Storm Force: Book Three of the Last Legion Series

by Chris Bunch

“Never more,” Froude said. He took a small box from a pocket, opened it, and a rather large diamond caught the swirling spotlights.

  “Oh,” Ho said. “Oh. You were serious.” She touched her lank black hair, looked down at her thin frame. “I never thought anybody would ever — ”

  “Shut up,” Danfin Froude said, taking her in his arms and kissing her.

  “I guess,” Ho said thoughtfully after a while, “I’m not exactly left with many options, am I? Not that I want any other than the obvious.”

  • • •

  Others made less legitimate, more temporary liaisons, and left with newfound partners.

  Angara saw them trailing off, figured next morning’s morning report would be either the least honest in the Force’s history as far as the number of troops present for duty, or, if honest, he’d be forced to take notice of the shattered ranks.

  “What will you do, dear?” his wife asked. Angara thought he’d spoken aloud, then realized he hadn’t.

  “It’s frightening when you’ve been with someone so long you don’t even have to speak,” he said. “I guess the Force is going to have the cleanest toilets ever.”

  “You can’t just ignore things?”

  “Of course not,” Angara said.

  “Of course not,” his wife echoed.

  • • •

  Darod Montagna danced until the last number with assorted people, went back to her BOQ alone, not unhappy.

  • • •

  A week after Jasith’s party, the Force, in various elements, slipped into space for the final confrontation with Larix/Kura.

  CHAPTER

  24

  Larix

  The first wave went after the Larissan ships in space. The Cumbrians took no chances, made no heroic moves. A Larissan destroyer would be attacked by three of the smaller Cumbrian units, more vectored in for the kill by the Kanes.

  The velv simply swarmed the patrol craft that were their assigned prey, and the aksai were used, always in flights of four or more, to take care of auxiliaries and merchantmen.

  Lone wolves like Dill and Alikhan fumed, but the casualties stayed low.

  Larissan ships were driven back to their home planets, now as isolated from each other as the system of Larix was from Kura.

  Other ships moved into Larissan space: the transports and their escorts. Aboard the ships, infantrymen and -women cleaned weapons, sharpened knives, and, as always, fed the rumor mill:

  The Larissans were about to surrender, and invasion wouldn’t be necessary;

  The Larissans had a secret weapon, which is why they pulled back to their homeworlds. The fleet would be hit at any minute.

  There’d be an invasion, and it’d be bloody, for all the husbanded Larissan ships would come out of their hiding places and rip the Cumbrians before they reached the ground.

  One favorite was that the invasion would be a walkover. That had some evidence on its side, since the Larissan soldiers hadn’t exactly fought like lions when they hit Cumbre.

  A quick war, a lot of the officers agreed, sudden promotions, and everybody goes home would be the agenda.

  Garvin, Njangu, and Maev flatly said this was foolishness. The Larissans fought badly on D-Cumbre because they were on an alien planet, and couldn’t understand attacking someone who shouldn’t be their enemy. Fighting on their own worlds, for their homes, things would be quite different.

  They weren’t seriously listened to by most. It didn’t matter that the three were among the few who’d actually faced Larissans on the ground. Informed sources, as always, knew better, particularly when they didn’t have to be that specific about their sources.

  Garvin was dismayed to find that Caud Fitzgerald agreed with the others. “We’ve seen how badly trained the Larissans are, how badly led,” she said. “All that’ll be necessary is a few sharp blows, and the white flags will start coming out.”

  Dant Angara and Hedley kept their own skeptical council.

  Stage Three was begun. Small squadrons hit the three secondary Larix planets in-atmosphere, taking out whatever they could find in the air or on landing grounds.

  But the main thrust was against Larix Prime. Phalanxes of warships swept over the land. Any ship that lifted or could be spotted on the ground was hit and destroyed, along with their fields, control towers, maintenance facilities, aerospace factories. The Cumbrian casualties mounted. Larix Prime’s antiaircraft crews were well trained, and their weapons first-rate, which included a rank of missiles, like the Furies except guided; radar-aimed 100mm autocannon; and synchronized chainguns for low-level attackers, capable of passing a target from gun to gun.

