Most of the attendees nodded at the captain’s words. Heather, Peter and Doctor Munson were the only exceptions.
The scientist spoke up before Heather could respond. “You are all suffering from a lack of imagination. Obviously, fighting a being of such power is beyond our means. But perhaps we can communicate with it. It had good reasons to destroy the Marauders, even from our perspective. They enslaved at least one of its kind, after all. If we can convince it we mean no harm, we could reach an understanding. An understanding with an actual, living denizen of null-space. We owe it to the entire galaxy to try and learn from this Warpling.”
Nobody mentioned the result of a failed attempt. Maybe because it was obvious, and also because the death of everyone aboard the USS Humboldt had been, if not inevitable, certainly a likely outcome. Long shots had a way of ending badly for those who attempted them.
“I believe Major Zhang has a plan for facing the entity,” Heather said. “And yes, I believe initially she will try to reason with it.”
“And if that fails?”
She let Peter field that question.
“Major Zhang is a Marine, Captain. If talking fails, her contingency plan will be to kill every… enemy in the room, sir.”
“I am familiar with the actual phrase, Mister Fromm. And that’s all well and good. But can she do it? If it comes to that, can she stop something that overpowered the Kranxans and depopulated this system?”
Heather thought of the three-eyed alien, who was as part of Lisbeth Zhang’s mind as the Marauder she’d consumed, if not more. Lisbeth, charging the mental manifestations of a pack of Battlers while a Warmetal song played around her. She might be more than half-crazy, but she got things done.
“If anybody in this galaxy can, it is her.”
Captain Spears didn’t look happy, but he nodded. “Very well. No choice in the matter, then. We will detail a small party to accompany the Major. The Humboldt will keep close watch overhead and the rest of the Marines will provide perimeter security on the ground.”
He paused and looked Heather in the eye.
“And if things go wrong, we will evacuate anyone we can and drop all available ordnance on that facility. Because I’d rather lose my ship and crew than let loose something more dangerous than anything the US is fighting.”
* * *
Fromm looked up and saw Heather standing by the tent’s entrance. He set aside the after-action report. It could wait.
“You didn’t call ahead.”
“Op-sec. Didn’t want to leave a comm trail about us fraternizing.”
“I’m sure all the Marines on duty know exactly where you are.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to risk you telling me to leave you alone.”
He smiled. “I was planning on dropping by your tent in a few minutes, actually.”
“Right answer.”
They made the most of the time they had. They both knew these could be their last shared moments.
The shore party had returned to Camp Discovery after the meeting on the Humboldt. The plan was to send a small group into the ruins after a few hours’ rest. By rights, Fromm should stay with his mauled company, maintaining perimeter security while Heather, Zhang, Munson and a squad’s worth of volunteers went on the mission. Instead, he would leave Lieutenant Hansen in charge and lead the squad himself. Unprofessional of him, and further proof of what a bad idea fraternization within a combat unit was. But he didn’t care.
Afterwards, they lay in his bunk and talked.
“How is she?” he asked her.
“Lisbeth is… Honestly, I have no idea. She should be totally, absolutely, foaming at the mouth, chewing on the wallpaper insane by now. She’s got bits and pieces from not one but two alien minds sharing space in her head, on top of having endured enough mental trauma to redline any Special Forces operators I’ve known. And yet she’s still keeping it together somehow. Mostly.”
“Definitely Devil Dog material.”
“She’s got the temperament for it, that’s for sure. The medical officer found some noticeable alterations to her skull, plus other physical changes. All this exposure to warp space is changing her.”
“Warping her.”
“Yeah. It all goes back to what she likes to call the Starless Path. It’s funny, but it never made much sense to call it ‘warp’ space. We don’t fold or warp space when we go into transit: we enter another realm or universe where the rules are completely different. Null-space is the preferred scientific term, of course. Hyperspace would have been better.”
“I’m not a linguist, but if I remember it right, we got the name from the Puppies.”
