by Jay Allan
* * *
“We need that thing operating, Lieutenant. Now.” Compton was leaning against a crate in the center of the now-fortified main camp. He’d taken a hit in the arm on the way back, and he was impressed at his first experience with the trauma control functionality of his armor. The system had stopped the bleeding, sterilized the wound, and packed it off, all the while injecting painkillers and adrenalin compounds. The servo-mechanicals of the fighting suit adjusted as well, feeding more power to compensate for the injured arm. He almost forgot he was wounded.
What he couldn’t forget was that one of his guards was dead. Corporal Garder was one of the two Marines James Preston had assigned to protect the fleet admiral, and the Marine hero had died doing just that, jumping between Compton and a First Imperium battle bot.
The enemy jamming was making communications difficult at best. Preston’s Marines were out there, hunting down the enemy robots, but the lack of effective com was making that a difficult—and dangerous—effort. If they could get the portable reactor up and running it might give them enough power to burn through the jamming, providing at least one way coms to the Marines in the field.
Compton was frustrated, angry. I shouldn’t have done this, landed here. It was my curiosity, my urge to see these ruins. And now my people are dying.
He was worried about the fleet too. Things were confused and unstable there too. He had no idea how much opposition he would face over his plan to move away from human space. And now his communication was cut off. That means we’ve activated at least some of the ancient satellites, he thought grimly. And with Admiral Dumont in X20, the fleet command in his absence was uncertain.
He was hopeful the small reactor would enable surface coms, but he doubted it would cut through the heavy jamming that was blocking signals to and from the fleet. Even if the Marines wiped out the entire enemy force, there weren’t enough shuttles on the ground to get everyone off-world…which meant he’d have to send a force up to get clear of the jamming and order a rescue mission to launch at once. He knew he should go with that shuttle. His place was back on the fleet, not dodging enemy bots. But Terrance Compton wasn’t wired that way, and he wasn’t going to abandon those he’d led here. They would all get off the planet together, and that was his final thought on the matter. He could feel the tension, the anger, surging through his body.
“Lieutenant, I want that reactor up and running immediately,” he snapped angrily, realizing as the words escaped his mouth he was being unfair to the engineer.
“One minute, sir,” the intimidated lieutenant squeaked back. “If I warm it up too quickly, it’ll scrag.”
Compton nodded, though he knew that kind of communication was difficult in armor. He looked up, to the side of the two meter-wide cylinder. James Preston was standing there, his impatience clear even though his fighting suit. Compton understood completely. Both of them felt responsible for the Marines dying out there. At least if they could restore partial communications and scanning, Preston could help his people get through the fight.
“Okay,” said the engineering officer. “We’re generating power now, sir. The reaction is at forty percent, but that should be enough to power short range communications, even with the jamming.”
Preston turned around abruptly, gesturing to a pair of Marines holding a large conduit. They slid it in place. A few seconds later, a burst of feedback blasted through Compton’s helmet…followed by a voice, loud and clear. “We have restored outgoing coms from the main station. But I doubt we can transmit more than a klick and a half, maybe two through this jamming.”
Compton moved over toward the communications station, as quickly as he could manage in his armor. Preston, vastly more experienced at moving around in a fighting suit, was there before Compton had taken two steps.
“Attention all Marines, this is Colonel Preston.” Compton heard the Marine commander on the general channel. “We are being jammed, but we’ve got the main coms hooked up to the reactor. We can send outgoing signals, but your ability to reply or communicate with each other is sharply limited. I have scanning capability now as well, so I will be directing the battle from here.”
Compton stood behind the Marine officer, watching silently. He was the overall commander, of course, but he knew he couldn’t do anything but distract Preston now. Part of good leadership is knowing when to shut the hell up.
He stood still for a few minutes, listening to Preston direct the battle…actually more of a hunt. It looked like they’d activated perhaps a hundred enemy warbots. That was a dangerous number, but not enough to defeat a thousand of Preston’s men and women. That didn’t mean Marines wouldn’t die, indeed many had already. But they would prevail in the end.
