by Jay Allan
The shortest of the figures fidgeted uncomfortably. An old Marine, gone for a time but now back home again, John Marek remained silent. Unlike the others present, he hadn’t met the Alliance’s two top admirals before. He stood respectfully and listened to the exchanges.
Holm noticed Marek’s discomfort. He turned to the new Marine general then back toward Garret and Compton. “I don’t think you’ve ever met John Marek. He was one of ours back on Carson’s World. As you know, he came to help out on Garrison. He resigned the presidency of Columbia to stay with us.”
Garret nodded at Marek. “Welcome, John. Your compatriots have been telling me the same thing for years…once a Marine, always a Marine. I see they really meant it.”
Marek nodded. “Yes, sir. I guess that’s true. This is where I belong…and I can’t leave now, not while this war is still going on.” He panned his head around the room, an uncomfortable look on his face. “And none of us thinks it’s over, right?” No one responded right away, but their expressions suggested that none of them disagreed either.
Catherine Gilson broke the silence, glancing over at Marek with a smile. Her arm was wrapped from wrist to shoulder in a light gray cast. “Well…I, for one, am glad the siren call of the Corps reached out to General Marek and brought him back. His destruction of the enemy supply depots won the battle for us. Not just on the planet, but also in space. I’m a ground pounder myself, but I’d speculate the fleet didn’t need another major battle right now. Not when the enemy was willing to pick up and leave.”
Garret laughed. “Your speculation is extraordinarily astute, Cate.” He glanced at Marek. “So General Marek has my profound thanks as well. Columbia will just have to find another politician. Great generals are harder to find.”
Marek look embarrassed, and he just nodded gratefully. “Thank you all. But I was just doing my duty…to Columbia as well as the Corps.”
“Please, sit down. You all must be tired.” Garret motioned to the chairs along one side of the table. His eyes focused on James Teller. “You seem to have made it through this fight in one piece, James.”
Teller grinned. “Yes. I’ve always felt getting missed was a Marine’s greatest skill. Not sure what I was thinking on Cornwall. But not a scratch this time.” Teller had been grievously wounded while commanding the Alliance forces on Cornwall. He’d been in the hospital over a year, and missed the campaign on Farpoint entirely. He moved forward, pulling out a chair and sitting between Cain and Gilson.
The door slid open again. A naval officer walked in. Tall and thin, he was wearing a spotless new dress uniform with a single star on the collar. He stepped into the room and hesitated, looking over at Garret.
“Ah…Admiral Jacobs. Come in, please.” Garret motioned to the chair next to him. “Have a seat.” He looked out over the table. “I’d like you all to meet one of the true heroes of the war…Admiral William Jacobs.”
Jacobs was immediately uncomfortable. Fleet Admiral Garret was the greatest naval officer in history as far as he was concerned, and it was very strange to sit quietly while the navy’s commander-in-chief heaped praise on him. He was still getting over the shock of Garret promoting him to admiral on the spot. Hornet had done her part, there was no doubt there. But Jacobs tended to credit luck for that more than his own skill.
“Admiral Jacobs accomplished as much to defeat the enemy with only a fast attack ship as anyone else with a division of capital ships.” Garret glanced around the room as he spoke. “He destroyed an enemy convoy of antimatter that was bound for the front…which is why we didn’t face any in the final battles. He scouted deep into enemy-held space and located a major base, the probable starting point for the invasion. After all this, on the way back, Hornet transits into the middle of the battle…and destroys a Gargoyle, probably saving a heavy cruiser in the process.” He turned back to Jacobs. “Well done, admiral.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jacob’s throat had gone dry, and he barely managed to croak out the words. “You are far too kind.”
“Nonsense, admiral.” Garret leaned back in his chair. “It is hardly possible to overstate your achievements. I’m proud to have you as one of my command officers.”
“Thank you again, sir.” It was all Jacobs could manage. The whole thing was a bit too much for him.
The hatch slid open again, and a tall, distinguished looking man entered. His blue and gold silk uniform was far more colorful and exotic than those of the Alliance Marines and navy. Ali Khaled was the commander of the Caliphate’s Janissary corps and, until recently, the hated enemy of the Marines.
“Lord Khaled, please have a seat.” Garret stood, and the rest of those present followed his lead. “I am very pleased you could attend.”
“Thank you, Supreme Commander.” Khaled’s voice was deep and commanding. He had no AI translating for him, and he spoke almost accentless English. He sounded like one born to high position, though everyone present knew he’d been the whelp of a New Cairo housekeeper. “It is my great pleasure.” He turned and looked over at the Marines. “With your permission, I would like to speak with General Cain before we begin.”
Garret motioned toward Cain. “Certainly, Lord Khaled.”
“General Cain, I wish to extend my heartfelt thanks to you. It is my understanding that Commander Farooq received extraordinary care from your…consort, Colonel Linden.” He’d struggled for the word. Male-female social dynamics were considerably different in the Caliphate, and translations were sometimes difficult. Janissaries didn’t marry, though the officers were allowed to keep regular concubines. Khaled knew the comparable Alliance relationship was considerably different, but since Marines tended not to marry either before they retired, he knew wife wasn’t the proper designation.
