Storm of Vengeance

by Jay Allan

  McDaid smiled, not a look of joy, but the grin of a predator, drunk on the blood of its victim. The Colossus was too large to be destroyed completely by the four small warheads, but now it had huge gashes in its hull, and it was streaming atmosphere and flash-frozen geysers of escaping fluids.

  The energy readings suggested secondary explosions as well, and, as McDaid brought his ship around, his scanners displayed a good view of Midway, pressing forward, its guns firing away at the wounded enemy vessel, like some grim executioner wielding a sharpened axe.

  McDaid knew he’d done his part. And he knew one more thing, too.

  The fighter wasn’t dead as a weapon of war…not yet, at least.

  * * *

  Erika West watched as Rivers’ ships pressed on, moving steadily toward their target. The scanner reports had confirmed that the planet was far from a human paradise, a rocky, hot world, its surface fractured by fissures and swept by violent storms and great tides of molten rock. Its atmosphere was noxious, with clouds of sulfuric acid floating low across the tortured ground. It was the last place any humanoid species, or even their robot replacements, would choose for any productive purpose, save one.

  Antimatter production.

  Antimatter required energy—great, vast amounts of energy—and West’s head almost spun trying to imagine the amount of raw power the planet’s furious volcanic and seismic activity generated.

  The massive construction projects needed to build the accelerators and storage units had to have been nightmarish. She couldn’t imagine how many of the Regent’s sophisticated robots were destroyed in the process, like so many slaves in humanity’s dark history, toiling endlessly, with almost no value placed on their survival. The world was an incarnation of hell, in more ways than one…and it still served in such a capacity, feeding the needs of the Regent, providing the fuel it required in its terrible quest to destroy humanity.

  West’s eyes darted to the display, watching the battle around Strand’s task force as its fury continued to escalate. McDaid’s fighters had just gone in, and her mind had flashed back to past generations of heroes, men and women she’d watched taking their fighters into almost impossible situations. In more than sixty years of war in space, she’d seen all sorts of valor and amazing efforts, but none could ever compare to the sheer, reckless bravery she’d seen from six decades of watching fighter squadrons in action.

  All of Strand’s people were doing well—better than she’d had any right to expect—but they were still dying, fighting off every ship the enemy had sent out…while West’s own vessels stayed back, out of range. She felt sick to her stomach, but she remained where she was, ignoring the stares all around her, the judgment she felt from her officers and spacers each time one of Strand’s ships was destroyed.

  She looked back toward the planet, her stomach tight as Rivers’s attack force move closer and closer to its objective, his skeleton crews no doubt just as glued to their screens as she was, waiting for the first sign the new stealth screens had failed to hide their presence.

  West shook her head as she watched. Maybe the enemy truly hadn’t detected the ships yet…or maybe they were letting them advance. It didn’t make any sense that the First Imperium forces would allow her to get attacking ships close enough to launch on the planet.

  No more than it did to allow her fleet to enter the system unopposed…or to hold back the forces she knew were still there, sheltered somewhere in the shadow of the planet.

  She wanted to go to Strand’s aid. She wanted to do what her people expected…almost demanded. But she wouldn’t.

  She couldn’t.

  Let them hate her if they had to…she’d come here for a reason. She had a plan, one she had shared with Max Harmon, but with no one else in the fleet. Not yet, at least. Soon, Josie Strand would know…and she would become aware of her true role, of what was expected of her.

  West had no doubt her protégé—her successor—would do what she had to do. And, with a bit of fortune, she might even survive to continue the fight.

  West sighed softly. She had devised the plan, put into it all she knew of the Regent, everything her gut told her about how to defeat the hideous machine…and, she was going to see it done, whatever it took.

  It is almost time.

  Six decades of war in space…all leading to this moment.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Central Headquarters

  Victory City, Earth Two

  Earth Two Date 02.16.43

  “I shouldn’t have approved the assignment. I should have said no.” Max Harmon sat quietly in his office, his head buried in his hands. He’d have never allowed anyone to see him in anything like his current state. No one but Mariko.

  “You need to stop beating yourself up over this, Max. You had to let him go.” Mariko paused for a few seconds. “Terrance has had a difficult time, and for all he has brought some of it on himself, it’s hard to imagine how anyone could have been in his shoes and done much better. He’s trying to set his life straight, now, and you know he will always be in the shade of his father’s immense shadow. He had to go…and you had to send him. Neither of you had a choice.”

  Harmon nodded, but he still didn’t look convinced. “He’s not ready, Mariko.”

  “He’s not in command…he’s just one of a whole corps of officers. You send twenty-two-year old Academy graduates…how could you not allow Terrance to deploy? After all he’s been through, he went back, and he finished the Academy. He’s earned the right to be with his comrades.”

  Harmon knew she was right. But Terrance Compton II was also the son of his mentor, of a man who had been a second father to him…and the only father he’d had after his own had been killed at the Slaughter Pen when he was a child. Admiral Compton was gone now, and Harmon knew he was all that remained to look after the great man’s son. And, he’d just sent the man to war.

