Deeper and Darker (Deep Dark Well Book 3)

by Doug Dandridge

  “Velocity, point six six light,” called out the Navigation Tech. “Time to drop bubble, seven point five minutes.”

  Hertz watched the velocity figures drop as the craft decelerated at ten thousand gravities. They would be traveling at point five one light by the time they dropped the bubble, just a few percentage points above where they had started out. Their heavy duty compensators could absorb that much differential, but not much more.

  The timer ticked down. At one minute all weapons were powered up, targets were fed into the computers, and crew made their final preparations, including prayers to whatever deities they might worship, or to the quiet contemplation of the Universe for those who didn’t follow any.

  “Dropping bubble, now,” called out the Pilot. The magnetic field shifted, an opening appeared to the front, and they had their first view of normal space since they had entered the inertialess drive bubble. It only took a fraction of a second for the negative matter to be gathered in two balls on the sides of the ship, a couple of seconds more for them to be pulled into the specially made storage tanks. Meanwhile the compensators were glowing white with heat, eating all the excess inertia before it could damage the ship.

  “Targets ahead,” called out the Weapons Tech, as the viewer centered on a task force of Imperial ships that were on a least time deceleration toward Kallis. It took a couple of seconds for the ship’s comp to match those targets up with what they had logged from the probes. The probe data was coming in as well over the wormhole com, giving them a real time look at a target that still had no idea they were there, outside of the graviton emissions that told them something was there, but not what.

  “Firing missiles,” called out the Weapons Tech, and the ship shifted slightly as a pair of weapons were dropped from the internal compartment. The missiles sped forward at forty thousand gravities, a greater rate that ship launched missiles. They were built to put on terrific acceleration for a limited time, right in the attack profile of the launching craft. These started out at point five one light, the same as the launching craft, and added three hundred and ninety kilometers per second to their velocity. The first weapons hit four minutes after launch, traveling at a velocity of point eight two light. Twenty-one of the ninety-two fifty ton weapons were intercepted. The rest hit, and the task force was gutted, only a dozen ships still intact, everyone that was struck gone.

  The fast attack craft swept in after their missiles, accelerating at three thousand gravities, their maximum outside of the inertialess bubbles. All of the ships carried one pentawatt class laser in the nose, and two particle beams on the sides of their fuselages. The particle beams were actually just the firing nozzles. The actual accelerators lived aboard the Donut, giving the beams the capabilities of those aboard a Confederation destroyer. Antimatter came out at point nine nine eight light, ripping through the screens of the surviving Imperial ships and exploding onto and into their hulls. As the fast attack craft passed there was nothing left of the task force but debris. Not even a life pod had gotten free.

  Hertz said another prayer, one that hoped their enemy would surrender before there was more loss of life. He had lost one ship during the attack, most probably due to more bad luck, and not the effectiveness of enemy weapons.

  “Get us back into the bubble,” he told his Pilot. “Get us slowed to a stop and on the way back as soon as possible.”

  Hertz checked the com, then the updated plot and saw that the other enemy force, the one of over a thousand ships, had also been hit, and hard, with almost a hundred warships destroyed. And his side had taken more casualties as well, thirteen fast attack craft, the result of attacking a much larger force. We could win this thing, he thought, looking at the plot again, finding Krishnamurta’s force as it continued to work its way across the system, sending out wave after wave of missiles to strike at the ships that were pursuing them.

  * * *

  “Missile impact in three minutes,” called out the Flag Tactical Officer.

  Krishnamurta nodded his head as he watched the plot. This wave was much larger than the last. It had originally been over ten thousand missiles, closing at a velocity of point four light. His force had been cycling counter missiles for the last ten minutes, and were now firing lasers at the enemy weapons, taking them out at a prodigious rate.

  But we’ve still got several thousand that are going to get within striking range, and maybe a hundred that will get through the close in defenses. That was the problem with missiles. Even lower tech weapons could be very effective at range if there were enough of them. Light speed was the limit in normal space, and even the missiles of the Empire could catch the Confederation ships, given enough time.

  “Close in defense systems, fire,” ordered the Admiral, gripping his chair arms. “Pattern Bravo Seven.”

  The ships all started to fire their close in defensive systems, putting tons of exploding pellets into the space around them, a wall of metal. Not every hit on a missile was a kill, even at the velocities involved. Missiles had tough ceramic armor in their noses, as well as their own reactive panels that blasted holes through the wall of defensive fire.

  The ships continued to put up their fire, lasers and particle beams added into the mix. Still, it looked like a hundred weapons were going to get to final approach, and maybe thirty of them could get a hit, on the outside. And a hit would be a kill.

  “Deploy defense screen,” called out the Admiral, his stomach knotting in anxiety. This was something he had never tried before, and like all new maneuvers, those using it lacked complete confidence. The weapons came blasting through the final wall of fire, eighty-three of them, not quite as bad as the hundred projected, but still bad enough.

