Planetary Assault (Star Force Series) Page 11

  The cruisers split next, from Conquest’s sides, eight midsized pyramidal vessels equipped with beam weapons – lasers, grasers, masers and charged particle beam emitters – an abundance of fusion power plants, and little else. Armored most heavily in front, they depended on standoff distance and computer control to put their energies on targets and avoid those of the enemy. The cruisers fell in flanking the battleships, knowing that a relativistic strike from a chunk of rock as small as a baseball could wreak havoc on the smaller ships to come.

  Conquest’s onion continued to peel, this time from the rear as sixteen missile frigates fell away as one, then cleaved apart with gentle pushes of their thrusters, each a double-pointed obelisk with pyramidal ends and four flat sides. Nuclear-tipped missiles in hundred-count disposable launcher boxes clamped to the vessels’ skins.

  Now shrunken by three-fourths, Conquest paused in its systematic dismantlement for many hours as the twenty-nine now-distinct warships tested systems, eliminated problems, performed final maintenance, and established their own routines. Each now had its own captain, its own set of Helmsmen and bridge officers, and its own destiny.

  Absen watched the ballet from his bridge, eyes bright but saying little as the sequence unfolded. A good commander knew when to stay out of the way, and at this point, everything was going according to instructions.

  A good commander also knew no battle plan survives contact with the enemy.

  Chapter 4

  Monitor gulped asteroids and birthed warships as SystemLord mustered his forces. That commander vivified and placed a pure Meme aboard each newborn vessel, warrior-bred mitoses cloned from his own memory cells, possessing battle skills and little else. Adolescent in outlook, many years would pass before any of them matured enough to be a threat to his dominance – by which time, one way or another, most of them would be dead.

  Again SystemLord speculated on the foolishness of the Humans, though as a wise and canny warrior he refused to underestimate them.

  On one pod it seemed they had telegraphed their intentions with the probe.

  On the other pod, he considered the possibility that there was no attacking force: that the probe was merely a lone information-gathering device directed at this system. Perhaps the enemy had sent tiny drones to many systems. Perhaps a Human fleet waited in interstellar space for information, and would choose a different target when it saw how prepared his system was.

  Such would be a worthy enemy strategy, SystemLord thought. It would be clever and efficient, forcing the Empire to expend vast amounts of materiel to prepare to hold many systems while the enemy attacked only one. This observation highlighted a principle that even the animalistic Humans could comprehend: in warfare, the attacker had the advantage of choosing time and place and circumstance, while the defender must wait, ever vigilant. This was doubly true in space combat, where speed was life, where unmoving things died.

  That was why the Empire made it a policy of attacking, overwhelming and absorbing any threat.

  The old Meme longed to take Monitor to assault the Human homeworld, but the Elders were still considering his suggestion. SystemLord believed that if they had immediately sent all Monitors within thirty light-years, and joined with all available roving Destroyers, the threat would have been ended already.

  But tradition also said every Meme system would have its Monitor, to guard and fortify its planetary components, the wealth of the Empire – and keep the Underlings in line. Taboo and tradition, he mused. We are trapped in chains of our own making.

  Monitor had shrunk by almost half its own weight, shedding billions of tons as it first gestated dozens of frigates and cruisers rather than the usual millions of hypervelocity missiles. This strategy ran counter to standard doctrine, which was founded on the belief that a single large ship would always defeat an equal mass of smaller ships.

  However, SystemLord had studied long on the old memories of Species 447 and the new ones of Human Species 666, and had made, for a Meme, an extraordinary intuitive leap.

  He had realized that inorganic constructs, what Humans called machines, changed the usual equations. Where one living predator would easily dominate two of half its size, it was often true that two smaller machines could destroy one larger one.

  Only Blends - Underlings and Purelings - built such machines. Having given up their Meme to use solid bodies with fixed structure and members, they needed such tools to overcome their disabilities. But SystemLord realized, in contravention to his culture, that in some circumstances the machine strategy was superior, if not the machines themselves.

