by Rob Buckman
“You didn’t tell him,” Pete muttered off to the side out of pickup range.
“Hell no!” Brock snapped, shooting Pete a deadly look. “And don’t you go calling him and telling neither.”
“I wasn’t going to, Brock! And you know damn well I wouldn’t,” Pete shot back.
Brock nodded. “Sorry I said that.”
Pete brushed the apology away with a smile. It wasn’t needed. “But do you think I’m going to tell him his wife is up there with him? I think not, especially since she’ll be leading the gunslingers.”
“Do you have to remind me? Christ! I love that girl like my own daughter, but I’m not about to castrate the old man just before a battle by telling him that. Besides, I promised her I wouldn’t.”
“Fuck!” Pete snapped, shaking his head, and looked out the window of Brock’s office at the sky. “God! I hope it’s enough,” he muttered.
“Amen to that, brother,” Brock added.
* * * * * *
“Tactical! Is there any way I can see how we look to the enemy?”
“I can be of assistance there, my captain,” Lady Gray chirped up. “However, on the known efficiency of the enemy sensors, the amount of data I can show would—”
“Just show me the damn screen and stop waffling, woman!” Laughter ran around the bridge.
“Yes Admiral!” the smooth voice answered, but he detected a snippy overtone, and the fact the IA had called him “Admiral.” Was it possible for a computer to get huffy?
The battle screen lit up with a view of his fleet as seen by the lizards, and it was nowhere as clear or detailed as his. The Australia stood out, as did most of the major fleet elements, but he could see nothing of his secondary units and especially not the gunslingers or the ring ships at this distance.
“Lady Gray. Put me through to the group leader of the gunslingers.” A few moments later a face appeared on his chair screen. Someone he didn’t recognize.
“Yes, Admiral?”
“I need you to tighten up your gunships so they stay in the sensor shadow of the Australia as long as possible.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” the face said with a grin.
“I know you guys are panting at the leash, but I need you to hold it tight until you get the word.”
“Received and understood, Admiral.”
“Good hunting. Drake out.”
* * * * * *
“Hello, Group Captain. I thought you were leading the gunslingers out,” the ring gate guard asked as Kat stepped through.
“I … I am. I had to come back through to pick up a few things, and decided to come back by way of the moon to see how you are doing,” she answered, looking around the containment chamber adjacent to the underground Moon base.
There wasn’t a lot to see, since the main purpose of this chamber was to absorb any explosion coming through the gate, or in the chamber itself, up to and including a nuke. Overhead, a wide shaft led directly to the surface through multiple rupture disks, thereby directing the shock wave and over-pressure blast up and out to the surface, protecting the main cavern. The truly massive blast doors only opened for large items, and only after they’d been inspected to the nth degree by the security detail. The rotating shift that spent part of their time in this chamber knew they were dead if anything lethal did come through, but accepted that, knowing the main base wouldn’t be protected. Kat exited through a smaller blast door set in the wall midway down the two-hundred-foot-long main tunnel. This led to a security checkpoint, where she was vetted.
“Good to see you again, ma’am.” The second guard detail came to attention and saluted as she entered, and Kat returned it with a wave of the hand. Here she submitted to a DNA and retinal scan before passing through three sets of airlocks and blast doors into the main cavern. A couple of the guards looked at her oddly as she departed, but shrugged and went on about their duties. Here she stopped for a moment as she passed through the last checkpoint, looking slightly puzzled, or disoriented. Her face cleared after a few seconds, and she strode across the floor in the marked boundary lanes, toward the ring gates on the other side of the cavern. The place was a madhouse of activity, as groups of sweating men and women maneuvered huge pallets and racks of ordnance into position in front of the outgoing gate.
In all there were twenty gates, each programmed for a different group of ships, and the ordnance stood ready for shipping the moment they received the re-arm order. The nervous excitement in the air was overlaid with a touch of fear, making it almost palpable, especially with the number of nuclear warheads stacked around them, but the main concern was the ring gates. The safety interlocks built into each gate should, in theory, prevent any back-blast from exploding ordnance, even a nuclear one, if a ship took a direct hit and exploded. If that happened, the gate should disengage, even if someone or something was passing through it at the time. What would happen to that someone, or something if that happened was a matter for a lot of speculation. Knowing you were uploading live munitions into a ship in combat, and the fact that you could see into the magazine of that ship was an uncomfortable feeling.
