Danger Close

The Iron Fleet Book Four

Daniel Gibbs

Danger Close by Daniel Gibbs

Copyright © 2025 by Daniel Gibbs

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Additional Illustrations by Joel Steudler—www.joelsteudler.com

This book is a work of fiction, the characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Also Available from Daniel Gibbs

Battlegroup Z

Book 1 - Weapons Free

Book 2 - Hostile Spike

Book 3 - Sol Strike

Book 4 - Bandits Engaged

Book 5 - Iron Hand

Book 6 - Final Flight

Echoes of War

Book 1 - Fight the Good Fight

Book 2 - Strong and Courageous

Book 3 - So Fight I

Book 4 - Gates of Hell

Book 5 - Keep the Faith

Book 6 - Run the Gauntlet

Book 7 - Finish the Fight

The Lost Warship

Book 1 - Adrift

Book 2 - Mercy

Book 3 - Valor

Book 4 - Justice

Book 5 - Resolve

Book 6 - Faith

The Iron Fleet

Book 1 - Battlestations

Book 2 - Intervention

Book 3 - Counterstrike

Book 4 - Danger Close

Book 5 - Check Fire

Book 6 - Decision Point (COMING IN 2025)

Galaxy Bridge

(With Steve Rzasa)

Book 1 - Forward Command

Book 2 - Forward Hunt

Book 3 - Forward Pact

Book 4 - Forward Crisis

Book 5 - Forward Raid

Book 6 - Forward Shield

Book 7 - Reality Break

Book 8 - Reality Clash

Book 9 - Reality Restored

Breach of Faith

(With Gary T. Stevens)

Book 1 - Breach of Peace

Book 2 - Breach of Faith

Book 3 - Breach of Duty

Book 4 - Breach of Trust

Book 5 - Spacer’s Luck

Book 6 - Fortune’s Favor

Book 7 - The Iron Dice

Deception Fleet

(With Steve Rzasa)

Book 1 - Victory’s Wake

Book 2 - Cold Conflict

Book 3 - Hazards Near

Book 4 - Liberty’s Price

Book 5 - Ecliptic Flight

Book 6 - Collision Vector

Courage, Commitment, Faith: Tales from the Coalition Defense Force

(Anthology Series)

Volume One

Volume Two

Volume Three

1

Kikin Secondary School

Serebryanov—New Rostov

16 May 2474

Arthur Hanson was in hell—or at least a close facsimile. His fingers tightened around the handgrip of his standard-issue Coalition Defense Force MX-9 battle rifle. Though it had been a mainstay of both the Terran Coalition Marine Corps and the CDF for decades, he wasn’t comfortable with the weapon. If I’m being honest, I’m not comfortable with any gun. Arthur only qualified with a pistol once a year and had never fired a battle rifle at an enemy combatant.

Before today.

He wasn’t sure why it felt so different. After all, he’d taken up arms on a couple of occasions to defend the Lion’s engine room. Maybe because those were pulse energy weapons capable of stunning without killing the person on the other end. Arthur supposed it didn’t matter.

Several sustained bursts of plasma discharge shot over his head.

To gain what little cover there was, he’d wedged himself into the doorframe of a classroom. Most of the power-armored Marines nearby had done the same. The corridor they held was the only exit out of that wing of the school, and the terrorists would kill anyone and everyone they could.

One blast of red-hot plasma smacked the wall not more than a meter from his torso and burned through it in an instant.

If that had hit me, I’d be screaming and begging for death. Fear rushed through every synapse in Arthur’s brain and seemed to flow through all the blood vessels in his body. It was all he could do to keep his hands from shaking, which made the fact that he’d volunteered even more astounding.

“Colonel, we’ve got to push up!” Faulkner shouted over the commlink.

Arthur wasn’t wearing power armor—he wasn’t trained for it—but he did have a comms earpiece and combat armor, which consisted of lightweight plates that absorbed the kinetic force of bullets or other projectiles. The aftereffects of liquified skin and tissue were far less dire than taking a round to the chest. However, as powerful as the protection was, it did little against plasma.

Yet another smoking hole blown through the wall in front of him hammered that point home.

“Roger, Lieutenant,” Arthur replied then blew out a breath.

“We’re sitting ducks here, Colonel! You’ve got point!” Faulkner bellowed.

Arthur leaned out and immediately seemed to attract fire from every hostile at the far end of the hallway. He couldn’t quite make out how many there were because of the smoke, but the muzzle flashes from the plasma weapons indicated the enemy had more men than he did by a factor of two.

The enemy wearing power armor—most likely a League of Sol soldier or Marine—charged, shooting plasma haphazardly.

Arthur sighted down his battle rifle, using the low-power scope fitted to the top of the weapon. At the range they were engaging, it was child’s play to keep the man’s head dead center of the optics. He moved his finger from where it rested on the trigger guard to the trigger itself. Then he froze.

It was one thing to shoot an energy beam into the center mass of a Leaguer, a terrorist, or an alien combatant dead set on taking over your ship. But it was another thing to shoot a man in the head, regardless of who or what he was.

“What are you waiting for? Send it!” Faulkner’s voice echoed.

Arthur almost felt like he was having an out-of-body experience. Reality didn’t quite seem to make sense at the moment. A plasma blob burning a hole half a meter above his head jarred his neurons loose, and he squeezed the trigger.

The crack of the battle rifle sounded as simultaneously, a single full-metal-jacket round punched through the onrushing man’s head directly through the faceplate. Arthur shifted to his right and sent another bullet downrange. It, too, found its target as other Marines joined in. Enough of the enemy fell that the incoming fire slackened.

“Sir, time for the next group.”

Arthur keyed his commlink. “Do it, Lieutenant. We’ll hold them off.”

“Roger.”

The aim wasn’t so much to kill all the enemies—though that was certainly one way to deal with the situation—it was to get the civilians, who were mostly children, out of the school. Then we can figure out what to do next. A wide-scale invasion of New Rostov wasn’t exactly in my plan for this week.

Arthur sent a few more rounds down the hallway, though the terrorists on the other end had mostly gone to cover themselves. These men feel like professionals. And while PFLOS had recruited most of its ranks from former members of the League of Sol Navy and Army, based on what he’d seen of the interrogations, the smooth way in which the hostiles behaved suggested more recent training experience.

Such thoughts would have to wait until they got out of the school and back to safety undetected, however.

A deceptively small round metal ball rolled to a stop only two meters away from Arthur. He threw himself backward into the classroom just in time. The explosion blew the door off its hinges and sent shrapnel through the far wall. If he’d remained, even with the combat armor, the shards of metal would have flayed him alive.

Arthur crawled back to the door, rifle pointed outward, just as yet another combatant rushed forward. He pulled the trigger, and it sent a burst of rounds into the man’s center mass and kept going. Shit. Fire selector must’ve slid over to full auto. At least he’d killed the enemy, even though he’d wasted half his magazine.

“Still with us, sir?” Faulkner yelled over the commlink as gunfire echoed in the hallway.

“Not rid of me yet, Lieutenant,” Arthur replied with a lot more spunk than he felt.

Faulkner’s voice mellowed for a moment. “Wouldn’t want to write that after-action report up, sir.” A burst of automatic gunfire in the distinctive staccato-like sound of whatever weapons the enemy was using overloaded the feed. After, his voice came through loud and clear. “Frag, over!”

Three seconds later, a loud explosion ripped through the far end of the hallway, and the incoming rounds slackened once more.

Arthur didn’t need to be told. This is my chance. “Moving,” he called into the commlink as he pushed himself to his feet.

“Go, sir!”

Arthur maneuvered to check the corner just like he’d been taught in the one basic-combat-tactics course he’d taken in officer’s-candidate school. It surprised him how, in the stress of the battlefield, the training came back. With no enemies in sight, he decided it was now or never. Putting on a burst of speed, Arthur raced out of the classroom and made himself as small as possible. The ten seconds or so it took to get to into the next room down the hallway and back into cover were among the longest of his life.

Blood pounded in Arthur’s head, and each heartbeat sounded like a thunderclap. It took him a couple of deep breaths just to be able to think.

Someone shook his arm. “Colonel, are you hit?”

Arthur swallowed. He didn’t feel any pain. “I don’t think so.”

“Best to check for any blood.” Chief Hospital Corpsman Jeremiah Duprey ran a medical scanner built into his power armor over Arthur’s chest. “Looks good.”

“Thanks, Chief.” Arthur checked his battle rifle’s magazine. It only had three rounds left, so it was a good time to reload. As he started to pull a new mag off his tactical vest, his hand shook so hard he couldn’t get a grip.

“You sure you’re okay?” Jeremiah asked quietly.

Despite the fact that a couple dozen enemy troops were trying to kill them and the League of Sol, or the terrorist group Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur, had invaded a planet in the Terran Coalition, all Arthur wanted to do in that moment was crawl into a hole and hide. Having fear was one thing. Showing it, however, was the mark of a coward in Arthur’s mind. If General Cohen were here, he’d be at the front, leading the charge and probably acting like a tier-one commando.

The words “I don’t belong here” were never far from Arthur’s mind. Oh, he did a decent job of keeping them at bay, and beating PFLOS a few times helped. But deep within Arthur’s soul, he couldn’t escape the overwhelming conviction that he belonged in the engine room.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know,” Jeremiah said.

The older man’s words brought Arthur back to reality.

“Chief, I—”

Jeremiah put up a hand. “I’m terrified right now. At least three times in the last thirty minutes, I almost got splashed in my center mass with superheated plasma. I’ve treated two Marines for what would’ve been fatal injuries had they not had power armor on. Anyone in this little op we’ve got going here that claims to not be afraid is a liar.”

“The LT sure isn’t.”

“Faulkner’s better at suppressing fear than you because the Terran Coalition’s misguided children trained him to for years.”

Arthur stared at his hand and tried to steady it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jeremiah continued. “And it’s wrong.”

“What’s that, Chief?”

“A coward wouldn’t have volunteered to stay. You did.”

Arthur turned his head and thanked God that no one else was in earshot, including any of the kids. Six of them were huddled behind a stand of desks along with an elderly teacher. He briefly closed his eyes as the sounds of battle thundered around him. Another ten meters. That was how far it was to the stairwell down to the first floor. A few of the children cried softly, but the others sat in silence. I wonder if they’re in shock. They’re sure taking it better than I think I would’ve at that age.

Jeremiah put his power-armored gauntlet on Arthur’s shoulder. “Colonel, a genuine hero is someone who doesn’t want to go… but does anyway. Don’t forget that.”

The words washed over Arthur. He opened his eyes and took in a deep breath. “Thanks, Chief.”

With an iron will, he got a fresh magazine off his tactical vest and slapped it into the battle rifle. A moment later, the weapon was ready to fight once more… and so was he. He took a small periscope out of the tactical vest and used it to survey the hallway. Nearly every surface had suffered damage. Bullet holes, charred areas where plasma had punched through the walls, and pieces of shrapnel driven into wood made it appear like a set from War Patrol.

But instead of a holodrama, where the good guys always won and took few losses, at least among those with speaking lines, this was the real thing. Inspired by the medic’s words, Arthur determined that no matter what came next, he’d do his best to meet it head on.

As he returned the periscope to its pouch, he cued his commlink. “Lieutenant, prepare to lay down cover fire. Let’s get these kids out of here.”

2

CSV Margaret Thatcher

New Rostov Orbit—High Loop Three

36 Hours Earlier

14 May 2474

The operations tempo on the Margaret Thatcher had slowed enough in the past week that not only had Arthur slept in his actual stateroom belowdecks twice, but the Ajax-class destroyer had finally been able to put into New Rostov for much-needed repairs. The civilian space station in orbit of the world wasn’t anywhere near as well equipped as a military space dock with an enclosed drydock that allowed for a full refit.

But Arthur didn’t get to be a chooser when his ship hadn’t had much in the way of maintenance beyond battlefield repairs since the start of the war. The CSV Leonidas and the CSV Brazer had joined them, maxing out the capabilities of the small station.

“And where are we with the reactor torus inspection?” Arthur asked from the head of the table in the deck-one conference room, where they held every briefing.

Major Colton Ramos, the Thatcher’s chief engineer, answered, “Work teams just finished the liquid-nitrogen purge, sir. The preliminary scan shows only a few microfractures, but I’d like six hours to perform hand scans while we repair those.”

Arthur turned to his XO, Major Abigail Miller. She was normally quite aggressive in wanting to be back out in the void, fighting the terrorists, to the point that she’d skip maintenance activities altogether. “Think we can risk it?”

“As much as it pains me to say, yes, sir. PFLOS has been missing in action ever since we pasted them at our last engagement.”

“Nothing quite like seventy combat spacecraft emerging from destroyer and frigate shuttle bays to lay waste to your fleet,” Arthur replied. He was still pretty proud of that particular strategy, if he was honest with himself. The pride was tempered, however, with a sense of shame over his treatment of Claude Vannier, the PFLOS commander they’d captured in the opening days of the conflict. That’s going to stick for a long time, I think. Arthur vowed anew, each day he woke up, to be better than a man who tortured another, regardless of the reason why.

“I’m glad the snipes are having fun,” Senior Chief Ezekiel Cooper interjected. The burly man hailed from New Virginia and had taken over as the senior enlisted soldier aboard when Master Chief Palmer perished in the opening attack on the Thatcher. “But deck force is getting antsy. The crew hasn’t seen solid ground in over a month. Sure would be nice to give them a day off. Shore leave passes are cheap, Colonel. Some of the kids running around belowdecks could pass for ghosts.”

“The senior chief’s not wrong. A small bit of R & R would go a long way for all of us,” Dr. Gordan Wildstein said.

Arthur blew out a breath. “I’ve considered it, but what if there’s an attack or urgent distress call?”

“The reactor’s offline, skipper,” Cooper replied.

“And it could be reinitialized in an emergency faster than we could get our people back up here. I’m sorry, Senior Chief. I know they deserve it. Lord knows we all do. But I can’t risk the Thatcher being caught with her pants down.”

Cooper let out a sigh. “Can’t argue with the logic, sir, but everyone’s starting to fray a bit. I hope Colonel Kattan builds some downtime into her ops schedule, especially now that PFLOS seems to be on the ropes. Men and women aren’t machines. They need rest and a recharge to maintain maximum efficiency.”

“Noted.” Arthur turned to Yasin. “Did we get a full set of missile reloads yet, Lieutenant?”

As the first-watch tactical action officer, Lieutenant Nadia Yasin had her finger on every weapons system on the vessel. “Yes, sir. Twenty-five percent Starbolts, though,” she replied with disappointment.

The older Starbolts were nowhere near as good a missile as the Hunter variant. Equipped with a shackled AI, Hunters tracked their targets at a level unseen by any other weapon in the CDF or SATO arsenal. They were also extremely effective at evading League tech.

“Hmm. Well, we’ll have to save those for lesser targets. Any saved rounds, people?”

Miller spoke up. “Got one, sir. Governor Volkov has been quite insistent that you visit him. His office has vidlinked at least ten times.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “What’s the reason?’

“Planetary security discussions, defensive plans, and CDF readiness.”

He scratched his chin. “That sounds like something Colonel Kattan should do, as the overall Orion Spur commander.” I don’t even have ground combat experience.

“Ah, but she isn’t here,” Miller replied.

“So we get the short straw?” Arthur had little interest in performing a dog and pony show for a politician.

“It’s probably a photo op. Wave the flag and all that.”

Arthur let out a groan. “Fine. Set it up.”

“That sounds like shore leave to me, sir,” Yasin piped up with a wicked grin.

Chuckles broke out around the conference room table.

“She’s got a point, sir,” Faulkner interjected.

“Well, I’ll have to take you with me to make sure nothing untoward happens. Like randomly having fun,” Arthur replied.

That brought out even more laughter before the Marine interrupted. “You realize, sir, that Marines tend to attract fun rather than repel it?”

“If you enjoy forced marches, climbing up and down obstacles, and carrying a sixty-kilo sack, then yeah, Marines are total fun.”

Faulkner smiled widely. “I mean, I can put something together if you’d like.”

“That’s quite all right.” Arthur resumed a more rigid posture. “Anyone else?”

“Could you bring up getting flash limb-cloning precursors with the governor?” Wildstein interjected. “If I can, I want to spin up that capability in the med bay. We’ve had enough amputations that I don’t want to leave people waiting for months on end with robotic prosthetics.”

Leave it to the doc to put everything back in perspective. “I’ll make the ask.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Arthur made eye contact with several officers in turn. “Anyone else?”

The only reply was the collective silence of the room.

“Very well. Dismissed.”

Yasin was the first up, followed by Ramos and the rest of the senior staff. They didn’t quite stampede for the hatch, but no one had to be told twice. That was for sure. Except for Miller, who hung behind and waited for the last person to exit before closing the hatch.

“Something on your mind, XO?” Ever since the aborted mutiny with Lieutenant Faulkner had gone down along with Arthur’s about-face on the treatment of prisoners, there had been an uneasy truce between the two officers. He wasn’t entirely sure, but it seemed like the major PFLOS defeat had helped ease things between them.

“Well, sir,” she said as she took a seat next to him. “I think the senior chief has a point. Ops tempo has been off the charts the last few weeks.”

“There’s a war on,” Arthur observed darkly.

“Even during the worst days of the League-Coalition war, we got rotated off the front lines every so often. This is different.”

Arthur ran his tongue over his lips. She’s not wrong. “Well, let’s get the old girl ready to fight again, and I’ll talk to the colonel about some downtime if we get another week of quiet.”

Miller nodded. “Sounds good, sir. I, for one, hope that we’ve kicked these guys hard enough they know to stay down.”

“Would it surprise you I would rather they keep coming rather than slink off?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because we need to finish the job this time. No half measures, no letting them go off and rearm.”

“Just no enhanced interrogations.”

Oh, there’s some pique still in there. “Absolutely not.”

“I don’t understand you sometimes. You’ve got the drive and courage of a warrior but not quite the killer instinct. It doesn’t compute, as the engineering ratings say.”

Arthur steepled his fingers. “Abigail, when I tortured that man, I opened the door to something dark in my soul. It was… awful. I started to enjoy watching him suffer.”

Her eyes met his. “They deserve to suffer.”

“Not at our hands. Justice, yes. I’ve no issue shooting them down, blowing up their ships, and killing them man on man. But I’m telling you I felt evil in me as I examined what I’d done. We cannot open the door.”

“Then I hope you get your wish and they keep coming. Because I want to eradicate PFLOS from the universe.”

Arthur grinned. “Maybe after the crew gets a few days off?”

“Yeah. I’m okay with that.”

Both of them chuckled before Arthur stood. “Let’s get back at it.”

“What’s on your agenda, sir?”

“Oh, I decided I’m going to join the torus-inspection team. Haven’t done that in a while, and I want to know everything is shipshape.”

Miller smirked. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a serious nerd?”

“Only now and then.”

She shook her head. “See you later, sir.”

Arthur watched her go. The situation was less than ideal. But still, hope abounded. Perhaps the eradication of these terrorists is at hand. In the back of his mind, however, was the knowledge that until the ideology of the League of Sol—an authoritarian communist empire devoid of even basic freedoms, where the populace lived under a perpetual police and surveillance state—was defeated and no longer existed in the galaxy, the struggle would continue. Because they can’t abide the existence of another way of life. It would show them up, and eventually cause the downfall of League civilization.

The realization was sobering. Yet the only way Arthur could impact the situation was by eliminating PFLOS. Politicians and, ultimately, the voters, held the key to the rest. He hoped in time, they would make the right decisions.

Rand—Capital District Seven

Galt—Independent Systems Federation

15 May 2474

24 Hours Prior

Kenneth Lowe had never been to Galt before or its capital city, Rand. Though it was billed as a monument to capitalism, he found it to be a gaudy display of megacorps trying to prove they had more credits than the others with increasingly intricately architected skyscrapers. Kenneth marveled as they passed by one such building, which had a force-field controlled floating pool hanging off the side. I wouldn’t want to be in that thing when the power failed. The private helicar he’d hired was entirely automated, lacking even basic controls for emergencies.

“These guys sure like to show how big their male appendages are,” Calvin remarked from the seat next to him.

“I mean to be fair, so do we.”

Calvin snickered. “True.”

The helicar glided in for landing at a transport hub three blocks away from the Lou Shipping and Transport headquarters. Kenneth climbed out the moment the door opened and stretched his legs.

“You know, if I’m supposed to be your bodyguard, you might want to let me go first,” Calvin said as he appeared next to him.

Kenneth chuckled. “We’re at Rand’s Commerce Square. This is perhaps the safest place in the known universe outside Lawrence City.”

Calvin snorted. “I thought these Galters didn’t believe in government. Which would mean no cops.”

“Except that the megacorps have huge budgets for private security, which, on Galt, have the same arrest powers as police in the Terran Coalition.”

“Yeah, I see that now. Damn, you’re right. They’re everywhere, and there’s more trying to blend in with plainclothes than wear uniforms.” Calvin nudged Kenneth and gestured to the left. “See the guy over there? He’s clocking everyone who comes in.”

“Could be security or corporate espionage. Regardless, we’re going to be late if we don’t get a move on.”

“Oh, pity if we keep a trillionaire waiting.”

“This was a difficult meeting to get, and it required one of my gold coins.”

Calvin raised an eyebrow. “You had to pay someone in precious metals to get to see this guy? Damn, these Galters really are hardcore.”

“No, I had to cash in a favor.”

“Ah. Well, you cashed in one with me by making me wear this ridiculous business suit.”

Kenneth snickered but didn’t reply as they strode out of an automated security checkpoint, which checked their travel documents.

The walk was short and brisk to the entrance to the Lou Shipping and Transport headquarters. Kenneth circled his head to take in the entirety of the building, which stretched into the sky. Chinese ideographs lettered the side of it, starting around the seventieth or eightieth floor. He assumed it was the company’s name or perhaps its logo.

As the two men walked into the street-level lobby, they were greeted by opulence. Every surface was polished and perfect. The floor was so clean that Kenneth suspected one could eat off it and not get sick.

Three young women Kenneth would’ve said were as beautiful as the most popular super model in the Terran Coalition sat behind a tall reception desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a suit-clad man on either side of the lobby step forward, their hands reaching inside of their jackets. Lou doesn’t skimp on the security personnel.

“Welcome to Lou Shipping and Transport, gentlemen. How may I help you?”

Kenneth flashed what he hoped was a one-hundred-watt grin. “I have an appointment with Mr. Lou at thirteen-thirty hours. Oh, er, one-thirty.”

The woman’s dour expression never faltered. “Yes, I have you confirmed, Mr. Lowe. Your companion will need to surrender his weapons for the duration of his time in our facility.”

Calvin made a face. “I thought Galters believed in total freedom for all, including the carrying of weapons without a permit.”

“Private businesses can set their own rules, Mr. Demood. Only employees may carry weapons within the confines of our facility for the protection of our personnel.”

“Uh-huh,” Calvin replied. “I want a receipt.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Demood. We use biometric security for our storage lockers.” She gestured toward the far wall.

Kenneth and Calvin made their way over to it. Built into the ornate wood paneling was a series of fingerprint scanners and accompanying doors. One popped open as they approached.

Calvin first drew a CDF standard-issue energy-pulse pistol from under his suit jacket and placed it in the enclosure. Another sidearm followed, which Kenneth recognized as a Terran Coalition Marine Corps-issue ballistic weapon. Then a series of knives followed, culminating with Calvin pulling a tiny dagger from his dress shoe. “Oh yeah.” He pulled up his other pants leg and retrieved a small hold-out pistol before shoving it into the bin with gusto. A moment later, he’d coded the locker to his fingerprint and closed the door.

“Think you got enough weapons?”

“I mean, I would’ve brought my personal defense weapon, but you forbade it.”

Kenneth rolled his eyes. The sidearm the former Marine spoke of was more of a submachine gun, with an automatic-fire mode and bullets that would shred anything but power armor. It seemed overkill for a trip to Galt’s inner sanctum. Not to mention it sticks out like a sore thumb under his suit. “Okay. Let’s get on with it before we’re late.”

Before Kenneth could ask, the woman who’d spoken to them pointed at an open elevator. “Mr. Lou is expecting you, gentlemen. That lift will take you to the penthouse.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She gave no response, and Kenneth and Calvin entered the elevator. The doors swished shut, and the gravlift took off. Even though it was exceedingly fast, traveling two hundred floors took some time.

“Man, even Galt has crappy elevator music,” Calvin said after a moment.

Kenneth tilted his head and slowed his thoughts long enough to hear the tinny noise coming from hidden speakers. “Heh, yeah. That’s about as bad as Lawrence City gravlift music.”

“You’d think with all this money, they could afford a better soundtrack.”

“Maybe they like it,” Kenneth replied.

Calvin snorted. “I cannot imagine how many credits it took to build this place.”

“I can. Billions and probably all of it in Galter coin too.”

“What’s the difference?”

Kenneth peered at the former Marine. “Did you read any of the stuff I sent you on this place?”

“Only the security briefing. I’m here to look tough and kill anyone who tries to mug you.”

Both men laughed as the gravlift came to a halt and the doors opened, revealing a hallway beyond. The lobby of the building paled in comparison. Artwork of various types, protected by glass and obvious security measures, lined both sides of the corridor. More of the suit-clad security types were stationed at intervals, and a young woman who, much like her compatriots from the lobby, wore a smart business jacket and matching skirt, stood only a meter outside.

“Gentlemen, this way, please,” she said, gesturing toward the far end.

Kenneth glanced at Calvin and raised his eyebrows briefly before matching her step for step. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She led them through the doors, which opened into an expansive executive suite. More priceless artwork and rich mahogany walls lined the room. They got a glimpse of Lou’s private office before ending up at a small conference room.

“Please enjoy our refreshments. Mr. Lou will join you momentarily.”

With a small nod, the woman departed through the same door they’d entered, leaving the two men alone.

Kenneth eased himself into one of the chairs and discovered it was one of, if not the most comfortable chair he’d ever sat in. “Wow.”

“Nice digs,” Calvin echoed as he sat. “You should put some credits into upgrading our office. Compared to this one, our offices look like homeless shelters.”

“Okay, they’re not quite that bad,” Kenneth replied. “Besides, I’d rather pay my employees than work out of the Taj Mahal.”

Calvin snorted. “Where’s my raise, then?”

He’s always got a retort for everything. Sometimes, Calvin’s snarkiness got to be overwhelming. It seemed to be a base feature of the Marine’s personality, though. “You got a nice one last year.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Calvin smirked. “Cal Jr. needs a lot of diapers, and we’ve got another one on the way. I’m sure she’ll need diapers and new shoes every week. You oughta see how much those itty-bitty baby shoes cost. It’s nuts.”

Before Kenneth could respond, the door swung open, and a man strode in. His sharp business suit matched the decor of the conference room perfectly. “Gentlemen, I am Raoul Lou. I apologize for keeping you waiting, but I had important matters of business to attend to.” He extended his arm toward Kenneth.

“Thank you for the time, Mr. Lou.” Kenneth sprang from his seat, took the outstretched hand, and shook it warmly. Lou’s grip was exceedingly firm, causing physical pain. “This is my associate Calvin Demood.”

Lou glanced at Calvin. “Space Special Warfare?”

“Terran Coalition Marine Corps.”

“Ah. I prefer the former commandos myself. The best warriors in the galaxy, except for Saurians. And ah, most of them are uninterested in working security for a megacorp. Something about it being dishonorable.” Lou offered a thin smile. “On account of James Henry’s relationship with my father, I agreed to meet with you, Mr. Lowe. But I cannot believe we have any mutual business interests. The Terran Coalition has done a damnable job of keeping corporations like mine out of its defense industry, and you, I believe, are exclusively contracted to work for the Coalition Defense Force, yes?”

Here goes nothing. “We need your help, Mr. Lou. This terrorist scourge that’s trying to retake the Orion Spur must be stopped.”

“What does that possibly have to do with me?”

Kenneth licked his lips. “You are the chairman and CEO of one of the largest corporations in the ISF. Your voice has weight, and if the rest of the megacorp leaders could be convinced—”

Lou held up his hand. “Mr. Lowe, your vaunted CDF has more ships of higher tonnage than anything we have by a factor of five. It is not the fault or problem of Galt or her corporations to rescue your citizens from their own feckless politicians.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not a cause worth fighting for. Like, say, Hestia.”

Lou’s face clouded, and his lips curled into a snarl. “My father died for that planet, and frankly, I’m not sure it was worth the cost. We lost a great man. If I didn’t know you had risked your own life in combat, I would probably throw you out for that remark, Mr. Lowe.”

“I meant no disrespect.”

Several seconds ticked by before Lou’s expression softened. “I believe that because I believe you’re hopelessly naive. Suppose I was willing to help… What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Combat-capable vessels, preferably those larger than a destroyer, able to support the CDF forces on site in the Orion Spur. Humanitarian relief supplies, medical equipment, and freighters to allow trade resumption would be useful too.”

Lou chuckled and shook his head. “Would you like anything else? Maybe a trillion credits gifted to you? What is it that Terrans wish each other at the end of the year… peace on Canaan and goodwill toward men?”

Kenneth kept his face as neutral as possible. “It’s in everyone’s best interest to keep the League contained. That includes Galt and the ISF.”

After a momentary silence, Calvin interjected, “What my associate is trying to get across is that you guys would much rather spend a few credits to handle PFLOS and the League six thousand light-years from here than scramble to deal with them in orbit as they rain fire down on your impressive buildings that touch the heavens. I sure wouldn’t want to be sitting up here in my nice, fancy office while plasma ripped through the building.”

“We have shielding for a reason, Mr. Demood.”

“It wouldn’t last forever.”

Kenneth winced inwardly. He knew from experience that almost all megacorp CEOs didn’t appreciate being corrected.

But to his amazement, Lou broke out in laughter. “You have, ah, a brass set. Is that the right Terran saying?”

Calvin smirked. “Yeah, that’s what Marines call it. If you do something really crazy, it’s labeled as a real John Wayne action.”

“Well, you’re right… Calvin? May I use your first name?”

“By all means.”

Lou nodded and stretched his neck. “It’s better for all of us if the League stays beaten down. I, like I suppose most humans do, wish that an authoritarian communist regime did not rule the cradle of our birth.”

“You’d be surprised,” Kenneth replied. “There’re people in the Coalition who think we should try socialism and/or communism.”

Lou snickered. “Yes, we Galters are well aware of the Coalition’s failings. Yet despite any misgivings we have about your mixed system, it’s far preferable to the League.”

Kenneth had heard that line before. I suppose to a Galt citizen, having limited taxation and planetary regulations of any kind was a shock. Then again, there was basically no real government on Galt or in Rand. He preferred the Terran Coalition’s take on things. “Then how do we deal with this very real problem? Because I think we all know that PFLOS isn’t some random terrorist group. They have serious financial and military backing, the kind that comes from a nation state.”

“Of course they’re backed by the League,” Lou interjected. “That your president doesn’t see it is beyond insanity. But what you’re asking for is, in essence, private citizens of a planet that isn’t even in your political entity to ride to the rescue.”

“I think we capitalists should band together.”

Lou laughed again. “May I call you Kenneth?”

“Of course.”

“Kenneth, I mean this with no insult, but the company you run, compared to mine, isn’t the same species of animal. I have millions of employees and their families. My father instilled in me that I have an obligation to the corporation above all because it takes care of these people. Every deal, every capital expense must be viewed through a lens of ‘Does it turn a profit? Does it benefit Lou Shipping and Transport?’ Six months ago, I would’ve had the Galt credits to do what you ask.”

“And now?” Kenneth had a hard time believing Raoul Lou was broke.

“There’s a war on. The prices mercs want for doing anything are going to be insane. Because… and I think you know this… soldiers of fortune don’t really want to fight and die. They want to get rich. It’s hard to spend those credits if you’re dead.”

His comments mirrored those of James Henry, and Kenneth heard the ring of truth. “So we need people who not only like credits but have a hatred for the League of Sol too.”

“Such individuals exist,” Lou replied. “I even know a few. But more importantly than that, you’re going to need those who have credits to burn.”

Kenneth grinned. “I didn’t realize those people existed on Galt.”

“Oh, plenty of megacorps have more Galter credits than they know what to do with. It’s a matter of getting them to part with a few. Perhaps I could introduce you gentlemen to a few other CEOs who share my burning hatred for communism.”

“I thought you said that was bad for business,” Calvin interjected.

“The League of Sol is absolutely awful for business, societies, and humans in general. I doubt they’re much good for alien species either.” Lou set his jaw. “I will help you as much as I can without endangering the wellbeing of this company. It is, after all, my father’s legacy.”

Kenneth detected both admiration and sadness in his voice. I get it. His father paid with his life for doing the right thing. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t take the right road when God offers us the choice. “Thank you.”

“You’re going to have to convince these people, who I might add are very serious players on Galt, that there’s something in it for them. Beyond hurting the League.”

“Don’t you think it would be massively good for megacorp public relations, which aren’t exactly thought of very well in the Milky Way, I might add, to be at the vanguard of checking the League of Sol?”

“A nice intangible.” Lou smoothed out his suit jacket. “But there must be a monetary upside. For my company, I’ll settle for additional shipping contracts into the Orion Spur. Others will not be so forgiving.”

It’s not like I have any kind of authority to cut those deals anyway. But perhaps Kenneth could get the conversations started. He still held out hope that the financiers could be convinced to supply the credits to shake loose reinforcements. Even if that is wishful thinking. “Well, my mother always said you’ll never know unless you try.”

“Sounds a lot like mine.” Lou scrunched his nose. “Oh, ah, this is indelicate, but I would strongly advise upgrading your attire for this meeting.”

Both Kenneth and Calvin stared at him.

Calvin asked, “Uh, what’s wrong with my suit? This thing set me back a thousand credits.”

Lou chuckled and shook his head. “The men and women you will meet with spend fifty thousand credits on a suit. Some will pay more than a hundred thousand credits simply to have a one-off piece of art to wear that no one else can obtain.”

Kenneth blinked. He couldn’t fathom spending that kind of money on a piece of clothing. Even his suit—of the similar thousand-credit variety Calvin had mentioned—felt like an extravagance. In his mind, there were far better things to buy that had more utility. Like an actual single-family house for that family I want. Though that would require him getting married and settling down first. Maybe think about that after completing this harebrained scheme.

As he pondered, however, Kenneth realized that the expensive clothes were simply another way to show status. And Galters have no monopoly on that. He was sure that plenty of business magnates, holovid actors, and others owned fifty-thousand-credit suits. “Where might we buy something on short notice? I suppose custom-made clothing of the type you’re talking about isn’t made quickly.”

“No, not usually. I’ll have my executive assistant connect you with my haberdashery and tell them you’re a personal friend who will receive the utmost discretion and care.” Lou flashed a grin. “But make sure to bring a credit chit, because it will cost you.”

Kenneth felt thankful that the company was doing well. I think we’ll charge this back to unallowable expenses. “I appreciate that, Raoul.”

Lou stood. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, my assistant plans my day out in fifteen-minute increments, and I believe she uses AI to extract every ounce of productivity from me. I’ll be in touch within the next day or two. Do you have accommodations in Rand?”

“Four blocks down. The Grand Renaissance.”

“Excellent choice. Make sure to try the black truffle butter on a ribeye. I swear it’s worth every credit.”

Kenneth and Calvin stood simultaneously.

“I’ll keep that in mind if we have any credits left from the suits,” Kenneth replied. “Until next time.”

“Good day.” Lou chuckled and headed back into the executive suite. The conference room became quiet except for the hiss of air coming from the air conditioning system.

“Shall we?” Kenneth stuck his hands into his pants pockets. He wasn’t quite sure how to take the meeting. At least he didn’t say no. Still, the idea of trying to convince megacorp CEOs to part with their credits in exchange for… what exactly? If they want a tangible return, I have little to offer beyond the obvious geopolitical benefit of wiping out PFLOS.

“Yeah, boss,” Calvin replied.

The two men left the conference room to find one of Lou’s assistants waiting. She passed Kenneth a data chit, which presumably contained the information to the aforementioned clothing store, without saying a word before turning on her heel and stalking off. Neither man spoke until they were back in the gravlift and headed down to the lobby.

“So, uh, what’s a haberdashery?” Calvin asked with a smirk.

“High-end male clothing shop, basically.”

“Why not call it that?”

Kenneth snickered. “Because haberdashery sounds like and suggests it costs a lot of credits.”

Calvin pursed his lips. “In other words, it’s all about appearance and status.”

“Are you paying attention? That’s all eighty percent of the people here seem to care about.”

“I am but a simple Marine.” Calvin crossed his arms. “Speaking of which, when do I get to crack some skulls? You promised me some action if I came along.”

Kenneth raised an eyebrow. “No, I said if someone tried to mug us, you’d get some action.”

“Then let’s head over to a seedier district and get mugged.”

“Surely you’re joking,” Kenneth replied with a shake of his head. Sometimes, he really didn’t understand Calvin—or most Marines, for that matter.

“Nope, and don’t call me Shirley.”

Kenneth couldn’t stop himself from groaning. “You need new material. That joke died off a long time ago.”

“No, it just needs a discerning audience.”

“You wouldn’t know what that was if it hit you in the face,” Kenneth said as the lift slid to a halt and the doors opened, revealing the pristine lobby.

“Yeah, whatever. Want to get checked in? Then I think I want to try that steak Lou recommended.”

Kenneth snorted. “It’s probably five hundred credits. Per diem is only seventy-eight for Galt.”

“Lucky for us, the guy who owns the company is here. So pay up. Or we could go look for muggers and I crack some skulls.”

“Bah. Fine. Steak, it is.” Kenneth made a show of rolling his eyes.

Calvin couldn’t keep a straight face and burst out laughing as they walked across the lobby. “Man, you are so easy to mess with.”

He’s not wrong, but my mind is somewhere other than banter right now. In truth, Kenneth had realized he was totally in over his head. Better fake it till I make it. The gravity of the situation demanded nothing less. “Let’s get a move on.”

3

LX Ochab

Deep Space—Orion Spur

15 May 2474

18 Hours Earlier

Colonel-General Dominic Schaefer would’ve checked his uniform one more time before entering the bridge, but there was no point. He had no insignia or any indication of his name, rank, or occupation—not even any reference to the medals for bravery he’d won along the way. And later on, navigating the most dangerous thing of all… political minefields.

Instead, every man and woman on the ship was in a League of Sol Navy or Army uniform entirely devoid of defining characteristics. He found it jarring, but Borisov had insisted on the practice for operational security.

The bridge doors parted, and Schaefer entered. Even though he wasn’t wearing the insignia of a flag officer, everyone knew who he was.

“Colonel-General on deck!” an enlisted rating called out.

“At ease, comrades,” he said with a smile. It felt good to be on the bridge of a ship once more. “I have orders for you, straight from Chairman Tarnovsky himself. Communications officer, play fleet-wide.”

“Yes, comrade!”

A moment later, the holographic tank in the middle of the bridge came alive with the image of the League of Sol logo followed by lettering in Russian, Chinese, and French, indicating that the following was a direct message from the Social and Public Safety Committee.

The image changed to show Chairman Makar Tarnovsky seated at his desk in Geneva. “Comrades of the League, I give you greetings as you are about to embark on a most important activity, to liberate our citizens from the clutches of the individualists in the Terran Coalition. It is regrettable that we cannot be more open with the galaxy at large about our goals, but this is a time for guile.”

Tarnovsky flickered in and out, as if there was a systems malfunction. Schaefer found that to be a particularly effective touch.

“Take back our worlds. Spread Society to all of them and defeat the cursed Terrans. Those are your orders. From here on, follow the orders of Colonel-General Schaefer as if they were mine. Communication will not be possible for reasons that are obvious. The enemy cannot know we are behind their misfortune. I look forward to welcoming you all back with a victory celebration. May Lenin walk with you.”

The holoprojector blinked off.

Masterful. Schaefer had viewed the recording before, but seeing it on the bridge exceeded all expectations. Of course it was fake, painstakingly constructed using AI from reference footage of the Chairman. He figured it would fool anyone, including a typical deep-fake scan. Once again, a smile spread across his lips. Yes, now we have everything under control. The next phase could begin.

“Colonel-General, do you have orders for us?”

Schaefer nodded. “Set a course for New Rostov. It’s time for the Terrans to pay.” He very much looked forward to what came next.

LX Kornei Andrusenko

Orion Spur—Deep Space

15 May 2474

16 Hours Earlier

Yevgeny Kovalev nursed a small glass of clear liquid. Supposedly, it was vodka, yet it tasted nothing like what his grandfather used to produce in a tiny still behind his house. The drink still did its job, though—numbing his mind if only for a short while. He sat at his desk, which held only a single tablet device and a small alloy medallion. The vidlink on it was black, and a distorted voice came through the speaker.

“Are all the pieces in place, comrade?”

“Yes. My fleet is maintaining communication silence and will jump to the staging points in fourteen hours. They are outside the monitoring area, with an element of safety margin built in.”

“Good. Others will be joining you at that time. Do not be alarmed to see League military assets.”

Kovalev’s eyebrows shot up. “Mainline military units?”

“Yes. I have liberated them from scrapyards over the last few years and found crews who will perform their duties in defeating the individualists. They are every bit as committed as you and your brethren.”

“And ground forces?”

“More than enough to take the three worlds you’ve identified and planned for.”

“This time, we will prevail.” Kovalev’s eyes went to the small medal that lay face up on the desk. His oldest son had been awarded it posthumously, and it was simultaneously a source of pride and bitterness. “What of the larger situation?”

The voice modulated for a moment before coming back into a deep though distorted timbre. “It moves in good time, comrade. Your objectives are the most important steps, for I believe we will drag the rest of the League toward our position.”

Kovalev couldn’t wait. He dreamed of the day when the Social and Public Safety Committee was replaced by men and women who lived up to the ideals of Lenin, Mao, Stalin, and Anton Kozlov, who’d presided over the first incarnation of the World Society. Someday, the League would claim its rightful place as the sole state of humanity. Until then, he’d keep up his personal struggle or die trying.

“You seem troubled.”

“I have concerns with the fresh troops. That they may not be as committed.”

“Have no fear,” his benefactor replied. “Those who are coming have the blood of patriots in their veins, just as you do.”

Kovalev nodded. He was sure the other man could see him, even if he couldn’t see anything on the black screen. “Then we will prevail. We must. The scourge of the Terrans must be removed from our universe before they sentence us to a dark age in which the only thing that matters is one’s self and childish beliefs in superstition.”

“Not as long as we can help it.” After a pause, the benefactor continued, “The next time we speak, comrade, I expect you to be in control of New Rostov.”

“It will be done.”

“Good. I wish you all success.”

The vidlink cut out, leaving Kovalev in the quiet of his office, the half-filled glass of vodka beckoning him to drink it. He gave in and downed it in one gulp that burned his throat. Even as the pieces are set, I feel unsettled. Something Kovalev couldn’t quite put his finger on bothered him. He had to accept the benefactor’s word that the incoming ships and troops were vetted. But will it be enough to convince our citizens to throw off the oppressive yoke of the capitalists? So far, it hadn’t.

Why is that? Kovalev couldn’t understand why anyone would turn aside from the League to the ways of the capitalists. Perhaps it was true that they had more abundance, but good luck affording any of it, because the rich controlled all wealth and used the rest as slaves. We are not perfect, but Earth is a shining example of what the League could be. Someday, when he took control, that standard of living would be spread throughout all their worlds, from the lowliest mining outpost to every core planet.

Perhaps later, once they’d reclaimed what had been lost in the Orion Spur, he would undertake a study of why his fellows hadn’t flocked to the banner of PFLOS. After proper reeducation.

Then he’d plot the final destruction of the Terran Coalition. Someday, the galaxy will know equality, humans will live in harmony, and everyone will have access to the same resources and outcomes. It would be glorious.

Cohen Household

Lawrence City—Canaan

15 May 2474

12 Hours Earlier

David Cohen finished reciting the last of the required prayers for the food his wife, Salena, had prepared for the family and raised his head. He was happy to see Levi and Shoshanna, their son and daughter, raise their heads and open their eyes. While both he and Salena had worked to impart their traditions and beliefs into their children, only they could make the decision to believe. They still had some time before that decision was before them, but he appreciated that they both had a desire to honor HaShem. And if we continue to provide a good example, perhaps that will continue. Proverbs charges us to raise our children in the way they should go so that when they are old, they will not depart from it.

“We have some new things to try tonight,” Salena said as she reached for a serving spoon.

“Oh?”

“The chief rabbi’s committee on xenobiology gave its long-awaited report on Sextans-B foods. Many are now considered formally kosher.”

The beaming smile on her face showed that having access to more foods from her home planet was something that brought joy.

And that, in turn, brings me joy. David smiled. “Ah, so our palate will be expanding, then?”

“I hope so,” Salena replied as she brushed a wisp of purple hair out of her face.

David grabbed his fork, took a bite of chicken, and savored the flavor. Life had started to return to normal for him, even though there was a war underway a few thousand light-years away. After the fleet’s recent victory—which, according to the after-action reports filed by Colonel Kattan, was largely due to Arthur Hanson’s inspired tactics—the number of attacks by the terrorist forces had collapsed. It wasn’t zero, but the holonews stations were no longer filled with grisly images of dead women and children.

For that, David was grateful.

If there was a downside, it was that President Robbins and her team were patting themselves on the back at virtually every Interstellar Security Council meeting that sticking with a small force had prevented a wider war from breaking out. Every fiber of David’s being still yearned to send an overwhelming fleet to the Orion Spur, but after their success, that would probably never happen.

Levi made a face and seemed to nearly spit out his food, which attracted David’s attention.

“What is it, son?”

His eyes went between David and Salena, and he didn’t speak.

“Levi?”

“It… not good.”

The boy had eaten a bite of something that somewhat resembled mashed potatoes. David took a scoop with his fork and shoved it into his mouth with the idea of proving that it did indeed taste good.

Instead, David had to stop himself from gagging. Whatever it was—he couldn’t make out the flavor or the texture—it made the worst MRE he’d consumed taste good. This is reminiscent of my mother making me eat canned spinach as a punishment. It took extraordinary will to keep a neutral expression.

“You don’t like it,” Salena replied after a few moments.

David forced a smile. “I love everything you make, as it’s made with love.”

She tilted her head. “An impressive dodge.”

“What is it?”

“I was trying to make mashed cauliflower with a pareve mayonnaise blend in place of the dairy so we could consume it with meat.”

Her goal made sense. David licked his lips. “Well, ah… perhaps something got lost in the recipe.”

Salena took a bite of it but spat into her napkin a moment later. “I didn’t have a chance to test it before dinner.”

“I did get home on time for once,” David replied with a chuckle. “There’s probably some wisdom from the sages out there about not trying to get around the dietary laws.”

She laughed. “Perhaps.”

“The chicken is amazing.”

“You don’t have to make me feel better, dearest. I have what humans call a thick skin.”

David set down his fork. “As I well know. But what I said stands. Everything you make is made with love. I’ve spent more than a few years coming home to an empty house, tossing a flash-frozen meal into the reheater, and going to bed alone.”

“Are you trying to say that your life is better now, even with the occasional mistaken ingredient in my meals?”

David’s face heated. “In every possible way. Also, this is the only mistaken ingredient I’m aware of. Which is probably why we all noticed it immediately.”

Salena’s lips curled into a grin. “Levi, take notice of how your father treats me. Someday, when you have a wife of your own, you will want to emulate it.”

The boy said nothing, but David stared into her eyes. Love radiated from them, and he didn’t know how he’d gone through life before her. She makes everything better. David treasured every moment. I am well and truly blessed.

4

Serebryanov—Government Complex

New Rostov—Orion Spur

16 May 2474

4 Hours Earlier

Arthur settled into his seat aboard the Margaret Thatcher’s command shuttle as the craft prepared to depart for New Rostov’s surface and closed his eyes for a moment. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t welcome a break, even if it’s to glad-hand a politician for a few hours. The interior of the CDF transport was what it always was—a spartan and reliable means to get around. Though the offered trip on the official gubernatorial shuttle did sound nice.

“Colonel, I have to say this is probably the finest shore leave I’ve ever arranged,” Faulkner announced from across the passenger compartment, a grin plastered across his face.

Arthur raised an eyebrow as he took in the eleven other Marines who had somehow found their way aboard. “Shore leave? I thought this was supposed to be a small diplomatic meeting.”

“Well, sir, when you’re meeting with planetary leadership, it’s only proper to bring along an honor guard,” Faulkner replied with an amazingly deadpan expression. “For security purposes, of course.”

Jeremiah chuckled from his seat near the rear of the shuttle. “Security purposes. Is that what we’re calling it now, Lieutenant?”

“Absolutely, Chief. These Marines need to get some solid ground under their feet. You know what they say—a Marine who hasn’t had shore leave in over a month starts to get twitchy.”

Corporal Samir Khatib, the squad leader for the impromptu honor guard, snorted. “Twitchy is one word for it, sir. I prefer ‘homicidal.’”

“See?” Faulkner spread his hands. “It’s really a public-safety issue when you think about it.”

Arthur shook his head, though he couldn’t quite suppress a smile. Leave it to the Marines to make anything into a joke. “And I suppose Governor Mikhail Volkov specifically requested a dozen of you for this meeting?”

Faulkner leaned forward. “Not quite, sir. But I’m sure he’ll welcome some of the Coalition’s finest touring any military facilities you might be dragged along to.”

“Of course,” Jeremiah interjected with a healthy dose of mirth.

“As long as we can avoid whatever passes for shore patrol on this planet, I’ll be happy,” Gunnery Sergeant Gabriel Rodriguez said. He sat on the next row over, in a uniform so well pressed, it would’ve passed inspection by the most uptight drill instructor.

“Aww, come on, Gunny. It’s not real shore leave unless we stir up some trouble.”

Rodriguez shook his head. “LT, you should’ve been a bit more selective in who you picked.”

“Don’t make me send you two back to the ship.”

Arthur chuckled at the back-and-forth before waving his tablet. “Back on the subject of what we’re supposed to be doing… Governor Volkov has done pretty well by the planet. Economic growth, infrastructure improvements, population growth. That’s no small feat for a former League world.”

“Speaking of which,” Faulkner said, “what’s this meeting actually about, sir? The brief was pretty vague.”

“Planetary-defense discussions. The governor is concerned about their vulnerability to orbital bombardment and wants to explore options for hardening.”

Khatib adjusted himself in his seat as the shuttle shot through the void. “Come now. This is really about getting holoimages with Colonel Hanson. He’s probably like every other self-serving politician.”

Arthur kicked around ordering the young man to stow the political commentary, but the shuttle’s pilot interrupted for him.

“Five minutes to touchdown, gents. Weather’s clear. No traffic in the pattern. Enjoy flying the friendly skies.”

Arthur looked out the viewport as they descended farther into New Rostov’s atmosphere. What he saw took his breath away. The last time he’d been there, helping to install a radiation shield system, the capital had been little more than a collection of prefabricated buildings scattered along a barely paved street. Workers had moved with the slow, deliberate pace of those who knew they were unlikely to see their fiftieth birthday, their bodies ravaged by radiation exposure from the League’s lithium mines. They were little more than slaves. When I looked into the eyes of those people, there was no hope, no life in them.

Now, gleaming buildings of glass, alloy, and plasticrete reached toward the sky. Broad boulevards laid out in orderly grids connected distinct districts, while helicars and ground vehicles moved in organized streams of traffic. Parks and green spaces dotted the urban landscape, and what appeared to be a university campus sprawled across several city blocks.

“Wow.” The transformation was unlike any Arthur had seen before, and from an engineering perspective, he was impressed.

“Two hundred fifty thousand people down there now,” Faulkner said as he consulted his tablet. “When we first liberated this place, what was the population? Twenty thousand?”

“Closer to fifteen,” Arthur replied, still staring at the cityscape. “And most of those were dying slowly from radiation poisoning.” He felt a surge of pride—not just in what the Terran Coalition had accomplished but also in what the people of New Rostov had built for themselves once given the chance. This is what freedom looks like.

The shuttle touched down at the government complex’s landing pad with barely a bump. Arthur had to give the pilot credit—it was a textbook landing.

“All right, Marines,” Faulkner called out as the engines wound down. “Remember, we’re an honor guard. That means we look sharp, keep our mouths shut unless we’re spoken to, and try not to embarrass the colonel or the Corps.”

“What if the governor asks us something directly?” one of the younger Marines asked.

“Then you answer politely and professionally,” Rodriguez growled. “And if you don’t know the answer, you say, ‘I don’t know, sir, but I’ll find out.’ Got it?”

“Got it, Gunny!”

The shuttle’s ramp lowered, revealing a small delegation of New Rostov officials waiting to greet them. Arthur recognized Governor Volkov immediately. He was a bear of a man with graying hair and hands that still showed the calluses of his mining days. Despite wearing a well-tailored civilian suit, he carried himself with the confident posture of someone accustomed to physical labor.

“Colonel Hanson!” Volkov boomed, striding forward with an outstretched hand. “Welcome back to New Rostov! I trust your journey was comfortable?”

Arthur accepted the handshake, noting the man’s grip was as strong as expected. “Governor Volkov, thank you for the warm welcome. The journey was smooth, and I have to say I’m amazed by what you’ve accomplished here.”

Volkov’s chest swelled with obvious pride. “Come. We will take the tour on our way to the government center. I want you to see what we’ve been up to the last ten years.”

As their small convoy of government vehicles wound through the city streets, Arthur felt blown away by the transformation. Modern apartment complexes had replaced the ramshackle worker barracks he remembered. Clean, efficient public transportation moved citizens around the city alongside private helicars. Perhaps most remarkably, families were walking the streets, children played in parks, couples enjoyed outdoor cafés, and elderly people sat on benches, feeding what appeared to be Earth-descended pigeons.

“It’s remarkable,” Arthur said to Volkov as they passed through the university district. “You’ve created a genuine civilization here.”

“We had good teachers,” Volkov replied with a small smile. “The Coalition showed us what was possible. After that, it was simply a matter of rolling up our sleeves and getting to work. The injection of funds, labor, and support from TCAID helped too.”

Arthur recalled the Terran Coalition Agency for Interstellar Development had spent hundreds of billions of credits so far in the Orion Spur, and if what he was seeing was anything like the results elsewhere, the money was well spent. I can’t believe we spent a year on patrol out here and I didn’t get to see New Rostov. That was criminal.

The government complex itself was an impressive structure—modern without being ostentatious, clearly designed to be functional rather than a monument to ego. Security was professional but not oppressive. Arthur and the Marines were quickly processed through scanners then had their credentials checked before being escorted to the governor’s office. Faulkner and the others stayed outside, while Arthur followed the governor in. The private meeting was first, followed by the photo op.

Once the door closed behind him, Volkov gestured to a couple of chairs in front of a well-crafted wooden desk. “Please, join me.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I appreciate your indulging the tour. It was important to me to impress upon you what we have to defend here and how much this planet could lose in the ongoing war.”

Arthur thought back to the attempted orbital bombardment by PFLOS. They don’t understand how close a thing that was. “New Rostov has already narrowly averted disaster.”

“Yes. A few ships with fusion warheads could reduce everything we’ve built here to rubble. The radiation shield protects us from the effects of our star, but against a concerted attack… I know it wasn’t designed for that, but I was hoping that perhaps you could use your engineering mind to improve it.”

Arthur had thought that might be an ask. It was a logical one, after all. He ran his tongue over his lips. “The fundamental tech is almost the same thing as a planetary defense grid designed to stop incoming bombardment. There’s a couple of key differences, though. One is the number of shield emitters. The other is power. I might be able to adjust the field harmonics to provide localized protection against energy weapons and explosions. Or I should say our engineering teams.”

Volkov’s eyes lit up. “That sounds promising.”

“Well, yes and no, sir. Because the key to making it work would be power. You’d have to directly connect your entire power grid into that shield. It would likely draw from every fusion reactor and generator on the planet. And the protection would still be limited.”

“How limited?”

Arthur ran some quick calculations in his head. “Against a concentrated orbital bombardment? Maybe a few dozen direct hits by capital-class weapons before the system would overload and need time to cycle the generator. That’s not a perfect solution by any means.”

Volkov stroked his chin. “But it would be more than we have now.”

“What you really need is an antimatter reactor.” Canaan doesn’t even have that yet.

