by Jay Allan
“You will do no such thing. I can’t stay down there long, and I want to see as much as possible in the time I have. And I won’t be able to do that with a hundred Marines crowding everywhere I step.” He paused then continued, “Two guards will suffice, Colonel.”
Preston looked like he was going to argue, but Compton cut him off. “I appreciate your concern, Colonel, but as I said, two guards will be perfectly satisfactory.” His tone was still pleasant, but it also communicated that the debate about bodyguards was over.
“Very well, sir.”
Compton could see the veteran Marine wasn’t happy, but he also knew the stubborn leatherneck would obey his orders to the letter. “I will go down in one of the shuttles with the research team.”
Preston looked uncomfortable, but he didn’t say anything. He just stared forward, averting Compton’s gaze.
“What is it, Colonel?”
“Nothing sir. As you command.”
“Okay, Colonel Preston. Spill it.”
“Well, sir, I’d really feel better if you landed with us. Our shuttles are better protected…and I could requisition you one of the modular armor units. It might be a little harder to maneuver in than a custom-fitted suit, but at least you’d have some protection between you and something unexpected. I’d really be a lot happier with you in armor than a survival suit.”
Compton paused for a few seconds then he nodded grudgingly. He thought it was overkill, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to take some precautions. Besides, going down with the Marines would give him a chance to let them know how much he appreciated them. The ground pounders always got restless when they were cooped up on ships for too long. Indeed, that was another reason he was landing so many of Preston’s people. Compton didn’t expect a battle down on the planet, but at least his Marines would get to stretch their legs a bit.
“Very well, Colonel. I would be honored to land with your Marines. If you’d be kind enough to direct me to a suit of armor, I will get ready.”
“Right this way, Admiral,” Preston said, reaching toward his shelf and grabbing his trousers. “We’ll get you all set up and ready to go.”
Compton follow the Marine, impressed by the physical dexterity that allowed Preston to somehow hop into his pants without losing a step. The admiral had been in armor before, then as now to satisfy his overly protective Marines, though at least the previous time he had landed on an actual battlefield.
He wondered if the Marines even remembered how uncomfortable powered armor was for those less used to it than they. Compton recalled feeling claustrophobic, but he had to admit that, once the reactor kicked in, moving around in the suit had been less difficult than he’d expected.
“Here we are, sir.” Preston stopped and gestured toward a suit of armor hanging on a wall rack. To Compton’s eyes it looked the same as the others, but he knew it wasn’t. It was more of a “one size fits all” type of thing, intended for situations just like this one. He doubted he would be able to tell the difference, but he knew a veteran Marine wore his suit like an extension of himself.
“Sergeant,” Preston yelled to a non-com wearing a set of maintenance coveralls.
The Marine turned and rushed over, snapping to attention. “Sir!”
“The admiral is landing with us, Sergeant. Help him into his armor, and run a full diagnostic check on the suit.”
“Yes, sir.” The Marine turned and looked nervously at Compton. Addressing fleet admirals was above his pay grade. “If you will give me just a minute, Admiral, I will prep the suit for you.”
Compton nodded. “That will be fine, Sergeant.” He turned back toward Preston. “I think I’ll be alright in the sergeant’s hands, Colonel. You can go suit up and see to your operation.”
“Very well, sir.” Preston saluted. “I will have you assigned to my shuttle. We’re about midway through the launch schedule, so that’s about 0920.” The Marine stood stone still at attention for another few seconds, and he turned and walked swiftly back across the bay.
* * *
Compton stood still, his eyes fixed in awe on the city stretching out in front of him. It was a ruin, old beyond understanding, broken bits of ancient structures protruding through the encroaching sands. He had seen the remnants of Earth cities before, those built by the Greeks and Romans and other early civilizations. There was a vague familiarity, but that was a false comparison. The oldest city ruins on Earth were less than ten thousand years old. These structures were fifty times older…and yet many of the surfaces glinted in the sun, still bright after half a million years of storms and tectonic activity and relentless sunlight.
It was hard to tell from the ruins what the city had looked like, but Compton imagined a cluster of towers, gold and silver and metallic blue, rising kilometers into the bright sky. He felt almost as though the silent ruins were speaking to him, ghostly images appearing in his mind of a day when this metropolis had been home to millions. All of those soaring buildings had fallen ages ago, but somehow he felt he knew how they had appeared so long before, when the mysterious race that built them still dwelled there.
There were lines of debris reaching out from the city, the remains of some sort of train or monorail systems, he guessed. They led through the wilderness, and connected this metropolis to the other ruins that dotted the planet’s surface.
He stumbled forward, still adapting to the strength magnification of the fighting suit. The logistics sergeant had put it on the lowest setting, far below what the Marines used, but Compton had still almost knocked himself over half a dozen times.
He could see his two Marine escorts in his peripheral vision. They stepped forward the instant he did, maintaining their positions on each side of him. They looked a hell of a lot surer on their feet than he did.
Which isn’t saying much.
