by Finn Gray
“Nothing new. As far as we know, the Memnons are almost fully in control of the surviving population. Most of the major cities have been obliterated, the military bases destroyed or taken over. Pockets of marines and civilian law enforcement are still fighting, but it’s a losing battle.”
“How? Surely the Memnons’ numbers are much smaller than our own?”
Graves turned his head toward one of his officers, an attractive woman, dark of skin and hair. Lina remembered her name, but not her rank.
“XO, you have something to share?”
“It’s unlikely that the Memnons outnumber our forces on the ground at this time,” Meena Patel began, “but the balance is shifting fast. Between the wholesale slaughter and reports that they have taken control of our drones and ROMs, they’re in very good shape.”
“ROM’s?” Lina asked.
“Remote Operated Mechs, as opposed to those which require a human pilot to operate,” Patel explained.
Lina nodded. “Very well. So, why have you requested an audience with me?” That might have been a step too far. She saw Graves and Patel exchange annoyed glances. She knew what they were thinking. Spoiled rich girl with too high an opinion of herself.
“We have a problem,” Graves said. “And I do mean ‘we.’ This communication just came through.” He beckoned for her to join him at his station and pointed at the vid screen.
Lina stopped short when she saw it. She swallowed hard, composing herself before she spoke. Val had declared herself empress? That was nonsense, but she knew that was not Graves’ primary concern.
“My sister has taken it upon herself to appoint a new admiral? This will not stand.”
Graves nodded. “I’m glad we agree. Her hand-picked leader is already trying to take charge. He’s ordered all surviving commanders to conference with him.”
“That cannot happen,” Lina said quickly. “If you do that, you’re implicitly accepting him in his new role, and acknowledging that Valeria has the power to command the armed forces.”
“My thoughts exactly, Majesty,” Graves said with a nod. The note of surprise in his voice pleased her. “If I may ask, what do you think might motivate your sister to do this? How much do you know about her social and political leanings?”
“If you’re asking if she is a Memnon, the answer is no.”
“Are you certain?” Graves persisted.
“Completely. She’s my twin. I know her quite well. Don’t forget, we were both abducted by the Memnons.”
“When you left, she remained behind voluntarily. And now she and Vatcher are trying to take control of the fleet. Why?”
“Plenty of reasons. Valeria resents her place in the hierarchy, is manipulative by nature, enjoys causing chaos, and loves that idiot Simon Vatcher to distraction. Any one of those would be reason enough for her.” Lina grimaced. Val loved Lina in her own way, and they had their moments of closeness, but those moments never lasted. She thought fast. How to take control of the situation?
“Commander,” one of the officers said, “another message from Vatcher. He insists you reply.”
“Who is the rightful Admiral?” Lina asked. “According to chain of command?”
“Commander Graves is the senior surviving officer,” Patel said.
“Oh?” Lina asked, turning her eyes on Graves.
“That’s seniority,” Graves said. “Not necessarily the most important quality in a leader. I don’t insist on taking command, but I want to serve under someone I trust. Commanders Laws and Fremantle are both highly qualified and experienced. Either would be a fine choice. Vatcher is not.”
Lina nodded. A man who did not want power for himself was sometimes the best man for the job.
“Are Laws and Fremantle loyal to the empire?”
“I am confident that they are.”
“Get them on the line. I’d like to talk to them.”
Graves appeared doubtful, but he turned to his communications officer, Chris Cassier, and gave the order.
Soon, two faces appeared on the video display before her. Laws was an attractive woman of middle years with fair skin and light brown hair worn in a tight bun. Fremantle had brown skin, close cropped silver hair, and rheumy brown eyes. He had a grandfatherly air about him that hurt Lina’s heart as she thought about her own grandfather, the emperor, who had perished in the first wave of bombings. It was hard to believe she’d never see his face again.
“Your Majesty,” the two commanders greeted her in unison.
