The Long-Range War

by Christopher Nuttall

  General Wooleen looked amused. “Short of bargaining with the rebels, I assume?”

  Neola gave him a sharp look. There was nothing to be gained by bargaining with rebels, save - perhaps - for future trouble. The rebels couldn’t speak for the entire planet, let alone the sector. And besides, granting any sort of legitimacy to one rebel group would encourage others. She could see certain advantages in making tactical agreements, even if she had no intention of keeping them, but the long-term effects would be bad. They would certainly undermine her standing with the interstellar combines.

  “Take the ring, General,” she ordered. “And destroy anyone who stands in your way.”

  She closed the connection, took a moment to centre herself and then strode through the hatch and onto the CIC. The fleet was slowly coming to life, hundreds of ships checking in as the news spread from ship to ship. Neola hoped it wouldn’t cause a panic. They might be cut off from their supply lines, but they had more than enough firepower to recover N-Gann and reopen the links to the core worlds. Her crews would understand that, she thought. She made a mental note to make sure that her commanding officers explained it to them.

  And we were riding high after our first major battle, she thought. Being defeated, simply by having our supply lines cut, is going to hurt.

  “Your Excellency,” her aide said. “The fleet will be ready to depart in two hours.”

  “Very good,” Neola said. Compared to just how long it had taken her first major command to prepare to depart, it was fantastic. She wondered, idly, just how long it took the humans to get a fleet underway. “Have you forwarded the data to the analysis decks?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” the aide said. “They haven’t been able to shed any light on just how the human ship was able to jump under the shield.”

  Of course not, Neola thought. That would be too easy.

  She sat down and keyed her consoles, running the record again and again. Could the humans have set out to trick the defenders into believing that they’d jumped under the shield? It was possible, although unlikely. The humans couldn’t have sneaked into low orbit unless they’d somehow managed to design an improved cloaking device. She wouldn’t dismiss the possibility out of hand, even though it seemed improbable. N-Gann had been surrounded by layer upon layer of active sensors. If the humans had a cloaking device that could stand up to such scrutiny, they would have been using it everywhere.

  “Your Excellency,” the aide said. “The fleet is ready to depart.”

  “Then take us out of orbit,” Neola said. “And straight to the gravity point.”

  She studied the display for a long moment, silently calculating the timing. There was no way to avoid the simple fact that it would take at least two weeks to reach N-Gann. The humans would have plenty of time to destroy everything they couldn’t take with them, if they didn’t think they could hold N-Gann against her fleet. She had no idea which way they’d jump, either. If they’d had enough time to repair the shield generators and start the orbital nodes churning out weapons and defences, they might just manage to turn N-Gann into a powerful fortress. And that would open the core worlds to attack.

  The core worlds are heavily defended, she told herself, firmly. They cannot turn the base into a significant threat.

  The fleet slowly approached the gravity point, the first elements slipping through and vanishing from the display. Neola tensed, despite herself. There was no reason to believe that Mokpo had been attacked, or even that there was a significant enemy presence within the system, but she felt unnerved. The human attack on N-Gann had taken her by surprise. There was no way they should have been able to take the fleet base and turn it against her ...

  And that makes our deployment predictable, she thought. The humans had to know she couldn’t leave them in place. At best, she would arrive to find a devastated world; at worst, she would encounter an impregnable fortress. The human fleet could simply hide under the planetary shield as it prepared for war. They know we’re coming.

  Her eyes narrowed. Perhaps the humans would hide under the forcefield. It would be frustrating, but it wouldn’t be a complete disaster. Indeed, she could see some advantages to the whole affair. The human fleet could be bottled up indefinitely while she redeployed her ships to hit Earth and destroy their Galactic Alliance. Given time, she could even mass the firepower necessary to crack the shield and smash the fleet once and for all. She doubted the humans would let her manoeuvre them into such a position, but ... they might have no other choice. Her fleet outgunned theirs by a considerable margin.

  And they didn’t do themselves any favours by shooting missiles at the planetary defence force, she thought. They must be on the verge of shooting themselves dry.

  “The scouts have returned, Your Excellency,” her aide said. “Mokpo is secure.”

  “Then take us through,” Neola said. She allowed herself a moment of relief. “And then set course for the next gravity point.”

  Her lips curved into a cold smile. She had more than enough time to study the records, to draw up contingency plans, to decide how to proceed ... she could do it. Losing N-Gann had been a setback, she conceded, but it was hardly a disaster. And the war was far from over.

  We will win this, she thought. And the humans will be utterly destroyed.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “The map says this is meant to be a garden, sir,” Trooper Rowe said. “Did we get lost?”

  Martin snorted, remembering all the jokes about junior officers who tried to read maps. It was hard to get lost in the ring, despite its immense size. His suit’s navigational systems had little difficulty keeping him firmly localised, even when he went crawling up the ventilation shafts. They’d passed through a set of airlocks into what was, effectively, a gated community for rich Galactics. The anthill-like house they’d walked past as they made their way towards the garden had been the alien equivalent of a mansion. And the garden ...

