by Jay Allan
“All personnel prepare for thrust.” He watched as Christensen relayed his command. They were going to fire the thrusters at 8g for 30 seconds. That was a lot to handle outside of the tanks, and he knew there would be injuries. But his people could take it for half a minute, and it would send the two massive ships on a direct line to the rear of the enemy fleet, already in energy weapons range.
“Thrust in 3, 2, 1…now.” He held on to his chair, feeling the crushing pressure as Carter’s massive engines blasted the vessel ahead at 8g. He struggled to breathe, sweat trickling down the side of his face as he forced air into his tortured lungs. His spine felt as if it would sever in his chair, torn into two pieces by the massive force of the acceleration.
His eyes moved toward the chronometer, and he realized that only ten seconds had passed. He gritted his teeth and endured the pain and discomfort, counting down to himself. Ten, eight. “He turned toward Christensen’s workstation, ready to give the command as soon as the engines disengaged.
Four, he thought, desperately sucking in another breath. Three, two, one. He felt the relief almost immediately as John Carter went briefly into free fall and then fired her positioning engines, restoring a reasonable facsimile of gravity to the occupied areas of the ship.
“Commander Christensen…” Campbell’s voice was cold, and in his eyes he held death itself. “All batteries, fire.”
“It looks like a battle going on, Erik.” Teller sat next to Cain in the Torch’s wardroom, looking at the display on the wall. “Near Saturn.”
Cain sat stone still, his eyes staring across the room at nothing in particular. “Of course. It all makes sense.” He turned to face Teller. “Garret’s at Columbia supporting the invasion there.” His voice was like granite, and there wasn’t a hint of doubt in his tone. “Stark could bring his fleet out of hiding without fear of Garret finding and destroying it. So he made his move on Mars.”
“Mars?” Teller looked confused. “Why would he pick a fight with the Confederation when he’s already dealing with the situation on Earth and the war in the colonies?”
Cain took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “Because he’s already won in the colonies.” Cain’s words were grim, with a brutal edge to them. “Cate Gilson will probably manage to retake Columbia, but what will be left of the Corps? The casualties there will be enormous, and the supplies expended impossible to replace.” He stared at Teller for a few seconds before continuing. “The truth is, we’re done, James. The Corps is finished. The men and women Cate is leading down to the surface of Columbia are the tattered remnants, and half of them will never leave that planet. How many have we lost? How many are left from the survivors of the Third Frontier War? Ten percent? Is it even that many?”
Cain’s words hit Teller like an avalanche. Erik Cain had a dark side. That was nothing surprising to anyone who knew the man. But Teller had never seen him so utterly convinced the Marines couldn’t prevail. Cain was one of the pillars of the Corps, a man who might be Commandant right now if he hadn’t chosen to chase after Gavin Stark instead. He’d never lost hope before, not even during the lowest nadir of the First Imperium War.
“But even if the casualties on Columbia are heavy, we can always rebuild. The Corps has suffered losses before, but as long as a cadre remains, we can go on and regain our strength.” Teller was struggling to convince himself as much as Cain, but he couldn’t keep the uncertainty out of his voice.
“Rebuild? How? Where?” Cain’s tone was relentlessly grim. “The Academy is basically a ruin, and all the arms production industry that had sprouted up on Armstrong was destroyed in the fighting.” He turned back, looking off aimlessly across the room. “Stark is systematically destroying every facility capable of supporting the Corps or the fleet. When the Superpowers begin their last dance and start nuking each other into the dark ages, there will only be one place with high tech military production facilities left.”
“Mars.” Teller stared at Cain. “Vance would supply the Corps and Garret’s fleet too if he is able. Stark has to destroy the Confederation’s industry, or his plans can’t succeed.”