“We need to resolve the issue of the admiralty,” she said, dismissing her sentimental thoughts. “It is my understanding that, according to chain of command, the position rightfully belongs to Commander Graves.” The two commanders on the screen nodded. “I am also told that the two of you are also well-suited for the job.”
The pair hesitated, then Laws spoke up.
“Your majesty, with respect, I believe martial law should be declared. This problem with Vatcher arose as a result of an inexperienced royal overstepping her bounds.”
“We can discuss that after we have resolved the issue of the admiralty,” Lina said. “To do otherwise would lead to even worse chaos.”
“We are the senior surviving officers. The three of us need to present a united front,” Graves said.
“I support Graves,” Fremantle said, “but there are some who won’t like the idea of a Thetan running the fleet. Which is also the problem with considering me for command.”
“Commander Laws is a Hyperian,” Graves said. “Of the three of us, she’s probably the least objectionable choice.”
“How sweet. I’ll bet you say that to all the girls,” Laws said, her words dripping with sarcasm.
Before Lina could interject, he continued. “Commander Laws, will you consent to take the lead for the moment, for the sake of the fleet?”
“If that is what is deemed best for the fleet,” she said carefully.
“Very good,” Graves said.
Lina tried not to let her anger show. They had made the decision right in front of her without consulting or even acknowledging her authority. Not much she could do about it now. It was a sensible decision, one she would not have countermanded even if she’d had the power. But she needed to assert herself somehow.
“Officer Cassier,” she said, just as Graves opened his mouth to give the order. “Get the other commanders on the line now!”
Cassier made to comply, then hesitated.
Lina held her breath. How this played out could go a long way toward determining whether or not she would be a leader or a puppet.
Graves locked eyes with her, almost smiled, then turned to his officer.
“You heard the empress.”
Chapter 5
Glavine 2 Outpost
“This is so exciting.” Teddy said to no one in particular as he piloted his Cobra on its looping patrol course around Glavine 2, the planetoid their base orbited. The tight cockpit fit him like a glove, and he wrapped himself in the comfort of its familiarity and tried to shut out his worries.
“This reminds me of the way your old lady described your honeymoon,” Spartan said on the com. “You put in the time but you didn’t accomplish anything.”
“Cobra 3-4-3 you’re falling out of the pattern,” Sherr’s voice sounded in Teddy’s ear.
“So formal, Vesuvius,” Teddy said as he corrected his position.
“Teddy Bear, you and Spartan need to set a better example for the fledgie. Stine is going to think we’re a bunch of clowns.”
“We are a bunch of clowns,” Spartan said.
“How long does it usually take for someone to get a nickname?” Stine asked.
“There are three ways to earn a nickname,” Spartan began. “One is to earn it by doing something awesome. Never in the history of the Glavine 2 outpost has anyone posted here ever done anything awesome, so that one’s out.”
“The second way,” Teddy took up the explanation, “is to have it bestowed upon you by t
he rest of us. This is usually due to a quirk in your appearance or personality, or something you let slip about your past.”
“For example,” Sherr said, “Teddy Bear got his name because the ladies love to squeeze his belly.”
“That’s not accurate,” Teddy said. “They love all of me.”
Sherr ignored him. “Shapiro got the nickname Spartan because that was the name of the women’s mayall team he played for in high school.”
“I did not play for them. I was team manager.”
“Hold on,” Stine said. “You were manager? You weren’t even good enough to make the women’s mayall team? You had to be towel boy instead?”
Amid a chorus of laughter, Shapiro sputtered to explain that he’d merely been trying to meet girls.
“What’s the third way?” Stine asked.
Sherr chuckled. “To do or say something stupid. That’s the most common way.”
The pilots began swapping “stupid fledgie” stories. They’d heard them all before, but relished regaling the new pilots with tales of the woefully ignorant, pitiably foolish, and aggressively stupid. Some of the stories were even true.
