by Peter Nealen
“What I have seen of the Exile defenses suggests that we will have to conduct a coordinated assault to punch through their orbital constellation and get to the surface,” Maruks continued. “I will need to consult with all the flock war chiefs, and our captains will have to coordinate with yours. That means comm frequencies, encryption, the works.” He looked around at the Regonese leaders, his eyes hard. “And gentlemen? If we are going to lead this assault, then your commanders need to do what we say, when we say it. Understood? We have a great deal more experience in these sorts of assaults than your people do.”
“We have been at war with the Exiles for almost eighty turns,” Guisgef of Flock Reqig protested. “We asked for your help, not your leadership. How can you expect to understand everything about this war when we have been the ones fighting it?”
“You have been standing guard, not fighting a war,” Maruks countered. “When was the last offensive directed against the surface of Borogone? Hmm?” He looked around. None of the leaders could do more than ruffle their feathers and blink in answer to the question. “Exactly. Yes, you know the system and the dynamics of the situation better than we. But we know warfare. It is our calling. If you would see the Exiles and their outsystem allies defeated, then you need to follow us. Give us every bit of insight and knowledge you can; I am not saying that your knowledge of the mental and physical terrain is worthless.”
There was more shifting, blinking, and clacking of beaks. It had to be a bitter pill to swallow, but it was the way the Brotherhood worked. No Squad, Century, or Legio of the Caractacan Brotherhood would ever place itself under the direct command of an outsider. It went against the Code. The Brotherhood’s loyalty was to God, the Code, and the Brotherhood, in that order. Those who requested their help could expect that the Code was sacrosanct, and that the Caractacan Brothers could be trusted to act with honor, restraint, and justice. Or they could insist on the Brotherhood becoming a part of their armed forces, and be doomed to disappointment.
A few times, that had resulted in combat. It had never worked out well for those attempting to force the Caractacan Brothers to their will.
It was Feygeil who spoke first. “We understand, Legate Maruks,” he said. “Or, I should say, most of us do. We will explain to those who do not. Please understand that there have been few interactions between our people and your Brotherhood.”
Maruks nodded magnanimously. “Of course, War Chief,” he said. “No offense is taken.” He looked around at the Plaza. The sun had set, and torches had been lit around the base of the spire and the surrounding ring. “The Peace Plaza seems an inauspicious place to coordinate an interplanetary invasion,” he said. “I take it there is an appropriately-equipped command center for the blockade around Borogone?”
“There is,” Feygeil replied. He pointed with a wing. “It is on the other side of the city. Kego is the central site for all the flocks who live at peace, because of the Peace Plaza. So naturally, our joint command is here, as well.”
Maruks nodded again. “Shall we adjourn there, then?” There was a general rustle and murmur of agreement from the Regonese. He turned to his Centurions.
“The ships are inbound to the spaceport again as we speak, gentlemen. You will, of course, have to come with me, but I think that we can send all but one squad back to refit and rearm.” His mouth quirked in a grim half-smile. “I doubt that our friends will let their security lapse anytime soon, after what just happened here.”
The Centurions acknowledged with murmurs and nods; the typical Caractacan Brotherhood salute involved raised weapons, and the Regonese seemed a little too jumpy for that at the moment. Scalas began calling his squad sergeants to issue instructions, as another ornithopter soared overhead, blotting out the stars that were just then starting to come out.
It was almost morning when Scalas stepped out of the lift car and into the dropship bay of the Dauntless. The truncated cones of the TD-9 dropships loomed above him in the cramped space of the bay, surrounded by the replenishment pipes, power conduits, and the armatures that aligned them for launch and recovery. He wove his way through the chaotic-looking but carefully planned tangle of machinery, following the grated decking toward the central lift.
He was exhausted. While the Century and the Dauntless’s crew weren’t attuned to the local time, he had been awake for nearly thirty hours, with a great deal of it taken up with detailed planning and coordination, on top of a firefight in the middle. He wanted nothing more than to eat and throw himself into his bunk.
