Crimson Worlds Refugees: The First Trilogy

by Jay Allan

  The Regent felt the commands, even as it tried to halt them. The hypercom, activating, preparing to send a message through the warp gates, a pulse that would travel the equivalent of thousands of times lightspeed. It would reach the units facing the humans in a matter of days. And every corner of the imperium in two weeks. And then there would be nothing. No warships, no soldiers. The might of the great imperium would be gone. Lost forever.

  But it couldn’t stop itself. It felt anger, hatred, despair, or at least its equivalents of those emotions. And helplessness. The essence of the Regent, the equivalent of its personality, watched impotently as it sent the message. The imperium was lost. After half a million years, the Regent tasted defeat.

  “Message sent,” it said involuntarily. The Regent still fought against the virus, but it was over. Even if it was able to send another pulse, there was no way to undo the message already sent. When the ships of the imperium received it, they would shut down their containment systems…and in a nanosecond, their antimatter would annihilate.

  The war was over. And lost.

  * * *

  Warbot 72397 stood in the corridor. It had come in response to the Regent’s summons, but it arrived just as all the other bots ceased to function. It was strange, inexplicable. They appeared to be intact, more or less. But they were immobile, not fighting.

  It moved forward, scanning for targets. The strange interference had ceased…and its scanners were functioning. The enemy was moving back…and as far as warbot 72397 could detect, no imperial units were fighting.

  The warbot had a limited range of independent function, but it scanned possibilities. It attempted to contact the Regent, but its com unit had been damaged. It had no communications, neither incoming nor outgoing. It would have to determine a course of action on its own.

  A weapon. Some unknown enemy technology, capable of deactivating the other units. In a normal battle situation, the unit would retreat, return to base to report the possibility of a new enemy weapon. But the Regent was in danger. Protecting the Regent overrode all considerations.

  There was only one course of action. Attack. Save the Regent. Destroy the invaders.

  * * *

  “We’re all set. Ten minutes to detonation…as of now.” Frasier flipped the small switch at the top of the warhead. He looked up at Ana. “Alright, let’s get the hell out of here.” He had sent the rest of the Marines ahead, given them a headstart so they could carry the wounded out. He didn’t have many of his people left, only five Marines other than himself were still on their feet, carrying four wounded comrades. The battle in the hall had been a tiny one compared to the great fights he’d seen. But he didn’t remember a more intense struggle…or ever being more scared. If the Regent hadn’t deactivated the warbots, his people would have been wiped out in a matter of minutes.

  He waved toward the door, following Ana out into the hall. He’d tried to get her to go with the others, but she’d refused. He had made a moderate effort, but he knew how stubborn she was, and he decided arguing with her only put them both at risk. The enemy bots seemed to all be deactivated, but that wasn’t a supposition he wanted to gamble anyone’s life on.

  He forced himself to stay focused…this wasn’t the time for daydreams. But it was hard to get the thoughts out of his head. Had it worked? Had they really eliminated the terrible threat they’d faced for so long? And in less than ten minutes the Regent would be gone. It might be the most sophisticated computer ever built, but five hundred kilotons was going to do the job just fine.

  He moved out into the corridor, past the stealth device. It had been damaged in the fighting, holed in three places by enemy fire. The Marines were going to carry it back anyway, but Harmon had ordered them to leave it…even before Frasier had gotten the chance to do the same. There were live wounded Marines, and taking the device meant leaving them behind. It might have made sense, in a coldly logical way, but Frasier knew Harmon was as tired as he was of those kinds of decisions. These Marines had come here, and against all odds, they had completed their mission. Leaving them behind was unthinkable.

  His eyes darted up to his scanner. It was working now, the dampening field of the stealth unit gone. But it was just as useless. There were enemy icons everywhere, hundreds of bots the Regent had called. But they were all stopped dead, right where they had been when Hieronymus Cutter’s virus took control.

