by Jay Allan
The girl shied away, pressing herself against the wall and burying her face in her hands. Axe stood in the doorway for a few seconds, trying to decide what to do. He was in a hurry. He wanted to be out of Manhattan by dark, and he didn’t have time for this.
He turned to walk back into the study, but he stopped after a few steps. He could hear the girl sobbing softly. He looked back and got a better glimpse of her. She was thin as a rail, and he suddenly realized she’d been locked in the room with no food and very little water. There was a heavy stench, sweat and piss and shit. She’d obviously been trapped there for days without access to a bathroom.
“I want you to listen to me.” Axe was cursing himself in his head for getting involved, but he just couldn’t bring himself to leave her without one attempt to reach her. “I have nothing to do with the people who lived here, with whoever did this to you.” He took a single step forward, and she flinched. “I am just here to steal anything I can use, and then I am leaving Manhattan.” He thought honesty might convince her better than anything else.
She was sitting in the corner with her legs bent at the knees and her arms wrapped around. Her head moved slowly, looking tentatively in his direction.
“I do not want to hurt you. I will leave you alone if you want, but I am going somewhere safe, and you can come with me if you’d like.” He paused, standing still, making no moves toward her. “My name is Axe.”
She was silent for a moment, sitting and rocking her body back and forth nervously. “Ellie,” she finally said. “My name is Ellie.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Ellie, there is no power or water on, but I’m sure we can find you something to eat and drink.” He stood stone still, not wanting to scare her now that she was responding. “Can you walk? We can go to the kitchen and see what is there.”
She stood up slowly, wobbling a bit as she did. Axe could see how weak she was. She turned and looked at him. “You will let me go?”
Axe nodded. “Yes.” He gestured toward the hallway. “Let’s get you something to eat, and when you’re done, you can come with me or you go anywhere else you want. Your choice.”
Axe knew he wasn’t a good man, not by any reasonable definition, but he was suddenly overcome with disgust at the monsters who ruled the Alliance. Generations of unquestioned power and unchecked privilege had turned the entrenched Political classes into a hideous grotesque, a remorseless group of creatures focused only on their own power and personal pleasure.
He tried to keep a pleasant expression on his face. The last thing he wanted to do was scare Ellie away. He knew the girl wouldn’t last an hour on the streets alone. He wasn’t sure why he cared, but he did.
“Come on.” He motioned toward the door. “Let’s go see what we can find to eat. I’m hungry too.”
She moved slowly, cautiously toward the door, hunger and thirst momentarily pushing her fear aside. She limped as she moved across the room, and Axe could see she bruises at various stages of healing. It looked like she’d been beaten at least several different times recently. He stood still as she passed by him and walked into the study, and then he followed her toward the kitchen.
For all his external show of calm, inside his mind his rage was boiling and hatred was seething. He knew one thing for sure. The next Alliance Gov hack he ran into was going to die, and probably not pleasantly.
“Preliminary reports suggest that the CEL nuclear attack on the eastern front has halted the Russian-Indian advance. It is too early for meaningful casualty reports, but it is clear they are substantial. It is unlikely the RIC forces will be able to regroup and resume the offensive, at least for some time.” Anne Jackson was one of Warren’s key people at Alliance Intelligence. He had grudgingly named her Number Two, and tasked her with acting as his effective chief of staff.
He’d initially planned a relatively bloodless transition as president but, in the end, consolidating his position with a minimum of risk had required a significant amount of killing. He’d had most of Oliver’s staff terminated, replacing anyone of suspect loyalty with his own agents. He might have been less draconian if the situation hadn’t been so dire, but he couldn’t take any chances of internal disruption, not now.
He looked up at Jackson. “Please continue, Number Two.”
“The Russian counter-barrage appears to have been extremely effective. The CEL positions were hit with three successive bombardments.” She paused. “I am making suppositions, but I would say it is very unlikely that any CEL formations have survived on the eastern front, or at least none that are likely to return to combat effectiveness. If the RIC is able to reassemble and resupply a significant force, they will have an open road into the CEL.”
