by Ian Douglas
And they would be making the Stargate transit with a solid victory under their belts. Yesterday, shortly after they’d arrived in orbit around Anneau, a PE shuttle had flown up and out of the gas giant’s gravity well and approached the Skybase. On board was Major George Tomanaga, Lieutenants Fitzpatrick and Lee, and the other Marine personnel captured when the PanEuropeans had discovered and taken over the listening post. Lee had been in a medical stasis tube, still undergoing treatment from her radiation exposure in the Starwall system. She was on board the medical support ship Barton now, and the doctors and med AIs all promised a rapid recovery. Evidently, she’d already, and with some vehemence, volunteered to join the MIEF’s aerospace wing.
She would be welcome. The final butcher’s bill, the irrecoverables, for the Puller system engagement had not been bad, considering the scope of the victory—76 naval personnel on board the Thor and the Morrigan, and 92 Marines—most of those last picked off during their approach to the Rommel. Fifteen Marines, though, had been aerospace fighter pilots killed in the engagement against Rommel and her fighters, and 1MIEF would be entering the next phase of operations with a serious weakness in her complement of ASF flight officers.
Damn, but that fight had been a near-run thing. If the Marine boarding parties had not been able to take down the Rommel, the monitor would have pounded the Commonwealth ships into scrap, and the PanEuropeans would have been sitting there waiting when Skybase had reemerged from paraspace. The warships she carried couldn’t fight from inside the base’s hangar bay, and Skybase would have been helpless under Rommel’s powerful, long-range accelerator guns.
But Rommel had surrendered, though her ownership still had to be determined by negotiation. The PanEuropeans, naturally enough, wanted the monitor back. The MIEF had returned her crew as part of the general post-battle exchange of POWs, but, frankly, Alexander was hoping to be able to incorporate the Rommel into the expeditionary force. Certainly, there was plenty of historical precedent in naval history regarding the incorporation of captured warships into the victor’s fleet. According to his last report from Earth, however, the politicians were going at it hot and heavy now, arguing the fine points of the battle, and trying to hammer out a peace before the situation could deteriorate any further.
Alexander didn’t really care what the outcome was, so long as 1MIEF had free access through the Puller 659 system to the Stargate.
He could see much of that fleet now, from his vantage point on the Skybase observation deck. For three days after the battle, Skybase had been shuttling back and forth between the carefully measured metrics of Assembly Point Yankee and the equally precisely measured volume of space at the Earth-Moon L-3 point. In threes and in fours and in fives, depending on the masses of the vessels involved, Skybase had taken on board the ships of 1MIEF and brought them across the light-years to this system, eighty ships, ranging from sleek corvettes to massive assault carriers, attack transports, and the three centerpieces of the MIEF naval task force, the 80,000-ton planet-class battlecruisers, Mars, Ishtar, and Chiron.
The largest ship in the fleet, of course—with the word “ship” used somewhat advisedly—was Skybase itself. Four Atlas-class fleet tugs had been solidly anchored to the structure’s hull; their gravitic drives would provide a small measure of maneuverability for the huge space-going base. Unofficially, at least, Skybase had been tagged with a new name that had tended to transform the MIEF headquarters from an “it” to a “her,” from a military orbital base to an active warship.
The name was Hermes, and it had no doubt originally been proposed, Alexander thought, with tongue firmly in cheek. Hermes had been the swift messenger god of the ancient Greeks, to be sure. With its—no, her—ability to translate back into Solar space, the UCS Hermes would certainly fit the role of messenger in this coming campaign, but the huge structure was anything but swift.
Alexander was still questioning his own decision to include Skybase—Hermes—on the fleet roster. She was so damned slow that she would be of very little help in a major fleet action, and by providing the enemy with an easy target, she might even prove to be a serious liability. What had tipped the scales in so far as making the decision was the fact that including Hermes did have some important positives. Hermes could maintain instant communication with Earth no matter where in the Galaxy she ended up, and she was big enough to carry the gravitometric measuring gear necessary for establishing new translation points elsewhere. With that facility, Hermes could slip back to Earth and pick up reinforcements—personnel, ships, and supplies—no matter where among the stars the MIEF might find itself.
