“As Solus and Terra carrier groups converged on the impromptu battlefield, the alien race known as the Boxti began an unprovoked attack on our fighters that led to an all out-skirmish. With our two largest armadas positioned around Earth, the enemy was outnumbered and outmatched. Heavy fighting continued through the morning, but in the end our mighty Fleet emerged victorious.”
Alexander looked down at his notes, pain showing in his face.“The battle was not without casualties. Two thousand injured, one quarter of that fatally. Nearly one hundred seamen died aboard the TMF Savanna, but her sacrifice destroyed the remaining enemy craft and prevented this hostile race from posing any immediate threat to our Homeworld.”He paused, letting out a sigh. He pinched the palm of his left hand, feeling a comforting lump of shrapnel underneath the muscle.“All told, some four hundred and thirty-six soldiers, airmen and seamen lost their lives defending our space, remarkable given the extreme technological superiority of these beings. And that sacrifice was not made alone. In this fight, another alien race shed blood alongside our ships, dying to protect their own existence. When the dust settled, they made the first move to offer a peaceful and quiet parlay that has since shed significant light on the extent of their dire situation.
“The silver craft belong to a civilization called the Nangolani. They are, in many ways, similar to us. Their home of Nangol, or‘mother rock,’is built much like Earth. They have different cultures and languages depending on where on the planet they grew up. They have arts and science and fashion and, of course, a strong military. For us, the conflict with the Boxti is only hours old. For them, the war has raged for a hundred years. Millions of their people have died, and countless other alien races have fallen completely to the alien menace. While fleeing their pursuers, the Nangolani found a way to our system, and the rest we’ll leave to the historians.
“I have spent the last day in deep counsel with Emperor Anduin and, with the advice of the Council and the guidance of the generals and admiralty, I have decided that the Terran Colonial Federate will enter into an alliance of faith with the Nangolani fleet. Though there is a long path before us, together we can share a burden that has taken so much from the galaxy.”
Alexander took a moment to drink from his glass of water. The next portion of his speech wasn’t written on the script. He hadn’t dared let a leak from a loose-lipped intern start a shitstorm in the press before he’d had a chance to get ahead of it. Taking a deep breath, he dived in.
“It is with this task in mind that I will reinstitute the policy of a draft, compelling all men and women of appropriate age to join into a branch of service, to be started on Reformation Day next week. I understand this will be wholly unpopular, and I don’t like the idea of conscription any more than the reality. But we are now a civilization at war, and everyone must contribute to see this through. I make a promise to you, the united Terran people, that I will repeal the draft when the war is finished. I have much to discuss with our new allies, so I cannot take questions at this time. Thank you.”
Alexander turned from the podium, dodging the shouts and screams as he made his way over to his chief aide, Arthur Rhoden. The smaller Mars native was a political pick that Alexander had originally fought, but quickly learned to appreciate. Arthur had no interest in the petty squabbling that had nearly destroyed Earth’s closest neighbor. He kept Alexander’s schedule tight and made sure the High Chancellor was prepared for everything the day brought. Whatever his political leanings, the aide was an asset Alexander couldn’t live without.
“How did I do?”Alexander asked.
Arthur’s eyes narrowed.“You realize you’re ending your career. This is going to make my job a hundred times harder.”
“I didn’t know I was such a burden to you.”
“Sir,”Arthur said breathlessly.“A draft is political suicide.”
Alexander started off down the hall toward his waiting car.“Not building an army is literal suicide. You saw the tapes. Those ships were incredible, and that was supposedly a vanguard.”
“And they crumpled like tissue paper when Fleet engaged them. This is a ridiculous overreaction and it’s going to bite both of us in the ass.”Arthur combed his fingers through his light blonde hair.
The High Chancellor shot a withering look at his aide.“If their full armada is as large as Anduin said, we’ll need every able-bodied Terran to match them. And Arthur, let’s not forget who would take the fallout here. I appreciate your candid opinion, but this was my call.”
