Crimson Worlds Collection II

by Jay Allan

  He leaned back in his chair. His mouth opened, but no words came out, and he closed it a few seconds later. Don’t micromanage, he thought…your captains have their orders, and they know what they have to do. He took a deep breath, holding it for a second before exhaling hard. Sitting and waiting…it was the hardest part of battle for Compton. But he had nothing to do until after the bombers were away and it was time to prep the missile barrages. He took another breath and punched at his screen, pulling up the OB for Task Group A…ten suicide boats, armed with the Alliance’s newest weapon. They had their orders too, and Compton was anxious to see how they fared.

  “Joker, confirm the status of Task Group A.” Compton didn’t have to explain the name of his AI very often. He was widely considered to be the best poker player in the navy, and the reputation still stuck, despite the fact that he hadn’t played in years. He’d always found cards relaxing, but as he rose in rank he became increasingly uncomfortable winning money from subordinates. He played with other officers at his level for a while, but as he continued to rise, that group became smaller and smaller. Now, everyone was his subordinate…everyone but Admiral Garret…and two man poker was a bore.

  “Squadron Captain Franklin reported all ships ready on his last scheduled update, eleven minutes ago.” Like most of the naval AIs, Joker was fairly formal in demeanor. The Marine units tended to have more colorful personalities, something the navy considered beneath its dignity. “Do you wish me to confirm?”

  “Negative.” Compton was just bored and restless. Franklin was a veteran; he didn’t need the Fleet Admiral on his ass for no reason. Besides, the first wave of bombers was set to go in a few minutes. Captain Hurley didn’t need Compton pestering her either, but at least he could monitor the launch. It would give him something to occupy himself until the action started.

  Greta Hurley grimaced, as she always did when the magnetic catapult threw her bomber clear of the mother ship. She was a longtime veteran of the bomber corps, and she’d launched into some of the fiercest battles the Alliance had ever fought…but she’d never gotten used to the sudden jarring from the catapult. She didn’t vomit anymore, like she did when she was a rookie. She just felt queasy for a few minutes.

  Hurley had commanded Admiral West’s bomber attack on the enemy fleet at Farpoint. She and her shipmates managed something there that few of the others in the wing did…they survived. Fewer than 20% of the ships that went in against the First Imperium fleet came back, but they made the enemy pay a price with their close in attack runs. A direct hit with a plasma torpedo would damage even a First Imperium ship, but it took a pilot with the guts and skill to fly in close and hit the bullseye.

  She leaned back and took a few deep breaths. She was going to spend most of this fight cocooned in her couch, and she took the chance to fill her lungs a few times before the crushing pressure made it an effort. She was focused, determined to make the strike count. Hurley was the closest thing the Alliance had to an expert in bomber tactics against the First Imperium forces. She’d led a successful strike and come back to talk about it…something no one else had managed in this war.

  But it was more; it was personal. She’d seen the enemy nearly wipe out her strike force at Farpoint…she remembered the cries on the com, the constant stream of notifications from the AI reporting the destruction of one ship after another. The empty seats in the mess hall and wardroom. Friends of hers…friends who were now gone. Great Hurley was back for revenge.

  Chapter 4

  Planet Sandoval

  Delta Leonis IV

  “The Line”

  “I want every one of these super-hardened, and I want it finished in two days.” Erik Cain stood ramrod straight, his face no more than 3 or 4 inches from the sweating officer standing before him. “Understood, colonel?”

  “Sir, it’s just not possible.” It took all the courage Colonel Mellon could muster to stand up to Cain’s withering stare. Not many officers could have managed it. Erik Cain was one of the most revered commanders in the Corps, and even the most battle-hardened Marine veteran was reduced to despair by his disapproval. He’d always been a hard taskmaster, but since taking command on Sandoval he’d become a machine, tireless, unyielding.

  “Then make it possible, colonel.” Cain’s tone was dismissive, and he started to turn to leave.