“Yes, but that technology doesn’t exist for planet-side power generation, does it?”

Arthur shook his head. “No, but I understand the prototypes are coming soon.”

“Perhaps in time we will receive one. But for now…” Volkov gestured to the office around him. “What you can offer will save lives in the event of the worst happening. I would be grateful if you’d have your teams make the modifications.”

“Consider it done.” I wonder if I’m authorized to do that without filling out a few dozen forms with the Coalition Corps of Engineers. Oh well. I’ll ask for forgiveness later.

Volkov flashed a smile. “Thank you, Colonel. That means more than you know. Is there perhaps anything we could do for you while you’re here? I’ve offered shore leave.”

“I’d love to take you up on it, but it’s too dicey with the terrorists still about. You know, though, my crew would love to get topped off with fresh food. Especially meat and fruits.”

“Well then, I will ensure you receive it.” Volkov stood. “I wonder if you might indulge one further request. There is a news conference coming up shortly. Could you join me? It would be good for our people to see one of the heroes of the Coalition standing with us, don’t you think?”

Arthur barely suppressed a smirk. Called that one. “Of course, Governor. I’d be honored.” As they headed out of the office, he couldn’t help but give Faulkner a sheepish grin. During the walk through the facility, Arthur reflected on how much had changed since his last visit to the planet. Then, he’d been part of a relief effort following a successful invasion by the Terran Coalition, which had turned into a liberation, and now they had yet another member world. It was progress worth defending.

CSV Margaret Thatcher

New Rostov Orbit – High Loop Four

16 May 2474

3.5 Hours Earlier

Abigail Miller stretched her neck from left to right and back again. She’d been on watch for a couple of hours, marking time. Orbiting New Rostov on an endless loop of one-hundred-and-five-minute periods, during which the yellow main sequence star set and rose once, wasn’t her idea of a good time, especially since they were docked with the central civilian station the entire time. But it was all part and parcel of being an officer in the Coalition Defense Force. She suppressed a yawn. Because that wouldn’t be a great look.

Several of the other first-watch officers were also present. Among them was First Lieutenant Esther Savitz, the Thatcher’s navigator. She glanced over her shoulder toward the CO’s chair. “You know, ma’am, we could leave the computers in charge and detail an enlisted rating to alert us in case of, oh, I don’t know, an asteroid strike.”

Miller chuckled. “As much fun as that would be, there’s always the outside possibility of some excitement.” Truth be told, she longed to finish the fight against the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur, preferably by blowing them all to kingdom come. Miller didn’t really believe in a higher power, though she acknowledged the possibility that there were things beyond human understanding. But if such an entity did exist, she hoped it had an eternity of torment prepared for the terrorists.

Miller recognized that most League citizens were probably harmless cogs in a machine, even though in the back of her mind, she also blamed them for going along with the communist system. But most of them weren’t barbaric murderers. There’s some League naval officer out there I could sit down and have a beer with. PFLOS, on the other hand, existed solely to be eradicated.

She couldn’t wait for their field repairs to be completed and to rejoin the fight. Not that the cowards are doing much of that lately. Since the pasting they’d taken at the hands of the Thatcher and Colonel Hanson, the terrorists had been conspicuously quiet. Few attacks were reported, and two weeks had passed since anyone sighted any hostile freighters. Gone, too, were the LX Kornei Andrusenko and her commander, Yevgeny Kovalev. Damn murdering bastard went and hid rather than take it like a man. The white-hot hate never quite receded from her mind.

Annoyance and, at times, anger, toward Arthur also coursed through Miller’s veins, if she was being honest with herself. He’s an exercise in mixed signals. Hanson talks tough, pulls incredible strategy out of his rear end, and still won’t wring every piece of intel out of the detainees. Miller believed harsh treatment followed by summary execution was warranted for anyone captured serving the terrorist group.

“I’m enjoying some downtime myself, ma’am,” Savitz replied.

“Not me. I have an overriding burning need to finish them.”

Savitz pursed her lips. “As you say, ma’am.”

Deciding to change the subject, Miller replied, “You know what would be nice? Getting one of those souped-up fusion drives the terrorists are sporting.”

“Technically, our thruster system matches the capability, ma’am, but yes, I’d love the extra maneuvering power.” Savitz narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps in the Block III design.”

“Oh, good grief, don’t mention that in front of the colonel. He’ll spend the next thirty minutes telling us about all the engineering change requests he’s put in for the next generation of Ajax-class destroyers.”

“Then how he helped design the reactor for the first one.”

Miller chuckled. The same discussion had happened fifty times, if it had happened once. “Then he pulls a rabbit out of his hat because of that knowledge, so I guess I can’t crack on him too much.”

“Well, hopefully, we can go home soon, and this will be over.”

“It won’t be over until the League is wiped out, Lieutenant. There’s no reasoning with communists. They don’t accept defeat, and they keep coming back.”

“Ma’am, there’s got to be a better way than all-out war.”

Miller shrugged. “I’ll leave that up to the politicians. I wish they’d send us to finish the job, though. It’s about time the Terran Coalition flag flew on Earth.”

“As you say, ma’am.”

From Savitz’s noncommittal responses, Miller realized she was rapidly approaching a line CDF officers weren’t supposed to cross, at least in public: taking political positions. Or perhaps I already have. Barely suppressed fury was about the only way she could describe her emotions toward Robbins and the rest of the current government. If the Joint Chiefs of Staff staged a coup, she’d probably support it. That line of thinking was disturbing, to say the least.

“Conn, TAO. Detecting inbound wormholes, ma’am.”

Civilian traffic moving in and out of New Rostov wasn’t unusual, with shipping volumes increasing again after the lull in fighting. But something about the third-watch tactical officer’s voice perked up Miller’s ears. “How many?”

“Six… No, ten… Twenty…” The young man gulped. “Fifty-plus, ma’am.”

No large convoys are slated to arrive today. Miller held her breath, but her pulse immediately quickened. “Signature, Lieutenant?”

“I’m not sure, ma’am. It’s a mix. Some of them show up as League of Sol Lawrence drives, ma’am!”

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Miller pulled up the tactical plot on the CO’s viewer. Dozens of new contacts appeared about three hundred thousand kilometers away from the planet. As a trained TAO, she recognized the engine signatures of Marauder-class destroyers and League of Sol type-D freighters along with a few known PFLOS vessels. “Oh shit.” She bit off a trail of far harsher profanity that wanted to spill out of her mouth.

“Uh, new contacts not showing as hostile, ma’am. Their IFF systems are broadcasting recognition codes for the Interstellar Spacers Union.”

“Sure they are. And I’m the Pope.” Miller made a face as she punched the button on the CO’s chair to activate the 1MC ship-wide intercom. “Attention, all hands. This is the XO. General quarters. General quarters. All hands, man your battle stations. I say again, all hands, man your battle stations. This is not a drill. Set material condition one throughout the ship.”

The bridge lights immediately dimmed and turned blue, as they had a hundred times before during a hundred previous GQ calls.

Miller’s heart raced as beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. We’re docked. There’re only four military vessels in orbit. The only course of action they had was to retreat or die. And dying when there were reinforcements around made little sense to her. “Nav, get those umbilicals cleared ASAP.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Savitz replied as her hands flew across the console’s controls.

“Comms, send a high-priority distress call to the Hermes then get me Colonel Hanson immediately.” Miller did the math. They had less than twenty minutes until the hostile fleet got in range. Type-Ds were used to support invasions during the war. While she’d never defended a planet from a space-based assault with ground troops, all CDF officers were trained in the general tactics, and during her time at the Coalition War College, she’d studied numerous previous battles.

Twenty minutes simply wasn’t enough time for significant help to arrive. They’d need a few hours for that, at minimum. Hanson needs to get his ass up here as fast as possible, then we can figure out what to do next. As Miller waited for the commlink to go through, she stared at the HUD superimposed over the large bridge window in front of the CO’s and XO’s chairs. It dumbfounded her that yet again, intelligence missed the signs of a major impending attack, and as her brain caught up with events, it became obvious that something had changed. League military hardware of this kind doesn’t randomly end up in the hands of terrorists. The single heavy cruiser is one thing, but this represents a massive escalation.

Abigail Miller didn’t believe in God or a higher power, but in that moment, she wished she did, because the future seemed quite bleak.

Politicians were the sort that Arthur didn’t think he would like to hang out with. He’d never been around one before, aside from meeting President Justin Spencer once on the Lion of Judah. But that was different. Spencer, unlike any talking head he’d seen, understood the harsh reality of war. Because he served in it, through thick and thin. The man’s bravery had been and remained undeniable. Especially when he strapped into a Phantom to go fight those nanites. Governor Volkov seemed to be cut from cloth of far lower quality.

Arthur’s handcomm buzzed once, twice, then a third time. He ignored it, since to answer would be rude. Questions rained down from the assembled reporters at the ad hoc news conference.

“Colonel Hanson, can you give us any updates on the fight against PFLOS?” A female reporter to his right took great care to spell out the acronym rather than use the pronunciation of “pee-floss.”

“Well, ma’am, that’s really more for Colonel Kattan and CDF Command to address.” Arthur flashed his best one-hundred-watt smile. “I’m just a ship driver.”

“And far too modest, too, Colonel Hanson. I can say with certainty that our valiant defenders have risen to the occasion. It’s only a matter of days, perhaps weeks, before the terrorists are eliminated for good,” Volkov interjected.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Faulkner doing his best not to smirk. Bet that’s a hard one at the moment. It was all he could do to keep a straight face himself. Once again, his handcomm vibrated.

Arthur’s wasn’t the only one buzzing. All around him, half a dozen then more stared at their personal comm devices.

I’d better see what’s going on. He brought up the device to see a priority-one message from the Margaret Thatcher. Uh-oh. Arthur put it to his ear and toggled the privacy mode on. “This is Hanson.”

“Sir, you’ve got to get out of there right now.” Miller’s voice came through loud and clear. “There’s a hostile fleet headed to New Rostov. We count at least sixty ships, three hundred thousand kilometers and closing.”

Arthur’s eyes felt like they were about to pop out of his skull. Sixty ships? How is that even possible? “Types and speculation on intention, Major?” he asked.

All around him, others were apparently getting some kind of civil defense alert. Panic spread through the air like a virus.

“Considering there’re several dozen type-D freighters, I’d say it’s an invasion force, sir. Combination of League hulls and known PFLOS vessels.”

Is the mask finally coming off here? Arthur hoped for about half a second that the makeup of the enemy force would finally shake loose real firepower. Not that it does us any good in the here and now.

Volkov turned, his face ashen and every hint of the politician’s trademark smile gone. “Colonel, can you stop them?”

Every eye and camera in the room turned to Arthur. The spotlight was literally on him from a floating drone. He toggled his handcomm to speaker mode. “Major, you’re on with me, the governor, and our esteemed planetary press corps. I need you tell me what the enemy’s force composition is, beyond the freighters.”

“Two Rand-class heavy cruisers, twenty-four Marauder-class destroyers, and a dozen Halcyon-class freighters. Most of their drive signatures match known PFLOS vessels, as does the Rand’s. Sir, you’ve got a very limited window to get to the shuttle. I strongly recommend you and Lieutenant Faulkner do so now.”

As the commanding officer of the CSV Margaret Thatcher, Arthur had a duty to his ship and crew. But he had a wider duty—to the citizens of the Terran Coalition, to protect them against all enemies, foreign and domestic, if necessary, with his life. This planet isn’t prepared for an invasion. They’ve been living on borrowed time, and the bean counters back home never suspected for a minute that terrorists might pull this off.

The fear etched into the eyes of every man and woman in the room haunted Arthur. His brain seized up. If I stay here, I’m probably going to die. So will anyone else wearing this uniform. Simple self-preservation dictated that retreat was the solution. Yet Arthur also knew the decision he made would define him. Not only that, but it would be broadcast to the Milky Way and Sextans B galaxies. What was it that General Cohen used to say? If we abandon our posts, who, then, will stand?

“Colonel?” Volkov asked hesitantly.

Arthur’s mind went to the CDF’s general order number five: To quit my post only when properly relieved. There is no relief in sight. Therefore, I cannot leave. From somewhere deep inside, he knew he had to stay. It was more than his duty. It was what he was supposed to do. “Major, retrieve our personnel from the orbital station and organize the Thatcher, the Leonidas, and the Brazer. Jump out as soon as possible. Do not engage the enemy. I repeat… Do not engage. Meet up with Colonel Kattan and return with reinforcements.”

“What about you and Lieutenant Faulkner, sir?”

“I will be staying, as will anyone from the Marine unit who wishes to join me in defending New Rostov.”

Faulkner spoke up. “Semper fi. I’m in, sir.”

“We’ll link up with your militia commander and do anything we can to assist.”

The relief on Volkov’s face was palpable. “Thank you, Colonel.”

Arthur couldn’t quite understand the relief or the tiny quelling of panic that spread through the room. He took a breath. “Okay, let’s get on it with it, people.” He picked up his handcomm and prepared to end the conversation with Miller.

Miller couldn’t believe her ears. She stared at the intercom control on the CO’s chair—which allowed her to shut off a direct commlink—like it had grown a mouth and could talk to her. “Colonel, what are you doing? You have an obligation to this ship and her crew. With respect sir, get your ass to the shuttle and get out of there!”

“I have a duty to the people on this planet too.”

Miller opened and closed her mouth a couple of times with no sound coming out. “They’ll kill you.”

“Gotta catch me first.”

“You’re not a ground pounder, sir.”

“I’ve got to do this.”

She swallowed. “Why?”

“Abigail, what would Colonel Savchenko do?”

The use of her first name was jarring. Arthur was rarely so personal. She pondered the question for a moment. “He’d probably stay and take as many with him as he could.”

“That’s right. Because he would have confidence in the next man or woman up. So do us proud.”

“Yes, sir.” Miller ran her tongue over her lips. “Godspeed, sir.”

“Godspeed to you too. Bring back some help.”

“As soon as we can.”

“Hanson out.”

Miller processed the sound of the commlink clicking off, then it took her a moment to compose herself. That could be the last time I hear his voice. In that moment, even though they’d had their differences, she wished more than anything that Arthur had fled to safety. But there was nothing she could do.

“Nav, status of those umbilical disconnects?”

“Almost done, ma’am.”

She pulled her uniform shirt down. “Comms, signal the station docking master to hurry up—”

“Ma’am, last one’s off. We’re clear to navigate,” Savitz called out over her shoulder.

“Excellent. Ahead one quarter. Increase to full the moment we’re clear of the station’s docking perimeter. Best speed for the Lawrence limit.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“Sierra One and Two falling in behind, ma’am. Major Garner is requesting jump instructions.”

Miller pulled up a map of the surrounding area and the various predefined rally points for CDF vessels in deep space. “Nav, plot a jump for rally point delta.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Far away from prying eyes. Maybe that’ll give us some privacy to regroup and link up with the Hermes and her fleet. Miller prayed it would be in time.

5

Serebryanov—Government Complex

New Rostov—Orion Spur

16 May 2474

3.5 Hours Earlier

Arthur had to admit his respect level for Governor Volkov increased by several levels as he observed the man move with something approaching quiet confidence. The reporters had been dismissed, and most of them seemed inclined to get out of the government buildings as fast as humanly possible. From there, he had accompanied Volkov to a quasi-command center that was used for planetary emergency management and was optimized to respond to weather events more than anything else.

“Helicar convoy is arriving momentarily, Governor,” an aide called from the side of the room.

Rows of computer stations with double and triple displays were manned by an array of civilians, most of whom appeared out of sorts.

They’re probably terrified. I would be. Heck, I am. And that’s with over a decade in uniform.

Arthur spoke up. “Sir, what’s the plan?”

“Brigadier General Hall has requested that senior staff join him in the planetary defense center. It’s a fortified bunker about a hundred meters belowground.” Volkov forced a strained smile. “We’ll be able to help guide resistance from there.”

That didn’t seem like a great idea to Arthur on the face of it, because while he wasn’t a ground commander, he had attended the Coalition War College. They drilled into us the idea that you should stay mobile, especially when confronted with superior force. Dropping everything into a bunker that practically advertised “Come here to get us” didn’t compute.

Faulkner leaned closer. “Sir, this is bad. They only have about five thousand militia. Most of them aren’t activated, and I doubt they can mobilize even that many by the time this city has Leaguers landing in it.”

Converting the TCMC and CDF garrisons into planetary militia had been one of the concessions President Robbins agreed to for the Limited Military Zone. Arthur groaned inwardly, as he would’ve loved to have twenty thousand power-armored Marines and a few squadrons of planetary defense fighters. “We’ll have to work with what we’ve got, Lieutenant. Look for ways to be a force multiplier.” Who knows what that might be right now.

“Yes, sir.”

“Uh, we can’t reach General Hall or his people.”

Volkov cleared his throat. “Communications malfunction?”

“I don’t know. No one at militia command is replying.”

Arthur blew out a breath. “Uh, if I may, Governor?”

“Sure. Anything to help.”

“Ma’am, do we still have the planetary sensor network up?”

“Uh, yeah. I think so, Colonel.”

Arthur gestured to the big screen that took up half of the front wall. “Put up whatever satellite images you can get of the site and general geographical area.”

“One moment, Colonel.”

It indeed took more than a few seconds. Arthur could sense panic building around him as staffers whispered to one another, their brows furrowed, their faces red, and beads of sweat seeming to appear from nowhere. That didn’t improve when the image finally flashed onto the screen.

Arthur pursed his lips. Well, that explains that. Where presumably the military installation had stood, a series of black smears occupied the area instead. In a few buildings, fires burned. “Would I be right in supposing that one of those impact points is directly on top of the command bunker?”

She nodded wordlessly.

“That’s an orbital strike from a full-power heavy-cruiser-class neutron beam, ladies and gents. If anyone’s still alive down there, it’ll be tough to get to them. From an operational and military perspective, the facility is a total write-off.”

Volkov appeared as if he was about to fall in his tracks. His knees buckled, and he grabbed a table for support. “My God. What do we do?”

“Well—”

“You’re the highest-ranking CDF officer on New Rostov, Colonel. Are you willing to take command? I am certain that between you and Lieutenant Faulkner, there’s a lot more combat experience than what remains of our militia. That is no disrespect to them… only a statement of fact.”

Arthur tried to respond, but his tongue felt as if someone had super-glued it to the top of his mouth. He stared blankly at the man. I don’t know how to do this. I’m a ship driver, for crying out loud, and more than that, I’m an engineer! Part of him wanted to run as fast as he could from the room, the building, and find someplace to hide.

Avery Faulkner couldn’t quite believe his bad luck. All he’d wanted was a few hours outside the confines of a tiny alloy box and to breathe real—not recycled—air. A meal that didn’t involve CDF staples would’ve been nice too. Oh, and no one shooting at him. That was apparently far too much to ask. On the flip side, the enemy was present in large numbers and would be coming to him and his brothers. We won’t have to chase them down for a fight. That’s for sure.

As Volkov asked if Arthur would take command, Faulkner turned his head in utter shock.

It didn’t help that his commanding officer stared open-mouthed at the governor. Faulkner pondered what he’d do if that didn’t change in short order. I suppose I could offer my services, but that would really step on the old man’s toes. He chuckled inwardly at the thought of calling his CO an old man when they were barely fifteen years apart.

Arthur finally exhaled, then nodded. “Well… uh. Governor, I’m not a ground combatant. My training included basic weapons and an overview of tactics to defend a ship against hostile boarding parties. That’s about it. I’m a space-warfare officer and, prior to that, an engineer. But in the CDF, we have a maxim… Next man up. All I can promise you is that I will do my best and fight the enemy, and if the time comes, I’ll give my life for our citizens.”

Not bad, sir. Not bad. Faulkner certainly had his differences with the sometimes-nerdy officer. The man’s courage, however, was undeniable.

“That is all any of us can offer, Colonel,” Volkov said after a few wordless seconds. “We just need hope to survive until help arrives.”

“I understand, sir,” Arthur replied.

Faulkner pursed his lips. He didn’t have the heart to tell the governor or the room at large that it would take weeks for reinforcements to get out to the Orion Spur, and they were at a severe disadvantage until that happened. I guess the colonel doesn’t either. He hoped Arthur understood the dire predicament they were in.

“Ah, sirs?” Faulkner interjected. “A question if I may?”

“Go for it, Lieutenant.”

“We need weapons, and we need them fast. A world of hurt is headed our way, and it seems reasonable to assume the enemy has accurate intelligence on all military sites to include armories, ammo dumps, and whatever passes for a vehicle pool around here.”

Volkov turned to an aide. “Is there anything nearby?”

“I think one of the sublevels here has… What do you guys call it? Like pistols and some rifles.”

Faulkner nodded. “Small arms. If we’re lucky, some armor and grenades.”

“I’d take an energy pistol right about now,” Arthur replied. “Can someone show us the way? I’d recommend anyone not intending to surrender to the terrorists arm themselves.”

A young woman with curly hair and a thick pair of glasses sitting behind one of the monitors spoke up. “Colonel, I’ve never handled a gun in my life. We’re civilians.”

Faulkner cleared his throat. “Miss, as of right now, there is no such thing as a civilian on this planet. You’ve got an invasion force coming, and it’s headed by butchers that will kill you where you stand. So pick a weapon or go hide and hope they don’t find you. That goes for everyone here.”

“Ah, perhaps we should get going?” Volkov interjected.

“Yes,” Arthur said firmly. “Can someone get me down to that sublevel, please? My access codes are good to open any CDF arms cache.”

“I can,” the young woman who’d spoken before said as she stood.

“Then after you, miss,” Arthur replied with a small smile.

To Faulkner’s surprise, everyone stood and roughly fell in behind the two CDF officers. Maybe there’s hope for these people after all. The realization that they were probably leading them all to their deaths immediately tempered the thought.

Arthur took the opportunity to lean in and mutter, “Sorry I got you into this.”

“It’s the job, sir,” Faulkner responded sotto voce. “Besides, can’t let a squid get all the glory.”

“You’re crazy. You know that, right?” Arthur snickered as they cleared the double doors into the hallway beyond.

“I’m a Marine, sir. Goes with the territory.”

“May I suggest, gentlemen,” Jeremiah interjected as he stuck his head between the two of them, “we’re where God wants us.”

“Then I hope He’s got a plan,” Arthur replied. “Because I sure as hell don’t, outside of taking this one step at a time.”

“Sounds like a good plan to me, sir,” the medic replied.

Faulkner simply hoped he could at least take the battle to the enemy. It wouldn’t do to be killed by an orbital strike.

6

CDF Headquarters

Lawrence City—Canaan

16 May 2474

3 Hours Earlier

Meetings were the bane of David Cohen’s existence. He loathed them, more than anything else in the universe, including, perhaps, PFLOS or the League of Sol, primarily because if an enemy combatant got within range, he could do something about that problem: Eliminate it. Checking a sidearm out of the armory and shooting those who droned on endlessly to make themselves appear important would be satisfying yet also highly illegal and immoral. Maybe if I used stun rounds. With a grin, he thought about running that by his rabbi for an opinion on whether it could be shoehorned into a Mitzvot. Of course not, but we’d get a laugh out of it.

“Uh, sir?” A business-suit-clad analyst asked.

“Continue,” David replied.

“Well, uh, yes, sir. As you can see here, the Ajax Block III design is progressing.”

David crossed his arms. “Six months behind schedule is hardly what I would call progress.”

“There’s engineering challenges—”

“Which you charge us…” David flipped up his tablet. “Let’s see, six hundred thirty-five credits per hour for engineering management. For that kind of money, we should be ahead of schedule and producing lithium-plated ships.”

Chuckles came from those in uniform, while everyone who worked for the same contracting firm as the analyst went as white as a sheet.

“Um, I-I… I don’t have access to those figures, General Cohen.”

“Mr. Saiclet, what do you get paid per hour?”

The younger man blinked a few times. “I’ve never thought to calculate it, sir. I’m salaried.”

“Fine. Then what do you get paid per year in salary?”

“Uh, a hundred forty thousand credits, sir.”

“Hmmm. So we’ll be generous and say that your health insurance, vacation, and other benefits are double your salary. Call it one hundred forty credits an hour. Your company is making almost five hundred credits an hour off you and everyone like you.”

Saiclet opened his mouth and appeared as if he was about to speak before shutting it again. The effect was of an animal caught in a bright light, unsure what to do or how to proceed.

“You have a month to clear these backlogs and get us back on track for a demonstration of the Block III. I want that ship delivered, Mr. Saiclet.”

“Yes, sir.”

Colonel Elizabeth Merriweather spoke up from the other side of the long table. She served as the lead for CDF Special Projects, and the Ajax Block III fell under her purview. “If I may, sir?”

“By all means,” David flashed a warm smile in her direction. They’d served together for years on the Lion of Judah, as back then, she had been the military project manager for Dr. Hayworth’s antimatter reactor program.

“Some of the delays are caused by my engineering team. We’ve had some ideas on increasing stealth and reducing electromagnetic and heat output.”

“Oh?”

“Right now, we’re running virtual sims to determine whether Growler-class hull tiles combined with a more streamlined superstructure and bridge tower would get us the level of sensor cross-section reduction I’d like to see. If successful, we’re talking about a destroyer that’s as hard to spot as a stealth raider.”

That got David’s attention. His eyebrows shot up. “What’s the likelihood of that outcome, Colonel?”

“Oh, don’t ask me before we finish the tests, sir. But that is some of the delay.”

David stroked his chin. “I’ll allow you some leeway, but keep those high-priced contractors doing their jobs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if it doesn’t pan out, save the ideas and research for the Next Generation Space Dominance destroyer program.” Billed as a replacement for the Ajax-class, NGSD was at least ten years away from putting into the void as a prototype. We’ll probably be building Ajaxes into the 2490s. “But, Colonel… put a timeline on this. I would like to use my proverbial green pen for once.”

“Yes, sir.” Merriweather grimaced before her usual neutral expression returned.

When David had started his time at CDF HQ, one of the briefings he’d sat in had been run by a three-star general who insisted on paper printouts of the master project schedule for each major procurement in his combatant command. And once a month, that general would sit down with a green pen and a red pen and mark what was on track. It was a widely reported rumor that he went through six reds for every green. David enjoyed relating that story to others as an easy-to-understand mental image of why he was so hard on contractors and anything related to purchasing new equipment.

“Okay, what’s next?”

Merriweather cleared her throat. “One of Dr. Hayworth’s research assistants had an idea for an antimatter-powered space-superiority fighter—”

One of the doors to the massive conference room swung open. Every eye turned to see Lieutenant Kaori Shibata—David’s adjutant—burst through. Her face was drawn, and it seemed as if she was using every ounce of self-control to maintain proper composure.

David’s heart rate increased, as he knew whatever was coming next probably wasn’t good and more than likely was yet another disaster.

“Sirs, enemy troops have landed on New Rostov and two other planets in the Orion Spur.”

Her words hit those assembled like a bolt of lightning.

“Enemy? PFLOS, League regulars, something else?”

“Unknown as of yet, sir. They’re using League equipment but aren’t transmitting League IFF designators, and from video imagery, there’s no rank or insignia on the uniforms.”

A one-star general halfway down the table interjected, “Damn Robbins. Maybe now we can take the gloves off and do our jobs.”

“As you were, General.”

“But, sir—”

“We don’t set policy,” David replied. “And the uniform code of military justice is pretty clear about what wearing the uniform means to engaging in politics.”

“Yes, sir.”

“For what it’s worth, I’d very much like to be sitting on the bridge of the Lion of Judah and headed for the Orion Spur. But I am not the president of the Terran Coalition, nor is anyone else in this room. So until that changes, we do it Robbins’ way.” David stood. “I think our meeting has ended, considering this development. Thank you all and dismissed.”

The others sprang from their seats and headed for the doors in a stream of humanity. A lone Saurian exited with them, as did a couple of Zeivlots. David felt happy to see that a few had made it to postings at HQ as integration efforts continued between the Zan System and the rest of the Terran Coalition.

Merriweather paused for a moment next to him. “I’ll send you the rest of our briefing, sir. Some of the planetary applications that Dr. Hayworth has postulated are quite intriguing. He continues to argue for planetary shielding.”

“I know. He sent me a six-page message explaining how it would render orbital bombardments ineffective.” David cracked a small smile. “It hit me that his primary motivation is to see his work go toward something other than projecting military power. Which I am sympathetic to. Eliminating the risk of mass civilian casualties from crust-cracking fusion or antimatter warheads would be nice too.”

“Yes.” Merriweather pursed her lips. “Are you okay?”

“No. I don’t think any of us are.” David shook his head. “Did you ever read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland as a kid?”

Merriweather chuckled. “My mother made me.”

“Well, that’s what I feel like I’m living in.”

“Same. How are Salena and the kids?”

David shook his head. “She is a rock. Sometimes, I don’t know how she does it, after all the horror we went through in Sextans B. The kids are good, thank HaShem. I don’t think they quite understand what’s going on, except Levi keeps asking me why bad things happen.”

“No good answers.”

“Bad people do bad things. Good people stop them. That is the order of things.” He took a deep breath. “I’d better get to my helicar.”

“Summons to the White House?”

David smiled thinly. “You know it’s coming.”

“Good luck, sir.”

“Thank you. Godspeed.”

David picked up his tablet, threw it into his small briefcase, and marched out of the conference room to find Shibata waiting by the door. “Walk with me, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.” She fell in beside him as he headed toward the nearest gravlift.

“I want you to go find the Marine commandant in person.”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

General Nabil Qabbani had a reputation for being blunt, which was putting it mildly. “Tell him that on my orders, I want him to develop a plan to retake the lost worlds with Marine forces that have numbers parity with the enemy.”

“But, sir, doctrine is overwhelming force.”

David glanced at her and chuckled. “I’m anticipating what our president will say.”

“She couldn’t possibly…”

“Lieutenant, I’m sorry you have to go through this. It’ll probably color your thoughts on how things work and turn you into a jaded cynic. Robbins is an aberration, though. She’ll be gone soon enough.”

Shibata nodded, though her heart didn’t seem to be in it. “As you say, sir.”

The gravlift came into sight around the corner of a long corridor. “Make sure General Qabbani understands that while numbers have to have parity, I want him to build out an assault force using the most lethal units and weaponry we have. That means pull every tier one commando team we can spare, including the guys on training spin-down.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll drop by to see him after the White House visit.” David hit the button to call the lift as they walked up. “On your way.”

Shibata came to attention. “Yes, sir. I’ll see you afterward?”

“If I still have the job,” David replied as he walked into the elevator. He flashed a grin in her direction. “Gallows humor, Lieutenant.”

She smiled as the doors slid shut.

In truth, David had no idea what was going to happen next. He steeled himself to keep a clear head and avoid showing emotion in front of Robbins and her advisors, no matter how much they tried to goad him. HaShem, guide my steps and my tongue.

As the lift doors opened, his wristcomm chimed. A glance confirmed it was a summons from Hamza Saad, the Interstellar Security Advisor. Well, at least the politicians are working like clockwork. David quickened his pace.

Planetary Defense Milita Depot—New Rostov

Serebryanov—New Rostov

16 May 2474

2.5 Hours Earlier

Arthur took in the scene as he moved toward the deceptively small buildings of the military installation. The structures were utilitarian, built from the same 3-D-printed plasticrete that seemed to define New Rostov’s rapid expansion past the few larger buildings in the downtown area. Where is everyone? He only saw a couple of guards, and the place should’ve been buzzing with personnel.

The main gate was quite underwhelming compared to what Arthur had seen in the core worlds of the Terran Coalition. Its automated security system flashed a blinking red warning to consult planetary civil defense for further instructions in an endless cycle. He pushed through the pedestrian entrance, Faulkner and the Marines close behind.

“Halt! ID check!” one of the guards shouted.

Arthur held up an identicard. “Lieutenant Colonel Hanson, Coalition Defense Force. They’re all with me.”

The guard scanned it then nodded. “You’re clear sir, but these civvies—”

“We’re an hour, two at best, from being overrun by the enemy, Private. I don’t care what your orders are. They’re coming with me, and I’m going to find your base commander. Clear?” Arthur channeled as much bravado into the words as he could, despite the overwhelming fear he felt.

“Yes, sir.”

“Maintain your post, Private.”

“Yes, sir.” The young man offered a halfway-decent salute.

Arthur returned it and continued forward, making a beeline for the largest building, which was marked Administration. Inside, clusters of soldiers huddled around portable holodisplays, their faces pale and drawn. Most wore the woodland-pattern fatigues of planetary militia—reservists who’d signed up for weekend drills and disaster relief, not urban warfare against what was probably a professional army.

“Who’s the ranking officer here?” Arthur called out as he strode toward the largest group of maybe fifteen standing in a hallway, talking to one another.

A young woman with sergeant’s stripes looked up, her eyes wide with something approaching panic. “I… I think you are now, sir.” Her accent indicated she’d learned English as a second language. “Major Anderson was at headquarters when…” She gestured vaguely before her arms dropped to her sides.

A knot tightened in Arthur’s stomach. Senior Chief Cooper’s words echoed in his mind: Project confidence, even when you feel like the universe is collapsing around you. These people need to see strength, not doubt, and you are the leader. Act like it. He offered a mental prayer. Lord, I’m running on autopilot here. Please don’t let me get these people killed.

“Sergeant…” Arthur glanced at her name tag. “Komarova. What’s our current strength?”

“One hundred eighty-seven present for duty, sir. We’re still expecting more, but…”

Arthur did the math quickly. A brigade combat team was supposed to field nearly five thousand troops when fully activated. That particular installation was home to an infantry battalion comprising around a thousand soldiers. Less than twenty percent had made it to the depot. Not exactly comforting. Where the others were, he wasn’t sure, but the helicar system was jammed with civilians trying to either get home to their families or escape the city.

“Sir.” Faulkner appeared at his elbow and said in a low tone, “I’ve been monitoring police frequencies. Multiple units in contact with hostile forces throughout the city. Professional infantry using League small arms and tactical vehicles. As far as they can tell, not irregular terrorists.”

Arthur pursed his lips. The news was in some ways positive—professionals were less likely to massacre civilians. But they were also harder to fight. “What are we looking at for enemy strength?”

Faulkner kept a neutral expression. “Conservative estimate? Twenty thousand troops minimum. Probably more. Sir, there’s no way we can stand up to that kind of force in a conventional fight. Not with what we’ve got.”

The brutal mathematics of the situation crystallized in Arthur’s mind. Even if every single militia member on New Rostov had showed up, they’d be outnumbered at least five to one. With their current force, the odds were beyond hopeless. Think, Arthur. I’m not a ground commander, but I understand logistics and engineering. How do I level this playing field?

It came to him suddenly. “Guerrilla warfare.”

Faulkner tilted his head. “That could work, sir. Use hit-and-run tactics to keep them guessing.”

“It’s about all we’ve got to work with.”

A thin man with a receding hairline pushed his way forward, past Governor Volkov and into the conversation. “Excuse me, Colonel. I might have something to offer here.”

One of the Serebryanov police officers put out his arm to hold him back, but Arthur waved it off. “We’ll take anything you’ve got.”

“We’ve been in the middle of a massive public works project… a tunnel system for mass transit. You may have noticed things are a little crowded on the streets, and we wanted to get something built before—”

Arthur held his hand up. “Time is short. Get to the point.”

“Sorry, Colonel. The system is incomplete and nonoperational, but there are a few dozen kilometers of passages bored out, smoothed, and awaiting the installation of mag-lev lines.”

Well, that changes things. The engineer in Arthur came alive. Underground tunnels mean concealment, multiple escape routes, and the ability to move without being observed. Most of all, though, it would protect them from orbital bombardments, unless the enemy could pinpoint their location down to the meter. “Do you have schematics? Show me.”

“Right here, sir.” The man held up his tablet.

Arthur took the device and scanned through a top-level drawing before zooming into a few areas. The tunnel network was extensive, with main arteries running beneath the city center and smaller branches extending into residential and industrial districts. Access points included everything from construction shafts to connections with existing underground utilities. Natural chokepoints and defensive positions were in evidence even to his untrained eye.

“This could work,” Arthur murmured as he studied the layout. He handed the tablet to Faulkner. “What do you think, Lieutenant?”

The Marine’s eyebrows shot up. “We could establish observation posts here and here—” He pointed at junctions near major government buildings. “Set up supply caches in these dead-end sections. Use the maintenance passages for movement. Motion sensors. Cameras for early-warning systems. That way, if anyone tries the door, we’re ready.”

Arthur took the device and held it up for a moment. “Listen up, people. We’re relocating to this tunnel network not because we’re running away, but because we’re going to fight. And to do that, we need a place of safety that gives us an advantage. I want every piece of equipment that’s portable and useful loaded within the next fifteen minutes. Concentrate on weapons, ammo, food, medical supplies, and comms gear. Drones would be highly useful too. Bottom line, if it’s not nailed down, it comes with us. You get me?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” an enlisted rating called out.

It was as if an energy charge jumped from soldier to soldier in real time. Arthur watched it happen while pride and terror shot through him. He’d motivated them and perhaps given the entire group hope while simultaneously convincing shopkeepers, teachers, miners, and everything in between, who’d volunteered to serve their nation, to fight a professional army that outnumbered them over a hundred to one. If we all buy the farm, it’s on me.

“One thing, sir,” Faulkner interjected with a grin. “I’ve got one question. Where’s the power armor?”

Arthur blinked. Oops. I forgot about that. Enough suits of the TCMC’s best power armor would give a marked advantage, especially if the Leaguers didn’t have their own. “Sergeant Komarova, please tell me we have power-armor storage here.”

“Yes, sir. Main armory, one building over.”

“I think that’s your cue, Lieutenant.”

“Sounds like it, sir. I suggest you join us as soon as you’re able and get some kit. We’re all going to need it.”

Arthur ran his tongue over his lips. “I’ll be there as soon as I see to the governor,” he replied.

“Roger. See you shortly, sir.”

As they scattered in groups, some finding their fellows and others already hauling gear out, Arthur stared at the tunnel schematics one more time. Somewhere in those underground passages lay their only hope of keeping New Rostov’s resistance alive long enough for help to arrive. Lord, help me do this and not lead us all to our doom.

Faulkner stepped into the legs of a standard-issue Terran Coalition Marine Corps Mark II power-armor suit and secured them into the chest piece he’d already put on. The rack’s design allowed a Marine to don the armor independently, but he still found it difficult. As almost all of us do, I bet. A click sounded, signifying the top and bottom portion had successfully locked into place. He grabbed the left arm gauntlet and slid it on.

“This feels like cheating on my girlfriend, LT,” Corporal Samir Khatib said with a chuckle as he put on his suit. “My gear back on the Thatcher is optimized.”

“Pretty sure this armor is the same thing we have back on the ship. It’ll be good for killing Leaguers, terrorists, or whoever the hell these guys are,” Faulkner replied.

“Oh sure. But I like my stuff. It feels like home.”

Faulkner tilted his head. “Marine, there are many power-armored suits. This one is yours now too. Consider yourself lucky.”

Several others around them laughed.

One private so young he lacked facial hair spoke. “Think we got a chance in hell, LT? I heard there’s tens of thousands of hostiles.”

“Target-rich environment, Private. It’ll be easy to wipe ’em out if they’re all bunched up.” Faulkner imbued his words with as much bravado as he could muster. The youngster, however, had a point. We’re a speed bump at best. “Make sure you get as much ammo as possible. Take energy weapons, power packs, grenades. Assume we get no resupply, ladies.”

A group of CDF Planetary Defense Command soldiers appeared in the doorway of the armor-storage area. The room was massive, with bays for dozens of suits, not to mention nonpowered variants and ballistic armor. The newcomers had a wide-eyed look about them that told Faulkner they’d yet to experience actual combat.

“How many of you are power-armor rated?” Faulkner called out toward the new group. When no one replied, he yelled, “Sound off!”

That did the trick.

“I am, Lieutenant!”

“Me, sir!”

After half the group responded in the affirmative, Faulkner pointed at a stand of bays. “Get a move on. Then draw weapons and consumables. Hey, all of you, make sure to pull some rations too. I want stuffed rucks on everyone.” My God, they’re green. He reminded himself that Planetary Defense Command went through the same basic and advanced training as line CDF soldiers. It wasn’t anywhere near as intense as the Marines, but they ought to know how to shoot straight and follow orders.

The more Faulkner thought about it, the more he realized that Arthur had signed them up for an impossible mission. Yet it still seemed like the right call. To abandon the people on New Rostov to the enemy would’ve been dishonorable. Worse, it would’ve sent a signal to the rest of the Orion Spur that the CDF wasn’t going to do the hard things and stay to fight.

He sat and locked the boots of the suit into place before toggling on the initialization sequence. It would take a few minutes for everything to power up and the onboard computer to come to life.

“I thought this shore leave was supposed to be a reward for all the hard work we’ve done the last month,” Jeremiah intoned.

Faulkner glanced up to see the older man standing above him, also clad in power armor. The only difference was his had a highly visible red cross on it. “No good deed goes unpunished, Chief.”

The medic laughed. “That is a true statement. So is ‘Never again volunteer yourself.’ Didn’t you get that memo?”

“Yeah, but this one didn’t seem optional.”

Jeremiah’s expression sobered. “Truth, Lieutenant. I’ve got my trauma kit, and I loaded myself down with as much extra medical supplies as I can carry.”

“We’re going to need them.”

“I figure you’re right.” Jeremiah ran his teeth over his lip. “This one’s going to get interesting.”

Faulkner snorted. “That’s a way of putting it.” He held out his arm.

Jeremiah took it and gave a servo-assisted yank that quickly got the Marine to his feet. “Ready?”

“Almost.” The Marine took the helmet from the stand and slid it over his head. A moment later, the tech synched up, and his HUD came alive. “Yeah. I’m good.”

A young soldier in ballistic armor walked up with a couple of battle rifles. “Here you go, Chief.” He held out the weapon toward Jeremiah.

“I don’t carry a weapon, Private,” the medic replied as he touched a patch on his power armor. “Conscientious objector.”

“Uh, sure, Chief.” The young man turned to Faulkner. “Rifle, sir?”

“Thanks,” Faulkner replied as he scooped up one of the weapons, made sure there was no magazine inserted, and racked the action to confirm it was unloaded. He then slapped a mag in and slung the rifle over his shoulder.

A couple of militia soldiers were assisting each other into power armor, and Faulkner caught only the last few words of a hushed conversation. “What coward won’t take a gun?”

Faulkner saw red. Anger shot through his veins, and he twisted in place then took two steps toward the man who’d uttered the words. “Attention on deck, Corporal Bracken!”

“Uh, sir?” The man was no older than Faulkner, with a head full of red hair.

“I said… Attention. On. Deck!” By the last word, he was screaming.

Bracken went ramrod straight, dropping his battle rifle into its one-point sling then putting his arms at his sides.

“Now repeat for this entire unit the words you just said about Corpsman Duprey.”

Silence swept through the room as every soldier and Marine stopped what they were doing and stared. Faulkner felt every eye on him.

“Uh—”

“Now, Corporal!”

Bracken’s face had turned as red as a fire engine, and beads of sweat erupted on his forehead. He looked like a trapped animal, desperately searching for a way out. “I, uh, I said that it was insane to go into combat without a weapon, and I, uh, asked what coward wouldn’t take a gun.”

Faulkner took a few more steps forward and stuck his head a few millimeters from the enlisted man’s head. “That man has saved more people in the last month than you can possibly know. He has braved enemy fire, rescued countless Marines, pulled civilians to safety, and even treated the enemy—as they spat and cursed him. You’re not fit to shine his shoes. Do you get me, Corporal?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

“I don’t think you do!” Faulkner thundered. “And if I ever hear you or anyone else in this unit insult Chief Duprey, I will PT you until your feet bleed and you beg God to let you face the enemy in combat, because my punishments will be ten times worse. Do you get me, soldier?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

Faulkner rotated so he was screaming directly into the corporal’s ear. “I can’t hear you!”

“Sir! Yes! Sir!”

Spit flew out of Faulkner’s mouth as he kept going. “Now get out of my sight!”

Bracken scurried away without another glance and kept going until he was out of the armor-storage-and-repair area.

I might have gone a little hard. Faulkner took a couple of breaths and realized everyone in the room was still looking at him. “What the hell are you all staring at? Get back to suiting up. We’ve got commies to shoot.”

Jeremiah appeared at his side. “That was certainly colorful. Thought about becoming a drill instructor, perhaps?”

“Rubbed me the wrong way, Chief.”

“I remember when a certain Marine lieutenant had some harsh words for me.”

Faulkner bit his lip and turned to face the older man. “And for that, I remain deeply ashamed.”

“Don’t. You made a mistake, and I believe you learned from it. I count you as my brother, and I think that goes both ways.”

“It does.”

“Then cut the kid some slack the next time you see him.”

Faulkner chuckled. “Okay. Okay.”

“Gentlemen, how are we coming? Time is short.”

Both men whirled around to see Arthur standing behind them. He wore a ballistic armor vest along with a battle rifle and what appeared to be a full war load of ammo, grenades, and equipment.

“No power armor, sir?” Faulkner asked.

“I’m not rated for it, and frankly, I’d probably get myself killed if I tried using it without training. Best to leave that for the professionals, Lieutenant. Are we ready?”

“Almost, sir. I’ll have the team leaders check everyone. Call it five mikes.”

Arthur nodded. “Good.”

The entire situation was utterly surreal. A ship driver being outfitted with infantry kit took the cake in Faulkner’s eyes. God, I hope he can actually fight. The last thing we need is a guy doing stupid crap in combat and getting people killed.

7

Oval Office—The White House

Lawrence City—Canaan

16 May 2474

2 Hours Earlier

David was surprised the emergency meeting with President Robbins was in the Oval Office and not the Situation Room. It would’ve made more sense—to him, at least—for more input and a whole-of-government approach. But what do I know? I’m just a tired old soldier.

After exchanging pleasantries with the administrative assistant who sat in front of the door, he entered and came to attention. “General David Cohen reports as ordered, Madame President.”

Robbins affixed a stone-cold stare in his direction. After a three-second count, she replied, “At ease, General. Join us on the couch.”

David walked over to the table and dual couches that sat in front of the Resolute desk. Robbins, her chief of staff, Jackson Hardin, and the interstellar security advisor, Hamza Saad, sat on one side. He took the hint and dropped into the center cushion on the other. “How much have you been briefed on, Madame President?”

“PFLOS has dropped troops on three worlds, most critically, New Rostov. It looks like they’re there to stay.”

“Those are the broad strokes, but I’m more interested in what those troops are. From the initial intelligence reports and video from the ground, there is no way that’s some group of disorganized terrorists. As I rode over here, an initial assessment from CDF Intelligence came in—they believe we’re looking at League Army regulars, and I concur with that assessment.”

Robbins crossed her arms over her suit jacket. “Of course you do, General. And I’ll predict your next suggestion. Send in a million ground troops, three hundred ships, and militarize the Orion Spur into a giant armed camp.” Acid dripped from her tone, and her eyes blazed.

“I will always advocate for overwhelming force, a clear objective, and giving our soldiers and Marines the space to win the fight, ma’am. That is my job in the dual role of overall commander of our space fleet and your top military advisor.” David kept his voice and expression as neutral as possible, even though every fiber within him wanted to either roll his eyes or otherwise mock her in some way. Stay professional. That had always been the mantra of his mentor, now-retired Lieutenant General Benson Pipes.

“The answer is still no,” Robbins snapped.

“Then what would you like me to do, Madame President?”

“You’re my top-ranking military advisor with supposedly decades of experience. You tell me.”

“You consistently reject my advice along with that of the rest of the uniformed service chiefs, ma’am—”

Hardin smoothly interjected, “We’re off topic here. General, look, you understand the confines of the treaty and what we’re working with. There has to be another solution besides ‘Send the fleet.’”

David appreciated the chief of staff’s efforts but thought he’d be better suited at convincing his boss to see reason. “I think what you’re all asking for is the mythological proportional response.”

“There has to be a way to get our people rescued and not aggravate the geo-political situation,” Hardin replied. “Perhaps with a force of similar size to the enemy?”

David’s eyes went between Hardin, Robbins, and Saad. He knew that at least one of them understood how preposterous the statement from the chief of staff was. Perhaps even Hardin himself understood that. What drives their behavior? The GalNet was alive with conspiracy theories about Robbins being a League asset. David found such talk to be absurd, but he increasingly wondered what was the cause of her inability to see the threat for what it was. Or does she see and not care? It took every ounce of self-control he possessed as a man and also as an Orthodox Jew not to tear a bloody verbal strip out of all three of them.

“I’ve got our best people in the TCMC working on a liberation plan that’s limited to fifty thousand Marines now,” David said with his jaw clenched tightly. “That route will cause needless casualties on our side.”

“Perhaps on a short-term basis. Restarting the war with the League would result in millions of deaths,” Robbins said after an uncomfortable multi-second silence. “Once you have this plan together, General, send it over for review and approval.”

“Yes, ma’am,” David ground out. “Are we going to address the real elephant in the room here? The League is more and more openly backing PFLOS. There are at least two dozen destroyers, two heavy cruisers, and enough freighters to land an army now under terrorist control. Or worse, League Navy and Army personnel are fighting under the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur banner.”

“CIS will be investigating those claims, General. It is entirely possible that League military personnel defected to the terrorists.”

David stared at Robbins in amazement. “Is that a joke? In the League of Sol, which is a repressive, authoritarian, communist police state… massive AI-driven data systems monitor every person’s actions, seeking evidence of antisocial thinking. There’s no way that dozens of ships and tens of thousands of soldiers just up and went AWOL.”

“There are many possibilities.”

“Why can’t we examine the one that suggests some portion or all of the League government is waging a thinly veiled shadow war against the Terran Coalition?” David shot back.

“Our top people don’t believe that’s plausible, General,” Robbins replied.

“Who? Representative Rhodes?”

“The one thing we perhaps agree on is that the assemblywoman is not one of our top people,” Robbins said icily. “CIS continues to rate it as unlikely that the League wants another war with us, and I’m determined to prevent it from breaking out.”

“Tell that to the civilians cowering in their homes as League troops rampage through New Rostov,” David replied. “Madame President, do you understand that even if we had all the ships available to us in the Orion Spur, stacked on New Rostov, the amount of firepower PFLOS is suddenly sporting would likely be enough to defeat us?”

“If you don’t feel up to the task of solving this problem, you are welcome to resign, General,” Robbins replied without missing a beat.

And there it is… the actual goal. Get rid of me and put in some toady who will do whatever she wants without question. David pressed his lips together tightly before unclenching his jaw. “We will do the best we can do with the limits you’ve imposed, Madame President, but I cannot change the laws of reality because you deem it so.”

Harding interjected before Robbins could respond. “I think you have your marching orders, General. Perhaps now is a good time to adjourn, and we’ll look for the liberation campaign plans in a few hours?”

As much as David wanted to continue to argue his points, he knew it would be fruitless and only serve to further drive a wedge between him and the president. Though at this point, we loathe each other so much I doubt that will ever be repaired. Still, he couldn’t understand what her motivation was. “If you concur, Madame President, I will head back to HQ and huddle with the team.”

“That is fine by me, General Cohen. You are dismissed.”

David stood, braced to attention, and smartly turned to walk out. As he got out the door and into the hallway beyond, Harding appeared at his side.

“Tell me, were you any good at making friends in kindergarten?”

David chuckled. “I don’t recall having any problems.”

“Really? Perhaps you could remember how to do it as an adult.”

“This isn’t a problem with knowing how to make friends, Mr. Harding.”

“Jackson, please. I think we’re a bit beyond last names.”

David stopped in the hallway as two young staffers darted around them. It amazed him that everyone kept doing their work, even through conversations such as the one he was having happened all around them. Even I would find that difficult. “I’ve spent my entire adult life in the CDF. So it’s ingrained. We have a fundamental difference in looking at this situation. I can’t get my mind around what the president wants.”

“She’s adamant about not having another war on her watch.”

“And you think the League isn’t behind these terrorists?” David stared at the chief of staff’s face, hoping to glean any knowledge of what his actual beliefs were.

“I didn’t, but with the new developments… Ah, I don’t know.”

David ran his tongue over his lips. At least there appears to be some component of logic at work in there. Good. “Then how about some advice, because this is a game I’m not that great at.”

Harding snickered. “Oh, you have no idea how good you are at it, David. That’s one of the problems. You’ve made an enemy out of the president by playing her game better than she does. I heard all about the little tantrum in the oval. The fact of the matter is the republic needs both of you. My job is to keep the train on the rails, as it were, and help the president accomplish her goals. That means managing people like you, who are useful but clash with her personality.”

“I don’t appreciate being managed.”

“Of course you don’t. No one does. Look, we all want the same thing. Would you consider backing off a bit in there and giving her what she asks for?”

David stared at him for a few moments. I wonder if Spencer had people like this. I never detected this kind of raw political gamesmanship in his people, but I could have rose-colored glasses on because he did what I thought we should do—most of the time anyway. Even as he had the thought, the memories of how the chattering political class wanted to cut and run in Sextans B came to the forefront. “My job is to provide accurate military advice, advocate strongly for the best possible force disposition to accomplish our objectives, and guide the Coalition Defense Force space fleet. I’m not backing down.”

“No one’s asking you to. At least, I’m not… but you could be more collaborative and less confrontational.”

In that moment, David wanted to grab the man by his expensive suit, hoist him up against the nearest wall, and scream like a drill instructor that good people were dying on the other side of the galactic arm, and they all had a duty to stop it. But that would accomplish nothing except probably see him put in prison for assaulting a government official and stripped of rank, leaving Salena alone to raise two children. Hopefully three before too long.

So instead, David exhaled heavily and nodded, wearing what he hoped was a contrite expression. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good. That’s all I can ask you. Good luck with the planning.”

“Thank you.” David inclined his head before turning and marching down the corridor as fast as his legs would carry him without breaking into a jog. There was a time when I thought every moment spent in this sacred house of the people and symbol of our republic was a gift. Now I feel as if I’m fighting through a pit of vipers. Just the mere acknowledgement brought despondency.

Serebryanov Central Police Station

New Rostov—Orion Spur

16 May 2474

1.5 Hours Earlier

Senior Sergeant Sergei Petrov crouched behind the reception desk, his pulse rifle steady in his hands. Through the bulletproof transparent-alloy windows, he saw a fearsome sight: a dozen sleek armored personnel carriers gliding silently through the streets on antigrav cushions, their hulls bearing the black paint scheme he’d learned to recognize during his mandatory service years ago. They were League of Sol war machines.

“Hostiles, front!” he barked into his commlink. “Multiple APCs, if fully manned, two company strength or better. All units, defensive positions now.”

The response came back in a chorus of acknowledgments from his SWAT team scattered throughout the entry foyer. They were twelve of Serebryanov’s finest, men and women he’d trained and served side-by-side with for years, facing down an invasion force that had materialized out of nowhere like something from a nightmare.

A couple dozen patrol officers were backing them, all armed with either riot guns or energy pistols. It was by no means a military force, but the station wasn’t falling without a fight. As Petrov was the senior-most officer with combat training, his mission was to see to the defense.

He’d served eight years in the League of Sol Army before returning home to New Rostov. Being able to experience both the League and Terran systems firsthand was something few people in the galaxy had, he supposed, except those in the Orion Spur. He had no doubt in his mind that the Coalition, despite whatever flaws it had, was far superior to the League of Sol by every measure, from how citizens were treated, what food was available to buy, medical care, technology, and basic freedoms that now seemed fundamental. To try to speak one’s mind under the communist system would’ve resulted in a late-night visit from a political commissar followed by swift execution.

That was why he’d joined the police force and put his training to good use. New Rostov was worth fighting for.

The APCs that settled into firing positions outside looked newer than anything he remembered—cleaner lines, more sophisticated sensor arrays, and different ballistic weapons in the turrets. Or are they energy-based? He wouldn’t know until they fired.

“Sarge, what’s the play?” Corporal Anya Smirnova asked through the commlink. She was positioned on the second floor with her sniper rifle and was probably the best shot in the unit.

Petrov’s mind went through the options. The station had been built to military standards, which included reinforced walls and redundant power systems. But it wasn’t a fortress. Against that kind of firepower, it was little more than a well-appointed tomb.