  “Terrance, of all people, would have understood, Max. He’d have done the same thing.” She looked at him, catching the doubtful expression on his face and frowning. “Don’t give me that look. I knew Terrance Compton, too. He was a true hero…but he was a man, too, Max. He would have struggled with the same emotions, but in the end, he would have realized he had to let his son live his life, make his own decisions.”

  Harmon was silent for a while, a minute perhaps, or two. Mariko sat quietly, giving him the time he needed. He was grateful, as he had been countless times, that he’d married another combat officer…hell, not just an officer, but a pilot. And, even among that group of semi-crazy, wild cowboy fighter jockeys, Mariko Fujin had been a legend. She understood war and danger and the pain of losing friends and comrades…every bit as well as he did. Whatever combination of components had built their relationship—affection, attraction, trust—he knew that she understood what he’d gone through over the years.

  The two had been happy, at least he thought she was mostly happy. They’d had their problems, of course, mostly stemming from his job. She’d resented that, of course, the constant, unending demands on his time, the effect all of it had on their family over the years. He even suspected, at times, it had almost driven her away from him, but in the end, he knew she understood the call duty had on him…and she’d also realized the danger that threatened them all and how little choice he’d truly had.

  He wasn’t sure his daughters understood it as well as their mother did. Greta and Camille loved him, he was sure of that. But they’d been born after the fleet reached Earth Two, and neither had served in the military. He knew they couldn’t understand what drove him, not completely, not in the way their mother did. They’d never complained about how busy he’d always been, how many times he’d been pulled away from time spent with them. Still, there was something, a closeness he craved that simply wasn’t there. Another price he’d paid to duty. The cost of carrying on Terrance Compton’s work.

  “I know you’re right…but I just can’t reconcile with putting Terrance’s son at risk.”

/>   “We’re all at risk, aren’t we?” It didn’t really call for an answer, and she didn’t wait for one. “We all have a right to do what we feel we must, to work for our survival any way we can. Would you prefer that Terrance’s son had never gained control of his destiny? That he’d continued to waste his life, protected by you but never making any kind of contribution? Is that what you think your old mentor would have wanted?”

  “No, of course not. But, if he…” Harmon’s words drifted to silence.

  “Dies? If that happens, we will deal with it then. And, we will mourn our friend, and the son of our greatest hero. And, then we will go on, Max. As Terrance—both Terrances—would want us to do.”

  Harmon managed a smile, or at least something closely approximating one. “I never could have gotten this far without you…you know that, right? I’m sorry we never did so many of the things we always said we would.” He almost added, “we will,” but something stopped him. He’d made enough empty promises like that, and he wasn’t going to do it again. He knew he was trapped, that he couldn’t escape his position…and the power and obligation that went along with it.

  “Max, if you want me to tell you I’ve never imagined what it might have been like if you’d let someone else step into your shoes—if it had been possible to do that—you’re out of luck. I’ve thought about it a lot. But I’ve never—not once—regretted our lives together, and I’m ready for whatever comes in the future. You might have worn out a wife who was some kind of scientist or engineer, but you married a Lightning pilot, my dear husband. I’ve seen more shit than anything you can throw at me.” She smiled and reached across the desk, putting her hand on his.

  Harmon looked across at her. He was grateful that they’d found each other. He wondered if he could have made it so long without her.

  “Besides, you might have sent Terrance out on duty, but you and Erika managed to keep him out of the fleet heading toward G48.”

  Harmon felt his insides tighten. He wasn’t sure Compton would be any better off where he was going, but just the thought of the trap he’d sent West and her fleet into made him nauseous.

  “Oh, come on, Max. You don’t think you were that clever, do you?” Her voice turned somber. “Neither one of you wanted to let him near that much danger.” She was silent for a moment. Mariko was very fond of Erika West, and Harmon knew his wife understood just how much danger the fleet was in.

  What she didn’t realize, what no one but he and Erika West knew, was that Force B, cobbled together from just about the last ships remaining at Earth Two, was in just as deadly a situation.

  And, Terrance Compton II was with Force B.

  * * *

  There were shouts all around, people running, almost contagious panic. The people of Victory City had gotten used to Marines rushing around over the past days, scanning crowds, even smashing through doors. The crackdown had been harder edged than any activity ordered by President Harmon, during the dozen years of his absolute rule.

  But, this was something else.

  The Marines had opened up and started a full-scale firefight…and then moments later, the building they’d surrounded exploded. Two of the Marines had been killed instantly, but the rest had been far enough from ground zero for their armor to protect them.

  The same couldn’t be said for the civilians who’d been unable to get away when the shooting started. There were nearly two dozen of them when the bombs went off, crouched down, trying to hide from the hail of gunfire crisscrossing down the street.

  Most of them were dead now, and the Marines were frantically trying to get aid to the few still clinging to life. The explosive had been a nasty one, and a quick scan had confirmed the presence of radioactives. There had been fear for a few moments that a nuclear weapon had been used, but it quickly became apparent that the device had simply been seeded with nuclear waste to increase its killing potential.

