the numbers of dead lying along his side of the line that the defense had been a costly one.
Heath had lost count of his casualties since the landing. His AI could have given him a figure in an instant, accurate at least to the extent that fighting suits were still reporting and communication nets were active, but he’d told it not to. He knew well enough they were bad, and he wasn’t ready to hear the numbers yet.
Things had been hard from the start. The enemy AA fire had been thicker than expected, and his people suffered badly on the way in. The first wave had 500 casualties in the landing, almost all of them KIA when their Liggetts were shot down. That was over 10% of the total force, before a boot even touched the ground. Those losses had been far heavier than projected, and they had left weak spots in the OB all across the battlefield. He’d spent the first hour on the ground shifting troop concentrations, trying to plug holes to meet the enemy attacks. Now he had to get his people moving. Just hanging on wasn’t going to get it done.
He looked around at the pockmarked and blackened ground. His forces had repelled multiple enemy assaults here, and by all accounts, they’d barely managed to hang on.
“Lieutenant, who’s in command here?” He crouched low and walked toward an officer kneeling alone in shell hole. He glanced up at the display inside his helmet, IDing him as he approached. Callahan, Lt., commander of 1st Platoon, Company A, 2nd Battalion.
“I don’t know, sir.” Callahan’s voice was hoarse, his tone vacant, stunned. He was clearly in some sort of shock, but he was still at his post. “My platoon was wiped out, General. I’m all that’s left.”
The words hit Heath like a hammer. He slid down into the muck of the water-filled hole and put his armored hand on Callahan’s back. “I’m sorry son,” he said softly, wishing he could talk to the officer without armor and com units between their words. “Things have been hard all across the line.” His eyes drifted up, staring out over the temporarily still field. “Tell me what happened.”
“I lost two of my boats coming in, sir.” Callahan stared at the ground as he spoke. “The first was blown apart at high altitude. None of them even had a chance.” He took a ragged breath. “The other was hit just before we landed. It tumbled over and crashed.” He paused, and when he continued his voice was halting, cracking. “We got to them as soon as we could but…” He hesitated again, and Heath could hear the pain in his shallow breaths. “…but it was too late.”
Heath had been in the Corps a long time, long enough to know there was really nothing to say. Men kept getting themselves into wars, and as long as they did, soldiers would fight those wars. The Marines considered themselves an elite fighting force, but they died just like any other men. And when they did, their comrades were expected to keep going, to fight the battle until it was won. Or until they were all dead.
“There was nothing you could have done, Lieutenant.” He knew his words would be cold comfort, but they were all he had. “Any of us can get hit on the way down. We all know that when we bolt ourselves into those landers.” His eyes darted up to his display. His AI was streaming Callahan’s service record. Heath nodded as he read. The kid was hardcore, promoted from the ranks by none other than Erik Cain.
“I pulled everybody together the best I could, sir, but then they hit us almost immediately. There must have been 200 of them, just on our frontage. The first wave came in before we even got the autocannons out of the locker and deployed on the line. We did our best, sir, but they kept coming. And every time they did, I lost more of my people.”
Heath looked out over the field in front of Callahan’s position. He did a quick estimate and decided there were at least 150 bodies in front of the line the kid’s platoon had defended. “It looks like your people gave ’em hell, son.” He shook his head. He’d always considered dead enemy soldiers a poor trade for the loss of his own comrades, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say, any way he could convince Callahan that his Marines had died for something worthwhile. Talk of causes and justifications was for aboard ship, when the fight was in prospect or the combat was over. There were reasons to fight, some even to die, but Heath knew well enough that down here, in the mud and blood, amid the stench of death and battle, men and women fought for one thing above all else – for the friends and comrades in the line next to them.
He knew warriors who survived their wars often mustered out and dispersed, resettling on various planets and going on to live out their lives, often never seeing their old comrades again. But on the battlefield, these men and women were closer than brothers and sisters. They shared a bond that couldn’t be fully understood by anyone who hadn’t felt it themselves. Heath couldn’t imagine a harder thing than watching your entire platoon being slaughtered. He knew Callahan was wondering why he had survived, and on some level wishing he hadn’t. But Heath was glad the young officer had made it. He knew he was going to need men like him in the hours and days ahead.
He was glancing at the AI’s report on 2nd Battal
ion, and he barely caught a gasp before it escaped his lips. The battalion had launched with 604 Marines, and now it was down to 199 effectives. Major Bellas was dead, killed on the way down when his transport was blown out of the sky. Every company commander was dead or wounded, and half the platoon officers were down. He kept reading. The 1st Battalion wasn’t much better off.
“Son, I know you’re dealing with the loss of your people, but the job’s just getting started here, and I need you.” Heath’s voice was sympathetic but also firm. “You’ve got to pull it together for me. I’m giving you a battlefield promotion to major, and I’m putting you in command of the remnants of 1st and 2nd Battalions.”
It took a few seconds for Heath’s words to sink in, and when they did Callahan’s mind screamed, “No!” He wanted to run, to escape and hide somewhere. The thought of more responsibility, of another four or five hundred Marines under his command – dying under his command – was more than he could bear, and he could feel himself unraveling.
“Sir…” He paused. “I don’t thin…”
“Listen to me, son.” Heath’s voice was soothing, but there was toughness there too. “You did it right here today. You were there for your Marines, and you held your position.” He reached out with both hands, grabbing Callahan’s armored shoulders. “Now we’ve got hundreds of other Marines, and they need someone to get them through this. They’re stuck here, just like you.” He could see Callahan shaking his head, but he continued anyway. “I need you to shake it off, son. If you have to torture yourself, do it later, when we’re back aboard ship. Right now there are Marines who need you.” Another pause. “I need you.”
Callahan turned his head slowly, staring back at Heath. He wished he was anywhere else, even that an enemy bullet had found him and taken him down, but he knew he’d obey the general. Jack Callahan the man felt numb, dead – but there was still life in the Marine. He straightened himself up and looked back at the general.