Warren sighed. “Well, I suppose a temporary stalemate is the best we could have hoped for on the CEL-RIC front. We’ll just have to hope the RIC’s history for poor organization and logistics continues uninterrupted.” He leaned back and stared at the large map on the display. “It appears, at least, that General Werner has survived on the western front and has managed to reorganize at least a portion of his army group.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Jackson swiped a finger across the small ‘pad in her hands, and the display zoomed in to show the area around Paris. “It appears that he has two corps-sized formations advancing on the Europan capital even now. It is unclear what resistance the Europans are able to mount, but it is likely that Werner will soon take the city.” She hesitated and looked at Warren. “We must consider the likely Europan response if their capital falls.”
Warren nodded. “Indeed we do.” The loss of a capital meant different things to the various Powers. The fall of Washbalt would be a costly loss, but the Alliance had numerous other major urban and industrial centers. But Paris was in every way the heart of Europa Federalis, and the French politicians who ran the Superpower would probably react rashly to its loss.
“Perhaps you should contact the Chancellor, sir, and encourage him to order General Werner to delay his advance.”
Werner exhaled loudly. “That would probably be the best idea right now, Anne, but consider the CEL position. They have been on a total war footing for over a year. They have had over 5,000,000 casualties since the fighting began, and that doesn’t include what they lost in the nuclear exchanges over the past three days. They are exhausted, unable to mount even a token defense in the east. General Werner and his armies are the only positive they have, and their only hope is to win the war in the west so they can send their great commander and his survivors to the east.”
“But sir, the fall of Paris is more likely to instigate a major escalation than to end the war in the west.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you, Number Two, though I’m not sure I would if I was in Chancellor Schmidt’s shoes.” He stared at his new chief of staff. “And there is the rub. The CEL is more desperate than we are at present, and wild gambles are more likely to appeal to them.” He paused. “I will speak with the Chancellor, but I doubt he will order his top general to stop on the threshold of seizing the enemy capital. Would we exercise that kind of restraint if we’d suffered 5,000,000 casualties?”
Warren didn’t wait for an answer. “Let’s move on to other matters. Any status updates on the other fronts?”
Jackson shook her head. “I’m afraid not, sir.” She tapped her ‘pad, and the map of Europe disappeared, replaced by one of Africa and western Asia. “General Lauria is all but defeated in Africa. We have effectively lost the resource zone there, and the Caliphate is in almost total control of the continent.” She glanced up at the map, gesturing toward a cluster of small blue squares representing the last Alliance forces. “It is time to consider a plan to evacuate General Lauria and his army before they are completely destroyed.”
Warren stared at the map. “How many effectives is he down to?”
“He claims 275,000, but reports from our agents on the scene suggest a considerably lower figure, perhaps 120,000.”
“Fuck Lauria.”
Warren’s voice was thick with disgust. “He barely put up a fight, and he’s spent most of the campaign retreating across the continent. We’d be lucky to get 75,000 of his troops out of there even with a full effort, and it’s not worth the resources to try it. Not to save the shattered and demoralized remnants of a broken army.” His face was twisted into a determined frown. “Maybe when they realize there is no escape they’ll at least put up a decent fight.”
“Yes, sir.” Jackson’s voice was businesslike, non-committal. She had no stake in whether the troops in Africa escaped, but she was surprised at Warren’s decision. She’d known him for a long time, and she’d thought he lacked the brutal decisiveness his job required. Now she was reevaluating, trying to figure out how Warren was adapting to his myriad new responsibilities.
“So we have been driven out of Asia, driven out of Africa.” He stared at the map, but he wasn’t seeing anything. He was deep in thought. “It appears we are at a stalemate of sorts, and not one that is not to our advantage. The Caliphate and the CAC have no easier time reaching the rest of our possessions than we do of striking theirs, but they now possess superior resources than we do.”
