Exodus: Empires at War: Book 7: Counter Strike (11 page)

*   
*     *

Phlistarans were a mighty warrior people, while
also paradoxically being a relatively peaceful species.  They had fought wars
before the humans had discovered their race, mostly in their more primitive
stages.  The eras of armored warriors charging the lines of their enemies to
the glory of kings.  They really didn’t have cavalry and infantry.  As
dracocentaurs, each being was his own mount, they were a little of both, and
their ancient art showed many scenes of charges that carried the day.

As they advanced in technology and moved into
space, they were able to restrain their more primitive emotions, though they
always lurked just below the surface.  They had barely left their own star
system when human ships came calling.  They saw the writing on the wall, and
assimilated themselves into the human Empire posthaste.  Their loyalty to the
humans had allowed them to gain advanced tech well before most alien species,
and their service in the Imperial military had earned them trust beyond most
others as well.  And for five centuries they had treated the human Empire as an
integral part of their own society.

“Prepare to charge,” ordered the Phlistaran
battalion commander as his unit lined up on the high ground overlooking the
landing zone.

Each of his troopers was clad in a heavy armor
suit, actually better armored than their human counterparts, with much heavier
weaponry.  All had been worked up to almost a frenzy, a battle madness that
their ancestors would have recognized.  There was an enemy ahead who had
threatened fellow members of
their
Empire, and they would make that foe
pay for such temerity.

The commander looked on his HUD, prioritized
his targets, and made his last second adjustments. 
That’s a lot of open
ground to cover
, was his initial thought.  Unfortunately, his people
weren’t good at sneaking around.  Their basic builds kind of worked against
stealth.  As did their inability to get low to the ground or climb.  But they
could run.  And with the augmentation of their suits, they could run like the
wind.

“Charge,” yelled out the commander, starting
forward at the trot himself.  A roar came across the com net, over four hundred
voices resonating from the enormous chests of the sentients.

The enemy saw them coming in an instant, and
fire was soon to follow.  Several Phlistarans fell off the HUD, among almost a
hundred that had taken hits.  Their tough armor proved its worth, bouncing
shots off while their moving forms made it difficult to keep the beams in
contact with beings that had gotten up to a hundred kilometers an hour, while
dodging and swerving to make themselves the most difficult targets possible.

“Fire,” yelled the Lt. Colonel, aiming his own
heavy rifle toward the enemy, while the heavy weapons packs on his back
swiveled into place.

Particle beams reached out from four hundred
rifles the size of the heavy squad weapons that humans used, slashing into the
enemy positions. Three hundred back mounted cannons sent fifty millimeter
rounds downrange, while a hundred mortars opened fire, looping sixty millimeter
rounds into the enemy positions.  Missiles left two hundred launchers, seeking
the opponent’s heavy weapons and mecha.  And lasers swept out, seeking every
incoming object that might endanger the being carrying the weapon.

Of course, there were collisions between
weapons and munitions going out.  With so much in the air, it would have a
miracle if there hadn’t been.  Missiles and shells intersected beams and
exploded in midair, most far enough away to cause little problem to the
launching soldiers.

What the fire did to the enemy was terrifying. 
Beams ripping through the ranks of soldiers who had just landed and hadn’t
found positions yet.  Mortars exploding within what positions there were, their
sensors seeking out the hollows that troops could hide in.  Cannon shells
popped explosively as they hit suits, or detonated at closest approach and sent
out sprays of shrapnel.

Explosions lit the formation through the dust
and holographic projections that surrounded them.  Large Phlistaran forms flew
into the air, head over heels, as the Fenri answered with their own heavy
weapons.  Beams converged on centauroid targets that came clear for moments
before plunging back into obscurity.  Some entered cover intact, others as
smoking meat in ruptured suits.  Phlistarans had tough hides underneath the
armor, able to withstand hits from low velocity projectiles.  Particle beams
ate through that hide into organs like the matter of any other organic beings.

The Fenri formed a firing line, trying to beat
off the attack, and suffering even more casualties under the firepower of the
larger beings.  And then the Phlistarans were among them, many of the large
aliens dropping their rifles to hang on slings, pulling pairs of heavy pistols
from holsters.  Now they were in their element, ancient cavalry equipped with
modern weapons, running rampant among smaller infantry that was just trying to
get away.

Here a Phlistaran trooper ran into a clutch of
Fenri, pistols spitting proton beams, forefeet, cased in armor, molecular edged
blades protruding forward, disemboweling another Fenri.  There a large alien
knocked Fenri to the ground with a spin of its three meter long body, swinging
a sword made of the same material as its foot claws, slicing limbs and heads
from armored forms.  And further on a Phlistaran stopped in his tracks, while
his backpack unit spat a missile at a large mecha that was trying to stop the
charge with its fearsome weapons.  The mecha took a direct hit, blowing to
pieces across the area, its last act the particle beam that killed its killer.

