Exodus: Empires at War: Book 11: Day of Infamy (Exodus: Empires at War.)

by Doug Dandridge

  “The Elysium are going home, your Majesty,” she told the Monarch, watching as his expression changed and he looked down for a moment.

  “Well, we knew it was coming. The Elysium government voted to withdraw them, but I was hoping we could work something out before they actually did it.”

  “So, your Majesty, what do we do?”

  “We make do with what we have.”

  “And should we move more of our own ships up to take their places?”

  “Not yet. We’ve got a number of them in for refit. Continue to rotate them back for those refits while we have the time. We aren’t expecting anything out of the Cacas for the moment, and hopefully that situation will maintain.”

  “They are continuing to probe the front, your Majesty. They might be planning something.”

  “And what do your experts tell you, Sondra?” asked the Emperor, his forehead furrowing in thought.

  “The experts say that the Cacas couldn’t have reorganized on this front in the amount of time they have had. But…”

  “You don’t agree, Admiral?”

  “It just strikes me as irresponsible to assume that the enemy cannot do what we can. We organized the offensives that pushed the Cacas out in a couple of months.”

  “But the battleground was in our backyard,” argued the Emperor. “The Cacas have a very long supply line between their industrial base and the front.”

  “And intelligence thinks the Cacas might have wormholes of their own,” said McCullom. “I know its unfounded as of yet, but we have to think in worst case scenarios.”

  “You are correct, Admiral. But we also have to balance our need for cautious preparation with the need for not overtaxing our forces with unwarranted heightened readiness.”

  “I have a bad feeling about this, your Majesty. Losing an ally, even if it turns out to be temporary, is weakening us at a very bad time.”

  “Okay, Admiral. What do you want to do about it? Move more ships to the front? Uncover or reduce some of our inner system defenses?”

  “That would be a start, your Majesty,” said the CNO, nodding. “When the Caca fleet strikes, they will hit us on the frontier, not in the Core worlds. If we don’t stop them there, we will be giving them the frontier worlds. The Core worlds will not be in any danger until the Cacas fight their way through our defenses and the frontier sectors.”

  “Okay. I will authorize a redeployment of twenty percent of the Core world and uninvolved sector naval forces. No more. And even that is going to end up in a fight with Parliament.” Sean had been fighting that battle the entire war. The majority of the members of all three houses of Parliament were from the most populous sector of the Empire, the Core worlds. Naturally they were invested in protecting their constituents. Even the Lords, who gained their seats through inheritance, wanted the people in their systems to be happy with them. And, in the opinion of the Emperor, too many of them were more concerned with their own hides than with the safety of the Empire.

  “What about our redeployments for upgrades?” asked the CNO, her tone implying that she wasn’t really sure what the correct answer to that question would be.

  That gave the Emperor another pause for thought. In most circumstances upgrades to ships could be done on the spot in a couple of days. Some nanites and a controlling computer to organize them and lead them in their tasks, and electronic systems could be upgraded to the latest standard, often overnight. The ships being pulled back for refit were undergoing a different process. They were undergoing needed structural enhancements and the installation of new large systems, based on what had been learned in combat thus far. If the refits were postponed, they would still remain effective warships, just not up to the new standard.

  “We will continue to rotate ships back for refit,” he ordered his CNO. “Five percent at a time shouldn’t be too much of a strain, especially since we will be replacing those ships with new deployments, all of which will have been upgraded already.”

  “Very well, your Majesty. I will see that it is done. On the plus side it will give the crews a week or so to get in some shore leave on a Core world. That can’t help but raise their spirits.”

  “While it leaves us slightly weaker at the front,” said Sean, voicing her unvoiced concern. “Try not to worry, Admiral. The summit is coming up. I’m sure I’ll be able to get the Elysium Empire to recommit their ships.” I hope.

  Sean disconnected from the com and went back to work, looking over the points he planned to bring up to the Lords in their upcoming session. There were a lot of concessions to Elysium in his points. Hopefully enough to get the ally back on board the joint deployment, and not too much for the Lords to stomach. He was ten minutes into it when a priority com came across his implant, with the signature of the CNO.

  “Yes, Sondra?” he asked, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice and failing.

  “I just received a communique from Admiral Mgonda, your Majesty. Task group commanders are reporting to him that Crakista task forces are pulling out of their assigned systems. They are giving no explanation, though they are reported to be politely rebuffing our requests for such.”

  “Just fucking great,” growled Sean, slamming a fist on his desk. Now they had another gap to fill in their order of battle.

  “Might I suggest we withdraw some ships from the Fenri Empire, your Majesty. They’re just about out of the fight, after all.”

  “But they’re not out of the fight,” replied Sean, holding his voice down by force of will. “I want them knocked out of the war before we start pulling ships out.” Or at least until we actually know the Cacas are attacking. “And don’t even think about asking for ships from the Bolthole campaign, or the Second Front. Those are vital areas of operation.”

  “Very well, your Majesty, but my primary concern is our Front, and we are bleeding ships at this moment with these defections.”