Cain nodded slowly. “We always forget two things when we’re dealing with Gavin Stark…how smart he really is and just how far he is willing to go.” There was icy hatred in Cain’s voice, but a strange note of perverse respect as well. The grim Marine would sacrifice his own life to destroy Stark, but he couldn’t help feeling a bit of amazement at a human being so capable. Cain wondered what Gavin Stark could have accomplished if he’d put his genius toward something more useful than the single-minded pursuit of power.
He sighed softly. Cain knew humanity shared the blame for that, and man had sown the seeds of his own destruction. Stark was a creature of the perverse world into which he was born. The endless political games, the oppression, the jealously-guarded class-structure. Erik Cain was a Marine through and through, and the Corps had his complete and eternal loyalty, but in his heart he believed that humanity had created the nightmare that was destroying it. If they’d stood up and fought for their freedom somewhere along the line, if they’d taken the time to see and understand what was happening to them instead of listening to platitudes and blindly following leaders, perhaps the world would have been different. Perhaps his world would have been different…or Sarah’s.
Cain was only 50 years old. Even without rejuv therapy, his mother and father should still be alive, and his sisters as well. But they weren’t. For him, his parents would always be 40, and his sisters just nine years old, the ages they were when the stark violence that haunted the lives of the Cogs struck his family.
He hadn’t thought about them for years, not really. It was all part of a past he’d blocked, tried to forget. There was nothing there but pain. But now that humanity was facing its final struggle against an eternity of tyranny, his old memories flooded back. His last image of his sisters had been that of two little girls, lying in the ruins of their tattered mattress, shot a dozen times each. If that was the world Gavin Stark was going to destroy, if the monsters who’d allowed people to live the way the Cogs did were to be his victims, Cain thought perhaps he should stand aside and let it all happen. Did mankind even deserve to survive?
Cain struggled constantly with the dark side of his soul, fought hard to be a good man when all he saw around him was evil and brutality. He knew he would have stood aside if Stark were just fighting to subjugate Earth. He would allow the people there to fight their own battles, and to pay the price for their decades of craven compliance to those so unfit to lead them. But Stark was after the colonies too, and Cain had sworn to defend those with his life. He was far from confident that mankind in space would choose a different path than their forefathers had on Earth, but he knew they deserved the chance at least, either to forge a bold new path toward freedom, or to make the same mistakes again and descend into slavery.
But most of all, he was after Stark to avenge Elias Holm. The Commandant had been a role model to Cain, an example of something he’d long doubted could exist – a truly good man. The Corps had saved Cain from death and the squalor and misery of Earth, but it was Holm who had helped him become the man he had. Stark would pay for taking that life. He would pay if it was the last thing Erik Cain ever did.
Ross watched the display as another dreadnought disappeared from the enemy line. Admiral Campbell’s surprise had been total. The two superbattleships had come around Saturn hard, x-ray lasers blasting. They’d taken out three of Stark’s damaged battleships in the first few minutes, before the defenders managed to come about and return fire.
Now the enemy was maneuvering to concentrate on Campbell’s ships. Ross was countering by closing with his own vessel. The battle was entering its final stage, a close-in knife fight to the death. “The battleline will accelerate toward the enemy at 3g.”
“Yes, sir.” Randall relayed the order. A few seconds later she turned back toward Ross. “Admiral, Celestia is Status 111.”
Ross’ head s
napped around toward his display, and he focused on the reports streaming in from the stricken battleship. Status 111 was the Confederation’s version of the Alliance Code Omega. It meant a ship was past saving and that its total destruction was imminent.
“All personnel on Celestia are to abandon…” He stopped abruptly as the small blue oval disappeared from his screen. He hadn’t really expected to get through the battle without losses, but it still hurt to see a battleship with a crew of almost 1,000 blown to bits.
“All other capital ships are to continue toward the enemy, firing laser batteries full.” He grabbed the armrests of his chair as Rhodes shook hard. He could hear distant sounds of explosions, and the lights dimmed for a few seconds. That was too close to the reactor, he thought. Another one of those, and we’re out of this fight.