She nodded. “And other languages use something similar. In the Imperium, they call it the Twisting Void. Because that’s what going there does. It warps you. Your mind and even your body as well, if you expose yourself to it enough times.”
Fromm thought about the deformed corpses still waiting for them inside the tower. “Yep. Pretty damn twisted, but it’s the only way to travel. Doesn’t say much about the universe, does it?”
“Maybe. Lisbeth says that it used to be better, but the Kranxans somehow messed things up. And we’re going to walk right into their last sanctum and play with their toys.”
“Doesn’t sound very smart of us, when you put it that way. But it’s part of the mission.”
Heather looked at him.
“Look…” Fromm started to say before running out of words.
He didn’t know how to tell her what he wanted to say. That he’d killed too many of his Marines, all to get the mission done, and he’d lost the stomach for it. That each time got a little harder, and the temptation to go do the dying himself a little stronger. That his other reason for leading this forlorn hope was that he thought he deserved it.
“This isn’t a suicide mission, Peter. I trust Lisbeth. Doesn’t mean we won’t get killed, but don’t think it’s inevitable, okay?”
“Reading my mind?”
She grinned. “Nah. Knowing your mind. And knowing about guilt, too.”
He held her, and for a while things were a little better.
Eleven
Capricorn System, Year 167
Admiral Nicholas Kerensky had his implants display the written orders one more time, as if the act could somehow change them. The words remained stubbornly the same, and he had to restrain the impulse to punch the messenger. He contented himself with glaring at him.
Commander Grayson met his glare unflinchingly; the Navy troubleshooter was many things, but not a coward. The fact didn’t make Kerensky like him any better.
“I understand how this must seem, Admiral.”
“You understand…” For a moment, Kerensky saw himself grabbing the remfie bastard by the throat. He looked down at his clenched hands and took a deep breath.
Get ahold of yourself. You have your orders. Your duty is to follow them.
“Seventh Fleet is to withdraw from Capricorn System and redeploy in New Texas. Seventh Fleet will not be reinforced and must make plans to abandon New Texas as well.”
Speaking the words out loud didn’t change anything, either.
“The move to New Texas will shorten your supply lines,” Grayson said.
“I have less than a hundred vessels fit for combat, and no replacement. Supply is the least of my problems.”
“The Joint Chiefs believe the destruction of the Imperium’s Deep Space Armada, as well as your raid on Hoon System will disrupt enemy operations in this sector for the foreseeable future. Your proposal to establish a presence in Paulus was a non-starter, I’m afraid. It would risk driving the Wyrashat fully into the Gal-Imps’ arms.”
“The Wyrms have already surrendered to the Gimps, Commander. Paulus, and a dozen other systems, are being used as supply depots by the enemy.”
He knew that arguing with a glorified flunky was useless, but he couldn’t help himself. And Grayson, despite his low rank, had the ear of the admirals at the Hexagon. At worst, Ke
rensky might hear the reasons for throwing away potential victory. The humiliation of discussing strategy with a junior officer grated on him, but he needed to vent, and the courier-cum-troubleshooter wasn’t in his chain of command, which made him a better sounding board than anybody in his staff.
“Fourth Fleet is noting increased activity on its sector,” Grayson said. “The Imperium seems to have secured passage rights from the Bijoons, which means they threaten several worlds along that border, including a warp chain nine transits away from Sol Systems. Fleet has to reinforce that sector, and that means diverting some of the replacements and supplies allotted to you.”
“I’m seven warp jumps away from Gimp space. I can take my Special Attack Force plus a few Pan-Asian squadrons, and finally let the bastards know they are in a war. Maybe after we burn down one of their Provincial Capitals, they’ll begin to see reason.”
“Admiral, most of those warp points are inside Wyrashat space. Under their treaty obligations with the Gal-Imps, they would have to try to stop you. And even if they didn’t confront Seventh Fleet directly, the threat to your supply lines would be untenable.”