But there was more. Hermes had also been a trickster god, the god of thieves, the god of travelers, and the god of cunning, all traits that the MIEF was going to need when it came up against the Xul. In myth, Hermes had been the god who’d lulled Argus, Hera’s hundred-eyed guardian monster, to sleep in order to free the captive maiden Io.
Alexander knew enough cultural anthropology, however, to know something else about Hermes the god. He’d been a psychopomp—a kind of divine escort who guided the souls of the dead down to the underworld.
And that association was just a little too close to the mark to bear thinking about. A lot of Marines and naval personnel were going to end up passing to whatever afterlife there might be within the next months and years, and it had been the UCS Hermes that had brought them here to the stargate to make that possible.
Senior commanders, Alexander thought wryly, should not be permitted such thoughts. The perils of too damned much education…
“General Alexander?” Cara’s voice cut in.
“Yes?”
“A message incoming from Major Tomanaga on the LP—conventional lasercom. Would you care to see it?”
“Please.”
A communications window opened in his mind. After a momentary burst of radiation-induced snow, the face of Major Tomanaga appeared, making his report. The major had asked that he be allowed to again take command of the LP, as soon as his debriefing on board the Hermes had been complete.
“Status report,” Tomanaga said, “Operation Gorgon, at oh-nine-thirty hours GMT, day oh-four, month twelve. Expected time delay thirty-one minutes, twelve seconds. The xenotexpert AIs have completed retuning the Puller Stargate. We have successfully recovered three unmanned gate probes sent through earlier this morning, and verified that we now have access to the region designated as Aquila Space. So far, we have detected no indication of a Xul presence on the other side. Just maybe we’ve lucked out on this one.
“At your direction, we are ready to send through manned units, and then to commence movement of the fleet.
“Tomanaga, Major, commanding officer of Listening Post Puller, out.
“This message will repeat automatically….”
The speed-of-light time delay for normal-space messages meant that reports like this one were monologues, transmitted without expectation of a back-and-forth discussion. Tomanaga had transmitted the message thirty minutes ago, and it had taken that long for the laser light carrying it to crawl down in-system.
“Acknowledge message receipt,” Alexander told Cara. “And pass the word to the rest of the fleet, will you? They should know.”
“Yes, General.”
One of Alexander’s chief concerns now was the issue of morale. Platoon AIs had been unanimous in their reports from the squad bays throughout the fleet. The MIEF Marines knew that the PanEuropean Republic was not their primary target now, and they begrudged the fact that ninety-two fellow Marines were dead for no good reason.
Damn it, the whole political situation with the Republic should never have come up in the first place; Operation Gorgon was, first and foremost, an action by all of Humankind against the Galaxy’s ancient masters. Humans should not be killing humans. Not now. The MIEF Marines wanted to get into action, they were eager to get into the fight, but against the Xul threat which had held Humankind hostage now for eight centuries, not their misguided fellow huma
ns.
They would welcome the news that the way was open for the invasion of a Xul-dominated Galaxy.
“Another call, General,” Cara said. “Admiral D’Urville.”
“Put it through.”
Another communications window opened. Since D’Urville was on board the Aurore now, this could actually be a communications exchange, with a time delay of less than a second.
D’Urville’s bearded face appeared in the window. “General Alexander?” Again, he spoke in perfect Anglic.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“I’ve just received an FTL transmission from Aurore, and I thought you should know about it.”
“Yes?”
“Apparently, the Commonwealth Senate has agreed to return the Rommel to the Republic fleet. Something about ‘creating an atmosphere of cooperation and sensibility in these trying times,’ I believe was how they worded it.”
Alexander had, frankly, been expecting as much. There was within the Senate a strong undercurrent of appeasement—as though the good will of enemies could be purchased through concession.
