End of Worlds
Chapter 2
Captain’s Office
TCS Absolution
Granita System
Maxwell Powers loathed these meetings. Staring at the multi-screened monitor, he understood the need for teleconferencing while behind lines. The last thing Task Force 212 needed was a lucky strike by a Strakha on the Gemini to kill all the captains. That was not the issue. Each time he saw Commodore Harris on the screen, he was reminded of the personal snub to himself, and his ship. Abby was designed to be a flag ship, to service an Admiral and their entourage. She had the quarters as well as the work space. Instead, Harris chose the TCS Gemini as his flag. Powers could not deny the ship was newer; he could see that just by looking at the sleekness of the Ceres-class cruiser, compared to the bulky and ungainly figure of an Odin-class ship. And yes, it did have a modern sweep of optronics and communication arrays. All that was not the point. Gemini was not a battleship, or even a carrier. It was a cruiser!
As he fumed over the injustice, he vaguely listened to the status reports. He already knew most of this. Epsilon Prime was pasted and the task force took the closest jump point out of the system. The former capital of the Epsilon Sector would have to be quarantined for centuries, just to ensure the Kilrathi virus never escaped. He was briefed on the Life-Eater Virus, and knew it spread and killed fast. What was not clear, was what happened after the virus ran its course. Intel had some evidence that it went dormant, and had a half-life of five hundred years. The virus killed fast enough that there was little worry of a ship reaching any jump point before the crew died. After that, it would keep on drifting, shooting out of the system at around three PSL.
He visited Epsilon Prime before, earlier in his career, during the Enigma Sector Campaign. From their little quarter of Epsilon Sector, Confed struck at Kilrathi supply lines. Nothing as successful as what those escort carriers did a couple of years ago, but look what that lead to. Powers fought an urge to shake his head at the memory. Peace with the Kilrathi? It was laughable. The only way their could have been peace was over the Emperor’s, as well as the entire Kilrah Pride’s, dead bodies. Eliminating the top of their system would bring it all down. Intel discovered that from the various defectors over the years. The two Cats on his own ship agreed entirely. With the Kilrah Pride gone, the other big Prides would go at each other and forget all about humanity.
Instead– well, he did not have to relive that episode in his life. It was not the first time a politician made a mistake, but it was almost the last. Now he, and every other captain in the Terran Confederation Navy, were stuck with the consequences. It was another reason for the teleconference. This was a meeting between the Commodore and his captains. Here, with frequencies scrambled and offices secure, they can talk candid about the war. Which is to say, they can openly admit just how screwed humanity was in 2669. It was something a captain could never admit to his crew, despite the fact his crew knew the truth of war. Nonetheless, hearing such defeatist talk from their captain did the crew no good.
When the Commodore finished his own brief, and asked for questions, Powers was the first to speak up. “Of all the jump points we could have retreated to, why Granita? We’re effectively behind the Cats’ lines with no support.” Again, when it was just the captains, he could call their withdrawal from Epsilon exactly what it was.
What he said about lack of support was utterly true. If the Kilrathi struck in force, they would all be dead. Powers already ordered patrols flown out to ten light-seconds distance by his Epees. Hopefully, they would detect any cloaked fighters headed their way. Just why the Kilrathi would station such valuable fighter here, was beyond him. The chief technician even told him that extended patrols would just waste fuel, and he would be sorry if they ever needed it. Powers could only shrug to that. Better sorry than dead. Coupled with that, all passive sensors were set to full sensitivity. If even a simply hand radio were used in the system, Abby would pick it up.
As long as the fighters all came back, he would be happy. He was already down to eight pilots. He considered transferring a shuttle pilot to the fighter compliment, but the wing commander shot that idea down. None of the shuttle pilots were qualified on the Epee. Powers still ordered all his shuttle pilots to spend time on the simulators, getting themselves familiar with the point-defense fighter. When the Cats came, he wanted all of those fighters out in space. Confed should really supply its ships with backup pilots. If any other pilot decided to end his life, Absolution would be even deeper in dire straits.
Powers almost wanted to pray for no more suicides. Zollern just reported on a fifth one an hour before the Captain’s Meeting. This time somebody in the technical staff, thankfully. Technicians he had plenty. He was not sure about the situation on the other ships, save the Monrovia. Captain Sydney spoke of her first self-inflicted death a couple of days ago.
Speaking of Sydney, she spoke up after Powers. “Captain Powers raises a valid point. From here, it is a long way back to our lines.”
Captain Sydney was alright in Powers’s book. She was another vet of raiding in this sector. He met her before, while both were still junior officers. Since then, her face has put on many bags beneath her eyes, and her pulled back blonde hair was already streaked with gray. Powers knew he did not look much better. Nothing like the responsibility of command to double a person’s age.
Harris, his own face far more aged than any of his captains, answered. “Task Force two-twelve, like all others, has standing orders to track down any Intel on the Life-Eater. The Cats jumped in from this system.”
Powers frowned. Was this suppose to make him feel better? They have been in-system for well over a week, and the Kilrathi had not pursued them. That only made him worry more. “Commodore, are we expecting that Kilrathi fleet to jump back in anytime soon?”
Harris shook his head. “No Captain. I suspect the Cats will move on to another system, most likely Locanda.”
“You sound fairly confident, Commodore,” Sydney mirrored Powers’s own thoughts.
Harris shrugged. “Why waste time on a few ships trapped behind enemy lines. It’s not as if they couldn’t turn around at any time and destroy us. Besides, if I were their admiral, I’d be cutting through every Terran world I could.”