  He felt a pang at the sight before him, even though he’d never been a big gardening fan. The Galactics had turned their private estate into a botanic garden, but the plants and trees were dead, slain by the invaders. They’d breached the upper levels and vented the atmosphere, condemning any unprotected individuals within the sector to death. Martin shivered as they slipped into the dead treeline, relying on their battlesuits to hide them from any enemy sensors. They’d discovered an alien family that had been killed by exposure when they’d searched one of the nearby houses.

  “I think they’ll be coming down the road,” he said, motioning for his men to take up positions within the dead growth. “Get ready.”

  He settled down to wait, his suit scanning the airwaves for enemy transmissions. He’d seen gated communities before, back when he’d been a young man on Earth, but the sheer size of the Galactic residence dwarfed the upper-class communities in Chicago. It had taken him years to understand just how thoroughly the Earth aristocrats - in all, but name - and their hangers-on had screwed the poorer communities. The Galactics didn’t even try to hide behind absurd buzzwords that they’d be hard-pressed to define, if challenged. They seemed to think that their dominance was a law of nature.

  An alert flashed up in front of him, suggesting that alien forces were quite close. Martin tensed, scanning the roadway. The garden - and the network of gated communities - would make ideal supply lines for the invaders, if they pushed their way down the road before the defenders could get in place to stop them. Martin was surprised they hadn’t forced their way into the gated communities weeks ago, back when they’d first landed. Colonel Chang had speculated that the alien aristocrats had tried to keep their private communities out of the fighting, even though they’d already been lost. If that was true, and Martin had no trouble believing it, they’d clearly lost power. The enemy were working hard to open up new supply lines.

  And kill everyone they come across, he thought, grimly. The bastards had just kept opening airlock after airlock, steadily venting the entire ring. I
t wouldn’t be long until they exterminated every last living thing, from the defenders and alien rebels to people who were just trying to stay out of the fighting. They’re growing more ruthless.

  His eyes narrowed as the lead enemy vehicle came into view, its turrets traversing from side to side as its crew scanned for hostiles. The boxy vehicle looked crude, for something the Galactics had produced, but it was effective. He knew from grim experience that the main guns could blast through solid armour, while the soldiers concealed in the back would be protected from incoming fire while they readied themselves for combat. There was a certain simplicity about the design that he found admirable. It made him wonder if the Galactics had really invented it for themselves.

  They probably had someone with real experience do the designing, he thought, as several more vehicles came into view. There are no bells and whistles on those vehicles.

  “Take aim,” he hissed. “Fire on my command.”

  He mentally checked the escape plan as he targeted the lead vehicle, bracing himself for the coming engagement. The plan was relatively simple, but there was no way to know how the enemy would react. They might flinch back, giving his team a chance to escape, or they might charge forward recklessly. Martin hoped it would be the former, but feared it would be the latter. Other teams had set up ambushes to teach the invaders not to chase them too boldly, but he hadn’t had the manpower to set up a second line of traps. They had to get out before the enemy decided what to do and did it.

  “Fire,” he snapped.

  The HVM shot from the launch tube and slammed into the lead vehicle, punching through the armour and detonating inside the hull. Martin felt a flicker of pity for anyone inside the vehicle, then turned and started crawling towards the escape route. He heard two more explosions behind him, followed by a string of blistering curses. Trooper Hawthorne had missed his target. He’d be the target of a great deal of ribbing when the marines got back to base.

  He heard a whining sound behind him, followed by a wave of plasma fire that blasted over his head. The dead trees exploded, pieces of debris flying in all directions. He expected them to catch fire, but they didn’t. Of course not, he recalled as he kept moving. Fire couldn’t burn when there was no oxygen. He glanced back, just in time to see one of the surviving vehicles unloading its complement of armoured troopers. Martin unhooked a grenade from his belt and hurled it towards the aliens, then kept moving. That should slow pursuit long enough for them to escape.

  “They’re having problems keeping up with us,” Sergeant Howe said, as they reached the hatch. “Shall we go?”

  Martin frowned. The invaders were normally more aggressive than that. Normally, it took longer to convince them that they didn’t want to pursue the humans as they fled. Was there an ambush down below? But, as they scrambled down the shaft to a transit tube and hurried along it, no ambush materialised. The enemy seemed suddenly reluctant to continue the fight.

  Maybe we hurt them worse than we thought, Martin contemplated, as they passed a checkpoint and entered the safe zone. Or maybe they’re thinking twice about trying to take the entire ring.

  “Ah, Captain,” Captain Patterson said. “Major Griffin wants you and all other officers in the briefing room.”

  “Yes, sir,” Martin said. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The briefing room was nothing more than a large alien compartment that had been pressed into service. But then, that was true of every hidden base. There was no point in trying to establish a proper garrison when the base might be overrun at any moment. “I’m on my way.”