Even so, they stood ready to do their jobs with a sense of pride, since many of them had declared they were “conscientious objectors,” and even though they couldn’t fight and kill directly, they had no problem aiding those who could. There were many in the outside world who wanted the freedom New Zealand offered, and rather than reject them, Scott and his command team had decided to offer them the opportunity to participate in non-combat positions. Before they could join, they were vetted and made to understand that their “citizenship” was provisional, and contingent on them performing all requested duties, such as the tasks they were engaged in now. For some it was hard, knowing they were providing the instruments and means of killing another being, but most of that vanished when they saw the video of the inside of the mother ship. A few still had reservations, and those found jobs in the kitchens and laundries. None wanted to return to their old life under the stifling code of conduct in the outside world, especially the women. To them, New Zealand was heaven, and the fear they’d lived under most of their lives gradually disappeared, replaced by a sense of self-worth. Some waved, or shouted words of encouragement as Kat passed, but she ignored them, striding steadily across the cavern to the smaller personnel gate that led to the battleship Australia.
How Lady Gray was doing it, Scott didn’t know: bouncing a laser off an enemy transmission, or sensor disk more likely. However she was doing it, the battle board from the enemy point of view steadied up and Scott saw more of his fleet appear on the screen, mostly his cruisers and carriers. So far, none of his destroyers, corvettes, gunships, or ring ships could be seen. His new battle doctrine called for the destroyers and corvettes to attack in groups, using a global cluster attack pattern to maximize their shields. Their job was hit and run, never staying in one place long enough for the enemy targeting systems to lock onto them. They were his attack dogs, nipping at the heels of the bear, forcing him to turn his attention away, hopefully distracting him at critical moments, and forcing him to expend irreplaceable munitions.
They wouldn’t get away scot-free, since eventually they’d have to tangle with the enemy fighter and torpedo bombers, but that would also take pressure off the main fleet elements. The new “ring” escape hatches would minimize the number of human casualties. The one thing he couldn’t afford to lose was crews. The ships he could replace, but the training and work to get new crews integrated into the fleet took too long. Three fleets was a lot more than he expected them to send, but it made sense. They wanted to get rid of this irritation quickly, once and for all. It was almost time to button up and get into battle suits, but he looked around one last time. Everything was ready, and he wondered what he’d overlooked. Brock had his ground forces ready, and the critical installations were heavily shielded. It all came down to what the enemy expected. Three times they’d come at them, and each time he’d fought them in a similar fashion, an
d that was what Scott and the high command were banking on. Unless the lizards changed tactics on them, which he seriously doubted, they had a chance, even with three large fleets. One was clearly tasked with putting boots on the ground and destroying as much, if not all of their installations.
Without an industrial base, they were screwed and the lizards knew it. He was betting the second objective was to wipe out as much of humanity as possible, at least the ones who showed resistance. The remainder would just be breeding stock, and would be under very tight alien control. That was a terrifying thought: a herd of livestock that could think, and know they were just food. Scott had an ultimate solution to that, one he didn’t want to think about using. If the fleet were destroyed, the last omega code to go out on the ship’s death would trigger the “ultimate solution.” He hated that designation, since it carried a lot of historical overtones he didn’t want to think about. Rather than see his son, or anyone’s son or daughter, reduced to the level of cattle, he’d use it. He heard the hatch behind him cycle open, but thought nothing of it until he heard the marine guard’s startled exclamation.
“Group Captain!” Puzzled, Scott turned to see Kat standing there looking at him. His eyes flicked back to the battle board, then back to his wife, wondering what she was doing here.
“Kat! What the hell! You shouldn’t be here, especially now.” His eyes flicked back to the screen.
“I know … but … I just wanted to kiss you before you went into battle,” she stammered, blushing slightly. Scott didn’t know whether to smile or be angry. She walked over, looking around as she did, lifting her arms as she walked up to kiss him. Scott tore his eyes away from the battle board, feeling her right arm circling his neck.
“Kat! I haven’t got time for this. Damn it!” This wasn’t like Kat. She knew better than to pull a stunt like this. Alarm bells rang in his head, hearing his own warning to Devon and Brock. His elbow shot out, catching Kat under the rib cage, driving her back. He leapt out of his seat. She recovered and came toward him again, arms open, tears in her eyes with something partly hidden in the palm of her right hand.
“Please … Scott … I only want to give you a kiss.”
“Kat! Where is our son?” he snapped, looking over her shoulder. The marine guard stood there, looking confused.
“Son?” she asked, looking blank. She stopped coming toward him and stood there, blinking. Scott didn’t hesitate. Taking two steps forward, he delivered a spinning back kick to her head. Much to his surprise, she countered it, hammering a rock-hard fist into his ribs for his trouble.
“Damn it! Take her down!” he yelled, staggering back. The two marine guards finally realized something was wrong and sprang into action. Kat spun and tried to sidekick the one in the lead, but since he was wearing battle armor, it only slowed him a little. Before she could do anything else, Hernandez was on her, his weight driving her to the deck. After that, it only took a few seconds to subdue the kicking woman.
“Get her out of here!” Scott snapped, looking at the board. “Secure her and put her in my day cabin under guard. Stun her if you have to, but don’t let her get free.”
The marine guard looked up at him. “But sir! She’s your wife.”
“Like hell she is!” Scott snapped, looking at the spitting fury on the floor.