That was even less comforting. Powers ran through his mind everything he knew about Locanda. Was it the third or fourth planet that was populated? So much fighting occurred in that system, it seems like a waste of biological weapons to attack its planet. A type of area denial perhaps? Nothing left there to deny humanity anyway. Looks like that fleet will be Eisen’s problem. Powers knew Eisen only professionally. He was a steady captain, and at least his task force was built around a carrier– even if the Victory was almost as old as Abby.
“We’ll have to trust that the Victory’s task force can neutralize the threat to Locanda IV,” Harris continued, reminding Powers of the planet’s number. “We have more pressing matters to attend to,” he paused for a second while a map of the system appeared on a second viewer, this one built into Powers’s, and presumably the other captain’s, desk.
It was a standard star chart, nothing impressive about it. In the middle it showed Granita, a reddening star that recently– in astronomical terms– left its main sequence. Orbiting it were five planets, and a lot of debris. The system had jump points connecting with five other systems. A flashing red line appeared on the map, connecting the jump point to Epsilon with one to the K’ta Mek System, which was deeper inside the Empire. On that line, another flash of red, this one the icon of an enemy target.
“Intel has reported that the Mandarins are operating out of this system, and the only known base lies upon this trade lane. It’s likely the Kilrathi stopped off their to refuel; it would be far quicker than scooping fuel from a gas giant.” Which was exactly what the task force was currently doing– heading to Granita V to scoop up some hydrogen before carrying on with whatever mission Harris had planned. “The base is lightly defended, and relies upon camouflage for protection. Don’t ask me how Intel knows this, but they do. We’re going to hit this base, snatch up their computer cores and mine it for any information about Life-Eater.”
It seemed logical to Powers. Those traitors on that rock were biologically human, though their hearts were clearly tied to the Cats. They might have some sort of protection from the Life-Eater virus, especially if the Cats found them useful. If Mandarins do anything, it was make themselves useful to their furry overlords.
“What if the Cats are still lurking around this base?” asked the captain of the destroyer Kaitan.
Powers glared at his image on the map. What’s wrong, Montier? Can’t handle it? Powers and the Paris-born Montier, were bitter rivals, dating back to their years as junior officers. As with many rivalries among men, it started over a woman. At the time, both Powers and Montier were stationed on Fort Arnold, orbiting high above Earth. The object of both their affections was staffer in the Defense Department, working at Confed HQ in Damascus. A long story short, she chose Montier, and to this day, Powers can not think about them together without the acids in his gut boiling.
He long since quit carrying about her. Why should he? She was years dead, as were other staffers down on Earth, personnel on Fort Arnold, and even the city of Damascus were all long gone. Looking back, he would not have changed anything. Back in 2660, he was young and ambitious. Now, nine years later, he was married six years, had two children, and a nice house in Gatestown. Or what was left of it. As best as he knew, Montier only had the navy.
Despite candor, Harris was not impressed by this timidness. Destroyer captains were suppose to have a little more moxie than that. “Simple, Captain Montier. We destroy them. The Kaitan andMonrovia will join Gemini in keeping any enemy assets off the Absolution.” From the grimace on his face, Powers could tell Montier did not relish the fact of covering him. The disrespect between the two was fully mutual. However, since he only had the navy, he would carry out his duty to the end, no matter how distasteful.
Harris turned his face back to Powers. “Captain Powers, are your grunts up to it?”
Powers smiled. “Fear not, Commodore. Lieutenant Colonel Zollern will make sure the Marines do their job,” Even if he had personally to drag them off the shuttles and into the Mandarin base. Despite declaring he was nothing but a glorified sheriff, Powers had no doubt that Zollern might even lead the raid. If for no other reason than to escape the suicide reports.
“Excellent! That’s the sort of attitude we need right now, if we stand any chance of surviving the year.” All Captains duly noted that Harris said survive, and not win. None were of the delusion that an outright victory was possible. “Now, I’m going to have my staff beam over the plans for this operation. After I get your input, I’ll finalize it and we’ll brief division heads. If all goes well, we’ll be on our way back to our own lines within a week.”
Powers did not need to add the obvious, that if all did not go well, they would be too dead to worry about it.
Security Office
TCS Absolution
Brenell Zollern sat behind his less than auspicious desk, tending to the days’ reports. No more suicides for the morning. He sighed, almost in relief. It would be one less item on his reports to the Captain. He wondered just how much of the reports Powers ever read. With each department head bombarding him with stat-reps every days, Zollern would not be surprised if half of them went unread, filed away for eternity in the ship’s archives. No doubt he heeded special attention to any news that involved personnel. He might be the meanest, crankiest, most sour CO Zollern ever served under, but like all captains in Confed, Powers did care about his crew.
Zollern glanced around his office; little more than a cubicle with durasteel walls on three sides and glass on the four. The view outside, and the term outside was a generous one, was that of a corridors that linked the barracks forward to the brig further aft. As head of security, Zollern oversaw both. The office was sparse of decoration. The rear wall, that is to say the one opposite of the window, was lined with four consoles– one of which had a shot back-lit unit in it. He tried to get one of the engineer ratings in to repair it, but since all four consoles did pretty much the same thing, Engineering saw no point in wasting what few spare parts it had under lock-and-key .
He knew it was non-essential; anything he required, he could easily bring up on his desk’s console. Though sometimes it was nice to have four security sensors displayed at once, such as when the brig was full. Zollern chuckled at the memory; the last time he saw a full brig was during the False Peace, and then it was full of Marines celebrating a pause in the war. Nobody who ever fought the Cats knew the peace would last, but some hoped.
