The Terminal War: A Space Opera Novel (A Carson Mach Adventure)

by A. C. Hadfield

  “This is,” Morgan said. “Carson Mach—my finest agent and the perfect man for the job.”

  Desolt slow-blinked, then scrutinized Mach in the bright room. The area must have easily been a thousand square feet. It was circular, and tall windows lined the walls, letting in the diffuse light of the Vestan sun.

  A dense, foggy cloud obscured any further detail on the home world. Even getting this far was some achievement. The vestans were usually hyper-vigilant of who had access to their planet. Despite recently joining the CW from the Axis, they still hadn’t grown to trust the CW enough to allow carte blanche access to their planet.

  As far as Mach was concerned, trust worked both ways.

  But then everyone knew the CW only really wanted the vestans because of their tech. It provided an advantage over the Axis powers if war broke out again.

  The other vestan stood from the ornate wooden testicles and approached Mach with long, elegant strides. He held out his hand in a more traditional greeting. Mach took it and shook it once before letting go.

  The alien’s skin felt like mushrooms.

  “We were enemies, once,” the vestan said in almost perfect Salus Common. “But now we’re here, working together. I welcome you to our home. I’m Ferban Maieesta, the councilor for defense. And this is my co-councilor, Desolt Lzaretti. We thank you for responding to our request. Please, take a seat, we have much to discuss and little time. We have a shuttle waiting to take you right away.”

  The discussions were indeed brief. Mach made sure to pay attention to their request as they repeated to him what they had discussed with Morgan. Mach, naturally, had the same questions, but all they would tell him was that there was a threat on their secret planet called Terminus, and they needed a non-vestan to investigate.

  Mach, knowing there were no negotiations, politely nodded and made mental notes as they explained that a shuttle would take him plus two members of his crew to the planet on a week-long L-jump.

  “And you don’t know where Terminus is?” Mach said, unable to remain silent. He found it unbelievable that the planet from which their most important insights and technology came from remained unknown to them.

  The two vestans shook their heads, mimicking the human gesture.

  “No,” Ferban said. “Only the Guardians of the planet know. They send shuttles with programmed coordinates and bring resources as they need them.”

  “And no one’s tracked one of these shuttles?”

  “They’re designed to take obfuscated routes in such a situation. Besides, the planet itself has certain… defenses.”

  That was it; that’s all Mach could get from them. They knew nothing else about this threat; only that something had killed one of the Guardians.

  The discussions came to a swift end, and the Guardians escorted them from the tower. Mach was given fifteen minutes to speak with the Intrepid crew before he had to leave for Terminus.

  Morgan disappeared to another part of the star port to talk with some of the CWDF fleets that had arrived ready for their patrols on outer vestan space. Mach rejoined the Intrepid’s crew in the mess—their natural appointed meeting area, mostly because of the availability of food and various stimulant-based beverages.

  “Well,” Adira asked. She sat languidly at the end of the mess table, her feet up on the surface. The Bardoom-inflicted bruises on her face had almost faded to nothing. “What’s the situation?”

  Mach relayed what he could to the crew.

  Babcock looked over his steaming mug of coffee. “So, who’s the lucky pair to join you?”

  That was a great question. Mach had thought about it since leaving the meeting.

  He scanned around his motley crew and assessed them one by one:

  First there was young Lassea, a former junior pilot of the Commonwealth Academy. Since joining his crew, she had grown from strength to strength and had become one of the best pilots he had ever known. She would stay, the Intrepid would need her—especially as Mach had reluctantly agreed to have the Intrepid join the rest of the CWDF fleet on their vestan patrol duties.

  It would be a good experience for them, he had concluded. The mission he was going to undertake would require at minimum three weeks. He didn’t want his crew sitting around getting drunk, lazy, or fat in the meantime. Better to have them out there, working together, making a good impression with Morgan and the CW hierarchy. Perhaps then, they would get off their backs and give them some freedom.

  Next to Lassea sat Sanchez, Mach’s oldest friend. The big, hulking hunter had recently undergone some seriously invasive surgery, and although Sanchez would argue that he was as fit as ever, Mach didn’t want to take that chance.

  Babcock was Mach’s most intelligent member. Able to hack almost anything—often to his detriment—and a former exile, Babs wasn’t much of a people person. The Intrepid could do with his technical skill and experience. He too would stay and captain the ship in Mach’s absence.

  Tulula, the vestan engineer—and somewhat romantic interest of Sanchez—had to stay. That was the vestans’ rules, so that was an easy choice. That left just two others: Adira, who he had always known he would take.

  He loved her deeply, and if anything happened to her while he was away, he couldn’t live with himself. Besides, Adira had threatened to kill him in his sleep if he tried to leave her behind.

  Which left just one more, and someone who strictly wasn’t part of Mach’s crew, Beringer.

  “Okay,” Mach said, “here’s the deal. Everyone apart from Adira is staying here on the Intrepid and joining up with Tralis’ CW fleet. For the next foreseeable, you’ll be carrying out patrols—and possibly some combat, so Sanchez and Tulula, you’ll have some fun with the ion cannons and laser batteries.”