  “General Cain, you are talking about thousands of individual circuits.” Mellon’s voice was quivering. He was afraid of Cain…everyone was afraid of Cain since his return from Farpoint. “I don’t have the trained manpower.” He paused, then added, “Besides, the enemy hasn’t used nuclear weapons in any ground battle. Is this really so crucial?” He knew as it came out of his mouth he should have held his tongue.

  Cain turned slowly back toward Mellon. “I’m sorry, colonel. I didn’t realize you had infiltrated the enemy high command and determined that nuclear strikes are off the table.” Cain’s eyes had focused on Mellon’s, holding them transfixed in his searing gaze. “Because I know you wouldn’t want us running around here without AIs or defensive systems just because the enemy decided to use motherfucking nuclear warheads without consulting you first.” By the time Cain finished, his voice had risen to a thundering crescendo.

  Mellon was silent, but he stood his ground…barely. “I’m sorry, sir.” Mellon’s throat was dry, his voice a hoarse croak. “Of course, you are right about being prepared.” He swallowed hard and forced himself to maintain eye contact. “But there is no way my people can finish the job in two days. We’ll be lucky if we can even find the materials we need.”

  Cain stood impassively, looking back at the engineering officer. He tended to think anything could be done if people were pushed hard enough but, of course, there was a limit to what even a veteran team could accomplish. “Alright, colonel…” Cain’s voice relaxed slightly – Mellon had won a measure of respect by standing up to him. “…I will order all remaining civilians on Sandoval with any electronics experience immediately conscripted and placed at your disposal.”

  The young Erik Cain would have railed against drafting civilians, calling the older version of himself a martinet, a jackboot, a government enforcer, for even considering it. But two and a half decades of war and bloody sacrifice had changed him…profoundly. Now he was concerned far less with ideology than results. Victory was very nearly all he cared about anymore. It was the one thing that could justify the losses, the pain, the death. To lose so much in defeat was more than he could bear…the futility and waste were all-consuming. This war, of course, was different from the others. Surrender wasn’t an option, and defeat unthinkable. Losing this war meant the end of humanity. In the darkest recesses of Cain’s soul he wondered if that would be so bad, but he hadn’t fallen entirely into that black pit. Not yet. Whatever the cost, he was going to attain victory. Whatever the cost.

  “Thank you, sir.” Mellon was surprised. He couldn’t think of an instance where colonial civilians had been pressed into military service, at least not by a Marine officer. But he needed the help, and Sandoval boasted a small, but growing electronics industry…at least it had before the evacuations. A good number of the remaining refugees likely had the types of skills he needed. “That will be very helpful.”

  Cain started to turn again. “See it done, colonel.” He paused for an instant. “You’ll have the civilians today.” He turned and walked away, leaving the stunned engineer staring after him.

  The noise was deafening. Major Tomlinson toggled his helmet closed. It was a beautiful day on Sandoval’s northern continent, and Tomlinson had been enjoying the fresh, cool air. But the Burrowers were just too damned loud. He’d commandeered them from Sandoval’s mining industry and put them to work digging underground bunkers. Even with his suit sealed he could hear them tear through the planet’s hard crust. With his helmet open it had been unbearable.

  Tomlinson was stunned when he first saw General Cain’s fortification plan. The scope of it was more than intimidating…it was mind-bo
ggling. Impossible – that was the first word that came to mind. But the commander of 1st Army wasn’t a man people said no to very often, and impossible wasn’t in his vocabulary. Tomlinson had never served with Cain before Sandoval, but he knew enough of the general’s history to be sure of that.

  Cain had named the initiative Plan Iwo. Everyone in the Corps was familiar with the Battle of Iwo Jima, of course. Marine combat history was one of the first things taught in Basic. The Alliance Marines weren’t technically the same organization as the U.S.M.C. that had invaded Iwo Jima three centuries before, but they considered themselves the inheritors of the traditions of those leathernecks, and the Royal Marines as well, and they revered the histories and heroes of the formations that preceded them.