He felt suddenly lighter, no longer struggling under the 3g of pressure from the engines’ thrust. He flipped on the intraship com direct to Rhodes’ bridge. “What’s happening, Tom?” Thomas Jacoby had been Ross’ flag captain since he’d gotten his admiral’s stars, first on the cruiser Dionysus and then on Rhodes.
“We’ve got trouble in the conduit from the reactor to the engines. I’m afraid 1.5g is all I can give you now.” He paused, and Ross could hear shouting in the background. “Sir, I strongly suggest you transfer your flag.”
“C’mon, Tom, we’re not starting all that…”
“Admiral, I’m serious. We’ve got fires out of control all through the engineering spaces. It will be a miracle if we can keep the power on, even if we manage to maintain reactor containment.” His voice was raw, harried. Ross could tell he was serious.
“Run your ship, Captain.” Ross knew Jacoby didn’t have time to waste talking to him. “Do the best you can, Tom. And I’ll run my flag bridge. Right here on Rhodes.”
Ross figured he’d hear from Jacoby again in a few minutes, badgering him to take a shuttle over to one of the other battleships, but he didn’t. The two never spoke again. The damage control parties fighting to save Rhodes’ reactor from the fires failed in their frantic efforts, and one minute, forty-two seconds later the battleship lost containment in its fusion core. For a few seconds, she shone like a miniature sun. Then she was gone.
Chapter 9
LZ Holm
30 Kilometers East of Weston
Columbia, Eta Cassiopeiae II
“Keep that ammunition moving.” Callahan had set up his command post about 100 meters from the front line. It had taken over an hour to sort out and reorganize the shattered remnants of his two battalions, but he’d managed to get a strong defense in place before the enemy finished reforming and launched a fresh attack.
He had pulled half his Marines back from the line, holding them in reserve to plug any gaps, but he’d detached all the autocannons, doubling them up along the perimeter. The concentrated fire had shattered the last attack, and a thousand enemy dead were scattered in front of his position. It had been a great victory, but a fleeting one that he couldn’t repeat without more ammunition.
He’d wanted to give up when his platoon was wiped out, but General Heath had reminded him he was a Marine. And something else too. The general made him think about whether he wanted his men to have died in a futile battle that ended in the slaughter of the rest of the forces on Columbia, or if he wanted their sacrifice to mean something. He couldn’t bring his Marines back, but he could give their deaths meaning by helping to hold out, and then pressing on until Columbia was once again free.
“This is all we could get, sir.” The corporal was leading a squad of men, each pair of them carrying a heavy crate full of autocannon rounds. It looked like a lot of ammo, but Callahan knew it wasn’t, at least not at the rate his people were expending it. “The supply depot is almost empty.”
Callahan nodded. “Just get all that distributed along the line.” He turned and walked back toward his reserve formations. He suspected he was going to need them when the heavy weapons ran out of ammunition, and he wanted them ready to go.
“Major, they’re coming again.” Lieutenant Mellas was Callahan’s new aide, a platoon leader who ended up out of a job when the new major combined three of his shattered units into one formation. Mellas was up on the line, and Callahan could tell from the tension in his voice the new attack was a big one.
“On my way,” he snapped back to Mellas. He flipped the com channel back to the sergeant in charge of the ammo detail. “Get those rounds distributed. Now.” He turned and raced back toward the front line. He knew the entire force was running out of ammunition, and when they did, it would be over. The LZ would be overrun and the survivors gunned down.
He felt a rush of anger that no new waves had come to the aid of the Marines on the surface, but he knew the realities. The advance guard had been tasked to expand the LZ, but they’d been hemmed in and pushed back instead. Trying to bring down new forces into a pinpoint zone surrounded on all sides by the enemy was suicide. Half the landers would get blasted before they even touched down.
General Gilson was one of the oldest sweats in the Corps. He knew she would do anything to save the men and women on the ground. Anything but losing twice as many Marines in a failed attempt to relieve them. He doubted there were more than 2,000 of the original 5,000 still alive, and any relief attempt would lose more than that just trying to land.