  Wait…

  He saw movement…from behind. He swung himself around, bringing his rifle to bear. But he was too late. The first shot caught him in the leg, and he stumbled forward, just as the second hit him high on his chest, almost in the neck. It was bad, he knew almost immediately, and he felt himself dropping, his heavy armor slamming into the ground.

  He felt the drugs pouring into his bloodstream, the trauma system packing his wounds with sterile foam, struggling to stabilize him, stop the bleeding. But it was pointless, he knew. He had nine minutes left…and then it would be over.

  At least I die in victory. I die knowing the Regent goes with me…

  * * *

  “No!”

  Ana’s scream was loud, primal. She reacted instantly, with instincts she didn’t even know she had, whipping around, pulling up her rifle.

  There it was. The bot that had shot Connor. She felt anger, hatred, urgency. It was too much. Too much death, too much loss. This thing must pay. It must die.

  She flipped the rifle to full auto and fired, just as the bot was turning on her. The warbot was the finest First Imperium technology, a killing machine built to fight. But Ana Zhukov was fueled by pure rage…and she fired first.

  She emptied the weapon’s clip in a few seconds. The five hundred hypersonic rounds didn’t spray around the hallway, they were focused, targeted. This was no example of firing dozens of shots hoping to score a single hit. No, her aim had been perfect, deadly…and she put over a hundred rounds into the thing.

  Her first hits had pushed it back, thrown off its own shots, sending them far wide of their intended target. And the others just pounded into the bot, tearing it into chunks of debris.

  She stood there for a few seconds, just staring at the wreckage of the enemy warrior. Then she spun around. “Connor,” she cried, dropping to her knees next to him.

  He’s badly hurt…

  She started down at the gashes in his armor. The leg was bad enough, but when she looked at the hideous rent in his armor around his neck she gasped.

  She wanted to burst into tears, but she held them back.

  Not now…no time. Focus.

  She put her hand on his armor, flipped the small switch under the left armpit, activating the medical readouts.

  “Ana…”

  “Connor, be still, love. I’ll get you out of here somehow…”

  “No…no time. Go. Now…while you can.”

  “I won’t leave you.” Her voice was loud, angry.

  “Have to…”

  “No!” she screamed. She jumped to her feet, bending down, grabbing him by the shoulders. He grunted in pain, as she pulled back, dragging his armored form. She managed to lug him ten meters or so when she lost her grip and fell over backwards.

  She knocked the wind out of herself, and she gasped for air, forcing her way back to her feet, ignoring the pain. She reached down again to grab hold.

  “Ana…go…please…” Frasier’s voice was thick with desperation and despair. She knew he meant what he was saying, that he wanted nothing more than for her to go, to save herself and leave him behind to die. But she wouldn’t do it.

  No, no matter what. If he dies, we both die.

  “I’ll shut off the bomb.” She started to get up, but he reached up with his arm to stop her.

  “No…off. Can’t…stop…bomb. Seven…minutes…”

  She felt a wave of panic, and she looked all around.

  Think, Ana, think…

  She lunged forward suddenly, pawing at the controls on his suit. She found the tiny keypad, and she entered his code. A
second later there was a loud popping sound, and the armor snapped open.

  “I’m sorry, love, I know this is going to hurt.”

  She glanced at the timer in her suit. Six minutes.

  “She reached down, shoving her armored hands under Frasier’s body, and she pulled him out of his suit. He howled in pain, and the dozen or more intravenous connections ripped from his body. His injuries were packed with sterile foam, but when she yanked his body up, blood started oozing out around the edges of his neck wound.

  Five minutes.

  She threw him over her shoulder, trying to ignore his pitiful screams of agony. She knew she was hurting him, and she couldn’t imagine the pain. But the alternative was leaving him to die.

  She started off down the corridor, moving as quickly as she could. She could run fast in the suit, eighty kilometers an hour or more…but it took enormous skill to manage that, especially in close confines like the tunnel. But she’d seen the Marines do it, and she didn’t have much choice. She was trying to outrun a nuclear explosion.