On his desk, aside from the console, was the only peace of decoration Zollern allowed within his office. It was a hologram of his family, taken early in 2668. He stood with his wife and daughter, enjoying a holiday on Luyten. The tropical beach in the background looked much like those around Recife, back on Earth. Nobody who saw the pink sky in the background could ever mistake it for Earth. Ellie was the prettiest woman Zollern ever knew, but the twinkle in her eye and the smile on her face could brighten up any room. Serena obviously had her mother’s smile, but when she was crossed, everybody who ever met her swore she had her father’s glare. Even at so young an age, she had her father’s spirit– or rather the spirit that existed before Repleetah.
Seeing his daughter brought both great joy and sorrow. Joy, because what father could not be joyful when looking upon his child. Joy, because of so many memories. The past brought him joy, but the future brought him sorrow. What sort of world would he be leaving for Serena; more over, what sort of world would be left? If the war ends today, tomorrow or anytime in the foreseeable future, it would be because the Kilrathi have finally destroyed the fleet. Zollern would be a little too dead to worry about himself, but what of his child. What of all the billions of children scattered across the Confederation? Would they be sport for the conquerors, or slaves? He knew from the Cats on board the fate of those who were defeated by the might of Kilrah.
He also knew a few Varni in his day. Those scaly aliens, victims of the Kilrathi just years before the Iason Incident, were the most fanatical fighters in all of Confed. Unlike the Kilrathi defectors, the Varni were even allowed to serve as ground pounders, since combat drones could not possible confuse them for a Cat. The Artificial Intelligences of the combat drones were not very– intelligent that is to say. Tell the drones to kill Cats, and they will, regardless of the uniform. Try to use some sort of tag for IFF, then the Cats on the other side of the lines will figure out the frequency, and the drones would be useless.
His mind was about to wonder off on drones when his console chirped. Unlike most consoles, that simply beeped, Zollern programmed his to chirp like a newly hatched chicken. Zollern blinked the fog away and tapped a finger upon the console. “Zollern here,” he said briskly.
The monitor came to life, showing a less-than-pleased Captain Powers. Zollern has yet to know him to be anything other than less-than-please, except for the occasional simply honked off. “Ah, Captain, I am pleased to report that no crew member has killed themselves today.” Not yet at any rate.
Powers scowled. No doubt the naval personnel on the ship would never have been so curt, or so blunt. “Good God, Colonel, if that’s the good news, I don’t even want to hear the bad.”
Zollern cocked a brow at the screen. Did Powers just make a joke? One could never be certain with such a serious man. “I assume you called for a reason, sir. I have never known you to be one for idle banter.”
He would not have thought it possible, but the Captain’s scowl grew deeper. “I’m not. I’ve just have word from the Gemini; we’re headed for a known Mandarin base in this system. We should be there within the week.”
Zollern’s attention was upright. Though he transferred over to fleet security, being a Marine still meant occasional boarding actions. “Is it safe to assume that we shall be looking for a vaccine or cure to the Life-Eater?” It was a safe bet, since the Cats very well could not have their collaborators upping and dying on them. At least not until after the war was won. When Powers nodded, Zollern continued. “Very well, sir, I shall have a team assembled by tomorrow, and a plan of action as soon as I can get a data dump on everything that’s known about these particular Mandarins.” Such as where they lived, known defenses, and the like. He need not spell it out in details, for Powers knew his job as well as Zollern knew his own.
“I’ll have one of Harris’s staffers beam you all Intel we have on the Granita System.” And without further comment, Powers disconnected the link.
His abrasiveness did not bother Zollern. Though he was no longer a ground pounder himself, he knew how much his men would look forward to combat. Especially to an action they could win. Seeking out the enemy for a fight was far better than waiting in a hole for him to kill you. The mission might even give a little boost to morale. Zollern leaned back in his chair and considered: maybe he would even lead the raid.
Security Barracks
TCS Absolution
Granita System
Brenell Zollern reviewed his security contingent in the dim and flickering lights of the security barracks. Like most systems on board the Absolution, the lighting was sub-standard. Seventy years of operation, and half that time at war, took its toll on the old girl. Most of the barrack’s walls were bare durasteel, with a few posters and other memorabilia taped up by the ship’s security compliment, breaking up the dull gray monotony. For weeks, morale has been low, hovering just under the elevation of a prairie dog during hibernation.
Ever since word of a planned attack has leaked out, a boast of emotional goodness has swept over the ship. Humanity was going on the offensive again. Sure, it was against an unnamed asteroid in the back of beyond, but it was better than running. Marines were happier when attacking. It was felt so much better taking a proactive approach to the enemy. Inside the barracks, the ship’s security personnel, all Marines, ran furious maintenance on their weapons and equipment. Zollern watched his Marines while he greased his own shotgun.
The standard assault rifle was a plasma rifle, firing bolts of atomic nuclei at its target. It fried flesh, but did less against solid object. It would burn the hull of a warship, but not punch through. The perfect weapon when fighting in space. He saw a couple dozen of the rifles out and in pieces across the barracks, as their owners cleaned and ran preventative maintenance. They would kill Mandarins with ease, since those traitors lack the equipment the Kilrathi fielded. His own weapon was a bit more primitive. It was a simpler, mechanical weapons, with real, live ammunition. Some of the younger Marines marveled at the solid shots.
These little plastic cases, one that Zollern held between his fingers, did not look like anything dangerous. Some shells did hold compressed hydrogen, plasma shots. He had a few of them, but those were not what he planned on packing. His shell of choice was tungsten shot. These were not like old fashion hunting shot. His shot trailed monofilament tungsten wire, which unrolled after shot, sending a hundred mono-molecular wires flying into the face of Zollern’s enemies. Plasma could be stopped by shields, and projectiles by armor, but little to nothing can stop mono-molecular blades. They struck at the target at the molecular level, slicing it apart at the microscopic realm.