  They whooped at that though Mach could see the disappointment on Sanchez’s face. But his mind wouldn’t be changed. His old friend, as skilled and as perfect as he would normally be for this kind of mission, was in no right state physically, or even mentally, yet.

  Beringer looked at Mach, confusion written on his face. “What about me? I didn’t pay you your fee to be some military lackey.”

  “That’s quite right,” Mach said. “How would you like it if I told you that you could come to the home of the vestans’ technology—and see their very origins.”

  Tulula looked away, disgruntled, but she more than anyone knew she couldn’t go.

  Beringer, however, perked up. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “I need two crewmembers to go with me. Your historical and archeological knowledge might come in handy. Besides, we owe you a trip, and while it’s going to take us a while to get your sphere, we can at least show you something cool.”

  Beringer stood and raised his glass of Fides single malt. “I’m in!”

  So that was that, then.

  Mach issued basic orders, knowing Babcock would take care of the crew. He said goodbye to the others and left with Adira and Beringer to meet Morgan and the others by the awaiting shuttle.

  But as they got into the small, boxy windowless craft and settled into their vertical stasis units for the weeklong L-jump, Mach noticed tension on Morgan’s face. The president leaned through the shuttle door, smiling at Mach and saying some usual protocol bullshit, but his attention and gaze were off somewhere else.

  “Hey,” Mach said, leaning out of the front of his unit. “What’s up?”

  Morgan snapped back to the present. “Oh? Nothing. I realized that we’re treading new ground here.”

  “Is that all?” Mach had known Morgan for longer than anyone. Fought with him, under him, and against him at times. He knew when Morgan was holding something back, and it gave Mach a cold feeling in his guts.

  Just what the hell had the old man got him involved with this time?

  “That’s all,” Morgan said. “Trust me, you’ll be fine. Just make sure you get back in one piece, okay?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “Yeah… you do.�
�

  That tension again.

  Mach didn’t have time to tease it out of him. The door of the shuttle closed and it started its countdown procedure. There was nothing to do; the whole thing was automated. With Adira and Beringer next him, Mach relaxed back and waited for the warmth of stasis sleep to come.

  But as he drifted off, he knew in his heart something about this mission was very wrong—and that Morgan knew it too.

  Chapter Six

  Babcock gripped the arms of the captain’s chair. The Intrepid, along with four CWDF destroyers and a capital ship, came out of L-jump a few AUs outside of Palios, the factory planet named after its giant sun.

  The fusion engines wound down with a decreasing smooth roar, and the ghostly pink image on the bridge’s main screen solidified into the familiar dark of space.

  The Axis attacked here twenty-four Standard Salus hours ago. They destroyed the electronics factories of Palios Major—a key part of vestan manufacturing infrastructure. Given the lack of alarm, it was clear the enemy had already left, no doubt to seek more prey on another rim planet.

  Babcock had been here before, shortly after the Century War when he had made the decision to live in Exile. He came here looking for components to build the original Squid, the first of his automaton companions.

  The current model, the third incarnation of this particular droid creation, floated above his left shoulder and chirped at the sight of two distant green planets—Palios Major and Palios Minor, or just Minor as most people called it.

  “Configure the command channel back to the main speaker,” Babcock said. “Saves me the trouble of repeating the commander’s orders.”

  “You got it,” Tulula said.

  “Lassea,” Babcock said, feeling slightly guilty over dishing out orders. Leadership didn’t come naturally after years of seclusion, but he was the most experienced on the ship. “Engage the gamma drive and thrust away from the formation. Let’s keep our distance from this little soiree.”

  Sanchez, sitting at the ion cannon’s controls, zoomed his guidance screen toward Palios Beta. Small gray mushroom clouds peppered the western side of the planet, mainly focused around the densely populated industrial zone.

  Babcock bowed his head and sighed. It didn’t take a genius to work out the signs of a lactern space-to-surface missile attack.

  Tulula turned from the comms system. “Captain Steros from the Chester coming on screen.”

  The Chester, equipped with four laser turrets and an ion cannon that was no match for the Intrepid’s, formed the left flank of the destroyers’ diamond formation, protecting the four quadrants around the capital ship.

  “Steros as in the son of the former president?” Babcock asked.

  “That’s the one,” Lassea said.

  An image flashed up showing a round-faced man with intense light blue eyes and thin lips, sitting too close to his camera. The family resemblance was obvious. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree as far as Steros junior was concerned.

  The small white orb-cam attached to the bridge’s ceiling slid level with Babcock. Its black eye swiveled toward him, and a small green light winked on. “Good morning, Captain Steros,” he said. “If we’re going off local time, of course.”

  “You’re out of the formation. Thrust back to my flank.”

  “May I remind you, we’re here for support,” Babcock said, masking his irritation at the abrupt response. “The Intrepid’s taking up a position to cover all Axis movements.”

  Steros leaned closer and the screen filled with only his nose and narrowed eyes. “This is a CWDF patrol. You follow my orders. Return to your pre-jump position.”

  Babcock guessed this would be the point where Mach told the young captain to take a walk out of the airlock. Babcock, however, decided to be proactive rather than reactive. “I’ve been observing horan maneuvers and picked up new attack moves. You won’t find them included in your training manuals.”