CHAPTER SEVEN: …The sheep generally do not like the sheepdog. He looks a lot like the wolf.
He has fangs and the capacity for violence. The difference, though, is that
the sheepdog must not, can not and will not ever harm the sheep…
LTC (RET) D. Grossman
Helan Chokuk, Lord Commander of the Horde, looked at his tactical screen, one claw picking at the loose skin of his neck flap while he contemplated the enemy fleet. The information beamed back from First Fleet was fifteen light seconds old when it appeared on his tactical screen, and still somewhat sketchy. He could see several major elements of the hewman fleet, and he hissed in contempt. If that was all they were sending against him, he had little to fear.
His yellow eyes flicked around the pit below his command chair, touching on each of his subordinates. All appeared intent on their duties, but he knew from experience how easily the younglings became distracted. In his youth he’d sat in a similar place, remembering well the searing flash of pain ripping thought his body as punishment for inattention. Unlike his nest-mates he’d applied himself, and rose steadily through the ranks, gaining and holding a command chair at a relatively young age. Once there, he had access to the females, which he and the other younglings were denied until they had proven themselves. The thought of females caused his crest to rise. Thankfully the absence of female pheromones prevented full erection, and was the reason no females were ever permitted aboard a warship. It was hard enough maintaining discipline among the younglings, without the added complication of the young ones fighting each other for dominance and the right to mate. Like his predecessors, he wasn’t averse to pressing the punishment button when needed, but refrained from using it merely for his own enjoyment as others did.
Contemplating the tactical screen again, he saw additional hewman units gradually appear as the time/distance light speed information arrived. The speed of light was his limiting factor. At only 186,000 miles per second it would take time to fill in all the blank areas on the battle board to get a clearer picture of this star system, yet he dared not move into an attack formation until it was. The frustration of not knowing what was out there gnawed on him. How many fleets did the hewmans have, how many ships: their displacement, tonnage, or whether they were in an attack or defense formation. So many unknown critical details he needed to know before he could move. He half expected the hewmans to contest the warp point with his available ships, but he hadn’t, other than a few mines. A well-defended warp point could potentially take out a good portion of an enemy fleet. So why hadn’t they defended the warp point with anything other than a small minefield? These hewman animals were too sneaky by half.
After exiting from the netherworld of fifth-dimensional space, the three fleets had quickly formed into their respective battle groups in preparation for an attack. It still puzzled the lord commander why the hewmans hadn’t bothered to contest the Horde’s entrance into this star system. That had only made his task easier. Due to the natural motion of the planets, he’d quickly set each fleet on a spiraling retrograde course down to just above the plane of eclipse. This put him in a perfect position to observe any potential attack by a hewman fleet. Yet the time passed without so much as a sighting of any hewman ships. Instead of feeling more confident in his position, it gave him a feeling of unease, and a cause to worry. These strange creatures called hewmans didn’t do battle in any ways he could identify.
As each fleet moved closer to the third planet, the picture of the hewman star system, and their preparations for battle gradually filled in. A planet here, an asteroid belt there, and at last the hewmans’ warships. He growled softly to himself, his crest rising and changing to a deep blue of concentration. Their fleet wasn’t large, compared to either one of his fleets, and yet they had managed to defeat three fleets prior to this engagement with about the same number of ships. The first fleet he discounted, since they were nothing more than food-gathering units, with a small number of third-rate warships to act as a security screen. The hewmans had defeated them with ease when they shouldn’t have been able to do so at all, and that brought up the question of if they’d received outside help.
You never knew when Staed or Nirien warships might turn up, may the Dark Spirit take them! If that happened, the supply fleets were ordered to retreat and report back, which they had the first time. The second fleet was better prepared, but even so, it was mainly comprised of rear echelon, reserve, and training ships. They should have been able to defeat the rudimentary force the hewmans fielded against them, yet they too had been defeated. Chokuk’s intelligence units didn’t detect any foreign power sources, or weaponry, and it appeared the hewmans were usi
ng strictly home-manufactured weapons. That was a surprise. Up until recently, the herd animals in this system were docile, and had no weapons of any kind. So the question was how, and why, had they suddenly become so aggressive? And how did they develop weapons capable of destroying a well-armed fleet so quickly? Looking at the report of the last incursion, he noted the fleet consisted of front-line units who’d recently returned from combat for repair and resupply. A fleet with that much experience, and several major fleet elements, should have been able to pacify a minor planet like this one and restore order in no time. Yet they hadn’t. It was something to ponder, and suggested that caution be taken in his approach. This he’d done, working out a battle plan to destroy the hewman fleet and put the herd animals back in their pens where they belonged.
Chokuk’s hooded eyes flicked around the operations pit, and for a moment one clawed finger hovered over the punishment button. The youngling in question was only momentarily distracted, and it could have been something connected with his duty, so he didn’t press it. Instead, he moved his finger and pressed the communication unit button.