In Alexander’s experience, the reverse was always true.
“Very well. I will await my own orders before returning the vessel. I’m sure you understand.” He made a mental note to check with Intelligence, to see if they could confirm that message from Aurore.
“Of course. Actually, however, General, I had something else in mind.”
“Eh?”
D’Urville sighed. “I was wondering, sir, if you would accept a foreign contingent within your expeditionary force?”
Alexander blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Let me get this straight. You want to come along?”
“Some of us do, General.” He glanced left and right, as though looking to see if anyone else was close by in the compartment he was transmitting from. “You must be aware, your intelligence service must have told you, of the schism within our fleet.”
“Sir, I cannot comment on matters of fleet intelligence, either to confirm or deny. You must know that.”
“Of course, of course. One must always follow the rules, non? But we do regard your intelligence services with considerable respect. I would be very surprised to find out that you were unaware of the split between Traditionalist Catholic and Reformed Catholic elements within our fleet.”
“What does all this have to do with a…with the foreign contingent you mentioned?”
“A number of us happen to agree with you, General. About who, or, rather, about what the real enemy is. And we want to help.”
“I…see. And just how many of you feel this way?”
“I don’t have exact figures. But several thousand, at least. Enough, perhaps, to man several ships. Including the Rommel.” He hesitated. “A number of the Traditionalist Catholics have expressed an interest in…serving elsewhere, for the duration of the emergency. And others of us, well, our services may no longer be required by the government at Theta Bootis IV.”
Alexander considered this for a long moment. D’Urville seemed sincere…even eager.
But…
“Admiral, I’m going to have to refuse.”
“But…”
“This is an issue for our respective governments to work out. Not a couple of old warhorses like us.”
“Governments, monsieur, can rarely see past the ends of their noses.” He sounded bitter. “And some of us…no longer have the favor of their government.”
D’Urville, Alexander thought, must have been cashiered—or felt it was about to happen…the penalty for failure.
“Are you saying you’re in trouble with your superiors?”
D’Urville shrugged. “‘Trouble’ is one way to say it, General.”
Damn. But Alexander was in no position to accept the man’s offer. The PanEuropeans were the enemy, or, at least, an enemy, despite grand words and declarations to the contrary. Besides, folding a PE force into the combined Naval-Marine task force would bring its own nightmare of logistical and political problems. The 1MIEF was a team, trained, honed, and experienced. Nothing would screw that balance faster than adding outsiders to the mix.
The thought did give Alexander pause, however. The supreme hope of passing through the Puller gate to Aquila Space was the possibility that there was someone there, an alien someone—the ultimate outsiders—who might join with Humankind to fight the Xul. Any civilization 1MIEF found in Aquila Space would be infinitely more difficult to communicate with, to work with, would be far more alien than the PanEuropeans ever could be.
But…he couldn’t risk it. Not for the possible gain of a few ships. Even the Rommel.
“There will be plenty for all of us to do in this war, Admiral,” Alexander told the man. “It may fall upon you to defend your homeworlds, if we fail.”
“I…understand.” He shook his head. “The problem is, General, that most in my government will not be interested in helping you. They fear repercussions should you fail, and the Xul find us.”
“My government has its own share of people like that. Believe me, you have my sympathy. Here.” He transmitted an eddress. “That will connect you with the personal AI of Danis Sloan.”
“Ah! Your Defense Advisory Council, yes?”
“He was chairperson of the Council, yes,” Alexander said. “Four years ago he was ousted by Marie Devereaux. She holds the position now.
“Now, I don’t think Devereaux will be interested in your joining in with the crusade against the Xul, either. In fact, I suspect that she’s in pretty tight with some people in the PanEuropean Republic. I do know she doesn’t care much for the idea of Marines poking around in Xul space. The Treaty of Chiron must stand, and all of that.”
“We call them hommes du l’apaisement,” D’Urville said. “The Appeasers.”