Donald Groves, Alexander’s head of security, approached from the parking lot. He spoke into a microphone on his cuff.“Lightning is moving toward the vehicle. Twenty seconds.”He fell into step with Alexander and Arthur, his hand hovering over his holster.“Sir, the car is coming around now. We cleared a path to Heathrow, and the shuttle is standing by to take you to Terra Node.”
At the door, Donald halted the two men. A jet-black limousine pulled up almost immediately, and the Secret Service agent pulled his objective firmly but gently to the car. After putting the two civilians in their seats, Donald sat down and the limo took off. With a police escort, the trip to the high-speed transit tunnel took only a few minutes. Once on the magnetically controlled circuit, the limo shot up to three hundred miles an hour and sped toward England.
Alexander looked at his chief of security.“Donald,”he said.“You haven’t told me what you thought of the speech.”
Groves gritted his teeth, tracing his gray mustache with his fingers. He hated politics—didn’t care much for politicians, truth be told—but High Chancellor Burton thought of his security assets as more than just a shield.“Well, politically speaking, you blew it. You don’t earn loyalty by taking away freedoms, and that’s all these people care about nowadays.”His piercing green eyes remained focused on the surrounding traffic, darting from car to car.“Start forcing people into uniform and you’ll see the rebellions start right back up.”
“What freedoms am I taking away?”
Arthur spoke first.“How about the right to not have to serve in the military? There are more than twenty-nine billion citizens in the colonized systems, and fewer than one-in-a-thousand serve. What are you going to tell them when they realize all their plans have to be put off for three years while they risk their lives against an unknown, unmeasured threat?”
“But how can they sleep at night, not knowing what’s coming next?”Donald looked out the window, watching the lights of the tunnel whip past at unimaginable speed.“As I said, it’s a hard call. I can’t say if it’s the right one, but I would have done the same.”He shifted in his seat, adjusting the holster under his arm.“You know what the Chief of Staff will say.”
“I can’t please everyone,”Alexander said, settling into his seat and closing his eyes.“I guess I’ll settle for pissing off as few as possible.”He settled back in his seat, hoping for an hour’s sleep before the flight.
* * * * *
He sat in a darkened den, smoke drifting lazily from the cigarette in between his fingers. The leather couch on which he sat was cracked and worn, older than most of the men who used it. Piercing blue eyes watched the glowing screen showing the High Chancellor’s speech. Political pundits tore the politician’s words apart, finding meaning and flaws to suit their station’s agenda. It was almost funny.
“Alec, Alec, Alec,”the man said. He drew the name out with a faint southern drawl.“You’re making it too easy for me.”A young woman approached from the back, offering a bottle of beer. The man took it with a smile, handing the pretty girl a folded credit note. She tucked the bill into her bra, winked, and went to serve more drinks.“He celebrates Reformation Day by reinstating an Imperial edict.”The man turned to share his little joke, but no one paid him any attention.
Around the room, groups of men busied themselves with various tasks, mindful to keep their noise down while their leader watched the TV. Some cleaned rifles, others played cards. Mostly, they sat and thought about the week to come. The
mission had taken almost four years of planning, months of preparation, and now could crumble with the smallest slip. Not that they worried. They were never to concern themselves with failure, or the possibility thereof. Only the mission.
The man couldn’t help but smile. If he could have met himself from fifteen years before, he wouldn’t even recognize what he had become. There wasn’t a proper word for him. Rebel? Terrorist? Monster? Hell, he’d be fine with disillusioned soldier, but the media loved to portray him as some kind of anti-establishment nut job. No matter. The hour of judgment approached so rapidly that he rarely slept anymore, lest he miss it.
From inside one of his many hideaways, the man known as Jonah Blightman waited for his moment of triumph. Soldiers of the Red Hammer had waited too long for vengeance, but now that time was at hand. He looked down at the sprawled notebooks on the coffee table and began to go over his plan, beat by beat. It was complex, but not overly so. Contingencies were in place should any step go awry. And, in Jonah’s experience, plans like this had a tendency to stray off the intended path.