  The Japanese defenders had turned Iwo Jima into a nightmare of tunnels, strongpoints, and concealed firing positions…and they’d inflicted staggering losses on the invading Marines. Cain intended to do the same thing on Sandoval…1st Army was going to fight a death match against the First Imperium invaders, making them pay for every centimeter. He’d declared more than once that the fight would be to the last man, and those who’d served with him before knew he meant it.

  But Iwo Jima was a tiny island on Earth, and Sandoval was a planet. The scope of excavation and construction was massive on a scale even the Corps’ veteran engineers had never imagined. Cain had envisioned a series of underground bases and bunkers, all interconnected by a network of tunnels. Everything was to be subterranean – the HQs, the barracks, the hospitals. Now Tomlinson and the rest of the engineering regiment had to build it all.

  “Major Tomlinson…General Teller here.” Tomlinson turned instinctively, but of course Teller wasn’t actually there. On the com he could have been 1,000 klicks away. First Division’s CO had been the commander of the first significant force to face the invaders. Barely a third of his troops escaped from the Battle of Cornwall…and Teller himself had left in medical stasis, about as close to dead as a live person can be. He’d been over a year in the hospital on Armstrong, and now he was back for a return engagement.

  “Yes, general…how can I help you, sir?” He knew it was another progress check. It wasn’t bad enough Cain himself was breathing down his neck, constantly pushing…now he had all the senior officers fired up, and they were joining the party.

  “I have some revisions for 1st Brigade’s deployment area. I’m going to send them to you right now.” Teller’s voice was as grim and determined as Cain’s…or at least almost so. Tomlinson wasn’t sure he’d ever heard anything as intimidating as 1st Army’s CO when he was pissed.

  “Yes, sir.” Tomlinson swallowed the sigh he felt rising. Petulance didn’t usually improve relations with a general, but he was getting tired of the constant changes. He understood…1st Division’s commander had come late to the party, having only arrived from Armstrong a few weeks before. But that didn’t change the fact that he was already behind, and every change set him further back. And his people were already pulling fourteen hour daily shifts.

  “Don’t worry, major.” Teller’s voice relaxed slightly. “It’s nothing that will wreck your schedule. You haven’t started on any of the affected sections yet anyway.” Teller was tough, but he wasn’t quite the relentless taskmaster that Cain was.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Tomlinson let out a small breath, not quite a sigh, but close. “I’ll implement the changes immediately.”

  “Very well. Carry on, major.” Teller cut the circuit.

  Tomlinson could see the blue indicator light on his visor display – he’d received the transmission from Teller. Ok, he thought, let’s see what the good general wants now.

  The refugee camp was unsettled. It wasn’t exactly a riot, but things were far from calm. Close to 90% of the population had already been evacuated, and the rest were expecting to leave in the next few weeks, when the transport fleet returned from Armstrong. The evacuation had been going on almost a year. There were three worlds on the Line, and the scarce transport assets were divided among them. The longer it had gone on, the greater the frustration had grown among those who’d remained behind. Things had gotten worse when the remaining civilians were moved out of their homes to the relocation camps. General Cain had ordered the settlements to be fortified, and that meant getting the occupants out of the way.

  Now word was filtering through the camp…the Marines were detaining people, segregating them from the population. There were armored troops on patrol now, standing a watchful guard over the common areas. The Marines had been living alongside the civilians of Sandoval for more than a year, but now, for the first time, they seemed menacing. Still, the occupants of the camp poured out of their shelters and into dusty streets looking for information.

  Cain stood at the command post just outside the camp, staring down at the scene unfolding. He wasn’t wearing armor, just a set of worn gray fatigues – though there were two companies of fully-armored Marines formed up outside. He was silent, just gazing out and thinking to himself.

  “General Cain, there is some unrest in the camp.” Captain Jason Carter had become an extraordinary aide to Cain. He’d come up late in the Third Frontier War, and he’d won his Academy berth on Carson’s World, fighting in Cain’s 1st Brigade during the climactic battle of the war on the Lysandra Plateau. A hardened combat veteran and survivor of one of the bloodiest battles ever fought, Carter had proven to have a great gift for the administrative as well. “Perhaps we should postpone the order.”

