by Jay Allan
“Alright Black Regiment…we all know how good you are,” he said after he flipped the comm to the Blacks’ channel. “Let’s show these conditioned zombies just who the Black Eagles are. Let them learn what every other mercenary company in Occupied Space already knows.” He could hear the responses, the sounds of hundreds of his people beginning to cheer. Then, he added, “I hope you don’t mind if I go into this fight with you. Because this is where I belong, surrounded by my Eagles, and driving the enemy straight to hell!” A wave of cheers burst out on the comm. The Eagles were ready for battle.
* * * * *
“We haven’t been able to get through the jamming, General. But we’re getting preliminary reports that the new arrivals appear to be engaging the Black Flag forces.”
Erik Cain glanced at the communications officer and then over at Gilson. “It’s the Black Eagles.”
“You can’t be sure of that, Erik,” she said, clearly trying to remain cautious.
Cain understood, and he usually thought the same way. But not this time. He’d watched the precision of the operation, the apparent discipline of the landing troops. He’d never seen a force come down so close to hostile troops, not even Marines. If those troops weren’t Black Flag reinforcements—and it certainly didn’t look like they were—they had to be the Eagles.
Besides…he could feel his son out there. It didn’t make any sense, not really, but it was true nevertheless. He’d known all along, on some level, that Darius would come.
“It’s the Black Eagles, Cate.” A pause. “We have to attack. Now.”
Gilson looked over at Cain. “Erik…” She paused. Cain knew what she was thinking, that what he was proposing was risky. He’d bought time with his wild attack days before, threw the enemy into disorder that slowed their operations. But the cost had been high, in casualties and supplies, and now, after weeks of sustained battle, the Marines were running low on…well, everything.
“Cate, the only reason to hold on, to conserve supplies, was to last until help came. Well, whether that’s the Black Eagles out there or not, they seem to be attacking the enemy. The help we were waiting for, hoping for, is here. What do you want to save supplies for? To die a little more slowly? To stretch out the agony? If we stand here in these defensive positions, and this new force is defeated, do you really think another relief expedition will arrive in the few extra days we can make our ammunition and food last?” He paused, looking at his comrade of so many years. “This is our chance, Cate, right now. Do we sit here? Or do we strike, hit the enemy with everything we’ve got? We can bracket them, trap them between our forces and the new arrivals.”
Gilson stared back at Cain. There was still worry in her eyes, uncertainty. He remembered her being more aggressive years before, less choked with caution. Age, he thought. I feel it too. If I wasn’t so sure that is Darius out there, would I be in such a rush to throw everything into one last effort? He wanted to think the answer was yes, that he was the same officer he’d been decades before. But the fatigue was there, deep in his soul, and it took all he had to push, to sustain the immense effort it took to lead men and women into a desperate fight to the death.
“Okay, Erik,” Gilson finally said, her voice soft, her efforts to hold back the concern partially successful. “Let’s do it. One last strike. Either victory…or an end to the Corps that will be worth a story or two.”
Cain nodded. “One last strike.”
But if we fail, who will be left to tell the stories?
* * * * *
Darius jogged back toward the command post. He’d led Colonel Falstaff’s Black Regiment as they attacked the enemy position. The Blacks had hit almost dead center in the enemy line, driving hard in an attempt to split their formation. They’d had a certain amount of surprise on their side at first, but the enemy resistance had quickly solidified. The Eagles found their advance slowed to a crawl, and ultimately, they’d experienced something they hadn’t known in many years. A stalemate.
The Eagles of the Black Regiment had been stunned, enraged. No one they could remember had ever stood against them. Darius had watched his beloved soldiers throwing themselves at the enemy, killing four or five for every trooper they lost, but no matter how hard they hit, how many they gunned down, the enemy stood firm. So much of war was based on breaking the enemy’s morale, something the Eagles often had managed simply by showing up. But this adversary was fearless, and trapped as they were, bracketed between the Eagles and the Marines, Darius had come to realize the battle would be a fight to the death. Literally.
He still had confidence his people could win. He could hardly imagine otherwise, though he wondered how much hubris had infected his usual cold analysis. But what that victory would cost, how many of his people would die hunting down every last enemy soldier…it was a brutal reckoning. Worse, if his attitude was pride-driven, if he was wrong…if his people could really lose here…
And all of this is moot anyway if we can’t win the battle in space. The land combat was only one of his concerns. Darius had known the risks of bringing his ground forces down without first securing total control of the system’s space. He’d risked all, and he realized now, despite his pride and confidence in his Eagles, that they could lose. That they could all die here, on this world and in this system.
He put the space combat out of his mind. He’d left Teller in command there, and he trusted his lifelong friend more than anyone else in Occupied Space. Teller would leave most of the tactical decisions to Commodore Allegre, Darius was sure of that, just as he himself would. Allegre was like all the other Eagles. He was there because of his excellence, and, notwithstanding the unmatched Admiral Garret, the Eagles’ fleet commander was probably the best naval officer in all of human space.