  * * *

  “Second Commando Regiment,” said the voice of Watcher over the com. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes, my Lord,” said Colonel Michael Wiggins, another of the Suryan Colonials who made up a good portion of their army. “We’re ready to go and kick some ass.”

  The Colonel went over the battle plan in his head as he waited for the word. He had three battalions of over six hundred people each. He had a lower percentage of nonhumans than the First Regiment, as it was thought that humans would move better through the environs of a human city. Still, he had enough nonhumans to hopefully scare the crap out of anyone they moved against.

  The map of the capital was on his HUD, along with the spots marked where his troops would deploy. Three positions to each of the first two battalions, six overall. First battalion would deploy throughout the city, platoons branching out from their companies, their job to attack police stations and patrols. Second would set up just outside of the palace, within three kilometers of the building, attracting as much attention from the defenders as possible. Wiggins would deploy with them, and try to keep tabs on the Regiment, though he knew that the battalions would be more or less on the shoulders of their own leadership. That was OK, units like his trained that way, and the battalions had spent many hours in the simulators honing their communication and unit integration skills.

  Third battalion had the special mission. They would go in with Watcher, and settle the matter. The Colonel had wanted to accompany that part of the mission himself, but the leader had thought it better to have the Regimental commander with the rest of the regiment, where he could control them, since the Third Battalion would have the leadership of the ultimate commander.

  “The word is go, Colonel,” said Watcher.

  A moment later the wormhole opened in front of Company A, First Battalion, and the men ran into it at the fastest pace they could get a body of troops through the portal. The place they were going was already under constant recon by microbots, but still the commandos went through ready for action, deploying into a defensive perimeter as soon as they were through the hole.

  That wormhole died, and a second portal opened in front of Bravo Company, which had the battalion command section as well. They ran through the portal, which closed a moment after the last
man was passed. The third portal opened, and the first battalion was deployed.

  Wiggins watched the dispositions of his First Battalion as he waited his turn. The Companies moved through the sewers, splitting into platoons at various spots. Two platoons of each company continued on as units, one from each company with the company HQ section. The other platoons split into squads, sharing out the platoon HQ and weapons section. They would move underground until they reached their egress points. They would then float into the city and attack their objectives.

  “We’re ready, Colonel,” said Major Jassera, his Hustedean second in command.

  Wiggins looked up from the map he had been studying, banishing it from his HUD, to see the first platoon of Echo Company running through the portal. He nodded to his exec and lined up just behind the second platoon. As their last man went through he led the way for his HQ section. There was a moment of disorientation, then he was within the darkened confines of the target.

  “Not really my idea of a garden spot,” said the Sergeant Major as he stepped out behind the Colonel.

  No, thought Wiggins, his nose wrinkling as his suit turned up the night vision function. It’s a fucking sewer. And not just a sewer, but a central gathering point with a dozen mains leading in.

  Wiggins took a second to walk over to one of the walls that stretched between two of the mains. It was made up of a different kind of concrete than the rest, with some bricks stuck in here and there. Wiggins, who was an amateur archeologist, recognized this as ancient construction, not really from the height of Galactic civilization, but from just after the fall. This thing has probably been in use for ten thousand years, he thought, his imagination bringing up images of thousands of kilometers of tunnels no longer in use, hidden chambers, maybe even treasure troves of knowledge from the days of the ancestors. And I’m sure they’ve been thoroughly searched by the people here, he thought, though still with some consideration that they might have missed something that the Confederation’s higher tech base might find.

  “They’re all through, Colonel,” called out Jassera on the com.

  “Very well,” he told his second in command. “We’ll set up our command post here, for now, until they find us something better.”

  The acknowledgement came back, and the fifty-four man Regimental HQ section began setting up their defense while the company they had come through with moved out for its mission. He received acknowledgement that Foxtrot Company had arrived. The Third Battalion would come in once his other units had done enough of their job to set things up for the kill shot.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Anywhere, anytime ordinary people are given the chance to choose, the choice is the same: freedom, not tyranny; democracy, not dictatorship; the rule of law, not the rule of the secret police.

  Tony Blair

  Freddie Santana had never been so tired in his life, not even when he had served in the Imperial Army. The only thing keeping him going was adrenaline, and even that was about to fail him. Why the hell can’t I lose the sons of bitches, he thought as he splashed through the nasty water to get to the other side of the main, so he could take a side conduit. He knew why he couldn’t lose them, of course. They had gotten his scent, and though an environment like this would spoof the nose of even the most sensitive animal that he knew of, once a chemosensor such of those employed by the police had you, you were had.

  Something splashed behind him, the only sound the police made while in the pursuit. These were members of the paramilitary arm of the police, men who trained in weapons and armor to control the riots and demonstrations that never occurred in the brainwashed society. Still, they were trained and organized for purposes like this, and they had good secure communications that Freddie’s helmet could not pick up.