But he was a Centurion, and he still had tasks to perform. Duty came first. So, he rode the lift up toward the command deck, still in his armor, his helmet under his arm and his powergun slung against the sustainment pack on his back. His armor had shifted colors to match the white, red, and polished brass of the starship’s interior, except where years of harsh conditions and battle had scarred the chameleonic coating.
The lift doors opened, and he stepped out onto the command deck. The ovoid chamber, buried just about in the center of the ship’s hull, was dimly lit to allow the holographic displays to stand out more starkly.
Central to the command deck was the holo tank. Nearly ten meters across, it could display everything from the entire Avar Sector down to a single ship with exacting detail. There were other displays on the bulkheads and on reinforced armatures attached to the acceleration couches arrayed in a circle around the tank, but that tank was the primary display for the entire command crew.
Most of them were still there, putting the finishing touches on the plan. They wouldn’t launch for another twenty hours, barring another attack, but Captain Brecan Mor, the Dauntless’s skipper, believed in having everything line up before going down for a rest period. He and Scalas were quite alike in that way.
One of the acceleration couches swiveled as Scalas stepped onto the command deck. Mor looked up at his friend. “Well, well,” Mor said. “You actually look worse than I feel. That’s an accomplishment, even for you.”
“I don’t like meetings,” Scalas rumbled. He moved to the nearest empty acceleration couch and sat down.
Mor chuckled, sitting up on his own couch. They had been designed so that most anything could be done to run the ship, or plan in the holo tank, from the supine position, enabling the captain and crew to do whatever needed to be done, even at high Gs.
Mor was shorter and more slightly built than Scalas, though Brotherhood discipline had kept him wiry rather than thin. Whereas Scalas was broad shouldered and deep chested, with a deep tan, black eyes, and reddish hair and short beard. Mor was paler, with blue-black hair and icy gray eyes in a narrow, hawkish face.
“If I hadn’t known you for years,” he said, “I might have actually been surprised that out of everything else that has happened today, you’re complaining about having to sit through a meeting.”
“Diplomacy is not my strong suit,” Scalas said.
Mor laughed again. “Which is something else I could have told you.” He sobered. “So, the plan is set?”
“Maybe,” Scalas replied. “Some of the war chiefs aren’t entirely on board; they want to steamroll the Exiles for good. Tear down every bit of their defenses and lay their city prostrate.”
“That would take a very long time, if I read the scans of space around Borogone right,” Mor observed.
Scalas nodded. “A very, very long time,” he agreed. “The Brother Legate won’t commit us to that kind of a prolonged campaign, but just getting them to agree to the plan to punch through and try to cripple their command and control, not to mention eliminate those Sparatan cruisers and take their allies down, was like pulling teeth.” He sighed. “But yes, I think that everything you received is still solid.”
Mor nodded. “Good.” He rubbed his eyes. “That means I can go stare at the backs of my eyelids for a few hours, instead of this blasted tank.” He looked at Scalas with a raised eyebrow. “But you’re not quite done, are you?”
“No.” Scalas shook his he
ad heavily. “I’m sure my squad sergeants have things well in hand, but it’s my responsibility to make sure.” He heaved himself to his feet. The low gravity helped. “I’ll see you in a few hours, Brecan.” When they’d be getting ready to launch, to invade a world that was as heavily fortified as it was, according to the Regonese, viciously paranoid.
And just maybe, in the process, they would start to finally push back against the monsters who had nearly leveled Valdek, and declared war on the Brotherhood in the process.
The Century had two full decks to itself, with small living quarters against the inner hull and central squad rooms around the spinal column of the ship itself. The squad rooms served as mission preparation spaces, gear and weapon storage and maintenance spaces, recreation rooms, and simply places for the Brothers to spend time outside their tiny staterooms.
Scalas went to Fourth Squad’s room first. They had been the only squad to take losses on Regone. He needed to know that they were all right.