Darius had wanted to stay on the front line—the thought of leaving his Eagles when they were in such a deadly fight sickened him—but he had too many responsibilities. He had to take command of the newly-arrived forces, the Blue Regiment, and Kuragina’s Whites. They were needed on the lines. His already engaged troopers were desperate for reserves…they needed the numbers and force concentration to break through before the enemy could bring their own numbers to bear and hit his advance guard on both flanks. His plan had been audacious, and now, for perhaps the first time in his command career, he was concerned he might lose a battle. Defeat here would be more than a loss. It would be total ruin, the end of the Black Eagles…and the Marines.
The end of humanity as anything but a vast pool of pathetic slaves.
No, that would not happen. He wouldn’t allow it.
He simply refused to allow it.
Chapter 24
Interplanetary Space
Gamma Pavonis System
Earthdate: 2321 AD (36 Years After the Fall)
Teller sat in Eagle Eleven’s flag command chair, looking out over the ship’s veteran crew. They were working their controls, operating calmly, efficiently, despite the enemy ships all around. The Eagles’ fleet didn’t have a chance against the Black Flag forces. They were better, of course, even outnumbered two to one, Teller had no doubt the Eagles would have crushed their adversaries. But they were outnumbered almost eight to one, and slowly, steadily, the numbers began to tell.
But Teller sat quietly, calmly, a menacing smile on his face. He wasn’t looking at the display, nor at the incoming damage reports from the Eagles’ warships. He wasn’t watching the ship’s crew—he was no naval officer, and the last thing they needed was pointless interference from him. No, he was staring at the chronometer, counting down in his head.
“Energy readings from the warp gate, Colonel.”
The communications officer’s words had come perhaps a moment or two early, but that was no surprise. Augustus Garret hadn’t liked the idea of staying behind when the Eagles went in alone, and Teller would have bet the fighting admiral would shave the designated transit time a bit.
Teller turned his head now, looking out over the display. The Eagles
’ ships had scattered, pretending they were disordered, almost broken. In truth, though they’d taken a pounding, they weren’t as badly damaged as they appeared to be. They had used maneuver, put their superior skill to work buying time. The Black Flag forces had reacted, dividing up, chasing after each, apparently isolated, Eagles’ vessel.
Exactly as planned…
It had been Garret’s idea, though in his original proposal, it was his fleet that had gone in first, to break up the enemy formations and leave them exposed to the Eagles coming second and hitting them from the rear. Darius had accepted the plan immediately…it was just the kind of wildly aggressive move he tended to like. And both Darius and Erik Teller knew that Augustus Garret, despite age and old injuries catching up to him quickly, was still the greatest naval tactician, perhaps in all of human history. The Eagles were used to being the best, but Darius had been more than content to yield to Garret’s wisdom.
With one change.
Garret had argued fiercely when Darius had insisted the Eagles go in first, that his people served as the bait in the trap. Teller suspected there was some pride in the demand, but more importantly, Darius had his own plan, a way to divert the enemy warships and make a wild dash for Armstrong…to get his ground forces down while there was—hopefully—still time to save the Marines.
Garret had been forced to yield. He was as aware as Darius and Teller how desperate the Marines’ situation had to be, how urgent it was to get to their aid, and he’d grudgingly gone along with the whole scheme.
Now, Augustus Garret was back. Teller watched as ship after ship came through the warp gate, blasting in on perfectly charted courses, already at high velocities. His battleships were in the lead, followed by cruisers, and lastly the destroyers and frigates. There was little elegance in the battle plan, just a desperate attempt to bring the maximum firepower to bear before the enemy could react and mount a credible defense.
Even the combined Eagles and Marine fleets were heavily outnumbered, and any chance of victory was dependent on taking maximum advantage of surprise.
Teller watched as Garret’s lead ships fired their missiles, a massive, coordinated barrage, targeted at a small section of the enemy line. The Black Flag ships tried to respond, but many had exhausted their missile stocks fighting the Eagles, and their vectors were all over the place, many decelerating hard to try and come about and face the new threat.
Garret’s missiles came on toward the enemy, their narrow frontage condensing even further as they closed. The Black Flag battleships fired their rockets and their short-ranged anti-missile lasers, and dozens of Garret’s weapons vanished. But more survived, the density of the assault too much for the scattered point defense of the enemy vessels.
All along a narrow line, around six enemy battleships, dozens of massive nuclear warheads detonated. One ship was bracketed by no less than five, two of them less than five hundred meters distant. The ship was wracked by hard radiation, and even the heat from the explosion impacted it, melting massive sections of hull, and tearing the structure apart.
Teller watched, impressed by Garret’s willingness to commit all his missiles to attack only a few enemy ships. Missile barrages usually left large numbers of vessels with light to moderate damage, as radiation from nearby explosions knocked out scanners and power relays, and killed and wounded exposed crew. But the six ships caught in Garret’s manmade inferno died, every one of them…including one actually struck by a missile. That unfortunate ship had simply vanished, consumed by five hundred megatons of nuclear fury.
Garret’s ships were accelerating now, building on their already considerable velocity. His missile attack had created a hole in the enemy line, one that exacerbated the Black Flag’s already fragmented formation. One he clearly intended to exploit while he could.