  A Human would say he thought to fight fire with fire. Thus SystemLord set the many smaller ships to grazing on interplanetary detritus, instructing their commanders to make themselves fat with raw materials, fuel and weapons.

  Ordinary Meme doctrine was that of efficiency – living ships that could fire weapons, fight and run away to heal and return again.

  Contrarily, the Humans with their machines seemed to commit total effort to each battle, expending munitions at many times the rate Meme would in hopes of swamping their enemies’ ships with overwhelming numbers and varying attacks. In this case, where the aliens could not resupply, SystemLord was willing to pick and choose from traditional and enemy doctrines, in hopes of synthesizing something new.

  Accordingly, the Meme commander burned the resources of his star system with profligate rapidity as he thought, better to be prepared than to be made a fool – especially a dead fool.

  ***

  Absen finally really felt like an admiral. Whereas before he commanded one composite ship, now he had charge of twenty-nine, which meant twenty-eight captains to deal with. Additionally, eight more assault carriers remained to be launched. Each AC held an inordinate number of human beings for its size: a Marine battalion of two thousand or so troops, plus an aerospace fighter wing of four hundred fifty and a ship’s crew of about a hundred, all in ships with light armor and naught else but defensive systems. Forty percent of my people, he thought, and likely to take the heaviest casualties. But then, the ground forces always do.

  Whereas the rest of the ships were there to control the high ground of space, these eight were there to take and hold things and places. Right now their objectives were rather murky. Eight reinforced battalions couldn’t hold a planet in the face of determined resistance, but the Hippos’ world had orbital facilities and a moon half the size of Earth’s. While Absen doubted he would ever again pull off anything as dramatic as ship-to-ship boarding, he was sure the ACs would get a workout somewhere, if only because he believed in using every tool to win.

  Because ultimately, when this battle was over, they had to put down boots and roots, build something permanent, and prepare for the inevitable counterattack.

  Or perhaps, Absen toyed with a proscribed idea, we should strike and move on. Because despite my declaration of “do or die,” if this system is too tough, I’d rather sail on through and go elsewhere. Better the Flying Dutchmen of space than the last hurrah of a dead race.

  If only we knew what had happened at home.

  Bridge crew murmured about him, speaking in clipped tones, passing orders and information. He exchanged glances with his imperturbable Chief of the Boat Timmons, an archaic position that the man maintained by refusing to go anywhere but Absen’s side. Though the COB looked younger and fitter than he used to, he still had an air of gravitas that his ever-present coffee mug of lifer-juice did nothing to dispel. Timmons nodded back, touched a control on his console.

  Klaxons whooped throughout the ship, calling all hands to General Quarters. Tension aboard spiked as men and women scrambled to pull on suits and helmets, then jogged along the decks through the wide passageways. Their gear grew suddenly less heavy as the grav plating reset to one-half G, the better to perform their duties. Once damage control parties had reported ready, the COB touched another key and the no-notice drill ended.

  “Two minutes seventeen seconds,” he announced, che
cking an old-fashioned digital stopwatch from his pocket. “Not bad.”

  “Let’s get it under two minutes, COB,” Absen replied.

  “Aye aye, sir.” He picked up his mug and took a sip. “I’ll give them five minutes to get halfway undressed and then call one again.”

  “You’re a bad man, COB,” Absen grinned.

  “Far worse than you know, sir,” he chuckled. Five minutes passed, then ten, while he sipped and played with his board.

  Crafty old bastard knew he’d be overheard and someone would pass on the scuttlebutt through their link, Absen thought. Now they’re all sweating in their suits, ready to go and wondering what’s going on.

  Ninety-five minutes later he watched as Timmons called another drill. Absen laughed to himself. That’ll teach them to try to outfox the fox.