Because of this, firing them on board a ship was not only forbidden, but really stupid. If even a few of the filaments missed its target and hit a bulkhead, they would slice through durasteel molecules and possibly breach the hull. All shotgun shells were color-coded, with the mono-molecular shot a pitch black. Most of his ammo kit would be hold red shells, plasma shot, but since they would be boarding a hostile installation while wearing combat E-suits, he really did not see the problem firing a few of those black ones.
Zollern volunteered to lead this raid personally. He had plenty of officers under his command who were qualified, but Zollern needed a break from the paper work. Sure, the war was once again plotting to kill him, but if it did, at least he would never have to file another suicide report. That was looking on the bright side, in a dark, gallows sort of way. Marines were like that, especially after years of combat with victory clear out of sight. It brought a smirk to his face.
Once upon a time, Zollern was an optimistic sort. Upbeat even when he signed up for the Marines back in ‘60, after earning his shiny new degree. A couple of years on Repleetah, and a lost eye, broke him of that habit. Thinking of that God awful place always brought a phantom twitch to his left eye. No, not his cloned one, but the one that long since decayed. That only happened while he was awake. When he was dreaming– Repleetah left far deeper scars than the three upon his face.
It was somewhat of a miracle that any man could still function properly after seeing what he saw. Zollern had to shake his head to break himself of the spell. There was still a war to fight and an enemy to kill. If he lived to see victory, he would have to turn inward, wade through the horrors of the mind and defeat the demons within. Most of his security detachment were too young to have witnessed those horrors, but not so young as to have been unable to follow Repleetah on the news. From what he gathered from his visit to Ghorah Khar, the Kilrathi never mentioned the planet in their media beyond the initial invasion. After the dreams of a quick victory were crushed, news on that planet just vanished.
The two Kings of the Ghorah Khar Pride told him, through their female translators, that they had more in common with Terran soldiers than they did their own kind. It was an odd thought, but one Zollern could understand. Both of those Cats were vets from Repleetah, and he shared a bit of comradery with them as well. In fact, the older of the two was the Cat who killed McPherson, his first platoon squadron. Now there was a Marine. A bloody Medal of Honor winner he was, pulling a soldier from No-man’s Land on that planet, then going back and hauling back three more, while the Kilrathi were doing their best to fry him.
What would old Mack think about all this. Probably just as well that he did not live to see the False Peace. If he had a grave, he would have rolled a complete racing circuit in it after the armistice was signed. It was so out of character for the Cats, that it was obvious to even the densest person. Well, maybe not the densest; he remembered the crowd he ran into back in Gatestown while awaiting a transfer. Hard to believe the bought into all that smoke Jukaga was blowing up everybody’s skirts. The hope for peace was too strong, that so many were willing to believe the Cats, even when they knew deep down that it was a trap. When the armistice was signed, all the Cats he served with thought it was the funniest thing they ever heard.
“Colonel?” a voice broke into his revery. That happened a lot these days; Zollern’s mind would just wander its own path. Sometimes he wondered if it would even bother to return.
Zollern looked up to see a Marine, a kid really. He could not have been more than nineteen. He was just a private, a common grunt. The Marine had innocent eyes and ginger hair, and looked like his face had never seen a laser. Gods, was I ever that young? Zollern wondered. Yes, he was, in a previous lifetime. In the time before the Corps. “What is it Marine?” He asked, just the noticing his name: Kresnayov.
“I hope you don’t think I’m out of line, Colonel, but is it true?” asked Kresnayov. He had nerves, coming up to his CO and asking outright. Zollern never would have done that, at least not when he was still a lieutenant so new that he had yet to work the starch from his uniform.
“Going to have to be a little more specific,” Zollern told him, though he knew what the kid was talking about.
“The rumor is, sir, that we’re going to hit some Cats in this system. That they have some sort of outpost in the Granita System.” The Marine’s facts were off, but that was hardly surprising. Zollern was always amazed by some of the stuff bored Marines could dream up.
“Private, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.” And that was true. As far as Zollern knew, the outpost was nothing but a Mandarin nest. Zollern was a ways from finalizing his plans, though he already had the outlines in his head and down on paper. He would not brief his officers until after the Navy scanned that rock, and gave him some maps to work with. “I can only give you the advice any commanding officer would give you. We’re behind enemy lines, so make sure your weapon’s clean and your E-suit is charged.”
“Yes sir,” Kresnayov said with a resigned tone. He knew a dismissal when he heard one, and returned to his gear.
Zollern sighed as he watched the kid. For a kid was what he was. He should still be in school, not out in here on the front lines and beyond. How many hundreds of millions of young men has this war killed? Zollern had no idea. He doubted anybody knew the real numbers. Twenty billion total, perhaps even more. If Confed lost the war, nobody would even bother compiling the statistics. The Cats do not overly care how many of a species is destroyed, as long as it is.
Zollern was pleased that his Marines were ready to go. Preparing for battle and accepting death were far easier than the waiting. The waiting gnawed away at him, same as anyone else. It was the worst part of war. Better to have death charge you than wait days just to face it. That was Zollern’s problem; several days would pass before the task force reaches the target. He would have to drive the Marines through hour upon hour of drills to take their minds off it. He only wished something could take his mind from the waiting. Unfortunately, in his case, that would require a crime wave on board the ship. Not a good idea while behind enemy lines.