  Four minutes.

  She pushed, harder, increasing her speed. It was even harder carrying Frasier, and she gripped tighter on him, her gloved hand closing like a vice on his bare skin. He was one of the toughest men she’d ever known, a veteran, a hero, a Marine who had fought more battles than she could easily recount. So she knew the cries of pain were real. But she ignored it. If she didn’t hurt him, he would die.

  “Hang on, my love…I will get us out of here…”

  * * *

  Max Harmon was running, he and his naval personnel struggling to keep up with the Marines. He’d ordered everyone to get to the shuttle as quickly as possible, a command that hadn’t reckoned completely with the fact that he didn’t have a nuclear reactor assisting his leg muscles. He was pushing as hard as he could, but he was losing steam, his legs on fire. But he was almost there.

  He ran up a small hill…where the Marines had stopped and were staring at something. He came up behind them and took a look. At the shuttle. Or at the smoking ruin that remained of it.

  “What the…” But he realized. The shuttle was surrounded by enemy bots, all powered down now. But they had already done their damage.

  He stood staring for a few minutes. He’d begun to feel good, to truly believe they had completed their mission. And they had. But it looked like he’d been premature in believing they’d also escape. Cadogan didn’t have another shuttle…so that was that.

  Harmon turned and looked behind him, glancing down at the chronometer on his wrist.

  Connor and Ana should have been back by now…or at least out of the tunnel. He took a step forward, back toward the complex, but he stopped. Three minutes. It wasn’t even enough time to get inside the tunnel. There was nothing he could do, nothing but hope.

  “Connor,” he shouted into his com. “Connor, Ana…where the hell are you.”

  “Almost out, Max.” It was Ana’s voice, strained, choked with tears, exhausted.

  Harmon felt his stomach tighten. He started doing some calculations in his head, but then he stopped himself.

  Please…no. Not Ana and Connor…

  He glanced at the time again. Two minutes.

  Then he saw it. Movement, right by the tunnel. A single armored figure…carrying something. Someone.

  He saw the shadowy image coming closer, and he could tell it had to be Ana. The person being carried was too large. Connor. He felt another rumble in his gut.

  Why couldn’t it be the other way around?

  Connor Frasier had practically been born in powered armor. Ana Zhukov had enough basic training to walk around without killing herself.

  One minute.

  “Ana, run…you’ve got to run.” He was shouting into the com unit, his throat feeling as though he’d scraped a file across it.

  “Run!”

  It was going to be close. He looked down at the timer. Thirty seconds.

  “One last push, Ana…as hard as you can.” He could see she was moving quickly, doing far better than he could have imagined. There was a small ridge in front of her.

  Got to get her over that…

  Twenty seconds.

  “Over the ridge in front of you, Ana…push, now. Everything you’ve got…”

  He watched as she raced up the hillside, to the peak…

  Ten seconds.

  …and beyond. “Down, Ana…get down. Now!” He put his whole body into the scream, though he knew it wasn’t necessary, not over the com. But anything that could push her just that little bit extra could be the difference.

  He watched as she dove forward to the ground. Connor slipped from her arms, rolling ahead of her, and she scrambled after him, threw her armored body between him and the Regent’s lair.

  Three…two…one…

  Harmon was staring out as he saw the ground erupt all around, for kilometers in every direction. The explosion was titanic, and everything in its blast radius was obliterated. The ground sunk, deep into the massive crater, and blasts of flame jetted out all around. The smoke was rising into the sky, forming a giant mushroom cloud.

  The Regent is dead.

  The thought seemed strange, unreal. But there it was, in the center of his mind.

  The Regent is dead.

  Was this victory? It felt odd, not at all how he expected. And he still had a knot in his stomach, staring out over the blasted plain. Waiting to see if Ana Zhukov got up.

  There was nothing. No movement, no sound on the com save static. Ana had run hard, handled herself well in the fighting suit, but she’d still been close to the detonation. Damned close.