“We hold them as long as we can,” he replied, surprised by how steady his voice was. “Make them pay for every meter. Then we’ll get out of here and continue the fight.”

The first blast struck the building’s facade like lightning, vaporizing a chunk of decorative stonework and sending tremors through the floor. Petrov’s teeth rattled, and dust cascaded from the ceiling tiles.

Through the windows, he watched as the APCs’ rear ramps dropped. Black-uniform-clad infantry poured out in textbook League formation in squads of twelve, moving with fluid precision. Their uniforms bore no rank insignia or unit patches, but their movements told him everything he needed to know about their training.

“Two hundred fifty tangos minimum,” Petrov reported, watching more troops deploy behind portable cover. “I don’t see any power-armor suits, but they’ve got plenty of military ordnance out there.”

Another blast shook the building, that one targeting the main entrance. The reinforced doors held, but stress fractures spread through the surrounding wall, so they wouldn’t stay intact for long.

“Smirnova, you are cleared to engage.” In that moment, Petrov dearly wished he had a few dozen snipers instead of just one. “Everyone else, wait for my signal.”

The distinctive crack of her rifle answered him a moment later. One of the enemy soldiers spun and dropped. The others barely paused, maintaining their advance with the cold efficiency of veterans.

These men aren’t terrorists. They’re League regulars. The confirmation sent ice through Petrov’s veins. PFLOS was one thing—brutal but ultimately an insurgent group with limited resources. The League of Sol Army was something else entirely. That they were on New Rostov in such numbers meant the situation was worse than he’d anticipated even after the panicked warnings from the central government and Governor Volkov.

A sustained barrage of energy fire lanced through the station’s windows, reducing the transparisteel to glowing fragments. Petrov pressed himself lower as superheated air seared overhead.

“Breaching charge on the front door!” someone shouted over the comm.

The explosion that followed dwarfed everything that had come before. Petrov’s vision went white as the shockwave knocked anyone not under cover across the entry foyer. His ears rang with a high-pitched whine that seemed to come from inside his skull.

When his sight cleared, the front of the building was gone. Smoke and dust billowed through the gaping hole where the entrance had been, and through it came the enemy. At least two companies.

They moved like a wave of black oil, covering one another with practiced precision as they flowed into the station’s lobby.

Petrov brought his rifle to bear and opened fire, the pulse weapon’s blue-white beams cutting through the haze. “Let them have it!” he shouted.

His first shot took a soldier center mass, the energy bolt punching through body armor to kill the man instantly. His second caught another in the shoulder, wounding him.

Every officer still alive unleashed their weapons, and a firefight erupted in earnest. Petrov heard his team engaging from their prepared positions through the distinctive whine of pulse rifles. Bullets from the League ballistic rifles slammed into the walls, desks, the reception desk, and even the ceiling. Over it all, Smirnova’s sniper rifle spoke every few seconds.

“Three tangos down,” she reported. “They’re probing the east side, looking for a side entrance.”

As enemy bullets got closer and closer to his position, Petrov shifted right, using the destroyed reception area for cover as he engaged a group of enemies who attempted to flank them. The League soldiers were good as they moved with fire-and-maneuver tactics that spoke to their training. But they were also predictable. During his time in the army, there had been little room for thought. Soldiers were expected to execute their orders without regard for a changing tactical picture.

He adjusted his thought process to the Terrans’ mindset, which valued individual thought, a difficult task. As he sighted down his weapon, he was glad it had taken. Petrov dropped two more soldiers before a sustained burst forced him to duck. When he raised his head again, a new sound cut through the battle: the deep roar of a new engine.

Oh shit. Through blown-out bays where there had been windows minutes before, Petrov caught a glimpse of the Zhukov-class tank coming to a halt across the street. Its main gun was already rotating toward the police station.

“All units, incoming League of Sol main battle tank!” Petrov shouted. “Get out of the entrance now! Fall back!”

The Zhukov’s first shot struck the building’s front wall like a giant fist. The entire structure shuddered, and the floor sagged beneath Petrov’s feet. Chunks of plasticrete rained down as support beams groaned under suddenly unbalanced loads.

The building’s compromised. We need to get out of here. “Cover fire,” Petrov ordered, falling back toward the rear of the station. “Plan Zebra! Move!”

Plan Zebra was their emergency escape route—a path through the building’s lower level, out into the maintenance area, where there was a manhole leading to the city’s sewer system. Petrov had laid it out the moment word of the invasion came across the commlink.

The team responded with the discipline he’d drilled into them. Even as League soldiers pressed their advance, his officers maintained cover fire while falling back. They extracted a steep price from the enemy, putting down tango after tango. But for every one they killed, three more took his place.

As Petrov sent a burst of fire down a corridor to hold off a group of Leaguers, Smirnova appeared from a stairwell. Her sniper rifle was slung over her shoulder, and she clutched a pulse weapon with both hands. “Kozlov’s down. Life-sign indicator flat.”

Petrov felt the loss like a physical blow. Since the team had been formed over four years ago, they’d lost no officers to hostile action. I’ll grieve later… if there is a later.

The tank fired again, that time targeting the second floor. The shell punched through the exterior wall and detonated inside, bringing down a section of ceiling.

Screams came from somewhere above, cut short by the rumble of falling debris.

“Move, move, move!” Petrov shouted, leading the survivors toward the rear exit. Behind them, League soldiers poured through the building like water through a broken dam. They seem to be willing to spend as many lives as required to kill us quickly. That speaks to having the lives to spare.

They reached the last corridor that led to the maintenance area just as the tank’s third shot struck. It hit a load-bearing pillar on the first floor, and the entire eastern half of the building lurched sideways. The lights went out, replaced by an inky blackness.

“Emergency lighting’s down!” someone called out.

Petrov activated his helmet’s tactical illumination, as did half a dozen others, and the retreat resumed. Once he located the heavy exit door, he disengaged the locks and pushed it open. An enclosed area lay before them, where the station’s helicar park was situated.

“Head count!” Petrov yelled as he reached the manhole.

Several patrol officers rushed to him, and between them, they hefted the extraordinarily heavy piece of alloy.

“Smirnova!”

“Zhang!”

“Kuznetsov!”

“Visser!”

“Yusupov!”

“Berg!”

Seven voices, including his own, out of twelve.

Behind them, the police station groaned. The tortured shriek of metal and plasticrete sounded as structural supports failed one by one. The Zhukov kept firing, each shot bringing down more of the building that had been his second home for six years.

As the team and the remaining patrol officers climbed down the alloy ladder that led into the sewer, Petrov’s commlink crackled with fragmentary transmissions from across the city. Other police units reported hostile contact. Military channels went dark one by one. It was the sound of a planet being conquered in real time.

Once the last officer was down, Petrov climbed in behind and used every ounce of strength in his body to pull the manhole cover back. The effect was to instantly plunge them into darkness. He turned his helmet-mounted tactical lights back on and got down to the bottom of the ladder.

A cluster of fourteen men and women greeted him—six of his team and eight surviving patrolmen, out of a force that, ten minutes ago, numbered almost forty.

“Sarge,” Anya said as he swung off the ladder. “What now?”

Petrov glanced upward at the manhole cover and the surface that lay beyond. Somewhere above them, League soldiers were probably searching the ruins for survivors. His home was gone. His colleagues were dead. New Rostov was under occupation.

But he was still alive, and so were these fourteen officers. They had weapons, training, and intimate knowledge of Serebryanov. Most importantly, he had something the invaders couldn’t take away: a burning need for justice. “Now we become ghosts. We learn their patterns, find their weaknesses, and make them pay for what they’ve done.”

Petrov’s mind went to Kozlov’s young daughter, who was barely five years old; of Dmitri’s wife, who worked at the children’s hospital; of all the innocent people counting on them to protect the civilization they’d fought so hard to build.

“What about our families?” one of the patrol officers asked.

“We can best help them by defeating this invader. Yes?”

After a pause, the young man nodded.

The League had brought war to New Rostov. Petrov intended to give them more than they’d bargained for. “They want to play soldier on our world. Fine. Let’s teach these bastards what it means to fight on our soil.”

All of them responded with a combination of set jaws, a few thumbs-up gestures, and closed fists. Petrov could sense the anger and determination coming off his people, as if it had physical properties. The League will pay. Others will fight back. We will find them, work together, and drive the invaders away.

8

Transit Tunnel—Section B

Serebryanov—New Rostov

16 May 2474

1 Hour Earlier

Stripping the depot of everything it had took more time than Arthur had planned, but in the end, Lieutenant Faulkner convinced him that getting as much gear as possible outweighed the risks, because as the Marine put it, they were operating in an austere environment where resupply would be virtually impossible. In short, every bullet, grenade, meal, and bandage counted.

The governor’s convoy of helicars and larger vehicles that had more passenger space was commandeered for transport duty. That meant the Marines were dismounted, as were most of the planetary defense militia. Arthur had decided not to bother with the limited armored vehicles at the depot, because they’d be a dead giveaway to the enemy, and without resupply and repair facilities, they were useless after a mission or two anyway.

“Colonel, got a situation here,” Faulkner said over the commlink. He was farther up the formation, leading a fire team of Marines.

Arthur touched his earpiece before speaking. “What’s going on?”

“Switch over to channel six-two-bravo. One of the civilian emergency bands.”

It took Arthur a few seconds to figure that out. Marine-issued commlink controls were not something he used daily. The moment he did, however, the panicked cry of a woman filled his ears.

“—us, please! There are hundreds of these men, and they all have guns!”

“Ma’am—”

“Help us!”

Arthur stopped in the middle of the sidewalk amid a dozen others, most carrying a crate of supplies. He had to focus. “Ma’am, this is Colonel Hanson, CDF. Can you tell me where you are? And what’s going on?” The sad reality was they couldn’t divert to rescue a family, no matter how heart-breaking it was.

“I… I’m in the Kikin School. We’ve locked the doors, but there are… more men than I can count in black uniforms outside. They’re demanding to be let in.” A scream echoed somewhere in the background. “One of them shot a nine-year-old boy who tried to run down the street.”

Bile and anger rose inside Arthur. Our mission has to come first. The words, though, were hollow even as he thought them. So much for these Leaguers being professionals. “How many are with you, ma’am?”

“I don’t know for sure. A lot of parents haven’t come for their children. There’s… at least a hundred of us.”

Arthur closed his eyes and stretched his neck before exhaling heavily. “Ma’am, wait a moment.” He clicked the commlink back over to a direct line to Faulkner. “Lieutenant, you there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you hear that exchange?”

A pregnant pause followed. “Yes, sir.”

“How far away is that signal? Have you pinpointed it?”

“About two kilometers.”

Just long enough for a decent hike but not too far to make it out of the question. Arthur felt some relief on that note. Also, with enemy forces that close to their column, it would make tactical sense to engage the enemy as a cover for those headed to the tunnels. “We can’t leave them.”

Faulkner’s sigh carried across the channel. “No, we can’t. I don’t think I could live with myself.”

“We also can’t send the entire force, because this is a critical time to get set up.”

“Agreed, sir. Why don’t you lead that effort? I’ll take a couple of squads in power armor and get the kids.”

“Negative, Lieutenant. I’ll be joining the school-rescue op.”

“Sir—”

Arthur cleared his throat. “One of these days, you’re going to be in charge of something big, okay? And when you get there, remember you can’t ask the people who serve under you to do anything you won’t do yourself. General Cohen hammered that into all of us, and it stuck for me.”

“What if you buy it?”

“Then I expect you to keep fighting until help arrives.”

“Yes, sir.” Faulkner’s tone left no doubt as to how he felt about the order.

By then, the rest of the group had passed Arthur by, and he took up the rear. “Now, get three squads together. As many in power armor as possible.”

“Hit hard, hit fast, get out?”

“Your words,” Arthur replied. He flipped the commlink back to the emergency channel. “Ma’am, you still there?”

Seconds passed before the same woman replied in a whisper, “Yes. They’re in the school.”

“Listen to me carefully. Help is on the way. Find shelter. Hide as best as you can. We’re fifteen minutes out, okay?”

No immediate reply came.

Arthur keyed the channel again. “Can you hear me?”

Again, silence followed.

He hoped they weren’t already too late as he broke into a jog and headed up to the front of the formation. I forgot how much a ballistic vest with a rifle and full combat load weighs. That’ll teach me to skip jogging with a ruck on deck five for exercise.

“Sergeant Komarova!” Arthur yelled.

About a dozen soldiers up, she turned from the triple-file column. “Yes, sir?”

“Lieutenant Faulkner and I are going to be leading a rescue effort to the Kikin school. They’ve got company. The bad kind. I’m putting you in charge. Get these people underground to the bivouac areas I identified and set up a base camp. Clear?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Godspeed, Sergeant. See you in an hour.” Hopefully.

Without waiting for a reply, Arthur jogged toward what lay ahead, even if he didn’t know precisely what it was.

Faulkner kept his steps slow and steady as he traversed an alley between two buildings. The capital city of Serebryanov was dense, even out of the downtown area, which helped shield infantry in a combat situation but also increased the odds of an ambush or accidental direct contact. Since he’d taken point, it was on him to keep the rest of the squad safe. Not that there’s safety anywhere in this city right now. He edged around a corner, checking it as he’d been trained to do. Faulkner had the words formed in his mind to call the all-clear when two men bearing rifles entered his extreme peripheral view.

He quickly ducked back, let his battle rifle drop into its one-point sling, and held up a fist—the universal signal to stop.

On the tactical HUD in Faulkner’s power armor suit, the sensor capabilities filled in a limited picture as he got line of sight on the enemy formation. The uniforms they wore were utilitarian and matched recognition images that had been drilled into him during advanced infantry combat school: the Army of the League of Sol. A main battle tank lumbered down the street, as did a tactical vehicle of some kind. He didn’t recognize it but assumed it carried supplies or men. Shit.

Faulkner cued his commlink. “Colonel, I’ve got platoon-strength hostiles here supported by enemy armor.”

“Understood, Lieutenant. Do you have a clean entry into the school?”

That was debatable. Yes, there was a side door, and he could see it from where he stood. But to traverse that distance with dozens, if not a hundred hostiles less than twenty meters away? Pushing our luck, to say the least. As soon as Faulkner had the thought, however, he pushed it out of his mind. We get paid to defend these people, and I took an oath. It doesn’t matter what those odds are. We engage.

He toggled his commlink to the squad frequency. “Okay, I want everyone in stealth mode here. We’ll ingress the building from the door marked on your maps, infiltrate as lightly as possible, and avoid going kinetic until the last possible second. You got me, Marines?”

Green lights lit up across the squad-status screen.

Faulkner motioned a corporal forward with him then moved as fast as possible to the side entrance. It helped that the school was nondescript, yet another 3-D-printed building that seemed to permeate New Rostov. Something with more unique architecture would probably have attracted more attention.

The corporal pulled out a universal unlock tool and ran it over the electronic lock on the door. A second later, it disengaged, and they pushed the door open to find a corridor that was empty of both combatants and civilians.

Faulkner motioned two more members of his squad forward, and they crossed without incident. The next pair went, then another. He started to believe they could get in without being seen, right up until one of the hostiles turned his head at exactly the wrong moment, saw a power-armored Marine, and started screaming his head off.

A string of oaths that would make even the most hardened Marine blush erupted from Faulkner’s mouth as he brought up his battle rifle. He put a trio of rounds into the shouting man. League soldiers? PFLOS terrorists? Who cares at this point. Time seemed to slow as a few of the soldiers looked around wildly to find the source of the shots and immediately zeroed in on his position. “Contact left! Contact left!”

Marines already inside the school let loose with a withering barrage from their battle rifles, momentarily breaking the enemies’ fixation on Faulkner, though that didn’t stop a smattering of incoming rounds.

“Go! Go! Go! Everyone inside the school now!” Faulkner shouted and propelled the Marine nearest him forward.

The rest of the squad surged ahead, shrugging off stray bullets as the still-dazed Leaguers seemed to be more focused on their comrades dropping like flies in the street than figuring out where the fire came from. That critical mistake bought the Marines just enough time to get inside.

Faulkner was the last man in, and as the door slammed shut behind him, he realized they’d jumped from the frying pan into the fire. Bullets thudded into the far wall as the enemy gathered its wits and reverted to training. We can’t stop and engage. Speed and position are our strength.

He cued his commlink for the command channel. “Colonel, we were spotted by the enemy. Hostiles engaged. Suggest you take the opportunity to get into the building while they’re distracted. We’re moving farther in.”

“Roger that, Lieutenant. We’re headed for the back.”

“Faulkner out,” he replied before turning to the Marines around him. “Okay, gents. Time to earn our pay. Move out, leapfrogging fire teams. Khatib! Take three and keep those bastards over there honest as we head out.”

“Yes, sir!”

It was going to be a long day.

9

Kikin Secondary School

Serebryanov—New Rostov

16 May 2474

15 Minutes Earlier

Glass shattered all around Arthur, or perhaps it was a transparent polymer of some sort because of how the material warped instead of shattering. He didn’t bother to figure it out. Instead, virtually all of his mental abilities were focused solely on one task: staying alive. Rounds slammed into the wall behind him as the entire squad took cover.

A couple of soldiers returned fire, which caused the hostiles outside to aim at their muzzle flashes.

They’d come in the back of the school only a minute earlier, and all hell had broken loose. The commlink traffic indicated the enemy had spotted the Marines and opened up with everything they had. Now they were in a pitched firefight against a clearly superior hostile force.

Arthur switched his battle rifle to the fully automatic fire-selector setting and raised his head above the windowsill he’d perched under. A quick scan showed at least one main battle tank and several armored personnel carriers outside. Shit. Not good. He poked the rifle over the sill and aimed in the general direction of a clump of uniformed soldiers. Arthur squeezed the trigger and, in the space of two seconds, sent a few dozen rounds at them. At least one hostile went down. I bet most of those went into the sky. Spray-and-pray tactics weren’t exactly the best.

Moments later, return fire zeroed in on him as bullets slammed into the far wall. Whatever was left of the glass or polymer window collapsed, with shards dropping onto the floor and his back. I guess it’s not glass. Didn’t cut me. It was strange how the oddest things stuck in his mind even as the world exploded around him.

A high-pitched whistle cut through the air, and a split second later, an explosion blew out two windows and part of the wall to his left. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Pieces of wood, plasticrete, and polymer barely missed his body, with one sliver burying itself in the wall behind him.

“Tank shell!” someone shouted through the commlink.

Arthur tried to focus, but it was nearly impossible with the ringing in his ears as everything else got strangely muffled. Tank. Gotta… deal with it first. Must do… something. “Hanson to all… Coalition stations. Anyone with… heavy… weapons… engage hostile MBT.” Just forming and getting the words out required every ounce of concentration left in his mind.

“Colonel, repeat last. Garbled transmission,” Faulkner answered.

Maybe I’m slurring my words. “Engage tank. Before it kills us all.”

“Already on it, sir. Keep your guys’ heads down.”

Arthur couldn’t do much about the enemy armored vehicle, even if he’d had the courage to charge it. His squad lacked heavy weaponry. Aside from that, he was unfamiliar with the operation of rocket launchers and anti-tank units. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a power-armored Marine about twenty meters away square up with an alloy tube on his shoulder. A second later, flame and smoke blasted out of the end of it, and a projectile accelerated from the front.

The explosion the warhead caused only added to the ringing in Arthur’s ears. He blinked repeatedly, trying to clear his vision before glancing over the windowsill as incoming fire slackened. The burning wreckage of a League Zhukov-class tank was impossible to miss. Within moments, the beleaguered CDF militia members cheered its destruction. Arthur felt invigorated, despite barely being able to hear.

“Nice shooting, Marine,” Arthur said on the all-units channel.

Someone shouted through a blown-out window, “Take that, you commie bastards!” The phrase was about the least ribald comment made toward the enemy.

A Marine carrying a squad automatic weapon—which fired belts of magnetically accelerated projectiles—got into position and began active suppression of the enemy. That, in turn, gave Arthur a precious few seconds to get his thoughts together. “Sitrep, Lieutenant.”

“Platoon- to company-strength enemy combatants. They’re shell-shocked, but that won’t last long. Whatever we’re going to do, now’s the time, sir.”

“Suggestions?” Arthur replied.

“I say we leave one squad here as a blocking force and the other two fan out, looking for survivors.”

It was as sound a plan as any Arthur could think of. “Agreed, Lieutenant. I’ll join you. Rally at the grand staircase.”

“Roger that, sir.”

A series of further explosions rocked the building, and a piece of the ceiling around where the tank had blown a hole in the wall collapsed. Arthur took advantage of the chaos to crouch and fast walk toward the foyer. Part of an entrance area that was clearly meant to be impressive, it led to a wide staircase that could’ve fit ten people on each step. Lord, give me strength to rescue the children in this school.

Faulkner and his squad of power-armored Marines and planetary militia came into view through the smoke and haze. They moved with purpose and had the advantage of not having to crouch to avoid haphazard rounds fired by the enemy.

“Good to see you in one piece, Lieutenant,” Arthur said as he took position near the stairs.

“Likewise, sir. Ready?”

Arthur flashed a grin. “Born ready.”

Truthfully, he felt anything but.

Despite Avery Faulkner’s youth and low rank, he moved like a battle-hardened veteran—because over a month of nonstop combat had minted him as one. Steel sharpened steel, and going up against the best PFLOS had to offer honed his combat skills and gave him a sixth sense about what was going to happen next. And every alarm in the Marine’s head was hammering away.

He strode up the stairs, battle rifle at the ready with his finger on the trigger guard. When he reached the top, there was no one in sight. The integrated life signs detected in his suit indicated that numerous humans were present on the top level, though it couldn’t differentiate between adults and children. That functionality would be quite useful right now.

The sound of a door opening drew his attention as two more Marines cleared the landing and got their bearings.

Faulkner turned just in time to see a man wearing a League of Sol army uniform exit into the corridor, clutching a plasma rifle. Without hesitation, Faulkner raised his battle rifle simultaneously with the enemy soldier. He got there first and sent a burst of rounds into the hostile’s center mass.

The Leaguer fell backward and got off a shot as he collapsed. It went straight into the ceiling, scorching it and causing a chunk of burning gypsum board to fall on his face. Screaming, he tried to roll away. Even with what was undoubtedly excruciating pain, the man—with great effort—lifted his weapon once more.

Without a thought to the contrary, Faulkner put a round through the hostile’s head. He won’t be getting up from that. There was no emotion in the kill, only a cool, calm, and collected thought process as he eliminated the threat. He gave a series of hand signals to his fire team, and they advanced down the corridor. Peeking in the door where the enemy had come from, he confirmed the classroom was empty.

The next door down on the other side of the hallway was locked.

Faulkner took a step back then drove his foot through the door, which blew backward off its hinges thanks to the servo-assist of the power armor and collapsed on the floor. Standard tactics would’ve been to toss a flashbang grenade in, but he didn’t want to subject children to such weapons if they were present. And my suit provides solid protection against a ballistic-rifle-armed enemy.

He edged around the frame and poked his weapon into the classroom. At first glance, it was empty, but then his HUD identified six children and one adult crouched behind desks at the back of the room. “Terran Coalition Marine Corps. We’re here to help. Come on out, and we’ll get you to safety!” Faulkner imbued his voice with as much kindness as he could muster under the circumstances, all while praying the adult wasn’t an enemy holding the kids hostage.

His prayers were answered when a young woman stood and slowly came into view. She had the good sense to show both of her hands. “We heard gunshots.”

Faulkner glanced at the dead body only a meter away. “Is there a back way out of here?”

“Uh… Ah…”

He took a few steps forward. “Miss, I know you’re in shock, and this is one of the worst days of your life, okay? But I need your help to keep you and everyone else in the school safe. Focus. What’s your name?”

“Katherine. I… I… go by Kate.” Her hands shook.

“Okay, Kate. Tell me, is there another way off the second floor than that big staircase in the center of the building?”

She nodded. “Yes, there are stairwells on either side and a gravlift. We have exterior fire escapes along the back.”

“Good. Okay.” Faulkner turned to the Marine behind him. “Take this group down one of those fire escapes. I’ll press forward with the rest of the squad.”

“Yes, sir!”

Faulkner put an armored gauntlet on Kate’s shoulder. “You’re in good hands now. Stay low and follow instructions. That goes for you kids too.” He glanced at the children peeking above the student desks, which had integrated computer tablets built into them.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Faulkner. Avery Faulkner.” He flashed a smile, though she probably couldn’t see it through his helmet. “One last question… Any idea how many other civilians are in this building?”

Kate licked her lips. “Maybe half the student body… a hundred? We didn’t know what to do when…” Her hands shook once more, and she started to cry.

“Hey. Hey. It’s okay. Stay with me here. You did everything you could, and I’m sure all the other teachers did too. This is our job now, okay? Move out, because we don’t have a lot of time.”

She blew out a deep breath and turned to the children. “Come. We must go. Stay close.”

Faulkner stepped back into the hallway and joined a fireteam that had their weapons aimed down the hallway. He glanced back to see the teacher and her charges moving as quickly as they could, a Marine in front and behind the little group. God help us. The one thing he wasn’t quite sure he could handle was the sight of dead children shot with League weapons. Can’t think like that. Focus on the mission.

Gunshots echoed close by, and two more hostiles appeared at the end of the hallway. They didn’t stand a chance, as the Marines cut them down with three-round bursts. The bodies flopped to the floor, and one of the kids started screaming. His wails faded as the teacher guided them away from the combat zone.

Faulkner had to push the children and their reaction out of his mind. More critical issues demanded attention. The enemy must’ve already infiltrated the building. The school certainly had enough entrances and exits. It’s not like they designed it to be a military bunker. We’ll have to clear this place one room at a time.

He reached for the next door.

10

Kikin Secondary School

Serebryanov—New Rostov

16 May 2474

Present time

Faulkner moved down the second-floor corridor in a crouch. Caution was the watchword as he swept his battle rifle left and right. Even worse than missing an enemy would be shooting a child by accident. He suspected that was the kind of thing one never got over.

Behind him, over a hundred kids and teachers moved in a ragged column in the opposite direction toward the central stairwell, their faces pale with terror. Six classrooms cleared, and nobody’s dead yet. Maybe this crazy plan will actually work.

“Lieutenant, clear on the left side,” Gunnery Sergeant Rodriguez said over the commlink.

Faulkner glanced back to see the civilians receding down the hallway. Some of the kids were crying quietly, while one made eye contact with a thousand-yard stare he’d seen on combat veterans. Kids shouldn’t have to see this.

A middle-aged teacher with graying hair appeared at his elbow. Her hands shook as she spoke. “Lieutenant, that’s everyone, I believe. There could be more downstairs, but I just don’t know. We got stuck up here and—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You kept them safe. Now, head back toward the stairs and—”

Suddenly, all hell broke loose. Faulkner turned to see more than a dozen enemy troops at the back of the corridor, directly in front of him. At least one was in power armor and sported a massive plasma rifle, while the rest had ballistic weapons. He pulled Kowalski down and opened fire one handed.

The shots went wild, but anything that distracted the enemy was good. “Contact front!” he barked into his commlink while diving into the nearest classroom. Faulkner reached out and grabbed the teacher and dragged her to safety as plasma blasts and bullets slammed into the area he’d just been in.

Faulkner could see enough out the door to realize the remaining children had scattered, screaming as they went. One teacher threw herself over a student and was rewarded with multiple shots into her center mass. No way anyone can survive that without armor. The red stain spreading across her white blouse suggested his thought was correct.

Jeremiah, from across the hallway, ran out of a classroom where he’d taken cover and knelt next to the woman. After less than five seconds, he raised his head and shook it before scooting back as the enemy fired on him despite the clearly visible red cross on his power-armor suit.

I’ll never get over the kind of courage it takes to run into combat without a weapon. That goes for that lady, whose name I don’t even know, and Chief Duprey. Faulkner poked his battle rifle out of the doorway and put a trio of rounds into a man wearing a black uniform. It had no name tag or rank insignia, which he suspected would be par for the course. As the hostile went down, two more took his place and returned fire, shredding the doorframe and forcing Faulkner back.

One of the power-armored figures hefted a plasma cannon that looked like it could punch through the building’s walls. The weapon whined as it charged, and Faulkner knew they had maybe seconds before it turned the corridor into a killing field.

“Frag, over!” someone shouted.

A grenade detonated followed by two more in rapid succession. Blasts of fury showered the hallway in alloy fragments and shredded at least one of the hostiles, but the power-armored Leaguer just kept on coming.

Faulkner blinked, his vison blurry from the explosions, and when it cleared, he again raised his weapon. Time to earn my pay. He sent a burst of fire toward a hostile. Other Marines joined in, and at least one went down. Damn. Sight’s off. He rubbed his eyes, aggravated that he’d wasted a shot. “Colonel, we’ve got to push up,” he yelled into the commlink.

“Roger, Lieutenant” came a muffled reply.

“We’re sitting ducks here, Colonel. You’ve got point!” Faulkner shouted. The ship driver was the farthest man up the corridor, and he needed to do something to take the heat off the rest of them.

Movement caught his eye as Arthur leaned forward from the doorway up the hall. His rifle sighted down on the power-armored trooper. But something was wrong. He just stood there, weapon up, target acquired, but not firing.

What the hell? “What are you waiting for? Send it!”

For a terrifying moment, nothing happened. Arthur stood frozen in the doorway like a statue while plasma bolts and bullets filled the air around him. Come on, Colonel. Snap out of it.

Then Arthur’s rifle spoke once, twice, three times. The power-armored Leaguer stumbled backward, his plasma cannon swinging wildly as one of the rounds punched through his faceplate.

That momentary pause was all Faulkner needed. He leaned out from cover and opened up on full auto, hosing down the enemy with everything he had. Casings flew as he burned through a magazine in two seconds, forcing the terrorists to duck behind whatever cover they could find.

“Marines!” he yelled. “Hit ’em!”

The response was immediate. Battle rifles cracked from multiple positions as his people laid down suppressing fire. The enemy advance stalled as PFLOS terrorists found themselves taking casualties faster than they could dish them out. But the respite wouldn’t last long. The hostiles weren’t the undisciplined rabble they’d faced elsewhere in the Orion Spur. Faulkner could tell just from their movements that they were professionals.

“Lieutenant, prepare to lay down cover fire. Let’s get these kids out of here.”

“Yes, sir,” Faulkner replied as he slapped a new magazine into his battle rifle. He was about to resume prosecuting the enemy when a new shout went up.

“Man down! Corpsman!”

Two of the militia volunteers had been caught in the open when the shooting started, farther down the corridor toward the staircase. One was clearly dead, his body sprawled across the corridor in a spreading pool of blood. The other was wounded, clutching his leg and trying to crawl toward cover.

Before Faulkner could move, Jeremiah was already in motion. The medic sprinted into the open corridor under fire, bullets pinging off his power armor.

“Bottle them up, Marines! Keep their heads down!”

Jeremiah grabbed the wounded man under his arms and started dragging him toward the nearest classroom. The militiaman screamed as his damaged leg scraped across the floor, but the medic didn’t stop, even though bullets slammed into center mass.

Faulkner yanked a grenade from its webbing and pulled the pin. “Plasma, over!” He threw it as hard as he could down the corridor. I’ve only got the one.

The explosion was devastating in the confined space. Superheated plasma spread out in a two-meter radius from the little round ball and washed over several of the black-clad soldiers. One of them caught on fire, another simply disappeared, and pieces of the ceiling collapsed. The rest of the hostiles faded from view.

In the momentary silence that followed, two Marines sprinted into the corridor and hauled the wounded militiaman into cover. Jeremiah was already working on him, his hands moving with practiced efficiency.

“How bad, Chief?” Faulkner asked.

“He’ll live, if we get out of here.”

“Gunny, set charges down the corridor. I want to bring this place down on their heads.”

“Roger, LT!” Rodriguez replied a second later.

As the Marine moved to plant explosives, Faulkner caught sight of Arthur again. The colonel was coordinating the evacuation, getting kids and teachers moved toward the back of the building. Whatever had frozen him up earlier, he seemed to have worked through it. Good. We’re going to need him at max capacity.

Faulkner allowed himself to cut the ship driver a little slack. After all, he’s trained to fight enemy warships. Ground combat is an entirely different beast. Still, the road ahead was going to be difficult. He prayed that Arthur would be up to the task.

Arthur raced down the stairs as fast as his legs would carry him while the sounds of combat echoed all around. An explosion made him flinch, and he almost tumbled down face first, catching himself only at the last second by grabbing the railing. The hallway was even more destroyed than it had been only fifteen minutes before. Bullet holes crisscrossed the walls, every window was shattered, and smoking pieces of ceiling and drywall littered the floor.

He got to the bottom just in time to see a wave of League infantry charging forward. By then, Arthur was something of a professional. He knew to immediately seek cover and did so. Then he brought up his rifle and engaged the nearest enemy. The man fell in his tracks, though Arthur didn’t know who got the killing shot in.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a Marine bring the squad automatic weapon up and hose down the onrushing soldiers with projectiles that sliced through them like a hedge trimmer. Men pitched backward and stumbled forward with blood pouring from their wounds, visible even at ten meters’ range. The survivors dropped into cover behind the half-height stone wall that marked the beginning of the schools’ grounds. From there, they kept up accurate fire on the defenders.

A figure in power armor dropped beside Arthur and put its armored hand on his shoulder. “Still in one piece, Colonel?”

Arthur turned to see Faulkner’s smiling face beside him. He found it hard to believe the Marine was enjoying their predicament. Probably happy we’re still alive. “No holes.”

“Can’t be said for all of us,” he replied, the grin morphing to a frown. “Lost two militia guys upstairs. Another is seriously wounded.”

“What about the civilians?” Arthur asked.

“Lost a teacher, but thank God, no kids. Yet.”

Arthur gestured to his front. “We’re rather obviously not getting out that way, Lieutenant.”

“The back is still clear. They haven’t encircled the place yet. We got lucky. They’re probably spread out all over the city right now. The way I see it, sir, we get everyone out, have a rear guard bloody their nose, then run like hell.”

Arthur jerked his head to one side as the crackle of bullets sounded. “One problem… How do we keep them from following us? This group isn’t going to be fast.”

“I’ve got an idea, but a few things are going to have to go right.”

“Like this entire combat has so far?” Arthur chuckled. “I’m amazed I’m still alive.”

Faulkner jerked his thumb toward the exterior. “Pretty sure these guys are just as shocked we’re here.”

At that moment, Jeremiah carried an older woman down the stairs, taking two at a time. He seemed to time his movements to the staccato-like sound of gunfire. After getting to ground level, the medic stashed her behind the staircase, in a hallway that led toward the back of the building. He then crawled toward Arthur and Faulkner.

“Nice of you to join us, Chief.”

“Careful, Lieutenant. That sounded awfully like a good joke.”

Arthur tilted his head upward, toward where the civilian had been dropped. “What’s her story?”

“Headmistress of the school. Was trying to hide students upstairs. She says there’s a kid in a locked room in the back left. He was in detention. Bullet went through and through the upper torso. She’s out cold.”

Faulkner laughed as he switched out his battle rifle’s magazine. “Damn. It’s a bad day to get in trouble with the teacher. Principal going to be okay?”

“If I get her back for further treatment, hopefully.”

“Our exit point is the back right,” Arthur interjected. “And they’re going to blow in here before too long. Do we have any better intel on where he is?”

“Administration area, back left was the best I got from her. I’ll go for the kid,” Jeremiah said almost immediately.

“Negative, Chief. You’re the only medic we’ve got. They get you, and the wounded die,” Arthur replied.

“You can’t leave him. They’ll kill anyone they find in here after the whooping we’ve administered, or worse, torture him for sport.” Faulkner shook his head. “I’ll get him and rejoin the group once we get outside.”

This is yet another one of those defining moments, isn’t it? Instinctively, Arthur knew what had to be done. Jeremiah was vital to their efforts. So was Lieutenant Faulkner. Without the tough Marine, their ability to resist would collapse. He had the most combat experience and training of anyone there. That leaves me. I am the expendable one here.

“Sir?”

“Negative, Lieutenant. I’ll get the young man. You move these people to safety.”

Faulkner grabbed his uniform. “Sir, you’re wearing a combat vest that’ll stop one round from those League rifles if you’re lucky. Get hit by a plasma blast, and it’ll burn straight through you. This is my job.”

“No, it’s not. Your job is to lead these Marines. Don’t see a starship around here, do you?” Arthur forced a thin smile. “I’ll be okay. The back is clear, and you need to focus everyone on protecting the civilians. There’s not enough of us as it is.”

“Sir—”

Jeremiah reached out and touched Faulkner’s shoulder. “Colonel knows what he’s doing.”

Faulkner glanced between the two men. “I suppose he does.” He let go of Arthur’s shirt.

“Godspeed,” Jeremiah said after a moment.

“Thanks, Chief.” Arthur turned and crouched. Bullets were still flying every which way as the two forces traded fire. He took a deep breath and tried to, as much as he could, push the fear down.

“Colonel.”

Arthur rotated his head to see Faulkner’s hand held to his brow in a parade-ground-worthy salute. He returned the gesture before springing to his feet and running as fast as he could down the nearest hallway. Ten seconds that felt like an eternity later, he ended up in another long corridor that went farther into the school. At least there were no bullets slamming into the walls around him, though the sound of gunfire was still clearly audible. Meanwhile, on the commlink, Faulkner calmly ordered the Marines and militia to stage a fighting retreat.

A helpful sign at an intersection listed several areas of the school. One was marked Administration and pointed to the left. Okay, looks like I’m on the right track. A few meters down that hallway was a set of double wooden doors with glass panes on the top half. Arthur pushed one open and entered.

This has to be the admin area. Judging from the reception desk and multiple doors, he thought at least six or seven people had worked there. One door caught Arthur’s eye. Unlike the others, it was solid and lacked decorative glass. Worth a shot. He tried the door handle, but the door was locked. Gotta be it.

Arthur took a few steps back then ran full tilt before kicking the door at the knob. It crumpled under his weight and blew backward. It was all he could do not to fall to the floor. At the last second, he twisted and remained upright, though his hip muscles hurt like hell afterward.

Inside the room was a simple spartan desk with a straight chair behind it. A young man with black hair was already halfway to his feet, his eyes wide and his arms akimbo. “Who are you?”

“Colonel Arthur Hanson, Coalition Defense Force. Teacher told us you were in here.”

“But… What—”

“The terrorists invaded New Rostov, kid. Look, didn’t you hear the pitched battle going on for the last half hour in this school?”

He shook his head. “I thought… I…”

Arthur grabbed his arm. “It’s time to go.”

There was no response, either in word or action to his touch. The youngster stared straight ahead, as if he was dazed or in shock.

I don’t have time for this. Arthur waved a hand in front of his face. “Look at me. What’s your name?”

Multiple seconds passed before the boy’s eyes moved. “Uh… Semyon.”

“Okay, Semyon, how old are you?”

“Four… Fourteen.”

Small for a high schooler. “I’m getting you out of here, but you’ve got to help. You stay close. Right beside me. Do not make a sound. Do you understand me, Semyon?”

He nodded once and took a hesitant step forward before stumbling. “I can’t,” he whispered.

Sometimes, what a drill instructor would call tough love was required. Arthur decided this was one of them. He grabbed Semyon by both shoulders and shook him violently. “Do you want to die? Because that’s what happens if you stay here, kid. I don’t. I’ve got friends and a family. Bet you do too. Now, get your ass in gear and follow me.” He let go of the boy’s shoulders and grabbed his hand instead. To Arthur’s immense relief, he followed under his own power.

We’ve only got to get sixty meters. Something told him that they would be the longest of his life.

Time was not on their side. Avery Faulkner had the detonator control for the explosives planted throughout the upper and lower levels of the school in one hand and his sidearm in the other. The battle rifle drooped from its one-point sling, as he was out of ammo for it and the weapon was a paperweight or perhaps a club if the situation got bad enough. If the enemy gets out here, in any numbers, we’re screwed. He keyed his commlink to a direct channel with Arthur. “Colonel, sitrep?”

“Twenty meters. I can see the exit. Got the kid.”

“Copy all. We’ll hold the line.”

As Faulkner spoke, the door nearest them burst open, and a trio of soldiers clad in the League army uniforms but without rank insignia or identifying markings came out shooting.

“Contact front!”

Battle-rifle blasts echoed, coupled with bursts from League plasma weapons. One of the enemies went down hard, while the other two got behind a half-height fence that was used to hide the dumpster. From there, they sprayed plasma over the heads of the friendly forces.

With the cries of a wounded Marine echoing in Faulkner’s ears, he toggled the commlink once more. “Sir, you’ve got to go now! We’re losing the window for containment. Danger close, sir!” His finger closed around the firing trigger. Lord, don’t make me pull this thing. Balancing the loss of a single man and a child versus a hundred civilians and thirty-five other soldiers and Marines wasn’t something he wanted to do. Yet I know someday I will have to make that call. He reached for a grenade only to find they were all gone. Running out of ammo was a real possibility.

Additional hostiles poured out of the back of the school, shooting at the allied force, and if that wasn’t enough, the sound of an enormous engine echoed.

Faulkner had surmised the Leaguers would inject their combat vehicles into the fray, but he wasn’t sure how long would it take to get to their location and, more importantly, what direction they would come from. “Somebody get me a recon drone feed, two blocks coverage,” he barked.

One of the Marines, with a small portable surveillance drone, threw the device into the air. It was controlled directly from within his suit, and the CDF tactical network allowed for the image to go straight into Faulkner’s and the other Marines’ HUDs.

The picture wasn’t good. Half a dozen troop carriers were parked outside the front of the school, and the only reason they weren’t swarming the defenders that Faulkner could figure was that the reinforcements didn’t know where to go yet. The moment that changes, we’re screwed.

And the tunnel entrance was quickly becoming inaccessible without a major firefight. Which we can’t have. “Colonel, you have got to move!”

“Hostiles directly ahead of me, LT. You might have to leave without us.” Arthur’s voice was barely audible.

“Can you take them?”

“Maybe, but it’ll attract a lot of attention if I start shooting.”

Faulkner glanced over his shoulder. “Geller, get your SAW up here and stand by to put down some fire into the back of the school.”

“Yes, sir!”

As the Marine scooted forward, Faulkner called out, “Heavy weapons unit, anyone got a rocket left?”

“Got one, sir!”

We should probably save that in case we run into enemy armor. “Sir, sitrep?”

“Same. Two guys working their way down the hall.”

Geller had gotten into position, and his squad automatic weapon was up on its tripod with a belt fed into the loading mechanism. He glanced back at Faulkner and flashed a thumbs-up.

“Colonel, you’re going to have to trust me here. You got the drop on the bad guys, right?”

“For now.”

Faulkner bit his lip. “Take them, then run like hell for the nearest exit, to the far side of the back alley, and get to our position as fast as you can. We’ll provide cover fire.”

“Semyon is pretty shook up—”

“We have one shot, sir. And if we don’t execute now, I have to leave without you. For the good of all the others.”

After a pause, the commlink crackled. “Understood, Lieutenant. On three.”

“Engage, Private!” Faulkner barked.

Geller didn’t need any encouragement. He held down the trigger and sent dozens of armor-piercing projectiles out of the weapon, which shredded everything in their path. The first few bursts took out a couple of the enemies near the back door as it cut through their cover. After that, he concentrated on shooting into the hallway that lay at the back of the building.

Seconds later, a door at the far end of the alley burst open, and a young man ran out. Faulkner couldn’t quite tell how old he was, but it was clear that was the child that Arthur had gone to rescue, especially as the next person out the door was the colonel. He fired a short burst from his battle rifle then pivoted and grabbed the boy by the arm.

Faulkner watched as the two progressed toward them as if in slow motion. It was one of those moments in life when one felt like they could move at full speed while the rest of the world was stuck in neutral. The effect continued as hostiles poured out of the building from the back door, and a team made it out onto one of the emergency fire escapes on the second floor. We’re going to be overrun.

A bullet pinged off Faulkner’s power armor and sent him twisting backward. “Rocket launcher, to me!”

The young Marine who held the weapon tossed it in a perfectly timed throw, and Faulkner grabbed it and barely kept from dropping to the pavement.

Rounds slammed into the ground, the walls of the building opposite the school, road signs, and everything in between—including friendlies. The cry of “Corpsman!” went up at least twice, but Faulkner had no bandwidth to focus on it.

Instead, with laser-like precision, he hefted the single-use tube to his shoulder, aimed at the nearest clump of enemies hunkered down right outside the school, and depressed the launch button.

With a loud whoosh, the dumb-fire missile erupted from the end of the weapon, its engine igniting in a display of flame and smoke. At the ludicrously short range, it was impossible to miss. A split second later, the warhead blew apart with a powerful explosion whose concussive wave nearly knocked Faulkner off his feet.

Crucially, it provided several seconds of respite for Arthur and the young man he was propelling in front of him.

As they got closer, Faulkner moved his finger to the top of the detonation button. Come on. Come on, sir. When he could wait no longer—as massed infantry gathered, with a hole opened in the side of the building giving full view of the enemy force within—Faulkner squeezed.

On a goofy holoshow or something like War Patrol, the building would’ve blown apart in a massive display of pyrotechnics, flames spraying out and up into the sky for a hundred feet. In reality, the explosive charges collapsed key points in the school’s superstructure. There was some visible flame, especially along the back wall, but instead of a giant mushroom cloud of an explosion, the building simply caved in on itself, collapsing in slow motion over several seconds.

The League soldiers disappeared in a massive wave of dust. Within moments, that dust reduced visibility to half a meter at best. Without the in-suit sensor systems, Faulkner doubted he would’ve had any idea where he was or where to go next. He’d been counting on something like that, given the composition of the building—plasticrete had a tendency to generate a ton of dust when it was blown apart—but the effect was more than he’d dared hope for.

“Marines! Get the civilians moving now! I want everyone in power armor to guide those without. Form a human chain,” Faulkner barked into his commlink. He switched his helmet’s HUD to infrared mode and spotted two figures on the ground. Gotta be the colonel and that kid.

Faulkner moved forward and quickly reached the larger figure. He bent over and checked for life signs. It was very clearly Arthur and the teenager. “Colonel! Can you hear me?”

“Uhhh.”

“Sir, we’ve got to go.”

Arthur took the armored gauntlet and pulled himself upright while he coughed up a lung. “You brought the building down. I didn’t realize we had enough explosives for that.”

“Well, these suits ID structural strongpoints. They taught us in basic demolition training how to use that to our advantage.” Faulkner rolled the boy over. “He’s out cold.”

“Think you could carry him? I’m going to have a hard-enough time staying on my feet after that blast.”

“You got it, sir. I’ll lead the way.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.”

As they set off, Faulkner glanced back. “Sir, that was some real John Wayne shit.”

Arthur laughed between coughs. “Thanks, Lieutenant. I’m just hoping they don’t carpet bomb us from orbit at this point.”

“Yeah… me too.” But if the Leaguers did, at least they’d have done all they could do and left a couple hundred dead enemies behind. Faulkner allowed himself some pride in a job well done.

11

CSV Margaret Thatcher

Deep Space—Orion Spur

17 May 2474

Major Abigail Miller stared at the chair behind the desk in the Margaret Thatcher’s day cabin. In Arthur Hanson’s day cabin, she corrected herself. The only reason she was in the room was to take an urgent communication from Colonel Kattan, the CSV Hermes’s commanding officer and overall commander of the CDF’s forces in the Orion Spur. Some part of her didn’t want to sit in the chair, as if it would somehow portend bad luck for Hanson and the others trapped on New Rostov.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of her head and denouncing them as stupidly superstitious, she sat in the well-worn seat. A few moments later, the vidlink system came alive.

Kattan’s face appeared on it, the background showing that she, too, was in her day cabin on the Hermes. “Good afternoon, Major. I wish we were speaking under better circumstances.”

“Me, too, ma’am,” Miller replied.

“Any updates on Colonel Hanson’s whereabouts?”

Miller shook her head. “We have no comms with him or the rest of the landing party, ma’am. I pray he’s all right.”

For a moment, her taciturn expression softened. “That makes two of us.” Kattan’s jaw tightened. “But our focus now has to be on the bigger picture. The terrorists now control three different planets in the Orion Spur. While you were busy at New Rostov, they took over two other sparsely populated worlds that generate a lot of lithium.”

Lithium was the lifeblood of Terran Coalition tech along with other so-called “rare earth elements.” Advanced circuit boards, chips, weapons—none of it was possible without a steady supply of hard-to-find minerals, which made planets rich in them worth fighting over in a general sense.

“What can we do, ma’am? I’d like to lead a rescue attempt as soon—”

“Until we have further reinforcements and can marshal our entire force, there is no rescue attempt, Major.”

“But—”

“Hanson wouldn’t throw your lives away, and he certainly wouldn’t do it to save himself, from what I’ve seen of the man. Going now is a death sentence when they outnumber you forty to one.”

Miller bit her lip. The colonel’s words were of course true. That didn’t mean she needed to like hearing them. Because I know he’d come for me or any of the rest of us. “Yes, ma’am. Then what are my orders?”

“We’ll continue running patrols until I get clarification from Canaan and CDF HQ.”

“Surely the government is going to invoke article five of the SATO treaty and end this, right?” Miller asked.

“I don’t make guesses about politicians, Major. I deal with facts. For now, we hold the line until we’ve got the strength to take back New Rostov. Clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Godspeed, Major. Kattan out.”

Miller sat back as the vidlink screen went dark and she was left all alone in the day cabin… except for her thoughts. I wonder how it must’ve been for Hanson when Colonel Savchenko bought the farm. Now she had some inkling. The ship and the crew were her sole responsibility until Hanson sat back in his chair. If he ever does.

That thought somehow terrified her, even though command was something she definitely wanted out of her career. Coupled with the knowledge of what would happen if her CO was captured by the terrorists, it made for a sobering reality.

But she accepted there was nothing she could currently do to affect the situation. Until that time arose, she would do her job. It was what Savchenko and Hanson both would’ve wanted—no, demanded.

And no way would she let either of them down.

Renaissance Hotel

Rand—Galt

17 May 2474

The furnishings and technology of the Renaissance were every bit as amazing as Raoul Lou had promised. Kenneth had never laid his head in a place of such opulence before. Such establishments existed in Lawrence City as well as any number of major cities on core worlds across the Terran Coalition, but he simply didn’t believe in spending a thousand credits a night when less than two hundred credits would get all the luxury he cared about.

I could get used to this. The holoprojector built into the ceiling above the bed was one of the cooler things about the room along with a remote control that changed the colors of the walls, and lighting profile to anything one could dream up.

His focus was on a feed from Canaan News Network, which was running around-the-clock coverage of the war in the Orion Spur. The images of enemy troops that looked suspiciously like Leaguers marching through the streets of New Rostov sent a shiver down his spine.

Every few minutes, he checked his tablet to see if anything had come in and he’d somehow missed the chime that indicated a new message. Predictably, nothing was waiting for him.

Kenneth’s eyes went back to the holoprojector, where a talking head droned on about how Robbins was kneecapping the CDF. Though he agreed with the commentator—a former CDF officer—there was precious little to say on the subject that hadn’t been said ad nauseam. He was about to turn the device off and go find Calvin to get some food when his tablet beeped.

Finally. Hoping the notification wasn’t a scammer wanting to sell him an extended warranty on his helicar—he usually got a couple of those a day—Kenneth scooped up his tablet and eagerly checked the incoming-messages log.

It didn’t appear to have come from Raoul. Instead, the sender’s name was blanked out.

If you wish to make a difference, come to where I’ve indicated. Bring your Marine friend and no one else, the message read. Attached was a GPS pin of a coffee shop several blocks off the main commerce square. Okay, this is beyond weird. He sprang from the bed, turned the holoprojector off, and left his room then went down the hallway and arrived at Calvin’s room only a few seconds later, where he hammered on the door.

It swung open a minute later, revealing the former Marine in a pink dress shirt and black slacks, both items from the custom clothing shop that Raoul had directed them to. “You trying to wake the dead?”

Kenneth grinned. “Not quite.” He flipped the tablet around so Calvin could see it and walked into the room.

Calvin shut the door and furrowed his brow. “This looks like spook shit to me. Who knows we’re here?”

“I mean, our office does. Maybe your wife?”

“She knows I’m off somewhere, but I avoided mentioning Galt.”

“You forget there are biometric sensors at every port of entry and exit. I’m sure the government knows we’re here.”

Calvin crossed his arms. “Boss, you’re nowhere near suspicious enough. Think Leaguer spooks.”

Kenneth kicked the possibility around in his mind. It seemed unlikely that the External Security Service and its technical division would have penetrated that deep into the Coalition’s cyber networks and security databases. I must concede it’s possible, though. “Okay, I can see how taking us off the board might help the League but only if we’re close. Which we’re not.”

“Fair enough. But my job is to keep you alive.”

“It’s a public place. And Galt’s pretty liberal on carrying weapons, so I’ll take a sidearm too.”

Calvin snorted. “I’d say you don’t know how to use one, but there’s a persistent rumor you shot somebody on a Coalition space station back during the Second Battle of Canaan.”

Kenneth remembered the incident vividly. It brought back many memories. “Let’s just say the guy had something coming to him.”

“So you shot some suit who was trying to steal a bunch of money?”

“Maybe.” Kenneth grinned. “Back to the task at hand. While I acknowledge this could be a trap, we’re going.”

“You’re the boss.” Calvin reached for his jacket and started plugging weapons into their respective holsters. “At least I might get to shoot something. It’s been too long since I got to put some Leaguers down.”

Kenneth tilted his head. “Thought you were done with that kind of work.”

“I was, until we started seeing what these damn terrorists have done. If I didn’t think my wife would leave me and take Calvin Jr. with her, I’d reenlist or join a militia in the Spur.”

“Which would be why you didn’t tell her we were going to Galt?”

Calvin snickered. “No. She knows I’m in harm’s way. Not going to lie to the woman I love like that. There’s just… Well, I know her boundaries. Made some promises, and I have to keep them.”

“Lots of respect from me for that attitude, Cal.”

Calvin ran his tongue over his lips and held out a pistol encased in a matching holder butt first. “Sure you know how to take the safety off?”

“Standard-issue Marine sidearms, which that one is, don’t have safeties.”

“Good job. There’s hope for you yet.”

Both men chuckled as Kenneth slid the weapon under his jacket and affixed the holster to his belt. “Let’s go do our part to save the galaxy.”

“No pressure or anything,” Calvin replied.

None at all. Yeah, right. I’ve bitten off far more than I can chew this time.

The coffee shop was odd in several ways. Its location, several blocks from the main financial district and in the back of an alley, ensured it was difficult to find—not ideal, if you wanted a stream of customers. Maybe they don’t want customers. Kenneth paused a few meters away from the front door. Through the window, he could only see two figures inside.

“So, how are we doing this?” Calvin asked. “Because that looks like a front for an intelligence agency, if you ask me.”

“You are one distrustful dude.”

Calvin made a face. “I spent the better part of my life fighting Leaguers. It comes with the territory. Call it a gut feeling.”

Kenneth tilted his head, considering the situation. “I’ll go in first. If you’re right, come in guns blazing and try not to shoot me in the rescue attempt.”

“No promises. I didn’t like my quarterly bonus last month,” Calvin replied with a snicker.

“Oh please.” Kenneth rolled his eyes. “You got the same as every program manager who was ahead of schedule.”

“Yeah, but I do it in style. That ought to get me another point or two.” Calvin couldn’t keep a straight face, and his lips morphed into a giant smirk. “Be careful and watch your six.”

“I was planning on it.” Kenneth felt inside his jacket for the reassuring butt of his sidearm. He wasn’t quite sure why carrying a weapon gave him confidence, but in that case, perhaps it would give him a fighting chance between the time things went south and when Calvin could get there. If it falls apart. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.

Kenneth blew out a breath, put one foot in front of the other, and briskly walked down the alley’s sidewalk, past a number of what appeared to be freight entrances to larger buildings. They were unopened and silent, with few people around, even though it was the middle of the day.

He pushed open the door to the establishment and entered. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon rolls hit his nostrils. Man, that smells good.

A young lady in a bright-red apron stood behind the counter, while the only other occupant was a man seated at a table in the back. He appeared elderly and lifted a mug to his lips.

“Are you guys open?” Kenneth asked with a smile.