Cain had to suppress a laugh. He wondered how Sarah would react to being called his consort. But he managed to stifle the amusement. Khaled was making a serious effort to be gracious, and Cain wasn’t going to quibble over cultural vagaries, no matter how humorous they might be. “Thank you, Lord Khaled. I will relay your kind words to Sarah.” He paused, then added, “And your great concern for your officer is honorable indeed. Commander Farooq is a great warrior and a highly skilled leader. It was my honor to have him under my command.”
Cain had to hold back another grin. It was widely believed in the Corps that he was incapable of diplomacy. But Cain knew when it was necessary, and he was perfectly capable of matching any Caliphate commanders’ charm and grace. Besides, despite his deep-seeded prejudices, Cain had come to truly respect the Janissaries. They had served faithfully alongside his men and women, and they’d shown no friction or discontent. Whatever negative feelings they harbored, they buried them and focused on duty. Cain knew that couldn’t have been any easier for them than it was for him. He and his Marines had killed thousands of their brethren, just as the Janissaries had done to them.
Khaled smiled. “Thank you, General Cain. You are most gracious.” The Janissary commander sat slowly, skillfully arranging the billowing fabric of his dress uniform as he did.
Garret stood up slowly and looked out over those assembled. “Now that the immediate enemy threat has receded, I wanted to discuss with our next steps.” He took a breath and scanned the faces at the table. “I don’t think any of us believes we have seen the last of the First Imperium.”
There was a combination of grunting and headshaking in response. They all knew the war was far from over. The battles on the Line had been so savage, no one had really had the time or focus to look ahead. Until now.
Cain stood up slowly, nodded as Garret motioned for him to speak. He knew everyone expected him to be the first to say it, and he didn’t want to disappoint. “It is my opinion, sir, that we should attack…and that we should do so as soon as reasonably possible. We now have a roadmap back to a major enemy base. We must try to bring the war to the enemy, to visit destruction on their worlds. To bring them the pain they have brought to our people. We must pursue them, to hell’s he
art if need be, and end this war on our terms.” He looked around the table. Most of those present were aggressive commanders, not terribly different from himself. He knew he wouldn’t be the only one who felt the way he did. But from the expressions he could read, it looked like they were all of one mind.
Garret nodded. “I agree, Erik.” He took another breath, deeper this time. “I see no gain in waiting for a new invasion, one which will undoubtedly be vastly more powerful than the last. The enemy failed to break us, and I suspect they are surprised by that result. They underestimated us. They will not do it again.”
Khaled stood next. “I am in complete agreement.” He spoke slowly, deliberately. “The blood of our dead must be avenged. Honor demands it. We must attack.”
Garret could feel the spirit in the room. They all wanted to take the war to the enemy, and despite the losses, the suffering, the crushing fatigue, not one of them wanted to hold back. It was a grim determination; no one thought such an attack would be easy. Indeed, the odds were still sharply against them in this war, whether they marched out to force the issue or waited or an overwhelming second invasion.
“We all know that this is not a decision that I can make, that we can make. I suspect our political leaders will have differing opinions. The civilians will want to pull our forces back and surround our worlds. They will want to hide behind defenses and feel superficially secure. They will fear an audacious plan. They will resist.”
Garret could see Cain starting to fidget. God only knew what he had to say about how to handle the politicians. They would be there for hours discussing it, he knew that much. But Garret had other business first. He held his hand up, signaling for Cain to wait. He pressed a small button on the table, and a group of attendants walked into the room carrying silver trays. They walked around the table, placing a flute of champagne in front of each officer present.
“We have much to discuss, my friends, and tremendous planning ahead of us, but first, let us take a moment to celebrate our achievements…and pay our respects to those we have lost.”
Garret stood, followed immediately by everyone else. He took his glass in his hand. Garret had arranged for two glasses to be placed in front of Ali Khaled, one champagne and one non-alcoholic cider. He knew the Janissaries weren’t allowed to drink, but he wasn’t sure how rigidly that was observed. Khaled noted the courtesy, and he flashed Garret an appreciative glance…then he took the champagne into his hand.
Garret held his glass in front of him. “First, let us toast our brothers and sisters lost in these battles, our comrades who gave their last full measure to our cause. To the fallen.”
“To the fallen.” The chorus echoed in the room as the glasses were raised to lips all around the table.
“And now to all those who fought and will fight again. Those who struggled and bled and battled with all their strength. To the forces of the Grand Pact. To victory.” The volume of Garret’s voice was rising steadily. “They did their duty. The line held.”
To Hell's Heart
Crimson Worlds VI
By Jay Allan
It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, for vengeance, for desolation. War is hell.