If they succeeded, they would undo the damage of the past ten years in a single hour. An entire galaxy of people would know the extent of the lies told by the Federate. Jonah knew that the odds might fall against him, and that this would be his last trip out, but the time for doubt had long passed. So instead, in a chilly bar in Toronto, he prepared for his hour of glory. Looking over the plans for the attack, he felt a familiar numbness growing.
While Jonah looked at the reports from his various cells, one of his veterans approached. The old man smiled with a scarred face and placed a small tablet in front of his leader.
“Everything is set, and the delivery boys are in place.”
“Good,”Jonah said.“Now let’s talk about Buenos Aires. The casualty estimates still feel too low.”
* * * * *
The small scout ship slowed as it entered a suitable orbit speed. Neither pilot paid much attention to the nearby planet; it was more or less just a colorful distraction. They had seen hundreds of gas giants in the years scouting for the armada. A tone sounded and the computer took over control, allowing the commander and navigator to unhook and move toward the rear of the craft.
At the far end, near the engine compartment, a small computer flickered to life. The commander stared into the ether, reading the report from the external sensor array. Under his polarized faceplate, it was impossible to tell if he liked what he saw. The navigator went to a large control panel and pulled at a lever. Below deck, metal ground against metal as a hatch opened.
“Ready to release,”the navigator said.
“Not yet.”
The subordinate nodded. He fidgeted, restless. It had been a tedious task, dropping the packages, but every moment was terrifying. Each box transmitted a particular signal, and there was only one ear tuned to that frequency. If they lingered too long...
“This is suitable,”the commander said.“Drop the pod.”
The navigator pulled a second lever and the scout ship rocked from side to side. A small sphere, no larger than a melon, popped out from a holding clamp in the cargo area and drifted into orbit over the gas giant. In seconds it was thousands of miles away.
“Pod is away.”
The commander shut down the computer.“Quickly, we need to leave.”
They shuffled to their seats, strapping down as the navigator gunned the engines. Blue light flooded the interior of the cockpit as the small craft leapt into the Blue, disappearing in an instant.
Left behind, the orb drifted lazily in a sea of swirling gasses. As an automatic timer ticked down, the pod began to transmit. Wire and antennae slid out from hidden pockets, and a tone began to sound. The message was shot in all directions using powerful FTL relay boosts. But without the right decoder, all it sounded like was white noise with the occasional nav tone.
Tim...Tim...Tim...
- II -
November 15, 2236
Kilo Squadron was preparing to turn back in before the signal appeared. They had reached hour three of their patrol without incident, and fuel was too precious to waste. The twenty Phoenix III fighters, combat veterans from the TFC Gettysburg, had received an analogous contact during a routine sweep of their carrier’s sector and been sent to investigate. Battle Group Tallus occupied the massive corridor known as the Valley of Giants. Made up of six enormous gas planets, the Valley led straight to the heart of the Venetian System. On one end of the path, the twin stars Romulus and Remus battled for position in a beautiful dance that took almost a full two years to complete. On the other end was the amber planet known as Tallus, the only habitable rock in the entire sector.
With only one planet and a few mining outposts to guard, Tallus group was understandably small. TFC Gettysburg, a second-class carrier, only housed two squadrons of fighters and a flight of Seed bombers. Escorted by the destroyers Cambridge and Cape Cod, the three-ship strike force existed as a deterrent to the odd rebel group or pirate raiding party, nothing more. On most tours, the twin missile frigates Tigris and Euphrates would be on the flanks, but both were down for annual services. The crew all agreed that this was the worst time to run short-staffed.
Tallus lived on the edge of Terran space, far removed from the safety and security of New Eden or even the tightly contested Colorum Belt. Tallus Node paled in comparison to her progenitor near Earth. With only seventeen connected tubes, the station was barely big enough for her crew of twenty. Most of the civilian workers commuted rather than live aboard, favoring a lengthy flight each day over sleeping in space. Despite years of scientific research, most of the civilized galaxy remained convinced that gravity was essential to a safe night’s rest.