“We sure are. What can I get you?” she replied.

“What’s good?”

The woman chuckled. “You have to smell the cinnamon rolls, unless you’ve lost that particular sense. That’s our house specialty.”

“Oh, they smell amazing, but I’m on a diet. Just a cup of dark brew.”

“Coming right up. That’ll be fifteen credits.”

Kenneth grimaced as he approached the checkout stand and touched his credit chit to the reader. One could link their digital wallet to a “Rand-pass,” which promised hands-free checkout using facial recognition and the latest advances in AI. Which I have no interest in using ever. He stuck to the decidedly old-school method of paying for each purchase himself.

“It’ll just be a minute.”

He turned to take in the rest of the little café. The man sitting at the table in the back was familiar, but Kenneth couldn’t quite place him.

“Here you go,” the young lady called out, holding out a cup of piping-hot coffee.

Kenneth reached out and took it then started walking to an open table.

“I say, old chap, why don’t you join me? It’s lonely out today.”

That voice. Kenneth finally put it together. That’s Robert Sinclair. He’d collaborated with the spymaster for several months during a refit of the CSV Oxford and gotten to know him well. Kenneth waved through the window toward Calvin then made a beeline for the occupied table.

“Mister, ah—”

“Sinclair is fine. There are no prying eyes or ears here.” He gestured to the windows. “There’s a film that prevents facial rec from working and garbles photos taken by even the best tech.”

Kenneth narrowed his eyes. “This business is a front for CDF intel?”

“Shall we say the entire Coalition intelligence community makes use of it.”

“But you’re serving food and drinks.”

“Quite good stuff, too, I must say. Helps sell the illusion.”

The door opened, and Calvin walked in. It only took him a few steps to cross the distance and appear at the table. “Let me guess. CIS?”

“No, Colonel. Robert Sinclair, at your service. Please, have a seat. Would you like anything?” He chuckled.

Calvin shook his head as he pulled a chair out and sat. “Nah, I’m good. We’ve got an overpriced minibar in our rooms. Would you believe somebody ate the smoked almonds and then fit the container back into where it went in such a way that the maid didn’t realize they’d eaten it? Man, what’s Galt coming to? I didn’t realize theft was an objective virtue.”

Kenneth rolled his eyes. “We’ll get charged for that, too, you know.”

“I had some difficulty believing you two were working together,” Sinclair said with a smirk as he nursed his coffee. “But now I see it. You’re like The Odd Couple.”

“Excuse me?” Calvin snapped.

“An old entertainment show I once watched as a child. Back then, there were slim pickings on the frontier, especially before the GalNet hookup.” Sinclair turned serious. “Gentlemen, I believe you may be of service to the Terran Coalition, outside of your normal activities.”

Kenneth exchanged glances with Calvin. “I’m going to assume you know why we’re here?”

“I know that you met with Raoul Lou. I also know you’re suddenly looking much more dapper than usual, and if I were to check, I’d bet you visited his personal clothier.”

Calvin pursed his lips. “You’re good with the spook stuff.”

“Merely an observation, old chap. Do this work long enough, and one gets to be an excellent observer. Or you die.” Sinclair took a bite of his cinnamon roll. “My wager, based on some communication intercepts—trying to contact mercs through open commlinks does put you on a watchlist, my boy—is that you’re attempting to convince Lou to back an intervention staged by private military corporations in the Orion Spur.”

Kenneth’s cheeks heated, and he figured that his face probably resembled a fire engine. “What if I was?”

Sinclair smiled broadly. “Why, old chap, that’s a violation of about two dozen Coalition laws, isn’t it? In fact, I’m almost certain you’d run afoul of ISF regulations too.”

“Something has to be done. Robbins is going to lose the entire Orion Spur with her peace-at-any-cost antics, and those people…There are billions of people who for the first time in their lives have tasted freedom. We’re just supposed to sit back and let it happen? They’re humans, just like us. More than that, they’re Terrans now. They voted overwhelmingly to join us. We can’t turn our backs.” The anger and overwhelming disgust Kenneth felt for the government’s actions erupted from him like a geyser.

All humor drained from Sinclair’s face, and he ran his tongue across his lips. “That’s well put. A shame the current crop of politicians doesn’t see it the same way. Thankfully for you, I agree with your position. And the logs of your activities here will never see the light of day with the CBI, JSID, or any other of our alphabet-soup agencies.”

“Then—”

“Why are the two of you here?” Some warmth returned to Sinclair’s voice. “Because, my boy, I’m working on this problem, and I need your help.”

“Oh great. Give him a big head, why don’t you. It’s already big enough,” Calvin said.

“What can we do?” Kenneth asked.

Sinclair put the final bite of cinnamon roll into his mouth and chewed it for a few moments before swallowing. “Ah, so good. Well, let’s start with how close do you have Lou to committing funds for mercs?”

“Not very.” Kenneth pursed his lips. “He’s not going to do it alone. We’re to meet with a group of what I gather are megacorp CEOs who have deep pockets and hate the League.”

“Ah. That explains your ridiculous getups.”

Calvin snickered loudly. “I told you these suits suck.”

“Lou says we have to fit in.”

“Oh, he’s right. But they’re still ridiculous.” Sinclair chuckled. “Even if you convince Galt’s elite to exorbitantly fund these mercs, your plan is fundamentally flawed. Private military corporations lack large capital ships. I want you to aim for something more obtainable instead.”

Kenneth tilted his head. “I’m listening.” When the head of CDF Intelligence makes a request, you pay attention.

“Sell them on sending a humanitarian-relief convoy. A large one complete with food, medical supplies, and a couple of passenger liners for use as makeshift hospital ships.”

“But why? New Rostov doesn’t need food. It needs Marines,” Calvin replied.

“My dear Colonel, it needs large warships capable of driving these cut-rate Leaguers away. Which, if you can rustle up this relief convoy, I have another asset who will obtain an official ISF military escort. When that happens, Mr. Lowe, you will then talk to James Henry and convince him to personally fly the mission.”

The way the master spy had laid it all out made perfect sense, and Kenneth found himself disgusted he hadn’t thought of it—because the plan was brilliantly simple. His lips curled into a grin. “You’re hoping to get PFLOS to miscalculate and attack ISF military assets, triggering article five.”

Sinclair chuckled. “Quite the imagination you have there, Mr. Lowe. Perhaps you should try your hand at intelligence work.”

“How long did it take you to come up with that anyway?” Calvin asked. “Mind you, my preference is to send the Marines in and kill every last one of these bastards.”

“Oh, I’ve had that contingency since this situation began and it became clear our erstwhile madame president wasn’t going to do the right thing. But I needed someone to execute it for me, someone who isn’t an intelligence officer or connected to any of our IC agencies, and who, if captured, had plausible deniability. Because if I step out of line, Robbins will end up putting me on Lambert’s Lament for treason. You happened to be at the right place at the right time. Which, speaking of, why on Canaan did you pick now, old chap?”

Kenneth shrugged. “I suspected you had contracted SSI for some clandestine work out in the Orion Spur, with that big order of shipboard weapons, shields, and small arms. Then you disappeared. So… I decided to take more direct action.”

“Every once in a while, I’m almost glad I took this job,” Calvin interjected.

“Uh-huh.” Kenneth elbowed the former Marine. “You like yelling at other Marines too. And don’t forget the credits.”

“Hey now, I do appreciate the credits. So does Jessica. And Cal Jr, though he’s not old enough to understand where the nice toys come from.”

All three of them laughed before Sinclair turned serious once more. “This isn’t going to be easy, gentlemen. I will warn you if it comes out that you’re working with me, jail time is probable. Make sure you can live with that outcome before agreeing to help.”

It didn’t require even a moment’s hesitation for Kenneth. He put his palms down on the table. “I’m in. Whatever is needed.”

“Well, shit. I can’t let some cake eater business executive out-Marine me,” Calvin rumbled. “Count me in too. But you’d better make sure my wife and kid are taken care of if we end up on Lambert’s Lament.”

Kenneth snickered. “Agreed.”

“Then, gentlemen, you know what needs to be done.” Sinclair slid a small device across the table to Kenneth. “Use this to contact me. It’s totally secure, off the grid from any of the galaxy’s intelligence agencies, and works on my very own private network.”

“Oh cool. Does it come with a decoder ring too?” Calvin couldn’t seem to keep a massive smirk from plastering itself on his face.

“No, Colonel. But it might keep both of you out of prison,” Sinclair replied. A touch of pique emanated from his words.

“Thank you, sir.” Kenneth closed his fingers around the device and stuffed it into his inner jacket pocket. “I’ll contact you once the meeting has gone down and we’ve convinced them to send a relief convoy?”

Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “If only it were that simple. In essence, yes. Message me once you’ve achieved success. And now, gentlemen, I suggest we return to our roles.”

Kenneth pushed himself—all two-point-two meters of him—out of the chair and slid it back under the table. “Good day, General.”

“Godspeed, Mr. Lowe. I believe you will need it.”

As Kenneth exited the café with Calvin close behind, he felt the weight of the galaxy descend onto his shoulders. Like an automaton, his feet carried him back toward their hotel.

“We going to discuss what just happened here, getting drafted by intel and all?” Calvin asked sotto voce.

“More pressure is all it means,” Kenneth replied.

Calvin slapped him on the back. “You wanted a piece of the action, to make a difference. Well, now’s your chance.”

Indeed. And if I screw this up, I could condemn billions to their fates. No pressure at all.

12

David’s office felt more and more like a prison cell rather than a place for him to do his work. He tried to banish such thoughts from his mind as he got through the mountains upon mountains of paperwork required of his position. Every moment of his day was scheduled in fifteen-minute increments, right down to a thirty-minute entry for lunch, which had been two hours ago. He hadn’t eaten because he had too much work to do. At least Salena will have a good meal for us tonight. As strange as it was, her cooking reminded him of his mother.

He scanned a document outlining a grant request for six hundred thousand credits, focusing on the use of EMP technology to disable enemy ships. It came from Colonel Merriweather’s unit—CDF Special Projects Division. That sounds like something Hayworth once worked on. Maybe he’s come around to helping us with more practical applications of his antimatter tech. The proposal had the advantage of being well written, and it was easy for him to sign off.

I wonder what the other men and women who’ve occupied this office have felt when they disagreed with official policy. That overriding concern was always in the back of David’s mind.

Try as he might, he couldn’t set aside the anger he felt for how President Robbins was prosecuting the war. Good people were dying, in far larger numbers than they should have, because she wanted to appease a totalitarian state hell-bent on galactic domination. David bowed his head and offered a short prayer. He’d learned long ago to turn the things he couldn’t change over to HaShem because He had the power to do all things.

As David raised his head, he was just in time to see the double doors to his office fly open and First Lieutenant Kaori Shibata stride in. She was his adjutant and had ably supported him since he’d taken the post of COMSPACEFLT.

“Apologies, sir. Flash traffic from POTTC for you.” She pronounced the abbreviation as “po-tic.”

That’s a new one. Robbins hates me so much that she refuses to email me directly and uses a third person instead. Utter childishness. “Let’s hear it, Lieutenant.”

“We’re authorized to send fifty thousand ground troops to the Orion Spur along with limited support vessels to liberate New Rostov.”

“That’s something, at least.”

Shibata stepped in front of his desk and laid a tablet on it. “The details and signed orders are there, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Sir, may I ask you a question?”

David flashed a small smile. “Does it veer into UCMJ-prohibited territory of discussing politics while in uniform?”

“I… I don’t understand, sir. Why aren’t we sending the fleet?”

David furrowed his brow. It’s not like I haven’t asked myself this a thousand times. He gestured to a chair. “Pull up a seat.”

“Thank you, sir.” Shibata gracefully sat with perfect posture.

“The most charitable explanation I have for our current political course is that the president and her advisors believe they are doing the best they can to prevent another wide-scale war.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Surely you’ve tried to explain—”

“Oh yes. Until I’m blue in the face.”

“They don’t listen?”

David sighed. “Let this be a lesson to you for some time in the future. I got crosswise with the president because I acted outside the spirit of her orders. I’m basically dead to her and most of her advisors. The only reason I’m still in this billet is that it would cause major political issues if they removed me.”

“What’s the lesson?”

“Commanding officers have some leeway generally in how we accomplish our orders. I exercised that to do something… shall we say unorthodox.”

“You mean sending in a CDF Intelligence asset to assist the fleet in the Orion Spur?”

David raised an eyebrow. “How did—”

“Sir, I know everything there is to know about what goes on in this office,” Shibata replied with a one-hundred-watt grin.

David chuckled. “So you do, Lieutenant.”

“But what will you do now?”

“How so?”

“You must identify actions that stick to the orders but also enhance our forces’ likelihood of winning.”

He leaned back for a moment. “You realize those words could be construed as treason?”

Shibata touched the patch on her shoulder underneath the Terran Coalition and Republic of Japan flags. A stylized wooden arch inverted over two pillars represented Shintoism. “Forgive me, sir, but sincerity and honesty are both highly valued in my faith.”

David ran his tongue over his lips as he picked up the tablet and scanned the formal orders. “Looks like force composition is left up to my discretion. Tell me, what planetary-assault ships do we have in dock at Canaan right now?”

Multipurpose vessels, planetary-assault ships were known by the hull classification symbol of MPA—Marine, Planetary Assault. Each carried a Marine expeditionary unit and, operating in conjunction with troop transports, could deposit a Marine expeditionary brigade planet-side within thirty minutes.

“The CSV Canaan just completed a refit, sir. Three others are combat ready, and we could pull an additional six from drydock if needed.”

David grinned. “You knew I was going to ask.”

“My job is to anticipate your needs, sir, around administrative tasks, at least.”

“We’ll need them all.” David tilted his head as a sudden thought came to him. “There was a test last year. It came across my desk, if I remember right. A drill replacing the assault shuttles on the Canaan with space-superiority fighters and ground-attack craft.”

Shibata nodded. “One moment, sir.” She pulled out her tablet and typed away at the controls.

“Am I imagining things?”

“No, sir. The test event found that running a hundred combat spacecraft off the Canaan was doable, though it was difficult to generate as many sorties as a true fleet carrier could with a corresponding number of fighters.”

The way forward had suddenly become clear. “Cross-reference unassigned fighter squadrons split between SF-106 Phantoms and AS-9V Hawkers. This is going to take a lot of finesse, but if we can, I want to totally replace the shuttle complements of two of those MPAs. Two hundred additional combat spacecraft would go a long way toward evening out this conflict.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One thing, Lieutenant. We have to set this up so that the plus-up squadrons don’t arrive until the fleet reaches Freedom Station.”

“So that they may not be recalled.”

David folded his arms. “Got it in one. If you don’t want to be a part of this, because frankly, it’s not quite honest… I understand, and regardless, I respect your decision.”

Shibata seemed to sit just a hair straighter. “General, I consider it an honor to help you bring balance to this situation.”

“Lieutenant, Robbins will come for me one of these days. If she succeeds, she’ll try to nail anyone connected to me. What I’m trying to say is… helping me is a career ender.”

“What use is a career if I will go to my grave knowing I dishonored my ancestors, the kami, and myself?”

David nodded. “That’s how I look at it. But it’s a choice each of us must make for ourselves.” He didn’t fully understand the Shinto religion, but at a cursory level, kami was a rough translation of the Japanese word for all deities—which numbered in the millions.

“I will do my utmost, sir.”

“Then while you’re at it, get me a report on the heaviest Marine brigades that are rated for immediate deployment. I want the ones with the most equipment and every MARSOC Raider force that’s not actively fighting pirates or insurgents.”

She tilted her head. “Another strategy?”

“Lanchester’s laws, Lieutenant. If we can’t bring superior numbers to the fight, we can at least bring superior technology and firepower. Load the box, if you will.” A series of mathematical formulas used to calculate the strength of two given military forces, they dated back hundreds of years to Earth. And David still used them every day.

Shibata stood. “I’ll have it on your desk within half an hour, sir.”

“Excellent. Dismissed.”

She turned to go and made it as far as the double doors before turning back. “Will it be enough for them to win, sir?”

“It’ll have to be.”

Without another word, she turned and closed the doors behind her.

David was left in the quiet office with fifteen minutes before the next meeting. A group of officers with the SATO fleet modernization effort were scheduled to present a briefing on the interoperability of Saurian and Terran Coalition reactor technology—absurdly mundane with a war on. And once again, the office felt like a prison. His place was on the front, doing his duty for God and country. No, it’s where HaShem has put me. Even though David wanted to do anything but, he picked up his tablet and went back to reviewing paperwork. Hang on, Arthur. Help is coming.

13

Unfinished Transit Tunnel System

Serebryanov—New Rostov

18 May 2474

A slow drip of water from several meters above formed a slick spot on the plasticrete surface near where Arthur sat. A number of such leaks dotted the area, presumably because of the fighting on the surface. He’d never really stopped to think what urban combat would be like, primarily because the war against the League was fought in space. Sure, early on, the League of Sol successfully invaded Eire, but that was before Arthur Hanson had been born. By the time he began his service, aside from occupying outlying planets with low population density, most combat engagements happened in the void.

This is a different level of hell. Part of his mind wondered why he’d made the choice to stay. Was it misplaced guilt? Courage? Perhaps both.

“Colonel, they’re ready,” Falkner called out from across the tunnel.

Arthur stood. He knew he smelled, because the stench hit his nostrils every time he moved. And this is only two days in. Give it a week. Not to mention the nonregulation beard, which, if he was being honest, bothered him more than the smell. But he could do little about it, at least for the moment. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

Twenty meters down the tunnel, a makeshift table had been erected. Supply crates served as seats, and around it sat Governor Volkov and a few uniformed militia members.

Arthur ambled over. “How’s everyone holding up?” He asked as he slid onto one of the crates.

“When the CDF advertised one weekend per month, two weeks per year to serve my community, this isn’t quite what I had in mind,” a middle-aged woman with a name stripe that read Fedorova stated.

Russian accent. She must be an original Rostover. “I’m a lifer, and I don’t think any of us had this in mind, Sergeant.”

Volkov cleared his throat. “From what I’ve been told, there are League of Sol tanks in the streets. The description matches what I remember of the Zhukov from before the liberation.”

Arthur nodded. “That matches our information too. The League… PFLOS… whoever these guys are… have moved quickly and professionally to take complete control and consolidate their position.”

“I despair over what we can accomplish, Colonel.” Volkov wiped sweat from his forehead. “Not to diminish the sacrifice you’ve made or that of the Marines with you, but I fail to see what further resistance we can offer.”

Faulkner cut in before anyone else could speak. “With respect, Governor, you’re not a combatant. There’s a lot of things we can still do, even with the reduced forces available. First and foremost, we stick to the plan. Guerrilla warfare.”

“The problem with that, Lieutenant, is we’re in an urban environment. If we get into a shootout with a tank, there’s going to be collateral damage. Lots of it,” Arthur replied. “We could end up killing the very people we’re trying to protect.”

“Better to do it in service of freedom than watch them be systematically executed by the enemy. May I remind you it was your idea, sir?” Faulkner’s voice rose. “It’s only a matter of time before they start sending people to reeducation camps or outright killing them in the streets, based on what we’ve seen out of PFLOS so far.”

“It’s possible that they won’t do that here,” Volkov interjected. “The reports we’ve seen so far suggest the invaders are behaving… professionally.”

Arthur listened as two schools of thought played out in front of him. He knew instinctively that any attempt to reach accommodation with PFLOS was inherently wrong, even if it meant only avoiding battle with them. I don’t care how depleted we are. We must fight. But I owe it to these people to ask. He turned toward some of the planetary-militia soldiers and a few civilians who milled about only a meter away. “What say you? Should we fight the enemy? Or avoid contact until reinforcements arrive?”

Men and women exchanged glances, and for several seconds, no one spoke.

Then one man in uniform stepped forward. “Fight. This is our home, and I, for one, love what’s happened to this planet since the Coalition came. That’s why I joined.”

Another woman yelled, “Fight! Fight the communists!”

It spread like wildfire, through dozens of people all around, chanting, “Fight!”

“Don’t give up!” someone shouted, while another screamed, “Beat them with sticks if we have to!”

Arthur held up a hand until the tumult quieted. “Few of you are trained infantry soldiers. Some are civilians. You have to realize that this kind of war… is brutal and ugly. Many of us will die. That is not something to take lightly.”

“You volunteered to stay, Colonel,” the uniformed man said.

“Well, yes, but… I’ve got a couple of decades in.”

The man set his jaw. “Maybe you have more experience, but we’re willing to fight for our homes. If I die, at least I do it with my head held up and not cowered under the bootjack of a political commissar, because I remember what that was like. I’ll never go back to it. So don’t disrespect me or the others here. We want to fight. Lead us.”

Arthur took the rebuke in stride. It was, after all, a fair critique. Words from a high school history class filtered into his mind. Give me liberty or give me death. I don’t remember who said that, but this guy said it in his own way. “Corporal?”

“Chernysh, sir.”

“I appreciate the forthrightness.” Arthur turned back to Volkov. “It’s settled. We fight.”

Volkov nodded a couple of times. “You won’t get very far with the people in this tunnel, Colonel. If you’re serious, there needs to be a general uprising.”

“Not necessarily. Just enough people to make the Leaguers think twice. Put them on the defensive. Make them turtle up. They don’t have the numbers for a proper occupation,” Faulkner interjected.

“They certainly had enough to take over our world, Lieutenant.”

“Governor, it’s one thing to take some land. It’s another to keep it. Military doctrine in the CDF says you need ten uniforms for every civilian in a hostile country. They don’t have that kind of numbers. In fact, it’s the opposite.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “Lieutenant Faulkner’s right. There is an opening, before they get fully set in.”

“Sir, I think the Governor has a point, though. We need to get the populace motivated to fight. Even if just one percent of them actively resists, we can bog these guys down for months and keep them off balance to make a liberation campaign more successful.”

But how to get the word out? PFLOS had taken control of the entire media network system and turned off the GalNet planetwide. They were cut off from the outside galaxy. “Can we hack the emergency civil-defense holobroadcast system?”

“I believe you’d need to be on site for that,” Volkov replied. “It’s designed so that only an approved user can push a transmission.”

Arthur licked his lips. “How many sites can you do that from, Governor?”

“There are only three. And one of those is in the city.”

Faulkner tilted his head. “Sounds like our target, sir. We know the system is intact because they keep using it to push those curfew alerts.”

“So all we need to do is storm the broadcast building, issue a call to arms, and get out without being killed,” Arthur deadpanned. “Sounds like a simple mission.”

“Well, simple, yes. Easy, no.” Faulkner grinned. “For starters, has anyone here been inside the building?” He glanced back at those milling about in uniform.

“I have,” Volkov stated. “I toured the facility last year.”

“Governor, if you’d be so kind as to help me sketch out the interior,” Faulkner said, “it would go a long way to helping us avoid ambushes.”

“Of course.”

Arthur shifted his eyes to Faulkner. “Get me an assault plan, Lieutenant. You’ve got an hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

While it was good to be doing something, uneasiness shot through Arthur’s body. The list of things that could go wrong was nearly infinite. With all these civilians around, if the enemy stormed this tunnel, we’d have a bloodbath on our hands. But there was risk in any action, and at least that action might change the situation on the ground. Arthur hoped it would be worth the cost.

Ivanov Home

Suburbs of Serebryanov—New Rostov

18 May 2474

As occupations went—and Gregory had little experience in them outside of the CDF’s initial foray into their home all those years ago—the League reoccupation was uneventful, at least so far. The word professional came up in many conversations regarding the black-clad troopers who wore League uniforms but professed to be members of the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur. He didn’t buy that for a moment. Those are League Army regulars. I recognize the swagger from my days in the navy. Like most citizens, he’d been conscripted after secondary school for the Great Patriotic War against the capitalists and, as a result, knew what the military looked like.

But that would change. Political commissars, either in title or by trade, would arrive. They would find and disappear those who worked with the Terran Coalition. They would send men like him and women like his wife to camps or summarily execute them.

Gregory stood from his chair in his home office and walked through the home he’d helped build with his own hands. By New Rostov standards, it was a mansion, something he’d always wanted to give his wife. I still remember how shocked she was. The memory was a good one.

He found her in the kitchen, cutting up a cucumber. “We must talk.”

Natalie glanced up. “I do not like that tone.”

“No, probably not.”

“It reminds me of your days in the mines, when you were about to tell me something dangerous was coming.”

Gregory pursed his lips. “I must fight.”

She put the knife down and stared at him. “I agree. This fear we have cannot be allowed to take root. They may have guns and tanks, but we have something stronger.”

“No, you misunderstand. I must fight. Not we.”

Natalie walked from behind the island to stand directly in front of him. “You are not going alone.”

He put his arms on her shoulders. “My dear, I must. Our children cannot go without a parent, especially not without their mother. I looked into smuggling you and them off planet, but I’m told there’s a lot of firepower in orbit and they’ve already shot down several ships attempting to escape, so that’s out. Instead, I want you to head out of the city, to either family or friends we trust.”

“You mean the desert.”

New Rostov was an arid world, aside from a single hypersalinated sea. As a result, most of the planet was desert outside of the temperate regions where almost all human settlements existed.

“It’s the safest place on this world.”

She sighed. “I know you’re right. I still hate it. But what can you do? You are but one man.”

Gregory allowed his lips to curl into a grin. “With many resources. All those weapons the CDF was having us ship in, they’re still at our freight yard. That yard is massive, and I highly doubt PFLOS, or whoever they really are—probably some External Security Directorate operation—will be searching it any time soon.”

“What if you die? What do I tell our children?”

Gregory pursed his lips as emotion welled up inside. His voice broke as he spoke. “Tell them… that I believed in freedom so much I was willing to fight for it, regardless of the risk. And that is the true measure of a man, if he is willing to lay down his life for a cause or a person.”

Natalie dissolved into sobs and clung to him. After at least thirty seconds, she got out, “I don’t want you to do this. Come with us.”

He kissed the top of her head. “If I do not fight, who will? If it is not a cause worthy of my efforts, then why would any others pick up the torch?”

“Damn you, Gregory Ivanov. Why do you have to be such a good man?”

He tilted her chin up so she could see his face. “Because you made me strive to be one.”

She kissed him. “I can’t change your mind, can I?”

“No.”

The civil defense and emergency broadcast system came alive. It was linked to every smart home on New Rostov and automatically overrode all controls for every holoprojector. The one in the kitchen showed the image of a rough-looking man in his forties. He wore a black League of Sol army uniform without name tag or rank.

“Greetings, comrades,” the man began. “I am Colonel-General Dominic Schaefer, of the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur. Citizens of New Rostov, your liberation is complete. The capitalist aggressors that captured this world and enslaved all of you to the individualist decadence of the Terran Coalition… are no more.”

Gregory flexed his fists.

“Citizens, we mean you no harm. Cooperate, and there will be no reprisals, nor will our forces hurt you in any way. If a member of the revolution acts outside of orders, they will be dealt with. In the days ahead, we will set up an interim government before requesting our glorious League resume administration of this world.”

Natalie blew out a breath. “No. Never.”

“And to those who would resist our rightful revolution with individualistic actions… know that my troops will find you and bring you and anyone working with you to swift justice.”

Schaefer paused before resuming. “Citizens, it is time for you to return to your shops, jobs, and businesses. Continue life. Serve our glorious humanity. Long live the revolution! Long live the League of Sol!”

The holoprojector switched off automatically as the broadcast ended.

“Do you see?” Gregory asked after a few seconds.

“Yes.”

After a tight hug, Natalie walked back to the island, picked up the knife, and resumed cutting the cucumber. “I will fix us one last meal. Then you must tell our children what is happening.”

It seemed only fair. He nodded. “Yes. I love you.”

“I love you too.” She wiped tears from her eyes. “You’d better not die.”

Gregory smiled. “I have no plans to.” Yet even as he spoke the words, he realized it was the most probable outcome. But the sentiment he expressed was what he truly felt. Enough of them had to stand and fight that the enemy would realize they could not win.

As the rousing music of the League’s anthem faded and the holocamera turned off, no longer broadcasting the two of them to the entirety of New Rostov, Yevgeny Kovalev finally allowed the smile off his face. The farce sickened him. They’d stormed the planet with overwhelming force, and he knew instinctively that reeducation was the next needed step. “I must congratulate you on an outstanding operation, comrade.”

The man wearing a stripped-down League uniform nodded absent-mindedly. He was Dominic Schaefer—until recently, colonel-general in the League of Sol Army. “The difficult portion of this task isn’t the initial victory, Comrade Kovalev. It is holding our prize and, perhaps even more importantly, winning them back to the motherland.”

Kovalev crossed his arms. “Reeducation is the only solution. Those who resist will be liquidated.”

Schaefer’s face blanched. “Let us not use weasel words in here. We’re both adults, you and I. Sworn to a life of service to society. Harsh measures are not called for yet.”

Anger rose within Kovalev. He wanted nothing more to inflict pain on those who had dishonored the League by throwing their lot in with the capitalists of the Terran Coalition and abandoned their obligations to society. “I believe you are a patriot, Colonel-General. Why would you not want to force these… people… back into the fold? They have been compromised by this rot the Terrans call freedom.”

“Our own rot compromised them long before. I’ve studied this world, Yevgeny. A third of the children born here had genetic damage from radiation poisoning, all for want of a simple planetary shield. The League Reclamation Bureau decided it wouldn’t be of equal value to society to place one here, so New Rostov went without.”

Kovalev crossed his arms. “What is your point?”

“If your goal is to drive the Coalition from the Orion Spur, you won’t get there by barbarism.”

“There is a great deal of pent-up hatred—”

Schaefer held up his hand. “I am a professional soldier, comrade. So are my men. I do not control what yours do, but there will be no murders, rapes, looting, or thuggery committed by those under my command. Are we clear on this?”

“I couldn’t care less what happens to those who are subhuman.” Typical of League senior officers. So far removed from the struggle he can’t see what needs to be done. The Colonel-General was the kind of man Kovalev despised, yet for some reason, the benefactor had seen fit to inflict him on the struggle.

“These people are former citizens of the League and members of society.”

“Not all of them. Plenty of Terrans seeking to extract what wealth they can from this world have arrived along with spies, Coalition-military types, and other undesirables.”

“A fair point, comrade Kovalev. Perhaps we should take steps to deal with them first. Secure high-level Terran Coalition citizens, focusing on business leaders, politicians, and those who could organize resistance. But do it in a measured way.”

“What does that mean exactly?” Kovalev snapped.

“It means we take people into custody, not rampage through their houses and shoot them for the entire planet to see.”

Kovalev once more felt fury rise within him. “There is no room for half measures—”

“Comrade, we both want the same thing. Let me do my job, because our leader felt I could handle this phase. If this doesn’t work, we’ll try it your way.”

Kovalev bristled at the idea anyone other than him oversaw the ongoing efforts to end the Terran Coalition’s occupation of the Orion Spur, but he attempted to suppress the urge to inform Schaefer who the actual power was. “Fine. Send your troops, but make it quick. We underestimate these Terrans at our own peril. And one other thing… I want you to determine whether Colonel Hanson survived the initial invasion.”

“Why him in particular?”

“Because if he did, I want him found and brought to me. I am long overdue for a private conversation with the good colonel. One that he will remember for the rest of his miserable life.”

14

CSV Tucson

Taiyaun—Orion Spur

18 May 2474

Major Patrick Godat took a sip from his spillproof CDF coffee mug as he scrutinized the tactical plot. Growler-class stealth raiders were designed to scout enemy territory and to engage targets of opportunity. Usually in a sustained war, the opposing force had supply lines that could be harassed and, with enough firepower, cut. Such work was the Tucson’s bread and butter.

Over the last few weeks, there were no such hostiles to be engaged, but that seemed to have changed. PFLOS had taken ground, and maintaining such gains required supplies. Supplies that we can interdict and destroy.

“Those are some old Type-Ds,” Captain Martin Letchford, his executive officer, said while taking a sip of hot tea. An Englishman, Letchford loathed coffee and stuck to the queen’s drink, as he called it.

“Ancient, according to the sensor room.” Godat ran his tongue over his lips. Every fiber of his being wanted to get back into the fight and make the Leaguers pay. “The alloy signature dates to prewar hulls.”

“Which means it should be easy to pick them off.”

Godat set his mug in its holder on the armrest of the CO’s chair, which, like everything else in the Tucson’s control room, was compact to the point of being cramped. “Something about counting blown-up freighters before we shoot them comes to mind.”

“Something wrong, skipper?”

“I don’t know. These guys appear to be professionals, so why leave these ships without an escort? That doesn’t quite compute for me.”

“You think it’s a trap?”

Godat shrugged. “I think PFLOS is smart enough to know taking stealth raiders off the board makes life easier for them, so sure, it could be. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to pass up this opportunity.”

Letchford nodded. “Wouldn’t expect anything less, skipper. Got a plan?”

“I want to see if their Lawrence drives are as old as the hulls.”

Letchford tilted his head. “I’ll bite, sir. What difference does it make?”

“Didn’t you have to qualify at tactical during your period as a NUB?” In the stealth raider world, every new crewman assigned to a Growler started as a “Nonuseful Body.” It usually took nine to twelve months to qualify for the coveted golden nebula insignia.

“Of course, skipper.”

“Then this should be obvious.” Godat offered a broad smile.

“Sorry, I’m blanking.”

He made a show of sighing loudly. “Kids these days. Never learn as much as their elders.”

“You’re only six years older than me, skipper.”

Godat snickered. “Never too early to work on my old-man-from-the-void routine. Okay, so, those ancient type-Ds had a major flaw: the Lawrence drives were salvaged from other previous-generation freighters to save time and whatever passes for money in the League. They can’t jump as close to a planet as they ought to be able to. If they haven’t been refitted, it’ll increase our odds of a successful engagement by opening the attack envelope.”

“Lots of ifs.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Nav, work up an intercept vector on Master Three. Let’s tail one of these bastards and see what’s ticking.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Godat settled back in his seat. It would take at least an hour before they were in position to do anything else but look at screens. Such was the life of a stealth raider officer—hours and hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. And if I do my job right, the enemy feels the terror. That made him grin. Terrorizing the terrorists had a certain ring to it.

Temporary SATO HQ

Lawrence City—Canaan

18 May 2474

Justin Spencer stretched his neck to one side as he examined the tablet in front of him, which showed a list of meetings and scheduled tasks for the day. The “temporary” headquarters on Canaan felt longer in the tooth daily, mostly because even though he was the former president of the Terran Coalition, he knew that for the Sagittarius Arm Treaty Organization to be successful in the long run, it could not be seen as an institution controlled by the Coalition. To thrive, the SATO had to grow and have equal partnership.

Being based on Canaan was a severe impediment to, if nothing else, the optics of the situation. Such concerns were, however, the least on his mind. With the state of affairs in government and the galaxy at large, Justin wondered where to even begin. He felt powerless to alter what was going on. Pleas for national unity to the heads of both major umbrella parties that composed the center-right and center-left had gone unheeded.

President Robbins wouldn’t even take his vidlinks.

Sensitive to his dual role as a former head of state and the existing secretary general of SATO, Justin avoided the media spotlight and refrained from making any public statements that attacked or criticized the current administration.

And every day, keeping silent got a little bit tougher.

His desk buzzer chimed, which was usually a bad omen because of how regimented and planned each day’s schedule was. Justin reached down and touched the transmit button. “Yes?”

“Major Alon Tamir for you, sir.”

Who’s that? Justin was puzzled because a more senior officer briefed him on serious matters, and lately, he rarely spoke with anyone below flag rank in a day-to-day official capacity. “Regarding?”

“He says it’s classified at the highest levels, sir, and he can’t discuss it with me.”

An air of mystery. Justin chuckled. “Send him in.” If nothing else, it would be a welcome diversion from the nonstop gloom and doom coming out of the Orion Spur.

A moment later, the office entry door swung open, and an unassuming man who appeared to be in his early thirties entered. On second glance, Justin thought he might be even younger.

He strode to only a meter in front of the desk and braced to attention. “Major Alon Tamir reports as ordered, sir.”

Justin couldn’t keep a grin from coming to his face. “Ordered by whom, Major?”

“With your permission, sir…” Tamir reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small device then set it down on the desk and toggled a switch on top. “That should allow us to speak privately. General Sinclair sent me, sir.” ‘

“Ah.” It suddenly became clear. The head of CDF Intelligence showing up in the SATO secretary general’s office would get a great deal of attention. A field-grade officer, on the other hand, not so much. “Please, have a seat.”

Tamir slid into the indicated chair and assumed a ramrod-straight posture. “The general asked me to convey his compliments, sir. He also has a proposition for you, if getting reinforcements into the Orion Spur is still a goal.”

Justin tilted his head. “Of course it is. Go on, Major.”

“There is a plan in the works to send a humanitarian relief convoy into the Spur for the purpose of supplying food and medical supplies to affected populations on New Rostov, under the flag of the Intergalactic Red Cross.”

“PFLOS would cut that kind of a civilian convoy to ribbons.”

Tamir nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Please tell me that the plan isn’t to cause that for some kind of photo op.”

“No, of course not, sir,” Tamir replied as his face blanched. “We’re spies, not butchers.”

Justin held up a hand. “Just making sure. Then what do you need from me? Because Robbins isn’t going to send an additional escort for that convoy. Hell, she’d probably try to block the thing if it was coming from neutral space.”

“That’s what we’re counting on, sir.” Tamir smiled for the first time since he’d entered the office. “You have something of a special relationship with former Prime Minister Ascaro still, yes?”

Justin smiled thinly in return. “In God we trust. All others, we monitor, indeed, Major. Yes, I think we remain friends and allies.” He chose his words carefully to avoid betraying the trust Ascaro had shown him. No one other than us needs to know she’s offered to help.

“General Sinclair believes the ISF could be convinced to send heavy cruisers and, perhaps with the former prime minister’s assistance, even the now-refitted battleship in the Lusitanian navy, among other assets.”

The plan came into focus instantly as Justin heard the words from the young intelligence operative. “You hope that PFLOS and, by extension, their League auxiliaries, will take the bait and open fire, allowing the heavy ships to inflict a sharp defeat.”

“I believe General Sinclair would respond to that by saying, ‘From your lips to God’s ears, old chap,’ sir.”

“That was a passable impression,” Justin said with a snicker. He ran the mental math on what the wily spymaster had in mind. That’s got to be the most ballsy idea I’ve heard in a while, but it’s genius in its simplicity. “I’ll see what I can do. What you speak of… is not the kind of conversation one has over a commlink.”

“Especially not today, sir. You should consider that perhaps others are listening in.”

Justin narrowed his eyes. “Are you suggesting President Robbins is monitoring me?”

“I would if I were her, sir. You represent an opposing interest. So does General Cohen, I might add. She is adamant in her belief that only by nonescalation can we avoid another war. My recommendation is to be careful and use solid tradecraft.”

Tamir’s words weren’t illogical, but the mere fact that Justin paid attention and filed them away spoke to a reality he’d never hoped to see in the Terran Coalition. How did this happen? He’d assumed that Robbins was simply the electorate’s way of balancing the scales after almost sixteen years of center-right governance. Politics is a pendulum. All of us in the field know that. Whatever Justin had assumed about Robbins or her opinions, lying down in the face of a League of Sol invasion wasn’t on his list of possible outcomes.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Major. Though allow me to say that if our government is spying on citizens for their beliefs, we’ve lost a lot more than I thought.”

“One cannot say for sure, sir. I only offer the advice.”

Justin nodded. “How’s my old friend?”

Tamir paused and pursed his lips as if choosing his words carefully. “The general enjoys the great game, as he puts it. I think to do the job as long and as well as he has, one must. However… this foe is something new. Fighting them has caused… problems, shall we say. There is more emotion than I’ve seen in quite some time.”

“I know what you mean. Many years ago, when I flew fast movers, my life was spared by a League pilot. She could’ve killed me with a single burst. But she didn’t because it’s something of a sacred tenant among pilots that you don’t shoot somebody in a spacesuit out in the void.”

“The League of Sol as a political construct is evil. But not everyone—in fact, not most of the people who live and work within it are evil. Most are cogs in a wheel, and some actively try to do what is right.”

“I’d agree with that.”

“PFLOS, on the other hand, is made up the worst individuals I’ve ever come across in twelve years of intelligence analysis. They make Admiral Seville look like a decent and moral man.” Fire shone in Tamir’s eyes. “Frankly, I hope we kill every one of them, sir. Anger burns deep within me for those who will not see this and fight accordingly.”

“Careful, Major. That uniform doesn’t give you the benefit of publicly stating political opinions.”

Tamir’s lips curled into a grin. “Neither does your position, sir.”

“From the mouths of babes and all that,” Justin replied drily. “Tell Sinclair I’ll do my best and wish him continued success.”

“Yes, Mr. Secretary. He asked me to wish you Godspeed on your journey, as he assumed you would go to see Ascaro in person. At your discretion, I have been detached from the Oxford to support you in whatever manner you need.”

“In other words, you’re coming with.”

“General Sinclair left that decision in your hands, sir.”

“It would be too obvious to put you on my staff, so book a separate passage to Lusitania. You may use the high-speed liner and bill the expense back to SATO.”

“Yes, Mr. Secretary.”

“Do you have a secure comms address?”

Tamir stuck a hand inside his pants pocket and pulled out a small device. “One better. You’ll find a new tablet delivered to your official residence in the guise of a diplomatic pouch. Attach this, and you’ll have secure, unbreakable communications with both General Sinclair and me. It’s not real time, but it’s the best we can do on short notice.”

“Thank you.” Justin exhaled heavily. “I have another meeting in five minutes.”

Tamir stood and placed the device on the desk. “Oh, I know. We made sure there was enough time for a discreet discussion. Good day, Mr. Secretary. Until we meet again.”

Moments later, there was once again silence in Justin’s office. He stared at the small, nondescript piece of electronics in front of him. Somehow, he knew that picking it up marked a dangerous new chapter. Once I act against President Robbins and attempt to circumvent official Terran Coalition policy, there is no going back. Alarms should have been blaring in every corner of Justin’s mind as he contemplated violating hundreds of years of political normality and the established customs by which they lived.

Yet he could see no other way. The Coalition was on the precipice of losing hard-won gains against the League of Sol, which would hurt it as an interstellar power. More importantly to Justin, however, was they had turned their backs on hundreds of millions of people who’d taken a chance on freedom. Each of the Orion Spur colony worlds could’ve voted to rejoin the League. Instead, they took one look at the freedom and abundance offered by the Terran Coalition and jumped for it with everything they had.

We betray everything we hold dear if we do not stand shoulder to shoulder with them, our fellow citizens and countrymen. Robbins might be content to do so in the interests of temporary peace, but I’m not. I spent a lifetime devoted to service… and by God, I will continue. Justin recalled his oath to protect the Coalition against all enemies, foreign and domestic. It was an oath that one swore and never forsook.

Justin closed his hand around the scrambler. Lord, help me. I’m flying blind here, in the deepest, darkest nebula I’ve ever been in. I need Your guidance and wisdom to find a way out. Show me the way.

CSV Tucson

Taiyaun—Orion Spur

19 May 2474

Much to Godat’s surprise, the League Type-D freighters operated with a certain level of professionalism and operational security. Rather specifically, escorts patrolled their jump-in and jump-out points, and they used the radiation belts of Taiyaun to their advantage. It made approaching the PFLOS ships far more difficult than he’d expected. Sixteen hours later, however, the Tucson was finally in position. Not a moment too soon, as far as he was concerned. Twenty hours at condition one, running at ultra quiet is not a fun time.

“I’m about ready to pop these Leaguers and jump out for some hot grub,” Letchford interjected in his posh British accent. “Don’t you agree, sir?”

Godat pursed his lips. “Meals ready to eat get old after a while.”

“Especially when they refuse to exit,” Second Lieutenant Jazmyn Vafaei called over her shoulder from the tactical console.

“As long as our Hunter missiles launch properly, all will be fine,” Godat replied, projecting zen as much as possible.

“From your lips to God’s ears, sir.”

“Conn, TAO. Five minutes to maximum Hunter range on Master Six.”

Godat’s eyes went to the tactical plot. A group of six freighters was moving steadily toward the Lawrence limit, with four Marauder-class destroyers escorting it. The only benefit to that arrangement was that only one of the Leaguer military ships would be within range when the Tucson loosed her missiles. Smart Leaguers. That’s a new one. Or maybe they were PFLOS terrorists. There seemed to be little in the way of demarcation between the two in his mind.

“Max range won’t be good enough. Nav, plot a course that gets us within a thousand kilometers of the convoy.” Godat assumed the Type-Ds would do what any sane commander would in that situation: run away. Which, if timed right, might be effective. Of course, every kilometer closer meant more risk. That was the classic tradeoff for a Growler—risk versus reward.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Godat checked the tactical readout once more. All twelve tubes were loaded, and the energy-weapons capacitor half charged. It would be enough to use the EMP weapon. He blew out a breath as the seconds counted down and the Tucson crept closer to her prey.

“Waiting until we can see the whites of their eyes, skipper?” Letchford asked.

“Not quite.” Godat steepled his fingers. They still had another thousand kilometers to go before he’d feel comfortable in an attack.

At seven hundred klicks, he spoke again. “TAO, make tubes one through twelve ready in all respects and open the outer doors.”

“Confirmed, sir. All tubes ready. Outer doors open.”

Our sensor profile just got larger. “Firing point procedures, Hunter missiles. Target four warheads each on Master Two, Three, and Six.” He was counting on getting at least one reload cycle in before having to jump out.

“Firing solutions set, sir.”

“Chief of the Boat, pass word to all compartments that combat is imminent.” While they were maintaining condition one—which meant combat was expected and the crew manned their battle stations—after all the hours they’d been prowling around the void, a reminder was best.

“Aye, aye, skipper,” Master Chief Richard VanDyke, the senior enlisted soldier on the ship, replied.

It had been a long time since Godat had fired on a cargo freighter and, except the up-gunned PFLOS models, which didn’t really count, the first time he’d done so as the commanding officer. Those ships are manned by people assisting a war effort. Probably military or terrorist recruits. Regardless, I don’t care. They deserve what’s coming.

Godat gripped the arms of his chair tightly and leaned forward in his harness. “TAO, match bearings, shoot, tubes one through twelve.”

A moment later, the Tucson’s deck plates bucked and vibrated as one Hunter launched every half a second. If Godat hadn’t been strapped in, he would probably have been thrown from his seat.

The shaking stopped, and Vafaei called out, “Tubes one through twelve fired electronically, sir. All units running hot, straight, and normal.”

Godat watched as icons for the Hunters separated into groups and accelerated in the void, like they had a hundred times before in his career. Within seconds, multiple dots appeared in a tight cluster around his ship. That had never happened before. As he opened his mouth to address Vafaei, she beat him to it.

“Conn, TAO. Inbound wormholes. Four sets, bearing zero-one-nine, one-zero-six, one-nine-five, and two-eight-seven. Civilian signature. Wait… Lawrence drives match known PFLOS configurations.”

Oh my God. Godat’s OODA—observe, orient, decide, act—loop collapsed in his mind. It was obvious the enemy had laid a very patient trap. We have three seconds before all hell breaks loose. “Nav, get us out of here! Reverse course, maximum thrust. Plot a Lawrence jump to deep space and charge the drive.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the navigator called out.

Letchford’s face had gone totally white. “I think the bastards might have us.”

One thousand one… One thousand two… One thousand three…

The first volley slammed into the Tucson’s forward and port shield quarters, pitching the stealth raider violently to the side.

“Can’t take too much of this, sir,” Vafaei said.

Godat turned to VanDyke. “COB, warm up the decoy drone.” He held on for dear life as another barrage of plasma fire slammed into the aft shield. The four PFLOS freighters pummeled the Tucson with everything they had, and their shields dropped on all sides like a stone.

“Drone ready, sir.”

“Send it, COB.”

A sudden reduction in incoming weapons fire directed at the Tucson indicated the decoy had been released a few seconds later. But with their deflectors under thirty percent on all quadrants, the reprieve would be temporary. “TAO, status of Hunter reloads?

“I’ve got two tubes green, sir.”

Godat steadied himself as another barrage hit home. “Give them something to think about, Lieutenant. Firing point procedures, tubes one and two, Master Ten. Make both tubes ready in all respects and open the outer doors.”

“Firing solutions set, sir. Tubes one and two ready to launch.”

“Match bearings, shoot, all available tubes.”

Godat kept his concentration on a status display showing their Lawrence drive charge level and shield power levels. This isn’t happening fast enough. “Nav, why aren’t we ready to jump?”

“I, uh, I think there’s some damage in the main power conduit, sir.”

“Confirmed,” Letchford interjected.

“Transfer emergency reserves to the Lawrence drive.”

The navigator glanced over her shoulder. “Sir, that could overload the entire system.”

Godat tugged his black space sweater down. “We’d be dead either way, Lieutenant. Do it.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the port shield indicator had dropped to zero.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Navigation, rotate the ship ninety degrees and maintain forward motion.” Maybe that’ll buy us a few more seconds. He vaguely remembered his father using an expression about rearranging deck chairs on a ship sinking in the ocean.

“Lawrence drive charged, sir!”

“Engage!” Godat practically shouted.

A moment later, the bridge lights dimmed as the Growler-class stealth raider continued to receive incoming fire from four different directions. One of the last blasts—presumably of concentrated plasma energy—must’ve penetrated the hull, as the vessel shook so violently that a monitor fell out of the overhead, narrowly missing the head of an enlisted rating.

“Hull breach, deck four, section three, aft,” VanDyke called out. “Sealing it off, sir.”

Damn. That means the missile room is cut off from the rest of the ship for the moment. Godat’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the armrests of his chair as tightly as he could. There was nothing he or anyone else in the control room could do. The engineering team, if a fault threw or a power relay overloaded, might be able to affect the outcome in the reactor control area. But at the moment, Godat was nothing more than a spectator. He offered a prayer to HaShem for his crew and vessel.

Suddenly, the shaking stopped.

“Jump complete, sir,” the navigation officer called out. Even her normally rock-steady voice almost cracked, a small reminder of how close they’d all come to death.

Godat slowly blew out a breath. “Any sign of pursuit?”

“Sensors back online,” Vafaei called out. “Clear board.”

“XO, I want a damage report five minutes ago. And Nav, plot another jump. We’re going to put some distance between us and our terrorist friends.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Letchford leaned closer. “Primary hull took a beating. We should avoid combat for at least six hours.”

As much as it killed Godat to admit it, he couldn’t fault the advice. “Agreed. I won’t fall for that one again.”

While the crew went to work, he pulled up the sensor logs and reviewed them. Maybe there’s something I missed, and at least we’re still alive and in the fight.

15

Arthur double-checked the straps on his ballistic armor, making sure they weren’t mismatched. Before the last twenty-four hours, it had been well over a decade since he’d last worn or used ground-combat gear beyond a simple pulse pistol. But one thing—among many—the CDF was good at was training. He’d done it enough times in boot camp and officer-candidate school that putting on the vest was still second nature. Having suited up the day before helped shake the cobwebs off too. After ensuring he had four hundred rounds of ammunition for his battle rifle spread across six magazines, Arthur secured a sidearm to his leg. I can do this. I must do this.

If absolutely nothing else, it was good for morale to see a senior officer putting on battle rattle and getting into the fight when all hope seemed lost.

Faulkner strode up. He, too, sported an armor vest and MX-9 rifle. “All kitted up, sir?”

“Yeah, I think so. Well, except for a jacket.” He gestured to a pile of light windbreakers and loose-fitting hoodies that would hide their gear, at least at long range.

“Not taking grenades?”

Arthur grinned sheepishly. “I knew I forgot something.” He turned back to the makeshift armory pile and hunted out a box of fragmentation grenades. Once a couple were secure in their places on his tactical vest, he grabbed a few of the pulse variety as well before picking up a jacket.

“Sir, if I may,” Faulkner continued, “you aren’t… required on this mission.”

“We need every rifle we can get, Lieutenant.”

“If they kill you, sir…”

Fear exploded within Arthur once more. It took every ounce of mental control to push it down because hearing the possibility aloud made it all the more real. He bit his lip. “If they do, then you will press on.”

The young man appeared ready to argue further, but both of them were distracted by the sight of a couple dozen soldiers kneeling. Chief Jeremiah Duprey was at the head of the group, his head bent down with the others.

As Arthur peered at the display, Faulkner filled in the unasked question. “Some of the Marines noticed that the chief prays before every deployment. A few started joining him, and now the entire platoon does it. I guess that extended to our militia and civilian allies.”

“I think a word to God could help all of us right now, Lieutenant,” Arthur replied.

“Agreed, sir.”

Arthur led the way to where the others were and got down on one knee as Faulkner did the same.

“Father, watch over these men and women. See them safely home in Your care. Help us to do Your will and defeat this monstrous enemy. Let us not allow hate into our hearts. In Your name we pray. Amen.”

“Amen,” the rest echoed.

Arthur stood. “Ready, ladies and gents?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Then move out. Lieutenant Faulkner, take point.”

“Yes, sir.” Faulkner quickly assembled the group into several fire teams, with the limited number of Marines in the vanguard. Once that was done, they set off down the tunnel for over a three-kilometer march.

Within a hundred meters, it got dark. Another hundred meters after that, and Arthur could barely see his hand in front of his face. They’d cut the lights to the system, hoping to amplify stealth and make it harder for the invaders to find the tunnels. It made everything seem like something out of a horror movie set.

Faulkner used the long distance to drill the militia soldiers and single civilian volunteer in proper procedure. By the end of the three kilometers, the unit more or less moved together, which was a dramatic improvement over thirty minutes prior.

I wonder how much actual infantry training the militia on New Rostov received anyway. While the reservists in the CDF received the same training experience as active-duty soldiers, the planetary guard was a different beast altogether. Should I be concerned? Probably, but there’s not much room for that when we’re headed toward the enemy. He shoved it out of his mind.

One of the Marines climbed up an access ladder and slid the cover back before swinging himself into an unfinished subway station. A moment later, he whispered down, “Clear!”

In an agonizingly slow evolution, the other twenty-three of them followed. Arthur was the last one up. Power armor would’ve come in handy. But it was out of the question, since they needed to stay off the enemies’ radar, so to speak, and tromping around in alloy suits would attract an absurd amount of attention. Faulkner argued persuasively that it would give away our capabilities too. Besides, it’s not like I know how to use it.

Arthur emerged to find the fire teams already spread out, covering different access points. He appreciated how the Marine LT was using everything they did to reinforce solid combat habits.

“All present and accounted for, Colonel,” Faulkner said under his breath. “With any luck, that’ll be true on the flip side.”

Arthur nodded. “From your lips to God’s ears, Lieutenant.”

Helmet-mounted lights lit up the area, which appeared to have been an active construction zone just days before. Good place for an ambush. Arthur checked a small tablet device strapped to his wrist, which had integrated mapping and showed limited life-signs detection. They were less than three hundred meters from their destination.

“You know, sir,” Faulkner said quietly, “we need to get those kids back to their parents as soon as possible. It would allow us to be a lot nimbler and open the playbook for attacks.”

“And you don’t think PFLOS or whoever is actually calling the shots would round them up and torture them and their parents?”

“Well—”

“As awful and disgusting as that outcome is, somebody would crack almost immediately, and the enemy would pour into our hiding place. No, it is… shall we say suboptimal to have a bunch of parentless children in a military camp. But it is the only solution as of now.”

Even as Arthur spoke, doubt reared its head. They had at most one hundred seventy actual combatants. That was counting civilian volunteers, who, in his mind, were gung ho for the moment, but after the harsh realities of combat came into focus, that number was likely to go down. Half the militia soldiers were administrative and support troops. What can we possibly hope to accomplish? The specter of leading them all to their doom suddenly loomed in front of him.

“Light patrols on our route, sir. We should be able to use alleys for cover, given that this is the city center.”

Faulkner’s statement interrupted Arthur’s thoughts. “Then we’d better get down the road before something changes.”

“Yes, sir.” Faulkner made a series of hand signals. “On me, people. Move out!”

Arthur gripped his battle rifle and marched on beside the Marine. He figured the next few hours would be the longest of his life, yet strangely, his heart wasn’t racing yet. That’ll start when the bullets fly.

