A Call to Arms

by Bradley Hutchinson

  “Holding, Captain,” one of his sensor specialists reported. “Barely.”

  Atwood nodded, watching as a squadron of Seraph-class fighters made a dive on a N’xin frigate that had gotten isolated from the rest of the battle fleet. A flurry of weapons fire between the two erupted, and the N’xin frigate disintegrated in a tremendous fireball as something near its sub-light engines detonated. Let’s hope we can keep this up.

  “N’xin formation is changing, Captain,” Merkerson reported. “Looks like they’re… running?”

  Atwood frowned. That tactical decision made no sense – they were winning, after all. Advantage surrendered was not advantage easily regained. “Stay alert! This could be a trap.”

  *

  “Six, bank to port, now!”

  Lieutenant Emil Palhares swore to himself as he stacked his fighter up on its starboard wing, narrowly scraping past a racing N’xin fighter – an agile-looking rust-coloured thing that was as ugly as its pilot – as Six barrel-rolled to the left; crimson lances passed harmlessly beside the craft, and Six began a weaving pursuit as his attacker attempted to flee.

  “Thanks, lead.”

  “Crazy Horse to squadrons 19, 22, 23 and 26, come to course 121-dash-16. We’ve got a pair of destroyers and a light cruiser headed towards the Repulse and Hawking. Defend them. Squadrons 15, 17 and 20, we think we’ve identified a priority target: coordinates headed your way.”

  Palhares glanced at a secondary console in his cockpit as the coordinates scrolled past. As leader of squadron 20 – the Roaring Twenties, as they were known in the fleet – his new target was a heavy cruiser. It had already survived a round with the Ithaca-class cruiser Hood, and was now limping to return to the rest of the N’xin fleet.

  “That’s an ugly target, Crazy Horse,” he said to the Controller, as his squadron formed around him – he’d suffered three casualties so far in the battle, leaving him with thirteen fighters. “What exactly do you want us to do with it?”

  “We think it’s helping to jam our communications; put a stop to it, the cavalry comes in. Destruction isn’t necessary, but preferred.”

  Palhares smiled grimly as he bucked and weaved, seeking a lock on a darting enemy fighter – he got it, and sent a sextet of blue lances into it. Four hit, gouging deep into the fuselage and the fighter detonated.

  Commonwealth fighters may have been superior to their N’xin counterparts, but not by a significant amount; while a couple of squadrons could deal with frigates, and even give destroyers – whose shielding and armour wasn’t all that great – a run for their money, heavier warships simply had too much in the way of shielding and armour for them to be effective against.

  “Copy that, Crazy Horse.” He frowned as the N’xin cruiser came into view. It was an ungainly sight, with a hull the colour of tree bark, and a steady mist of plasma leaking from one of its engines; scans suggested its shields were weakened in several areas, and there was hull damage along its flanks. “Do we get any bomber support?”

  “Doubtful,” his controller offered. “All our bomber squadrons are helping us keep their larger warships at bay, but the Emden will be able to supply support. I’ll keep you appraised if our bomber situation changes.”

  Palhares groaned inwardly – the Emden was old, almost out-dated, and barely had half the tonnage of that N’xin ship; even in its damaged state, the N’xin cruiser wouldn’t be overly bothered by the Emden. “Understood, Crazy Horse.”

  *

  “We’re still in this fight.”

  Admiral Preston Williams said it confidently, but James Hunter detected a slight quake in his superior’s voice. Williams was also quite pale, and sweat was pasting his forehead, his beady eyes sweeping over the crowded, cobbled-together C&C. Flashes of orange played across his flesh, streaming in from the high windows – weapons fire splashing across the shield dome over the colony.

  Williams was standing on the command podium, reachable by a trio of large, broad steps. This room – rather, the whole building – had been the financial headquarters of the whole planet, modelling itself on the old stock exchange in New York City, but with the onset of the war, the military had made modifications to allow for it to be quickly transformed into a central nexus to coordinate its defence.