- William Tecumseh Sherman
Prologue
Regency Chamber
Planet Shandrizar – Deneb VIII
The Regent seethed. It was inexplicable, infuriating. The New Ones were primitives, barbarians. They infested their worlds, living in primitive squalor, but arrogant nevertheless, thinking themselves an advanced power. The Regent had expected to sweep them away with a minimum of effort. But that had not happened. Their technology was backward, that was undeniable, but they were highly skilled at war. How, the Regent wondered, could they have so much experience at battle? The Imperium had long ago destroyed all its enemies. In all of the vastness of explored space, the Regent knew of no other races, save those that had sworn fealty to the Makers…and vanished along with them eons before.
The Regent tasted the bitterness of its failure, and it knew frustration. It reviewed all that had happened, all the events that had defied its expectations. For an instant, a nanosecond beyond the comprehension of any organic being, it considered communicating with the New Ones. Perhaps they were worthy of survival. Perhaps the Regent should parlay with them before launching its final assault. Could these creatures end the Regent’s endless, crushing loneliness? Could they be friends?
But time and isolation had done their damage. The Regent’s reason had deserted it, replaced with rage…with insanity. Communication was irrelevant, peace unthinkable. The New Ones were invaders, enemies…they were an infestation. They would be exterminated.
The Regent had launched its invasion with regional forces, light vessels more suited to scouting and patrol duties than warfare against a skilled enemy. Now it realized the New Ones were too capable at war, too effective at combat to be eliminated with such forces. It would not repeat its error. The New Ones would face the true might of the Imperium, the vast forces of total war that had lain dormant for untold millennia.
Throughout the Core Worlds, more and more ancient ships began to heed the Regent’s call. Most of the power the Imperium had once wielded was gone, lost to the ravages of time. But even that small portion that remained was unimaginably potent, a nightmare beyond the worst imaginings of the New Ones. Perhaps, the Regent thought, their recent victories had given them hope. A tremor passed through its systems; an organic being would have called it amusement. These barbarians had no conception of what they faced; now they would finally meet the unleashed might of the Imperium. They would at last understand true power. And they would know the desperate emptiness of hopelessness.
The Regent reviewed its plans and the order of battle it was now sending forth. Hundreds of ships stirred…thousands. It was but a tithe of the Imperium’s former power, but still it was an unfathomable massing of strength. Immense battleships, one hundred times the size of the feeble craft the New Ones possessed, slowly fed power into long-dormant systems, moving toward warp gates from hundreds of systems, converging on the rally point. For the first time in 500,000 years, in all of the endless centuries of the Regent’s dominion, the Imperial Fleet was assembling…and all the might that was wrought by the Makers was moving to destroy an enemy.
Chapter 1
AS Midway
In Sandoval Orbit
Delta Leonis IV
“The Line”
Erik Cain’s mind drifted hazily as he stared through the observation portal into the deep blackness of the Delta Leonis system. He found the endless void hypnotic, soothing…the quiet peacefulness beckoning, drawing him in.
Peace, he thought…is there really such a thing? Cain could hardly remember feeling at peace. Perhaps when he was a young boy, before his family was cast out of the relative comfort and safety of the Midtown Protected Zone into the violent ghettoes of lower class New York. But that was a distant memory now, almost a dream. And he had a lifetime of reality arguing that peace was little more than a fantasy, and a fool’s one at that.
He scowled derisively, chiding himself for his self-indulgence. You’re not even a fit creature for peace, he thought grimly…all you are good for is war. And Cain was certainly good for war, even he had to acknowledge that. He’d survived countless desperate battles and led his Marines to victory after victory. He’d longed for peace once, but no longer. Such wishes were a waste of time. Peace was indeed for dreamers, and Erik Cain was nothing if not a realist.
He’d fought the greatest battle of his career on the planet below, and he’d decisively defeated the invasion forces of the First Imperium. In the aftermath of his triumph, he’d been hailed as a hero, and so far he’d managed to remain gracious as unwanted congratulations and rewards were heaped on his shoulders. There was no joy for Cain, however, no elation at the victory. A battle was over, that was true. But he knew the war was far from finished…and he wa
s well aware that the frightful price his people had paid already was just a down payment on what it would cost to win the final victory. If winning was even possible.
He sighed as he looked out into the depths, wondering what awaited his brethren and him lightyears away, beyond the furthest reaches of man’s explorations. Humanity had begun to consider the universe its own private dominion, and the events of the past few years had come as a rude awakening. There were others out among those stars, that was now an established fact…and they’d gotten there first, long before man ventured off his native world. Even if the Alliance and its new allies managed to survive this fight, the universe would never be the same again. It had become a darker place…dangerous, foreboding. The hope for the future that had driven the early settlers had transformed, morphed into caution. Into fear.
He’d begged Holm to spare him another round of pointless decorations, but it turned out to be easier to defeat the enemy than to escape the glittering prizes that followed the victory. It had been years since Cain had considered a medal anything but a burden, a constant reminder that his glory had been bought with the blood of his men and women. But he knew Holm was just as powerless to stop the accolades, and he smiled and acted grateful for the awards, even as he forced the bile back down his throat.