Faulkner stuck the tiny periscope he carried around a corner and confirmed a lack of enemy combatants. The device was decidedly low-tech and relied on the Mark One human eyeball, but he preferred it to the more high-tech scanner on his belt for an initial sweep. It also helped that the periscope wouldn’t show up with an EM emission if the Leaguers had such devices active.

He doubted it because, at least in the TCMC, electromagnetic emission detectors ran on drones, and he had observed none so far. In short, they’d been able to execute a stealthy approach.

Twenty meters to go. Faulkner motioned forward and took off as fast as his feet would carry him without breaking into a jog. A few minutes later, he stacked up on a corner behind the target building. The side street was completely empty and only two lanes wide. It seemed to be a commercial delivery route, and there was no traffic, thanks to the occupation.

Faulkner felt thankful that New Rostov didn’t have mass closed-circuit camera systems everywhere, like some core worlds of the Terran Coalition. Otherwise, they’d be able to track us in real time.

Half a dozen hostiles stood around the entrance to the broadcast station. The building was nondescript, and the men clutching rifles in combat fatigues out front appeared lackadaisical. Faulkner would’ve felt their chances of success were high except for one minor detail: a Zhukov main battle tank parked directly in front of it.

Arthur appeared at his side. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Sure looks that way, sir.”

The senior officer’s face clouded. “We have an anti-tank rocket.”

“Well, that’s one way to announce our presence.” Faulkner considered the possibilities. Yes, blowing the MBT apart would probably confuse the crap out of the enemy and give them an opening to storm the building with minimal or even no losses. Especially if I post up a sniper on the third floor opposite the broadcast center. That structure looked like residential apartments with no visible enemy presence. He ran a hand over his chin. Two uniformed men appeared from the side of the building and walked around the front toward the left. As they did, a kernel of an idea formed.

“You’ve got something else in mind,” Arthur replied.

Faulkner overlaid a high-resolution map of the local area over the readout from his scanner. “Those two are probably patrolling.”

“How does that help us?”

“I’ll take Corporal Khatib, and we’ll go down a hundred meters, cross over without attracting attention, and sneak in the back here.” Faulkner pointed at an alley on the map. “Then we’ll kill both these guys and take their uniforms.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “That’s far too great of a risk, Lieutenant.”

“And putting a dumb-fire anti-tank rocket into a Zhukov, praying it takes the thing out in one shot, going kinetic from the get-go isn’t an enormous risk, sir?”

“What’s the advantage to your plan?”

“Sneak in the front door. And let our guys in the back.”

“That’s insane.”

“Why not?” Faulkner grinned. “If we’re going to engage in crazy stunts, might as well go nuts, sir.”

“Isn’t this what Marines call ‘real John Wayne shit,’ Lieutenant?”

“Something like that, sir.” Faulkner would take any advantage he could possibly gain. I won’t tell the skipper what I really have in mind. Not until we’ve got the uniforms.

Arthur shook his head. “I’m going to regret doing this, aren’t I?”

“Only if we lose, sir.”

“All right. I want the rest of the team prepped in ambush positions, just in case your plan goes south.”

Faulkner nodded. “My thoughts, too, sir.”

The two enemies once again transited between their patrol points.

Sloppy and unimaginative. Well, we’ll teach them a thing or two before this is over. He turned around and motioned Khatib forward. It was time to get to work.

16

Faulkner pressed his back against the rough plasticrete wall that kept the dumpster and the loading dock from public view. His heart skipped a beat as footsteps passed by on the other side. Power armor would come in handy, if only to quell the stench. A few meters beyond where he and Corporal Khatib crouched, the fencing turned decorative, and crucially, it was only a meter tall. If the hostiles had been walking back toward the front of the building, they would’ve seen us for sure. That knowledge reminded him they only had one shot at their insane plan.

“Remember,” Faulkner whispered to Corporal Khatib, who was crouched beside him, “silent takedown. No noise, no guns, no knives or blood. We screw this up, the whole operation goes sideways.”

Khatib nodded. The young Marine had proven himself since the war started, but this was different—this was personal, close-quarters combat that required a different kind of steel. He touched his fingers together. “I still remember my Marine-fu, sir.”

“Hope so.” Faulkner flashed a grin.

The two enemy soldiers paused, and one of them started relieving himself, taking some level of amusement out of doing so by spraying a pattern on the plasticrete building. The other checked his rifle’s magazine before slinging the weapon across his shoulder and making a loud comment in a foreign language.

That sounds like French. These guys are League army regulars, by their gear and bearing. Not PFLOS rabble. Faulkner had begun to suspect that the entire invasion force was made up of professional soldiers. It made some things easier and others harder. He realized they’d never get a better chance. “Now.”

They moved like shadows, years of Marine training compressed into fluid motion. The decorative fence was barely waist-high, its smooth polymer surface offering perfect handholds as they vaulted over in practiced silence. Faulkner’s boots touched down on the other side without a whisper of sound.

The hostile taking a pee never heard them coming. Faulkner’s hands moved with mechanical precision. He locked his left hand across the man’s throat to muffle any cry as his right hand gripped the back of the skull. A sharp, violent twist was next, exactly as he’d been drilled in Marine basic training and later on in advanced infantry school. The crack was barely audible, though it was the sort of sound that would stick with him the rest of his life.

A split second later, the body went limp. Faulkner lowered the dead man quietly, his hands already moving to gain control of his weapon just in case.

The reality of what he’d just done hit him like a physical blow. It was even more jarring than when he’d slit the throat of a terrorist during the hostage-rescue operation. He felt cold, as if what he’d just done was more of a murder and less the killing of an enemy in battle.

Bile rose in his throat. Focus. Deal with it later. The mission—

A muffled grunt snapped his attention back to the present. Khatib’s target had broken free, the corporal’s attempted choke hold failing as the enemy thrashed and twisted. The man reached for his sidearm as his mouth opened to shout an alarm.

Faulkner immediately launched himself across the space between them, tackling the Leaguer before his weapon cleared its holster. They hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from their lungs.

The enemy was deceptively strong as he fought for his life with every bit of power and energy within. He punched Faulkner in the face, making him stagger.

But training kicked in. In spite of the pain wracking his body, Faulkner rotated himself up and climbed on top of the Leaguer in a manner that was more akin to falling on him. He clamped a hand over the man’s mouth while holding one hand to the pavement.

A blur of motion passed in front of Faulkner’s eyes, and the object collided with the enemy’s temple. It was enough to make the struggles immediately lessen. He looked back to see Khatib using one of the Leaguer rifles as a club and forced words from his mouth in a hoarse whisper. “No… blood.”

The corporal tossed the weapon aside and dropped to his knees. He wrapped his fingers around the man’s throat and squeezed. It was not the best way to kill a man but the only way they had without risking the Leaguer raising the alarm.

Faulkner switched hands over the enemy’s mouth and pressed down.

The soldier bucked and struggled as his heels drummed against the ground in a frantic rhythm that seemed to last forever.

Faulkner could feel the life leaving the man beneath him as the desperate gasps became weaker and more infrequent. It took nearly two minutes before the Leaguer went completely still.

When it was over, both Marines knelt in the alley, breathing hard. Khatib’s hands shook as he checked the corpse for a pulse.

“Dead,” he whispered. “Sorry, sir. I almost…”

“My mom used to say a miss is as good as a mile. Mission’s still accomplished.” Faulkner took a deep breath as his senses returned and his heart rate slowed. “Strip them. We need those uniforms.”

The next few minutes were a grim exercise. The League uniforms were a black utilitarian cloth with no rank insignia or name tags, just as they’d observed earlier. The fabric felt rough against Faulkner’s skin as he pulled on the dead soldier’s jacket.

“Fits like crap,” Khatib said as he tugged at the sleeves, which were too short for his long arms.

“It’ll pass at a distance,” Faulkner replied, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. The uniform hung loose in some places and tight in others, making him feel like he was wearing a costume in some macabre theater production.

They dumped the bodies in the maintenance dumpster and arranged the trash on top in a way that wouldn’t fool a thorough inspection but would hopefully buy them the ten minutes they needed.

“Sir,” Khatib said quietly as they prepared to leave, “you okay?”

Faulkner paused as the question hit deeper than the corporal probably intended. I’m physically fine. But… The way we killed those men, was that combat? Or murder? In the moment, he wasn’t quite sure. It was a war, and in war, you killed the enemy before they killed you and those you were sworn to protect. He had no problem with that. Faulkner recalled similar feelings after other close-range kills. I think… it’s probably good that this bothers me. Still, it felt different—premeditated and cold.

“I’m fine,” he said as checked the League rifle and familiarized himself with the magazine ejector and how to chamber a round. “Let’s get the back door open. We don’t have much time.”

Khatib approached an alloy door that was clearly the back maintenance entrance and tried the knob. He turned and shook his head. “Locked.”

Faulkner walked over and confirmed the report. “Dammit.” He ran the options through his head. Infiltrating even through kinetic means via the back door while simultaneously assaulting the front would confuse the enemy. But he’d harbored a more radical idea since first seeing the tank. He toggled his in-ear commlink. “Faulkner to Hanson.”

“Hanson here.”

“Got the uniforms, sir. Back door is locked, and I see multiple dead bolts locked in place through the opening. Doubt we’re getting in without explosives.”

A pause followed. “I’ll send a fireteam.”

“Negative, sir. Got a better idea. Me and Corporal Khatib will take the tank.”

“Are you insane?”

“Maybe, sir. I’m willing to make the gamble, though.” He glanced at Khatib. “What about you, Corporal?”

“I’m in, sir. Tried to get posted to armor corps but…”

“Khatib’s with me, sir.”

Arthur sighed. “Don’t get yourself killed, Lieutenant.”

“Just make sure when we start the party, the rest of the team is ready.”

“We’ll rock their world like there’s no tomorrow. Hanson out.”

It surprised Faulkner how quickly the engineer-turned-space-warfare-officer had taken to ground combat. Almost like the Marines have rubbed off on him. “You sure about this, Corp?”

“They’ll never see us coming, sir. The op-sec they’re showing is awful. About what I’d expect out of Leaguers.”

Faulkner had to admit that while they were competent enough to take the planet, after the limited resistance they’d faced, he felt equal numbers of Terran Coalition Marines would’ve wiped the floor with them. “Okay. Move out. We’re going to retrace their patrol route slowly and steadily. Nothing’s wrong. We’re all friends here. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

They walked back through the alley and moved with the measured pace of soldiers on routine patrol. Faulkner forced himself to adopt the casual bearing he’d observed in the enemy troops and carried his weapon with indifference rather than tactical readiness.

In a minute or two, if everything went according to plan, he’d be walking among them, pretending to be one of them, using their trust to get close enough to kill them. The stolen uniform weighed heavily on Faulkner’s soul. He remembered his father telling him when he’d signed up for the TCMC that war changed you.

Dad said there would be moments that stayed with you the rest of your life. For good and for bad. I think I know what he meant now. It’s what I had to do. Faulkner tried to put the image of the Leaguer struggling for his life to the last out of his mind. The only focus was the mission. A small voice inside told him if he survived, there would be a reckoning one of these days in his soul.

Onward, they walked.

Arthur had been a part of, seen, and even implemented some crazy tactics throughout his career. When lives were on the line, and you were fighting against desperate odds, nothing was ever off the table. He’d been lucky to see commanders, time and time again, pull rabbits out of their proverbial hats. Now Lieutenant Faulkner’s doing it. Gotta commend that guy. What is it the Marines say? He’s got a brass set.

Now we need to get into position.

Across the street from the broadcast was a line of nondescript retail stores with condos above them, a typical Coalition-designed mixed-use layout one would recognize if they’d been to any number of Terran planets.

Arthur turned back to the motley group of Marines and militia soldiers. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Head back to the alley behind us, head down it, and go through six units up. Then post up in two of those stores. Listen to me carefully. Don’t make a sound. Your lives, those of every man and woman around you, and Lieutenant Faulkner’s and Corporal Khatib’s depend on it. All it will take is one dropped vase, one shattered pane of glass, or the crash of a display… and it’s over. You get me?”

Nods and thumbs-up came back from the squads.

“Okay, move out.” As Arthur crept up the alley and took point, he pondered the situation. If the LT can get his hands on that tank, it’ll change everything. Still, it felt like walking into a casino with your life’s savings and putting it all down on a single hand of blackjack or roulette. Too risky in general for my tastes. But what else can we do? Faulkner knew the risk and, as a professional, decided it was worth it. Arthur only prayed that the gambit worked.

The squads got to the sixth shop, and a specialist quickly unlocked the back door using an electronic pick. It was so easy that Arthur realized the lock only existed to keep honest people out. No crime here, I guess.

He pushed the door open slowly and silently before gazing into the interior, which was dark and deserted. Arthur got down on his belly and crawled in. “Check for electronic security systems. Everyone else, follow me.”

Avery Faulkner wondered if perhaps he’d gone insane. In a somewhat ill-fitting League of Sol army uniform, he, as nonchalantly as possible, strolled out into the street. It was like any other urban area in the Terran Coalition, excepting the tank parked in front of a building and enemy soldiers milling about. He found it amazing how quickly they’d “Terranized” the planet with standard-built roads, aircar and helicar controllers, and the infrastructure to handle transportation of large numbers of human beings.

Except for the enemies before him, everything was deserted. Quite eerie for the middle of the afternoon. Corporal Khatib matched his pace, though his uniform fit a bit better. Both men cradled League ballistic rifles.

Khatib nodded curtly before circling to the back of the tank. That would afford him some cover from the dozen hostiles around the front of the broadcast building.

Right then, a man emerged from the tank’s turret hatch. Faulkner decided to roll with it. He stumbled on purpose to his left then glanced up. “You look like you need some water, comrade.”

“Yech. I need vodka,” he replied in Russian-accented English. “It’s fifty degrees Celsius in the beast.”

“No cooling?”

“You funny.” The man laughed loudly. “Maybe fancy new tanks back on Earth have such equipment. Not what proper soldiers fight with.”

Faulkner took in what the others were doing around him through his peripheral vision. Small groups of soldiers chatted among themselves, their weapons slung over their shoulders, except a couple of men at the front of the building who stood with their fingers on the trigger guards. Complacency is the worst possible trait in a combatant. Thankfully for us, most of them seem to have it. He still gave what he planned next a fifty-fifty shot of not resulting in his immediate death.

“Your vent’s jammed back there. Might be why it’s so hot.” Faulkner could tell from the insignia on his uniform that the Russian man was the tank’s commander. Zhukov MBTs have a four-man crew, if I remember right.

“What are you talking about? Our exhaust is up front.”

Faulkner pulled himself onto the central body of the tank and pointed. “Well, what’s that thing, then?”

The Russian eyed him as he moved closer.

For a moment, Faulkner thought that the man might’ve figured out he was an imposter. But if he had, that realization came too late to save his life. Faulkner closed his hand around the combat knife tucked into his belt and drew it fluidly. Like second nature, he jammed it into the tank commander’s neck. The blade slid through soft flesh and severed all vital connections required for life. He hoped the lack of noise would buy him just one or two seconds.

Shouts erupted from the soldiers to Faulkner’s back as he flipped the tanker’s body out of the turret. He did the only logical thing and hoisted himself into the hatch feet first then dropped a meter in. Aside from killing the commander and gaining access, he had no proper plan outside of somehow, rather impossibly, commandeering the vehicle.

As he processed the unfamiliar territory of a League of Sol main battle tank, Avery Faulkner wondered if beyond having lost it, this was where he would die. Bullets pinged off the side of the tank, and another man came into view. He, too, wore a League of Sol army uniform without rank or insignia.

This is a fight to the death.

17

Arthur had never had a bird’s-eye view of a decent-size ground combat breaking out before. The sheer scope of it was overwhelming, as the dozen enemies sent everything they had toward Faulkner before the Marine disappeared from sight. Was he hit? Arthur had no way to know except the Leaguers, terrorists, or whoever they were sure as hell acted like Faulkner was still kicking.

A split second later, Corporal Khatib unleashed a sustained burst from the League rifle he’d pilfered from the dead combatants who’d so helpfully provided the uniforms.

The unexpected assault refocused the enemy’s fire onto him and away from Faulkner. For the moment, that’s increased the lieutenant’s life expectancy.

Arthur keyed the mic on his commlink. “All CDF stations, weapons free! Light them up!” He operated on autopilot, having heard such a command before, and hoped his delivery had some level of confidence behind it.

Glass shattered all around as the fire teams opened up with ballistic rifles. Several hostiles dropped in the opening volley, blood clearly visible as it sprayed on the pavement. Arthur sighted down his weapon before moving his finger to the trigger and firing twice. Two shots rang out in quick succession, and the man he’d targeted fell as one round went through his forehead.

The rest of the hostiles dived behind whatever piecemeal cover they could find, which led to a lull in firing from the more experienced Marines while the militia members sprayed rounds at anything resembling a possible enemy.

“Hold fire! Don’t waste ammo!” Marine gunnery sergeant Rodriguez shouted so loudly that he didn’t even need the commlink.

We need to get out there and finish this. Arthur had enough basic combat training from boot camp to know that maintaining the initiative was of vital importance. A single shot rang out, and an enemy screamed for a moment then went silent after a second thunderclap of sound. Sniper got another one. Good. Makes it just a little bit easier for us. “I wish we had some power armor right about now.”

“That makes two of us,” Jeremiah grunted from halfway across the little shop.

Arthur blew out a breath. Okay. Steady. “Team A, cover us. Team B, on me. We charge the tank.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” someone shouted, though Arthur didn’t recognize the voice.

A fusillade of shots rang out. Arthur didn’t waste a moment as he jumped through the broken-out window and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. Answering bullets peppered the ground as the cacophony of combat raged all around. It felt like an out-of-body experience. He could scarcely believe that he was in the middle of a ground-combat situation and actively fighting alongside Marines. The pain that shuddered through his shoulder as he crashed into the side of the tank, hyperventilating as he brought up the battle rifle, confirmed that it was, in fact, reality.

The rest of the team thudded to a halt on either side as the sniper’s high-powered rifle spoke once more.

“Okay.” Arthur took a deep breath. “Stay low and fire at will.”

A Marine private spoke up. “Uh, sir, how do we know which one’s Will?”

Arthur was more than certain that joke had been used on a thousand different battlefields over the last thousand years, but it still made him laugh, despite everything going on around them. And maybe that’s the point. “Assume they’re all Will.”

“Got it, sir,” the Marine replied with a jaunty salute.

Lord, give me strength. Arthur tightened his grip on the battle rifle and leaned around the tank as screams echoed from inside of the alloy beast. He prayed they weren’t Faulkner’s.

Inside the Zhukov MBT, Faulkner drove his combat knife into the chest of another Leaguer. With a vicious twist, he got it past the rib cage, into what he hoped was the heart of his enemy. The two of them had been grappling for what seemed like an eternity but had probably only been thirty seconds. His strength ebbed a touch as he withdrew the knife, and the man collapsed to the alloy deck, still gurgling as blood flowed out of the wound.

The sound of an enraged scream echoed through the turret as another man stumbled in with a pistol drawn. He squeezed the trigger and sent a round a few inches from Faulkner’s head.

Though Faulkner realized he had barely survived that attack, the incredible noise generated from the gunshot dazed him and sent waves of pain through his head. He fought through it and threw himself forward. The pistol went off again, though that time, the sound barely registered beyond the initial pop.

A searing sharp pain shot through Faulkner’s body, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint where. At the moment, that wasn’t his concern: If he couldn’t kill the enemy soldier, nothing else mattered. So far, he’d stuck to the knife for stealth and to avoid damaging the critical electronic components within the steel beast, because it was useless if nothing worked.

The tanker’s pistol clanked on the alloy floor, jarred out of his hand by Faulkner’s impact. The man immediately strained to reach it while simultaneously, Faulkner punched him in the face as hard as he could.

As the hostile’s head snapped back, Faulkner reached for the sidearm on his thigh-mounted holster and drew the weapon in a fluid motion. He squeezed off three shots, all of which hit the man’s center mass.

“Aaagh,” the tanker moaned as he slid down to the deck, still trying to grab his pistol, which was just out of reach, before he went still.

Faulkner blew out a breath as he heard loud shouts in a language he didn’t understand coming from another compartment in the tank. Zhukovs have a crew of four. Three down, one to go. What the remaining hostile had as an advantage was knowing the layout of the compartments. Faulkner had never been in such a vehicle before, not even a Coalition version. The best thing I can do is pause and hope the guy comes to me.

Sometimes, patience, even on a battlefield, was a virtue. A hatch that must’ve separated the turret from the driver’s compartment creaked, and slowly, a human head emerged from it along with the barrel of a standard-issue League of Sol energy pistol.

Faulkner sighted down, and even though he was within the rules of war to shoot first, something within told him to give his enemy the chance to give up. “Drop that weapon slowly, comrade.” Instinctively, he knew the man was a professional combatant and not a terrorist.

The man glanced from the Marine to his weapon and back again.

“Don’t do it. I don’t want to kill you for nothing.”

For a couple of seconds, it was deathly silent in the tank, aside from the staccato sounds of gunfire echoing from the exterior. The tanker’s hand twitched, and in slow motion, the pistol rotated toward the Marine.

Faulkner squeezed the trigger twice and sent two rounds directly into the Leaguer’s skull. Yet more blood splashed the interior, and the man collapsed into the driver’s compartment without a word. The smell of iron mixed with propellant from his pistol was overpowering. Another smell he didn’t recognize filled the air, inducing a strong desire to vomit. Probably that guy’s brain matter.

His adrenaline faded for a moment, and he felt pain. It seemed to come from his left shoulder. A quick check revealed blood, and seconds later, he found the wound. It appeared to be in and out. He fished out his small med kit and applied a makeshift bandage. He had no time for anything else. Riding on adrenaline, emotion, and probably some level of shock, Faulkner checked the last compartment to ensure it was empty before climbing back into the turret.

As the gunfight continued unabated, he knew he had to help turn the tide. But how? The screens were displaying gibberish. Well, some of this is Chinese script. That much, I know. Another screen had lettering that looked vaguely like the common alphabet but with a few characters he’d not seen before. Maybe that’s Russian. What’s it called? Cyrillic? It dawned on him he was missing the obvious: the automatic Gauss gun built into the turret, meant to be operated by the tank’s commander.

Faulkner climbed halfway out of the turret and grasped the weapon by the handles on either side of the barrel assembly. There were triggers on both, and he assumed one had to pull them concurrently to fire. He aimed toward the nearest League soldier in his field of vision, who was firing at something behind him—friendlies, the Marine assumed—and had good cover. Not good enough to stop Gauss rounds, you bastard.

He tested his theory by simultaneously squeezing the triggers and was immediately rewarded with a sustained burst of magnetically accelerated projectiles. Though nearly silent, they blew out the plasticrete half wall behind which the enemy crouched. At least three of them hit the unlucky Leaguer. There’s no way anyone survives that kind of hit. Faulkner thought he saw the guy’s arm detach.

Incoming fire bracketed Faulkner, and several rounds hit the ballistic shield around the Gauss gun. I guess they noticed. He squeezed the triggers again and sent several dozen rounds the other way, making quick work of any visible hostile. The Gauss gun had tremendous recoil, and it made him vibrate in such a way that aiming was difficult, so he kept it to short bursts of only six rounds at a time.

Thirty seconds later, it was all over. Silence descended over the battlefield, at least for the moment. Only then did Avery Faulkner allow himself to breathe.

I’m still alive. The realization was quite shocking to Arthur. He couldn’t believe they’d gotten this far or that he was still kicking. Time remains of the essence. “Sitrep! Anyone hit?”

“Good here!” a Marine shouted.

“No holes!” someone else called out.

Arthur climbed onto the back of the tank and immediately spotted Faulkner standing in the turret, still cradling the Gauss gun and scanning the area around them. “Nice work, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The bandage on the Marine’s arm drew Arthur’s eye, as did the red stain spreading out from it. “You need the corpsman.”

“I’m fine, sir.”

Arthur shook his head. “No one’s fine if they’ve got blood coming out of them.” He turned toward the retail store where the rest of his unit had barricaded themselves. “Corpsman! Get the corpsman out here!”

Moments later, Chief Jeremiah Duprey came running. He, too, jumped onto the tank and approached Faulkner. “Can’t resist getting more alloy in you, eh, Lieutenant? You might want to have the doc check you for an iron deficiency when we get back to the ship.”

Arthur and Faulkner exchanged glances as the corpsman did his job, stripping back the bloodstained uniform sleeve and spraying an antibacterial foam in. It also functioned as a coagulant.

“I didn’t get that one, Chief,” Arthur said.

“Metal alloy… Iron deficiency… Never mind.” Jeremiah smirked and stretched a self-sealing bandage across the wound. “That’ll hold until we can do something a bit more proper back at base camp.”

“Thanks, Chief,” Faulkner replied. “Sir, I don’t think we’ve got long. There’s no way these guys missed all that gunfire or that the hostiles didn’t communicate back to wherever their home plate is.”

Arthur nodded slowly. Establishing operational control over the street was only the beginning. Now we have to storm the castle, as it were. “Is the tank usable?”

“Well, I did have to use my sidearm, so… hopefully. Bigger problem is everything’s in languages I don’t read or speak.”

“Chinese, Russian, and French. Got your C2 tablet with you?”

“Yeah.”

“It’ll translate.” Arthur turned toward the nondescript building that housed the broadcast-relay center. This entire portion of the city is so drab. His eyes zeroed in on some details on the exterior walls that gave it away. 3-D printed. That’s why. “Okay. You stay here with a squad and cover the rest of us.”

“Sir?”

Arthur jerked his head around. “Did I stutter?”

“No, sir, but with respect, I should lead the assault.”

“You’re by far the superior combatant, Lieutenant. However, the enemy troops inside the building haven’t rushed out. Hopefully, that means there aren’t many, or perhaps they’re all cowards. Regardless, the best the enemy has will come down this road to kill us all. You’re the best man to deal with that, and I need to make the broadcast because I’m the highest-ranking officer on the planet.”

“Logical, sir. I still don’t like it.”

Arthur flashed a grin. “None of us do. Give ’em hell.” Before the young man could respond, he jumped off the tank. Going through a mental checklist, he examined his battle rifle and found it only had three rounds left in the magazine. After replacing it with a fresh one, he cued his commlink. “Squad one, on me. We’re taking the building.”

Two Marines who knew their business ran forward and affixed det cord around the door and one of the windows to the right of the entry.

Smart. Two ingress points just in case there’s someone waiting for us. Arthur steadied himself and tried to project calm and confidence while masking his inner turmoil. I don’t have a choice, though. This has to happen. We cannot allow PFLOS and the League to win.

18

Arthur steadied himself and checked his battle rifle one more time. This is it. On the other side of the door were people who wanted to kill him, everyone with him, and the Terran Coalition as a whole. Okay. Here goes nothing. “Breach teams, stand by.”

The street behind them was eerily quiet, unlike the all-out battle that had occurred only minutes before. With Faulkner and the captured tank covering their six, Arthur had confidence that they could take the facility.

“Ready, sir.” Gunnery Sergeant Rodriguez stood next to him.

Arthur didn’t really know the Marine except that he was a senior noncom in Faulkner’s platoon. Much like any other Terran Coalition Marine, the man was competent and efficient at his job. That seems to be a feature of the Corps. Something about the training took a regular human and spit out a warrior. He found it impressive.

“All teams, execute!” Arthur said into his commlink. There was no need to yell or whisper for once.

Marines on the breach teams lit off both strips of det cord, which blew neat, man-size holes in the building.

As Arthur raised his battle rifle, he realized that those around him were staring at him like he knew what he was doing. Oh God, what have I gotten myself into? Lord, don’t let me get them all killed.

“Pulse, over!” Rodriguez thundered, and multiple round balls flew into the interior. They went off with blinding flashes of white light and sound that would dazzle anyone not wearing power armor or who hadn’t covered their ears.

That was their cue to assault. Arthur gripped his rifle as tightly as he could and bounded up from cover. He charged through the blown-out door into the broadcast center weapon up, searching for a target.

There were none. The lobby was destroyed with shot-out furniture, shattered glass and ceramics, and three bodies in the same black League uniforms sprawled across the floor. The large-caliber bullet wounds indicated they were casualties of Faulkner’s Gauss gun barrage. That thing is effective.

“Clear left!” a Marine called out.

“Clear right!”

Arthur moved forward, stepping over debris, and tried not to think about how he was leading an infantry assault when his expertise was in starship engineering. One foot in front of the other. That’s all I have to do. The hallway beyond the lobby was nondescript and deserted as well.

They moved with speed but were careful to check corners and methodically clear rooms along the corridor. The broadcast center wasn’t entirely a secret, but it wasn’t designed to advertise its presence either. Most of the complex was entirely underground. According to the intel they’d gotten from Governor Volkov and his people, the emergency-broadcast center was six levels below the surface.

As they approached the middle of the building, a gravlift came into view. Arthur held up a fist.

“I need two fire teams in the lift,” Rodriguez began.

“Negative, Gunny.” If there were additional enemies in the building, and that likelihood seemed high to him, they’d be protecting the transmission control room. “Taking the gravlift puts us all in a box. We need a distraction.”

“What’d you have in mind, sir?”

Arthur stroked his chin. “Most of us are going to take the emergency stairwell.” He pointed a few doors down the corridor.

Rodriguez nodded. “Makes sense, but they’ll probably be guarding that too.”

“Right, which is why I need a volunteer to stay up here and, on my signal, send that lift down. Just press the button for the sixth sublevel and get off.” Arthur smirked. “Hopefully, they’ll focus on that threat, and we can catch them off guard.”

The Marines and militiamen glanced among themselves.

“I need a volunteer to stay up here, though.”

No one stepped forward. Arthur supposed it might’ve had something to do with wanting a piece of the enemy. Being the decoy ensured a lack of participation in the combat below.

Rodriguez solved the problem for him. “Hayes, you’re up!”

“Yes, Gunny,” one of the Marines replied from the back of the formation. He appeared crestfallen for a split second.

Arthur took a deep breath. “Let’s do this. On me, people.” He moved to the emergency-stairwell door and found it unlocked, which made sense. Wouldn’t do to have an escape route that’s blocked.

Silently and efficiently, the teams descended farther underground, a level at a time. The emergency-access stairs were utilitarian but wide enough for three people and well lit. There was no talking, only the sound of footfalls on the concrete steps.

At each level, Rodriguez left two militia members to guard their six. Though it depleted the main force, the precaution would keep them from being cut off from the surface.

This is way too easy. The engineering portion of Arthur’s brain screamed alarms at him, but they were too committed. Besides, it was entirely possible that the enemy had made mistakes. Just don’t count on it, Arthur.

They reached the bottom level, and the teams stacked up on either side of the door. Arthur could hear voices on the other side. They were very muffled, but the language sounded Russian to him. More Leaguers. Wonderful.

Arthur held up his hand for silence and keyed his commlink to Hayes. “Private, send the gravlift now,” he whispered.

A few seconds later, he heard the distant whine of the gravlift descending. Almost immediately, the voices on the other side of the door became agitated. Footsteps echoed in the corridor beyond.

Perfect. Arthur counted to five then nodded to Rodriguez. The Marine kicked the door open, and Arthur burst through, his rifle up and ready.

Four men in League uniforms stood with their backs to him, less than ten meters away, weapons pointed at the gravlift doors. They never knew what hit them.

Arthur’s first burst took down one of the soldiers on the left. Rodriguez and the others followed a split second later, cutting down the remaining guards with ruthless precision. It was over in three seconds.

Just like a shooting gallery. Except these targets shoot back. “Clear the hallway!” Arthur ordered as he spotted a large secure door at the far end. Our objective. It had a sign that read Transmission Control plastered in the upper-middle quadrant.

“Clear!” a Marine reported.

“Gunny, get that door open,” Arthur said as he checked the available rounds in his battle rifle. Only eight off a full mag.

“Yes, sir.”

Instead of det cord, the Marines utilized shaped explosive charges, and within thirty seconds, the large alloy door was wired up.

“Fire in the hole!” Rodriguez yelled.

A moment later, a series of interconnected booms rang out, and the door collapsed inward. It crushed a chair in the way and came to rest in a slightly elevated position. Beyond lay a room filled with computer equipment, consoles, and what appeared to be a small holostudio.

One of the militia members, a young enlisted woman who had a comms background, slid behind one of the computer stations. She plugged a small data-transfer device into a port. One of Volkov’s advisors had helped prepare access codes, and it did the trick.

“Sir, we’re ready for, ah, whatever you’re going to say,” she said to Arthur. “Anytime.”

A display in the little holostudio came alive with the text of Emergency Broadcast System Active, and the lights turned on.

Arthur took a deep breath and stepped into the area where those lights converged, where he assumed the picture was the best. That got a thumbs-up from the comms militiawoman. He adjusted his uniform and stood ramrod straight.

“Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of New Rostov, my name is Arthur Hanson. I’m a lieutenant colonel in the Coalition Defense Force, and up until a couple of days ago, I commanded the CSV Margaret Thatcher. When the League invaded your world, I happened to be on the surface.”

He pursed his lips before exhaling. “I, ah… I’m not sure what I expected when I decided to stay. But what I found is that those of you who I’ve had the honor of serving alongside are some of the bravest people I’ve seen in my life. There aren’t a lot of us, but we’re fighting for you. And that’s why I’m here today.”

Focus, Arthur. Short and sweet. “This enemy, it sure feels fearsome, right? Military vehicles, soldiers in armor with rifles all over the place. They want you to feel fear. They need you to be afraid. But all we have to do is hold on until reinforcements arrive. Help us. Help these brave men and women who swore an oath to protect you against all enemies. Resist the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur at every junction. Peacefully, through force of arms, by civil disobedience… by anything you can and are willing to do. The more we resist, the easier it will be for the TCMC to kick them off New Rostov.

“And to those who question whether there’s any difference between the League and the Coalition, I ask you to think on these last few years. You, the citizens of this planet, have the direct personal experience of living under both systems. Make the judgment call. If you think the League is better… do nothing. But if you believe, as I do, that freedom is something every man, woman, and child should experience, something given to us, not by a government, but a natural right we’re born with… that we should make our own choices, not constrained by a government that watches over all, puts anyone who disagrees into reeducation camps, and forces its citizens to die on a world that’s too close to its star simply to get some minerals out of its crust… then join us and fight back.”

Arthur took a breath. “Regardless, we will keep up the fight. And do whatever we can to throw the League off New Rostov, because let’s be clear—whatever PFLOS calls itself, it’s an extension and puppet of the League of Sol. Thank you, Godspeed, and good luck.”

The lights blinked off as he walked out of the studio area. Arthur wiped his brow and found it wet with sweat. Never been much on public speaking. “How’d I do?”

“Sounded good to me, sir,” the comms soldier replied.

“Okay, get it locked in and put it on loop.”

“Yes, sir. It’ll take a couple of minutes.”

Arthur forced a grin. “No time like the present.”

Faulkner sat in the gunner’s position of the captured Zhukov tank. It wasn’t the most comfortable of seats, but he’d been in worse. With the turret open, at least some outside air was getting in, because the heat inside the alloy beast was immense. He wiped sweat from his face as it dripped down. These guys had to pick a hot, sunny day. Couldn’t wait for a rain storm or something. He chuckled.

So far, he and Khatib had figured out how to rotate the turret and use the internal sensor array, which included video monitors of the exterior. He swung it back and forth while keeping an eye on both ends of the street.

The bodies of the tank crew were stuffed aside as best as they could. One had been tossed out so that Khatib could fit into the driver’s compartment if needed. Faulkner wasn’t quite sure how long they’d keep the tank or what its usefulness would be, but a Marine prepared for all contingencies.

Corporal Khatib groaned from his perch next to him, hunched over a control panel with his tablet propped against the unfamiliar buttons and knobs as he tried to make sense of the Cyrillic and Chinese characters covering every surface. “Any word from the colonel?”

“Nothing yet,” Faulkner replied as he adjusted the turret to sweep the north end of the street. “But I’m sure he’s probably giving one hell of a speech in there.”

The street remained eerily quiet… far too quiet for Faulkner’s liking. The scattered bodies of the soldiers they’d killed in the initial assault lay where they’d fallen, but something about the silence felt wrong, like the calm before a storm.

A harsh new sound filled the tank, shattering the silence. Faulkner knew what Russian sounded like but couldn’t speak or read it. His blood ran cold, as the transmission had come from an internal speaker that was no doubt tied into the Zhukov’s communications system.

“You don’t happen to speak Russian?” he asked Khatib.

“No, sir. Arabic and English.”

“Worth a shot.”

When they offered no response, the voice emanating from the comm system switched languages. The words came with the same urgent tone.

That’s Chinese.

Khatib looked up from his tablet. “That’s got to be their command net. I caught that last bit in my translation matrix. They’re asking for a status report.”

“Can you respond?”

“I could try, but my accent would be a dead giveaway.”

The radio squawked once more, that time in French.

Faulkner groaned. “The three languages of the League. Well, doesn’t matter now. They know something’s wrong.” And that means we’re going to have company very shortly. “Hurry up with that translation, Corporal. We’re going to need it soon.”

He didn’t have to wait long. As if summoned by his thoughts, the rumble of heavy engines echoed from the north end of the street. Faulkner adjusted the side camera, and his heart skipped a beat. Two armored vehicles rounded the corner at high speed, black-painted armored personnel carriers that hovered rather than rolled on tracks or wheels. At least they’re not tanks.

“Dammit! Contact right!” he barked. “Enemy APCs closing fast. Corporal, any time you’re ready, I’d like to know how to shoot with this thing.”

“I’m still trying to figure out how to—”

“Less talk, more translation.” Faulkner keyed his commlink. “Hanson, this is Faulkner. We’ve got company. How much longer?”

Arthur’s voice crackled through his earpiece amid bursts of static. “Transmission sent. We’re headed up… Call it five minutes. Can you hold them off?”

“We’ll do our best, Colonel.” Faulkner clicked the commlink off and focused on the approaching vehicles. Those things can move. He turned to Khatib to see the Marine scrolling through labels on the translation app. The gunner’s controls were a maze of buttons, switches, and digital displays.

“There.” Khatib pointed at a large red button with Chinese and Cyrillic characters beside it. “That should be the main gun-firing control.”

“Should be?”

“You could always try reading the manual.”

Faulkner glanced at Khatib to see a smirk on his face before shaking his head.

The first enemy vehicle opened fire, its energy-cannon rounds slamming into the Zhukov’s frontal armor. Faulkner couldn’t tell if they’d done any damage or not, aside from shaking the tank like it was a children’s toy.

He looked through the gunsight and adjusted the turret using the small joystick he’d already figured out. A series of overlays probably had something to do with targeting, but Faulkner didn’t understand them either. Let’s hope the super-close range simply means put the center dot on something and shoot. After a final adjustment, he pressed the red button.

The Zhukov bucked as the main gun fired and the massive 125mm round screamed downrange. Through the smoke and flame, Faulkner saw it impact the lead vehicle’s front. While the initial explosion was impressive as the shell slammed into the APC, a few seconds later, a secondary blast was far more so. Must be fuel or power cells. Debris flew through the air, and the machine was a total loss.

“Nice shot, sir!”

The mechanical whine of the automatic loading system filled the fighting compartment as another round slammed home. Meanwhile, the other APC reversed course rapidly, trying to escape.

“Not so fast,” Faulkner muttered as he adjusted the turret and sent another shell down the street.

The tank shuddered again as the main gun spoke. That time, the round took the APC as it started to turn, getting the side instead of the front. After a tremendous explosion, the vehicle came to a halt and dropped to the ground as its antigravs failed. Smoke poured from the hatches.

“Kill two,” Faulkner reported over the commlink. “How close to exfil, sir?”

“Almost done,” Arthur replied a moment later. “Just need another—”

The commlink cut off with a burst of static that nearly made Faulkner rip the device from his head before the auto noise reduction kicked in.

“Sir,” Khatib said as he tugged on Faulkner’s sleeve and pointed at a now-functional display. “We’ve got a bigger problem.”

The screen showed a tactical overview of the surrounding area, complete with friendly and hostile unit markers. What Faulkner saw made his blood freeze. At least a dozen icons were converging on their position from multiple directions—more Zhukovs, light armor units, and APCs, all moving with the coordinated precision of a well-planned counterattack.

He cued his commlink once more. “Colonel, with respect, sir, hurry up! Our lives depend on it. They’re sending the house.”

“Thirty more seconds!”

Faulkner glanced at the tactical display again. The nearest enemy units were less than two minutes out. Even if they could take out a few more vehicles, they’d be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. “Understood, sir.”

This is going to be way too close.

“All CDF stations, prepare for exfil on Route Beta. That means sniper overwatch, too, Davies. Lieutenant, see if you can give us some cover, but I want you in a position to bail as soon as friendlies clear the building.”

“Roger that, sir.” Faulkner turned to Khatib. “You’d better figure out the driver controls, Corporal. I’ve got a feeling this is about to get interesting.”

“Yes, sir,” the Marine replied. He dropped into the compartment below and went to work.

A moment later, the engine made a loud noise as the gears grinded together and the armored beast lurched forward.

“Try not to blow the transmission on your first move, Corporal!”

“I’ll do my best, but no promises with this shit League tech, sir,” Khatib called back.

Faulkner gripped the joystick that controlled the turret’s movements tightly. He spared a few seconds for a silent prayer, begging for God’s help to survive the next five minutes.

Sergeant Bill Davies clutched his standard-issue CDF marksman rifle. He’d only qualified as a sniper a month before. Joining the planetary militia had been a no-brainer for him, as he’d previously served in the CDF for his mandatory four years of service. Not that I ever thought we’d be in another shooting war so quickly.

For him, signing up had been a way to show how invested he was in the success of New Rostov, as a transplant from Churchill. Those who’d grown up on the former League world had, much to his initial surprise, welcomed him and most of the other newcomers. As long as respect was shown, it tended to be offered in return.

He and his spotter, Private Katya Orlov, sat side by side at a table they’d pulled over to the window in the fourth-floor apartment of a kindly retired couple who had let them in after only two knocks. He had cut a small hole in the glass, so the drapes billowing in the wind wouldn’t be a dead giveaway of a sniper’s nest. A former Terran Coalition Marine, Davies had his battlefield processes down to a science.

“Two more light tactical vehicles coming in,” Orlov said. Her English was heavily accented. “Ten degrees.”

“I see them,” Davies replied.

A split second later, the Zhukov tank the friendly forces had captured fired its main gun and blew one of the enemy vehicles apart. But infantry poured out of the second, and farther behind the two APCs, dozens of hostile soldiers came into view.

Davies let out a short whistle. “Target-rich environment.”

“We may not have enough bullets.”

Her deadpan delivery made him chuckle as he adjusted the rifle slightly to the right. “Got anything that looks like an officer?”

“None of them have rank insignia. But… target acquired, two hundred meters. The short one who’s gesturing. Wind is right to left at eight kilometers per hour.”

It took Davies several seconds to ID the man she spoke of, but when he did, it became obvious he was giving orders. Gotcha. “Locked in.”

“Send it.”

He tightened his finger on the trigger, took a breath, and squeezed. The rifle bucked against his shoulder. After the scope jerked, the target was nowhere to be seen.

“Target hit.”

One down. “Next.”

“Another one giving orders. Two hundred fifty meters, rotate five degrees left.”

Davies moved the rifle ever so slightly. The gun was an extension of him, and at that range, even tiny movements had an outsize impact. “Acquired.” Once more, he positioned his finger positioned over the trigger and waited for her confirmation. Too easy. The only hesitation Davies felt was the sheer number of hostiles. But if they did their jobs properly, the enemy would be significantly reduced in threat before the team left the broadcast center. If they leave.

That was a sobering thought.

“Send it.”

He squeezed the trigger and pushed all doubts out of his mind. The only thing that mattered was the next target.

Arthur burst through the front entrance of the broadcast center, his battle rifle up as he searched for targets, the sights and sounds of battle washing over him like a wave. The street beyond was a vision of what he assumed Hell might look like. Smoke billowed from several burning military vehicles, while bodies dotted the road, and debris was scattered everywhere. This could be the set from a War Patrol episode.

It was like nothing he’d ever seen. Combat in space was deliberate, almost sterile when sitting on the bridge. He gave an order, and the officers complied. The effects of those orders were almost never observed in the up-close-and-personal way in which Arthur was seeing it… especially the corpses wearing black uniforms.

“Move it, people!” Arthur shouted to those behind him. The Marines responded instantly, fanning out into defensive positions, as they’d been trained, while the militia members were a little slower to respond. I think we need to thin the herd before attempting a withdrawal. That made sense to him, at least.

The captured tank sat in the middle of the street like an island in a sea of chaos. Its main gun rotated toward a group of Leaguer infantry that advanced by leapfrogging burning APCs. The Zhukov’s armor bore scorch marks from enemy fire, but none of them appeared serious, at least not yet.

Arthur dropped behind the half-height stone wall in front of the broadcast center. A good bit had already been blown out in the firefight to take the station. Incoming fire peppered the area around him and the other troops, mostly of the ballistic variety interspersed with blasts from League plasma weapons.

“Contact right!” Gunnery Sergeant Rodriguez called out from a portion of the wall a few meters away.

Arthur shifted his battle rifle to find at least twenty enemies running toward them as the captured Zhukov fired its main gun. He didn’t look, because he had no interest in seeing flying body parts. As Arthur squeezed the trigger of his weapon, half a dozen other friendlies did as well.

The Marines were, as expected, excellent shots, and felled several of the hostiles as they ran. Arthur thought the one he’d targeted dropped too. The militia wasn’t as tight with their groupings, but they, too, had the advantage of cover against an exposed enemy.

Is this the best they’ve got? Arthur sent off another burst and hit another Leaguer in his center mass. He was about to order the group to fall back through the one-lane street that ran between the broadcast center and a nondescript residential building next to it when a whistling noise echoed through the street.

A split second later, a series of explosions rocked the pavement, sending dirt, chunks of concrete, and road material flying in all directions.

“What the hell is that?” Arthur felt dazed at the immediate change in fortune.

“Mortar rounds incoming!” one of the Marines shouted. Everyone flattened themselves as best as they could with the limited cover.

The League soldiers poured down the street, taking advantage of the sudden lack of fire from the CDF defenders. They utilized fire-and-maneuver tactics, forcing everyone to keep their heads down as more mortar shells flew into the battle zone.

“Colonel, this is Faulkner. How copy?”

Arthur keyed his commlink. “Still here.”

“They’ll have to stop that barrage momentarily or risk hitting friendlies. Use it to lay suppressive fire, and I’ll help cover as best as I can. We can knock these guys back and keep from being overrun.”

Arthur had a feeling he couldn’t quite explain. Yes, the fear was still there. But it was like after a point, it no longer mattered. Bullets passed over his head every few seconds. He could feel the pressure waves. Yet his hands didn’t shake, and somehow, though he couldn’t quite explain it, he had a sense of confidence. “Good info, LT. I need you to move that tank. Back it up so we can still get by, but block off that alley there. We’re going to fall back, using the Zhukov as a stopper, if you will, and leave a little surprise for our friends. Got it?”

“Sounds like a plan, sir. We’ll keep ’em busy in the meanwhile.”

The boom of the tank’s main gun echoed once more, and just as Faulkner had predicted, the incoming mortar rounds let up. Arthur instinctively knew it was the time to strike. “Hit them! Everything we’ve got!” He swung his battle rifle up and opened up, felling two Leaguers only meters away. There’re so many.

One enemy drew a bead on Arthur and adjusted his weapon.

Arthur knew whatever action he took would be too slow as time seemed to move at a crawl.

A high-pitched crack sounded, and the Leaguer dropped in his tracks, missing half of his head.

Damn, that sniper knows his business. Arthur made a mental note to thank him for the assist later.

The Zhukov MBT lurched backward, its treads grinding against debris. The tank pivoted, its bulk gradually filling the gap between buildings but leaving enough room that two people could get by at a time.

Arthur cued his commlink to the all-stations setting. “Listen up, everybody. Fall back by fire teams. Gunny, I want explosives placed behind the tank on a remote detonator.”

“Hoorah, sir,” Rodriguez called out. “You heard the colonel. Shoot and scoot!”

A sustained burst of plasma fire lanced over Arthur’s head. The superheated bolts seared the air centimeters from his scalp. He ducked lower as the heat washed over him. Every second, they’re getting closer. The smoke helps them avoid being picked off too. He plucked a fragmentation grenade off his tactical vest, pulled the pin, and chucked it toward the Leaguer who held the plasma rifle. “Frag, over!”

The explosion was deceptively small, but judging from the panicked screams, Arthur knew he’d hit something. When a secondary explosion sent plasma blobs flying, it confirmed he’d taken out that particular Leaguer. “Fall back!”

Two by two, the Marines and militiamen exchanged fire with the enemy and ran for their lives. As they retreated, the mortar barrage resumed. A group of three militia soldiers disappeared from view as one of the rounds detonated in the middle of them.

“Corpsman!” came a cry from someone near the three fallen soldiers, and Jeremiah rushed forward under fire.

He got to the first man, checked for vitals, and quickly moved to the second then the third. Between him and the Marine who had called for help, they hauled the militiaman behind the tank as the enemy attempted to shoot them down.

The Zhukov’s hatch opened, and Faulkner poked his head out. He got on the automatic Gauss gun and sent enough rounds downrange that the Leaguers ducked for cover where they could find it and silenced their weapons for a few critical seconds.

Arthur waited until he was one of the last CDF combatants not behind the tank, along with Rodriguez and two other Marines. He pulled a pulse grenade off his belt, primed it, and tossed the alloy ball toward the enemy. “Pulse, over!

Three seconds later, it detonated, and the blinding light silenced the enemies’ weapons for a moment. Arthur took full advantage, as did the others, running as fast as he could toward the relative safety of the alley. As soon as he got there, Arthur cued his commlink. “Lieutenant, get out of that tank now. We’re getting out while we still can.”

“Roger, sir! Don’t have to tell me twice.”

Rodriguez gave a thumbs-up. “Got enough explosives here to make life real interesting, sir.” He held up a detonator.

A new sound cut through the battle—the deep, throaty roar of approaching Zhukov main battle tanks. Arthur could see at least three of them edging into the street from the far-north end and almost immediately, their cannons spoke, sending shells flying.

Meanwhile, the captured tank’s back hatch opened. Faulkner and Khatib came flying out as fast as their legs would carry them, just in the nick of time. One of the shells blew into the side of the Zhukov. It must’ve been the armor-piercing type of round, because it blew a hole in one side and out the other where the crew compartment had been moments earlier.

Faulkner came to a stop next to Arthur. “I think that one took a few years off my life.”

Arthur gave him a fist bump. “You and me both.”

“What now, sir?”

“Get the hell out of here and get back to the tunnels before they kill us all,” Arthur replied sotto voce.

A black-clad League soldier appeared between the tank and what remained of the broadcast center’s decorative wall. Without thinking, Arthur raised his battle rifle and put three rounds into the enemy’s center mass before the man could fire.

The hostile stumbled forward, gurgling as blood came out of his mouth before dropping his rifle. It clattered across the pavement then came to rest.

“Nice reflex, sir.”

Arthur was probably more surprised than the Marine. “Time to go, Lieutenant.”

Gunnery Sergeant Rodriguez and a fire team provided the rear guard, while Faulkner and Arthur took point. Along with the remaining Marines and militia, they jogged down the little alley, slowed by the wounded man.

As they got to the back of the building and spread out into the street beyond, Rodriguez’s voice boomed through the commlink, “Company-strength hostiles, sir. We can’t hold this position!”

“Fall back and blow the explosives, Gunny,” Arthur replied. He took up a position on the corner of the alley and the street, with a clear view of the tank backed into the alley.

Rodriguez and his fire team turned and executed an all-out run to the rest of the friendly force while a few other Marines provided covering fire, just enough to keep the Leaguers’ heads down. The second he cleared the corner, a massive detonation rang out.

Charges planted on the tank, both buildings, and in the alley blew apart in a chain of explosions that seemed to shake the planet itself. Window panes blew out half a block away as debris rained everywhere, thanks to ammo cookoff from within the tank.

When the dust settled enough that Arthur could see again, he noted with satisfaction that the alley was effectively sealed, and what wasn’t blocked was engulfed in flames, exactly as he’d hoped. No one’s getting through there for a bit. I hope long enough for us to disappear.

But that hope died in his throat as two Leaguer APCs glided into the street from the far right, disgorging dozens of infantry. They immediately opened up with ballistic rifle and plasma fire while the armored personnel carriers unleashed their anti-infantry turreted weapons.

Caught between the burning pyre of the previously captured Zhukov and the new threat, Arthur did the only thing he could. “Cover! Get to cover!” He jumped behind a large flowerpot outside a walkup townhome.

Faulkner was right behind. “Shit.”

That about sums it up. “Got any actionable ideas, Lieutenant?”

“Cut as many of them down as we can and make a run for it.”

Arthur didn’t need to be a Marine to know that would result in half or more of them dying. “Do we have any antiarmor rockets left?”

“I’ll find out.”

Lord, I don’t see a way out of this. If there’s something I’ve missed, please, help me. I don’t want to die, but I don’t want these men and women to either. Please. Help us.

The Leaguers pressed forward relentlessly. It was as if they didn’t care if they died, so long as the Terrans did. How does one fight such an enemy? Beyond killing them all, I don’t know.

19

Davies watched through his scope as the League forces raced forward toward Arthur’s position behind the burning Zhukov. If the commlink chatter was any indication, Colonel Hanson and his people were trapped, pinned down by overwhelming firepower from multiple directions. This went to hell fast. I picked a heck of a time to reenlist, didn’t I?

“Three more hostiles with rifles moving to flank,” Orlov reported. “Two-twenty meters, behind the blue helicar.”

Davies adjusted his aim and squeezed the trigger. The lead soldier dropped instantly. He acquired the second target and shot again—another hit.

“Two down. Third’s gone to cover.”

His commlink crackled with Faulkner’s voice: “Sniper team, we’re pulling back. Cease fire and extract out the back the building.”

Davies hesitated, his finger hovering over the trigger guard. Below them, more League infantry poured into the street from cover as more tanks rumbled forward. Arthur’s team was still trapped, still taking fire from multiple directions. If we leave now, they’re dead.

“Did you copy that transmission?” Orlov asked.

“I heard it.” Davies lined up another shot on a League soldier with a rocket launcher. The man was setting up to fire at the building, perhaps to try to open a hole through the rubble. “Our people will never make it out with all these bastards shooting at them.”

Since when did I become a hero? He fired, and the rocket-armed soldier dropped in his tracks as he fired the weapon. The missile shot straight into the sky, and that was the last they saw of it.

“What are you going to do?” Orlov asked quietly.

“Our job is to slow these guys down. Give our people a chance.” Davies adjusted his aim. “That’s what we’re going to do.”

Another enemy soldier appeared with a rocket launcher, taking position behind an overturned helicar that was half destroyed. Davies put a round through his chest before he could fire.

“Orlov, you need to get out of here,” he said without taking his eye off the scope. She was the same age as his sister Emma and had the same stubborn streak and the same way of looking at the world like she could fix it if she just tried hard enough. Emma had died, a casualty of war, when her ship was destroyed in combat by the League during her mandatory three-year draft enlistment. I’ll be damned if I watch a young woman die because of these Leaguer bastards. “This is about to get real ugly.”

“No.”

The word carried absolute finality. Davies glanced at her. Orlov’s jaw was set, her eyes fixed on the street below as she called out ranges and wind adjustments. Dammit. We’re both going to get killed if she stays.

“I’m serious. They’re going to figure out where we are soon enough, and when they do—”

“Then we make every shot count until then. New target. Rocket launcher, three hundred meters, by the red building.”

Davies found the target and fired. The shot went wide, punching through the building wall. The League soldier with the RPG kept setting up his shot.

“Wind shifted,” Orlov called out. “Adjust two degrees right.”

He made the correction and shot again. That time, the soldier dropped, and his rocket launcher tumbled into the street.

How many is that now? Twenty-three? Davies was losing count, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was every hostile he dropped was one less gun shooting at Hanson and the others. Movement caught his eye—another squad of League infantry moving toward the broadcast center.

“More targets, moving left to right behind the black APC.”

“I see them.”