  When aerospace targets grew few, the ships went after the Larissan government buildings, troop installations, public transport, waterborne ships, and the power grid. All too often the airstrikes went a little wide, and civilian buildings were hit, and more Larissans died.

  One pilot bragged that the troops, once they were finally landed, would have a cakewalk. There wouldn’t be anything for them to shoot at, and all they’d have to do would be round up demoralized soldiers.

  Dill, Boursier, and Alikhan remembered how ultimately ineffective Musth tactical air had been against the dispersed Cumbrian troops, kept their mouths shut.

  They’d also noted how cleverly the Larissans dispersed their remaining ships. A warehouse, a park, a clearly marked hospital might conceal one of Redruth’s warships. And no one could find the surviving cruisers.

  Larix Prime was a cratered moonscape, its road system pockmarked, its cities with gaping wounds here and there, but the landscape wasn’t quiet — the pilots never could quite suppress the antiaircraft gunners, and so Cumbrians kept dying.

  Griersons and Zhukovs were committed to action, and they strafed, rocketed relentlessly. But the Larissans still shot back.

  The command staff ran numbers, studied aerial holographs, ELINT and SIGINT. Angara transferred his flag to the Bastogne, a modified assault transport. He knew he should command from space and keep the clearest overview of the battle. But he was an old infantryman, and refused to send his troops where it might look like he was unwilling to go himself.

  In the next day’s ALLFLEET com, he announced the hour and time for the first wave to land on Larix Prime.

  CHAPTER

  25

  Larix/Larix Prime

  Celidon was passed through a dozen guard stations, winding ever deeper into the Protector’s command post. Redruth had, a bit cleverly, not located it under the palace proper, but about half a kilometer away.

  Clever, but not that clever, Celidon thought sourly. While it probably protected him from a burrowing nuke, it didn’t make instantly responding to his summons any easier. Celidon traveled in an Ayesha ACV these days, with four others as decoys/support, and only when necessary. They’d barely evaded a pair of patrolling velv as they left Celidon’s own bunker near the largest spacefield, and an aksai had made a strafing run after Celidon’s ACV had set down outside the palace, and he was hurrying toward one of the tunnels to the command center, then down and down, past computer rooms, staff offices, even dormitories and cafeterias.

  Two armed aides, Protector’s Own, ushered Celidon into Redruth’s Office, but didn’t leave the room. They remained, at attention, hands on their pistol holsters.

  The room was huge, steel-walled, wood-floored, with huge screens and maps. Holograms came and went over a large table. The room was dark, illuminated only by a few hidden lamps here and there, and the screens. Celidon happened to notice, next to the aides, a dark stain on the floor.

  Redruth was at a desk, examining a screen. Celidon approached, saluted him. The white-haired mercenary was very proud of his command face, utterly expressionless no matter what was going on around him.

  Celidon was grateful for that, because Redruth looked terrible. His face had wrinkled, aged, although it had only been an E-month since Celidon had last had a face-to-face with the dictator.

  Then he caught a flashed ref
lection of his own face in a screen, and realized he didn’t look that much better himself.

  “Welcome, Leiter,” Redruth said, without returning the salute. “I’ve summoned you because I’ve finally developed a master stroke to shock the Cumbrians out of their foolishness and drive them back to their own system.”

  His eyelid ticked once, twice.

  “Here,” Redruth said. “The plan is on this screen. Examine it carefully, for I desire you to be the one to lead my dauntless soldiers into action.”

  Celidon noticed that, for the first time since he’d served him, Redruth was wearing a sidearm in this, the safest place in what remained of his kingdom.

  Celidon scanned the screen, again grateful for his stone face.

  “Well?”