“That is true, sir. Though, at least we have time for further mobilization and reorganization.”
“And what will happen while we are calling up reservists and training new recruits, Number Two?” Warren stared right across the table. “The RIC and Caliphate will get organized and crush the CEL.” He took a quick breath. “And the CAC will focus on the PRC. With enough support from the Caliphate, they may even successfully invade. Admiral Young has performed admirably, but I doubt he can defeat the combined CAC and Caliphate navies, and if the enemy is able to establish local dominance, the PRC could be in trouble.”
“So what do you propose, sir?” Jackson returned Warren’s stare, a nervous look on her face.
“Well, it’s a sideshow, but we have to knock the South Americans down. They’ll never successfully invade up Central America, but bogging them down in the jungles isn’t enough. We’ve got to weaken CAC-Caliphate power bloc any way we can, and right now the empire is the most vulnerable to our forces. Advise General Dougherty I want a detailed plan for the destruction of the empire. And I want it by the end of the day tomorrow.”
“Yes sir.” She hesitated, waiting to see if he would add anything. “And what else, Mr. President?” she finally said.
He looked back at her, and for an instant his mask of confidence failed him. “I have no idea, Anne.”
She was about to respond when the com unit buzzed. “Mr. President, I have an incoming communication for you, sir.”
Not now, Warren thought. I don’t have time for this. “Who is it?” he barked.
“It is Minister Li from the CAC, sir. And she says it is urgent.”
Chapter 14
Flag Bridge
MCS John Carter
Near Saturn
Sol System
Duncan Campbell coughed hard, choking on the smoke and toxic fumes hanging thick in the air of his savaged flag bridge. John Carter was a wreck floating through space, a broken vessel trailing great plumes of frozen gas and liquid behind its twisted and battered hull. She had given her all to the fight, struggled with every scrap of might and resolve she and her crew could muster.
Campbell picked up a portable mask and strapped it on his head, breathing deeply. It was hard to position the breather with one arm, but that’s all he had. His left arm was useless, broken in several places, and bleeding heavily where a piece of shattered bone had punctured the skin. The stricken appendage throbbed, and any movement at all sent a red hot pain racing up to his shoulder. The lower half of the arm was twisted out at a grotesque angle, a visual manifestation of how badly mangled it was. The medics had rushed to his station when they first arrived, but he’d ordered them to tend to the others first. Many of his people more seriously injured than he was.
The pure air cleared his head almost immediately, and he looked around at the battered wreckage of his command center. The bridge was dimly lit, and only the emergency lights and the most vital workstations were functioning. John Carter was gutted, and there were still fires raging throughout the vastness of her hull. Her exhausted damage control teams worked tirelessly to save what was left of the ship, and gunners, navigators, stewards - everyone else onboard - had been drafted into the effort. Campbell had ordered Carter’s last functioning reactor shut down, for fear the damaged unit might lose containment. The lack of power wasn’t helping the repair effort, but Campbell couldn’t take the risk. Even a microsecond’s failure of the containment field would turn John Carter into a small, short-lived sun.
The admiral had taken tactical control of the ship when Captain Cartwright and most of the bridge crew were killed by a well-placed enemy laser pulse. The shot had blown out a huge section of the hull, and Cartwright and most of his people had been killed instantly, their bodies blasted out into space.
Cartwright almost made it through, Campbell thought sadly. The shot that had killed him was almost the last one fired by Liang’s beleaguered flagship. John Carter had followed its prey mercilessly, pounding it again and again. An instant after the blast that had killed Cartwright, Liang’s ship was bracketed by four x-ray lasers from John Carter, and the big vessel disappeared in a maelstrom of nuclear fury.
