CONTENTS
Cover
Also by Gareth L. Powell and available from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue: Pelapatarn
Part One: Three Years Later
One: Sal Konstanz
Two: Ona Sudak
Three: Ashton Childe
Four: Sal Konstanz
Five: Trouble Dog
Six: Sal Konstanz
Seven: Ashton Childe
Eight: Sal Konstanz
Nine: Sal Konstanz
Ten: Trouble Dog
Eleven: Ona Sudak
Twelve: Sal Konstanz
Thirteen: Trouble Dog
Fourteen: Nod
Fifteen: Sal Konstanz
Sixteen: Ona Sudak
Seventeen: Sal Konstanz
Eighteen: Ashton Childe
Nineteen: Ona Sudak
Twenty: Sal Konstanz
Twenty-One: Ashton Childe
Twenty-Two: Trouble Dog
Twenty-Three: Ona Sudak
Twenty-Four: Sal Konstanz
Twenty-Five: Trouble Dog
Twenty-Six: Ashton Childe
Twenty-Seven: Trouble Dog
Twenty-Eight: Nod
Twenty-Nine: Ona Sudak
Thirty: Sal Konstanz
Thirty-One: Nod
Thirty-Two: Ona Sudak
Thirty-Three: Sal Konstanz
Thirty-Four: Nod
Thirty-Five: Ashton Childe
Thirty-Six: Sal Konstanz
Thirty-Seven: Ona Sudak
Thirty-Eight: Ashton Childe
Thirty-Nine: Ona Sudak
Forty: Trouble Dog
Forty-One: Sal Konstanz
Part Two: The Marble Armada
Forty-Two: Ona Sudak
Forty-Three: Sal Konstanz
Forty-Four: Nod
Forty-Five: Trouble Dog
Forty-Six: Sal Konstanz
Forty-Seven: Ashton Childe
Forty-Eight: Trouble Dog
Forty-Nine: Sal Konstanz
Fifty: Nod
Fifty-One: Ashton Childe
Fifty-Two: Ona Sudak
Fifty-Three: Trouble Dog
Fifty-Four: Ona Sudak
Fifty-Five: Sal Konstanz
Fifty-Six: Ashton Childe
Fifty-Seven: Ona Sudak
Fifty-Eight: Trouble Dog
Fifty-Nine: Sal Konstanz
Sixty: Ashton Childe
Sixty-One: Ona Sudak
Sixty-Two: Sal Konstanz
Sixty-Three: Ona Sudak
Sixty-Four: Nod
Sixty-Five: Trouble Dog
Sixty-Six: Ashton Childe
Sixty-Seven: Sal Konstanz
Sixty-Eight: Trouble Dog
Sixty-Nine: Sal Konstanz
Seventy: Sal Konstanz
Seventy-One: Ashton Childe
Seventy-Two: Trouble Dog
Seventy-Three: The Marble Armada
Seventy-Four: Nod
Acknowledgements
About the Author
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Also by Gareth L. Powell and available from Titan Books
Fleet of Knives (February 2019)
Light of Impossible Stars (February 2020)
GARETH L.
POWELL
EMBERS OF WAR
TITAN BOOKS
Embers of War
Print edition ISBN: 9781785655180
E-book edition ISBN: 9781785655197
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: February 2018
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Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
© 2018 Gareth L. Powell
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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For Edith and Rosie
“Blood was its Avatar and its seal.”
EDGAR ALLAN POE,
“The Masque of the Red Death”
PROLOGUE
PELAPATARN
Another ship dropped off the tactical grid, obliterated by a shower of pin-sized antimatter warheads. In the war room of her Scimitar, the Righteous Fury, Captain Annelida Deal uttered a venomous curse. The Outward ships were putting up more of a fight than she had anticipated, determined to protect their forward command post on the planet below. If she could only get past them, locate the bunker where the conference was taking place, and drop a decent-sized warhead of her own, the war might be over. At one stroke, she would have fulfilled her orders, which were to decapitate the enemy’s command structure, leaving its forces in a state of vulnerable disarray.
Intelligence projections had suggested an easy in-and-out operation. The Outward had gone for a minimal fleet presence, hoping not to attract attention. In theory, she should have been able to sweep them aside with ease. But these bastards were putting up more of a fight than anyone—maybe even they themselves—could have guessed, and the Conglomeration forces had already lost a couple of frigates and a light cruiser. A dirty smoke trail showed where the cruiser had fallen through the atmosphere, shedding debris and sparks, until it broke up over the night side of Pelapatarn, scattering wreckage across a wide swathe of ocean.