  Cain didn’t stir. “No captain. We’re not postponing anything.” Cain’s voice was calm, but Carter knew better than to argue. “We need help shielding our circuitry from EMP.” Cain still hadn’t moved, and he continued to look out over the camp as he spoke. The young officer at his side stood like a statue, listening intently to every word. “I’m not about to let some whining among the civilians dictate military decisions.” He paused, taking a shallow breath. “Besides, if we lose this fight they’ll all die anyway…either on Armstrong or wherever else they run.” He paused, then added, “This war isn’t going to end with a room full of gasbags negotiating a treaty like the others have. This is to the death.”

  Cain finally turned to face Carter. “You know it as well as I do, Jason. We’re staking everything on the Line. If we lose here we’re done. It may take the enemy a while to mop everything up, but we’ll never be able to mount a defense this strong again.” He paused for a second, as if holding the next words in his mouth for a beat. “This is it. This is the war.” Cain’s blue eyes glistened in the late afternoon sun. Carter could see the resolve and stubbornness in them, harder than granite. But deeper, behind the surface strength, he saw the pain too. Years and years of the stress and cost of battle…the price Cain had paid with his soul for his victories.

  “Yes, sir.” Carter paused, his mind wandering, imagining what the coming battle might be like. Cain’s aide had been part of Teller’s brigade on Cornwall, so he knew firsthand what was coming. He tried not to think about it much…to just focus on his job and keep it at that. Any time you escaped from a battle where two-thirds of your comrades died you respected the power of the enemy. But it wasn’t going to help anyone if he let himself become paralyzed with fear. He’d been afraid on Cornwall, so terrified it affected his performance in battle. He felt shame for that, though every veteran who’d fought there had experienced the same thing. He’d faced deadly enemies before, but there was something different about a foe that didn’t feel fear or pain. It gripped him like a cold feeling in his gut, and it didn’t go away. “I suggest we send Captain Leach and her people in…just to cut off any problems before they start. A show of force now might head off trouble.”

  Cain didn’t answer right away. He turned back and looked out again, over the modular shelters and rutted dirt roads of the camp. He understood the civilians, at least on some level. Their lives had been upended, thrown into chaos by the approach of some unseen enemy. They’d been driven from their homes, herded into camp
s…not by the enemy, but by their own forces, the men and women charged with defending them. The refugees hadn’t been mistreated, and they’d been well supplied with food and medical care, but he still understood the resentment, the fear. The Cogs back on Earth would have meekly allowed themselves to be rounded up, but the colonials were different. Freedom was prized on Sandoval, as it was on most of the worlds the Alliance had settled, and the residents didn’t like giving it up…even to their own Marines.

  But that didn’t change Cain’s point of view. He had to defend Sandoval, and he would do whatever it took to win the fight that was coming. These civilians, he thought, sitting in their shelters feeling sorry for themselves…they don’t they realize that most of these Marines they see will never leave Sandoval? They are going to die, in pain and fear, lying broken and bleeding in the muck…alone, as every man and woman is when death calls. They are going to die defending the civilians…not just those here on Sandoval, but throughout the Alliance, throughout all of human-occupied space.

  Yes, Cain understood the civilians, but his empathy was limited. They were afraid, certainly. But so were his people. His Marines weren’t immune to fear…they felt it…they felt every terrifying minute. But they controlled it; they did what they had to do. The civilians were going to do the same. Cain had made that decision for them.

  Erik stared out over the camp and the surrounding valley, but his thoughts were wandering. He wondered, am I still afraid? After all these years, all the pain and death? He decided he wasn’t sure. He knew he craved victory, but he wasn’t as sure how he felt about his own survival. He was…ambivalent. It wasn’t a deathwish, certainly, but Cain was tired in body and soul. He was feeling worn out, used up.