Compton walked forward, his gait growing steadier as he slowly acclimated to the armor. The city loomed up before him. The ancient wreckage had a sort of majesty to it, and he found it almost hypnotic. He felt as if he could hear the ancient voices, see the great towers as they must have looked in their heyday so many millennia before. He wondered if the First Imperium been a voluntary unification of the ancient race, if these extraordinary people had avoided the constant intra-species warfare that had so plagued human history.
Or were these just the winners? Did these buildings house the victors of an ages-long struggle, much like that fought by Earth’s powers? Were their former enemies dead? Enslaved?
Terrance Compton has been a spacer his entire adult life, a warrior, an officer commanding his people through one battle after another. But now he found himself wishing he could stay on this planet. He felt the longing to study these ruins, to uncover the secrets of the First Imperium. He knew it wasn’t possible, but he was glad he’d come to the surface, at least. It would have been a tragedy to pass through and not see this with his own eyes. He found himself wishing he could share this moment, that Elizabeth could see it all…and Augustus and so many others now lost to him.
He kept moving forward toward the city, his guards following in lockstep. Now he could see small sections of some smooth material on the ground, surrounded by the debris from fallen buildings and partially covered by millennia of dust. It looked like small sections of road surface or walkway, though the material was like nothing Compton had ever seen before. He wondered what kind of substance could survive—and maintain much of its old color and glossiness—after so much time. He remembered the dark matter infused hulls of the enemy warships, and again he was reminded just how superior the First Imperium’s science was to humanity’s.
Nothing built by man could last as long, nor even a fraction of the endless ages this city has lain here, silent and dead.
He took another dozen steps toward the ruins. He felt the city calling to him, his curiosity overcoming all, and he continued onward, his pace increasing as he began to feel more comfortable in his armor.
“Admiral Compton,” he heard bla
ring through his helmet com. It was Colonel Preston, and he sounded nervous. Compton saw a figure moving quickly toward him. He wasn’t as adept as the Marines in identifying any markings on armor—everyone looked alike to him. But he knew at once it was Preston heading his way.
“Yes, Colonel, what can I do for you?”
“Sir, we have not done a sweep through the city yet. I must request that you stay back until we can determine if there are any active threats.”
Compton wondered if Preston had been keeping an eye on him the whole time or if one of his babysitters had ratted him out. But he just smiled. He couldn’t fault the Marines for trying to protect him. It was their job, after all. “Very well,” Colonel,” he replied, a little more sharply than he’d intended. He couldn’t stay on the surface long, and he felt a rush of impatience at the delay. He wanted to see what he could see before he returned to Midway and the fleet. But he knew Preston was right. He had no idea what was waiting in those ruins.
Chapter Ten
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
Most of my hours are filled, consumed with work, with worry, with laying plans for the uncertain future. Yet still I find myself sitting quietly, alone in my quarters, while thoughts of the First Imperium drift through my mind. I am becoming more and more fascinated with this ancient and extinct race, and I cannot shake off the recurring feeling that if they had still been here, controlling their creations, we would not be at war.
I have no reason to believe this, nothing based in fact or even rational supposition. For all I know, the beings that inhabited this space so long ago were violent and xenophobic, and their machines that remained behind are simply continuing to carry out their will. Still, as we move deeper into this space where those mighty ancients once dwelt, I am beset with strange feelings, ghostly haunted voices speaking to me in the night. It is my imagination, I am sure. Yet it seems so real, so profound. I have come to believe they were not so different from us, and it is only through some tragic miscalculation by their robotic servants that this terrible war occurred.
That is a bleak thought, millions dead over a mistake, perhaps even simply the malfunction of a machine. Yet there is hope there too, slim though it may be. For mistakes can be corrected. Is it possible? Could there be a future where mankind and the First Imperium are not enemies? Where we can instead learn from these wondrous beings and the legacy they left behind?
RIS Petersburg
System X18
Near Planet X18 V
The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,844 crew
“I want this kept quiet, Anton…very quiet. Captain Harmon has become quite popular with the crew, and if word gets out it will spread. Indeed, we cannot even be sure Admiral Compton doesn’t have another spy onboard Petersburg. I cannot overstate how important it is that the admiral not hear of this until we have made our move.”
“I understand, Admiral. There will only be three of us, and I have handpicked the two others. I can vouch for their reliability. They will say nothing.”
Udinov nodded his head. “Very good.” He paused then continued, “And remember, Anton…I do not want Captain Harmon killed or seriously injured. We are leaving the fleet only to seek a path home, and I am not looking to provoke a fight by murdering Admiral Compton’s top aide.”
“We will exert appropriate care, Admiral. I can assure you, Captain Harmon will be taken alive. And I have prepared a cell in the restricted area below engineering, generally only accessed when the ship is under maintenance. The locks have been reprogrammed to allow entry only to you, Captain Rostov, and myself. We can keep the captain there indefinitely without raising undue suspicion.”
“Very well,” Udinov said. “Though I am afraid his disappearance itself will cause considerable suspicion. Still, that can’t be helped…and hopefully we will not have to hold him for long. The tension in Udinov’s voice was evident, despite his best efforts to hide it.