Kerensky clenched his teeth. Everything the troubleshooter said was true. The only way to mount an assault over that many transits would be to secure each planetary system along the way. The Wyrms couldn’t go back on their word, not without losing what little credibility they had. They wouldn’t allow him to leave blocking forces at each juncture, not without a fight.
A part of him was ready to burn them down. Burn them all down.
Something is wrong with me.
He’d been having that thought with increasing frequency ever since the Battle of Capricorn. Irritability had grown into simmering rage, ready to burst open at the least provocation. On more than once occasion, he’d yelled at Captain Cochrane, members of his staff, and several lower-ranking officers. That wasn’t like him at all. An admiral wasn’t supposed to actually lose his temper. Too much was at stake to be overruled by emotions.
“A defensive posture surrenders the initiative to the enemy,” he said, if only to have his protests on record. “Combined with the weakened state of Seventh Fleet, we may not be able to hold New Texas.”
For one, he’d lost too many fighters to maintain the deep space patrols that had allowed him to ambush the Alliance fleet. With no reinforcements available, that meant he would be forced to conduct a standard core-planet defense, waiting for the enemy fleet to engage his forces at its leisure. He couldn’t win that fight, not if the Imperium and Lampreys could field even a third of the forces it had deployed the previous time.
“That is covered in your orders, Admiral.”
“I know. I’m supposed to abandon New Texas if the enemy comes back in force.”
“We cannot lose Seventh Fleet. New Texas only has four warp lines besides the one linking it to Capricorn, and three of them lead to dead ends, with no further inroads into American space. The connection to Cascadia System is critical, however: from Cascadia, the enemy can reach half a dozen other nexus points, each with three to five more ley lines – that’s almost half of our territory; Sol is only six transits away from that system. Cascadia must hold.”
Grayson was neglecting to point out that each of those ‘dead end’ systems had populations of three hundred thousand, a million and a half, and two million, respectively. Evacuating all of them was going to be impossible, not when the Navy would have to start removing New Texas’ twenty-five million people first. It couldn’t be done, not unless the enemy considerately gave them six to eight months. Kerensky didn’t think they were going to get even that many weeks before the Imperium came back for a rematch. And if he was right, there wouldn’t be time to save more than half of New Texas’ inhabitants, let alone the poor bastards on those minor colonies – families who’d chosen to spend decades of hardship and poverty to expand the United Stars’ reach and access to resources. The Navy was supposed to make sure their sacrifices didn’t include their lives.
“We can’t do this.”
“That’s a worst-case estimate, Admiral. The JCs’ assessment is that the Imperium has shot its bolt. They cannot replace the tonnage you sank at Capricorn, not for some years, and by then we’ll be in an unassailable position. Your victory has turned the tide, sir. As Admiral Carruthers would say, it may not be the beginning of the end, but it certainly is the end of the beginning.”
Kerensky tried to smile back at Grayson, but he couldn’t. Every instinct in his bones told him the enemy wasn’t done with this sector. Everything the commander said was true, but the Imperium knew it as well. Their window of opportunity was closing, and their only chance was to make a final push before the US could leverage the wealth from Xanadu into enough fighters and carriers to destroy any force they sent their way. That meant they had to attack soon.
They were going to make him run away again. He couldn’t do it, not after Heinlein.
14,873,097. That cursed number was going to grow larger. If he fled New Texas and its three minor warp links, it would more than double.
I can’t do it.
“There is something else, Admiral,” Commander Grayson said. “The Joint Chiefs wanted to keep it off the record.”
“Of course, Commander,” Kerensky said, dutifully turning off his imp and office recorders. His anger was gone, and all he felt was overwhelming exhaustion. He hoped whatever this was would be over quickly.
“First of all, the Joint Chiefs want to commend you for the innovative use of fighter spacecraft as a scouting tool. Our next generation of fighters will be redesigned to perform more efficiently as reconnaissance platforms. You have single-handedly revolutionized space warfare, just as the enemy was beginning to get used to the previous quantum leap.”