  Celidon temporized. “The latest intelligence reports say that both the Heifet and Qaaf have been damaged by bombings, and are incapable of flight, so they wouldn’t be able to participate in your plan.” He didn’t add that the swarm of destroyers specified in the operations order simply didn’t exist anymore.

  Redruth acted as if Celidon hadn’t spoken.

  “Well?” His voice was sharper.

  Celidon looked at Redruth, saw his dilated pupils, the glaring eyes.

  “Do you want me to speak honestly, sir?”

  “So I’ve always ordered you!”

  “This is …” Celidon was about to choose one word, found another. “… not what I consider the wisest of maneuvers. Our cruisers lack the support ships necessary for such a bold stroke … which I assure you it is, and I admire your acumen in developing it.

  “But I doubt if this would be anything other than, forgive me, Protector, suicidal, at this point in the war. I think — ”

  “Enough!” Redruth said, voice rising to a near shriek.

  “You’re like the others, without vision, without that final courage that divides great men from their followers, always thinking, thinking, thinking! I have been considering this move since the Cumbrians arrived in the system.

  “I do not wish to be questioned. That is not your place or duty, Celidon! Your place is to follow orders, my orders, no more, and to carry them out as efficiently and precisely as I demand.

  “I thought better of you, Celidon. You’ve always been the first to support me, to acknowledge my genius. Yet now you hang back, you quibble, like the rest of them.

  “Very well. Very well. Perhaps I expected too much of you.

  “Therefore, I give you the following orders: You are to immediately execute this plan of mine, which I have named Guiding Star, for its results will be like a beacon to my army, my people.

  “Single strokes, if mounted by men of sufficient vision and genius, win battles and wars. Guiding Star shall be one of them!”

  Again, Redruth’s voice rose.

  “Now, I order you to take charge of Guiding Star, and lead it to total victory! Is that understood, Leiter Celidon?”

  “Of course it is, Protector,” Celidon said, making his voice calm, certain, confident.

  “Good,” Redruth said. “Good. I was afraid, for a moment, Celidon, that you would fail me too, like … like some others.

  “My plan is quite precisely worked out. Go and carry it out within the day, then report back to me when you’ve decimated the Cumbrians!”

  Celidon took the fiche with the plan on it, saluted as crisply as he ever had, about-faced, and marched to the door. The sentries saluted, hurled the doors open for him.

  Celidon glanced down as he left.

  He was now quite sure he knew what the stain on the floor was.

  The word he’d started to use to Redruth, then rejected, was “insanity.”

  CHAPTER

  26

  Eight monstrous Larissan battle cruisers came out of their coverts. Analysts had been looking for their hiding places since the Force arrived in-system. But Redruth and his camouflage experts had been most devious. Ships had been hidden in tunnels under monuments, schools, or worship places, underwater in lakes, in natural caverns. The analysts, not finding the big ships, had then looked for their crew quarters, and the necessary maintenance buildings.

  But Redruth had quartered the crews on the populace or even outside, under canvas in the open. The ships had been given full maintenance before being concealed, but no work was performed on them other than first-echelon, minor repairs while they were in hiding.

  The cruisers rose out of the ground like ancient monsters, and alarms screamed.

  Two never made it out of the atmosphere, one getting hit from below by two destroyers and blown apart, the second by a Musth aksai pilot, who saw what he thought was his duty, and crashed at full speed into the cruiser, just below the bridge. A fully trained crew might have saved the ship, but the men and women on this cruiser — partially trained and mostly without combat experience — were anything but completely proficient. The cruiser, out of control, spun, slammed through a city slum, then exploded.

  Six made it into space. Protector Redruth’s orders had been for them to destroy the invaders’ transports, paying no mind to the Cumbrian warships until the most dangerous target, the invading army, was taken care of.

  The troopships were assembled in their assault formations, vertical stacks, in geosynchronous orbits within ideal range of their targets.

  Since the Larissans had lost control of space and their atmospheres, the Cumbrian warships were mostly either in-atmosphere or just above it, waiting for the go-ahead to support the landings, rather than in deep space. Some had even pulled back to Larix’s outer planets, for servicing by fleet support vessels.