“The good captain may not have a particularly comfortable captivity, but he will be unharmed. And we will release him before we leave the system.” The Russian admiral had made his decision, though he still wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. But there was no other option. He couldn’t allow his people to be stripped of whatever chance they had of returning home one day. He hated the plan—it felt disloyal. But his obligation to his crews took precedence. He’d follow through with what he had to do, but he was damned sure going to make the whole thing as bloodless as possible. And I will keep an eye on Zhang. He was certain the CAC admiral was far less concerned with avoiding unnecessary violence, and he had no intention of letting himself get drawn into Zhang’s vendetta against Compton.
“Do not worry, Admiral. I will see it done as you order.” Loyalty to Udinov had been practically bred into Anton Stanovich and reinforced since birth. He took every word from the admiral’s mouth as a commandment.
“I know you will, Anton.” Udinov took a deep breath and nodded to his retainer. “Now go…it is time.”
Stanovich nodded solemnly, and he turned and walked down the corridor. Udinov watched for a few seconds, until his aide disappeared around a corner. Then he touched the com unit on his collar. “Sergei?”
Captain Rostov’s voice crackled through his earpiece. “Yes, Admiral?”
“Any status updates?”
“Yes, sir,” Rostov replied. “Admiral Peltier’s ships have been refueled, as well as most of the Caliphate contingent. However we remain second to last in the queue…at least another two days at the current rate of operations.”
I’m afraid we just can’t wait that long…
“Have we received an update from Admiral Zhang?”
“Negative, sir.”
“And Admiral Compton?” Udinov asked.
“We believe he is still on the surface of planet four, sir. Our best estimate is he led roughly half the Alliance Marines down yesterday, and he has not yet returned.”
Udinov smiled. “Excellent,” he said softly. He’d planned the operation as meticulously as he could, but having Compton off Midway’s flag bridge, wandering around some ancient First Imperium city was a stroke of luck he couldn’t have imagined. By the time the admiral managed to get back to his ship and take charge, Udinov would have his people buttoned up in the tanks and accelerating out of the system. He didn’t know what Compton would do in response, but as long as he had enough of a head start he really didn’t care.
“Lord Samar also reports ready to go, sir. His vessels are refueled, and he awaits your word.”
“Very well, Captain…prepare to execute Project Potemkin on schedule.”
* * *
“Admiral Chen…I am sorry to disturb you, sir, but it’s urgent.”
Chen was lying on the sofa in his quarters. He hadn’t been asleep, but he’d been resting with his eyes closed, trying to relax.
“Enter,” he said, sitting up and swinging his legs off the seat as he did.
“Good afternoon, Admiral.” Ming Li stopped about halfway across the room and stood at rigid attention. “Thank you for seeing me with no notice.”
“Of course, Li. What is it? Has something happened?” Commander Ming had been on Chen’s staff since just after the battles along the Line. The desperate struggles to halt the First Imperium invasion had been successful, but at a horrendous cost. The almost endless casualty lists had included over half of Admiral Chen’s staff, killed when his flagship had been devastated in the final stages of the fight.
“Yes, sir…I’m afraid I have some unsettling news. I do not have any proof, but I am sure my information is correct.”
Chen gestured for the aide to move closer. “Come, Li…sit.” The admiral waved his hand toward the chair next to him. “Don’t worry about proof. Just tell me what you suspect.”
“Thank you, sir.” Ming’s voice was edged with tension. Part of it was by design, an attempt to add authenticity to what he was about to say. Still, enough of it was real. Ming had signed on to Zhang’s plan, but that
didn’t mean it was an easy thing. He was committed, but he was still struggling with some doubt—and more than a little guilt. His fear—and his desire to return home—had made his choice, but betraying Admiral Chen was still something he found difficult to do. And his part of the plan was the most direct, the most brutally real.
He walked the rest of the way across the room and sat down, turning his face toward the admiral. He found it difficult to sustain eye contact with his superior. Chen was an honorable officer, and Ming had been quite satisfied serving on his staff. His loyalty to the admiral had been strong…but not strong enough to consign himself to spending the rest of his life in deep space, endlessly pursued by the First Imperium, without hope of ever returning home.
When Zhang had approached him, he’d been appalled at first, but then he realized the rebellious admiral was right. Chen had sworn his loyalty to Admiral Compton, and anyone who knew him as well as Ming did realized he would never break that oath. Allowing Chen to stay in command meant none of the CAC personnel would ever have even a chance of seeing home again. And there was only one way to remove the veteran admiral from command…
“What is it, Li?” Chen said. “You seem upset.”
“I believe there is a plot in the fleet, sir. Or at least in our contingent.” He paused, slipping his hand casually into one of the small pockets on his uniform trousers.
“A plot? What kind of plot? And who is behind it?”
“There is a plan for several vessels to leave the fleet, to flee through the warp gate and seek to find a way back home. And I believe Admiral Zhang is behind it, sir.” It felt odd telling Chen the truth instead of a concocted story, but nothing else would have been as believable. Besides, what Chen knows will only matter for another few seconds.
“Are you sure of this?” Chen sounded doubtful, but Ming could see the concern in the admiral’s expression.