  Connor Frasier was standing in the middle of the street, shouting out commands, demanding briefings from every officer and squad leader on the scene. He’d been uncomfortable with the role of his Marines in hunting down rogue political groups, but the sight of half a dozen children lying on the street had pushed him to the limits of his tolerance. His Marines were hunting down terrorists, nothing more, and as far as he was concerned, they were nothing more than rabid animals, to be put down without a second thought. And, he swore he would find them all, every last one of them…those who’d planned and perpetrated the two terrible attacks, and anyone who supported them.

  He would find them…and when he did, they would never be sorrier than they would in that moment.

  He would save Max Harmon the trouble of trying them. When he was done there wouldn’t be a need for anything but a pack of street-cleaning bots.

  * * *

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. President.”

  “Of course, Achilles…you know you can come see me any time you need to.” Max Harmon walked around his desk and gestured toward the pair of small sofas facing each other on the far side of his office. “Please, sit. It’s good to see you. I’ve always considered you a friend…and save for one instance—one the two of us resolved—you have been my ally as well.” A pause. “And, I’m Max…you know that.”

  “I want to be your ally, Max. I mean I am your ally.” It was self-correction, but it was more than that, too. Mules didn’t misspeak, not often at least, and Achilles was annoyed with himself for letting his edginess affect what he said.

  “I’d be pleased enough if this was a social call, but I’ve known you your entire life, Achilles, and I am quite sure you have something you wish to discuss. Does it have to do with the Plague treatments? Have the experiments continued to perform well?”

  Achilles was standing on a precipice in his mind, teetering on the edge between truth and fabrication. He’d considered a number of answers to that expected question, mostly variations of one kind of another along the lines of, “it looks promising, but we need more time to develop it.” But, in the end, he’d decided to tell the truth, to trust Harmon. It had worked twelve years before, and the president had never given him cause to regret his friendship.

  It was difficult to accept something like that on faith, particularly for a Mule. The Hybrids had emotions, sometimes fiery ones that were difficult to control, but at their core they were creatures of logic, of calculation and analysis. Achilles had struggled with accepting trust as a basis for certainty.

  “The experiments went extremely well. Both of the patients have been completely cured, no detectable signs of the effects of the Plague remaining in either of them.”

  “That’s amazing, Achilles. I knew you had to be on to something, but if you’ve actually cured the Plague…”

  “Perhaps even more than that, Max.” A pause. “The procedure is one of cellular repair…and it has many other possible uses.” He paused. “Themistocles even believes he can utilize the technique to repair Admiral Frette’s injuries and revive her.” Achilles looked nervously across at Harmon.

  Earth Two’s president stared back, a shocked look on his face. Achilles knew that Nicki Frette was one of his closest friends…and even more. Frette had saved Harmon’s life more than forty years earlier, when they’d led the mission that had destroyed the first Regent. He’d known his words would hit Harmon hard, and it was clear to him that they had.

  “Is this truly possible?” He hesitated, staring at his desk with a look of shock on his face. “Is it dangerous?”

  “There is no one on Earth Two who can match Themistocles for his medical and biological knowledge. There are, however, by definition, no guarantees with any new discovery. He believes it will work, and my analysis confirms this. You must ask yourself…how often have my people been wrong about such matters?” Achilles knew his last statement would seem arrogant to a Normal, even to Max Harmon, though he’d meant it only in the most purely factual terms.

  Harmon looked uncertain.

  “Whether Themistocles
proceeds with his treatment on Admiral Frette is, of course, your decision. You are not only Earth Two’s president, but with Admiral West away with the fleet, you are the closest thing Nicki Frette has to next of kin.” Achilles paused. The Mule was rarely hesitant to say what had to be said, but he was finding it difficult to finish what he’d come to tell Harmon. “It is also your choice in another way.”

  Harmon had been looking down at the small table between the sofas, but now he glanced back up toward Achilles. “What do you mean?”

  “Twelve years ago, we negotiated, Max…you and I. I accepted your word and your promises, and then I persuaded all the Mules to support your…assumption…of power. I trusted you then, as I have ever since.” Another pause. “As I do now.”

  “What is it, Achilles? I hope you know by now you can tell me anything.”

  “I hope so.”

  Harmon looked even more concerned. “What is it?”

  “We will treat Admiral Frette if you wish…and we will see that all victims of the Plague are cured. We will do all we can to aid all those in need.” He stared directly at Harmon. “But, all work must be done at the Institute. All patients must be brought there for care. The procedure, and all formulas and processes, must remain known only to Themistocles and myself…and any others of the Mules required to administer treatment.”

  Harmon frowned, his look bordering on suspicion. “Why?”

  “It is the only way.” Achilles had come ready to tell Harmon the entire truth, but now he found himself hesitating again.

  “You’re going to have to explain that to me, Achilles.” Harmon’s voice had an edge to it, but then he paused. When he continued, he appeared to have gotten control over whatever anger he’d felt. “Understand…this isn’t about me mistrusting you. But, can you imagine the conspiracy theories? What the League and others will make of shipping off deathly ill patients to the Institute in the dark of night?”