Compton angled back his head, looking up into the late afternoon sky. What is happening up there? He knew a rescue party would come when they missed the regular check in, but it could be hours before that happened, even a day or more.
He knew he had left good people behind, and he had complete confidence in them all. But he still had an unsettled feeling, a hazy, tentative thought that he should have fought off the urge to see planet four’s ruins himself. Midway was up there, hovering somewhere about a million klicks from planet five.
And that’s where I belong…
Chapter Thirteen
Transmission from Admiral Vladimir Udinov
Attention all vessels. This is Admiral Vladimir Udinov, transmitting from the RIC vessel Petersburg. In joint consultation with the commanders of the CAC, Europan, and Caliphate contingents, we have elected to remove our respective forces from the current fleet structure. We all retain the utmost respect for Admiral Compton and his achievements, but we have determined that the best interest of our crews is served by this separation.
We intend no hostile action toward any other vessel, nor do we plan to interfere with the chosen dispositions of the other contingents. However, it is necessary that we are able to refuel those of our vessels still in the queue. It is for that reason only I have ordered Petersburg to take position just above planet five. From that location, we are able to fire upon the refinery complex, destroying it utterly if anyone attempts to interfere with our refueling. When we are done, our ships will peacefully depart, leaving the refinery undamaged and ready to continue refueling the rest of the fleet.
If any vessels attempt to interfere—either with our own refueling operations or with our departure from the fleet, Petersburg will open fire and destroy the facility. I urge a calm and rational response by all parties. If we are allowed to refuel and depart, we will do so without violence.
AS Midway
System X18
The Fleet: 225 ships, 47,841 crew
“I still can’t raise the admiral, Captain Horace. There’s some kind of jamming around the planet.” Jack Cortez stared over at the empty command chair for what felt like the hundredth time. Compton wasn’t onboard…and all hell was breaking loose.
“Keep trying, Commander. We’ve got to do something. Petersburg is holding the refinery at gunpoint, and I hesitate to even think of what the other contingent commanders are saying to each other.”
“Yes, sir. But shouldn’t we be doing something now? Admiral Compton wouldn’t just sit here and allow Udinov to hijack the refinery.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Commander, but I’m not Terrance Compton. I don’t have his ability—and I damned sure don’t have his rank or reputation. I’m more inclined to try to avoid catastrophic mistakes than to risk any bold moves before I know exactly what is going on.”
“Yes, sir.” Cortez didn’t like it, but he knew Horace was right.
“And Commander…if you can’t get through to the admiral on planet four we’re going to need to send someone there. We have to get to Admiral Compton. And every second we lose could be the one that kills us.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.” Cortez turned toward the communications officer. “Lieutenant, please tell Adm…ask Admiral Hurley to come to th
e line.” He wasn’t speaking for Compton right now, so he wasn’t telling an admiral to do anything.
“She is on your com, sir.”
“Admiral Hurley, this is Commander Cortez. As you know, Admiral Compton went down to the surface of planet four with the Marines and the research teams.”
“Yes, I know. What is it?”
“We’ve got a crisis up here. Half the fleet is trying to break off so they can look for a route home. They’ve got their guns trained on the refinery. And we’ve lost contact with the admiral. There is some kind of jamming blocking our communications.”
“Jamming from the mutineers?” Hurley didn’t pull punches, and she had no patience for anyone disobeying Compton or rebelling against his authority.
“No, Admiral. We don’t think so. It looks like First Imperium jamming.” Cortez paused for a second. “Ah…we wanted to request that you put together a team and send them to planet four to see if they can find Admiral Compton.”
“I’m on it, Commander. Do what you have to do to keep things together here. I’ll go get the Admiral myself.”
Cortez exhaled sharply. “Thank you, Admiral Hurley.”