In the war room, Captain Deal clung to the edge of the tactical display table. Around her, the hologram faces of her lieutenants were nervous and grim as they awaited her response.
“We can’t get through,” one of them said, and she saw that he was right. The bulk of the Outward fleet lay between her ships and the planet. Any ordnance fired would be intercepted and destroyed before it hit the atmosphere. All she could hope to do was try to fight her way through the blockade. But that would take time and lives. Her Scimitars were faster and more advanced than the Outward cruisers, but the enemy had their backs to the wall. By the time she got within striking distance of the planet—assuming she ever did—the Outward commanders would have fled their conference. If she wanted to end this war, she had to strike now.
She opened a channel to Fleet Headquarters, and was told a pack of four Carnivores were inbound from Cold Tor. As reinforcements, they wouldn’t be enough to decisively sway the outcome of the battle, but those in command had another use in mind for them.
And they wanted her to give the order.
“Get me the Adalwolf,” she said to her communications officer.
“Yes, sir!”
The main display dimmed, and a hologram of the Adalwolf’s commander appeared. Captain Valeriy Yasha Barcov had a smooth scalp and a thick, bushy beard. He was in his command couch, with a profusion of thin fibre-optic data cables plugged into the sockets at the back of his head.
“Dobryj dyen, Captain.” He smiled wolfishly, obviously relishing the anticipated conflict. “We will be with you momentarily.”
Captain Deal shook her head. “No, Captain, I have a different mission for you.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Speak, and it shall be done.”
Resting her weight on her hands, Deal leant across the table. “You are ordered to jump past the Outward fleet. Do not engage them. Your target is the planet.”
Barcov’s quizzical expression fell into a frown. “But we do not know where the conference is located. By the time we survey the jungle, the Outward ships will be upon us.”
“That’s why I want you to skip the survey.”
His confusion deepened. “But what shall we bomb?”
Deal swallowed. She could feel her heart beating in her chest. “Everything.”
Barcov opened and shut his mouth a few times. Finally, he said, “You wish me to destroy the sentient jungle of Pelapatarn?”
Deal felt the sweat break out on her forehead. “We have been ordered to raze it to the fucking ground,” she said.
For a moment, the old warhorse looked taken aback. Then he drew a deep breath through his cavernous nostrils and drew himself straight.
“It shall be done.”
* * *
Captain Deal watched the holocaust from the bridge of her Scimitar. She wanted to see the results of the order with her own eyes, not via a computer graphic. She knew soldiers from both sides were down there in the jungle, as well as several thousand civilians. But she told herself their sacrifice would be worth it. She was sure those in charge were right, and a swift and decisive end to the hostilities would, in the long term, save more lives than would be lost in the firestorm.
As the first mushroom clouds burst over the planet’s single supercontinent, she felt her stomach go light, as if the gravity had momentarily failed. All activity on the bridge ceased. Even the Outward fleet stopped firing.
Screaming low through the planet’s atmosphere, the four bullet-shaped Carnivores unleashed their entire arsenal of destruction, raining fire and death in swathes five hundred kilometres abreast. Nuclear explosions cratered the land and set millions of square kilometres of vegetation aflame; antimatter explosions tore at the very fabric of the planet, throwing up great plumes of dirt and rock, while smaller munitions rained down on likely targets, picking off anything that walked, crawled or flew.
One pass was enough.
They came out of nowhere, and then jumped away again before anyone in the enemy fleet could turn and engage them. And in their wake they left a billion-year-old biosphere ablaze, and an atmosphere choked with ash and radioactive dust.
The fires burned for six weeks.
The war was over in one.
PART ONE
THREE YEARS LATER
“For as this appalling ocean surrounds the verdant land, so in the soul of man there lies one insular Tahiti, full of peace and joy, but encompassed by all the horrors of the half-known life.”
HERMAN MELVILLE, Moby Dick
ONE
SAL KONSTANZ
“I hear knocking.” Still crouched, Alva Clay rocked back on her boot heels and lowered her goggles. “I’m guessing at least two people.”
I turned my head away as she fired up her cutting torch.
“Hey, George,” I called, “we’ve found some more. Get over here.”
Back towards the stern of the drifting wreck, George Walker—instantly recognisable in his bright orange medical jumpsuit—glanced up from the stretchered patient he had been tending.
“Yes, Captain.” He lumbered towards me, his old-man gait unsteady as the deck groaned and flexed on the swell.