Davies worked methodically, one shot per target. His rifle spoke with mechanical precision, each round finding its mark. Brass casings accumulated at his feet. Then he heard the deep rumble of a tank reversing its engine.

“Shit.” A Zhukov moved into position in the middle of the street, its main gun already traversing toward the burning tank and the broadcast center. But as Davies watched through his scope, the barrel kept rotating—toward their building.

“Orlov, they’ve spotted us,” he said, his voice tight. “That tank’s rotating our way. Get out now.”

She didn’t look up from her spotting scope. “New targets. More infantry with rockets, two hundred fifty meters.”

“Orlov, you need to go now!” Davies fired at the rocket team anyway, dropping one of them. The image of Emma’s smile flashed through his mind—the last time he’d seen her alive, waving goodbye as she shipped out for her last CDF tour. I won’t lose another one. “That tank’s going to blow this whole building apart!”

“Make every shot count.”

“Dammit, Orlov, I’m ordering you to get out!” Why won’t she leave? She’s got her whole life in front of her. “Please. Just go.” As he said the words, Davies realized that even if she ran now, the tank would level the building before either of them could get out.

“No.” She finally turned toward him. “We stay together.”

The tank’s main gun was almost lined up on their position. Through his scope, Davies could see the commander’s hatch was open, a figure in a League uniform visible in the turret. Bastard probably wants to see victory with his own eyes, or some typical Leaguer ego trip.

Davies adjusted his aim, centered the commander in his crosshairs, and squeezed the trigger with the same calm precision he’d used the entire battle. The League officer jerked backward and disappeared into the turret. Rot in hell.

“Good shot,” Orlov said with finality.

Her fingers unexpectedly touched his as the world exploded in fire and thunder. The 125mm high-explosive shell punched through the apartment building’s wall like it was paper, detonating inside the room in a blast of super-heated gas and flying debris.

As everything went white and pain shot through his mind in overwhelming amounts, Bill Davies’s last thought was that perhaps he would get to see Emma again in paradise. At least his war was over, and after a fleeting moment, he found peace.

Arthur crouched behind the flowerpot, and it felt like the universe was collapsing around him. Tank shells slammed into the building next to the broadcast center where the sniper team had posted up. Sick to his stomach, he keyed his commlink. “Sniper team, report.”

No response other than silence followed.

“Sergeant Davies, come in.”

“They didn’t make it, sir,” Faulkner called out. “The sergeant wouldn’t leave his post.”

He tried to buy us a few more seconds. Two more good people. But there was no time to dwell on that, as the League infantry massing on the street around them would see the entire unit off unless they could somehow change up the tactical picture.

“Contact left!” Gunnery Sergeant Rodriguez shouted through the commlink. He’d taken up position with a couple of other Marines behind a helicar that was parked on the left side of the street. So many holes peppered the vehicle that it was a wonder it didn’t simply disintegrate.

At least a dozen of the black-clad League infantry soldiers advanced up the street, utilizing bound overwatch tactics. Coupled with intermittent fire from the enemy APCs that sent sizzling blasts of energy over everyone’s heads, most of the friendly force was behind cover, trying to stay alive.

Arthur swung his rifle toward the threat and squeezed off a burst. One of the advancing League soldiers stumbled but remained upright. These guys just keep coming. They’re like one of those old holovid villains.

The distinctive whine of a League plasma rifle echoed as the superheated bolts burned through the air. They left smoldering impacts on the plasticrete and masonry buildings, but one shot caught a militia private in the shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw the young man fall from behind the fence where he’d taken cover.

The young man screamed, wildly clutching the smoking hole where his shoulder and arm used to be.

“Corpsman!” Arthur shouted.

Jeremiah had already emerged from his hiding place, sprinted toward the fallen soldier, and covered the last meter in a sliding jump. He came to stop next to the private and began triage.

As bursts of Leaguer plasma fire and ballistic rounds got closer to the wounded man and Jeremiah, Arthur flipped his fire-selector switch to full auto. He waited for a trio of hostiles to resume their advance before squeezing the trigger. Dozens of rounds spilled out of his rifle and shredded the three men.

The barrage was enough to force the rest of the squad to keep its head down for a few precious seconds.

“How bad, Chief?” Arthur called out.

“Could be worse,” Jeremiah yelled back. “Wound is cauterized, but he’ll need a cloned limb and a surgeon.”

Bursts of enemy fire forced Arthur to duck. One round went through the flowerpot where his head had been a second before. Damn. That was close. Another APC had appeared at the next block up the street, with more infantry spilling out.

Without warning, a boxy black shape roared down from the sky and hovered over the street. Arthur instantly recognized it as a League assault shuttle roughly equivalent to what the TCMC and CDF used. Ropes descended from the back of the craft, and heavily armed troops came down at astonishing speeds. Worse, they wore power armor.

Arthur’s mouth ran dry. We’ve lost control of the fight. Six… eight… no, twelve Leaguer Goliath suits? Shit.

“Colonel,” Faulkner called out from a meter away, “we’ve got to move. No matter what it costs.”

Arthur went through the options. They could try to fight their way out, but that would mean leaving the wounded behind to have any chance of success at an all-out run. They could make a stand. We’d be dead in five minutes. Think. There’s got to be something.

A League soldier popped up from behind an APC, rocket launcher on his shoulder. Arthur snapped his rifle up and put three rounds into his center mass before the man could fire, and a comrade pulled the soldier back behind cover.

Too many of them. Way too many. The familiar sensation of mental freeze crept into Arthur’s mind, the same feeling he’d had during the worst moments aboard the Margaret Thatcher, when everything fell apart and he couldn’t figure out what to do next. His hands shook, and for a terrifying second, blackness started to engulf his vision.

No. Not now. Not here. These people are counting on me. He forced himself to take a breath then another. One problem at a time. Focus on what you can control. “Lieutenant, we got any rockets left?”

Faulkner made hand signals toward a fire team a few meters away before answering. “Two, maybe three, sir. But they’re unguided.”

“We could use them on the shuttle. Knock it down, maybe. Use the chaos to break contact and fall—”

At the sharp crack of a ballistic rifle, one of the militiamen jerked backward with a neat hole through his forehead.

Arthur knew instinctively that the man was dead before he hit the ground. That’s three down, one critical. The walls were closing in as the League forces pressed forward from two directions. He checked his tactical vest to find only two magazines remaining. I bet that’s everyone else too. A glance to his left told him that Jeremiah had Morrison stabilized but couldn’t move him without a stretcher team.

“Sir!” Faulkner yelled above the constant din of battle. “What are your orders?”

One of the Marines opened up on a League power-armored trooper with full auto from his battle rifle. About half the rounds pinged off, but one went through the helmet. The Leaguer toppled forward, blood on the face plate.

Even with that minor victory, Arthur knew it was time to go. He keyed his commlink and prepared to give the order to run. It meant sacrificing the wounded, which was an agonizing, horrific decision. But if they stayed, everyone was dead in short order. Lord, I don’t know what to do. Please, show me something. Anything.

The only answer was the rumble and whine of more approaching vehicles.

Great. More enemy reinforcements. Arthur timed a belly crawl to the nearest helicar as bullets pinged around him. He glanced around the back of the car, and his heart skipped a beat.

Two armored personnel carriers turned into the far end of the street, but they were not Leaguers. The angular, utilitarian design was unmistakably Coalition Defense Force surplus, the kind of APCs that got handed down to civilian police departments for SWAT or anti-terrorism operations. Both whipped around in a precision maneuver that would have made a Marine driver proud. Their rear hatches dropped open before they’d even come to a complete stop.

Heavily armed figures in black tactical gear poured out, and Arthur caught a glimpse of Serebryanov Police stenciled on their body armor. The lead figure was a compact man with three stripes and four rockers on his shoulder. He moved like someone who’d seen serious combat.

My God. The cavalry’s here. Arthur was dumbfounded. He wondered if it was another trick by the enemy. But that question was answered when the APCs’ turrets rotated toward the nearest Leaguers and opened up. The weapons were not military standard and appeared designed for nonlethal crowd suppression. As a result, they didn’t affect the power armored enemies but left the others stunned and writhing on the ground. League soldiers who were advancing seconds before raced for any cover they could find.

A loudspeaker crackled to life from within one of the armored beasts. “All CDF personnel, this is Senior Sergeant Petrov, Serebryanov SWAT. We’re here to get you out. Take cover behind us.”

The sudden reversal of fortune was almost too much for Arthur to process. Moments ago, we were about to die, and now…

Don’t get cocky. We’re not out of this yet. The biggest impediment seemed to be the shuttle, which was adjusting itself in a slow hover. If it’s got missiles or Gauss cannons, we’re screwed. He made a split-second decision and cued his commlink. “Marines, whoever’s got an anti-tank rocket, now’s the time. Hit that assault shuttle with everything we’ve got!”

One Marine sprang up from cover long enough to aim and launch one of the dumb-fire antiarmor rockets, which slammed into the shuttle a moment later—or more accurately, its deflector shield. Another one struck home, and the shield system snapped off with a bright-red flash.

The League soldiers and their power-armored brethren attempted to adjust to the new threat, but the police APCs kept them busy, as did the SWAT teams. Concentrated ballistic weapons fire forced the enemy back, while the police units spread out into fire teams as Petrov gave hand signals to his people.

As the shuttle attempted to rise out of the battle zone, presumably to recharge its defensive screens before coming back for another run, a third CDF anti-tank rocket blew off the left engine pod in a spectacular explosion. Trailing thick black smoke, the League craft tried to accelerate but instead veered off and flew into the side of a townhouse across the street.

Building debris, flames, and alloy erupted from the impact site as the shuttle’s engine and fuel reserves went critical. After the blinding flash faded, Arthur took in the tremendous change the explosion had made to the battlefield. Half the building had collapsed, while debris and alloy littered the street. Best of all, thick smoke and dust was filling the air. Amid the pandemonium, smoke grenades thrown by the police units dropped into the street, and the Leaguers’ fire became inaccurate.

We won’t be getting a second chance. Arthur hauled himself to a crouch and cued his commlink. “All CDF stations, fall back. I say again, fall back the police tactical vehicles.”

No one had to be told twice. The Marines began an orderly withdrawal, while the militia was a bit more ramshackle about it. Jeremiah and a few others carried the wounded, half dragging them across the pavement toward the promised respite of the police APCs.

Arthur was one of the last to the lead vehicle, and he got around the corner to relative safety, nearly out of breath. “Who’s in charge here?”

“I am. Petrov, sir.” The black-clad SWAT officer extended his hand. “Glad you made it.”

“Thanks for the assist, Sergeant. Colonel Arthur Hanson, CDF. We were… Yeah. Well, God works in mysterious ways.”

“I’m glad we were in the right place at the right time. My team was knocking over an underdefended police armory. Now I see why it was such an easy task.” Petrov chuckled.

“Can we get loaded up into these vehicles and get out of here?”

Petrov shook his head. “No, sir. There’s League main battle tanks moving around out here, and we’re dead if they find us. We need to get underground.”

“Well, yes, but the entrance point to the subway system is a kilometer away. I don’t like our odds exposed to the enemy.” Bullets pinged off the side of the APC, as if to underscore Arthur’s point.

“I figured that’s where you were hiding out. Well, the sewer links into that mass transit system in a few places. See the manholes all over the street? All we have to do is get down there, and we’re home free.”

“We’ll stink like hell, but that’s better than dying,” Faulkner said as he strode over. “I’m game, sir.”

Arthur nodded. “Okay, wounded first, then we get out of here.”

The Marines went to work, first removing the manhole cover then building a rig out of rope to lower the wounded down the shaft. One militiaman went down first and provided an anchor. Occasionally, the enemy forces probed their front, but the energy turrets did their job at forcing the Leaguers back.

However, that didn’t last long. As the last wounded Marine was lowered into the hole, the familiar rumble of a Zhukov’s engine echoed down the street.

“Move your ass, Marines!” Faulkner bellowed as men climbed onto the ladder leading below then slid down thanks to their combat gloves.

They were in a race against time as the enemy closed in. All the while, the dwindling number of shooters aboveground kept the Leaguers honest. Dozens of bodies fell in the street, some stunned, some dead.

Once the entire militia team was down, the police officers were next. Before long, Arthur, Petrov, Faulkner, and Khatib were the last ones remaining. They were just in time to see the Zhukov lumber around a corner, its turret pointed ominously forward. First Petrov then Faulkner scooted down the ladder into the sewer as fast as they could.

Arthur’s mind went numb at some point as he simply worked the problem. Get the manhole cover. Put it in place. Survive. He was reaching for the circular piece of alloy when Khatib shoved him toward the sewer opening.

“Sir, get down there. I’m right behind.”

“Corp—”

Suddenly, Khatib staggered backward and collapsed as a bright-red stain erupted from his chest.

Arthur blinked. Shit! He hadn’t heard the distinctive crack of a high-powered rifle, but with the chaos around him, who knew what he was missing. Without thinking, Arthur grabbed the Marine’s ankles and pulled before positioning him on the lip of the manhole cover. If it weren’t for the smoke grenades, I’d be dead right now. “Khatib’s hit. I’m dropping him down. Somebody catch him, for God’s sake!”

Two seconds later, Arthur pushed the Marine into the hole as he moaned in agony. Sorry, brother. Best I can do right now. His mind immediately went to how sewer water would cause infection. At least the chief can treat that. He grabbed the cover and, with a herculean effort, dragged it over the hole.

As the outside world went dark, the last thing Arthur saw was the Zhukov driving forward and League infantry converging out of the smoke. Amazed he was still alive, Arthur slid down the ladder to find the rest of the team waiting. “That’s everyone.”

Petrov held up a detonator and flipped the safety cover open. “I left a surprise for the enemy. Would you like the honor, Colonel?”

Arthur shook his head. “No, you earned it, Sergeant.”

Petrov smiled coldly, his expression even more sinister because of the lights shining off several combat helmets and reflecting off the sewer walls, casting oddly shaped shadows. He pressed the red button, and a split second later, explosions and screams echoed above.

As Jeremiah worked on Khatib, Arthur took a moment to take stock of where they were. The sewer was as advertised: dark and wet, and the smell was one of the most disgusting ones to ever hit Arthur’s nostrils. But we’re alive.

Petrov pointed down the tunnel. “We should move, sir. I’d like to plant explosives on trip wires at the bottom of the ladder and along the way to impede the enemy.”

“Do it. I don’t suppose you happen to know how to get to the subway system from here?”

“As a matter of fact, I checked the plans before we got here. Superior planning tends to equal superior success. It’s a SWAT maxim.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “Then lead the way. Oh… Sergeant, you act like a guy who knows his way around. Where’d you learn all this? CDF or the Marines?”

“League of Sol Army. Five years,” Petrov replied without missing a beat.

Arthur did a double take. “Seriously?”

“Conscripted as soon as I finished secondary school, like most others.” Petrov shrugged. “I’ve had the benefit of seeing both systems first hand, and hear me when I tell you I’ll never go back to the League way. We win, or they kill me. One or the other.”

Arthur nodded. Since New Rostov was a former League world, its people had tasted freedom. They won’t give it up without a fight.

The tunnel stretched ahead into darkness, lit only by their helmet lights as the SWAT officers arranged explosives. Arthur stared at the unit and did a head count of the Marines and militia squad. Three major injuries, seven dead, out of a force of twenty-four—in exchange for a message to the population calling on them to fight back.

Moving single file through the muck, they set off. Arthur prayed it was all worth it.

20

Trifid Securities Trust HQ

Rand—Galt

20 May 2474

Kenneth’s whole body itched. There was nothing wrong with him, but his suit was like nothing he’d ever worn. Pretty sure it’s just in my mind and has nothing to do with the cloth. Oh, excuse me, the finest stretch wool.

If Raoul Lou’s office had been ostentatious, the building of Trifid Securities Trust took everything to the next level. Somebody in here really likes gold. The precious metal seemed to coat everything, giving the entire building a gaudy look.

“I hate these suits,” Calvin muttered as they entered a meeting room with chairs that had gold-coated backs. “And I’m pretty sure I’d enjoy busting into this place with a Marine platoon.”

“Temper, temper. Remember, we need their help,” Kenneth replied quietly.

“Yeah, okay, boss.”

They’d been waiting for the last half hour. I’d wager Raoul is having a premeeting.

At that moment, the doors swung open, and six people in sharp business attire entered the room. One was Raoul Lou. The other five—two women and three men—were unknown to him. All wore suits made of similar fabric to what Kenneth and Calvin had on, though their presentation was certainly more ostentatious.

Kenneth sprang from his seat, as did Calvin. “Ladies, gentlemen, thank you for meeting with us.”

All but Lou stared at Kenneth as if he’d grown a second head. One of the women stood next to the chair at the head of the table. She was taller than the average woman, but that probably had something to do with her shoes, he realized. Her gaze was so intense that it seemed as if it could melt metal alloy.

“Mister Lowe, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I am Penthesilea Zoumis, the chairman and CEO of Trifid Securities. This and everything you have seen in it is mine. The only reason you are here is because a good friend vouched for what you have to say.” She pulled the chair out and sat down. “Do not confuse yourself. This is not a friendly meeting. You are in the presence of some of the most powerful and richest people in the Milky Way galaxy. Do not try my patience, and do not waste my time.”

Direct is an understatement. “As a businessman, albeit of a far smaller concern, I understand the concept of time management. So I thank you for this audience, ma’am.”

“Proceed, Mr. Lowe.”

“My understanding is that none of you have any love for the League of Sol.”

Zoumis snickered. “That’s putting it mildly. I hate communism, socialism, and everything they stand for on ideological grounds. Your, ah, benefactor, Mr. Lou, he’s more of a pragmatist but understands authoritarian regimes are bad for business. Everyone else here has lost business, employees, and sleep to the League.”

“Don’t forget the bribes we have to pay for their infernal customs agents,” one of the men interjected. “It’s absurd. They want a hundred thousand Galt credits to look the other way these days.”

“I have a simple solution to that, Gary,” she replied. “Stop trying to do business with communists.”

“Says the woman who has a stranglehold on half the military contracts coming out of the ISF.”

Kenneth cleared his throat. Okay, not only do they hate the League, but they hate each other too. “Let’s focus on the real enemy: the League of Sol and their terrorist puppets.”

“Ah, there’s some fire in there.” Zoumis smirked. “Good. Now, sit down and explain to us what you want and, more importantly, what’s in it for us.”

Here goes nothing. Kenneth lowered himself into the ornate chair, as did the rest with various levels of gusto. “I initially asked for this meeting to discuss the idea of sending private military support to the Orion Spur. After significant consideration and a conversation with Mr. Lou, the idea has morphed.”

All six of the business leaders stared at him, and Kenneth felt like each was boring through his soul.

“Instead of a PMC effort, I propose a humanitarian convoy to New Rostov.”

“Why would we do that? They’d get cut to ribbons by PFLOS,” the other woman of the group interjected. “I’m not sending good people to die for no reason. You wouldn’t even get a PR boost out of that.”

“They wouldn’t be going alone,” Kenneth replied. “The ISF would provide a military escort.”

Zoumis leaned, her gaze still examining him in much the same way as a rancher would look at a horse before deciding whether she was going to buy. “I have a question, Mr. Lowe. When did you start working for the Coalition Intelligence Service? Was it a few decades ago, or did they recruit you last week?”

Kenneth kept his eyes focused and hoped to God he hadn’t just turned bright red. “I do not work for, nor have I ever worked for or on behalf of CIS, ma’am.”

“Then another one of the alphabet-soup agencies in your country’s intelligence community.”

“No, ma’am.” Kenneth shook his head. “I have no affiliation with any of them, nor have I been in contact with them or received instructions as to what to say here.”

All that was technically true, since General Sinclair was a member of CDF Intelligence and not connected to the civilian IC. Though not true in the spirit of her question. Dissembling was not something Kenneth excelled at. Nor did he want to.

“Go on,” Zoumis finally said after several seconds of silence.

“The objective is to show that the ISF and other SATO members have a vested interest—”

Zoumis snickered. “You’re hoping the terrorists will make the mistake of firing on ISF fleet assets. That’s obvious. Not a bad plan, either, I might add. The question is ‘What’s in it for us?’ Because my hatred for communism doesn’t improve my corporation’s bottom line.”

Kenneth swallowed. This is the part that will be tricky. “Seeing as I’m a private citizen, I can’t negotiate on behalf of the Coalition. However, I’m certain that my people will remember who came to their aid.”

The man Zoumis had called Gary snorted. “That’s well and good, but will it lift the blanket prohibition on our corporations’ doing business in Terran space?”

No, probably not. One of the few things that left, center-left, right, and center-right agreed on in the Terran Coalition was no megacorps. A business entity on par with or more powerful than the government was a nonstarter, period. Kenneth took a breath. “I can’t make those kinds of promises. Consider the free advertising, though. Your alliance of corporations sends food and medical supplies to starving Terrans. If there’s anything that would sway public opinion, it’s that. I’m sure you do similar things on Galt.”

“So you come with your proverbial hat in hand, offer us nothing, and expect everything—”

“Ma’am, I will personally pay for the supplies.”

Zoumis considered him for a moment. “This is not meant as an insult, Mr. Lowe. But that’s nothing in the scheme of this operation. At most, twenty million credits. I’m surprised you have that much to your name, but regardless, it’s a rounding error to the people in this room. And it will take forty or fifty times that to get cargo freighters in sufficient quantity to fly to New Rostov. There is no reinsurance issuer on Galt that will underwrite this plan… so we’ll collectively be on the hook for buying new ships, paying families, so on and so forth. Can you see why this is a hard sell, to put it mildly?”

Kenneth had half a dozen replies ready and opened his mouth to deliver one.

But Raoul Lou cut him off with a hand wave. “If twenty million credits is a rounding error to you, Phryne, then so is your share of what this enterprise would cost. Let’s go with the most extreme case and say we’d need to lay out a billion credits overall. You can scrounge up two hundred million in your sofa cushions. So can I and everyone else here.”

Zoumis affixed the industrialist with an icy stare. “Money is not the only consideration.”

“No, it’s not.” Kenneth set his jaw. He’d come to close a deal, and it was slipping away. Worse, any hope for reinforcements to the beleaguered CDF forces fighting PFLOS would be lost. Time to roll the dice. “Since we’re having this meeting in a city named after Ayn Rand—and I would wager all of you have rotating ownership of the last first-edition printed copies of her books—if I remember right, she valued freedom, and moreover, she said that free men fight because they’re unwilling to live as slaves.”

“Your point?”

“If we don’t stop them now, they’ll be here next. If you believe in the ideals you claim to, Ms. Zoumis, dropping some money to recruit like-minded people to go out and fight seems like a damn good use of your precious Galter credits.”

“And if this gambit fails and, worse, our involvement comes out? How do you propose we handle the External Services assassins that would undoubtedly be sent to kill us?” one of the other male CEOs, who’d been silent until that point, interjected.

“Spend some of your trillions on better security and kill them.”

Everyone’s eyes, including Kenneth’s, went to Calvin, who’d uttered the words.

“I mean seriously, hire some TCMC Marines, or if it’ll make you feel better, Space Special Warfare commandos. Flash the kind of credits y’all have, and they’ll even come to this… planet of yours.”

Zoumis narrowed her eyes. “And you are?”

“Colonel Calvin Demood, Terran Coalition Marine Corps, retired.”

“Ahh, yes. I’ve read your file.” She smiled thinly. “You don’t seem to appreciate the delicate nature of what your compatriot is asking.”

While Kenneth appreciated Calvin’s direct approach, he wasn’t sure that throwing it in the faces of a few trillionaires they, in effect, needed a favor from, was the best way forward. These people tend to value respect, and they’ll pay top credit to get it.

Before he could open his mouth to smooth things over, Raoul Lou interjected. “Mr. Demood is spot on.” Lou gestured with his hands, indicating the room at large. “This isn’t simply a matter of business. It’s defending our rights. And since Kenneth brought our city’s namesake up, I would remind you that it’s a maxim of Objectivism that whoever defends his own rights defends the rights of all. That is something that is morally good.”

Zoumis shrugged. “I think a bigger question is what’s good for business.”

“Doing what’s right and making credits aren’t mutually exclusive. My father knew that, and sometimes… I get afield from that. We can make a difference here that helps us and the galaxy at large. Kenneth is right. That kind of PR is priceless. To that end, I pledge two hundred fifty million credits toward a relief convoy.”

Well, that’s one way to put your money where your mouth is. Kenneth’s mind went back to an interaction he’d had many years before, when Joshua had shamed an executive in the company they worked for by informing him that Kenneth had been providing bonuses to employees out of his pay. The expressions on the rest of the tycoons in the room, including Zoumis’s, resembled what he remembered of the man’s bloodred face.

“I’m in a hundred million,” the other woman interjected.

“Put me down for two hundred million,” Gary said.

Excluding Zoumis, the others dashed to reach the one billion mark quickly. She held her tongue for a moment then shook her head. “I think you’re all a bunch of damned fools.”

“There’s a but in there. I’ve known you long enough to hear it in your voice, Phryne.” A sly grin spread across Lou’s face.

“I can’t have anyone think that there’s someone more ideologically opposed to the League on Galt than me. Consider your investments doubled.”

Kenneth swallowed. Two billion credits was an incomprehensible sum to him on a personal level. Though a few years ago, a million credits was more money than I could possibly imagine. We run through twenty-five million a month in our contracts now. He supposed at some point, it was all relative. Not that it had changed Kenneth much. His helicar was still the same make he’d flown his entire life. All he really cared about was fitting in the passenger compartment, which his over-two-meter height made a challenge.

Lou turned from Zoumis to Kenneth. “The ISF escort is a done deal?”

“I have every reason to believe it will be.”

Zoumis narrowed her eyes. “You may not be working for CIS—I don’t believe that, by the way—but if you want this to succeed, pass back to whoever is pulling your strings that none of these credits flow, and the convoy goes nowhere without a military escort.”

“We can convey that through the proper channels, ma’am.”

“Then there is nothing else for us to discuss.” Zoumis stood. The others jumped up as she did. “Oh, and Mr. Lowe… if you’re going to wear a suit, at least bother to have it properly tailored. That takes more than a day.”

Kenneth let the barb go, as she was already half out the door. Everyone except for Raoul Lou trailed out, leaving the three of them alone.

“Well, that went better than I expected.”

“You owe me one,” Lou said.

“Kind of figured that.”

Calvin ran his tongue over his lips. “My boss owes you for doing the right thing?”

“Nothing’s free in this life.” Lou gestured toward the exit. “However, this was about as close as Galt gets to having a backbone on anything beyond taxation… so, would you care to join me for dinner? I’ll get a table at the best steakhouse in the city.”

Kenneth flashed a grin. “I make it a point to never avoid a steak. Especially not a filet or a ribeye.”

“Then you’re in luck, because these guys have one of the juiciest tomahawk ribeyes in the galaxy.”

“We won’t turn that down.”

Calvin crossed his arms. “Who’s paying?”

“I am.” Lou snickered. “You’re about as direct as Penthesilea.”

“Maybe she was a Marine somewhere.”

Lou turned serious. “No, but she did come up through the ranks. It’s dog-eat-dog here, gents. Ms. Zoumis is one of the best, too. You sat down with her, got an agreement, didn’t have your company bought out from under you, and are still alive. That’s a win, and I’d count it as one if I were you.”

“It’s a small win. The bigger one is still to come.”

“We can talk about that in a private soundproof booth with an active jammer while we eat steaks. Now, please, gentlemen, let’s get out of here.”

It hit Kenneth that Lou was eager to leave. This is his version of an enemy, I suppose. It made sense. “Lead the way.”

Robert Sinclair took a sip of tea and gazed into the night of Rand. He was fascinated by Galt and the so-called megacorps that kept it going. On paper, the system shouldn’t have worked. And worked wasn’t quite the same as good, because the lower echelons of the planet’s population had a life that was objectively worse than the Terran Coalition’s.

Watching the helicars go to and fro, he thought of the campaigns to convince people from all walks of life, throughout the galaxy, to seek their fortune there. They came from the Coalition, from independent space, even Sauria and Matrinid. Most megacorp CEOs felt having Saurian bodyguards was not only a sign of how well one was doing but also a necessity to avoid having a compromised security team. The honor culture the alien species practiced almost guaranteed that once a Saurian warrior had signed on for a particular task, he would see it through, up to and including his death.

People-watching is such a pleasant way to pass the time. It was certainly better than writing reports. Since he’d become a senior intelligence officer, that was about all he got to do anymore, outside of operational planning. Any field work, regardless of how minor, brought him back to the days of his youth.

Sinclair felt a certain nostalgia for a time gone by, because twenty years ago, there was a clearly defined right and wrong. And I was on the side of good. He believed he still was, but as time progressed, gray had begun to seep in. Acting against orders, regardless of how creatively he interpreted them, was something a young Second Lieutenant Sinclair would never have done, with words like duty, honor, and courage still echoing in his ears.

But as he sat in the small Turkish bakery overlooking Commerce Square, those words still rang true. Unlike the wet-behind-the-ears second lieutenant, Brigadier General Sinclair had the added weight of an entire intelligence organization on his shoulders. More than that, he carried the well-being and continued existence of the Terran Coalition. Because if we fail here, the Leaguers will keep coming. They’ll never stop, until they’ve conquered Canaan and expunged us from the universe.

Sinclair would fight that until his last breath, no matter what it took, what he had to do, or how much of the gray he had to walk through.

The special comms device in his suit jacket vibrated. It utilized nonhuman technology for every component, and a certain alien hacker had implemented the encryption system. Mr. Markul was very useful. It helps to have a beneficial relationship with that young man.

He pulled the device out and authenticated his retina while keying in a passphrase. A moment later, the screen shifted to show a recorded voice message. Sinclair held it to his ear.

“Good news, General,” Kenneth Lowe began. “I accomplished my objective, but they won’t send the goods without the escort, so the ball is in your court. Good luck and Godspeed, sir.”

Sinclair allowed himself a moment to bask in completing one important part of the plan, manifested by a small smile. His neutral expression reappeared as a second passed and the enormity of what lay before him came once again into focus. The lanky defense contractor wasn’t much of a combatant, but Sinclair remained impressed by the man’s ethics. All those credits haven’t gone to his head, which is no small praise. Most who gain power are seduced in some way by it. It was something he recognized even in himself. He felt a constant battle within to keep the lust for power and control from overtaking him, something especially hard for a spymaster to accomplish.

Sinclair brought the comms device to his lips. “Once more, my old and dear friend, the outcome of the entire issue relies upon you alone. Everything is in place, and we are in need of one more minor miracle. Convince Prime Minister Ascaro to send the escort, and our objectives may yet be complete.”

Sinclair stared at the miniature tablet as it processed and saved the message. He entered an address that was kept only in his mind and sent it. All evidence the file ever existed in the first place would be erased within seconds, as not only was everything encrypted with quantum-level cyphers that not even the Coalition Intelligence Service’s best could break, but the autoeraser function ensured that even if one of the custom-built units was compromised, the network would remain safe.

I grieve the need to use this as protection from my own government.

That grief did not, however, prevent Sinclair from doing what he had to in order to achieve his objective. He placed the device back in his jacket pocket and took a final swig of the tea. Sinclair thought back to a day, years past, when his efforts and those of Major Abdul Rahman al-Lahim had helped to restore democracy to Lusitania. I do pray you will return the favor, Madame Prime Minister. Or all will be lost. Somehow, against all odds, Robert Sinclair believed everything would work out as it should. As the Lord wills.

21

Arthur thought it was a minor miracle that he was still alive. That any of us are, for that matter. The tunnel was cold, but a survival blanket kept him from shivering all that much. He stared out at the small camp, which was filled with the survivors. Seventeen men and women had returned from the broadcast tower operation. Since they’d added another thirteen police officers, they technically came back with more than they’d left with. He chastised himself for mentally trying to find a win. This was a near disaster. I’ve got to own that, at least with myself. It’s the only way to learn.

He was brought out of his mental reverie by Jeremiah’s voice. “Colonel?”

Arthur jerked his head to see the corpsman and a civilian woman standing in front of him. “Sorry, Chief. Was thinking about our next moves.”

“We’ve got a problem, sir. Corporal Khatib’s in bad shape. Frankly, he needs a hospital and a real surgical suite.”

“Which we’re not getting access to anytime soon,” Arthur replied. “We can’t let him just die down here.”

Jeremiah pursed his lips. “I know that on both accounts, sir. I’d operate if I knew how. But frankly, I’d kill Khatib if I tried to fish out that bullet. It’s too close to his heart.”

“Is this where you tell me you found a qualified surgeon among our small group of refugees?” Arthur asked with a small smile.

“I wish,” the woman said. She brushed a wisp of black hair out of her face.

“Colonel, meet Miriam Klein. She’s an occupational therapist.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You offer emotional support for workers?”

She laughed. “Ah, no, sir. I help rehabilitate patients who’ve suffered neurological damage or whose physical ailments prevent them from completing the activities of daily living.”

“I’m sorry, but maybe I’m still dealing with some combat shock. How does this help us?”

“Miriam’s selling herself a bit short,” Jeremiah replied. “She’s been assisting the medical team and has completed her premed training—”

Klein cleared her throat. “I’m a year into my training to become a neurologist, Colonel. Being a surgeon is part of that.”

Arthur’s eyes went from her to Jeremiah and back again. “Have you performed any surgeries, ma’am?”

Klein paused. “No. I’ve observed many of them, though. I’ve also practiced in simulators and on cadavers.”

Great. So she’s cut open dead bodies.

Arthur immediately chastised himself for being dismissive. This woman clearly wants to help. But she just might kill Khatib by accident. But he was going to die anyway. At least trying to do something would offer a chance of a different outcome. When Arthur approached the decision from that perspective, the answer was self-evident.

“So… what’s the idea here?”

“I need an image of where the bullet is, then I try to extract it. There’s enough medical equipment that, well, there’s a chance I can pull it out,” Klein replied.

“You’re willing to do this, knowing—”

“That I’m unqualified and might violate the very first tenet a doctor learns… to do no harm?” Klein gritted her teeth. “Yes, Colonel. Because if I do nothing, that causes harm too.”

Arthur stood and extended his hand toward her. “Bravery isn’t shown just on the battlefield, Ms. Klein.”

She took the offered hand and shook it. “It’s Miriam.”

“Sorry. I’ve been in the CDF so long, half the time, I think of myself as my last name.” Arthur chuckled. “Have you guys talked to Khatib? If he’s conscious and lucid, I’d like him to give the thumbs-up here. It’s his life.”

“Already done,” Jeremiah interjected. “He approved. It’s not like we have other options.”

Arthur nodded. “Do your best and keep me updated.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Colonel,” Klein said as she turned to go with the corpsman.

Arthur was again left to his brooding. He pulled out his tablet and started going through a possible target list. The SWAT Sargeant, Petrov, had jotted down some thoughts. There are some good ideas in here. One of them was to hit underguarded police stations and get weapons to distribute to civilians. With only twenty-five thousand troops and an entire planet to cover, the Leaguers didn’t have everything buttoned up.

Except now they have their drone network going in. It was only a matter of time until lethal models arrived in the skies. Still, the urban environment gave them a lot to work with and offered an advantage to those who knew the landscape well. Which is not the invaders.

Maybe we could find a way to jam the drones. There was some jamming equipment in the supplies they’d carried out of the base. Arthur decided to put his mind to that. An engineering problem… Now, that’s something I can solve. It was a lot better than sitting there, waiting to hear if Khatib lived or died. God, help him, please. Watch over him and grant both Corpsman Duprey and Ms. Klein wisdom and guidance. Amen.

Faulkner felt exhaustion all the way into his bones in a way he hadn’t experienced in years. The Crucible, as Marines called it, was a fifty-four-hour field-training exercise designed to wash out any remaining recruits who didn’t deserve the title of Terran Coalition Marine. This is worse than the Crucible. A lot worse. He had a couple of baby wipes some thoughtful militiaman had grabbed. No, I bet a woman got these, because us guys are too focused on extra ammo and forget how bad a human being smells without a bath.

He blew out a breath. I’d do just about anything for a hot shower right about now. Deep underground, they were somewhat safe, but the facilities were definitely spartan.

“Lieutenant, got a minute?”

Faulkner pushed the piece of cloth that sectioned off his little space against one of the tunnel walls to find Arthur standing there. He looked about as bad as Faulkner felt. “Of course, sir. You want me to come out, or you want to come in?”

Arthur chuckled. “We’re probably both ripe enough to warrant standing out here.”

“Yeah.” Faulkner pushed himself up and went outside the tiny tent-like thing he’d set up. “I heard a couple of combat engineers from the militia depot were working on getting potable water from a fire control station.”

“Almost got it too.” Arthur flashed a grin. “I think most people would say that the Space Special Warfare operators are the best of the CDF, or maybe the Golden Nebulas with their stealth boats. But I say it’s the engineers, because when it all goes to hell, the rest of you look to us for a shower.”

Faulkner laughed. “No argument here, sir. Uh, what’s on your mind?”

“I don’t know how much longer we can keep this up.” The words fell out of Arthur’s mouth in a torrent. “These Leaguers aren’t stupid, and they’re not conscripts. Or if they are, they’re the highly trained ones. Once that drone network is up, they’ll be able to put a rapid reaction force on us within minutes, from anywhere we strike. If those cops hadn’t showed up when they did…”

“We’d be dead,” Faulkner finished.

“Yeah.” Arthur rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m running on adrenaline and guesses at this point. Whatever decision feels right, I take it.”

“If that’s true, sir, your guesses are better than most people’s considered decisions.”

“What advice do you have, Lieutenant? You’re a trained infantryman. I’m not.”

The question caught Faulkner by surprise. He certainly didn’t expect a man who would be a full bird within a year, if he survived the Thatcher’s deployment to the Orion Spur, to ask him what to do. Do I know myself? I’m running off instinct too. “Guerrilla warfare wasn’t exactly the topic du jour in the ROTC, sir. But, ah… I think we need to focus on some signals intelligence. Figure out what they’re doing and plan high-impact attacks that keep the enemy off-balance. I doubt they have dozens of those rapid-reaction outfits. Maybe we test the system and see how many they have.”

“The more knowledge, the better we can plan, yes.”

“I mean, this one is obvious, but we need more shooters, and we need weapons, ammo, and explosives.” Faulkner already knew they’d expended a lot of ammo in the two firefights the Marines had been in already.

“Oh, I meant to ask. Any word on Corporal Khatib?”

Arthur shook his head. “Still being worked on.”

Faulkner bit his lip. “I’m praying he pulls through.”

“Tough kid.”

“I’m his age, sir.”

“You’re all kids to me.” Arthur laughed. “Me too… Losing people, I…”

Faulkner put his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Trust me, sir. I know.”

Before Arthur could say anything else, a young soldier came running up. “Sir, Lieutenant Egorov needs you over in the comms-buildup area.”

First Lieutenant Larisa Egorov was the cryptology and communications specialist from the militia unit. Faulkner had only spoken to her once, but she seemed more than competent. “Should I leave you to it, Colonel?”

Arthur tilted his head. “Why don’t you join me? Stretching the legs might be good.”

“Yes, sir.” Faulkner fell in behind the CO.

It didn’t take them that long to traverse the camp, which stretched for perhaps fifty meters. The tunnels were massive, so it was quite a bit of space. Egorov had sectioned off a couple of cubes and set up comms equipment on pieces of construction debris that functioned as chairs. The setup was rudimentary, but it seemed to work.

Egorov stood and came to attention as Arthur approached. “Sir.”

“At ease, Lieutenant.” Arthur flashed a smile. “I’m pretty sure we smell bad enough to void the customs-and-courtesies regulations.”

The line got a snicker out of everyone within earshot, including Egorov, who adjusted her thick-framed glasses after they’d gone slightly askew from her laughter.

“Thank you, sir.” Egorov gestured to her tablet. “I’m sorry to disturb, but I think I have something worth your attention.”

“By all means, let’s hear it, Lieutenant.”

Faulkner stood back, watching and listening. He was impressed by Arthur’s command presence, including the subtle use of humor to put everyone at ease. I suppose I don’t hang out around the squids that much. It dawned on him that the engineer was a better leader than he’d thought and perhaps more than even Arthur gave himself credit for.

“We’ve received a lot of transmissions asking for help. Some offering help and weapons. Naturally, I have to assume all of them are League psyops to find our location. But this one’s different.” Egorov held up the tablet.

“Go on,” Arthur said.

“Someone has access to relatively recent CDF intelligence codes, and if this transmission is to be believed, it’s from Gregory Ivanov.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s mighty interesting, since I know a Gregory Ivanov.”

“If you don’t mind the question, sir, how do you know him?”

“Well, there was a Gregory Ivanov who was the senior League workers party guy when we invaded. I worked with him a bit, laying out the initial plans for the radiation shield. Seemed like a decent guy. His wife too. I think I heard he started doing importing and exporting after the war. Got out of the mines.”

Egorov handed him the tablet.

It took Arthur a good minute to review everything. He scrolled down then back up and down several times before whistling. “Lieutenant, how sure are we that this came from Gregory Ivanov?”

“I can confirm it came from a network tied to his business, sir. Beyond that, I have no idea.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “There were some little details in there… But somebody could’ve tortured him or used signals intelligence and AI to generate it.”

Faulkner cleared his throat. “Sorry if I’m speaking out of school, but what’s in this message?”

Arthur’s eyes met his. “If this is real, Ivanov has a supply of military-grade munitions. Small arms, ammo, medical supplies, and crucially, antiair weapons. Some kind of contract to bring in gear for the militia garrisons. It’s ours if we want it plus whatever other assistance he can offer to set up a resistance network.”

Every fiber in Faulkner’s mind screamed it was too good to be true. Flip side of that is not to look a gift horse in the mouth, like my granddad used to say. “Key word if, sir.”

“Can you reply without giving our position away?”

Egorov nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Arthur turned to Faulkner. “We’ll set up a meet. I’ll go alone, and if it’s a trap, well, they only get me.”

“Sir—”

“Lieutenant, we must change something here. There’s a kid with no arm down there, more than half a dozen dead already under my direct command, and Khatib may or may not pull through. If I can get us supplies and, above all, fighters, I’ll take that risk.”

Faulkner thought about pushing back, even though it was in front of others, but his mind stayed his mouth. The truth was Arthur was right. Their fledging resistance movement only had a few more fights like the last two. Got to respect anyone willing to walk into a probable trap by himself. He held up his hand. “You’re not going alone.”

“It’s better—”

Faulkner set his jaw. “No one here’s letting you go by yourself. A few of my most tested Marines and I will accompany you. That’s nonnegotiable, sir.”

Arthur turned and took in the faces of the other soldiers in the makeshift comms shack. He seemed to concede the point with a smile. “Okay, I can see I’m wildly outnumbered here. Two men. That’s it, and not Gunnery Sergeant Rodriguez.”

“He’s one of my best—”

“And if we get captured, he can keep this going,” Arthur replied softly.

Faulkner nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Carry on, ladies, gents. I’m going to check on Khatib.” Arthur turned on his heel and strode away, still somehow carrying himself with military bearing.

The rest of them got back to what they were doing, except for Egorov. She scrunched her nose while staring at Faulkner. “While we’re from different branches, I do outrank you, Lieutenant. And the smell coming off your uniform is enough to make anyone vomit.”

“I’ll see myself out,” he replied with a chuckle and walked back toward his sleeping area. I really hope those engineers get a shower going. Otherwise, I’m going to sneak up top and find one, even if it kills me. Somehow, despite the sheer terror of what they’d been through, he had a sense that it was going to work out, and for whatever reason, hope endured. Faulkner prayed it continued to.

22

Cohen Apartment—Lawrence City

Canaan

21 May 2474

David verified his identity with a dual retina and fingerprint scan and pushed the door to his home open as soon as it unlocked. Much of the galaxy’s weight lifted from his shoulders as he did so, replaced by a different set of responsibilities: husband and father. If David was being honest, he much preferred giving Shoshanna her nightly bath and reading to Levi over planning interstellar military operations. The four hours he got at night were his island oasis in the storm-whipped ocean of life.

He entered the kitchen to find Salena fiddling with their twin food-prep appliances, with meat and dairy separated per kosher rules. “Hi, honey. I’m home.”

Salena’s smile took over the room. “You do not tire of saying that, do you?”

“Nope.” David mustered a grin of his own before unloading his pockets onto the kitchen’s island. “Good day?”

“Long but productive. Levi is doing well in kindergarten. Shoshanna has decided she would like to be in charge of her day care—”

David couldn’t keep himself from laughing.

“The teacher is amused as well. Apparently, she keeps trying to organize the others into groups.”

“Uh-oh. Might have to watch that one.” He winked at her. “The next great General Cohen.”

Salena pushed the final piece of the meal into the cooking device before turning toward him. They hugged tightly and shared a kiss. “How are you, truly? Your face is so weary.”

David pursed his lips. “It would be nice if our slice of the Milky Way weren’t in one war after another, but that appears too much to ask for. I’m okay. This will eventually pass, and the side of good will win out.” But the cost will be great. Far greater than it ought to be. He didn’t want to alarm his wife and left the last bit out.

“I heard from Esme today.” Salena seemed to brighten at the mention of Colonel Larra’s wife.

“And how are she and the good colonel doing out on the Arch?”

“Well. She asked if I would be willing to translate some Zeivlot artifacts the institute recently came into possession of.”

“And you said yes, of course,” David replied with a wink.

“I wanted to ask you before doing so.”

David stared at his wife. “Dearest, if it will make you happy and you believe the work has value, of course I’m supportive.”

“You would tell me if you thought it was a bad idea?”

“Uh, maybe?” David’s cheeks heated. “Even if I didn’t see the value in something, if it makes you happy and had no negative impact on our family, I’d never counsel you not to do whatever the thing was.”

“But you think this is good?”

“Yes.” He gently caressed her cheek. “I’m glad she reached out.”

Salena turned her face into his hand. “Back to my first question. You are so weary. I can see it etched in your face and in how you struggle to square your shoulders.”

“It is what it is, dearest. I must soldier on.”

“You do not have to bear it alone.”

David ran his tongue over his lips. “I… I do not wish to burden others. This is my duty as long as I wear the uniform and occupy the COMSPACEFLT billet.”

“Even Moses had help from time to time, did he not?”

“Yes,” David conceded.

“Then at least tell me what ails you.”

David took her hands in his. “I don’t understand why the League continues this behavior. We beat them decisively. They still control over a hundred worlds. Perhaps more. There is no reason for this constant warfare. It must be destructive to their society, as it is to ours too.”

“Have you stopped to consider why they do it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what do you think would happen if there was no conflict between the League of Sol and the Terran Coalition for the next fifty years?”

“Two generations?”

She nodded.

“I suspect that in time, the League would face economic issues from within, and as they were more exposed to our way of doing things in the Orion Spur, there would be additional clamor for internal reform. Freedom seems to have a way of breaking down barriers. It may take a while, but eventually… the walls come down.”

“And that is why they fight, dearest. Those in power in the League fear losing their power. They will do anything to retain it. We’ve experienced that dynamic before on Zeivlot and Zavlot.” Salena tilted her head to one side. “It will take a decisive victory by one side or the other to end this. Putting it off only costs more lives.”

David appreciated her direct and to-the-point analysis. It matched his and, he suspected, many others in the Terran Coalition. A shame that’s not true of our politicians in power. “Have you considered running for office?”

Salena rolled her eyes. “That must be your idea of a joke.”

“It would be nice if some normal people with common sense would run for the assembly and win. Until then, I am forced to do my best to keep the wheels from coming off.”

She put her hand on top of his. “I regret I cannot make things easier for you.”

David smiled and blinked a few times as tears formed in his eyes. “You don’t know how much you make life livable. No matter how bad things get, I have you and the children to carry on for… and even more than my duty to the Coalition, it is the three of you I fight for.”

They embraced once more.

When David held Salena, it was as if whatever was happening in the universe didn’t matter, because feeling her form against him made everything better. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

“A question…”

She turned and smiled. “An answer?”

“Why are you okay with me continuing my stint in the CDF after all these years?”

Salena tilted her head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s hard on you. I know that. And the kids. Especially after, well, the Arch.” He thought back to the dark days in Sextans B and how close he came to losing them all but especially her.

“Service is who you are, dearest. If I were to convince you to leave your position, you would resent me. And as much as perhaps I might enjoy seeing more of you around our home—at least until you got some other job, because I cannot see you spending your days in retirement at such a young age, writing memoirs—you would resent me, but worse than that, I would remove your purpose.”

David pursed his lips. “So you wouldn’t mind if I had a quieter job?”

“I believe you are where the Maker wishes you to be. You have a knack for being at the right time and place to effect great change in two different galaxies. This is something that I can easily make small sacrifices and adjustments for. And I am proud and honored to do so.”

“Sometimes I think perhaps I’m not good enough to deserve you.”

She giggled. “Only sometimes?”

David chuckled. “Fair enough.”

Salena stood on her tiptoes and gazed up into his eyes. “We are both where we should be. I thank the Maker daily to be here in this place, with our family and at your side. Wherever you go, I will go. Your people… are my people. Your God is my God. This is our home, and I will keep it safe and warm for you as you do the same for all the rest of us.”

David didn’t have the words to express how deeply he loved her. Instead, he once again held her close… until the running patter of little feet put them both into parent mode as Levi raced in. For the next few hours, David would do his best to focus solely on his family and put the concerns of the galaxy to the side.

Major Abigail Miller stared at the after-action report on her tablet, the cursor blinking several lines in. How do you write up a mission where your commanding officer volunteers to stay behind and fight a ground war he’s got no business fighting?

She sat at the desk in Arthur’s day cabin. Part of the XO’s job was to step into the commander’s role whenever he or she was incapable of doing it. Miller hated every minute of it. Not that she didn’t want command, but despite their differences, she felt Arthur was the best one of them for the job.

Miller rubbed her eyes and went back to the report. They’d had three hit-and-run engagements in the last week, all against PFLOS supply convoys—small victories that barely dented the enemy’s capabilities, but at least they were doing something. The terrorists had bottled themselves up in three systems, all within two jumps of one another. Fairly smart positioning, I have to admit. The move made it easier for them to concentrate their forces and harder for the CDF to pick them off piecemeal.

The desk’s intercom chimed. “Ma’am, Colonel Kattan for you on the secure channel,” Kaveh said through the speaker.

“Put her through.”

The vidlink screen flickered to life, showing Kattan’s face. The woman looked like she hadn’t slept in days. “Major. How’s the Thatcher holding up?”

“Ship’s fine, ma’am. The crew and I… We’re ready for a real fight.” Miller leaned back. “Any word on when we get to give them one?”

Kattan narrowed her eyes. “Still waiting for reinforcements from Canaan. Fifty thousand Marines en route, but it’ll be a couple of weeks until they arrive.”

Fifty thousand. That might actually be enough. “Are there any other assets in play that we could assist with, ma’am?”

“As a matter of fact, that’s why I contacted you. I’m forming hunter-killer groups to start chasing down PFLOS supply lines. What’s left of PASCORE has tracked numerous League Type-D freighters operating in and around New Rostov. Do you feel the Thatcher is ready for combat?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Miller put as much of an edge into her voice as she could. “We look forward to engaging the enemy.”

“I see. Have you seen the broadcast yet?”

Miller knew without any further context that Kattan was referring to that broadcast. She’d listened to it at least a dozen times. The holovid was grainy, and Arthur had appeared like a man who’d been through hell. But he’s still fighting. She couldn’t help but feel immense pride in his actions. “Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s playing on a loop across every holonews channel in the Terran Coalition. Probably half the alien worlds and most of the neutral human worlds too.”

Miller closed her eyes for a moment. “He shouldn’t have stayed. He could do more up here,” she finally whispered.

“Major, I want you to listen to me carefully. Whatever differences you may have with your commanding officer, it took a brass set to stay behind for a full-on planetary invasion when he could’ve easily gotten out.” Kattan’s voice carried a note of respect. “And for what it’s worth, Hanson’s actions have created a narrative that not only plays well at home but also helps us win the information war.”

The older woman’s words resonated, even if Miller didn’t particularly like it. “Yes, ma’am. Ah, when do you think these new hunter-killer units will see some action?”

“Soon. Hanson has bought us some time, even more of it if he keeps the enemy off-balance. I’ll have detailed instructions in the next day or two. In the meanwhile, keep your people sharp.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Except I don’t see them as my people. This ship isn’t mine. It’s his.

“Godspeed, Major. Kattan out.”

The vidlink cut out, leaving Miller alone with her thoughts and a mug of cold coffee. She took a sip and nearly spit it out. Ugh, I should go get something fresh from the conference room.

She turned back to the after-action report, trying to find the right words to describe what had happened on New Rostov. CO volunteered for extended ground operations in support of civilian resistance activities. That was the official line—clean, simple, completely inadequate to capture the reality of what Arthur had done.

Half an hour later, the text was complete, ready to be filed in triplicate with the CDF. Miller saved the report and reached for her commlink. It was time for the daily department meeting to make sure the ship ran smoothly and all issues were addressed. So we’ll be ready to fight. Despite being happy to get the chance to go stick it to the PFLOS terrorists, what she really wanted was to ride into New Rostov at the head of a fleet.

Hold on, Hanson. Don’t waste your life. We’re coming. I promise. Miller hoped that somehow, he knew. She didn’t believe in God or put much, if any, stock in spirituality. But in that moment, she turned to prayer. I don’t believe You exist, God. I never have. The universe has too much misery for me to believe that any supreme being cares whether we live or die. But the colonel, he believes in You. So if You exist, if You’re up there watching over us, maybe watch out for him.

Miller picked up her tablet. It was time to go back to work.

23

Gamavilla Spaceport

Lusitania

22 May 2474

Justin Spencer, as the secretary general of SATO, had a unique spacecraft at his disposal. Fast, sleek, and with a crew of only a few dozen, it was just small enough to land in the atmosphere of a planet without drawing too much attention to itself. Fashioned from a civilian starliner and outfitted with the latest technology, the vessel had been dubbed SATO One, a play on how the Terran Coalition called whatever ship the president flew on CDF One.

It touched down on a secluded tarmac and hovered into a waiting hangar, where the doors closed to keep prying eyes from seeing what happened next.

Given the high-profile nature of his official trips, Justin had decided to make his current one as quiet as possible. Sure, word would eventually get out, but for the moment, he preferred to stay as off the proverbial radar as humanly possible.

To avoid the press and rival intelligence agencies finding out about his visit, rather than visiting Pauline Ascaro in her offices in the heart of Gamavilla, she came to him instead. It didn’t take long after the hangar had been secured and the ship completed its power-down sequence for her to be escorted into Justin’s office amidships.

He immediately stood. “Madame Prime Minister, welcome aboard.”

“Thank you, Mister Secretary.” Ascaro took a few steps into the room, after which the close protection agent closed the hatch behind her. “With those pleasantries out of the way… I must admit this is not how I expected us to meet on Lusitania.”

Justin’s eyes went to the desk before he shook his head. “That is a nice way of putting it.” He gestured toward a glass jar filled with jellybeans, which was a staple from the Oval Office that he’d carried with him wherever he went.

“Oh, a few won’t hurt me.” Ascaro reached in, took a handful, and tossed them into her mouth before sitting in a chair facing Justin’s. “So, don’t keep me in suspense. Why all the secrecy? You’ve exceeded even my attempts to travel clandestinely.”

“I need… your help.” Just uttering the words caused considerable mental anguish. Asking a former head of state—the current leader of the ISF Council—to bail the Terran Coalition out in a domestic matter felt wrong. It was wrong. But Justin saw no other choice.

“If it is within my power and not immoral, you know I will do my utmost.”

Justin ran his teeth over his lip. “A humanitarian convoy is headed to New Rostov. It’s got enough food and medical supplies to make a difference. And I would like the ISF to provide a military escort.”

Ascaro’s eyes widened. She shifted in her seat and didn’t speak for multiple seconds. “Why isn’t the CDF handling this?”

Justin had gotten through life mostly playing it straight. Politics was especially challenging because the system punished those who didn’t backstab or skulk in the shadows. He’d watched others do it effortlessly, but when Justin tried, whatever the thing was blew up in his face. “That… well.”

She tilted her head as if to say, “Get on with it.”