Of the four hundred centauroids who had started
the charge, less than two hundred came through the other side.  Of the nine
hundred Fenri they had attacked, only a handful ran from the fury of a species
they recognized as their physical superiors.

*    
*     *

“Attack,” yelled Baggett into the com, running
out of his bunker, rifle in his hands. 
I know this is not something I’m
supposed to engage in
, thought the Division Commander, his headquarters
staff at his heels.  But at heart he was still a battalion commander, and his
men needed to see him sharing in the danger of a close assault.  The danger he
was asking them to face.

And besides, they needed every suit they had,
and he just happened to be occupying a twenty million imperial command suit,
even more expensive than the larger heavy support suits.  They were already
heavily outnumbered, and every suit was an asset they needed at this moment. 
The Corps Commander might dress him down later for putting his hide on the
line, battle capable suit or not. 
But I’d rather ask forgiveness
, he
thought.

This assault was a landing zone that hadn’t
received the attention of tank units.  It was a straight on infantry assault. 
And the battalion conducting the assault was the weakest of those in the
division, less than three hundred effectives.  The addition of his hundred man
headquarters section, all in heavy armor, was a major reinforcement.

The landing zone was only five kilometers away,
almost on top of the bunker.  As Baggett came out of his shelter his HUD picked
up the hundreds of troopers who were coming out of hiding to congregate for the
assault.  The other battalions had already started their assaults, some had
finished.  The enemy knew something was up, but most of the attention from
above was elsewhere.  Or at least he hoped so.

Artillery started lofting shells at the enemy
under the screen of jamming.  A hundred shells were in the air before the first
hit, its crumping sound coming across the kilometers.  Enemy countermeasures
started taking out some of them, but not enough.  And anything firing at the
shells was not being aimed at the infantry that was closing on them.

Baggett got his suit up to eighty kilometers an
hour, their maximum over rough ground.  If they took to the air, they could
also go faster, but would become much easier to target.  Instead, they stayed
low, taking advantage of the obscuring smoke and dust, as well as the
holographic projectors on their suits, which were sending false images in
random directions around their real physical matter.

Artillery switched to a rolling barrage,
augmented by the heavy support suits throwing mortars and rockets into the
mix.  Shells started coming down a hundred meters from the enemy lines,
throwing up dirt and smoke.  The next came in twenty meters closer to the
enemy, then twenty meters closer.  Half the tubes fired, while the other half
moved, shoot and scoot, trying to avoid counter battery fire from the enemy. 
That worked, somewhat, though some tubes were lost to each change over when
their crews didn’t move them fast enough.  Still, the barrage worked as
planned, and the human infantry came rushing out of the cloud of dirt and dust
as the artillery moved on.

The humans opened fire as soon as they acquired
targets, moments before the enemy could react.  The shocked Fenri reeled in
confusion as many went down to particle beam blasts, and others to the back
mounted auto cannon.  They fell back, trying to find a rally point, when the
human suits closed the distance and hit them hard.

The human suits were stronger due to their
size, and also carried thicker armor.  Being larger, they could afford to pack
thicker armor per their size according to the square function of surface area. 
They carried greater mass, and the collisions between Fenri and human resulted
in Fenri thrown onto their backs.

Baggett shot a Fenri who looked to be some kind
of leader, then vaulted the body to slam into one that looked like a higher
level commander.  His right arm came back, the razor claws extended, and he
slammed the molecular blades into the armor of the Fenri.  The creature’s
faceplate raised to reveal a face that snarled for a moment, before its
expression changed to one of pure  agony.

The General threw the alien from him, and
raised his rifle with his left hand, firing a grenade at a concentration of
enemy that looked like it was getting its act together.  The thirty-five
millimeter shell exploded in the center of the group, not powerful enough to
get a kill, but causing damage to the sensors of a pair of suits.  He swapped
the rifle back to a right handed grip and fired, downing a Fenri, then swinging
the beam into another.

They never gave the Fenri time to regroup. 
Less than five minutes from the time the first humans had made contact with the
first Fenri, the fight was over.  There were few survivors, and those were too
demoralized to do anything but surrender.  The humans ran from the scene of the
battle, twenty-six Fenri in powered down suits carried along for the ride.  The
human battalion had lost a total of eighteen killed, twice that many wounded,
in return for over a thousand Fenri.

Baggett ran for seven minutes and some odd
seconds to his next position, jacking into the Corps command net on the way. 
The news was good, if not totally positive.  The Fenri had only succeeded in
taking two landing zones.  That was the good news.  The bad was that the enemy
was quickly reinforcing those zones, bringing down all their shuttles to drop
off troops and munitions, and heavier weapons such as tanks.  There looked to
be no hope of taking back those zones, and the enemy had an entire planet to
choose from for more.  But the humans had bloodied their noses, and from now on
the Fenri would operate with caution against the hated humans who had invaded
their property.