Death was something that the Brotherhood faced almost every day; it was enforced throughout the novitiate that each day was a gift from God, and could be the end at any time. Not necessarily because of combat, either. Accident, unforeseen medical conditions…there were no guarantees, and it was something that the Brotherhood insisted that each of its members consider on a daily basis. It was as much for the health of their souls as to maintain their focus and bolster their courage.
But that did not make losing their Brothers easy. It never did. There was no getting around the empty spots in the Squad room, or the silence where a familiar voice, made more familiar by hundreds and thousands of hours in the close confines of a starship, used to be. And with more combat on the horizon, he had to make certain that they were on an even keel.
He came out of the lift to hear low, calm talk in Latin. The Brotherhood’s founder, Caractacus Regnus, had resurrected the ancient language for its own upon beginning the order.
Most of Fourth Squad was busy cleaning their armor and their weapons, most of the men stripped down to shorts and t-shirts. They were mostly in the same brown and black; the Brotherhood issued most of the Brothers’ clothing, including their casual wear. They were, after all, Caractacan Brothers first and foremost.
He immediately saw the bifurcation. About two thirds of the squad was gathered around Bruhnan, who was flanked by his brother squad sergeants, Kahane and Solanus. The others were gathered some distance away, murmuring amongst themselves. There wasn’t any active hostility on display, but the division was noticeable.
Scalas suppressed a sigh. Volscius had been an arrogant and proud man, more inclined toward the “New School” of thought, that considered the Code and its strict moral strictures about honesty, courage, and the utmost commitment to a task once undertaken “outdated.” Volscius had been friends with Rokoff’s predecessor, Dunstan. The same Dunstan who had been relieved for desertion while in combat on Valdek, and later recalled to the Brotherhood’s Central Keep on Caerfon. His guess was that the knot of Brothers keeping to themselves had been Volscius’s friends.
Bruhnan looked up as he entered. The man looked even more like a bear out of his armor. He wasn’t as overtly muscular as some of his brothers; he was just massive. Unlike Kahane, who was short, squat, and looked like he might have been made of stone, thanks to his high-G upbringing, Bruhnan had been born in slightly less than one G, and had simply grown up huge, possessed of a prodigious strength.
Kahane was saying, “And then he opened the door, and he saw what had been making that unearthly sound.” He grinned. “Unfortunately, I can’t tell you what it was, because you’re not a monk.”
Groans and a few chuckles and shaking heads followed. From what little Scalas had heard, Kahane had just finished one of his notorious “shaggy dog” stories.
“Everyone should know by now to start tuning you out when you start telling stories, Kahane,” Scalas said. “I see that Petrenko figured it out early.”
Petrenko was one of the group who hadn’t joined the rest of the squad. He looked up as Scalas said his name, a flash of guilt in his eyes. He looked away quickly, but the message had been sent.
“You wound me, Centurion,” Kahane said, his grin unchanged. “I’m just doing my part to help keep our Brothers’ morale up.” Solanus was shaking his head, though he didn’t say anything. As eager and dedicated as the junior squad sergeant was, he was often quiet, as if he was afraid to say the wrong thing.
Bruhnan had chuckled ruefully at the close of Kahane’s story, but now he was looking at Scalas somberly, his massive forearms resting on his knees, his disassembled BR-18 on the bench in front of him. “Are we going to Borogone, Centurion?” he asked quietly.
“We are,” Scalas confirmed. “To capture some of these mercenaries and get what intelligence we can, if possible. And to punish terrorists, of course.” He looked around at the squad. All eyes were on him now, even those more disaffected members of Volscius’s clique. He found a bench and sat, stretching his legs in front of him. “From what the Regonese tell us, it’s not going to be easy either. Borogone’s hardly hospitable in the first place, and the Exiles are heavily armed and extremely paranoid, so they’ll be dug in.”