“Guys! Guys!” Stine said among the laughter, quietly at first, then again in a shout. “Do you see this… splot on RADS?”
“Did you say ‘splot’?” Spartan asked.
“Yes. Look at your RADS displays, for the gods’ sakes. What is that?”
Teddy’s eyes snapped to his RADS screen. At its far edge, what looked like an amorphous blob approached. He understood immediately. He felt as if he’d been doused in ice water.
“RADS is picking up so many hits they can’t properly identify them, so it’s displaying them as circles. Lots and lots of circles.”
A woman’s voice, that of First Officer Mullins, broke in on the com.
“Vesuvius, this is Glavine 2. We’ve got hits on RADS. Closing fast.”
“We just spotted them,” Sherr said.
“Splotted them, more like,” Spartan chimed in.
“Commander Gladstone is scrambling the entire squadron. Prepare to defend but do not engage. We are trying to contact whoever or whatever is approaching.”
“Roger that,” Sherr said.
“I’m surprised the commander could take the time out of his busy schedule to make a decision like that,” Spartan said. “This couldn’t possibly come at a worse time for me,” he continued in a fair imitation of the commander. “You people don’t understand how busy my job keeps me. Can’t we do it later?”
“I’m a busy man, Spartan, but I make time for the things that matter.” The commander’s voice filled their headsets. “Vesuvius, this is Buzz. I am taking command of the air group. Launching now.”
“Roger that, Buzz” Sherr said.
Teddy’s heart sank. In the entire time he’d been posted at Glavine 2, he couldn’t recall Buzz climbing into a cockpit even once. And now, for him to take over...
When the entire squadron had launched, Buzz led them out to a spot just out of cannon range of the outpost and set up a picket line. They made for a pitiable sight: nine Cobras against that swarm of hits on RADS.
Teddy watched RADS as the anomaly grew closer. His heart was in his throat. His breath came in jagged gulps. Ringing filled his ears. This couldn’t be real, could it? This was Glavine 2, gods damn it! Nothing ever happened here.
“I’ll bet the genius who decided this outpost only needed a single air wing is kicking himself right about now,” Schaefer chimed in.
Teddy managed a nervous chuckle. It all seemed so unreal.
“One wing is all we need,” Spartan said. “The Hell Hawk Five!”
“There are nine of us,” Stine said.
“Yeah,” Spartan replied, “but four of you are shit.”
“And who voted for the name Hell Hawks?” asked Gwen “Battle Cat” Henry.
“Buzz, this is Glavine 2. RADS confirms a fleet approaching.” Mullins’ voice wavered. “Sir, we’ve identified the sigil on their lead ship. It was deep in the archives.”
“Spit it out,” Buzz said.
“It’s a Memnon symbol. And I don’t mean the symbols that we currently associate with Memnons, like those that rebellious teens carve into walls or hardcore bands put on their drum kits. I’m talking about an authentic emblem from the Memnon War.”
Teddy gasped. The Memnon War was practically ancient history. They were gone and nearly forgotten.
“You’re saying this is an actual Memnon fleet. As in, they’re back and they’re pissed off?”
Mullins had no reply.
“Try contacting them,” Buzz said, his voice hoarse. “Make them understand we’re not a threat to them.”
A household spider offers no threat either, but most people will crush it regardless, Teddy thought.
“Sir, we haven’t stopped trying since the moment the fleet appeared. We’re using every possible avenue of communication available to us.”
“If they’re Memnons, there should be no significant language barrier,” Sherr said. “If they wanted to talk, they would have done it by now.”
“It’s not a fleet,” Buzz said. “It’s an armada.”
The Memnons were now within visual range. It was one hell of a lot of ships. Drednoughts, by the look of them.
“Well, I’ll take the fifty on the left,” Teddy said.
The others laughed. In their ears, Mullins said, “Sir, should you return to base?”
“What would be the point?” Buzz asked. “The base isn’t designed to withstand an attack from even one ship of that size. It’s a deathtrap.” His voice was cold, distant.