Chapter
Seven

We hang the petty
thieves and appoint the great ones to public office.

Aesop

THE
DONUT
AND
SECTOR IV SPACE.  NOVEMBER 27
^TH
, 1001.

Dr. Larry Southard really hadn’t expected to
see much adventure at his age.  Not that he was an old man, but, hitting one
hundred and seventy, he was not what anyone would call young.  He had spent his
youth in Exploration Command, while working on his Doctorate and Post Doc in
Nuclear and Stellar Physics.  That had been an exciting twenty years, charting
new systems, seeing new worlds for the first time.  But that time had come to
an end, and he had thought he had earned a life of academic ease, teaching
others the theories of stellar evolution, including his own.  Somewhere in
between had come another PhD, this time in advanced Mathematics.

Ease did not come for quite some time. 
Instead, he had ended up on a number of University sponsored expeditions,
including a study of the only star in local space ever observed prior to and
during its collapse and explosion into a supernova.  After that had come papers
that had cemented his reputation as the foremost expert in supernovas in the
Empire.

And then had come the ease he had expected, the
life of a well-respected academic at the University of New Detroit, on the Core
World of the same name.  There he expected to live and work until he retired,
after which he would spend his last thirty or forty years of life again
travelling the space ways, this time as a tourist.

Unfortunately
, thought the normally cheerful man who
now had a perpetual scowl on his face,
I should have read the fine print on
my Naval Reserve contract.  Always subject to recall in time of war
, he
thought, wanting to spit on the floor of the corridor that led to one of the
wormhole gate rooms. 
For life.

“Captain Southard,” said a naval Commander,
saluting the professor who was dressed in his civilian travel clothes.

“That’s Doctor, please,” he said, refusing to
return the salute.  “I may have to play some of your games, but I refuse to
play that one.”

The look of surprise on the Commander’s face
almost caused the Professor to smile.  Almost.   “Very well.  Doctor Southard,”
said the man, shaking his head.

And he thinks he honors me by giving me a rank
two above what I had in the Navy.  Bah.

“You have priority through to your destination,
Doctor,” said the Commander, looking at a flat comp.  “Someone really wants you
there.”

Southard nodded and followed the man to the
gate room, this one boasting a squad of heavily armed Marines at the entrance. 
All of the Marines had their visors up at the moment, and from the expressions
on their faces, Southard could tell that these people were tense.  This would
not be a good place to cause a scene, not that he had been planning one in the
first place.

The Commander led him through the room, past
the watchful eyes of a number of Naval Shore Patrol, all armed with holstered
particle beam pistols.  The Commander led him to one of the portals, this one
with even more armed guards, again Marines.

“This one leads to a ship near to your final
destination,” explained the naval officer.  “From there you can catch transport
to the research ship.  And good luck, Doctor.”

Southard nodded, looking at the portal like it
was a dangerous carnivore.  The memory of the first translation through a
wormhole was still fresh in his mind, since he had just walked out of one less
than ten minutes before.  It hadn’t been a pleasant experience, one he would
have compared to having died and found out that one had gone to exactly the
afterlife one had been dreading. 
No use delaying
, thought the
scientist, realizing that it would just make things worse in the waiting.  With
a firm grip on his bag he stepped through, across the light years.

*    
*     *

SECTOR IV SPACE.

“All I wanted to do was to kill the bastards,”
screamed Master Chief Jana Gorbachev, glaring into the eyes of the psychiatrist
who had been tasked with treating her.  “I was just doing my duty.  Surely the
Emperor realizes that.  So why can’t I talk with him?  He would clear this mess
up in a moment.”

And the Emperor is the reason you are here in a
military hospital
,
thought Commander Sheila Blackmoore, the psychiatrist assigned to the enlisted
woman’s treatment. 
If the brass had anything to do with it, you would be in
prison, awaiting a trial on charges of cowardice in the face of the enemy.  Or
dereliction of duty, at least.

“The Emperor wanted you here,” said the
Commander in her best calming voice.  “He wanted you to get the treatment you
needed.”

“But I don’t need any damned treatment,”
screamed the woman, her voice rising high.  “Can’t you see that I’m fit for
duty.”

“I see anything but,” said the Commander,
crossing her legs and giving her patient a frank gaze.  “Right now, your anger
is out of control.  You are out of control.”

“I just want to be on a weapon’s station, on
board one of his Imperial Majesty’s ships.”