He trotted up to the front, sliding into a deep foxhole. There were half a dozen Marines there, including two crouched down toward the front, manning one of the heavy autocannons and firing on full auto.
The troops were focused on the advancing enemy, and they didn’t notice his rank at first. His armor looked just like theirs, and it bore no special insignia. An officer’s best chance to avoid becoming sniper bait was to look just like everyone else. A major was a juicy target, and one who strutted around looking like an important officer was just asking to be picked off.
“Major, sir!” The corporal in command turned abruptly, having just noticed Callahan’s data on his display.
“As you were, corporal.” Callahan pushed forward through the ankle-deep mud toward the front edge of the hole. “I’m just here to get a look.” He peered out at the approaching enemy and gasped.
There were hundreds of troops advancing, no, more than a thousand, and it looked like there were fresh columns moving up behind them. The second he peaked over the edge of the foxhole he knew his people were done. The enemy was coming in massive force, far more than his Marines could defeat. They would sweep through the LZ and overrun the entire position, and that would be the end of the first wave, and the invasion of Columbia.
He pulled his assault rifle from his back. His people might be doomed, but there was one thing he was damned sure about. They would sell their lives dearly. The enemy might overwhelm the LZ and repulse the Marine invasion, but they were going to pay a heavy price to do it.
He watched the attackers approaching. They looked just like Marines, the same as the troops on Armstrong. They were leapfrogging forward across the ravaged battlefield, taking cover in shellholes and shattered buildings. Half of them were firing at any time, providing cover for their advancing units. Callahan wished his people were facing a less disciplined force, one that would just charge across the field. But they were fighting a mirror image of themselves.
He flipped on his com. “All reserve formations advance now. Reinforce the forward line.” There was no point keeping anyone back now. His people would do most of their damage while the enemy was coming in, and he wanted every gun on the line.
He leaned forward, steadying himself and bringing his own weapon to bear. His command didn’t have a rifle to spare. He was about to fire when he heard the sound of approaching aircraft. He stared at his display, but he couldn’t believe what it told him. He leaned back and looked up in stunned silence at the massive craft swooping down from the sky.
Elizabeth Arlington stared down at the ground below. My God, she thought, the LZ is being overrun. “Alright squadron, we
need to make this count, and we need to do it now. It’s the last chance those Marines on the ground have.”
She pushed hard on the throttle, driving Typhoon down to 2000 meters and zipping along the rocky ground south of the battlefield. The fast attack ship was a small vessel in a space battle, where it used its speed and maneuverability to zip around the heavier fleet units. But it was massive and cumbersome compared to an atmospheric fighter, or even a heavy bomber.
She’d sold the attack ships as almost streamlined for atmospheric flight, but that had been an exaggeration if not an outright lie. It had been enough at least to get her Marine allies to accept the plan. She’d snuck the whole thing past Garret, who would have known immediately how full of shit she was. Technically, she didn’t need his direct permission, and that would be her story. The ships were from her task force, and she was in command. Still, she suspected she would get quite a talking to…if she made it back that is.
There had been at least a shred of truth to her story. The fast attack ships were easier to handle in an atmosphere than something like a battleship or a cruiser. It was at least possible to fly the things in air, but it took everything a top pilot had and then some. None of that mattered, though. She knew the Marines didn’t have a chance without air support, and she couldn’t stand to watch them abandoned and left behind.
She’d watched comrades abandoned once before, and she knew she’d never forget it. She hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye to Compton. She’d just sat on her flagship and watched the massive First Imperium explosive seal off the warp gate, trapping half the fleet, including the man she loved, with hundreds of enemy ships. She knew, even through the hurt and heartbreak, that there had been no choice then. If Garret hadn’t blown the warp gate, the last of the fleet would have been obliterated, and all mankind would have been destroyed. But there was a choice this time, or at least a chance. And she was going to make sure those men and women on the ground got it.