His battleships moved through, and then they changed their thrust vectors, splitting into two groups, moving against the exposed flanks of what passed for the enemy line. The Black Flag ships struggled to realign themselves to bring the maximum firepower to bear, but they were still trying to overcome their previous vectors. Everywhere, the enemy’s redeployment efforts took the pressure off the Eagles, and Teller’s ships came about, renewing their own assaults, proving to be more operational than they had let on.
All across the system, Black Flag ships were attacked from two sides, driven between their enemies. They fought back, and losses mounted on both forces. Teller was staring right at the display when the reports came in. Eagle Fifteen was in trouble…then, no more than a moment later, the battleship was gone.
The loss hurt. Teller was keenly aware how many Eagles had been aboard that vessel, how many resources had gone into its construction…how much it would be missed when the final battle in this war was fought, when the Eagles and their allies had moved off the defensive and set out to destroy the enemy. But he just stared coldly, forward, no emotion visible, no hint of pain or fear that could become contagious to his people.
The battle raged, a lopsided engagement where the enemy lost four or five ships for every one they destroyed. But Teller could see the momentum starting to shift. Half his ships were nearly out of the fight, and while many of those could be repaired given time, that was one thing in very short supply. The enemy naval personnel, appearing to be as fearless as the ground forces, just continued to fight, and slowly, steadily, their positions improved, and their depleted line stabilized. The advantage Garret’s forces and the Eagles had enjoyed was mostly gone, and the fight became a slugging match between battered ships and exhausted crews.
Teller still sat, watching, showing no reaction. But inside he felt the tension, the fear. He was no naval commander, as he had noted before. But he was a veteran warrior, and he knew two things. First, his and Garret’s people had fought well, heroically, and they’d inflicted far more losses than they’d endured.
And second…in spite of that, they were losing.
* * * * *
“Keep moving…we’ve got them on the run. Don’t let up now!” Cain was surrounded by Marines, armored warriors surging forward, ignoring losses, pushing hard against the Black Flag forces in front of them. He was excited, anxious, hopeful his people could drive deeply enough to cut the enemy in half, to link up with the Eagles—he was still sure they were the Eagles, though there had been no confirmation yet—and pull out the victory that had seemed so uncertain just two days earlier.
He had to admit, to himself at least, that ‘on the run’ was a bit of creative license, something to encourage his people. The Black Flag warriors were fighting for every meter, and the losses had been almost beyond counting. There was no rout, no seeming fear on the enemy’s part. The Marines had been no less determined, grimly driving forward, but Cain knew his people had a limit. Though Marines sometimes denied it, they were only human, normal men and women. He wasn’t sure about this enemy though. Whatever it was—conditioning, brainwashing—they did not seem to feel fear, nor express any self-preservation instinct. They just fought, retreating when the tactical situation called for it, and fighting to the death when it didn’t.
Cain had fought an enemy like this before. The robots of the First Imperium had been without fear, and in their case, without fatigue as well. At least the Black Flag soldiers seemed to have standard human physical limitations. They weren’t stronger than normal soldiers, and they didn’t appear to have better sight, aim, senses. They were just utterly unconcerned with their own survival.
Then, we’ll just have to kill every one of them…
Cain kept moving forward himself, stopping and firing as he saw an enemy trooper. The Black Flag forces had fallen back—they didn’t run, he reminded himself, they just moved to a stronger position.
He looked at this display. His data was spotty. Without orbital support or active scanning positions, he didn’t have enough input to give him a view of the field. He had a few drones left, but not many. He wondered if he should order a spread launched, whether enough data would g
et through the enemy jamming to make it worthwhile. No, he thought. No way. The interference is too heavy.
He pressed on, shouting out over the comm, directing each unit around him, working his Marines, doing all he could to sustain their morale. He thought about Sarah, about the nightmare the hospital had almost certainly become. He didn’t have the latest figures on medical supplies, but with the status of ammunition and food, he couldn’t imagine there was much left. The thought of modern medicine, descending into an almost primitive state as equipment failed under dire field conditions, and even basic medicines ran out, was a grim one. He’d seen it before, heard it, the sounds of men and women screaming, without so much as an injection available to relieve their pain.
It’s not much better up here. He glanced at his readouts. He had two full clips left, plus a hundred twenty rounds in the current one. And two grenades. His power was still good…that was the advantage of carrying a fusion reactor on your back, but once the ordnance was gone, he’d be down to his dual lasers, not much good past sixty meters or so in atmosphere, at least against armored enemies.
And the blade…
Cain felt his arm twitch as he thought of the micro-thin knife in in his iridium-encased arm. If his people failed, if they fell short, he knew the last fighting would be hand to hand, at least for him. He didn’t know how each of his Marines would behave at the last moment, if they would flee, surrender, fight. But Erik Cain had battled for too long to accept defeat now, and he had endured the torture of captivity. Never again. He would win here, or die. But they would never take him prisoner again.
So, win then…keep moving and forget this nonsense about defeat.
He felt a burst of strength, of determination. He swung around, firing his assault rifle, each shot on semi-automatic, a small burst of three projectiles. His aim was almost uncanny. Every time he fired, an enemy fell. Energy surged through his body, as though his younger self, gone for so many years, had returned.