He flipped the com back to Captain Horace’s line on the main bridge. “Admiral Hurley is leading a mission to planet four to find the admiral.” Cortez hesitated. “So what do we do in the meanwhile?”
“We stay calm, Commander.” Erica West stepped out of the lift and walked across the bridge. “And we handle the crisis…until Admiral Compton returns to reassume command.”
West was a veteran task force commander who had been wounded in the fighting against the First Imperium. She’d spent the first half of the fleet’s daring escape in the hospital, and Compton had kept her on Midway after, not because of lack of confidence in her but simply because he was hesitant to assign yet another Alliance officer to a major command. But now she was fit and ready for action…and with Compton on planet four and Dumont in system X20, she was in the right place at the right time. And she was the next ranking Alliance officer in the fleet.
“Ah…yes, Admiral West…” Cortez was on edge, not sure what to do. He knew West was a fighter, not likely to simply sit and wait for Compton to return.
The admiral stood for a few seconds, staring down at Compton’s chair. Then she sat down abruptly. “Order all Alliance ships to battlestations, Commander Cortez,” she said grimly. “And Captain Horace is to bring the engines up to 5g.”
“Yes, Admiral.” He paused, quickly adapting to the new command authority. “Where are we going?”
“Planet five, Commander,” she said with a feral edge to her voice. “Right in between Petersburg and the refinery.”
* * *
“Admiral, Midway is moving toward us rapidly.” Stanovich turned from his workstation and looked across the flag bridge at Udinov.
“Send a communique. Advise that she is to stop immediately or we will open fire on the refinery.” Udinov wasn’t sure if that was a serious threat or a bluff. He wanted to effect his withdrawal, but if he was pushed to the point of giving the order to fire, he didn’t know if he would do it or not. Destroying the facility wouldn’t accomplish anything. The vengeful Alliance spacers would attack his vessels in response. The Russian admiral knew his faction wasn’t really a match for the Alliance-led remainder of the fleet, but it was substantial enough to put up a good fight. He didn’t doubt Petersburg would attract more than its share of fire, which made his own survival prospects highly questionable. Not that it would matter who won. If the fleet fought its own civil war there wouldn’t be enough left on either side to survive.
“Yes, Admiral.”
Udinov watched the monitors as the large blue oval representing Midway moved closer. Petersburg was no match for the Alliance’s Yorktown class monster. He might blow the refinery to plasma, but the Alliance flagship would blast his vessel to slag the moment he did.
“Response coming in, sir.”
“Put it on my com.” I’m not sure I want everyone else to hear this.
“Petersburg, you are hereby commanded to move away from the planet and out of weapons range of the refinery. You are under the legal and duly authorized command of the Grand Pact and subject to the orders and directives of that entity’s chosen commander, Admiral Terrance Compton. In his name, I repeat my order. Power down your weapons and move away from the planet. Your request to leave the fleet is denied. Failure to obey these orders will result in the destruction of Petersburg…and any other vessel threatening the refinery or attempting to leave the system. Admiral Erica West out.”
Fuck, Udinov thought to himself. West is a fighter, a protégé of Augustus Garret himself. Garret and Compton were both military geniuses, but of the two Compton had always been the more patient. West had served mostly under the more aggressive Garret, and if anything, she had built a reputation of being even colder and harder than her famous mentor.
“Get her back on the line,” Udinov snapped.
The com officer worked at his controls. “I’m sorry, sir, but Midway is not responding.”
“Fuck.” Udinov let the word slip out despite his attempt to stop himself. The crew doesn’t need to know you’re in over your head here. The situation was rapidly deteriorating. It had seemed simple, made perfect sense in planning. A few hours of tense standoff while the last of his ships refueled, and then they would be gone, on the way to search for a route home. Now he was on the verge of combat with his allies—and he had no idea how his ramshackle coalition of forces would respond if it came to a fight. They wanted to find a way home, but were they ready to battle against the Alliance forces and the other contingents if it came to that?