“The CDF doesn’t have enough combat force in the Orion Spur to take out two heavy cruisers and the multiple squadrons of League-built destroyers that have appeared out of the void. I’m hoping that a heavily armed ISF contingent would even the odds.”

Ascaro pursed her lips. “You want to provoke them into shooting at us.”

“It sounds tawdry when you put it like that.”

She spread her hands out on the desk. “I can guess the end goal. We send heavy units and degrade their force, and the CDF fleet in the Orion Spur cleans up what’s left.”

“I believe that’s the ultimate plan, yes.”

“You believe?” Ascaro stared at him. “Who’s pulling the strings here?”

Justin took a deep breath before exhaling slowly. “I’m going to keep that close except to say there’re a lot of moving parts and I don’t want to endanger those doing the work.”

“Where’s the food and medicine coming from?”

“Galt.” Justin allowed his lips to curl into a grin. That the Galters are coming to our aid, well, that’s one of those things that happens about as often as pigs fly.

Ascaro threw back her head and laughed loudly. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. A group of megacorp CEOs have contributed the supplies and the freighters to fly them.”

Ascaro blinked and stared at him. “My God, you’re telling the truth.”

He nodded. “That, I am.”

“You realize you’re playing with fire? What happened to there’s only one president at a time?”

“When three of our worlds were invaded by terrorists, that went out the window.”

She leaned back and sat silently for some time. “If this goes wrong, it’s my head, yours, and possibly the entire alliance. Do you understand that, Justin?”

“I do. I also know that if we fail to check PFLOS and stop the League of Sol in its tracks here, they’ll come for all of us one by one. Hell, if I’m whoever’s calling the shots over there, I’m probably already planning my next invasion because of how meekly we’ve responded.” The words made Justin sick to his stomach. He knew in his heart that appeasement never worked. To see humanity try it repeatedly made him see red. Don’t we ever learn?

Ascaro shook her head. “You don’t have to sell me on how bad the League is.”

Justin held his tongue. He’d just flouted Coalition law by attempting to negotiate with a foreign entity when he wasn’t in the government or authorized for that purpose by either the congress or the executive branch.

“Once we step over this line, there is no going back. For either of us.”

“I know.” Justin sighed. “If it comes out, I’ll take the fall.”

She snorted. “Politics is a full-contact sport. Isn’t that how Terrans like to frame it up, Justin?”

“Yup.” He nodded.

“If I’m not willing to fall, I shouldn’t be playing. So whatever happens, I’ll deal with my own fallout. I’d be more concerned with the Peace Union, if I were you.”

Justin rolled his eyes. “Rhodes and her extremist lackeys don’t scare me. They never have. Nor does Robbins. They’re both hopelessly naive and useful idiots for the enemy.”

“Yet they have power.”

She’s right. They do. And how? How is it that we don’t have riots in the streets demanding the Terran Coalition save our fellow citizens? Justin was consistently sickened whenever he pondered the subject. “I don’t understand how we got there.”

Ascaro peered at him. “Have you seen the protest videos?”

“What videos?”

“May I use your tablet?”

Justin nodded and passed over one of his devices—specially used for unclassified communications.

She fiddled with it for a minute before flipping the screen around. Over the next forty-five seconds, a video played. The sound was initially indiscernible, but the images were immediately clear. Students in a library carried portraits and chanted slogans such as “Glory to our martyrs.” Even more ominous was a chant of “Death to the Terran Coalition” at the end.

“That’s… disgusting. Where is it?”

“Lawrence City.”

Justin’s jaw practically hit his desk. “What?”

“Don’t your advisors brief you on these matters?”

“No, but I’m not involved in day-to-day domestic issues. Frankly, I try to stay out of that to respect the principle that there’s only one president at a time.”

Ascaro snickered. “You save your meddling for obtaining foreign military support.”

“Yes.” Justin joined her in a brief chuckle. “Hypocritical, I know.”

“Scenes like that are happening in major universities across the Terran Coalition and the Independent Systems Federation. Our intelligence services have linked them back to League efforts to spread propaganda and disinformation through our social media.”

Justin furrowed his brow. “But promoting a terrorist group that is frankly a death cult? These people have burned women and children… babies even, alive. Blown up a hospital ship, not to mention passenger liners. That anyone would support them is beyond belief.”

“You confronted such propaganda campaigns during your time in office, yes?”

Justin nodded. “Yes, but I thought we beat them. Especially after the end of the war. Having a few thousand League ships show up in orbit tends to make propaganda efforts less effective.”

“They just got smarter and tried again. The aim is to get our youth to see them as oppressed. As the victims.”

It took a great deal of mental energy for Justin not to slam his fists onto the desk and groan. “I’m not sure I have the words to describe a reaction to these images. At least, not that I would use in front of a lady.”

Ascaro smiled thinly. “My family has heard me curse them repeatedly. Yet what can we do except counter the false narratives? The League figured out our Achilles’ heel a long time ago, when they started using our freedoms against us.”

“True, but I’d rather have to fight harder to preserve those freedoms than give in to the creep of government censorship under the guise of wartime powers.”

She inclined her head. “Agreed on all counts.”

“At some point, we’re going to have to finish this.”

“How?”

“By taking Earth and eliminating the League of Sol and its ideology from the universe.”

She sucked in a breath. “Maybe don’t say that in public quite yet. So many do not realize that they can’t coexist with the devil.”

“For now, I’ll settle for erasing PFLOS.”

Ascaro sat back and studied Justin. “There is a parliamentary maneuver I can use to send an escort without a formal council vote. I’ll invoke that… and give Admiral Henry confidential instructions on the matter.”

“Thank you.” The two simple words were insufficient, but they were the first things that popped into his mind. “The Terran Coalition and I will be in your debt.”

“Did you mean what you said about forming a federation of human and alien species back when you argued to admit the Zan system?”

Justin nodded slowly. “I did. I still do. It is my belief that someday, perhaps the entire SATO Alliance will unite. Should unite. But only in a manner of government that is responsive to all citizens and allows the autonomy of individual planets.”

Ascaro stood. “You’re an idealist, Justin Spencer. But in this dark time, the Lord knows we need idealists.”

He also sprang to his feet. “Well, I’ll keep doing my thing, then.”

She smiled. “Try not to draw too much attention on your way out.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good luck, Mr. Secretary.”

“Same to you, Madame Prime Minister.”

Ascaro tilted her head. “That’s no longer my title.”

“It’ll always be the one I remember you by because saving Lusitania from the throes of authoritarianism is an achievement to be proud of.”

“We had a lot of help.”

Justin extended his hand. “And it always takes one courageous person to take the first step and galvanize the rest.”

“Then I hope you have the same effect on your government now.”

“We live in hope.”

Admiral James Henry glanced around his office. The very notion of being an admiral, having a static office on a space station, and acting the part of a fleet officer rankled him on some inner, base level. Displayed in a shadow box across the room were his rank insignia, uniform, and medals from his time in the Coalition Defense Force. What had once been a source of shame, he now displayed with pride. Below sat a simple decanter of the finest New Virginia bourbon he could afford. Aside from when he’d poured it into the decanter, it hadn’t been touched.

Oh-four-thirty was the rare time of day when he could have complete peace and quiet before the hustle and bustle of his schedule kicked in. No one tells you when you get promoted to fleet admiral that ninety-five percent of the job is glad-handing different political factions.

Another shadow box held a series of mementos from the ISV Shadow Wolf. As hard as it had been to put together a commemoration of his CDF days, being reminded of the Holden-Nagata Mark VI freighter was even more difficult—the loss of too many dear friends in the pursuit of justice and doing what was right.

As much as James tried to put the problems of the galaxy out of his mind and focus on earning a living, he could never quite pull himself out of fighting the good fight. Instinctively, he knew that was God’s hand nudging him ever so gently down the right path, if only he was willing to listen.

His eyes went back to the message that had come in a few minutes earlier, and he wondered if it was one of those times.

Admiral, I hope this finds you well, the transmission had begun.

Henry snorted. Anything that starts like that is going to be a cluster.

You are hereby required and ordered to create a task force to escort a humanitarian convoy to the Orion Spur, final destination: New Rostov. The fleet should consist of no fewer than two heavy cruisers, twenty escorts, and the dreadnaught Baja. Consider this a matter of utmost priority, and exercise discretion throughout the deployment. Communications silence once underway must be maintained for the operational security of the mission.

Traveling under EMCON for ten days is a stretch. Henry stroked his chin and continued reading.

Your rules of engagement forbid firing on League of Sol or Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur contacts unless fired upon. If attacked, you may use whatever force you deem necessary for the completion of the mission, which is to land the humanitarian supplies on New Rostov.

The digital signature was that of Pauline Ascaro, the ISF council president.

Henry set his tablet down and stared at the shadow boxes on his wall then at the decanter of bourbon. I’ve had that thing for years and never touched it. This makes me want to. One thing was certain—the ISF hadn’t decided to send a humanitarian convoy to the Terran Coalition on some whim. He might’ve been born at night, but he wasn’t born the previous night. This gambit is designed to get the terrorists to fire on our ships so we can crush them.

Whoever came up with the idea had some balls. Henry had to give them that. Part of him was tired of those who skulked about in the darkness, maneuvering governments and men as if they were pawns on a chessboard. But he also recognized the need for such things in the galaxy in which they lived.

Ascaro is walking a fine line. She’s trying to make sure we can’t be recalled, because she’s concerned about the full council walking this back. The more Henry considered it, the more it all reeked of desperation. Then again, terrorists control three worlds in the Spur, and what I’ve seen so far says they’re more brutal than the League ever hoped to be.

For all the problems James Henry had with the Terran Coalition’s politicians and his absolute loathing for President Robbins, he also had an innate desire to protect the innocent. And the people on New Rostov are innocents.

Okay, how do I play this?

Different scenarios ran through his head, but the most obvious one was to take personal command of the fleet. Thanks to the Coalition finally transferring a working antimatter reactor, the Liberator is able to open long-range jump points. Which would get us there in under two weeks.

Henry glanced at the box containing his mementos from the Shadow Wolf. He could remember Uncle Charlie telling him, “You’ve got to do what’s right, son. Never give up on that.”

Even though his uncle had been dead for almost a decade, the words still resonated. His eyes then drifted to the CDF shadow box and the memories of a young Lieutenant Henry eager to fight the good fight, no matter the cost. I can stop them now too.

Okay. I know what to do. Time to be a big damn hero one more time. He set himself to cutting orders to the Liberator, the Baja, and a couple dozen other vessels, being careful to pick those commanded by officers he knew had a strong distaste for the League. Because the last thing I need is an attempted munity.

As a final act before he went to pack a bag for the journey, Henry sent a message to Ascaro. You owe me one, ma’am.

Robert Sinclair felt the device in his jacket rumble, and he pulled it out to glance at the screen. It was confirmation from Pauline Ascaro that the ISF fleet would be in the fight. In what Sinclair considered an added bonus, Fleet Admiral Henry would take command. Our odds of success have gone up considerably.

He saw himself as a sort of gardener. Till the soil long enough, introduce the ingredients for a harvest, and eventually, if you were lucky—or God smiled on your efforts—something would come of the work. In the moment, one could see the results beginning to take shape, that first hint of green poking out of the black dirt, which always brought a smile to his lips, as it did now.

But the work was not yet done. He still had one piece to add, the most important of all. Because for all the machinations, if the Coalition Defense Force couldn’t exploit the advantage to maximum effect, the efforts of all would be wasted as well as the lives of those lost.

That was something Brigadier General Robert Sinclair would never allow. He made haste back to his safe house to enact the next portion of the plan.

CSV Hermes

Deep Space—Orion Spur

25 May 2474

Colonel Sofia Kattan paced the floor of her day cabin. It had been one sleepless night after another since New Rostov was taken by the PFLOS terrorists, and worse, her hands were tied. She’d run just about every tactical simulation possible, and with the amount of firepower they had at their disposal, beating the Rand-class heavy cruisers with their Marauder-class destroyer escorts and the remaining PFLOS vessels was, at best, a sixty-forty proposition. And the forty percent is our victory odds. She refused to gamble, as a failure would cost ten thousand lives and leave the Spur in a more precarious position. Any action would have to wait until the promised reinforcements and Marine brigades arrived.

Yet that reality offended her to the very core of her soul. Good people—CDF personnel and civilians—were dying daily in resistance efforts against the PFLOS invaders. Who am I kidding? Those mysterious invaders are League regulars. Anyone can see that. Everyone except the government, apparently. She fought to banish such thoughts from her mind.

The intercom buzzer went off, drawing Kattan’s attention. She walked to her desk and slid into the seat. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry, Colonel. I know you gave strict orders not to be interrupted,” the Hermes’s XO began. “We’ve got a signal here bouncing off two unused civilian frequencies. Old megacorp channels. Asking for you by name. The kicker is there’s a gold-level authentication attached.”

Kattan’s eyebrows shot up. “From whom?”

“Unknown, ma’am. It’s for your eyes only, though.”

Curious. Gold-level codes were reserved for flag officers. “Put it through.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A moment later, an image came into view on her tablet. It was grainy at first before cleaning up. But the smiling face of Robert Sinclair was impossible to miss, regardless of the technical difficulties. “Ah, Colonel Kattan. It’s so good to finally talk to you.”

The British accent was unmistakable and matched what she’d heard previously from Sinclair during a briefing before being sent to the Orion Spur. Though the interaction had been entirely one way. “I must confess, General—”

“You find it strange that a flag officer in CDF Intelligence would contact you using comms channels associated with a defunct megacorp?” Sinclair’s face broke into a grin. “I would find that suspicious myself, if I were in your shoes. Alas, this is what the Terran Coalition has come to.”

“Okay. You’ve got my attention.” Kattan crossed her arms as her mind raced in fifty different directions. “What can the Hermes do for you?”

“It’s more a matter of what I am doing for you, gov.” Sinclair stretched his neck. “A convoy loaded with humanitarian supplies is coming. It will be escorted by the ISF military.”

Kattan blinked several times. The absolute gall of what he’d said blew her away. So many things must go right. “You’re hoping the terrorists attack the convoy.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it, Colonel.”

“But—”

“There are things we cannot discuss, I’m afraid, madam. That is one of them. What we can talk about is the preparations you need to make. Starting with having a stealth raider monitoring New Rostov at all times.”

“And keeping the balance of my fleet within a jump or two of New Rostov at all times?” It only made sense to Kattan that by combining forces with whatever the ISF sent, they might stand a chance to end the threat.

Sinclair smirked. “Why, aren’t you a quick study.”

“I didn’t pin on the bird without some smarts, General,” Kattan replied a bit more cooly than she’d meant to.

“No offense intended, of course. I had some fear you were one of Robbins’s lackeys, but that is unjustified after your performance so far.”

Kattan bit her lip. The cloak-and-dagger aspect of what Sinclair was proposing bothered her. I’m a soldier in the CDF, not a spy. “Sir, with respect, why isn’t this coming through official channels?”

Silence hung in the air for several second, as Sinclair wore an inscrutable expression. “Let us say that what I’m doing… is unsanctioned, Colonel. You may do with this what you will. Turn me in or do what’s right.”

“Since when did doing good involve breaking orders and psy-ops to bring our allies into this war surreptitiously?”

Sinclair crossed his arms. “Since our political leadership stopped putting the good of the Terran Coalition and her citizens first.”

Kattan turned her head. “We don’t get to choose which orders we’re going to obey, sir. I don’t have to agree with the president’s policy to carry it out.” Privately, she loathed Robbins. But that didn’t change what the UCMJ said about officers and expressing political opinions.

“If the president ordered you to fire on a civilian passenger liner and destroy it, would you?”

“Of course not,” Kattan snapped. She blanched at the mere thought. “I don’t believe anyone wearing this uniform would follow those orders. They’re blatantly illegal, and the Uniform Code of Military Justice demands refusal. Otherwise, I’d be breaking the law.”

Sinclair let the words hang in the air before he spoke once more. “Then there are orders you would refuse.”

“It’s not the same—”

“The hell it’s not!” Sinclair thundered. “It violates everything our country stands for that the entire fleet didn’t show up to hunt down these butchers after the first attack along with every ally that would stand with us.”

Kattan knew in her heart his words were right. She briefly closed her eyes. “Let’s assume I go along with this. PFLOS has the capability to track our movements via FTL. How do you propose we get around that?”

“Didn’t Hanson figure that out? Daisy-chain jumps with the Hermes so that it looks like one ship is moving.”

“Such a strategy prevents retreat by the flagship and the four thousand souls aboard if we get this wrong.”

“It’s a calculated risk, Colonel. Just like my contacting you and exposing the plan. I believe this is our best shot to defeat the terrorists’ newly augmented force. Frankly, short of a miracle or political change, it’s our only hope.”

“No pressure, eh?” Kattan replied. “Does anyone else in the chain of command know about this?”

Sinclair shook his head. “No. I’ve kept it that way for deniability reasons. You will simply be in the right place at the right time to take advantage of a unique situation.”

“No one will buy that.”

“And who cares, gov?” Sinclair smirked. “Robbins may suspect, but there will be nothing she can do to alter the situation. You will be a hero and therefore insulated from critique.”

“If we get this wrong, we’ll share a cell on Lambert’s Lament.”

Sinclair shrugged. “I can think of worse ways to spend the rest of my days than knowing I tried my hardest to save millions of Coalition citizens from a fate more horrible than death.”

That’s the rub right there. Kattan had dedicated her life to defending her country. Her zeal stemmed from the League of Sol’s brutalization of her family in a “reeducation” camp. She’d heard Jewish officers talk about the slogan of Never Again, which was one she’d adopted personally. “Talk to me about the nuts and bolts. The fleet can’t loiter around New Rostov. We have to move around to make this look real.”

“Agreed.” Sinclair ran his tongue over his lips. “Have the stealth raider on station, and once the enemy is confirmed and all combatants are within New Rostov’s Lawrence Limit… join the fracas.”

The spy made it sound deceptively simple. Almost like the plot of a War Patrol episode. If only the real world functioned like that. “The enemy will likely jump out once we arrive.”

“Perhaps. I’ll leave the tactics to your capable hands, but I hope you can degrade their numbers enough to make this count.”

“This might work, if we can prioritize the enemy’s heaviest units. That’ll make the most difference for my task force later on.”

“Well, I am no tactician, Colonel, but that makes sense to me. I also take it this means you’re in?”

Kattan paused. If she committed, there was no going back. Am I prepared to violate my orders? Oh, mental gymnastics could argue that her actions were in the highest traditions and spirit of the Coalition Defense Force. But in the end, it came down to right and wrong. She thought back to her comments to Arthur Hanson. There’s no room for cowards out here. If I don’t take this hand that’s been dealt, I might lose our best chance to save these innocents. I can’t look myself in the eye and say I kept my oath to the Terran Coalition and Allah if I don’t do this.

O, Allah, give me wisdom and let me walk in Your will.

“Colonel?”

Kattan set her jaw. “I’m in, General.”

Visible relief spread across the older man’s face. “Well, that’s settled, then. Remember: not a word of this to anyone, including your senior staff.”

More than anything, that pronouncement disturbed her. Yet again, I see the reasoning behind Sinclair’s words. But I don’t like them. “I understand, sir.”

“I doubt we’ll be able to speak again soon, Colonel. In that spirit, I wish you Godspeed and hope that we meet in the flesh, once this is over… not in a shared cell.”

“Godspeed to you too. Fight the good fight…”

“No matter the odds.” Sinclair pursed his lips. “Good hunting.”

The tablet blinked off, and a moment later, the screen blipped, then the vidlink log cleared as if the preceding communication had never happened. That’s a neat trick.

Kattan set the device down and shook her head. She couldn’t quite figure out how they’d gotten to the point that one of the top leaders of CDF Intelligence had to risk jail to execute some cloak-and-dagger effort to bring one of their SATO allies into the fray.

She pushed the thoughts out of her mind as much as she could and resolved to visit the Hermes’s mosque after her duty shift was over. I think I could take some additional time to pray today, as I hope my actions honor God, my duty, and the oaths I’ve sworn.

One thing was certain: Kattan longed to see the terrorists destroyed and pushed out of the Orion Spur. It’s time for the League of Sol to face justice. I pray I live to see it.

24

CSV Tucson

Deep Space—Orion Spur

27 May 2474

Patrick Godat stretched out his legs, one of the prime benefits of having a stateroom on the crew deck. At the head of officers’ country, his cabin was the most spacious on the boat. Though that wasn’t saying too much. His barracks during boot camp had more room than the tiny Growler-class stealth raider. But that didn’t matter. I’ve got my own boat, and this is the pinnacle of existence for a golden nebula.

He’d scheduled two watches off and decided that six hours of rack time in his bunk was a good use of resources to make sure his mind stayed sharp. To him, crew management was one of the most demanding jobs of a commanding officer because the crew and the officers on watch were a resource that had a finite amount of charge. Work them too hard, and it all fell apart.

Godat’s eyes had just closed and he’d begun to clear his mind when the intercom buzzed.

“Major, flash traffic from Colonel Kattan, sir.”

Ugh. Maybe that was the one downside of being in charge. The next guy or woman up the chain could ping you at any time, day or night. At least the colonel doesn’t do idle chitchat. “Put her through, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, sir. One moment.”

Godat grabbed his tablet, realized he was in his white skivvies, and shrugged. I’m sure she’s seen worse.

A moment later, the screen came alive with the image of the CO’s day office in the background and a human female centered in the frame. “Major, I seem to have awakened you.”

Godat grinned. “Yes, ma’am. Thought it might be a good idea to get some shut-eye.”

“After the last few days, I would tend to agree, though there is the maxim that we’ll sleep when we’re dead during combat.” Kattan pursed her lips. “I have a special mission for you and the Tucson, Major.”

Finally. Some action. He grinned. “However we can help, Colonel?”

Kattan grimaced. “You won’t like this assignment, Major. I had a golden nebula on my staff back at CDF headquarters for my rotation there. You and those like you are hunters, not babysitters, but unfortunately, I need a stealthy watcher. I want you to take up position at New Rostov.”

Godat licked his lips as his heart sank. “Ma’am, couldn’t we just… I dunno, use a drone or something?”

“Not without possibly alerting the enemy. Stealth raiders have yet to be detected in real time by PFLOS.”

“Understood, ma’am.”

“Not quite. Once you take up position, you will go to maximum EMCON. And you will not break it until… something happens.”

“Ma’am?” Godat couldn’t quite believe his ears. Full birds never issued such vague instructions.

“I can’t tell you.” Her face softened. “Forgive me for that. All I can promise you is that what you are doing will have a direct impact on the outcome of this war and, in fact, may be the most important mission to date. And yes, I know you helped rescue the hostages. It’s bigger than that.”

Godat nodded as he adjusted himself in the bunk. “Understood, ma’am.” Aside from the trust that this particular full bird knew what she was doing, he had to obey orders, period. That was how the Coalition Defense Force and any other command structure worked.

“Any questions?”

“Can you give me any indication as to what we’re going to be waiting for?”

“Only that you’ll know it when you see, Major.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Get underway immediately. Good luck and Godspeed. Kattan out.”

The screen went black, and Godat set the tablet aside. So much for getting some shut-eye. He thought about issuing the orders and going back to trying to sleep. But that wouldn’t be fair to the men and women on his boat. It took a couple of minutes to put his uniform back on in a condition that wouldn’t cause embarrassment. Well, this is what they pay me the big credits for. With a shake of his head, Godat stepped out of his stateroom and headed back to the control room.

Rest would have to wait.

ISV Liberator

Deep Space—Orion Spur

30 May 2474

James Henry had ended up taking over the captain’s office on the Liberator to use as his flag cabin. Near the bridge, it mirrored typical military ship designs, and its communications equipment was exceptional. That was because of several refits over the years to turn the mighty vessel into a flagship for the Interstellar Systems Federation Navy—at least until the ISF had enough credits to take the technology offered through the SATO alliance and churn out a true battleship or two. There was talk of jointly produced and operated SATO designs, the largest of which would use antimatter power. But the Terran Coalition was quite protective of that technological marvel. As I knew they would be.

He was nervous. Hurtling toward a conflict with the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur was one thing. Battle had never been something Henry avoided, nor did he have much in the way of fear of it. Combat was part of life as a spacer and a military officer. You developed the capability to deal with it along the way. No, his concerns stemmed from politics and a lack of direct orders.

The hatch buzzer went off.

“Come,” Henry said.

A moment later, the doors swished open. Because of the opulent design by the megacorp that made the Liberator, it didn’t have military-style hatches. Instead, the entry and exit points looked like something on a passenger liner.

Cera McGinty strode in. She was the commanding officer of the Liberator, having come up through the ranks and served alongside Henry for going on two decades. “Admiral,” she began in her trademark brogue. “Do ya have a minute?”

Henry gestured to one of the plush chairs. “Join me.”

She settled into the closest one. “Aye, I feel like having these torn out.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“Because the chairs on this ship are the most comfortable I’ve ever seen in my life.”

They both chuckled.

Henry stared at her. “I sense something’s on your mind.”

“Same thing that’s on yours and everyone else in the fleet, sir. What are our real orders? Because I don’t buy for a second that we’re supposed to drop this load off and boogie.”

How do I answer that without making her complicit? “Some things are better left—”

“Don’t use that line on this lassie, sir.” Cera crossed her arms. “I’ve been with ye since the Shadow Wolf. Seen the ups and the downs. That we’re on total comms silence tells me everything I need to know.”

Henry pursed his lips. “If I tell you…”

“I won’t tell a soul, but I can quiet down my senior officers who wonder what we’re doing out here.”

My head hurts. It would be good to unburden his soul. Henry blew out a breath. “Officially, we’re supposed to deliver the supplies, avoid conflict with PFLOS, and leave.”

“Unofficially?”

“I am to use my discretion to bring about a conflict, to which we can engage and destroy as much of the enemy fleet as possible. That’s why we have the Liberator and the Baja. Both of these ships outclass anything the Leaguers have.”

Cera leaned back in the plush chair. “So our real aim is to start a war.”

“I think of it more as picking a fight.” Henry smiled thinly. “You don’t seem to approve.”

After a few seconds of silence, Cera tilted her head. “I… I don’t see easy answers. Part of me wants to go in guns blazing, like we used to on the old girl.”

After all the years that had gone by, hearing someone mention the Shadow Wolf still brought pain to the surface. “We’re, ah, grownups now.”

Cera threw her head back and laughed. “Speak for yourself, Admiral. This lassie is still as wild as they come.”

“Your regulation haircut says otherwise.”

She affixed him with a withering glare. “I’ll have you know when I’m on leave…”

Again, both of them laughed. Henry spread his hands out on the desk. “There are few people in the ISF who don’t look at the Terran Coalition with some level of suspicion. I know that. And I also know I’ll forever be an outsider because even today, I hold dual citizenship.”

“Couldn’t ever get around to renouncing your Terran status?”

Henry shook his head. “No. They’re good people. We’re good people. Sometimes, we disagree on things, but at the end of the day, the Coalition and the ISF want the same thing, I believe. And regardless of what anyone thinks about heavy-handedness or the Terran Coalition using its status as a superpower to muscle the neutral human worlds around…”

“The terrorists are brutal. They’re more than that. They seem to kill for enjoyment. We’ve killed, but I don’t believe any of us ever enjoyed it.”

Henry pursed his lips. “No.” Though I enjoyed beating the shit out of Ulysses Erhart. At least until I realized it wouldn’t heal anything.

“They’re the closest thing to evil, aside from the League of Sol proper, I’ve ever seen.” Cera crossed her arms. “So maybe I don’t quite like how we got here, but I’m behind you a hundred percent, and so is everyone else. They’ve killed a lot of spacers, civilians, women, children. And retribution is on the way.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“What if they don’t take the bait?”

Henry grinned. “No doubt you noticed we have quite a few former privateers among the CO list?”

Cera nodded. “I did wonder about that.”

“They can be counted on to follow my orders to be aggressive when and if the time comes.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Dangerous game, Admiral.”

“Yes. But as long as I have your support, I’m confident we can pull it off.”

A moment passed before Cera pursed her lips. “You have it.”

“Thank you.”

She scoffed a second later. “Why is it that we, claiming to not want to get involved in others’ messes, always seem to get wrapped up anyway?”

“Because there’s always something that needs to be done. That’s why I involved myself back when we had the Shadow Wolf. I can still hear Uncle Charlie telling me to always do what’s right. If we can help, we have an obligation to.”

Cera exhaled and closed her eyes for a moment. “Then we’ll see to it.”

“Thank you.”

“Glad to be of service, Admiral.”

“About time for our last jump, isn’t it?”

“Aye.”

Henry stood. “Then let’s get out there and do it.”

As she stood and headed out, he was left to ponder what came next. Even though he was certain of their mission and of the rightness of the cause, combat made Henry pause. As it should. Lord, help see us through this. That’s all I ask.

25

LX Kornei Andrusenko

New Rostov Orbit—High Loop Two

30 May 2474

Kovalev lifted a small mug to his lips and sipped the specially brewed Russian tea from his private stock, which was one of the few creature comforts he allowed himself and one of the few traces of home aboard the Rand-class heavy cruiser. Mmm. A smile crossed his lips as he placed the mug with its spill-proof lid back on the desk in his shipboard office.

Every time he had the brew, it brought back memories, mostly of enjoying a cup with his boys before school. The ritual had been a tradition in the Kovalev household and kept them close. Each time he took a sip, it reminded him of what had been lost. Correction… what the Terran Coalition stole from me and tens of millions of other fathers, mothers, sons, brothers, daughters, and sisters.

The sharp rap of a knock on the alloy door drew Kovalev out of his thoughts.

“Come!”

Gao stuck his head in after opening the hatch. “Comrade, a moment?”

Kovalev gestured to a chair. “I always have time for you, old friend.”

“Too kind,” Gao replied as he shut the access point behind him and took a seat. “Our benefactor has sent word.”

“Oh?” That was unusual. Normally, it came through a direct link to Kovalev’s secure tablet.

Gao set another tablet on top of the desk. “The ISF has organized a humanitarian relief convoy. Details are limited, but it appears to have a light military escort.”

Kovalev blinked. Of all the possibilities he’d war-gamed out, that wasn’t one of them. “To New Rostov?”

“Yes. They intend to land humanitarian supplies for the citizens.” Gao made a face. “Through our blockade.”

“What do you think?”

Gao snorted. “Tell them to leave. This is probably some stunt perpetrated by the Galters. According to the intelligence, a group of trillionaires bankrolled the freighters and supplies.”

His right-hand man wasn’t wrong. It was clearly designed to be a PR stunt. But maybe not in the way they intend. “We could let them land. The supplies only.”

“But… why?”

Kovalev smirked. “Because we can show the galaxy how civilized we are, counteract the Coalition’s agitprop against us, and make them look stupid for not even being able to provide basic supplies for their citizens in one fell swoop.”

Gao leaned back. “And if it’s a trap?”

“If we suspect that, we can still shoot them down. Did the intelligence have information on what military assets were sent to escort the convoy?”

“Limited, comrade.”

“It’s not as if the ISF has warships capable of going toe-to-toe with our hardware anyway,” Kovalev replied. He had little respect for the independent human worlds and even less for their catch-all alliance that made little sense because of the ideological gymnastics required for the various groups to fit in with one another.

“We should still be careful.” Gao crossed his arms. “I think we’ve both learned never to underestimate the capitalists. They are resourceful though loathsome.”

“Agreed. Run battle drills just in case and pull the rest of the fleet back. If they want to involve themselves, that’ll be the last mistake they make.”

Gao nodded. “Yes, comrade.”

“Dismissed.”

As the other man left and silence returned, Kovalev resumed sipping his tea. The invasion hadn’t gone exactly according to plan, especially with the presence of the Margaret Thatcher’s commander. I underestimated that one. He fights as if he actually believes in something. Perhaps the poor fool did. But in the end, it didn’t matter. They had control of the skies, and it was only a matter of time before the resistance movement crumpled under itself.

If nothing else, mass execution of collaborators will see them off.

Still, Kovalev remained troubled. Each step of the way had been more difficult than it should’ve been. They needed some big wins, and perhaps with a little bit of guile, one could be obtained from the ISF convoy.

Time would tell.

Godat nursed a lukewarm mug of CDF coffee. Battery acid, really. He couldn’t figure out why anyone liked the brew except that it kept one awake. Every once in a while, he snuck in some better stuff, but it had to be hidden in his stateroom, lest the entire ship start begging for a cup. At least the mug doesn’t slosh. The spill-proof top made it look like a sippy cup for a toddler.

He’d been on watch for the past six hours while the Tucson sat at EMCON Alpha and was rigged for ultraquiet. After a period of time, those kinds of conditions were torture for the crew of a stealth boat, and over forty-eight hours straight met that definition.

They’d even secured sections of the boat that lined the outer hull of the ship and depressurized unused areas to reduce the power output needed for life support and, in turn, how high the reactor ran.

Sixteen percent is pretty impressive, if I do say so myself. VanDyke is a magician. The master chief had moved through the Tucson like the hand of God, forcing the shutdown of anything that wasn’t absolutely required. They were running with sensors, enough power to hot start the ion engines, and life support. That’s all we need for whatever Kattan wants us watching for.

His XO, Martin Letchford, let out a snort. “Skipper, if we don’t find something to shoot before too long, there’s going to be a munity from the snipes.”

“I think we can handle a few disgruntled engineers,” Godat replied with a chuckle. Though Letchford’s words were meant in jest, he couldn’t deny that it was bothering him not to be in the fight. The Tucson had taken out several Type-D freighters, and he was longing to get enough kills to transmit an image of the broom when the stealth raider finally returned to home port.

Not to mention winning the war would be nice too. I’d gotten used to peace. I’d like to do so again.

“Why aren’t we fighting?”

Godat turned to face Letchford. “Because Colonel Kattan ordered us here—”

“But, sir, the fleet doesn’t have many stealth raiders. We could be doing something important.”

“She says this is.”

“Yeah, well, something is fish—”

“Conn, TAO. Inbound wormholes. A lot of them, sir.”

“Specifics, Vafaei.”

“One moment, sir. They’re so tightly clustered that our sensors are having trouble figuring out what’s what.”

Godat punched in an intercom code. “Sensor room, what’s the holdup on a clean picture?”

“Coming in now, sir,” Chief Petty Officer Betty Henderson replied.

“Got it, sir. Ah… Over sixty wormholes, sir. Hodgepodge of classifications, all of them from the neutral human worlds.”

Godat’s eyebrows shot up as he worked through the possibilities. God help us if these terrorists just got more reinforcements. We’re outnumbered as it is. Whatever was jumping in probably wasn’t good.

“Conn, TAO. New contacts, sir. Mix of military and civilian. I’ve got numerous warships, including the ISV Liberator and the ISV Baja. They’re clustered around two dozen freighters. Every one of them is showing an ISF transponder sequence.”

Not many times in Patrick Godat’s life had he been utterly dumbfounded, but that was one of them. Suddenly, he realized that Kattan knew they were coming. “TAO, classify all incoming as friendly and populate our board. Chief of the Boat, secure from ultraquiet and discontinue EMCON.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Vafaei called out.

“Secure from ultraquiet, aye,” VanDyke said before he turned to a control panel.

“Comms, transmit urgent priority-one flash traffic to the CSV Hermes, Colonel Kattan’s eyes only. Message is: ISF ships have arrived. What are your orders now, ma’am?”

Letchford stared at him. “Did you know?”

“No. She said we’d know what it was when they arrived. Well, seems like the main event to me.”

“To what end, skipper?”

Godat shrugged. “Why else do you fly the flagship of the Independent Systems Federation out here? Obviously to pick a fight.”

“That’s ballsy.”

He had to agree with his XO. The entire move seemed like 4-D chess. Above my paygrade. On the bright side, the stealth boat would likely be in a position to engage the enemy. Our boredom has come to an end. “Conn, Nav. Intercept course on the ISF fleet. All ahead one-third.”

Colonel Sofia Kattan enjoyed her time on the Hermes’s bridge. Yes, the watches felt long, and the rote exchange of orders and replies was repetitive. But there was nothing in the galaxy like commanding a starship in the Coalition Defense Force. She could feel through her feet how alive the ship was as it pulsed beneath her.

In the near future, the three-year tour of duty she’d started twenty-eight months ago would end. It would be a day she regretted, but it was also the natural order of things. A planet-side posting, likely on Canaan at the CDF HQ, would be up next. If the war was won, there was a decent possibility she’d be short-listed for promotion to brigadier general.

Rank had rarely mattered to her, as the reward she got from service didn’t correspond to the insignia on her shoulder. Three years to endure, then I could get back out into the fleet. But that was getting ahead of things. For the moment, the only focus was defeating the terrorists. No, winning the proxy war with the League, because that’s what we’re fighting.

“Conn, Communications. Flash traffic from the CSV Tucson, ma’am. It’s marked for your eyes only. Single burst, text only.”

Kattan’s ears perked up. “My viewer immediately, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

The text string appeared a moment later. ISF ships have arrived. What are your orders now, ma’am? Kattan blew out a breath. By Allah, this is either the best news we’ve had or a trap that will cause my command’s annihilation. “Reply text only… Alert me once hostilities commence. Hermes actual out.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Her executive officer turned his head. “That surprise you mentioned… incoming?”

Kattan nodded. “It’s very close.” She kicked around ordering the fleet to battle stations but decided against it on the chance that Hanson was right about the use of alien sensor technology by the terrorists.

The XO said nothing more, and his eyes went back to a report.

But Kattan felt the subtle shift in the mood of the rest of the bridge crew. They didn’t know precisely what was happening, but it was obvious something was. Good. That will keep us all on our toes for the next few minutes. She said a short prayer under her breath in Arabic and hoped that Allah would guide them to defeat the enemy.

26

ISV Liberator

New Rostov Orbit—High Loop One

30 May 2474

New Rostov came into focus as the Liberator popped out of its self-generated wormhole, the arid planet with a single hypersalinated sea filling the forward view in all its glory. Henry inhaled deeply. The fleet had engaged in many a training exercise, but since the end of the Mifreen crisis, there had been no large-scale engagements involving SATO or the ISF by itself, for that matter.

No time like the present.

“All ships transited. Tight formation, within two thousand kilometers,” the Liberator’s tactical officer called out.

Henry allowed himself a small smile and glanced at Cera McGinty. “I see all that time performing fleet maneuvers paid off.”

“Aye, Cap,” she replied.

“Did I get demoted in the last few minutes?” Henry asked with a snicker.

“Nay, Admiral. Just a moment of thinking about times past and friends lost.”

Her words sobered Henry. He, too, often thought of those who were no longer with them. Before he could speak further, the communications officer spoke up.

“Admiral, we’re getting a hostile challenge and demand to speak with the fleet commander from one of the League of Sol Rand-class heavy cruisers. The LX Kornei Andrusenko, sir.”

Henry directed his eyes to the viewscreen. “Put them on, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

A few moments later, the screen’s tactical display dissolved into an image of a taciturn man wearing a black utilitarian uniform. Henry recognized him from an intelligence briefing as the leader of the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur.

“This is Yevgeny Kovalev. To whom am I speaking?” The man sounded as if he were addressing a child.

Henry kept a neutral expression. “Admiral James Henry, commanding the Interstellar Systems Federation escort to a relief convoy headed to New Rostov.”

“What is the meaning of this, Admiral? We were informed of aid being sent to civilians, but there are far more warships here than freighters.”

“After what you butchers did to peaceful ISF spacers in the Orion Spur, my government felt it prudent to send enough force to ensure you couldn’t do it again, Mr. Kovalev.”

“Comrade Kovalev.”

Henry decided it would be a good time to smirk. Let’s see how he likes my being petulant. “My apologies, comrade.”

The man’s face twisted and turned red. “How dare you mock me? I am the leader of the liberation for the Orion Spur!”

“What liberation?” Henry replied, keeping the smirk plastered on his face. “I’m pretty sure the citizens of New Rostov are fighting tooth and nail to keep your troops from taking over.”

“This is how you ask for permission to land on my world?”

Henry set his jaw. “Mr. Kovalev, the Interstellar Systems Federation doesn’t need your permission. We’re landing our supplies at the Serebryanov Space Port, and if you don’t like that, you’re welcome to try to prevent it.”

Kovalev seemed to process what he’d said. Somehow, his face turned an even deeper shade of red, bordering on purple. “This planet is under the control of the Popular Front. If you attempt to land without our permission, my fleet will blow yours apart.”

Good. He’s nice and angry. Henry crossed his arms. “Big, tough words there, comrade. You’re welcome to try.”

Kovalev sprang from his seat. “You damn Coalition dog! I know you… I know you were one of them, Admiral Henry. Individualists! All any of your kind cares about is themselves. We… We of the League, we understand that Society exists above all. It outweighs all, and someday, it will see all of you off—the ISF, the Terran Coalition, the Saurians, even the Matrinid. We will rule supreme, as it should be for humanity!”

Despite James’s misgivings about how the Terran Coalition behaved on occasion and a general dislike of politics in general, he still believed in the founding ideals of the Coalition with all his heart. And those ideals are far better, regardless of any flaws they may have, than any ideology of the League.

“Mr. Kovalev,” Henry began in a conversational voice that didn’t belie what was to come, “you and everyone like you are butchers. You’ve murdered hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children. One of these days, when you die, God is going to mete out punishment for the horrific things you’ve done. It’s not Christian of me to say, but I hope you take an express gravlift straight to hell.”

Again, Kovalev stared at him through the vidlink. His expression mimicked that of a cornered animal.

“Break off, or we’ll melt your ships and send your bodies back to the Sagittarius Arm.”

The vidlink abruptly cut off, leaving the bridge in stunned silence.

Henry turned to Cera. “Too much?”

“I’m more concerned that the words won’t have quite the desired effect. He’s probably too smart to give in to idle talk, Admiral.”

True. Henry ran his fingers over his chin. “Let’s give them something a bit more concrete to be worried about. Have some of the former, ah, privateer commanders lock onto the nearest Cobra-class destroyers.”

Cera grinned. “With pleasure, Cap.”

Take the bait, you bastard.

Yevgeny Kovalev refused to tolerate several things in life. Beyond the Terran Coalition and the capitalist dogs who ran it, disrespect topped the list. The rage coursing through his veins couldn’t be described as he imagined killing the ISF admiral with his bare hands.

“We should let them through and get that fleet out of here as fast as possible,” Gao said quietly.

Kovalev couldn’t quite believe his second-in-command had said that. He stared at him for several seconds. “Let them through?”

Gao blinked. “Comrade, we can’t be at war with the ISF too. They might send reinforcements.”

“They have politicians even more fickle than the Terrans!” Kovalev thundered. “This pathetic excuse for a human is nothing more than a lackey of whatever capitalist who’s pulling his strings. Henry’s history as an officer in the CDF is well documented.”

“All the more reason to steer clear—”

Where has Gao’s nerve gone? Kovalev wasn’t sure, but the man needed to find it again in a hurry. “You heard him. Half the cargo is probably weapons for the cowards attacking us from the shadows!”

“Comrade, hear me. We cannot fight a war on two fronts. Let them land the supplies. Our forces can take control and spin it to our advantage, as you said yourself.”

Kovalev cleared his anger long enough to consider Gao’s words. He had to admit there was a certain logic to them. “Not without an inspection.”

Gao nodded. “Yes, that makes perfect sense. We send boarding parties and go through every millimeter of those freighters before allowing them to land.”

“Comrade, we have a situation. They’ve locked six of our ships,” the tactical officer called out. “I show weapons arming across the ISF fleet.”

Whatever calm Kovalev had achieved disintegrated. He sprang from the captain’s chair with clenched fists. “Prepare to attack.”

“But, comrade—”

Kovalev turned and stared at Gao. “Unless they power down their weapons and withdraw, I will blow them out of the void.”

For a moment, the other man appeared as if he would argue. Then his shoulders slumped slightly. “Yes, comrade.”

These dogs will pay for threatening us… with their lives.

27

Major Patrick Godat studied the tactical display in the Tucson’s cramped control room, watching the two fleets converge on collision vectors. Meanwhile, the stealth raider ran silently through space, her reactor running at minimal output and most nonessential systems secured. On the main screen, external cameras tracked the ISF convoy as it maintained course for New Rostov orbit.

“TAO, distance to ISF formation?” Godat asked quietly.

“One hundred thousand kilometers, sir,” Lieutenant Vafaei replied. “PFLOS fleet is at fifty-eight thousand and closing awfully fast.”

Godat nodded, his eyes fixed on the display. Admiral Henry’s flagship, the Liberator, led the ISF formation, with the Baja and a bunch of escorts arranged in a protective formation around the humanitarian freighters. Though it was a textbook convoy escort, against what they were facing, it might not be enough. More enemy ships had jumped in minutes after the ISF’s arrival.

“Conn, TAO. PFLOS fleet composition confirmed,” Vafaei reported. “Two Rand-class heavy cruisers designated Master One and Two, sixteen Cobra-class destroyers designated Master Three through Eighteen, and twelve Halcyon freighters showing enhanced weapon signatures designated Master Nineteen through Thirty.”

The same League hardware had taken New Rostov weeks ago. Godat had been wondering when those ships would show themselves again as a fleet. They were real military vessels with professional crews, not the ragtag terrorist fleet they’d been hunting in hit-and-run attacks.

“Sir, both fleets are within weapons range,” Vafaei continued. “PFLOS formation is powering up energy weapons and locking onto the ISF fleet. I show missile tube doors opening as well.”

“Acknowledged.” Godat keyed the engineering circuit into his intercom control. “Captain, stand by to bring the reactor to full power on my command.”

“Roger, sir. We’re standing by for a hot power-up down here,” Captain Marcus Baptiste, the Tucson’s chief engineering officer, replied.

Through the external cameras, Godat saw the running lights of both formations as they closed the distance at maximum magnification. The ISF convoy held its course without deviation. That speaks to Admiral Henry’s character. The man wasn’t backing down from a fight, humanitarian mission or not. And I’d wager my entire next year’s pay that he’s maneuvering them into combat.

“Conn, Comms. Detecting a lot of traffic between the fleets,” the communications officer called out. “Encrypted burst transmissions. Look like they’re going from Master Two to the Liberator.”

Godat checked the tactical plot again. The Tucson cruised through the void, but they were still multiple minutes out from engagement range, even at maximum speed. Once they got in range, however, twelve Hunter missiles sat loaded in their tubes, ready to engage on his command.

“Major, comms traffic just died. They’re not talking anymore.”

“PFLOS fleet opening fire,” Vafaei interjected. “Multiple plasma salvos targeting the friendly escorts.”

Red icons flashed across the tactical display as energy weapons reached across the void. The League of Sol and PFLOS vessels fired with practiced precision, concentrating their initial attack on the smaller ISF escorts rather than trying to engage everything at once. In particular, they focused on the smallest ships—the corvettes. Initially, they’d been built for planetary customs roles. The neutral human worlds that made up the Interstellar Systems Federation used them for light screening and escort duty, where the CDF or Saurian Navy used a frigate or destroyer-class vessel. It was a quick way to get hull numbers up, but their survivability was far less than a larger, more heavily protected ship.

“Conn, TAO. The Defiant is hit hard,” Vafaei reported. “Runaway reactor failure. She’s gone, sir.”

Godat watched the ship’s icon disappear from the display. A hundred crewmen dead in an instant because some terrorist decided invading the Terran Coalition in hopes of reclaiming some long-lost League glory was a good idea.

“Aspect change. ISF fleet is engaging the enemy,” Vafaei called out. “Liberator and Baja taking the lead, sir.”

Bigger than anything currently in the void above New Rostov, the Conquérant-class heavy cruiser and the Lusitanian dreadnought, respectively, unleashed their fury on the PFLOS vessels. Godat resisted the urge to whistle as the Baja’s newly refitted magnetic cannons made quick work of a Cobra-class destroyer. A different type of energy from integrated turrets rained out from the Liberator.

It took him a minute to realize it was the same type of emplacements used by the Matrinid. What other tricks does Henry have up his sleeve anyway? Still, the situation wasn’t ideal for the ISF force. The enemy outnumbered them and, outside the larger ships, had better equipment. These guys need help.

“Sierra Forty-Three disabled, sir,” Vafaei said. “Freighter Meridian is venting atmosphere.”

Godat had seen enough. The Tucson couldn’t turn the tide singlehandedly, but she could add her weapons to the fight. He punched up the intercom for engineering once more. “Take us to one hundred percent reactor as soon as possible.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Baptiste replied.

“Navigation, put us on a course for the point at which both fleets will intersect, and go to max thrust.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Godat stroked his chin. “TAO, get me a firing solution on Master Fourteen and Sixteen. Four Hunters each. Use tubes one through eight.”

“Firing solutions set, sir.”

“Not equalizing the tubes to the vacuum and opening doors, sir?” Letchford whispered.

Godat shook his head. “Not yet, XO. I’m still trying to preserve our stealth. Full speed is a threat to it, and I’m hoping the enemy is too engrossed in the ISF fleet to pay attention. Opening those doors, though, is one more opportunity to detect us.”

Letchford pursed his lips. It seemed as if he didn’t agree but kept his mouth shut. “Yes, sir.”

Another ISF escort took a plasma hit that crippled her forward shield generator, and the vessel rotated out of formation in an attempt to escape. Meanwhile, the Baja hammered one of the Rand-class cruisers with her secondary armament, but the PFLOS formation kept pressing their attack with the kind of coordination that came from regular League Navy training.

Godat gripped the armrest of his chair as he watched the battle unfold on his viewer. Damn, they’ve even had time to run battle drills. It dawned on him that the entire force was probably made up of League of Sol navy veterans or active-duty personnel. Why can’t our politicians see this so-called terrorist group is simply a front for the enemy?

“Is Kattan coming?” Letchford asked sotto voce.

“Yes.”

“If she doesn’t get here soon, there won’t be much left to do except pick up the life pods.”

As the Tucson shot through the void, Godat silently mouthed a prayer to HaShem before reopening his eyes. Come on, Colonel. Ride in with the cavalry and end this once and for all.

He prayed they weren’t too late.

Kattan sat on the edge of her seat, waiting for another message from the Tucson. The wait was one of the most agonizingly long she’d ever had. Each second seemed to take an eternity. Flipping through status screens only occupied her for so long. Eventually, she ended up on a squadron-readiness report before staring out of the bridge windows, into the void.

It went on infinitely, inky blackness broken only by pinpricks of light from nearby stars. Desolate yet beautiful. She focused on a single star to the left, which was either closer or simply larger than those around it with the intensity of the light. I wonder, does anything live there? It would be child’s play to cross-reference the star with their charts and survey reports but far more mentally entertaining to think about a new alien species or ruins of a long-dead civilization dotting the surface.

The mental distraction was useful as Kattan prepared for what was to come. What I hope is to come.

“Conn, Communications. Inbound burst transmission from the Tucson, ma’am. It reads… hostilities have commenced.”

Kattan grinned. “Outstanding. Reply with a release to engage the enemy, Lieutenant.”

Her XO stared open-mouthed. “What is going on?”

“The Interstellar Systems Federation and the PFLOS fleet over New Rostov have attacked each other,” Kattan replied matter-of-factly. “We will now intervene.”

“Damn.” He shook his head. “That’s…”

“Fortuitous.” Kattan turned her head back to the comms officer. “Lieutenant, put me on, fleet wide, emergency broadcast. Navigation, prepare for jump.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Kattan closed her eyes for a moment and offered a prayer in Arabic, asking for guidance, wisdom, and protection for her crew and the rest of the fleet. Finally, she asked for victory over the barbarians they fought. By Allah, justice will be served.

Major Abigail Miller stared at the tactical display, watching the slow sweep of the Thatcher’s long-range sensors as they filled in a sector at the edge of their range. Two weeks of hit-and-run attacks against targets of opportunity had yielded modest results but nothing that would fundamentally change the strategic picture. The terrorists still held New Rostov and two other mining worlds. Each day that passed meant more innocent civilians ground under their boots.

She shifted in Arthur’s chair. No, the colonel’s chair. Even after weeks of commanding the destroyer, it still felt wrong to be sitting there. While the ship ran smoothly under her command, it was more like keeping the seat warm. This spot belongs to a man fighting for his life on New Rostov.

The days were long and often boring. Today certainly was. Miller was about a third of the way through standing her six-hour watch. Nothing so much as a stray sensor echo had filtered through so far.

“Conn, Communications. Incoming emergency fleet-wide transmission from Colonel Kattan,” Lieutenant Kaveh announced.

Miller’s eyebrows shot up. Okay, that’s different. “Put it on my… the CO’s viewer, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

A moment later, the screen above Miller’s head came alive with an image of Colonel Sofia Kattan’s face. Her jaw was set and conveyed the same edge that Miller had seen a dozen times before. “Attention, all CDF vessels. This is Hermes actual. You are receiving precise jump coordinates for New Rostov. Spin up all Lawrence drives and stand by for emergency transit. We will face an immediate engagement upon arrival with a numerically superior force. Before anyone asks why now, the Interstellar Systems Federation sent a relief convoy to New Rostov. PFLOS has attacked it, and there will never be a better time for us to engage. Good luck, Godspeed, and good hunting. Kattan out.”

Miller’s heart skipped a beat as the transmission ended. Around the bridge, she could feel the bridge crew’s attention focused on her as they waited for orders. Finally. After weeks of waiting, they had a shot at making a difference. And it’s totally out of the blue. That was why the CDF trained as hard and rigorously as they did—to be ready at a moment’s notice.

She exhaled heavily as she punched up 1MC on her chair-mounted intercom. “Attention, all hands. This is the XO. General quarters. General quarters. Man your battle stations. I say again, man your battle stations. Set material condition one throughout the ship. This is not a drill.”

The bridge lights immediately dimmed and turned blue as klaxons sounded throughout the ship. Miller thought she could almost hear the drumming of boots on the deck below as crewmen raced to their stations. That’s got to be in my mind. “TAO, raise shields, load all mag-cannons with EMP rounds, and charge the energy-weapons capacitor.”

“Conn, Nav. Jump coordinates coming through now,” Lieutenant Savitz called out.

No hesitation came from any of the officers, only quiet professionalism, as they’d trained for this their entire careers.

“Deflectors up, ma’am. Weapons charging.”

Miller pulled herself up as straight she could go in the CO’s chair and turned toward the tactical plot. Icons representing the entire CDF force assembled around the Hermes—a Wade McClusky-class light carrier—were bright blue. She was flanked by a Thane-class escort carrier, the CSV Moshe Levy, and dozens of escorts including Ajax-class destroyers and Meade-class frigates. It was every ship not currently on convoy duty. Everything we’ve got. That Kattan was sending them all spoke to the seriousness of the situation.

“Navigation, plot Lawrence jump to transmitted coordinates and charge the drive.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Yasin glanced over her shoulder. “Material condition one set throughout the ship, ma’am.”

“Lawrence drive charged. Jump plotted, ma’am,” Savitz said.

It all came down to Kattan sending the order to engage. Weeks of sitting on the sidelines come to an end now. Miller had no idea what was waiting for them beyond a battle. It seemed haphazard compared to normal CDF operations, but sometimes, a good old-fashioned scramble was needed.

“Conn, Communications. Text-only message received to jump immediately, with Colonel Kattan’s authenticated command code.”

“Navigation, execute Lawrence jump.” Miller gripped the hand rests of the CO’s chair and stared out the bridge windows into the void. All around them, artificial wormholes opened as the rest of the fleet heeded their orders. A few seconds later, the Thatcher accelerated as the swirling vortex of multicolored lights reached its maximum intensity.

In the blink of the eye, the vessel transited through the fabric of space before popping out the other side. Miller held her breath for three seconds, until the tactical plot came alive as their sensors snapped on.

Well, we’re not in the middle of the PFLOS fleet. That’s a good start. “Populate the board with all new contacts, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Yasin replied.

Moments later, the tactical plot had dozens more red and blue icons on it, with ship type and distance notations alongside the largest ships.

Whoa. Miller ran her tongue over her lips. This is going to be one of the most intense battles of my life, not because of the combatants or who we fight but because it all falls on me. She hoped she’d rise to the occasion and filed away in her mind to tell Arthur, if he survived, how wrong she’d been to second-guess his commands. Because until it falls on you, there’s no way to understand.