If he’d been in his right mind, Kerensky would have demurred and explained that the idea wasn’t wholly his, but the work of a dozen people in Seventh Fleet, who had taken his initial thoughts and ran with them. Instead, he just nodded dully. The congratulations felt hollow and meaningless.
“There is, however, some concern about your liberal usage of Warp-Tolerance Serum – what pilots jokingly refer to as Melange, or Spice. Those drugs were never meant to be widely distributed; they are very costly for one, and the calibrations required to personalize doses to fit each individual serviceperson take an inordinate amount of processing time and other demands on naval medical personnel.”
“Under the circumstances, I decided the costs were warranted.”
“And they were. The problem is, you have continued to dispense the serum to everyone in Seventh Fleet. You have run through the entire supply allotted to your fighter wings.”
“My med techs figured out a way to produce WTS in quantity,” Kerensky said. “As it turns out, adjusting the dosage to match individual needs can be expedited, and the ensuing side effects are within tolerable levels. Ever since I instituted the new dispensing guidelines, we have suffered no casualties during warp transit. And a diluted version will allow us to safely evacuate everyone in Capricorn System.”
Ninety-eight percent, actually, but that was enough of a miracle to deserve no qualifications.
“Of course. Be that as it may, the Joint Chiefs would like you to stop or at least curtail the use of Melange until its side effects can be properly studied. There were numerous problems – including severe casualties – during the early part of the program. They allegedly have improved the formula, but those things take time. The JCs want you to dial it back until then.”
“They want me to do so? This isn’t a direct order?”
“There are security considerations involved. Official orders regarding the new drugs could reveal their existence to the enemy. And the Hexagon respects your judgment. The ultimate decision is yours, sir.”
And if my decisions lead to disaster here, in what they now consider a safe sector, they can lay the blame on my shoulders.
The thought was almost alien; he’d never been so bitter and cynical, not
even in the aftermath of the Heinlein debacle.
“I will take it under advisement, Commander. Stopping the medication immediately may cause additional problems, however. Withdrawal symptoms can be severe, for one. But I will oversee a gradual weaning off, in consultation to my medical officers.”
“Of course, sir. I believe that’s exactly what the Chiefs had in mind.”
Even as Kerensky spoke, his med implant delivered a dose of Melange into his bloodstream. His exhaustion lifted and he felt a surge of determination within him, despite the fact that none of the chemicals in the serum were stimulants. The concoction still had a rejuvenating effect on him.
Intellectually, he realized that shooting up experimental drugs was the most likely cause for the changes he’d noticed in himself, but he couldn’t stop now. WTS had saved thousands of lives at Capricorn and helped Seventh Fleet perform beyond anyone’s expectations. If his fears – or maybe premonitions – were right, he would need every tool at his disposal to prevent disaster.
One thing was certain; he would burn down this corner of the galaxy before he allowed more innocent millions to die while he still lived.
He smiled at Commander Grayson; his grin widened when the officer flinched at the sight.
New Texas System, Year 167
The world was changing, and so was he.
Lieutenant Gus Chandler had never felt better. Same thing went for the rest of his squadron. They’d kicked ass at Hoon and they were ready to go back for seconds. It was too bad the remfies had made them retreat to New Texas, but if the Gimps or the Lampreys followed them there, the Fourth Carrier Space Wing would be ready for them. They were doing better than ever.
Except for Grinner, but she’d always been the odd woman out. Funny how she didn’t like it when everyone got a handle on warp space and caught up to her. Ever since the fight at Hoon she’d been withdrawn and upset, and it was rubbing everyone the wrong way. Still, everyone in Fourth Squadron, and a bunch of people from other units owed her a lot, and they’d gotten the rest to take it easy on her. She would come around. Gus was sure of it.
In Dread Silence (Warp Marine Corps Book 4) Page 22