  “Trust me, Admiral. I will take care of that. We’ll have Elysium and Crakista back in the fold in no time.” And now if only I could believe that as well.

  Chapter Five

  History shows that there are no invincible armies. Joseph Stalin

  JEWEL, CAPITULUM. DECEMBER 21ST, 1002. D-10.

  Debra Visserman had never really like these precision flying drills. She preferred to be in the sky by herself, or at most with a wingman, able to maneuver as she wished. Not with other fighters less than ten meters to either side. Even with full avoidance systems engaged, there was too much risk of something going on.

  “Tighten it up, Visserman,” ordered the Colonel, observing the group from another aircraft well separated from the sixty-four fighters that made up the formation.

  Visserman sent the acknowledgement, then made sure she was centered between the other two fighters, her eyes rarely leaving the craft twenty meters ahead that she considered the greatest risk. If that ship went into an emergency decel to avoid something to its front, she would have about one second to make her move or possibly run into it, dropping them both to the ground as twisted wreckage. If they were lucky they might eject. If not, both pilots would also be twisted wreckage.

  Through every window of her cockpit she saw the tall buildings she would be flying around. The holographic system of her ship duplicated the surroundings of Capitulum perfectly, showing her the course she must fly to avoid the buildings while giving the crowd on the ground the best show possible.

  I’ll be glad to get to that training unit, she thought, surprising herself. She had been dreading the transfer to a non-combat assignment, until now, when she realized that really all this group did was perform as a glorified show flight, and nothing more. Their ostensible job was to protect the capital from atmospheric attack. As if that will ever happen, she thought with a snort.

  “Execute roll over,” called out the group commander over the com. “On my mark. Mark.”

  The maneuver was much too dangerous for actual pilots to execute. Preprogramed automatic systems took over, rolling the e
ntire group over, ships on one side going up and over the others, until every fighter was oriented with cockpits facing the ground. The maneuver disgusted the Warrant Officer, who hadn’t become a pilot to ride in a robot controlled craft. Of course she still had to be there, according to the ‘Man in the Loop’ law. The ongoing war with the Machines had reiterated the importance of that doctrine. Though the damned missiles that spaceships throw at each other are under computer control, she thought with a scowl on her face as she looked up to see the ground passing below.

  The Empire jettisoned the law quickly enough when it suited them, or when it was necessary. Ship missiles could attack targets light hours from their launch platform, with no way to control them from that distance. She hadn’t heard of people lining up to volunteer to ride the weapons into their targets, so computer control was the only way to do it. On the positive side, those missiles only had a maximum power time in the twelve to fifteen hour range. After that they were just a rapidly coasting inert object, still dangerous, but unable to change their course to go after targets their brains might decide to attack despite the wishes of their masters.

  “One more go and we’ll call it a day,” said the Colonel over the com as they came to the end of the run. “And remember, the Empress and quite a few VIPs will be watching.”

  Debra cursed under her breath. The damned Colonel didn’t have to repeat the performance. He was up above hovering in a craft piloted by someone else. And she could care less who was watching them fly like a bunch of robots over a parade. She craved combat, and surely there was enough of it to go around. But for some reason it was being denied her.

  “How did she handle?” asked the Crew Chief after she had stopped her craft in its revetment.

  “Like shit,” she screamed, stomping off across the tarmac and leaving the wide eyed Crew Chief speechless.

  * * *

  Sean woke with a scream on his lips, staring wide eyed into the darkness. The room lights came on at the sound, and he looked to the side to see that Jennifer was not in bed. It took him a second to remember that it was midday, that he had laid down for a nap, and that she wasn’t due home until evening.

  “Is everything okay, your Majesty,” came a voice over the intercom that he recognized as one of his Secret Service detail.

  “It’s fine, Collin,” he answered, remembering the name that went with the voice. “Just a bad dream.”

  “Are you sure, your Majesty?”

  Sean could imagine the young man sitting in the monitor room, probably looking on a vid screen, forbidden of the Imperial bedroom but still used when the Service thought the situation warranted it. He was obviously monitoring the Emperor’s vitals over remote pickups, making sure Sean was not under duress and answering accordingly.

  “I was just a dream, Collin. Probably brought on by stress.”

  “Would you like for me to send one of the servants in?”

  “I’ll call one in a moment, Collin. For the moment, I just need to think, so please give me some quiet.”

  The intercom died, though Sean was sure he was still being watched. He didn’t like it, and he had the command in his implant to shut down all of their surveillance when he wanted. When he in the Empress were alone he cut their feed, and the hell with whether they liked it or not. When she wasn’t with him he humored them, but he would be damned if he let them observe his sex life.

  Sean lay back on the bed, hands behind his head, letting the environmental systems dry the sweat off his body. He could recall two dreams, both of a disturbing nature, though the first had been more so. The same dream he had gone through many times, with a little more clarity in each rendition.