Bruhnan glanced at Petrenko and his group. “Will there be a funeral Mass for Volscius, Kedrick, and Imhara before we lift?” he asked.
Good lad. Bruhnan, of course, knew the dynamics of his squad, if anything better than Scalas did, and it was as good an olive branch to have extended to Volscius’ favorites as any.
“Of course,” Scalas said. “Father Corinus is preparing as we speak. We have a few hours. It will have to be enough.” He looked around the room. “Is Kunn still with his squad?” he asked Kahane.
“I imagine so,” Kahane said dryly. “You know Kunn.” Scalas had to nod. Kunn was always strictly proper and observant about the Brotherhood’s duties and traditions, but there was a strange disconnect in the man. Something almost machine-like. He had likely supervised his men’s post-mission maintenance in stiff silence, and was currently in his stateroom, studying. His presence tended to have a chilling effect, and it often worried Scalas, though his squad wasn’t showing the kinds of cracks that Fourth was at the moment.
He scanned the room one more time. Petrenko and his group had turned toward the rest; it was too much to hope that all the resentment had been expunged, but it was a start. And they really only had a few hours.
“Get finished up with your gear and get some rest, gentlemen,” he said, standing up. “I’ll put out the time when Father Corinus is ready to begin the funeral.”
Chapter Three
Borogone wasn’t that much closer to its star than Regone. Canimic 3452 was a K-type star, with a habitable zone almost a full AU wide. Borogone was near the inside edge of the zone, while Regone was right about in the middle. At their closest, the two planets crossed within two light-minutes of each other.
Borogone’s inhospitable surface was less due to its proximity to the star than it was to the rampant volcanism that wracked the planet constantly. Lacking surface water, the entire planet was an ugly gray, red, and yellow ball hanging in space. Its sulphurous atmosphere was wholly dependent on the volcanic plumes rising into the sky above the rocky, ash-covered surface.
Regardless of the horror of the Exiles’ practices, their stubborn persistence was undeniable. For any living thing to have not only survived, but built a semi-functioning, technological society on that barren rock was impressive.
The extent of their defenses was equally impressive. A full dozen armored space stations floated in geosynchronous orbit, blanketing the entire orbitals with fire zones from railguns and missiles. Compared to the Caractacan Brotherhood’s starships, they were primitive, but that didn’t mean that they couldn’t wreak a great deal of damage. Dead from a hypervelocity chunk of inert metal was just as dead as from a powergun bolt.
The geosync stations were only the first layer. More armed satellites and manned orbital fighters cir
cled the planet in lower and lower orbits. Getting through that was going to be a hellstorm.
Scalas watched the tactical display from his acceleration couch aboard his dropship. Mor was piping the feed from the main holo tank down to the troops on the dropship deck as the four Caractacan starships, two Spear-class, one Sarissa-class, and the massive Angelos-class Herald of Justice stooped on Borogone, accompanied by another hundred Regonese starships. The silvery, spearhead-shaped Caractacan ships were a distinct contrast with the blunt, rounded torpedo shapes of the Regonese ships, even though a few of the Piekej-class battlecruisers outmassed even the Herald.
It was standard operating procedure in the Brotherhood, letting the ground troops watch everything that happened on the approach. Operating in such small units as the Brotherhood did, it often paid for each and every man to have as much information as possible about the overall situation. He could then adapt his own actions on the ground for maximum impact with minimal direction.
It took many years to mold warriors who could act with that kind of relative impunity, and still be trusted to act with unquestionable honor. It was why the novitiate lasted a full five years.
A glowing, golden line traced an arc toward the surface of the planet, and two of the geosync stations were highlighted with the same lambent aura. “If we take this attack vector, we can knock out two stations and open the way to the surface within striking distance of Ieg,” Maruks said over the broadcast channel. His words were being sent to the Regonese ships as well as the Brotherhood’s strike force.
“To descend to the surface without absolute space superiority would be folly,” Feygeil protested. “We must reduce the orbital defenses first.”