Campbell’s strategy had paid off, despite the horrendous cost. With its commander reduced to his component atoms, the battered enemy fleet broke up and fled, making a run for the warp gate. Conventional strategy would have called for a vigorous pursuit, but Campbell knew his fleet had nothing left. They had completed their mission, driven the invaders back, paying a terrible price for the outcome he was sure many would call a victory. He’d ordered all ships to hold their positions and concentrate on damage control. He’d lost enough people and ships, and now it was time to save what he had left.
Campbell didn’t have a complete picture of just how badly his forces had been hurt, but he knew nearly half his ships had been destroyed outright. He was still waiting for casualty figures and final damage reports from most of the others, but he knew the news wouldn’t be good. He’d lost a lot of friends in the battle. Some he knew about already, and he was sure there would be others as the reports came in. Thousands of loyal naval crew had been slaughtered, manning their stations to the end. He had his emotional wall up now, and he didn’t feel much, but he knew it would hit him hard later, when he finally took off his stars and faced what had happened as a man and not an admiral sworn to duty above all things.
Many of his ships had full or partial losses of power and damage to their com systems. He suspected it would be days before he had a reliable idea of just how badly the fleet had been damaged. He feared for the worst, and he knew it would be a long time before Mars would once again put a credible battlefleet into space.
He looked around the flag bridge, now serving as John Carter’s control center as well. There were broken structural members lying around, including one that had killed two of his staff. There were torn conduits laying twisted on the deck. They were inert now, but before he’d shut down the reactor, they’d been live, dancing around the floor carrying enough voltage to fry a man in an instant. He tried to imagine scenes from around the ship, in areas less protected than the flag bridge. He suspected whole sections had been blown out, vast sections of the ship exposed to space. He knew there were fires raging out of control, damaging intact systems and sucking precious oxygen from inhabited areas of the stricken vessel.
He took a deep breath. His crews had done their duty, they had earned the gratitude of the people of the Confederation with their courage and their fortitude. Whatever the cost, Stark’s fleet had been driven back to the warp gate and out of the Sol system.
“Admiral…”
It was Christensen, and the instant he heard her tone he knew something was very wrong. His head snapped around, and he saw her face, and the tears streaming down her cheeks. “What is it, Lia?”
His stomach tightened into a knot. Christensen was a hardnosed officer, a veteran not easily upset. Anything that brought tears to her eyes at her post had to be catastrophic.
“We just got a communique from Mars, sir.” Her voice was soft, her words choked with emotion. “The enemy got ships past us somehow. They attacked Mars while we were fighting.” She hesitated, sniffling, trying to get the words out. “The Metroplex, Argos, Olympia…they’re all gone sir.”
Campbell felt as if a frozen hand had clenched his spine. Gone? How was it possible? The battle, the victory his men and women had paid for with their sweat and blood. It had all been pointless. They had failed…they had failed to defend their people.
He imagined the great cities of Mars, their massive domes shattered, their deserted streets as frozen as the lifeless surface of the Red Planet. How many were dead? Had the populations made it to the underground shelters? Or had they died with the cities?
He sat stone still, feeling as if he would vomit at any second. His thoughts were racing, a frantic uncontrollable maelstrom raging in his head. He struggled to focus, to remain in control. He knew what he had to do. He wasn’t sure it would help, but it was the only option.
“Lieutenant…” His voice was as firm as he could keep it. He was trying to set the example for Christensen and the rest of his people. They were shocked, devastated, wounded. But Mars still needed them, possibly more than ever. “…I want the reactor restarted immediately. All ships capable of maneuver are to be ready in 30 minutes.” He looked around the ruins of the flag bridge, at the stunned faces staring back at him. “We’re going home.”
“The trail is faint, General. It’s extremely difficult to follow.” The stress in Jenning’s voice was obvious. He was trying not to lose a trail he wasn’t even sure existed. He was half convinced they were following nothing at all. The tiny bits of debris, a gram or less in some cases, were far from conclusive evidence that a ship had come this way. Especially a ship whose existence was barely more than a theory to begin with. They’d destroyed one vessel in Mars orbit, but it was pure conjecture that there had been more than one there.