  Capitulum was being bombarded from orbit, while attack ships, something missing in the past dreams, wove through the sky launching warheads and firing beam weapons into the towers. Mushroom clouds were rising across the city, while tall buildings and massive archologies crumbled from kinetic strikes. He couldn’t identify the enemy, but did he need to? Who could it be but the Cacas.

  The dream had the feel of a prophetic event, the curse of his line. He had been told it had nothing to do with the supernatural, but was a quantum event tapping into probabilities, much like the quantum entanglement of the Klassekians. He really didn’t believe in the supernatural, so the explanation, that was really more of a lack of one, had to do. What he did know was that this event was likely to occur in the future. What he didn’t know was how far in the future. That it had occurred multiple times seemed to indicate that it was going to be soon, but how soon? A week? A year? Longer?

  The second dream had shown the Emperor on the flag bridge of a ship in combat. The ship was rocking from hits, while it was dealing out even greater destruction to the Caca ships around it. Reports were coming in about losses, but even more about victories, and the name New Moscow kept being mentioned. This was the first time he had a dream exactly like this. He had numerous views of battles, including one where he, as a much older man, led a fleet into the home system of the Cacas. So how did this dream mesh with the other? Or did it?

  The Cacas are going to fight their way into the home system, he thought, closing his eyes and trying to relive the imagery of the dreams. They will invade the Core systems and bombard them from orbit, ending with Jewel, and we will have lost the war. The imagery of the second dream came back through his almost photographic memory. Unless we stop them at the frontier, where they are now. And I have to be on the flag bridge of one of those ships for the victory to occur.

  He wasn’t sure if his interpretation was correct, but it was probably close to the mark. How close he couldn’t tell. That was the curse of the gift. It offered glimpses of a possible future that might not come to pass, on an indeterminate time scale. If he did something it might not come to pass, or it might, depending on what action he took. And if it did not come to pass, something even worse might, caused by the actions used to prevent the event from happening. It was enough to drive the person with the dreams mad, and there had been tales of former Monarchs who had been treated for insanity while they remained mere figureheads of the Empire.

  I have to make sure I’m with the Fleet in the next battle, he thought. Perhaps by being on the scene he would be able to make a snap decision that saved the battle. And prevented the first dream from becoming reality. Was that the smart way to bet? He didn’t know, but it was the way he would bet this time.

  * * *

  Angel had been in rougher places. The Fleet had placed him in more dangerous situations, but then he had all of the resources of the Imperial Navy at his beck and call. Even when he had worked as an assassin he had often been able to count on the resources of his employers. Not so this time. This time he was truly a lone wolf, and there was nothing between him and death but his own strength, skills and wits.

  Every eye in the bar turned his way as he walked in. He knew his disguise was good, the best money could buy. It included false DNA traces that would be scattered about as he moved, and a nanolayer that prevented his own cells from falling from him to get sucked into nearby sensors. At least most of the time. He hadn’t set off any of the alarms on the remote drones that had populated the streets outside this area, which was a good sign. That there were so many more of them than had been the case some months before, when he had attracted the attention of the authorities, was anything but good. At least there had been none when he had entered this neighborhood. Too many young hackers in the employ of the local Mob, and any drones that wandered into this airspace became spare parts for that organization. It was a game that had been played for thousands and years, cops and robbers. And whenever the cops developed some new tech, the robbers soon had the answer.

  The bar hadn’t had a sign in front of it, and only those that knew the code were admitted. Angel had bought the code from a lowlife who had gone into severe withdrawals and needed money for his favorite fix. Angle thought he would be better served to have sought medical help, which could have cured him of his addicti
on in no time. But addicts didn’t think that way, they wanted the high as much as they regretted the low, probably more so.

  The bar was half full, about what the assassin had expected. Most of the tables had two or more patrons, about two thirds of the bar seats were full, and a few slutty looking barmaids moved languidly to bring drinks to customers. While he watched one of the barmaids, a Malticon, laughed at something a customer said, then led him by the hand toward a curtained doorway. Angel needed to imagination to figure out what was going on there.

  Angel made his way to the bar and slid onto an empty stool. The woman behind the bar, this one human, moved up and raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ll have a whisky,” he told the woman. “Neat.”

  As he accepted his drink another Malticon moved up beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Angel tensed for a moment, overriding his inclination to react to aggression with the same.

  “I haven’t seen you before,” said the human looking alien. “Want some company?”

  The Malticon was dressed in childish clothing, her hair in pigtails. The aliens were prized as sex workers, their small tight bodies desired by many humans, while their alien physiology had made them the perfect prostitutes, incapable of pregnancy and unable to transmit human diseases. Of course nanites had made those advantages moot, and as of seven hundred years ago human females were also immune to pregnancy and STDs.

  “Not at the moment,” said Angel, turning a cold stare on the female. “Maybe later.”

  The Malticon hurried away, and Angel was sure she would bother him again. He had a way of looking at people that made them want to be elsewhere, a trait that had served him well in the past.

  The next one to approach him was a human, male, who had the look of someone who had something to sell. And there were only a few things likely to be in the inventory in a place like this.