“We’ve got more survivors,” I told him. We’d already pulled four bodies from another hole Clay had cut in the top of the crashed scout ship, but only one of them had been alive.
Right now, the Hobo wallowed in the sea with only a few dozen square metres of its upper structure still protruding above the waves. A metre from where I stood, sluggish wavelets, tinged pink by the sun, lapped at the edge of the hull. I rubbed my forehead. How had this happened? The Hobo had been surveying the planet for possible colonisation. How had these idiots managed to land in an ocean and flood their entire vessel?
My ship, the Reclamation Vessel Trouble Dog, stood a few hundred metres to the east, hanging in the air like a monstrous bronze bullet. Before she had joined the House of Reclamation, the Trouble Dog had been a Carnivore-class heavy cruiser for one of the more powerful human factions, the Conglomeration. Engines accounted for eighty-five per cent of her mass. Weapon emplacements, sensor blisters, drone hangars and empty missile racks interrupted the otherwise smooth lines of her streamlined hull.
“How are you doing, ship?” I asked her.
Speaking through the bud implanted in my ear, the Trouble Dog said, “I have been unable to recover the Hobo’s primary personality. I have accessed its core, but it appears to have erased its higher functions.”
I frowned. “No black box? Why would it do that?”
“According to its last status update, it blamed itself for the crash.”
Clouds were massing on the horizon, threatening to blot out the low, bloodshot sun. A sea breeze ruffled my hair. I pulled my flight jacket closed and sealed the zip.
“Isn’t that unusual?” I’d never heard of a ship’s personality deliberately committing suicide.
“It’s these scouts,” the Trouble Dog said in a matter-of-fact tone. “They spend too much time out here on their own, and it drives them to peculiarity.”
I watched the ripples gnaw the edge of the Hobo’s mostly submerged upper surface, and shrugged. None of this was our concern; all we had to do was recover the bodies, living or dead, and get them back to Camrose Station. When that had been done, other people—safety investigators and claims adjusters—could worry about the specific causes of the accident.
“What about the rest of the ship?” I asked.
“Still filling with water. I estimate no more than fifteen minutes until it finally submerges.”
“How deep’s this water?”
“Fifteen hundred metres, and bristling with life.”
I peered over the edge. Fish-like shadows skittered and scattered beneath the water. Their flanks flashed like silver knives. Larger shapes stirred in the depths below.
“Okay.”
“Plus, there’s a storm front coming in from the east. No more
than ten minutes.”
“Then I guess we’d better get a move on, huh?” I turned my attention back to Alva Clay. “Did you hear any of that?”
Clay had tied back her dreadlocks with a frayed and oily bandana. She wore heavy gauntlets to protect her hands and wrists, but her arms were bare, displaying the tattoos she’d acquired during the Archipelago War, as a foot soldier in the sentient jungles of Pelapatarn. Her dark goggles reflected the actinic flare of the torch in her gloved hands. Where the flame touched, sparks fountained from the hull.
“I’m cutting as fast as I can.”
“Cut faster, unless you want to get your feet wet.” Even after all this time, her tats still bothered me. I had my own share of ghosts, but I kept them to myself; I didn’t feel the need to parade them for the entire world to see.
The knocking from inside the stricken craft had ceased. If the people trapped in the compartment below had any sense, they would be cowering away from the flame, and the fifty-centimetre-wide plug of hull metal that was going to fall inward when Clay finished cutting her circle.
George Walker un-shouldered his medical pack and began to unroll a pair of self-inflating stretchers. His thinning grey hair appeared pink in the russet sunlight. Water lapped at his scuffed plastic boots.
“Careful,” I said. “Don’t get too close to the edge. I don’t want to have to pull you out.”
The old man’s eyes crinkled in amusement. He thought I fussed too much. He had served as a medical officer aboard the Trouble Dog during the ship’s military days in the Conglomeration Fleet, and had stayed aboard when she was decommissioned and transferred to the House of Reclamation. On my first day as captain, he’d been the one to give me the tour of the ship, and he’d shown me the secret nooks, patches and workarounds that only someone who’d lived and served on the ship for years could have known. Apparently, I reminded him of his daughter, a lawyer living back on Earth with two kids and a crippling mortgage. I’d met the woman once, during an unscheduled layover in Berlin, but hadn’t been able to grasp any similarity; whatever had led the old man to conflate his feelings for us was beyond my capacity to fathom.
“Don’t worry about me, Captain,” he said. “You concentrate on getting us out of here before the whole mess sinks to the bottom.”
Embers of War Page 1