  “Barely,” James murmured. He’d been an attaché to the Admiral since he’d been transferred off the Norfolk, and had quickly learnt how to read the Admiral. He’s doing his best to put on a brave face in front of his frightened troops. James looked at the map – easily five meters across – being projected on the northern wall. But with these odds…

  Currently, the bulk of the N’xin fleet had withdrawn to a proximate location near New Baltimore’s furthest moon, and were in the process of regrouping; a half-a-dozen or so stragglers – many of them damaged in the initial salvos – had remained (or been left) behind to keep the human forces off-balance and distracted.

  James suspected they’d probably redeploy into a two-pronged pincer movement. It’s what I’d do, if I was interested in minimising my own casualties. It was a deftness not often seen in N’xin strategy – they usually preferred to do things the hard way, maximising casualties on both sides.

  While the Commonwealth ships had superior firepower and shielding, and were augmented by several hundred fighters, they were outnumbered almost two-to-one in the capital ship department, but despite this, the N’xin seemed intent on taking their time, not pressing their numbers advantage.

  Unfortunately, this gave some false hope to the Commonwealth forces – they reasoned, if they could hold out long enough, then eventually reinforcements would eventually arrive. Eventually. With much of the fleet out along the border on patrols, or protecting other worlds, it would take almost a whole day for the sector fleet to regroup here.

  James estimated that they only had a couple of hours at most before their defences were overwhelmed. And that’s if the N’xin remain this cautious.

  “We still can’t get through to the rest of the fleet,” Lieutenant Commander Makarov said. The hulking Russian positively dwarfed James as the two stood one step down, flanking the podium. The Admiral’s Chief-of-Staff, Commander Maazel, had been killed in the initial bombardment, along with thousands of troops and civilians. “Without the rest of the fleet, we don’t have a prayer.”

  Williams frowned down at him, then released a sigh, but remained silent as the icon representing the destroyer Emden winked out, even as the Norfolk bloodlessly vaporised the assailant. Elsewhere on the field of battle, three near-full squadrons of fighters were harassing a damaged N’xin cruiser – for some reason, the Crazy Horse had designated it as a priority target, but hadn’t assigned any real ships to deal with it.

  “Those fighters are going to do fuck all to those capital ships,” James pressed quietly, leaning in closer to the admiral. “And eventually the N’xin are going to stop playing it safe and come in for more than a slugging match… or just ignore our ships completely and settle on pulverising us down here.”

  “And what would you have me do?” Williams asked, his voice gravelly. At the moment, he was living up to his reputation as a hard-headed soldier. It had been suggested, when James was first transferred here, that the man was almost incapable of accepting retreat as a viable option.

  “We’ve got almost three hundred vessels in this city capable of suborbital flight. Pack them full of civilians and –”

  “Most of those ships don’t have FTL, Lieutenant.”

  “So have them make deposits to the ships in orbit.” He looked at Makarov and Williams in bewilderment. “This planet is lost. The least we can do is save some of these people.”

  Williams glanced at Makarov, almost reluctantly. Makarov’s eyes flashed as he utilised his virtual-array, no doubt doing calculations. The same calculations I have done. There was no way the Navy could evacuate the millions on New Baltimore. Even a five percent rate would be a stretch. And that assumes everyone we send up makes it out. With the way the fleet
was getting pounded on up there, that probability was remote.

  “Best case, Admiral,” Makarov said slowly. “We can save maybe fifteen thousand people. Twenty thousand if we’re really lucky.”

  “That’s hardly any better than Sacramento!” hissed Williams.

  “Better than nothing.” Williams still seemed about to balk, and James snapped. “Admiral, it’ll take nearly forty minutes for the Hood and her task-group to get here – and we don’t even know how long it’ll take for them to realize there’s something wrong for them to need to get here. We’ll be lucky to last half that time.” He instructed his virtual-array to shoot a file to the Admiral. “I’ve already drawn up evacuation plans and a tactical plan –”

  “I wasn’t aware you were that well versed in the art of war,” Williams said after a few second, obviously having looked at his file. James wasn’t sure if the comment was meant to be condescending or not.