Alexander chuckled, the sound harsh. “I think every government has them. But every government has good men as well. Sloan still has considerable power, and if he can’t help you, he’ll know who in the Commonwealth government can.”
D’Urville recorded the eddress. “Thank you, sir. And…may I ask, how long before you pass through the gate?” Damn it, the man was actually trying to be friendly. But Alexander couldn’t take the risk.
“I can’t tell you that, sir. Security.”
“I see. I wish you well, however. And I wish you all success.”
“Thank you, General. We’ll need it. We’ll all need it.”
* * * *
Squad Bay, UCS Samar
Anneau orbit, Puller 659 System
1740 hrs GMT
“I got killed,” Garroway told the circle Marines in the squad bay lounge, “three fucking times this afternoon. Frankly, I’m getting a little sick of it.”
“Well, practice does make perfect,” Sandre Kenyon offered, laughing.
She was sitting next to him on the lounge, and he turned and gave her a hard, playful shove. “Hey, practice getting killed I do not need!”
Garroway was sitting with eight other Marines of First Platoon, Charlie Company, of the 55th MARS. He was beginning to feel like he was fitting in with the unit. Oh, they still called him “newbie” and “fungie”—that last derived from “FNG,” or “fucking new guy.” But he was also accepted.
Surviving his first live combat with them had helped, of course.
“What I want to know,” Corporal Marin Delazlo said, “is how they know what to program into those sims for the Xul side of things, y’know?”
“Marines have fought the Xul before,” Corporal Gonzales said. “And won.”
“Yeah, yeah, but the last time that happened was…when? Five hundred years ago?”
“Twenty-one August 2323, old-style,” Sergeant Richard Chu said.
“Five hundred fifty-four years,” Garroway added, running the numbers through his implant math processor.
“Okay, 554 years. Yeah…you’d know that, wouldn’t you, fungie? You had an ancestor or something in that battle.”
“Or someth
ing.”
“Well, my point is that in all that time, don’t you think the Xul will have evolved some new tactics? You know, they say that we’re always prepared to fight the last war, never the next one.”
“Well, if we know anything about the Xul,” Corporal Ran Allison said slowly, “we know they’re damned slow on the uptake. Static culture, like they’re locked in to how they perceive the universe, and in how they react to it. The xenopsych guys think they haven’t changed much in half a million years.”
“They think,” Delazlo said, the words almost a sneer. “And not one of them has actually met a Xul, or talked to one!”
“Well, neither have you,” Kenyon pointed out. “Or any of us.”
“Right! So what good are all the endless sims?” He reached across from his chair and rubbed Garroway’s close-shaven scalp. “Our baby-faced fungie, here, can practice getting killed until Doomsday and it’s not going to help him when the real show goes down, am I right?”
Garroway knocked the hand aside and laughed. “Fuck you very much, Corporal.”
“Thank you, I’ll take two.”
Delazlo had a point, Garroway thought. The simulations had all been much the same…variations, in fact, of the assault on the Rommel. Time after time, in a kind of free-flowing lucid dream fed to him by the platoon AI, he’d buttoned into a SAP and been fired across a flame-shot blackness toward an immense…thing, a lean golden needle 2 kilometers long, or a space base like a small moon covered with towers, turrets, and domes. Each time, his SAP had tunneled through a strange hull material that seemed to grow and shift around him, and he’d emerged inside a vast maze of inner passageways and tunnels. The Xul had been represented by elongated egg-shaped machines with multiple tentacles and glittering lenses, some serving as eyes, others as weapons.
There were always a horrific lot of the things, and beating them generally meant firing fast, firing accurately, and staying in a tight group with your fellow Marines. The first two times when he’d been rudely jolted out of the simulation as a “kill” today, it had been after he’d been separated from the other Marines in his fireteam by a sudden and unexpected influx of new Xul combat machines from an unexpected direction. Sometimes, the damned things seemed to just mold themselves right out of the surrounding bulkheads.