  “You? What would an old freelance nerd know about modern space war?”

  Sanchez grimaced and stepped toward the camera. Babcock extended his palm toward the big hunter to keep him at bay. They were clearly dealing with a person who enjoyed his lofty position as a destroyer captain—no doubt gained through his father. Steros wasn’t the first man to be drunk on the little amount of power he possessed, and wouldn’t be the last.

  “Allow me to demonstrate,” Babcock said in a calm voice. He selected a file on his smart-screen and sent it over to the Chester's bridge. “Please, run the simulation on a holoscreen.”

  “Where did you observe this?”

  “That’s my business,” Babcock replied, not wanting to give away his location of exile on the planet Minerva. He planned to go back one day and had no intention of having his retirement disturbed by the CWDF. “You have my word that this is genuine.”

  Steros’ features softened, and he sat back. “What am I looking at?”

  “I coined this move a horan whiptail,” Babcock said. “The graphics aren’t perfect, but you’ll get the general idea.”

  Over Steros’ shoulder, one of his crew opened the file, and a green sphere flashed to life. In the center of it, six CWDF Class-3 destroyers, like the Chester, fanned out in an extended line.

  Six horan ships, featureless rectangles of barely visible dark-gray illudinum, and of similar firepower, faced them in a V-formation, their standard attack mode. A lineup designed to punch through the central area and spread the CW fleet, picking off ships individually.

  The young captain twisted in his chair to observe.

  “We’re in a diamond shape,” Steros said. “If they come at us like that…”

  The simulation started. Three horan ships formed up in front of the gaps of the middle four CW destroyers.

  “They’re almost in range,” Babcock said. “But you can see how their three ships are keeping four occupied. At this moment, it’d be too risky for either side to engage in a head-on battle. Now watch.”

  The three remaining horan ships navigated down to the left of the destroyers.

  “Standard flanking move,” Steros said. “What’s different?”

  “This is the point where the horans facing our center fire speculative shots at the individual destroyers. Three bolts at both flanks.”

  “The horans don’t fire speculative shots.”

  Babcock smiled and pushed his glasses against his nose. “You need to think again. What’s your modus operandi when facing three incoming?”

  “We move into a new formation to combat the attack or take evasive action. Depends on how much time we have.”

  “You thrust into a diamond, and it gives them a concentrated area of fire. Thrust away and it makes it six on four in their favor.”

  The simulation showed all three flanking horan ships change course and sweep beneath the CW formation, enabling them to use their vestan-produced ion cannons to fire at the hulls of the central ships.

  At the same time, the other three Axis ships launched a head-on attack. The file ran through five different scenarios Babcock had programed—all replicating typical CWDF moves.

  None produced a favorable outcome.

  Steros turned back in his chair to face him. “This is assuming that our center doesn’t move, or we hit them first.”

  “Out of range against an equal force? Does that match the conventional wisdom of CWDF battle planning?”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I’ve calculated hundreds of ways to defeat their new strategy. Run the simulation back to the twenty-second point and I’ll show you the best.”

  The young captain glanced to his left and nodded. The green sphere blurred and paused just after the point where three flanking horan ships were about to change course.

  “There’s a small window where the horans crucially split their forces but aren’t in a position to jointly engage,” Babcock continued. “We turn their strategy against them by all thrusting away from their circling ships and attack
ing the ones designed to hold our center in position.”

  “And by the time the flanking ships have got within range, we can turn our attention on them?”

  “Exactly.”

  At least Steros now seemed engaged. Fighting used to be relatively straightforward against the horans. The main Axis powers were driven by their superiority complex and firm belief that they were the kings of space battle. Humans were considered a new and inferior species.

  During the Century War, they deployed aggressive tactics, often bordering on suicidal. Through strategy and guile the CW won, but the Axis powers were learning.

  “You need to report this to Fleet Command,” Steros said in a softer tone. “And any other maneuvers you know about.”

  Babcock smiled. “You can have this one on me. Keep the simulation and tell your bosses. Who knows, it might get you a promotion.”

  Playing on Steros’ ego was an obvious way to go. Besides that, Babcock had no desire to please the head honchos on Fides Prime. His main focus was to survive, and the slippery Commonwealth career ladder meant nothing to him.

  His interests were in the pursuit of science.

  Steros cracked a half smile. “Very generous, Captain Babcock. I’ll be sure to pass on your information. Now, back to my original point—”

  “You were going to tell me to maintain position in case we encountered horans, and they tried a whiptail move? I agree that proactively patrolling outside your formation would avoid them launching this type of offensive.”

  “Err…yes. I’ll inform the commander of my decision. That’ll be all.”

  Lassea held her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

  Sanchez relaxed back in his chair and smiled.

  “Thank you, Captain Steros,” Babcock replied. “We’ll maintain course and keep you updated.”

  The main bridge screen flashed back to a view of the Palios system. Babcock sighed and dabbed beads of sweat off his forehead with a white handkerchief. Conflict had never been his forte.

  “What a tool,” Sanchez said, shaking his head. “I’d love to go five rounds with him in a fidian fighting pit.”