  He took it as if it was. “Well, somebody around here has to be,” he snapped, losing what little composure he had left, and not caring in the slightest that he’d just verbally abused a superior officer.

  Or that he’d probably been overheard by half the room – he could see heads turning his way out of the corner of his eye, but his gaze remained fixed on the Admiral.

  The admiral flushed red, either in anger or disgust – or both – and heaved a defeated sigh. “Make it happen, then, Lieutenant.”

  *

  “C’mon, Mitch, hurry.”

  Pamela Balcer couldn’t stop her hands from shaking as she muddled through the contents of her knapsack. The PSA had told her to pack essentials, but without knowing where she was going, or how she was getting there, she had no idea what essentials she should pack. The way the ground was shaking, she didn’t think it would make much difference.

  We’re not getting out of this, she thought, taking a harried look around her kitchen and adjoining dining room. She could her Mitchel coming down the stairs.

  “Mum, I can’t find my –”

  “I’ve got everything, sweetie, so whatever you can’t find doesn’t matter.”

  “Are we going to find dad?”

  Pam winced. Her father was currently serving aboard one of the frigates – the Emden – in orbit. She had no idea if he was still alive.

  A fantastic roar erupted from outside her house, so loud it shattered the windows on the eastern facing before the detonation could, spraying glass like grenade fragments and nearly shaking the house down to its foundations. The house next door splintered into billions of tiny fragments, showering her in burning flecks as the side of her house crumpled and collapsed.

  Pam was flew through the air, collapsing hard onto her back on the remains of the wooden railing that had lined her staircase. Winded, she lay there for long seconds, listening as other explosions sounded in the distance – the shield must have been breached.

  “Mitchel!”

  She coughed and spluttered as she rolled onto her stomach. The scratches on her face stung badly as they were exposed to the smoke and debris in the air. The power in her house had gone out, plunging the whole place into brooding obscurity.

  “Mitch?”

  She rose shakily to her feet – the broken ground she was standing on did not help with her dizziness, and she had no choice but to sway in place, as there was nothing within arm’s reach to help steady her. Blinking away tears, she went to turn around and return to the kitchen when she found him.

  He’d been coming down the stairs when the explosion had hit, and he’d fallen down – hard – from the top of the stairs. One of his arms lay at an odd angle, and a twisted hunk of metal was protruding from his chest.

  He wasn’t blinking, and as Pam watched, she realized he wasn’t breathing.

  Her son was dead.

  Chapter Three

  “Alright, let’s set down here,” said James grimly, as he eyed the barely intact neighbourhood underneath his evac shuttle. They were currently at the very edge of civilization – out his viewport, the suburban street gave way to a dirt road and open, untamed countryside, full of wild vermillion grasses and trees.

  He’d been given control of six cargo shuttles – escorted by a mere three armoured shuttlecraft – to handle this part of the evacuation, but only had two dozen troops to help with the evacuation – and keep frightened civilians in check. They’d have to be careful – panicking civilians could easily swarm them and doom them all, especially if they were pushed too far.

  I’d prefer to have more troops, but the more troops I have, the fewer civilians I can fit in.

  But as he looked out at the flattened or destroyed houses – casualties of lucky, cheap shots from before the shield had been raised – he surmised that may be a bit of a long shot. Whatever survivors there were – and from the looks of things, there may be all that many, at least in this neighbourhood – they would be few, and more than grateful for the rescue.

  There was one bit of good news, however: much of the population of the city had flocked to the spaceport, trying to storm the spaceport in an effort to get on-board whatever spacecraft was available in an effort to flee to safety, so that lowered the chances of James having to supress a civilian riot.

  Unfortunately, there were unconfirmed reports that a few N’xin stealth shuttles had made it through the defence perimeters, their cargoes and destination unknown – virtually undetectable, save by visual scanning (in other words, your eyes) – N’xin stealth technology was more advanced than anything the Commonwealth could currently deploy… and the Navy was years away from developing completely adequate countermeasures.