  He strode into the briefing room, poured himself a cup of coffee and took a seat. His fellow officers looked tired and worn, some of them thoroughly unkempt. Martin rubbed the stubble on his jaw, silently thanking God that Yolanda liked him clean-shaven. He had resisted the suggestion that he shouldn’t grow stubble at all - it was a simple medical procedure - but he had had its growth retarded. The others, it seemed, hadn’t thought to have it done until it was too late. Some of them had full-grown beards.

  But at least we’re still fighting, he thought. He’d known commanding officers who’d throw a fit if one of their subordinates grew stubble, but he’d never wanted to go into battle behind them. They haven’t whipped us yet.

  “There have been some interesting developments,” Major Griffin said, as he stood at the front of the room. He didn’t have a podium, but he didn’t need it. His voice was loud enough to be heard at the far side of the room. “The first one is that the enemy fleet has been withdrawn.”

  An officer stuck up a hand. “Withdrawn, sir? They’re not heading towards Sol?”

  Major Griffin didn’t look unhappy at the interruption. “We still have links to stealthed recon platforms,” he said. “They confirm that the enemy fleet proceeded through the Mokpo Point, not the Garza Point. It’s hard to be entirely sure, of course, but intelligence believes the fleet has done something that has forced the enemy to respond. We don’t know what.”

  Hit their supply lines, Martin guessed. Yolanda was out there, somewhere. He hoped she was still alive. Or ... or what?

  “The enemy is no longer in control of the high orbitals,” Major Griffin said. “They have left a handful of warships behind, presumably to provide orbital fire support, but the majority of their fleet has departed. That gives us an opportunity to go on the offensive.”

  “Unless it’s a trap,” Captain Yates said. “They might be ready for us.”

  “They were showing a marked sensitivity to losses,” Martin said, remembering how the aliens had practically let his team go. “They may think they won’t get any reinforcements in a hurry.”

  “Either way, it could easily be a trap,” Yates insisted. “They might want to lure us up from the depths.”

  “They still can’t bombard the ring,” Captain Thompson offered. “We could inflict some serious pain.”

  “At a cost,” Yates said. “We could win the tactical engagement, sir, but lose the war.”

  “We are aware of the risks,” Major Griffin said. “But it is our belief that we have to go on the offensive. If the enemy loses here, as well as wherever the fleet hit them, their morale will be weakened.”

  Assuming the Tokomak care about morale, Martin thought. So far, they’ve been happy to keep funnelling people into the tunnels to die.

  He listened, keeping his face an expressionless mask, as Major Griffin outlined the operational plan. It was relatively simple, although in war the simplest things were often the hardest. The aliens wouldn’t see them coming, he thought ... in hindsight, perhaps it had been a mistake to attack the spaceport. Intelligence had insisted that the Tokomak, embarrassed by their mistake, had started to patrol the spaceports thoroughly. They even had troops patrolling the outer edge of the ring itself. Martin doubted that even the legendary Pathfinders could get though the defences without tripping the alarms.

  Too many things could go wrong, he thought. But yeah, we have to go on the offensive.

  Major Griffin threw the plan open for discussion. Yates put his doubts aside and offered a number of suggestions, while Thompson had a couple of suggestions of his own. Martin couldn’t think of any, although he suspected he’d have some later, once he’d had a chance to read the reports and consider the possibilities. There was nothing subtle about the plan, nothing that might catch the aliens by surprise. And yet ... they couldn’t be expecting the humans to go on the offensive. They had to think that there was nothing for the human troops to gain by striking directly at the alien occupiers.

  “It should work,” he said, finally. “When are we going on the offensive?”

  “Two weeks,” Major Griffin said. He sounded pained. “I’d prefer to take the offensive sooner, but ... it depends on just how much of our firepower can be concentrated and deployed. We spread ourselves out for a reason.”

  “Yes, sir,” Yates said. “What about the alien rebels? Do we ask them to assist?”

  “That might be dangerous,” Thompso
n pointed out. “They might betray us.”

  “They wouldn’t betray us to their enemies,” Captain Nasser insisted. “They know we’re their only hope of freedom.”

  “There were collaborators everywhere,” Thompson said. “All it takes is one spy in the right place and our plans will end up in the gutter ...”

  “We will inform them when the balloon goes up,” Major Griffin said. “Even if they don’t have spies amongst them, they will be using the planetary network to communicate. The enemy cannot be allowed to get wind of what we’re doing.”

  “No, sir,” Martin agreed. “And besides, the rebels are seriously undisciplined.”

  There was a low murmur of agreement. No one doubted that the rebels were brave, or that they were prepared to fight against immense odds, but they all knew that the alien rebels were not good soldiers. They could delay the enemy, perhaps even stop them for a while, yet ... it wouldn’t be long until they were pushed aside or simply destroyed. And their tendency to put revenge ahead of reason, and looting ahead of winning, made them liabilities on the battlefield. The rebels had already given the enemy propaganda specialists all the atrocities they could possibly want. It wouldn’t take long for the enemy media to convert a handful of deaths into planet-wide slaughter.