Chapter 2
Captain’s Office
TCS Absolution
Granita System
Maxwell Powers loathed these meetings. Staring at the multi-screened monitor, he understood the need for teleconferencing while behind lines. The last thing Task Force 212 needed was a lucky strike by a Strakha on the Gemini to kill all the captains. That was not the issue. Each time he saw Commodore Harris on the screen, he was reminded of the personal snub to himself, and his ship. Abby was designed to be a flag ship, to service an Admiral and their entourage. She had the quarters as well as the work space. Instead, Harris chose the TCS Gemini as his flag. Powers could not deny the ship was newer; he could see that just by looking at the sleekness of the Ceres-class cruiser, compared to the bulky and ungainly figure of an Odin-class ship. And yes, it did have a modern sweep of optronics and communication arrays. All that was not the point. Gemini was not a battleship, or even a carrier. It was a cruiser!
As he fumed over the injustice, he vaguely listened to the status reports. He already knew most of this. Epsilon Prime was pasted and the task force took the closest jump point out of the system. The former capital of the Epsilon Sector would have to be quarantined for centuries, just to ensure the Kilrathi virus never escaped. He was briefed on the Life-Eater Virus, and knew it spread and killed fast. What was not clear, was what happened after the virus ran its course. Intel had some evidence that it went dormant, and had a half-life of five hundred years. The virus killed fast enough that there was little worry of a ship reaching any jump point before the crew died. After that, it would keep on drifting, shooting out of the system at around three PSL.
He visited Epsilon Prime before, earlier in his career, during the Enigma Sector Campaign. From their little quarter of Epsilon Sector, Confed struck at Kilrathi supply lines. Nothing as successful as what those escort carriers did a couple of years ago, but look what that lead to. Powers fought an urge to shake his head at the memory. Peace with the Kilrathi? It was laughable. The only way their could have been peace was over the Emperor’s, as well as the entire Kilrah Pride’s, dead bodies. Eliminating the top of their system would bring it all down. Intel discovered that from the various defectors over the years. The two Cats on his own ship agreed entirely. With the Kilrah Pride gone, the other big Prides would go at each other and forget all about humanity.
Instead– well, he did not have to relive that episode in his life. It was not the first time a politician made a mistake, but it was almost the last. Now he, and every other captain in the Terran Confederation Navy, were stuck with the consequences. It was another reason for the teleconference. This was a meeting between the Commodore and his captains. Here, with frequencies scrambled and offices secure, they can talk candid about the war. Which is to say, they can openly admit just how screwed humanity was in 2669. It was something a captain could never admit to his crew, despite the fact his crew knew the truth of war. Nonetheless, hearing such defeatist talk from their captain did the crew no good.
When the Commodore finished his own brief, and asked for questions, Powers was the first to speak up. “Of all the jump points we could have retreated to, why Granita? We’re effectively behind the Cats’ lines with no support.” Again, when it was just the captains, he could call their withdrawal from Epsilon exactly what it was.
What he said about lack of support was utterly true. If the Kilrathi struck in force, they would all be dead. Powers already ordered patrols flown out to ten light-seconds distance by his Epees. Hopefully, they would detect any cloaked fighters headed their way. Just why the Kilrathi would station such valuable fighter here, was beyond him. The chief technician even told him that extended patrols would just waste fuel, and he would be sorry if they ever needed it. Powers could only shrug to that. Better sorry than dead. Coupled with that, all passive sensors were set to full sensitivity. If even a simply hand radio were used in the system, Abby would pick it up.
As long as the fighters all came back, he would be happy. He was already down to eight pilots. He considered transferring a shuttle pilot to the fighter compliment, but the wing commander shot that idea down. None of the shuttle pilots were qualified on the Epee. Powers still ordered all his shuttle pilots to spend time on the simulators, getting themselves familiar with the point-defense fighter. When the Cats came, he wanted all of those fighters out in space. Confed should really supply its ships with backup pilots. If any other pilot decided to end his life, Absolution would be even deeper in dire straits.
Powers almost wanted to pray for no more suicides. Zollern just reported on a fifth one an hour before the Captain’s Meeting. This time somebody in the technical staff, thankfully. Technicians he had plenty. He was not sure about the situation on the other ships, save the Monrovia. Captain Sydney spoke of her first self-inflicted death a couple of days ago.
Speaking of Sydney, she spoke up after Powers. “Captain Powers raises a valid point. From here, it is a long way back to our lines.”
Captain Sydney was alright in Powers’s book. She was another vet of raiding in this sector. He met her before, while both were still junior officers. Since then, her face has put on many bags beneath her eyes, and her pulled back blonde hair was already streaked with gray. Powers knew he did not look much better. Nothing like the responsibility of command to double a person’s age.
Harris, his own face far more aged than any of his captains, answered. “Task Force two-twelve, like all others, has standing orders to track down any Intel on the Life-Eater. The Cats jumped in from this system.”
Powers frowned. Was this suppose to make him feel better? They have been in-system for well over a week, and the Kilrathi had not pursued them. That only made him worry more. “Commodore, are we expecting that Kilrathi fleet to jump back in anytime soon?”
Harris shook his head. “No Captain. I suspect the Cats will move on to another system, most likely Locanda.”
“You sound fairly confident, Commodore,” Sydney mirrored Powers’s own thoughts.
Harris shrugged. “Why waste time on a few ships trapped behind enemy lines. It’s not as if they couldn’t turn around at any time and destroy us. Besides, if I were their admiral, I’d be cutting through every Terran world I could.”