  There was only a scattering of destroyers between the cruisers and the transports. Most knew what they must do, and attacked. One more cruiser was crippled, another wounded. The destroyers were smashed aside, and the five surviving cruisers drove toward the troopships, already picking their targets.

  All that remained were the seven Cumbrian destroyers screening the troopships. And one control ship.

  Alt Ho Kang stared at the big screen, at the on-rushing Larissan warships. She’d reported to the combat elements so far distant, been told help was on its way, and there was nothing else that could be done. Except one thing.

  She lifted her mike, touched the sensor. She tried to speak, found a knot in her throat, swallowed convulsively.

  “All Watchdog ships,” she said, pleased her voice was toneless. “This is Vann Control. You have enemy ships on-screen. Attack, repeat attack.”

  Without waiting for acknowledgment, she keyed the bridge of the al Maouna.

  “Set course for the Larissan ships. Full drive.”

  The watch officer hesitated, looked at the ship’s captain. Set-faced, he nodded. The officer snapped the orders.

  Eight small ships, the al Maouna in the lead, attacked the five huge battle cruisers.

  “All Watchdog elements,” Ho said. “You may fire when you have the range. Maintain position on this ship.” Again, she switched frequencies, back to the bridge of her own ship. “Give me the captain … Sir, this is Ho Kang. I’d suggest our best chances would be to set the following orbit … Yad-three-four-five, toward Melm-four-four-one.”

  “That’s put us just above the cruisers?”

  “That’s affirmative,” Ho said. “We might get away with arcing ‘over’ them. Suggest you begin firing … in volleys … as soon as possible. Anything to confuse them.”

  The captain smiled, twistedly. “At least we’ll give them a scare, eh?”

  Kang smiled, didn’t answer, cut the connection. She looked at her large screen, saw formations of destroyers swarming from a distant orbit toward the troopships.

  Too far, too late, she thought.

  • • •

  The Leiter on the bridge of the forward cruiser looked at his screen.

  Absurd. Those tinies, against us? Brave fools. Then alarm came. Perhaps there’s a trick. Perhaps there’s something we can’t detect, like those damned hyperspace weapons they’ve got.
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  “We’re within range, sir,” his weapons commander said. The Leiter hesitated for long seconds.

  • • •

  Ho Kang saw sparkles from the noses of the two leading destroyers as they launched, then the others fired at the cruisers as well.

  • • •

  “We have launches,” an officer on the bridge of the Larissan cruiser said.

  “Begin countermeasures,” the watch officer ordered, and countermissiles hurled out against the oncoming Goddards.

  “Sir?” the weapons commander asked.

  “Launch,” the Leiter ordered.

  • • •

  One, two, then three of the cruisers fired missiles.

  “We have four … no, six missiles targeting us,” a technician aboard the al Maouna reported. “Countermissiles launched … tracking … tracking …”

  A million years passed.

  “Two … three of their missiles destroyed,” the technician said. “A second pattern of countermissiles launched. Tracking.”

  Ho looked at the screen, didn’t need to read the reel of numbers as the Larissan missiles closed. She felt a moment of overwhelming sorrow, for a marriage that would never be, children that would never be born, science that would never be studied and explored, a life that would never be lived.

  Two missiles hit the al Maouna at the same time, and the lightly armored Kane ceased to exist.

  • • •

  Another Cumbrian ship was hit, destroyed. But the other five kept coming.

  There is something very, very wrong, the Leiter on the first cruiser thought. No one is this stupid.

  Now, if there is something deadly behind this nonsense, they are no doubt expecting us to continue our attack as it was begun, racing into their ambush.

  “Captain,” he ordered. “I wish to change the battle plan.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer said, who also had been nursing doubts.

  “Reset the course to put us ‘above’ those troopships,” the Leiter said. “They’ll be between us and Prime, which shall be the anvil, and we’ll be the hammer. Issue orders to the other ships to follow our lead.”