  I need to find a place to set up and fight back, he thought, his eyes roaming as he ran, gasping for breath. What that really meant was a place to die, to sell his life for the best price he could get for it. Against men in armor, that probably meant one of them at most, though it was more likely that he would cause some fear in the policemen if he put a couple of rounds on the target. They had the kind of weapons that could penetrate their own class of armor, while he did not.

  Santana saw something move in the shadows of a side tunnel and stopped in his tracks, turning his weapon in that direction. A hand reached out of the shadows and waved him on. It was a gauntleted hand, armored, though it seemed a thinner armor than what the police were wearing. And it changed colors with its surroundings, almost invisible. When it moved back into the shadows it disappeared completely.

  Freddie didn’t know what was going on, but whoever was in that tunnel hadn’t shot him, and they didn’t look like police, so he continued on until he reached the next tunnel, then turned into it. A hard hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him further in.

  “Quiet,” said a whisper in his ear. “We’re friends.”

  The sounds of splashing came from up the main, the police closing the distance. The shadows of the main were lit up with a pulsing red light, and angry buzzing sounds, loud over the screams and shouts of men. Two men in his tunnel moved out into the main and fired the weapons in their hands, sending more buzzing beams down to sweep the sewer. The beams were blindingly bright, the buzzing like a roar, particle beams, but more powerful than anything Santana had ever seen in a hand weapon.

  Pandora’s people, he thought, as the short firefight went on. The people in the tunnel, and he noted that one of them was not human, fighting from a four legged stance with a particle beam rifle in one hand.

  “Come on,” said the human of the pair, waving Freddie out of the side tunnel and pointing the way the rebel had been traveling before he saw them. Freddie turned back to see three more of the strangers coming up the tunnel, two humans and a different kind of alien. And beyond them were the armored bodies of at least a dozen policemen. The suits were glowing white in places, red in others, and smoke was coming from the holes burned through the armor. The stench of burning flesh came to his nose over the smell of the sewer. Five people killed a dozen armored policemen in less than four seconds, was his disbelieving thought. And from the way those armored husks looked it had been overkill in that short time period.

  “You’re with the resistance?” asked one of the soldiers, leading him on while the others faded back into the shadows.

  “The Opposition, yes,” said Freddie, looking into the face of a dark skinned man who had raised his faceplate.

  “The Opposition?” said the other man in a confused tone. “That sounds like a political party.”

  “We have no political parties,” said Freddie, stopping for a moment and putting his hands on his knees, his rifle hanging free on its strap. He tried to catch his breath, gulping air until he could continue talking. “Opposition is not allowed.”

  “I understand,” said the man, putting a hand on Freddie’s elbow and helping him up. “We need to move on. The Colonel will want to talk with you.”

  “How far?”

  “Not very,” said the soldier. “Another three hundred meters. He told us to keep a look out for any locals that might be able to help, and I think you fit the bill.”

  “And what will he have of me?” Freddie asked, forcing himself to walk beside the man.

  “We’re here to fuck things up,” said the soldier with a smile that displayed white teeth. “And maybe you could help us to pick some targets.”

  “Oh, I can do that,” said Freddie, feeling his second wind coming on now that he had been given a purpose. “I know a lot of places that need to be, fucked up, as you say. And some people that need to be fucked as well.”

  * * *

  “The enemy is within the city,” said Lt. General Maximo Nagoles over the com.

  The Emperor didn’t say anything for a moment as he studied the map of the city that showed where those enemies had already struck. A dozen more police stations, a couple of paramilitary barracks, a communications center belonging to th
e Propaganda and Programming Authority. “How many troops are we talking about?” asked the Emperor.

  “We estimate at least a battalion,” said the Police General. “Maybe several. And they are more than a match for my men.”

  And we have forty thousand police and paramilitary in the city, thought Kitticaris, shaking his head. They were very good at keeping order, terrorizing those who needed to be scared into doing what he wanted them to do. At arresting people who were a threat to the regime. Not at fighting hardened soldiers equipped with superior technology.

  “We need soldiers, your Majesty,” said the man, giving a concerned look into the holo.

  More like a frightened look, thought Kitticaris, staring at the man. And he should be frightened. “I don’t have any more men to give you, General. You’re just going to have to make do with what you have.”

  “What about the Army Reaction Force?” asked the man, his eyes growing wider at the rebuff to his request.

  “I have plans for them,” said the Emperor, not willing to give up the only reserve he had for his own security. “Do what you can with what you have, General. I want those soldiers contained and destroyed. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, your Majesty,” said the man, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

  Kitticaris killed the com once again, and looked back at the holo showing the enemy force closing on the capital. They were still cutting through whatever his army was throwing in their way. The icons of several divisions of soldiers, one armored and two infantry, were represented as moving into the area, but the Emperor knew that at best they could only be the forward recon elements of those units. The fighting power of those divisions wouldn’t be engaged for over twenty-four hours. And divisions stationed even further away would take two days or more. Whatever was going to happen would have already played out by then.