“Commander?” Sherr said.
And without warning, without giving orders to his squadron, Commander Adam “Buzz” Gladstone hit the jets and sent his Cobra hurtling into the midst of the Memnon fleet.
Gladstone died. His cobra evaporated, struck by a hail of missile fire from the lead Memnon vessel.
“Holy crap,” Stine whispered.
Sherr spoke up. “Glavine 2, this is Vesuvius. The commander is dead. You need to evacuate the base!”
“Sir?” Mullins said.
“No time for questions! The Memnons have us massively outnumbered. Just get the hells out of there!”
“Where do we go?”
“I don’t know. Just get the hells out.”
“Roger that.”
“And what about us?” Spartan asked.
“We can’t fight an entire armada. Get clear of the base. We’ll escort any ships that escape.”
At their leader’s orders, the squadron took up a safe position and watched as the Memnon fleet continued its approach.
They waited.
And waited.
Finally, a single ship came soaring out of Glavine 2’s launch bay. It was a small transport made for short hops. It wouldn’t get far.
“Vesuvius, we are running out of time,” Spartan said.
“Memnons are scrambling fighters!” Schaefer called out.
We can’t leave them behind! Teddy thought. But how can we really help?
And then a barrage of missiles struck the outpost.
Glavine 2 erupted in a ball of fire. The shuttle was caught up in the explosion and disintegrated before their eyes.
“That’s it!” Sherr called out. “There’s no one left to save. We’re bugging out before the Reapers are on us! Sending coordinates now.”
Even as he piloted his Cobra out into space, Teddy couldn’t believe it had really happened. The outpost was gone, so many friends dead. And most shocking of all, the Memnons had returned.
Chapter 6
Soria, Hyperion
Rory awoke, crimson light filling his eyes. It took only a moment and a brush of his hand over his eyes to realize he was gazing up at the ceiling through a mask of blood. Pain lanced through him, chased by a wave of nausea. He unbuckled his restraints, put his head beneath his knees, retched, and vomited up blood and bile. Memories swam slowly to the surface.
<
br /> Trent had warned them they were going down. Chaos, confusion, and then…what?
He couldn’t remember the moment of impact, but given the shattered cockpit and unconscious marines all around him, there had obviously been one. Why couldn’t he remember? Concussion, he supposed.
Another wave of sickness swept over him and he staved it off with a series of short, sharp breaths. Each one was a punch to his rib cage. He had some bruising there, if not a few fractures.
He heard a groan from beside him, the sound bringing his thoughts into sharper clarity. Were Jemma and the others all right?
He struggled to his feet, keeping a steadying hand against the bulkhead, and looked around.
Jemma lay motionless beside him. Her head lolled to the side; blood trickled from her nose. He hastily checked for a pulse. It was there, and strong. Relieved, he moved along to the others.
Snowman was awake and complaining about the odd angle at which his forearm was now bent. “I could be wrong but I think there’s a chance it’s broken,” the big marine deadpanned.
“Either that or you grew a second elbow on the way down. I’ll get you splinted up after I check the others.”
“I’ve got it.” Marson was awake and on his feet, reeling like a drunkard toward Snowman.
“You’re all right?” Rory asked, not that he cared.
“I’m better than you will ever be, Plowboy.” He threw a shoulder into Rory as he staggered past. Typical Marson.
Wig lay lifeless on the deck. His vacant eyes stared up at nothing. Rory took a deep breath and said a small prayer for his soul. He remembered Wig’s easy laugh, the way his hair grew like out of control weeds. He wished he’d gotten to know the recruit better, but it was too late now.
The others were alive, if not in great condition. Monk was coughing up blood, crying out in pain with every wet, ragged hack. Crane and Cassidy nursed head wounds. The latter tried to fend off Rory’s ministrations, but she was too concussed to put up much of a fight. Soon, he had her bandaged and wrapped in a blanket.