28

The Liberator shook violently as plasma-cannon blasts found her from a trio of League Cobra-class destroyers and one of the Rands. Henry blinked as he realized the energy-based weaponry was causing far more damage to their deflectors than he would’ve expected. Improved plasma cannons on Leaguer battleships and cruisers had been introduced toward the end of the war with the Terran Coalition, but there’d been no indications that destroyers had gotten the same upgrade package. And the League is trying to sell these as scrapped military ships somebody stole. Please. They’re the best of the bunch.

So far, the larger ships in the ISF fleet were punching above their weight, but the corvettes weren’t. Henry had warned the civilian leadership council for years about the need for purpose-built escorts made to modern military standards. As another icon representing one of their ships blinked out, anger rose to the surface because there hadn’t been enough credits in the last two years of budget cycle to improve their escort fleet. Sure would be nice if the CDF were in this party.

“Captain McGinty, we need to reposition the corvettes. Pull them back and make those League and terrorist ships come to us.”

Cera turned toward him. “That’s going to put us in the crosshairs.”

Henry nodded. “Best tactic we’ve got at the moment.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

As she issued the orders and the bridge team carried them out, Henry focused on the holographical tank that showed the tactical plot in a fluid 3-D display. The battle had taken them well within the Lawrence limit for New Rostov. He’d felt ever since the orders arrived that there was probably another element to what was going on that was opaque to him. At least for now.

Being a cog in someone else’s wheel offended Henry, but there was little he could do about it yet.

“Inbound wormholes, sir,” the tactical officer called out. “At least thirty of them.”

Henry’s chest tightened. Being so far into the gravity well meant they couldn’t escape. Oh, Lord, please don’t let me have led us to our doom.

“Coalition Defense Force signature detected!”

The tension dropping out of the bridge was like someone had poked a pin into a balloon. Dozens of purple icons appeared just beyond the Lawrence limit, which turned blue as the IFF—Identification, Friend or Foe—system recognized them as friendly.

Son of a… Henry shook his head. That was the play all along. We’re the anvil, and the guys coming in are the hammer. Fighters immediately separated from the CSV Hermes as well as the other escort carriers. “Comms, get with your counterpart on the Coalition flagship. I want a strike package headed toward the terrorists’ escorts ASAP. Get some heat off our corvettes.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

He wondered how the CDF knew when to strike with no coordination between the two fleets. They must have an asset in the system. He then spotted a Growler-class stealth raider appearing on the tactical plot with a salvo of Hunter missiles racing away from it. Bravo Zulu indeed to whoever pulled this off.

James Henry was rarely impressed by the tactical acumen of spies, but that was one time when he was. Now to finish the job.

Godat let out the breath he’d held in as Colonel Kattan’s fleet materialized out of artificial wormholes created by the vessels’ Lawrence drives. On his viewer, dozens of new contacts appeared in tight formation, led by the CSV Hermes. Two dozen Ajax-class destroyers, Meade-class frigates, and two Thane escort carriers immediately closed into a wedge formation.

“Hermes on station, sir, designated as Sierra Forty-Nine,” Lieutenant Vafaei reported from her tactical station. “I’ve got active small-craft launches from all three carriers.”

“About time,” Letchford muttered from his position beside Godat in the XO’s chair.

Godat allowed himself the small joy, for just a moment, of a zoomed-in external camera focused on the Hermes’s primary launch bay. The sleek forms of SF-106 Phantoms and attack bombers streamed away from their carrier like a swarm of angry bees ready to engage the enemy. The cavalry had finally arrived, and it was time for the Tucson to earn her keep.

“TAO, confirm firing solutions on Master Fourteen and Sixteen.”

“Firing solutions reconfirmed and set, sir,” Vafaei replied.

Godat studied the tactical plot. The two Cobra-class destroyers he’d previously selected were on the edge of the PFLOS formation, separated enough from their compatriots to avoid overlapping point defense fire, or so he hoped. He pulled his black space sweater down and smoothed it absent-mindedly. “Make tubes one through eight ready in all respects and open the outer doors.”

“Tubes one through eight ready in all respects, sir,” Vafaei called out. “Outer doors are open.”

The Tucson’s sensor profile had just increased dramatically with the missile-tube doors cycling open, but in the chaos of a three-way fleet engagement, one small stealth raider was unlikely to draw attention. At least, that was Godat’s working theory.

“Sir, PFLOS formation is adjusting to engage the CDF fleet.” Vafaei turned her head. “Both Rand-class cruisers look like they’re trying to break contact with the ISF force and engage the Hermes.”

Of course they do, because removing our flagship from the board would cripple all operations. Godat set his jaw. Let’s give them something else to think about. “Match bearings, shoot, tubes one through eight.”

The Tucson shuddered as eight Hunter missiles launched in rapid succession, each one accelerating away from the stealth raider at tremendous velocity. On the tactical display, eight new icons raced toward their targets while their AI-guidance-systems-refined attack vectors.

“Tubes one through eight fired electronically, sir,” Vafaei confirmed. “All units running hot, straight, and normal.”

“TAO, close outer doors and commence reloading procedure,” Godat barked. “Nav, come to heading zero-seven-zero, all ahead, two-thirds.”

He felt the missile-tube doors cycle shut as the Tucson began a sharp turn to starboard. The maneuver would take them away from the PFLOS formation at a ninety-degree angle, he hoped before enemy sensors could get a solid lock on their position.

“My course is now zero-seven-zero, aye,” the navigator called out.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change. Active sensor sweeps from the enemy escorts.” Vafaei glanced over her shoulder. “Multiple ships are trying to backtrack our missile launch.”

Letchford smirked. “They’re a little late for that.”

Godat turned his attention the tactical plot as he observed the ongoing fleet engagement between the ISF and the PFLOS fleets. The addition of the CDF flotilla meant the enemy was being hammered from two directions. Neutron beams, magnetic-cannon shells, muonic-energy blasts, and plasma balls crisscrossed the void while fighters darted between the larger ships like minnows around whales.

“Units one through four, thirty seconds to impact on Master Fourteen.”

Godat’s eyes went back to his screen as the four Hunters closed on the first Cobra-class destroyer. The enemy ship’s point defense systems fired repeatedly, trying to intercept the incoming missiles, but Hunters were designed to penetrate such defenses. They veered off in four directions, forcing the defenders to split their shots. At the last second, the warheads whipped around and slammed into the weakest shield on the vessel.

“Master Fourteen shields have failed,” Vafaei announced. “Secondary explosions from her engineering spaces. Master Fourteen destroyed.”

The ship’s icon blinked twice then disappeared from the display. One down. A bunch more to go. Godat wondered who was crewing the enemy warships. Leaguers? More of the PFLOS terrorists? He realized they were one and the same at some point, but it would’ve been nice to know who was on the bridge over there.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, Master Sixteen. She’s turning toward a smaller freighter, Master Twenty-Two.”

Godat grimaced as the remaining four Hunters closed on their target, only to encounter a wall of coordinated point defense fire from both the destroyer and the nearby freighter. The oddly modified vessel had at least sixteen cannons belching forth shells that exploded in a pattern. Huh. Flak? He’d read about such weapons in eras past, but no military would build a ship that was so overloaded with PD and no offensive weaponry. Even the CDF’s Meade-class frigates were generally considered a failure because of their lack of anti-ship power.

Vafaei glanced back. “Three Hunters intercepted, sir. One got through. Minor damage to Master Sixteen.”

It was only a matter of time before somebody figured out how to counter the shackled-AI-controlled warheads. Godat wished it hadn’t been by a brutal terrorist organization. But I have to give them credit for outside-the-box thinking.

At that moment, the Tucson rocked.

“I think they’ve got our general bearing, sir. Master Sixteen, Eighteen, and Thirty-One moving to intercept.”

Okay. They’re still firing blind. That was obvious from the numerous plasma balls shot into the general area around the vessel. I can work with that. “Nav, all ahead full,” Godat barked. “COB, prepare our remaining decoy drone.”

“Aye, aye, skipper,” VanDyke replied above the murmurs from the bridge officers and enlisted ratings.

Godat felt the stealth raider accelerate through the vibration of the deck plates. He hoped to break contact and circle around for another pass. If that didn’t work out, four Hunters were left in his tubes, but he had to wait for the freighter to veer off. No use wasting our precious missiles. Still, one ship down wasn’t bad. And we’re nowhere near out of the fight.

Major Abigail Miller gripped the armrests of her command chair as the Margaret Thatcher shook under enemy fire. The main viewer showed a chaos of ships and weapons fire as the ISF and CDF fleets tore into the PFLOS vessels at close range. It was the kind of battle she’d been craving for weeks. Finally, a chance to hit back at the terrorists who took New Rostov. Even though part of her was still angry with Arthur for staying and for his previous actions in not dealing with the terrorists as firmly as she would’ve, every fiber of her being hoped he was still alive.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, Master Six. She’s changed course to intercept us, range twelve thousand kilometers and closing fast,” Second Lieutenant Nadia Yasin called out.

“Loadout status on our magnetic cannons, Lieutenant.”

“EMP rounds, ma’am.”

“Double-load EMP rounds, all turrets.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Miller blew out a breath as she studied the tactical plot. “Navigation, adjust heading by ten degrees to port. Maintain flank speed.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” First Lieutenant Esther Savitz replied.

“Double load complete,” Yasin interjected. “All six barrels ready, ma’am.”

“TAO, firing point procedures, magnetic cannons and neutron beams, Master Six.”

“Firing solutions set, ma’am.”

“Match bearings, shoot, magnetic cannons and neutron beams.”

The Thatcher’s mag-cannons spoke in the void as they belched electromagnetically accelerated shells toward the approaching League destroyer. Moving at ten percent of light speed, all twelve projectiles slammed into the Cobra’s forward deflectors, battering them down in the blink of an eye. Moments later, Yasin followed up the initial success with pinpoint neutron-beam strikes from the fore-mounted emitters. The spears of particle energy melted a plasma turret and hit the destroyer amidships in its shuttle bay. Secondary explosions blossomed out as the ship rotated to present its ventral shields.

“Master Six suffered heavy damage, ma’am. She’s attempting to withdraw.”

Unfortunately, before the CDF flotilla arrived, the ISF escorts had taken it on the chin. Now PFLOS pressed their attack. Miller watched the CSV Witold Urbanowicz slowly turn to starboard, atmosphere venting from multiple hull breaches.

“Sierra Fifty-Eight has lost reactor control,” Yasin called out.

The Meade-class frigate disappeared in a brief flash of antimatter, taking her crew of two hundred with her. Miller clenched her jaw. Damn them. Damn them all. If hell existed, Miller hoped she was sending the enemy to it with every shot they took.

“Ma’am, the Manuel Fernandez just took a direct hit to her bridge tower.”

Miller stared at the tactical plot as another blue dot disappeared following a brilliant explosion. Another Ajax-class destroyer just like the Margaret Thatcher. She tried not to think about how easily that could have been them. In fleet actions such as this, survival often came down to luck as much as skill.

“Conn, TAO. Master Fifteen has adjusted course. She’s headed straight at us,” Yasin announced. “Halcyon-class freighter.”

The screen above Miller’s head proved her words. All around them, a chaotic battle was in progress. In most cases, it had devolved into a series of individual skirmishes.

“Firing point procedures, Master Fifteen, neutron beams and magnetic cannons.” Miller ran her tongue over her lips, as they were quite dry.

“Firing solutions set, ma’am, but we’re still ten seconds out from a mag-cannon reload.”

On the tactical plot, a blue dot vectored toward them. Miller used her controls to hover over the contact. The Leonidas. They’ve come to help. She hoped anyway. “Comms, coordinate an alpha strike on Master Fifteen with Major Garner.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Kaveh replied.

“Leonidas actual acknowledges, ma’am. They’ll coordinate with our strike.”

Miller stared straight ahead, out the bridge windows, counting down the seconds until she could launch another attack. Come on, old girl. You’ve got another victory in your bones.

“Magnetic cannon reload cycle complete, ma’am,” Yasin said over her shoulder.

“Match bearings, shoot, magnetic cannons and neutron beams.”

The Thatcher’s turrets sent another salvo into the void but only from the front two, as the aft ventral was out of arc. There was no blast of fire or shower of sparks. The only evidence they’d even launched was a brief burst of energy that was so quick that one could blink and miss it. Her assault was quickly matched by the Leonidas. The sister Ajax-class destroyer sent a full volley into the port-side shield of the up-gunned and up-armored freighter.

A split second later, return fire from the enemy found the Thatcher, making Miller rock in her seat. Those things pack a punch. Even as the Thatcher’s defensive screens dropped like a stone, the enemy’s port shield collapsed. Both Yasin and the Leonidas’s tactical officer took advantage and raked the freighter’s hull with neutron beams.

“Conn, TAO. Master Fifteen has lost her primary reactor, and all deflectors are down.”

Miller gave a fierce warrior’s grin. “Firing point procedures, tubes one and two, Master Fifteen. Make both tubes ready in all respects and open the outer doors.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am. Firing solution set. Tubes one and two ready in all respects. Outer doors are open.”

The Halcyon-class freighter still maneuvered, and it had auxiliary power. In Miller’s mind, it remained a legitimate military target. “Match bearings, shoot, tubes one and two.”

“Both units fired electronically, ma’am.”

Two new blue icons appeared on the tactical map and accelerated toward the stricken vessel. At the last moment, the freighter tried to rotate and bring more point defense cannons online, but it was a useless gesture of defiance.

A second later, both Hunters hit the center of the freighter, and blew it into two separate pieces. The aft, housing the reactor, went critical and exploded, leaving only small chunks of debris no larger than a man’s hand. The other half tumbled through the void, venting atmosphere.

“Master Fifteen destroyed,” Yasin called out.

Miller smiled coldly. One more down and another notch on our belt. Her eyes went back to the tactical plot as she hunted for new prey. A group of five enemy vessels caught her attention. They were out of place and appeared to be firing barrages of plasma balls into the void. At first, she thought it was random, but after watching for a few seconds, it became obvious they were trying to find something. And there’s only one thing that could be… a stealth raider.

“TAO, any stealth raiders on station?”

“CSV Tucson, ma’am, per the Hermes tactical picture. Her IFF is off.”

Her eyes went back to the screen as Miller wondered why the Tucson wasn’t lighting up its foes with twelve missile tubes’ worth of Hunters. A ship in the center of the small formation offered a clue. “Lieutenant, is that one of those smaller PD freighters at bearing two-eight-six? Master Nine.”

Yasin turned around. “Yes, ma’am.”

Miller pursed her lips. Well, that explains that. “Comms, signal the Leonidas to maintain formation. We’re taking out Master Nine. Tell Major Garner it’s for a good cause… bailing out the Tucson.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.” Kaveh paused. “Leonidas actual confirms, ma’am.”

“Navigation, intercept course on Master Nine. TAO, double load all magnetic cannons with EMP rounds.”

As her bridge officers replied in the affirmative, Miller set her jaw. It would be close, but they’d knock out the PD ship. And that should turn the Tucson loose to even up the score while we finish off what’s left. A few things had to go right, but the battle appeared to be tilting their way. She’d take it.

Godat flipped from an external camera view back to the tactical plot as the Margaret Thatcher and the Leonidas closed on Master Nine, their mag-cannons pounding away at the point defense freighter’s shields. The modified cargo vessel tried to maneuver away, but she was too slow against two Ajax-class destroyers working in coordination. But that doesn’t mean the enemy is out of options.

The remaining four contacts, three of which were Cobra-class destroyers and one that was an up-gunned PFLOS freighter, had been slightly too slow at veering back to engage the CDF ships. That’s going to cost them dearly. It couldn’t have come at a better time for the Tucson.

“Conn, TAO. Master Nine’s deflectors are failing,” Vafaei said. “Both friendly destroyers are concentrating neutron-beam fire on her weapons emplacements and power couplings.”

Letchford harrumphed. “About time. That flak boat’s been keeping us bottled up for the last ten minutes.”

Godat nodded as he studied the tactical plot. The remaining hostiles had gotten turned around and unleashed a series of volleys on the Thatcher and the Leonidas. He hated seeing the two ships raked with plasma-cannon fire, but without their assistance, the Tucson would be lucky to survive. It was only going to take a couple of lucky hits to localize their boat, and after that, he’d have to jump out to avoid losing the stealth raider.

“Master Nine destroyed,” Vafaei announced. “Secondary explosions from her missile magazine. No life pods launched.”

Godat keyed the engineering circuit. “Baptiste, bring the reactor up to full power. We’re going back to work.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Full power in ten seconds,” the chief engineer replied.

As Baptiste spoke, the reactor display headed toward one hundred percent. “TAO, status on missile reload?”

“All twelve tubes loaded with Hunter missiles and ready, sir,” Vafaei said a moment later.

Godat studied the tactical display as the Tucson’s reactor output reached nominal maximum. The enemy ships were bracketing both CDF destroyers, but crucially, they’d split their fire between the two ships and completely ignored him. Whoever’s in charge over there is no longer exercising fine-grained command of the fleet. That means they fall back on the best training and instincts of the individual ship drivers. Godat would put the CDF and even the ISF up against the Leaguers or the terrorists any day. Let’s see about evening this up.

“Navigation, reverse course and come to heading one-eight-five, all ahead flank.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Godat could feel the engines vibrating through the deck plates as the stealth raider pivoted in space and her ion drives pushed her back toward the enemy. “TAO, make tubes one through twelve ready in all respects. Open the outer doors.”

“Tubes one through twelve ready, sir. Outer doors open. No firing solution locked.”

Godat checked the tactical plot one more time. The Margaret Thatcher and the Leonidas were concentrating on the Halcyon-class freighter, which represented the most dangerous combatant of the four enemy ships. Perfect. We’ll thin the herd. “TAO, firing point procedures… tubes one through six on Master Twenty-Seven and tubes seven through twelve on Master Thirty-One.”

“Firing solutions set, sir.”

“Match bearings, shoot, tubes one through twelve.”

The Tucson shuddered for six seconds straight as twelve Hunter missiles launched in rapid succession, each one accelerating away from the stealth raider at tremendous velocity. On the tactical display, two new clusters of blue dots raced toward their targets while their AI guidance systems refined attack vectors.

“All units running hot, straight, and normal,” Vafaei called out.

“Close outer doors and begin reload procedure.” Godat gripped the armrests of the CO’s chair. “Nav, slow to two-thirds. Adjust course thirty-degrees to port.”

Vafaei glanced over her shoulder. “Sir, both enemy destroyers have detected our launch. They’re veering away and attempting linked point defense.”

“Too little, too late,” Letchford said with a bitter chuckle. “Serves the bastards right.”

The Cobra-class destroyers filled the void with what seemed like thousands of point defense blasts from their energy-based PD system, all for naught. The Hunters relentlessly tracked their targets, twisting and turning in a deadly dance.

“Ten seconds to impact on both targets,” Vafaei called out.

The first six Hunters reached Master Eighteen, the lead Cobra-class destroyer. Her point defense systems managed to intercept two of the missiles, but four made it through. The fusion warheads detonated in sequence along her starboard side, overwhelming her shields and punching through her hull.

Vafaei cleared her throat. “Master Eighteen starboard deflectors have failed. Multiple hull breaches across her starboard quarter. She’s venting atmosphere and launching life pods on the port side.”

The second destroyer fared even worse. All six Hunters penetrated her defenses, the coordinated strike eliminating the aft shield generator, with three warheads slamming into her engineering spaces. Moments later, the vessel blew apart in a binding flash of white light.

“Master Twenty-One is gone, sir.” Vafaei’s tone was calm… almost cold. “Magaret Thatcher and Leonidas engaging the remaining two hostiles.”

Scratch two Cobras. Not a bad use of twelve Hunter missiles. Godat ran his teeth over his lip as he stared at the tactical plot. One of the red dots disappeared. That would be the PFLOS freighter. “ETA to missile-tube reload, Lieutenant?”

“Tubes one and two ready now, sir. Three and four in thirty seconds. Full reload is five minutes out.”

Godat grinned. “I think we’ll help our friends finish the job. TAO, firing point procedures, Master Thirty-Two, tubes one and two. Make both tubes ready in all respects and open the outer doors.”

“Firing solution set, sir. Tubes one and two ready in all respects. Outer doors are open.”

“Match bearings, shoot, tubes one and two.”

Letchford stretched his neck. “Looks like Major Miller wants to beat you to it, sir.”

“Well, may the best ship win,” Godat replied. In the last couple of minutes, he’d gone from apprehensive if not fearful that the CDF would come out on top to optimistic. Who am I kidding? Watching these guys’ ships blow apart is the best sight we’ve had in weeks.

As the Tucson’s missile salvo raced across the void toward its intended target, neutron beams from both Ajax-class destroyers lanced out and speared the remaining Cobra-class destroyed from stem to stern. Mag-cannon rounds punched holes in its hull, and even then, the League ship refused to die. It took both Hunters plowing into the engineering compartments and triggering a reactor cascade before it finally blew apart.

“Master Thirty-Two destroyed, sir,” Vafaei called out.

Godat leaned back, allowing himself a moment of satisfaction. The Tucson had accounted for two destroyers and helped clear the way. Not bad for a day’s hunting, and we’re not done yet.

“Conn, Communications. Signal from the Margaret Thatcher. Message reads: ‘Good shooting, Tucson. Thanks for the assist.’”

Godat shook his head as a smirk formed on his lips. “Comm, signal back: ‘I think you mean “ “Thanks for assisting us.” Happy hunting.’”

“Plenty of hostiles still out there, skipper,” Letchford said after a moment.

“Yeah, and we’re going to find some more as soon as we’ve got twelve tubes ready to fire.” Godat’s eyes went back to the tactical board. We might just get that clean sweep yet.

Yevgeny Kovalev sat rigidly in the captain’s chair, his knuckles white as he gripped the interface built into it. The holographic display painted a devastating picture—red icons flickering out one by one as the capitalists and their ISF lackies took out his fleet. This cannot be happening.

“Comrade, the Song Hao has stopped responding. Escape pods are launching,” the tactical officer said from the other side of the bridge.

Kovalev’s jaw tightened as he watched the tactical screen update. Where almost forty-five ships had existed an hour ago, less than three dozen remained. The Kornei Andrusenko herself had taken hits as the enemy chewed through their escorts and targeted his flagship and the other Rand-class heavy cruiser their benefactor had released.

“How?” Kovalev’s voice carried an edge that made the bridge crew glance nervously at one another. “How is this possible?”

He spun out of the chair as his cheeks heated and fury coursed through his veins. “The Terran Coalition! Their politicians are weak, spineless individualists who care only for their own comfort. They should be paralyzed by bureaucracy, not coordinating strikes like this.”

Gao moved closer. “Comrade, the situation—”

“And the ISF!” Kovalev’s voice rose. “Since when do those profit-obsessed merchants risk their precious ships for the Coalition? They should be counting credits, not bleeding alongside these capitalist Terran dogs!”

“Sir, we need to—”

“They were supposed to be divided!” Kovalev slammed his fist down on the tactical display, causing the hologram to flicker. “Weak! Fractured! How are they here, fighting like brothers?”

Gao stepped directly in front him. “Comrade, with respect, we need to make a decision. Now.”

“What decision?”

“We’re losing, sir.” Gao’s voice remained steady and professional. “A third of our escorts are gone. The Baja and the Liberator are closing for another attack run. Their next target is us.”

“We still outnumber them—”

“Not with effective combat strength. Half our remaining ships are operating at reduced capability. The enemy’s losses have been minimal, and they’re fighting with coordination we didn’t anticipate.”

Kovalev stared at the plot, his mind racing. This should have been simple. Overwhelm the ISF convoy and capture their freighters or scatter the entire force. Instead, he faced a combined fleet that fought like longtime allies. “If we lose much more, we won’t be able to keep up offensive actions.”

“Yes, comrade. It is time to withdraw.”

“Du Ping reports critical reactor damage and requests permission to fall back to the Lawrence limit.”

Another Cobra-class destroyer. They’d been less than effective against the CDF ships, though they had seen quite a few ISF escorts off. Instinctively, Kovalev barked, “Negative. We will maintain formation and continue the fight.”

Gao leaned in and lowered his voice. “Comrade, we can’t keep losing ships like this. You just said it yourself. Our ability to fight depends on—”

“Then her crew will die as patriots rather than running like cowards!”

“And accomplish what? We’ve proven our strength. But this is no longer a winnable engagement.”

“Are you suggesting we retreat?”

“I’m suggesting we preserve our force for future operations. Think, sir. The ISF won’t stay here for long. They haven’t joined the war. If we fall back with enough ships to defeat the CDF, this loss will be insignificant in the long run.”

Kovalev’s face twisted. “How… are we being outfought by merchants and individualists from Galt? Rage erupted in him, making everything go red. More than anything, Kovalev wanted to choke the life out of Gao and slam his head repeatedly into a bulkhead. After a couple of deep breaths, the scale of his anger surprised even Kovalev. He took a step back.

Gao gestured toward the communications station. “Sir, you must act.”

For a moment, the two officers stared at each other. Around them, the bridge continued its controlled chaos.

Finally, Kovalev’s shoulders sagged. “Give the order. All ships set course for the Lawrence limit, best possible speed.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the communications officer replied.

How did this happen? Kovalev closed his eyes for a moment. What will it take for the people of this galaxy to see how bad the Terran Coalition and the supposed neutral human Interstellar Systems Federation really are? Most of the worlds in the ISF had specifically stayed out of the Coalition to avoid the capitalist oppression imposed by them. And here they are, coming to help their masters. It disgusted him, and moreover, it made him want to kill every one of them. Before this war is over, I’m going to rain fire on the so-called Admiral Henry.

Kovalev opened his eyes and walked back to his seat like a condemned man. I must see this through, no matter the cost. My son’s memory and the ideals of the revolution demand it.

29

Miller watched the tactical display like a hawk, taking in the battle as the Thatcher raced back toward the main engagement, with the Leonidas and presumably, the Tucson by her side. The ISF and CDF fleets had hammered the PFLOS force for over half an hour, but the terrorists gave as well as they took. Most of the remaining enemy vessels had congregated around their two largest ships, a pair of Rand-class heavy cruisers.

Easily outclassing anything on the battlefield except the Liberator and the Baja, the two ships hammered away at any smaller vessels that dared to close with them. But the ISF heavyweights had started to catch up.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, all hostile contacts,” Yasin said. “They’ve changed course to swing wide around our primary formation.”

Damn. Miller’s eyes went from the ship status display back to the tactical plot just in time to see the mass of red icons shift their headings. The PFLOS commander was attempting to break contact, angling his ships toward the Lawrence limit on a vector that would minimize exposure to CDF fire. Smart bastard. But hopefully not smart enough.

“They’re running,” Senior Chief Cooper interjected from his perch to the side of CO’s and XO’s chairs.

“Negative,” Miller replied sharply. “They’re trying to escape.”

“Hard to stop a fleet from jumping out beyond the Lawrence limit, ma’am.”

Miller nodded as she exhaled. “They’ve got a little ways to go before they get there. Nav, put us on an intercept course for Master Two.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

The Thatcher’s deck plates vibrated as her ion engines pulsed with maximum output. Around them, the rest of the friendly fleet was adjusting course as well, but the enemy had a crucial multisecond head start. Silence descended over the bridge as they resolutely pushed toward the enemy.

After what seemed like an eternity, Yasin interjected, “Conn, TAO. The Baja just entered maximum weapons range of Master Two, ma’am.”

Moments later, the Baja opened up with everything she had. The Lusitanian dreadnought’s mag-cannons spoke in the void. Brilliant flashes erupted from the end of her turrets, and a split second later, explosions dotted the shields of the Rand-class heavy cruiser.

“Master Two deflectors are taking a beating, ma’am.”

Miller punched up the engineering spaces on her chair-mounted intercom. “Ramos, can you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Punch the reactor up to one hundred twenty percent and save me the speech on safety.”

After a pause, he answered, “Yes, ma’am.”

She clicked the intercom off and put her attention back on the tactical plot. They were rapidly gaining on the enemy formation, and it appeared that the little formation would slot in maybe five minutes before the PFLOS ships hit the Lawrence limit.

“TAO, load armor-piercing rounds into all mag-cannon turrets.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Miller licked her lips. “And what’s our VRLS status?”

“Six Hunters loaded and ready.”

Every little bit is going to help. “TAO, firing point procedures, tubes one through six, Master Two.”

“Firing solutions set, ma’am.”

Directly ahead, visible through the bridge windows, the three fleets exchanged missiles, direct-fire munitions, and energy-weapons fire in a brilliant display of different-colored beams and blasts of plasma. It was almost beautiful until one realized real people were dying with every few shots.

Miller counted down the seconds, waiting even past maximum firing range to make sure the missiles would have enough fuel to maneuver. “Make tubes one through six ready in all respects and open the outer doors.”

“Tubes ready. Doors open, ma’am.”

“Match bearings, shoot, tubes one through six.”

The Thatcher’s deck plates vibrated as her vertical launch system expelled all six missiles in rapid succession. Miller watched the tactical display as six new icons accelerated toward their target, their AI guidance systems already calculating intercept courses.

“All units running hot, straight, and normal,” Yasin called out.

Miller grabbed the armrests of her chair so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Come on. Hit this bastard and take them out. On the tactical plot, the red dots streaked toward the enemy heavy cruiser as the Baja continued its pounding of the vessel. Out of the six, three made it through a gauntlet of PFLOS point defense fire. They slammed into the aft quarter of the vessel, and the protective screens blinked out.

“Direct hit, ma’am. Master Two’s aft deflector generator has failed.”

Miller gave a fierce grin. “TAO, firing point procedures, all in arc magnetic cannons, Master Two.”

As she gave the order and as the ship vented atmosphere from the damaged aft section, the Rand’s engines flared brighter as the vessel attempted escape.

“Master Two is charging her Lawrence drive, ma’am. Baja’s not going to get another salvo in before she jumps.”

Miller wanted to punch her display with anger. We haven’t come this far to let them escape now. “Match bearings, shoot, all magnetic cannons.”

Both of the Margaret Thatcher’s forward turrets spoke in unison, sending four armor-piercing shells at the enemy at ten percent of light speed. A split second later, they all slammed into the armor plating of the Rand’s aft quarter. No secondary explosions occurred.

Yasin shook her head. “Negative impact, ma’am. We didn’t penetrate her hull.”

Trying to use a destroyer’s weaponry to puncture the thick armor of a heavy cruiser was something of a fool’s errand, but Miller had few other options to try. Meanwhile, the Leonidas added her own fury to the mix with a barrage of magnetic-cannon rounds and neutron-beam shots, none of which had the desired effect. The Rand simply shrugged off the incoming fire and pressed on.

“Master Two is almost to the Lawrence limit, ma’am,” Yasin called out.

Miller thought through what else they could do. The fleet was simply too spread out to narrow down on the enemy flagship. At least we’re going to win the day.

“Conn, TAO. New contact, less than five hundred kilometers, bearing zero-one-zero. It’s the Tucson, ma’am!”

There was no mistaking the excitement in Yasin’s voice, and Miller quickly realized why: the stealth raider had launched a full volley of Hunter missiles, and every one headed toward the damaged Rand-class heavy cruiser. They tracked through the void, avoided point defense fire, and plunged into the aft quarter of the warship as it began to open an artificial wormhole, still inside the Lawrence limit.

Detonation after detonation turned the darkness of the void into the brilliance of the brightest star, and when the effect faded, large holes had been blasted into the hull of the massive League warship. Secondary explosions rippled through the vessel as missile magazines, her reactor, or perhaps a shuttle bay went up. Debris scattered in all directions, and the barely formed wormhole dissipated into nothingness.

“Master Two destroyed!” Yasin practically yelled as a cheer went up from the bridge crew.

“One down,” Miller said with a measure of grim satisfaction. But her eyes were already tracking the remaining enemy ships. The second Rand was still intact along with many of the escorts.

“Ma’am, Master One has activated her Lawrence drive.”

They’re still inside the limit. Miller watched as the telltale red, blue, green, and purple colors swirled into view in front of the remaining heavy cruiser. Opening an artificial wormhole inside the Lawrence limit was incredibly dangerous—exotic particles could destroy a ship from the inside out. But it was also the enemy’s only chance of escape. The vortex stabilized just as the Rand reached it, and she disappeared inside along with several escorting Cobra-class destroyers.

The last few enemy ships weren’t far behind, as they reached the safety of the Lawrence limit and vanished into artificial wormholes of their own.

At least we got some of them. Miller leaned back, feeling the adrenaline slowly drain from her system. Around her, the bridge crew had smiles pasted on their faces for the first time in weeks, and she couldn’t blame them. They’d just participated in one of the more successful fleet actions in recent CDF history.

“Conn, Communications. We’re getting a static image from the Tucson, ma’am.”

Miller raised an eyebrow. “Put it up.”

A picture of an old-style broom appeared on the monitor above Miller’s head, and she laughed after a moment. “Our friends over there think they completed a clean sweep.”

Cooper pursed his lips. “Not quite. Lots of enemies left and tens of thousands of them on New Rostov. Going to be a while before that particular tradition is earned, if you ask me, ma’am.”

Miller didn’t disagree with him. “Get a damage report, Senior Chief. I felt a few blows that probably hurt.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“Comms, send back to commander, CSV Tucson… Hell of a finishing move, Major. Godspeed.”

Kaveh glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

She looked around at her crew—No, Arthur’s crew—and felt a surge of pride. They’d done their jobs with professional competence under extreme pressure. The colonel would be proud. Speaking of which… Her thoughts turned to the planet below, where Arthur was still fighting his own war in the tunnels beneath New Rostov. With the PFLOS fleet driven off, maybe they could finally organize a proper relief effort.

The battle might be done, but the war was far from over.

James Henry had, over the decades of his life, seen many a victory. Few made him as proud as the one he was currently witnessing. As the PFLOS ships—both up-armed freighters and the League of Sol military hardware that conveniently ended up with neutral transponders—reached the Lawrence limit and jumped out, they did so with a significantly lower number of combat vessels than they’d had an hour before.

Not that the ISF and CDF force didn’t have their losses. Among the escorting ISF corvettes, damage was particularly high. A lot of good men and women paid in blood for this victory. Yet Henry could objectively say that the cost was worth it to defeat a barbaric group that resembled a death cult more than any type of ideology.

A single Cobra-class destroyer veered off from its jump point at the last moment, and its engines flared in the void.

Henry pulled up a scan, which showed a critical failure in its FTL system. “Comms, give that ship a chance to surrender. We might get some intel off it.”

“Aye, aye, Admiral,” the communications officer replied.

Seconds passed without further response, until the ship executed a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn and headed straight for the Liberator.

“Looks like they mean to ram us,” Cera interjected as the destroyer’s heading steadied.

“Blow it out of the void,” Henry replied, his tone as hard as a rock.

“With pleasure.”

While the fleet was far more spread out than Henry would’ve liked from the chaotic battle, the Liberator had sustained little damage. Her muonic cannons spoke in the void, sending charged energy slamming through the League ship’s shields, which collapsed under their bombardment. Small pockets of melted alloy marked where the blasts hit. Magnetic-cannon strikes with high-explosive warheads and neutron beams finished the vessel, blowing it into small chunks a few meters wide.

“Clear board, Admiral,” Cera said after the glare from the final explosion had faded.

Before Henry could reply, the communications officer interjected, “Sir, there’s a vidlink request from the CSV Hermes.”

“On screen.”

A moment later, the image of a woman in a standard-issue CDF khaki service uniform appeared at the front of the bridge. Several enlisted crewmen performed damage control behind her. “Admiral Henry, I presume.”

“The one and only,” he replied with a tight smile.

“Colonel Sofia Kattan. We owe you and your fleet a debt of gratitude.”

Henry pursed his lips. “Right place, right time, Colonel. Glad we could help even up the odds.”

“You did a lot more than that, Admiral.” She relaxed her facial expression and ran her tongue over her lips. “It was very dicey.”

“Still is.” An understatement. The remaining Rand outclasses almost anything they have except for the Hermes, and even then, it’s only her strike craft that give her hitting power.

“Yes.” Kattan tilted her head. “Do you have any thoughts on how long you’ll be sticking around, Admiral?”

“Well, my orders are to escort a convoy of humanitarian supplies to New Rostov and ensure their safe landing and distribution. I’ve accomplished the first part, but the second will take some time. When do you think the Marines will arrive?”

“At least another week. Then we’ll have to prepare for landing. Could be a bit, Admiral.”

Henry shrugged. “Then I suppose we’re going to have to hang out. Some of my ships have damage too. Naturally, that needs to be repaired before we get under way.”

Kattan’s lips curled into a grin. “The CDF would be happy to offer you repairs at New Rostov station once we’ve taken control. Free of charge, of course.”

“Of course.” Henry knew he was smirking like a first-year cadet at Halsey Station who’d pulled one over on a senior instructor—or thought he had anyway. This probably exceeds my orders, but Ascaro wants us to offer as much help as we can, and the longer our fleet is parked here, the longer PFLOS won’t be returning. Unless the terrorists had large amounts of reinforcements, they simply lacked the force projection capability to dislodge the combined ISF and CDF flotillas.

“Again, I thank you, Admiral.”

“You’re welcome, Colonel, and may I say I hope this effort leads to further cooperation between our two militaries and governments.”

Kattan once again inclined her head. “Agreed. Godspeed, Admiral Henry. Hermes out.”

“Godspeed to you too.”

The display blinked off, returning to an image of New Rostov and her lone orbital station. Silence descended over the bridge, and for a moment, Henry allowed his mind to wander. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar form. A younger, idealistic, and uncynical version of him, fresh out of the academy and head filled with a desire to win the war and protect his people.

It was the same version of him that had demanded an accounting when Henry had crawled into a bottle. That reminded him he had still had a duty, even if he no longer wore a uniform. On that day, James Henry had answered the call and saved a family from a gang of thugs. Ever since, his sense of duty had been unshakable, even as his life had changed in a dramatic fashion.

But now, that young Lieutenant Henry stood in his mind’s eye in a crisply pressed CDF uniform, his hand to his brow. “Nicely done, Admiral. Nicely done.”

In a moment, the mental image was gone, and James Henry glanced around the bridge at his crew, all of whom had their heads down, doing their jobs.

It felt good.

30

CDF Headquarters

Lawrence City—Canaan

30 May 2474

As much as David Cohen strove to be home by eighteen hundred hours every workday, sometimes, it wasn’t possible. Today was one of those days. He’d been following the events in the Orion Spur since the ISF convoy appeared from seemingly out of nowhere and engaged the enemy. To his amazement, there’d been no contact from any White House staff, while emails and vidlink requests to Robbins’s people went unanswered. I’m sure she’ll have something to say tomorrow.

What didn’t track for him was the incredible coincidence of the CDF fleet being at precisely the right place and time to engage within one jump of New Rostov. At first, he’d been overjoyed, but after a few hours to ponder the situation, it was rather obvious that something else was afoot.

For the moment, the government’s official line was that they’d been uninformed about the ISF operation while stressing the private nature of the relief convoy. The Galt megacorps behind it were crowing all over the GalNet about their commitment to freedom and democracy, which made David sick to his stomach.

He was close to heading out when his tablet buzzed with a priority transmission. I wonder if Robbins… Oh. It was from the Hermes.

Kattan’s face appeared on the screen, and the scene behind her was clearly her day cabin behind the bridge. “General Cohen, I apologize for the delayed communication. We just now got the New Rostov subspace repeater back online after securing the orbital station.”

David waved his hand. “Colonel, you have far bigger fish to fry than getting in touch with me. I’m just thankful you and the Hermes are safe and sound. How bad was it?”

“It could’ve been far worse, sir. We lost thirteen strike craft, two frigates, and an Ajax-class block I. Light to moderate damage on a dozen ships, and the Moshe Levy took a hit to her flight deck. With the limited repair capability at New Rostov, I call it a week until we’ve gotten all field-repair-capable damage completed.”

“How many casualties?”

“Over eight hundred, sir.”

The realization that losing almost a thousand soldiers was better than the other possible outcomes sickened him. “And the ISF?”

“They took it on the chin. Those corvettes of theirs are not front-line combat vessels.”

David nodded. He’d known that for some time, but it wasn’t like the former neutral worlds had anything like the wealth of the major empires. It would be a while before they could construct a fleet as capable as the CDF, the Saurian Empire, or the Matrinid Combine. That’s why we’re sharing tech with them, after all.

He put his hands on the desk. “Colonel, I’m a bit fuzzy on how this op went down. When your official after-action report comes in, I’m sure it’ll have a better explanation.”

Kattan raised an eyebrow. “You were unaware of the ISF fleet and its intentions, sir?”

“Completely. The first we heard of it was when the news reported there’d been a major engagement.” The way she’d asked, the tone… It immediately made him suspect there was something more at play.

“I see.”

David pursed his lips. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Colonel?”

Her eyes met his through the screen, and she shook her head. “I don’t believe this is a secure-enough medium, sir. Perhaps in the future, we could discuss today’s events more fully.”

“Very well.” There was little point to pushing the fleet commander on their efforts to retake the Orion Spur from four thousand light-years away. But the response confirmed one thing to him: none of the day’s events had been remotely random or coincidence. “I won’t keep you, Colonel. Is there anything I can do from here?”

“No, sir. Not unless you want to send another fleet.” She forced a smile.

“From your lips to HaShem’s ears.” David shook his head. “Godspeed and good hunting. The Marines will be there soon. Perhaps… this is finally the turning point.”

“Yes, sir. I pray it is. Godspeed to you too.”

The connection went black, and David leaned back. He pondered for a moment why the major victory, while encouraging, also seemed so hollow. Probably because I have no idea what’s coming next, and neither does anyone else. Every time I think we’ve got the terrorists beat, they unleash something else.

It was obvious to him that somebody pulling the strings had planned for a long time and had access to League of Sol military hardware that no one ought to. Or their government is directly behind the attacks.

David didn’t know for sure either way. That was the intelligence community’s job to suss out. What he did know for certain was that deploying a majority of the fleet would put an end to any hostilities because the League of Sol did not have the military power to fight SATO. At least, not now, they don’t.

He stood. Tomorrow would be another day, and every problem present would still be there in the morning. It’s past time to go home. With a last glance at his desk, David headed out.

CSV Oxford

Deep Space—Sagittarius Arm

30 May 2474

“And as of this hour, reports continue to be sketchy from New Rostov, but based on footage obtained exclusively by Canaan News Network, at least fourteen PFLOS ships of various types, including League of Sol military vessels, are nothing more than debris fields in orbit.”

Sinclair clicked the holoprojector off and leaned back. He rarely got to see an operation, especially one with so many moving parts, coming together almost to perfection and within a few days of starting it. He took a sip from a glass on his desk, which contained a small amount of single-malt Scotch. It was his drink of choice and only for special occasions.

Destroying half a terrorist fleet hell-bent on killing any Coalition citizen in the Orion Spur seemed like a good-enough time to break out the flask.

Just another step, however, not a knockout blow. Sinclair sorely hoped the ISF fleet would stay and fight. He’d taken James Henry’s measure a long time ago and found a decent man. If anyone in the ISF would find a way, he would. But even so, it was a stopgap.

Somehow, President Robbins had to be convinced to send the full complement of the Coalition Defense Force. Sinclair’s new mission was to find intelligence definitively linking the League of Sol to PFLOS.

He believed—no, he hoped she would do the right thing when presented with smoking-gun proof.

Sinclair downed the rest of the liquid and closed his eyes. Lord, lead my steps and keep me in Your will. Tomorrow was another day, and with it came a new set of challenges. But that night, he would sleep easily for at least a few hours.

Then the great game would continue once again.

Kenneth Lowe stretched out his two-point-one-meter frame on the passenger liner’s couch. He’d sprung for a suite and was pleasantly surprised not to be crammed into the space-going version of a sardine can. The room’s holo-emitter was on and tuned in to Canaan News Network, which featured endless loops of the debris fields of PLFOS ships over New Rostov.

Some might be bored by it, but Kenneth couldn’t get enough of the broadcast. Seeing the wreckage of the terrorists didn’t get old, not by a long shot.

The door chime interrupted the broadcast, which automatically paused. Kenneth swung himself up and took the few steps toward the door. He opened it slowly, to find Calvin standing in the passageway beyond.

“Hey, boss, you seeing the news?”

Kenneth gestured for him to come in. “I’ve got it on now.”

“How about that. We helped make that happen,” Calvin said as he strode in. The door shut automatically behind him.

“All things work together for good for those who love the Lord and are called according to His purpose,” Kenneth replied. “Join me.”

“Guess I’ll take the chair, since you look like you take up the entire couch.” Calvin dropped into it. “So, what now?”

“We go back to our normal, everyday lives… and keep building and fixing CDF ships. Or in your case, TCMC tactical systems.”

Calvin licked his lips. “I hate to admit this, but I kinda miss being in the mix of things. Part of the team and in the fight.”

“Enough to rejoin?”

“No.” Calvin shook his head. “Not unless something insane happens, like another League invasion. Gotta see after Jessica and Cal Jr. I owe that to them after all we went through.”

“I respect that.”

Calvin flashed a grin. “Enough to talk about that bonus you mentioned?”

“You got hazard pay for this trip.”

“So?” Calvin shrugged. “I want to take my wife on a nice vacation this year, and these suite things don’t come cheap. Don’t be stingy.”

“Trust me—you’ll like your performance review,” Kenneth replied with a snicker.

“Okay. Say ten thousand credits. That oughta be enough.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Calvin’s eyes went to the minibar. “That thing got cold beer?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Great. Put the news back on. I’ll get myself one. There’s some channel that had a live interview from one of the station workers. He recorded some of the battle. See if you can dig it up.”

Kenneth shook his head. The Marine was something else, but what Calvin had said resonated. It did feel good to be part of the fight again. He hoped they might be of use again.

Time didn’t pass the same way underground or even aboard a starship without the light and dark cycles of the day. Arthur quickly realized he hated being in the tunnels, but it was a necessary evil. Without their protection, the entire force would already have been dead. Of that, he was sure.

Over the last week, they’d carried out a couple of hit-and-run attacks on targets of opportunity to keep up the pressure, but the main focus of Arthur’s resistance effort was gathering intelligence. He’d yet to confirm a meeting with Gregory Ivanov, but it would come soon. He was sure of that.

In the meanwhile, Arthur had just lain down at what should’ve been around twenty-one-thirty hours local time when the excited yelp of Faulkner shook him awake. With a low moan, he pushed himself upright and stuck his head out of the makeshift bunk area. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

“You’ve got to come right now, sir.”

“Are we under attack?” Alarm bells rang in Arthur’s mind.

“No.” He reached out and put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Come on, sir. I don’t know how long this opportunity will last. We’ve got Major Miller on the commlink.”

That got Arthur’s attention. He sprang up like a man possessed and ran as fast as he could, almost knocking down a couple of civilians and militia soldiers as he powered through the small base. It took him less than ninety seconds to get to the little comms area and burst through the flap of the enclosure. “Is she still there?”

“Yes, Colonel,” Egorov replied as she scrambled up. “Sit here.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Arthur dropped into the seat and picked up the microphone. “Abigail, can you hear me?”

“Yes, sir” came the reply. The connection was scratchy and garbled, but it was unmistakably Miller’s voice. “Glad you’re still in one piece.”

“Likewise.” Arthur closed his eyes, overcome by emotion. He hadn’t been sure he’d ever hear her voice, or anyone else from off-planet, again. “What’s your status?”

“In orbit.”

Arthur’s heart rate quickened. “Does that mean what I think it means, Major?”

“The enemy fleet has been driven off with heavy losses, sir. Colonel Kattan wants to talk to you, but I got here first.”

He chuckled. “I… ah. Thank you.”

“Team effort, sir, but I promise you the Iron Lady is still not for turning.”

Arthur pursed his lips and tried with all his might not to let tears well up in his eyes. The effort was futile, however. He ended up wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his uniform. “

“Still there, sir?”

“Yes. Sorry. It’s been hairy down here.”

“I saw some of the news feeds. Those reprisals that PFLOS put on the GalNet were horrible.”

Arthur had seen the video. After their last engagement, two hundred men, women, and children were picked at random then executed. “Are the Marines with you?”

“No, sir. They’re still a week out at least. We’re going to maintain orbit with the CDF fleet, and some, ah, unexpected allies.”

Arthur’s eyebrow shot up. “Details, Major.”

“We’ll have to get something more secure, sir. OpSec and all. This is pretty close to being open communications.”

“Understood. Then we’d better not prattle on too long, lest the enemy track us down.”

“Roger, sir.” Miller paused. “Looking forward to having you back in the big chair, Colonel.”

“Keep it warm for me. Thank you and Godspeed. Hanson out.”

“Godspeed, sir.”

As the connection dropped, he let the mic fall from his hand back onto the polymer tabletop. It took him several moments to fully process what had happened and the conversation he’d just had. Arthur then pushed himself up and flashed a small smile at Egorov. “Keep listening, Lieutenant. And see if you can get more secure comms up with the fleet.”

“Yes, sir.”

Arthur glanced at Faulkner and gestured toward the exit of the little comms area. The Marine pushed the flap open and exited after Arthur stepped out.

“Best news we’ve heard in a while.”

“Yes,” Arthur replied. “A lot of hard fighting left, though. Twenty-five thousand enemy troops is no small number.”

Faulkner bared his teeth. “We’ll see them off.”

“We most certainly will, Lieutenant. Spread the word. Assemble everyone in what passes for a mess in twenty minutes. I think our people will want their rest cycle interrupted for this.”

“Yes, sir,” Faulkner said. He wore a massive grin that, despite the semidark tunnel, beamed like a one-hundred-watt bulb.

As the Marine moved off, Arthur clasped his hands behind his back. They still had many days to go and a rough road ahead. But he felt something new: hope that they could pull off a victory. And not get everyone killed achieving it. Somehow, he had the belief that it would all work out. Arthur clung to it.

Epilogue

Comrades Plaza

Geneva—Earth

2 June 2474

Dmitry Borisov stared straight ahead, his posture ramrod straight. After all, nothing else would do when in the presence of Makar Tarnovsky, the current chairman of the Social and Public Safety Committee of the League of Sol. Despite whatever personal desire Borisov had to shoot the man in the head and be done with it, he was in charge. For now.

“Do you hear me, Director? I am concerned. Extremely concerned. This group was at first perhaps useful. Now, it’s out of control.”

“Chairman, I think you worry too much.” Borisov counted to three in his mind. Decades prior, he’d mastered a technique that simultaneously clarified his thinking and intimidated whoever the other people in the conversation were. “The Popular Front has more support than we perhaps understood. A deep anger runs through the League at our loss to the Terran Coalition.”

Tarnovsky’s face clouded. “I am well aware of it, Director. It’s why I hold the title I do and Pallis is sitting in a villa under armed guard.”

“Then this should be logical.” Borisov shrugged. “I have counseled you publicly. I will do so again in private. Let PFLOS play out. They will only bring pain to our enemy.”

“At the rate they’re going, they could be a threat to our own government.”

Borisov kept his expression completely neutral. “We could ensure they’re not by offering covert assistance and getting our hooks into them, comrade Chairman.”

“So you’ve said.”

“It is, ah, my job to offer the best advice I can while safeguarding the League from exterior threats. The Terran Coalition remains the biggest threat we face and that all of humanity must contend with. Anything that weakens it is good for us.”

“No.” Tarnovsky waved a hand. “We’re working on new technologies, ships, and weapons. You know this, comrade, because I’ve seen you in the briefings. They won’t be ready for a few years yet. But starting a war now is suicide. I go back to who is causing these defections. Internal security has nothing.”

Borisov pursed his lips. “Are you asking me to investigate the matter, comrade Chairman?” Technically, he was supposed to stay out of domestic politics and affairs. Such things were solely the domain of the Internal Security Directorate.

“Quietly. Privately.”

“And what of ISD?”

“They will… not be involved in your inquiry.”

Borisov worked to conceal his outright glee, as he’d never expected such an opportunity. He narrowed his eyes. “I understand. I will track this down to the best of my ability. What should I do with the perpetrators once I find them?”

Tarnovsky paused before speaking. “Publicity would be contrary to the good of society, especially right now. I trust you to handle the traitors with discretion.”

“It will be done.” Borisov had noted before that his enemy’s stupidity was, at times, his greatest ally. I can scarcely believe my luck. “How should I deliver my progress reports?”

“Only in person, in this office.”

Which you have swept four times a day by those who you’ve ensured loyalty from by elevating them over the years. It was the League way, after all. “Understood, comrade Chairman.”

“I will take your insights on the Popular Front under consideration. Perhaps if we can cut off their supply of weapons, the group will be more susceptible to our official control.”

Borisov nodded. “Yes, that is a good line of thought.”

“Then you have your orders, Director. Good day.”

“Glory to the League, Chairman.” Borisov stood, touched his fist to his chest in the classic League salute, turned, and strode out of the office. As he walked through the halls of the richly appointed government center, he could barely contain his excitement. The game, while exceedingly dangerous, had paid off, and the way forward was simple. I’ll remove those who oppose me and fill their places with my lackies. After all, he’d spent a lifetime buying loyalty.

It was all coming together, and when he was done, the Terran Coalition would find itself defeated and driven out of the Orion Spur, despite any recent setbacks. And the League… It would be his to command.

Check Fire: Book 5 of The Iron Fleet

The fight for New Rostov isn't over:

it's just begun.

Colonel Hanson has held the line against impossible odds, but everything he's fought for hangs in the balance. Fifty thousand Coalition Marines race through the void, and their success depends on perfect timing. Arthur's battered resistance fighters must seize the main spaceport while the fleet engages overhead... but PFLOS has deadly surprises waiting, and their League backers aren't finished yet.

Leadership means knowing when to risk everything for those you're sworn to protect.

For Arthur Hanson, that moment has arrived.

The liberation begins in Check Fire, available now on Amazon.

Click here to read it now on Amazon!

THE END

Acknowledgments

Greetings, readers!

This marks the forty-eighth book I’ve penned so far. (Insane. Really, totally, completely, insane.)

I’d like to thank you all for reading Danger Close, and the Terran Diaspora universe.

It remains an honor to share these stories with you, and I hope that as you’re entertained, there is perhaps some small nourishment of the soul that comes along with them, for that is my goal.

As always, I’d like to thank my editor, Susie, who’s guidance has made each of these novels better than they were, and improved my craft as a writer in tremendous ways.

To all the others who’ve helped along the way—thank you—you know who you are.

Until next time,

Godspeed

Daniel Gibbs

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Also Available from Daniel Gibbs

Battlegroup Z

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Book 2 - Hostile Spike

Book 3 - Sol Strike

Book 4 - Bandits Engaged

Book 5 - Iron Hand

Book 6 - Final Flight

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Book 1 - Fight the Good Fight

Book 2 - Strong and Courageous

Book 3 - So Fight I

Book 4 - Gates of Hell

Book 5 - Keep the Faith

Book 6 - Run the Gauntlet

Book 7 - Finish the Fight

The Lost Warship

Book 1 - Adrift

Book 2 - Mercy

Book 3 - Valor

Book 4 - Justice

Book 5 - Resolve

Book 6 - Faith

The Iron Fleet

Book 1 - Battlestations

Book 2 - Intervention

Book 3 - Counterstrike

Book 4 - Danger Close

Book 5 - Check Fire

Book 6 - Decision Point (COMING IN 2025)

Galaxy Bridge

(With Steve Rzasa)

Book 1 - Forward Command

Book 2 - Forward Hunt

Book 3 - Forward Pact

Book 4 - Forward Crisis

Book 5 - Forward Raid

Book 6 - Forward Shield

Book 7 - Reality Break

Book 8 - Reality Clash

Book 9 - Reality Restored

Breach of Faith

(With Gary T. Stevens)

Book 1 - Breach of Peace

Book 2 - Breach of Faith

Book 3 - Breach of Duty

Book 4 - Breach of Trust

Book 5 - Spacer’s Luck

Book 6 - Fortune’s Favor

Book 7 - The Iron Dice

Deception Fleet

(With Steve Rzasa)

Book 1 - Victory’s Wake

Book 2 - Cold Conflict

Book 3 - Hazards Near

Book 4 - Liberty’s Price

Book 5 - Ecliptic Flight

Book 6 - Collision Vector

Courage, Commitment, Faith: Tales from the Coalition Defense Force

(Anthology Series)

Volume One

Volume Two

Volume Three