  “Shuttle Ajax, circle at a hundred meters and watch out for any non-friendly activity.” He paused as he looked at his co-pilot. “Ours or theirs.”

  “Rules of engagement?”

  “Clear to engage, if you think you can handle them.” James let out an impatient snort, remembering the ego most pilots had. “Don’t try to be a hero, call for back-up if you need it.”

  There was a moment of resentful silence – the pilot of Ajax obviously knew that there would probably be no reinforcements. “Understood, sir. And if an angry mob arrives to the party?”

  “Fire to disperse,” answered James after a moments consideration, wishing to whatever god looked after Naval personnel that such a thing never happened. Things were chaotic enough, he didn’t need further complications. “And if you need to escalate to direct engagement… well, I’ll support your decision.”

  Ensign Vaughan gave him an incredulous stare – no doubt worried about a potential firefight over their heads while trying to load civilians, or perhaps also chaffing at the bit at James’ implied rebuke – but remained silent as James surrendered control of the shuttle to him. He ducked underneath the doorway into the rear cabin of the shuttle. Being a cargo shuttle, there was no seating, and the cabin was strictly utilitarian in nature, poorly lit and decidedly uncomfortable.

  “Alright, everyone, the PSA has gone out, so get out there and save some people.” He smiled grimly. “Start with loading Shuttle Six, and work your way up to this one. Once a shuttle is loaded, send it up to the Crazy Horse. We don’t want to get caught with our pants down.”

  He received a chorus of affirmatives, and the rear loading ramp descended slowly. His squad trotted down in pairs. Despite being fully armed – wearing state-of-the-art Mark VI Gladiator combat exoskeletons – and carrying elaborate first-aid kits, their movements were still rather swift and fluid, owed in large part to New Baltimore’s 0.88 gravity.

  The street they’d landed in was wide, with imported sycamores lining the streets in even rows. It looked very much like a typical suburban street on Earth, save that the sky was a near orange, hazy and razed with intermittent weapons fire – long-range pot-shots meant to imbue terror rather than actual destruction. The street ended abruptly, leading onto an under-construction estate, and the houses on the left backed onto empty paddocks.

  James didn’t want to curse his
luck, but the N’xin always preferred levelling their targets building by building, person by person, instead of just dropping a nuke or fusion bomb from orbit, which would make things significantly easier. If they did, our casualties in this war would be six or seven times what it is, and would also probably be much shorter.

  Already, the families that had been notified of an impending rescue were gathering with their meagre possessions – a polite euphemism for the clothes on their back. They were a pitiful group – families of four or five people, and James was more than relieved that they hadn’t had to resort to raffles to decide which members of the family got to go, and which had to remain behind. It’s bad enough we’re leaving whole families behind, I don’t want to have to deal with breaking up what families we’re choosing to save.

  His troops broke off into pairs, half of them jogging for the side street that branched off to the left in front of his shuttle. The second squad of troops – that had been travelling aboard Shuttle Two – remained behind, taking up defensive positions, in case anyone missing out on being rescued decided to take issue with it. Taking pot-shots at my shuttle is one thing, I just hope no one tries to take a hostage.

  “FleetCom says the N’xin will be re-entering weapons range within fifteen minutes.”

  James nodded at Vaughan, who had come up behind him to deliver the news. It would take eight minutes to reach the fleet in orbit, leaving James with less than seven minutes to gather everyone here. Possible, but not likely.

  “We’ll be dodging shots, then,” he murmured. He nodded as he looked up at the sky. He was grateful the sky was overcast, as it made it difficult for the N’xin to target accurately. Which is just as well, he thought – the city’s shield had been reduced to cover only the city center, where the bulk of their surviving military assets were located. The smaller the shield, the less power it needs. “Keep the engines primed.”

  As Vaughan retreated back to the cockpit, James attention was drawn to a lone woman, standing in the doorway of her partially destroyed house. She was bloody, but didn’t seem to be badly injured. She looked distraught... no, distraught wasn’t the right word. Haunted. She looked haunted.