  Two hours later the Admiral gave up his watch to Commander Yvgenia Zylstra, content to crawl into his bunk and catch up on some sleep. He knew that his role now was to make the big decisions when the time came. Tomorrow he would spend the day reviewing the finalized intelligence and op-plans, before he gave the order to start shooting for real.

  ***

  Absen awoke seven hours later with that feeling again. Irritation flared in his breast, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to give the man the satisfaction of seeing it. Without opening his eyes he cleared his throat and said, “Hello, Spooky.”

  “Greetings, Admiral. I trust all is well with your world?” The covert operative sat comfortably in the armchair in the corner, farthest from the comm-panel light by Absen’s bunk and thus a mere outline in the deep darkness.

  “You know, this sneaking in was a lot more impressive before you adopted cover as a Steward and got the codes for the door. Now it’s just disrespectful.” Absen sat up, flipping on the overhead light, stripping the Vietnamese highlander of his shadows, and nearly blinding himself on the blued and buttoned Steward garb.

  Spooky blinked, shrugged. “Would it impress you more if I told you I don’t have the current codes, and that Tobias is standing outside gnashing his teeth wondering how I got by him – again?”

  Absen waved a hand in surrender. “Yes, I suppose it would. All right, you’ve had your fun. What do you want this time?”

  “I want to make a suggestion.”

  “What would that be?”

  Spooky leaned forward to put his palms on his knees. “Don’t strike the planet too hard.”

  Absen nodded. “Well, not so hard we destroy the ecosystem. We do need to colonize. Why?”

  “Because the best way to destroy an enemy is make him your friend.”

  “And you think the Hippos will be our friends?”

  Spooky nodded slowly. “It seems possible. Are they not slaves to the Meme?”

  “Look, Nguyen, I’ve read a hundred reports on this issue and nobody agrees. What are they? Meme with Hippo bodies? Hippos cloaked in Meme biology? Slaves to their empire? We don’t know their exact relationship.”

  “I simply advise keeping our options open. They can’t be allies if they are bombed back to the Stone Age.”

  Absen sighed. “They can’t hurt us, either…but point taken. I’ll think about it.”

  Spooky folded his hands across his flat belly and gazed down at his interlaced digits. “I’d also like to have your permission to assemble a team.”

  “For?”

  “I’m not sure.” He looked suddenly uncertain, and rubbed the tips of his thumbs together. “I just have an…intuition, that it might be needed.”

  “If you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail.”

  Spooky laughed dryly. “You think because I’m a covert operative, I am manufacturing a covert operation?”

  “Just raising the possibility.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to be ready if an opportunity presents itself? Use every tool, I’ve heard you say.”

  “All right. As long as it doesn’t disrupt other tools by doing it. You’re saying you haven’t already got a team? If you could get assigned to this task force without my knowledge, why not some more spooky fellows? Ah…” Absen smiled. “You weren’t assigned, were you. You stowed away again.” He sat back to fold his arms on his chest with rare delight. “And now you need my help.”

  “I do.” Spooky quirked an eyebrow. “I think I’ve earned it over the years.”

  “Of course you have, old man. I just like seeing you squirm a bit.” Absen clapped, then rubbed his hands theatrically. “All right, let’s say the answer is yes. How many and who? I get the feeling you don’t just want a squad of jarheads to back you up.”

  “You are correct, sir. And I have a feeling I will need special operators, not line troops. But it doesn’t need to be right away. I don’t want to disrupt things…until I have to.”

  “Uh oh.” Absen stood up and grabbed a towel. “Since we’re swapping feelings, I have a feeling I’m not going to like the roster. So rather than hash this out right now, I’m going to take a shower and you’re going to give me your choices so I can think about it, and get lost in the meantime.”

  “Fair enough.” Spooky stood up and bowed mockingly. “The list is under your pillow.” With that parting shot he walked out of the Admiral’s capacious quarters.