He turned toward the communications officer. “Put me on fleetwide com, no encryption.” I can’t make her listen, but I can put on a show for the rest of the fleet. “Attention Admiral West. This is Admiral Vladimir Udinov. I do not contest your acting command of the Alliance contingent, but I cannot recognize your claim to command the entire fleet. There are other admirals with the same rank and greater seniority in the various national forces, and these officers—including myself—have a greater claim to succeed Admiral Compton in his absence. I also stand by the decision of the RIC, Europan, CAC, and Caliphate contingents to split off from the fleet. You have no authority to contest this action, and I insist that you halt your aggressive maneuvers and allow the seceding ships to continue refueling operations without your unauthorized interference.”
He moved his hand across his throat, and the com officer cut the line. There, he thought. That’s the best I can do. He felt a pit in his stomach. But Erica West isn’t going to back down…
* * *
“I want you to get some thrust out of those fucking pieces of shit, and I do mean now.” Greta Hurley’s voice was like ice. She stared straight ahead, watching Commander Wilder at the controls as she harangued the pilot and crew of the two armored shuttles accompanying her squadrons. She was worried about Compton, and she knew every wasted second could be the difference between a successful rescue and a terrible tragedy. She realized there were nearly a thousand Marines on the planet, but it wasn’t a full invasion force, and if they’d run into any serious First Imperium forces things could be a mess.
“Admiral Hurley, we’re at full thrust now. No matter what we do, the shuttles are never going to be able to keep up with your fighters.” The pilot’s voice was tense, stressed. The fighter crews in the fleet were used to their hard-driving commander by now, but the shuttle pilot was still adjusting to Hurley’s aggressive command style.
“Do the best you can, Lieutenant.” She pulled back slightly. Driving the pilot to a breakdown wasn’t going to help move things any faster. She sighed hard and added, “Lieutenant, I’m leaving one squadron with you as escort and moving on ahead. Follow us as quickly as you can.”
She didn’t need the shuttles, not really, but she wasn’t taking any chances. They were a precaution, filled with medical teams and supplies of every conc
eivable kind that might be needed. The landing force had taken only rudimentary med services with them, so if she did come down in the middle of a battle, she’d be glad the shuttles were on the way. They could save a lot of Marines as well as the admiral.
If Compton was just stranded on the surface, unable to communicate but otherwise fine, she’d load him onboard her fighter and blast back to Midway at full thrust. But the jamming wasn’t a good sign, and she knew she might find a far worse situation waiting. Something was wrong down there.
She turned toward the front of the cockpit. “Get us there, John. As quickly as you can. The shuttles will just have to follow.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Hurley leaned back, waiting for the inevitable force from the fighter’s acceleration…and about five seconds later, she got it. Almost 10g of it.
* * *
“You need to intercept those fighters now, Admiral Peltier. Before they get to planet four. Your ships are the only force close enough.” Udinov’s voice was raw, strained as it blared through the com.
Peltier stared at the screen, unsure of what to do. Gregoire Peltier was no one’s idea of a great military leader. Indeed, he owed his position almost entirely to family influence and patronage. Not everyone considered him an outright coward, but no one who knew him believed he was up to the more difficult tasks. And going nose to nose with Greta Hurley met any definition of the word difficult.
“Admiral, I don’t know if…”
“Gregoire, you need to do this. The plan is already half shot to hell. What do you think will happen if she gets Compton and brings him back? You’re hesitant to face off with Admiral Hurley? How do you feel about Compton spacing you for mutiny?”
Peltier was pale, and he looked like he might throw up at any minute. He’d only gotten involved in this whole thing because he wanted to go home. Now he didn’t know what to do. But Udinov was right. Compton was a little less draconian in his actions than Admiral Garret perhaps, but he still wasn’t likely to take what he would almost certainly view as treachery very well.