That was even less comforting. Powers ran through his mind everything he knew about Locanda. Was it the third or fourth planet that was populated? So much fighting occurred in that system, it seems like a waste of biological weapons to attack its planet. A type of area denial perhaps? Nothing left there to deny humanity anyway. Looks like that fleet will be Eisen’s problem. Powers knew Eisen only professionally. He was a steady captain, and at least his task force was built around a carrier– even if the Victory was almost as old as Abby.
“We’ll have to trust that the Victory’s task force can neutralize the threat to Locanda IV,” Harris continued, reminding Powers of the planet’s number. “We have more pressing matters to attend to,” he paused for a second while a map of the system appeared on a second viewer, this one built into Powers’s, and presumably the other captain’s, desk.
It was a standard star chart, nothing impressive about it. In the middle it showed Granita, a reddening star that recently– in astronomical terms– left its main sequence. Orbiting it were five planets, and a lot of debris. The system had jump points connecting with five other systems. A flashing red line appeared on the map, connecting the jump point to Epsilon with one to the K’ta Mek System, which was deeper inside the Empire. On that line, another flash of red, this one the icon of an enemy target.
“Intel has reported that the Mandarins are operating out of this system, and the only known base lies upon this trade lane. It’s likely the Kilrathi stopped off their to refuel; it would be far quicker than scooping fuel from a gas giant.” Which was exactly what the task force was currently doing– heading to Granita V to scoop up some hydrogen before carrying on with whatever mission Harris had planned. “The base is lightly defended, and relies upon camouflage for protection. Don’t ask me how Intel knows this, but they do. We’re going to hit this base, snatch up their computer cores and mine it for any information about Life-Eater.”
It seemed logical to Powers. Those traitors on that rock were biologically human, though their hearts were clearly tied to the Cats. They might have some sort of protection from the Life-Eater virus, especially if the Cats found them useful. If Mandarins do anything, it was make themselves useful to their furry overlords.
“What if the Cats are still lurking around this base?” asked the captain of the destroyer Kaitan.
Powers glared at his image on the map. What’s wrong, Montier? Can’t handle it? Powers and the Paris-born Montier, were bitter rivals, dating back to their years as junior officers. As with many rivalries among men, it started over a woman. At the time, both Powers and Montier were stationed on Fort Arnold, orbiting high above Earth. The object of both their affections was staffer in the Defense Department, working at Confed HQ in Damascus. A long story short, she chose Montier, and to this day, Powers can not think about them together without the acids in his gut boiling.
He long since quit carrying about her. Why should he? She was years dead, as were other staffers down on Earth, personnel on Fort Arnold, and even the city of Damascus were all long gone. Looking back, he would not have changed anything. Back in 2660, he was young and ambitious. Now, nine years later, he was married six years, had two children, and a nice house in Gatestown. Or what was left of it. As best as he knew, Montier only had the navy.
Despite candor, Harris was not impressed by this timidness. Destroyer captains were suppose to have a little more moxie than that. “Simple, Captain Montier. We destroy them. The Kaitan andMonrovia will join Gemini in keeping any enemy assets off the Absolution.” From the grimace on his face, Powers could tell Montier did not relish the fact of covering him. The disrespect between the two was fully mutual. However, since he only had the navy, he would carry out his duty to the end, no matter how distasteful.
Harris turned his face back to Powers. “Captain Powers, are your grunts up to it?”
Powers smiled. “Fear not, Commodore. Lieutenant Colonel Zollern will make sure the Marines do their job,” Even if he had personally to drag them off the shuttles and into the Mandarin base. Despite declaring he was nothing but a glorified sheriff, Powers had no doubt that Zollern might even lead the raid. If for no other reason than to escape the suicide reports.
“Excellent! That’s the sort of attitude we need right now, if we stand any chance of surviving the year.” All Captains duly noted that Harris said survive, and not win. None were of the delusion that an outright victory was possible. “Now, I’m going to have my staff beam over the plans for this operation. After I get your input, I’ll finalize it and we’ll brief division heads. If all goes well, we’ll be on our way back to our own lines within a week.”
Powers did not need to add the obvious, that if all did not go well, they would be too dead to worry about it.
Security Office
TCS Absolution
Brenell Zollern sat behind his less than auspicious desk, tending to the days’ reports. No more suicides for the morning. He sighed, almost in relief. It would be one less item on his reports to the Captain. He wondered just how much of the reports Powers ever read. With each department head bombarding him with stat-reps every days, Zollern would not be surprised if half of them went unread, filed away for eternity in the ship’s archives. No doubt he heeded special attention to any news that involved personnel. He might be the meanest, crankiest, most sour CO Zollern ever served under, but like all captains in Confed, Powers did care about his crew.
Zollern glanced around his office; little more than a cubicle with durasteel walls on three sides and glass on the four. The view outside, and the term outside was a generous one, was that of a corridors that linked the barracks forward to the brig further aft. As head of security, Zollern oversaw both. The office was sparse of decoration. The rear wall, that is to say the one opposite of the window, was lined with four consoles– one of which had a shot back-lit unit in it. He tried to get one of the engineer ratings in to repair it, but since all four consoles did pretty much the same thing, Engineering saw no point in wasting what few spare parts it had under lock-and-key .
He knew it was non-essential; anything he required, he could easily bring up on his desk’s console. Though sometimes it was nice to have four security sensors displayed at once, such as when the brig was full. Zollern chuckled at the memory; the last time he saw a full brig was during the False Peace, and then it was full of Marines celebrating a pause in the war. Nobody who ever fought the Cats knew the peace would last, but some hoped.