  Absen followed him to the door, watching as he left. “Oh, come on!” he heard Tobias cry as the Chief Steward glared at the little man gliding past him again with a wink. I think the score is thirty-seven to two in Spooky’s favor, though I’m not so sure he didn’t let Tobias catch him deliberately once or twice, just to throw the man a bone.

  ***

  The Admiral’s private shower was a good place to think. The more he mulled over Spooky’s words, the more they made sense to him. Maybe there aren’t enough people here willing to speak truth to power. That means Nguyen is all the more valuable for that trait. Am I too arrogant after all?

  One short walk later Absen took his seat in his command conference room, overflowing with targeters, planners and analysts. They ticked through dozens of slides detailing the specifics of the fleet’s initial strikes, and his eyes began to roll back after the first hour no matter how he tried to hurry the process. They snapped open as the next presentation showed the hot, blue-green, Earthlike world they’d named Afrana.

  By the third slide he’d heard enough. “So, Colonel Dunlap,” Absen asked the targeting officer levelly, “you appear to have planned a genocide.”

  The man shifted uncomfortably next to the big screen. “Estimates are for no more than ninety-four percent casualties on the Hippo planet, sir.”

  “Ah.” Absen steepled his fingers. “And if this was a human enemy, would you consider that number within the bounds of morality?” The room had fallen silent as the staff watched the interplay.

  “Um, perhaps not, sir.” Wisely, the man waited rather than argue – after all, he was merely the spokesman for a planning team.

  “What will be the impact on the ecosystem of this proposed strike? I will eventually have to put a million colonists somewhere. I think they deserve a decent place to live.”

  More confidently Dunlap responded, “The planet is already a bit warm for human habitation. The actions will throw up enough debris to cool the planet and eventually increase the habitable zone.”

  “Eventually when?”

  “Ah…twenty to thirty years.”

  Absen tapped his fingertips together. “Look, Dunlap, I am sure your plan is a perfect military solution, but there is a bigger picture here. Aside from the morality of wiping out enemy civilians that pose us no threat, aside from the wisdom of damaging the planet during the most critical colonization period, has anyone thought to ask about how we are going to live with these Hippos later?”

  “But sir,” broke in Colonel Stallers, “they are just Meme in different form. They are the enemy.”

  Absen responded, “And a wise man recently reminded me the best way to destroy an enemy is to make him your friend. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the history of h
uman warfare it’s the value of holding out a hand to a defeated foe. So let me be clear: I want plans that demolish and destroy all enemy military capability, even associated industrial capability. I want them smashed flat, but I will not countenance genocide. Dunlap, get your team working on something less extreme, that kills fewer civilian Hippos and allows us to immediately start the colonization. And Campbell,” he turned to his aide, “draft a memo explaining my policy on the difference between pure Meme and Hippos.”

  “Yes, sir. Ah…what is the difference?”

  “I’ll tell you when I’m sure myself.” The Admiral rubbed his eyes and stood up to stretch. “Let’s take five and get on with the next presentation.”

  Chapter 5

  Flight Lieutenant Vincent “Vango” Markis turned when he felt the clasp on his shoulder. “Rick!” He returned Rick Johnstone’s grip with one hand, holding up his towel with the other. “Let me get dressed and we can catch up.” Vango quickly pulled on his flight suit, or “bag,” and followed the CyberComm officer out of the locker room.

  “Been a crazy few days,” Rick said to his friend as they walked down a corridor, squeezing past myriad bodies hurrying hither and yon. “I wanted to stop by before separation. Once the carriers break off, there won’t be any more visiting.”

  “Shouldn’t you be spending this time with your Sergeant Major wife, then?”

  “She’s busy right now.”

  “Hey, I always wanted to ask you, why she didn’t take your name?”

  “Well…her family got nuked in Los Angeles back on Infection Day. She offered, but…I didn’t want her to be the last Repeth. Besides, her reputation is more important to her than she admits.”

  “That’s…really nice, man.”

  “Thanks.”