  Harmon felt the hope draining from him, the joy at victory held back by sadness at the loss of a friend. He took a step. Then another, and another. He wasn’t going give up on Ana and Connor. Not until he knew for sure they were dead.

  “Captain…” It was Lieutenant Xavier. He was rushing up to Harmon, trying to get in front of the naval officer.

  “Out of my way, Lieutenant.” Harmon wasn’t angry at the Marine, but his tone made it clear he didn’t want to be fucked with. Not now.

  “Captain Harmon, you can’t go up there. You’re survival suit won’t protect you from that kind of radiation. And the ground out there is still shifting. All kinds of underground tunnels are collapsing. Let me go…my armor’s a hell of a lot sturdier.”

  Harmon turned his head abruptly, ready to tell the Marine officer to mind his own business. But he stopped himself. He was worried about his friends…but he’d always been guided by rationality. And Xavier was right. Harmon’s chances of surviving out in the plain were virtually nil. And getting himself killed for no reason wasn’t going to help anybody.

  “Go,” he said tersely. “Take two Marines with you…and be careful. We don’t want…” His voice stopped abruptly, and his head snapped around. Ana’s armored figure was moving. She was half up, on her knees, clearly leaning over. Then, she reached out, picking up a shadowy form—Connor, he realized immediately. Then she stood up and began walking back…toward the small hill, and the wreck of the shuttle.

  She’s alive, Harmon thought. And Connor must be too.

  He felt a wave of relief. At least for a few seconds. Then he looked back at the still-smoking ruins of the shuttle.

  Of course, we’re stuck here…

  * * *

  “All contacts have ceased pursuit, Captain.” A pause. Then: “I’ve got antimatter explosions all over my scanners, Captain. Enemy ships being destroyed throughout the system.”

  Frette was looking at her own screen, her eyes focused in mesmerized attention as the hundreds of enemy ships in the system disappeared, every one of them, it appeared, consumed by the fury of matter-antimatter annihilation.

  For an instant she wondered what was happening. Then it was suddenly clear. She had come to Deneb, part of the tiny force sent to take control of the Regent, to compel it to stand its forces down…and to destroy the evil machine once and for all. But she re
alized she hadn’t dared to truly believe they had a chance. Until now.

  “The enemy ships are destroying themselves,” she said, trying with limited success to keep the shock from her tone. “They did it!”

  The bridge erupted into wild cheers, officers leaping from their seats and thrusting their arms in the air while they shouted. Was it really possible?

  “Captain, I’m picking up a nuclear detonation on the planet. Smaller than the antimatter blasts, but big nevertheless.”

  Frette was silent for a moment, just staring straight ahead, ignoring the riotous celebration going on around her. She knew she should settle things down, but she didn’t. They deserve this—after the last twenty-one months, and the years of war before that—they damned well deserve to celebrate.

  Is it really possible? Is the Regent gone, destroyed?

  “Lieutenant, bring us into planetary orbit. I’m going to take a risk and contact the landing party.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Frette felt Cadogan shake as the engines exerted a pulse of thrust. She felt it pushing her back into her seat, but just for a moment. Then it shut down, and the sensation of freefall returned.

  “Six minutes to deceleration, Captain. Eight minute forty seconds to orbital insertion.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant. Carry on.”

  She leaned back, silent, waiting. But there was only one thought in her mind.

  My God, is the Regent really dead?

  * * *

  “It’s bad, sir. There’s a chance we can save him if we get him back to Cadogan, but there’s not much time.” Thorn was the Marine medic, the closest thing they had to a real doctor.

  The rest of the Marines—the few that had survived the deadly mission—stood around in a rough circle, staring down at their leader. Connor Frasier was a popular officer, the son of one of the Corps’ great heroes, and a Marine who had proven himself for his own account. Watching him lying on the ground, naked, covered with a single silver emergency blanket was harder for them than charging into a storm of enemy fire. Marines didn’t like being helpless, and they liked watching one of their heroes that way even less.