On his desk, aside from the console, was the only peace of decoration Zollern allowed within his office. It was a hologram of his family, taken early in 2668. He stood with his wife and daughter, enjoying a holiday on Luyten. The tropical beach in the background looked much like those around Recife, back on Earth. Nobody who saw the pink sky in the background could ever mistake it for Earth. Ellie was the prettiest woman Zollern ever knew, but the twinkle in her eye and the smile on her face could brighten up any room. Serena obviously had her mother’s smile, but when she was crossed, everybody who ever met her swore she had her father’s glare. Even at so young an age, she had her father’s spirit– or rather the spirit that existed before Repleetah.
Seeing his daughter brought both great joy and sorrow. Joy, because what father could not be joyful when looking upon his child. Joy, because of so many memories. The past brought him joy, but the future brought him sorrow. What sort of world would he be leaving for Serena; more over, what sort of world would be left? If the war ends today, tomorrow or anytime in the foreseeable future, it would be because the Kilrathi have finally destroyed the fleet. Zollern would be a little too dead to worry about himself, but what of his child. What of all the billions of children scattered across the Confederation? Would they be sport for the conquerors, or slaves? He knew from the Cats on board the fate of those who were defeated by the might of Kilrah.
He also knew a few Varni in his day. Those scaly aliens, victims of the Kilrathi just years before the Iason Incident, were the most fanatical fighters in all of Confed. Unlike the Kilrathi defectors, the Varni were even allowed to serve as ground pounders, since combat drones could not possible confuse them for a Cat. The Artificial Intelligences of the combat drones were not very– intelligent that is to say. Tell the drones to kill Cats, and they will, regardless of the uniform. Try to use some sort of tag for IFF, then the Cats on the other side of the lines will figure out the frequency, and the drones would be useless.
His mind was about to wonder off on drones when his console chirped. Unlike most consoles, that simply beeped, Zollern programmed his to chirp like a newly hatched chicken. Zollern blinked the fog away and tapped a finger upon the console. “Zollern here,” he said briskly.
The monitor came to life, showing a less-than-pleased Captain Powers. Zollern has yet to know him to be anything other than less-than-please, except for the occasional simply honked off. “Ah, Captain, I am pleased to report that no crew member has killed themselves today.” Not yet at any rate.
Powers scowled. No doubt the naval personnel on the ship would never have been so curt, or so blunt. “Good God, Colonel, if that’s the good news, I don’t even want to hear the bad.”
Zollern cocked a brow at the screen. Did Powers just make a joke? One could never be certain with such a serious man. “I assume you called for a reason, sir. I have never known you to be one for idle banter.”
He would not have thought it possible, but the Captain’s scowl grew deeper. “I’m not. I’ve just have word from the Gemini; we’re headed for a known Mandarin base in this system. We should be there within the week.”
Zollern’s attention was upright. Though he transferred over to fleet security, being a Marine still meant occasional boarding actions. “Is it safe to assume that we shall be looking for a vaccine or cure to the Life-Eater?” It was a safe bet, since the Cats very well could not have their collaborators upping and dying on them. At least not until after the war was won. When Powers nodded, Zollern continued. “Very well, sir, I shall have a team assembled by tomorrow, and a plan of action as soon as I can get a data dump on everything that’s known about these particular Mandarins.” Such as where they lived, known defenses, and the like. He need not spell it out in details, for Powers knew his job as well as Zollern knew his own.
“I’ll have one of Harris’s staffers beam you all Intel we have on the Granita System.” And without further comment, Powers disconnected the link.
His abrasiveness did not bother Zollern. Though he was no longer a ground pounder himself, he knew how much his men would look forward to combat. Especially to an action they could win. Seeking out the enemy for a fight was far better than waiting in a hole for him to kill you. The mission might even give a little boost to morale. Zollern leaned back in his chair and considered: maybe he would even lead the raid.
Security Barracks
TCS Absolution
Granita System
Brenell Zollern reviewed his security contingent in the dim and flickering lights of the security barracks. Like most systems on board the Absolution, the lighting was sub-standard. Seventy years of operation, and half that time at war, took its toll on the old girl. Most of the barrack’s walls were bare durasteel, with a few posters and other memorabilia taped up by the ship’s security compliment, breaking up the dull gray monotony. For weeks, morale has been low, hovering just under the elevation of a prairie dog during hibernation.
Ever since word of a planned attack has leaked out, a boast of emotional goodness has swept over the ship. Humanity was going on the offensive again. Sure, it was against an unnamed asteroid in the back of beyond, but it was better than running. Marines were happier when attacking. It was felt so much better taking a proactive approach to the enemy. Inside the barracks, the ship’s security personnel, all Marines, ran furious maintenance on their weapons and equipment. Zollern watched his Marines while he greased his own shotgun.
The standard assault rifle was a plasma rifle, firing bolts of atomic nuclei at its target. It fried flesh, but did less against solid object. It would burn the hull of a warship, but not punch through. The perfect weapon when fighting in space. He saw a couple dozen of the rifles out and in pieces across the barracks, as their owners cleaned and ran preventative maintenance. They would kill Mandarins with ease, since those traitors lack the equipment the Kilrathi fielded. His own weapon was a bit more primitive. It was a simpler, mechanical weapons, with real, live ammunition. Some of the younger Marines marveled at the solid shots.
These little plastic cases, one that Zollern held between his fingers, did not look like anything dangerous. Some shells did hold compressed hydrogen, plasma shots. He had a few of them, but those were not what he planned on packing. His shell of choice was tungsten shot. These were not like old fashion hunting shot. His shot trailed monofilament tungsten wire, which unrolled after shot, sending a hundred mono-molecular wires flying into the face of Zollern’s enemies. Plasma could be stopped by shields, and projectiles by armor, but little to nothing can stop mono-molecular blades. They struck at the target at the molecular level, slicing it apart at the microscopic realm.