In the silver-striped Squadron Commander ship, Captain Frank Dunham took point on a sweep of the Valley. He shifted his large frame in the chair, trying to work out a kink in his back. At forty-three, he was long-passed his prime for piloting, but Tallus was short on officers. He stifled a yawn and began a slow banking turn to port. Over his shoulder he could just make out a winking light. A little longer, he thought, and we’ll be back aboard the bus.
Gettysburghad detected radiological disturbances coming from Venetian Four, the mammoth green orb in the middle of the planet-lined pathway. Given Chief Officer Rodriguez’s warnings about a possible reprisal from the Boxti, every anomaly had to be investigated fully. Almost at the end of their fuel capacity, and far beyond the limit of their patience, Kilo wing was about finished.
“Kilo, this is one,”Dunham said.“Send me your SitReps.”He pulled at the straps on his flight suit. The armor was sitting tighter on the chest than it used to. There wasn’t much to do aboard the aging carrier, so Dunham spent most of his time at the gym. He smiled. Could be worse. Could be tight around the middle. He leaned over and bit down on his water line, taking a large mouthful and swallowing it down. Chimes sounded on his console and situation reports from his wingmen filtered in.
Still nothing. Somehow that made it worse.
Word of the attack over Luna spread fast on the FTL network. There wasn’t a man or woman in the galaxy who hadn’t watched the video feed. Everywhere in the universe, a cloud of dread hung over the populace. For some, it was fear of this new and unknown threat that had invaded their galaxy without any sort of warning. For others, it was plain xenophobia for these new“allies.”A month without any sighting of the enemy had quieted the tension only so much, and the Nangolani were regarded with more and more suspicion.
On Earth, activist groups marched daily outside the offices of the Council, calling for the removal of all alien vessels from human space. Out on the rim, Tallus was yet unaffected by such events, but the uncertainty pervaded the system like a plague.
“Overwatch,”Frank said over the net.“You picking up anything?”
Aboard Gettysburg, Lieutenant Junior Grade Kaileen Nuvarian drummed her fingers on her console. Her uniform was crisp and hugged her athletic frame, bulging out under her left knee to ma
ke room for a thick plaster cast. The dark orange jumpsuit made her pale skin even lighter. She chewed on her lower lip as another blank report came back.
“Nothing, Kilo. Skies are clear.”
Inside the tactical center for Gettysburg, the young officer aided her fellow pilots in the snipe hunt. She’d rather have been out in her bomber, flying alongside her friends, but she was the only officer aboard with any training time on the new projectors. That and a broken tibia put her out of action for the time being. It meant a comfortable room near the bridge, but also excessive boredom.
“Roger, overwatch.”Frank sighed audibly.“We’re ten mikes to bingo out here. Show us RTB.”
Kaileen blew a strand of black hair away from her face.“I copy, return to base.”
For the other pilots in the wing, the tedium was palpable.“This is some fucking borex, sir.”Kilo three, a rat-faced Tallus native, griped into the net.“Pucker factor is zero.”
Three’s wingman laughed. The chubby pilot chimed in.“So pretty much on par with your last date.”
“Fuck you, Olsen.”
“Not with your teeny little pencil dick.”
Another voice said,“Who sent us on this snipe hunt?”
“Would you believe this came from our new gray buddies?”
“Fuck that,”Kilo seven added.“I don’t need some bug-eyed freak telling me what to do.”
Dunham barked,“Cut the goddamn chatter.”The radio went silent.“Keep some fucking discipline until we land.”He didn’t actually care. It was a local net; Gettysburg could only see that they were talking to each other, not listen in on the conversation. But like the chore itself, their griping had become painfully routine.
When the Stars Fade (The Gray Wars) Page 8