Because of this, firing them on board a ship was not only forbidden, but really stupid. If even a few of the filaments missed its target and hit a bulkhead, they would slice through durasteel molecules and possibly breach the hull. All shotgun shells were color-coded, with the mono-molecular shot a pitch black. Most of his ammo kit would be hold red shells, plasma shot, but since they would be boarding a hostile installation while wearing combat E-suits, he really did not see the problem firing a few of those black ones.
Zollern volunteered to lead this raid personally. He had plenty of officers under his command who were qualified, but Zollern needed a break from the paper work. Sure, the war was once again plotting to kill him, but if it did, at least he would never have to file another suicide report. That was looking on the bright side, in a dark, gallows sort of way. Marines were like that, especially after years of combat with victory clear out of sight. It brought a smirk to his face.
Once upon a time, Zollern was an optimistic sort. Upbeat even when he signed up for the Marines back in ‘60, after earning his shiny new degree. A couple of years on Repleetah, and a lost eye, broke him of that habit. Thinking of that God awful place always brought a phantom twitch to his left eye. No, not his cloned one, but the one that long since decayed. That only happened while he was awake. When he was dreaming– Repleetah left far deeper scars than the three upon his face.
It was somewhat of a miracle that any man could still function properly after seeing what he saw. Zollern had to shake his head to break himself of the spell. There was still a war to fight and an enemy to kill. If he lived to see victory, he would have to turn inward, wade through the horrors of the mind and defeat the demons within. Most of his security detachment were too young to have witnessed those horrors, but not so young as to have been unable to follow Repleetah on the news. From what he gathered from his visit to Ghorah Khar, the Kilrathi never mentioned the planet in their media beyond the initial invasion. After the dreams of a quick victory were crushed, news on that planet just vanished.
The two Kings of the Ghorah Khar Pride told him, through their female translators, that they had more in common with Terran soldiers than they did their own kind. It was an odd thought, but one Zollern could understand. Both of those Cats were vets from Repleetah, and he shared a bit of comradery with them as well. In fact, the older of the two was the Cat who killed McPherson, his first platoon squadron. Now there was a Marine. A bloody Medal of Honor winner he was, pulling a soldier from No-man’s Land on that planet, then going back and hauling back three more, while the Kilrathi were doing their best to fry him.
What would old Mack think about all this. Probably just as well that he did not live to see the False Peace. If he had a grave, he would have rolled a complete racing circuit in it after the armistice was signed. It was so out of character for the Cats, that it was obvious to even the densest person. Well, maybe not the densest; he remembered the crowd he ran into back in Gatestown while awaiting a transfer. Hard to believe the bought into all that smoke Jukaga was blowing up everybody’s skirts. The hope for peace was too strong, that so many were willing to believe the Cats, even when they knew deep down that it was a trap. When the armistice was signed, all the Cats he served with thought it was the funniest thing they ever heard.
“Colonel?” a voice broke into his revery. That happened a lot these days; Zollern’s mind would just wander its own path. Sometimes he wondered if it would even bother to return.
Zollern looked up to see a Marine, a kid really. He could not have been more than nineteen. He was just a private, a common grunt. The Marine had innocent eyes and ginger hair, and looked like his face had never seen a laser. Gods, was I ever that young? Zollern wondered. Yes, he was, in a previous lifetime. In the time before the Corps. “What is it Marine?” He asked, just the noticing his name: Kresnayov.
“I hope you don’t think I’m out of line, Colonel, but is it true?” asked Kresnayov. He had nerves, coming up to his CO and asking outright. Zollern never would have done that, at least not when he was still a lieutenant so new that he had yet to work the starch from his uniform.
“Going to have to be a little more specific,” Zollern told him, though he knew what the kid was talking about.
“The rumor is, sir, that we’re going to hit some Cats in this system. That they have some sort of outpost in the Granita System.” The Marine’s facts were off, but that was hardly surprising. Zollern was always amazed by some of the stuff bored Marines could dream up.
“Private, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.” And that was true. As far as Zollern knew, the outpost was nothing but a Mandarin nest. Zollern was a ways from finalizing his plans, though he already had the outlines in his head and down on paper. He would not brief his officers until after the Navy scanned that rock, and gave him some maps to work with. “I can only give you the advice any commanding officer would give you. We’re behind enemy lines, so make sure your weapon’s clean and your E-suit is charged.”
“Yes sir,” Kresnayov said with a resigned tone. He knew a dismissal when he heard one, and returned to his gear.
Zollern sighed as he watched the kid. For a kid was what he was. He should still be in school, not out in here on the front lines and beyond. How many hundreds of millions of young men has this war killed? Zollern had no idea. He doubted anybody knew the real numbers. Twenty billion total, perhaps even more. If Confed lost the war, nobody would even bother compiling the statistics. The Cats do not overly care how many of a species is destroyed, as long as it is.
Zollern was pleased that his Marines were ready to go. Preparing for battle and accepting death were far easier than the waiting. The waiting gnawed away at him, same as anyone else. It was the worst part of war. Better to have death charge you than wait days just to face it. That was Zollern’s problem; several days would pass before the task force reaches the target. He would have to drive the Marines through hour upon hour of drills to take their minds off it. He only wished something could take his mind from the waiting. Unfortunately, in his case, that would require a crime wave on board the ship. Not a good idea while behind enemy lines.