“Until I certify you as fit for duty, you’re
not getting near a weapon’s control board on a fast attack craft, much less a
capital ship.  And right now, there is no way I can certify you as fit.  You
have a lot of work ahead of you before that will happen.”  The Commander
reached for her cup of coffee and took a sip.  “So, tell me more about how the
Cacas treated you aboard their ship.”

“I don’t want to tell you about how those
damned bastards treated me,” yelled Gorbachev, putting her head in her hands. 
“I don’t want to think about what they did to me.  The only thing I want to
think about is what I’m going to do to them.”

“We need to get past your anger,” said
Blackmoore, shaking her head.  “And concentrate on your pain.”

“You want to know about my pain,” shouted
Gorbachev, jumping to her, feet, fists clenched, a look of complete madness on
her face.  “I’ll show you pain.”

The Master Chief took a step forward, then
froze in place. 
Good thing we put a neural bypass program on her implant
,
thought the Commander.  The program was highly illegal in the freedom loving
Empire, allowing control of the subject’s physical movements as it did.  It was
only legal under the orders of a Medical Doctor, and only as a last ditch
restraint for violent patients.  And Gorbachev could definitely be called one
of those.

“Back into your chair,” said Blackmoore to the
woman, her voice one of the dozen or so that the program was keyed to obey. 
Gorbachev took a step backward and sat down, her eyes points of raging fury. 
“Catablast,” said the Commander, the free word that released the patient from
total restraint.  She had come up with the word herself, something she
remembered from her days of playing virtual role playing games.  A Catablast
had been a terrible beast to fight, as this patient looked like she would be a
terrible patient to treat. 
The hurt just runs too deep
, thought the
Commander. 
We may have to try something a little more, drastic.

There were programs she could put the Master
Chief through, virtual reality that would allow the woman to live through her
traumatizing memories, and deal with them in a more useful manner than simply
going into a rage and wanting to kill something. 
That’s the only way we’re
going to get anywhere, I’m afraid
, thought the Commander, calling up her
link and sending the medical orders into Gorbachev’s file.

The only problem with virtual therapy was that
it could backfire, putting the patient into a catatonic state.  The odds were low
as to that happening, but they were there.  And if that happened, the only
other treatment would be to purge her brain, completely wipe it, and reprogram
her with the stored memories that all military personnel were required to
record each and every year they were in service.  Unfortunately, in the Master
Chief’s case, the only memories she had recorded before the trauma were over
eighteen months old.  And depriving her of that much of her existence would
take a court order, by an Imperial Judge, since it was akin to the mind wipe
used for some major crimes.  It was something a mere physician couldn’t order. 
And something she would be loath to do even if she could.

*    
*     *

SAURON SYSTEM. 
NOVEMBER 29
^TH
, 1001.

“Welcome aboard the
Genghis Khan
, Commander
Collier,” said Captain Lauren Hoyt, returning the salute of the lower ranking
man, then offering her hand.

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Scott Collier, feeling
a flush of anxiety on meeting his new commanding officer.  This was a plumb
assignment, the flagship of a Grand Fleet Admiral like Duke Taelis Mgonda.  And
one of the new hyper VII battleships.

Khan
had just finished her builder’s trials and
shakedown.  She had missed the battle of Congreeve, but, as the most advanced
ship of her type, and due to the damage to the Duke’s previous flagship, had
been chosen as his battle headquarters.

And I’m the new chief engineer
, thought the beaming
Commander. 
Khan
had her own chief engineer through the trials, but he
had been reassigned to Admiral Chan and the Research and Development Board. 
The only reason Scott could see for his getting the command was prior service
as the assistant engineer on a hyper VII battle cruiser.

“I understand that you have never been on a VII
battleship before,” said the Captain with a frown.

She wonders if I’m capable of handling this
assignment
,
he thought, nodding his head.  “I studied all the specs on the ship while on
the way here,” said the Commander.  “And I am very familiar with VII
hyperdrives.”

“Yes,” said the Captain, in a tone that said
she wondered if that were enough.  “Well, I assume you will want to check out
your department.  Ensign Takeo here will show you to your quarters, then to the
engineering control section.  Your effects will be transferred to your quarters
within the hour, and we will be having a get together tonight in the Captain’s
mess.”

Right,
thought Collier, hoping he could remember all
of that amid everything else that was going on.  “And how long until we
actually deploy?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Commander,”
said the Captain.  “I guess it depends on when the supernova blows its top. 
But you should have at least a couple of weeks to get your department organized
to your liking.  Now, I have duties to see to.  So, we will see you tonight at
the dinner.”

The young Asian woman led him to his quarters,
which were in the rear central capsule, only fifty meters from the antimatter
reactor control room that was also the central control of engineering.  He had
his own living room, kitchen, and a larger bedroom than he was used to even on
a space station.  Warships were large, and even after all the mission critical
equipment was installed, there was plenty of room for crew comforts.  Senior
officers had their own quarters.  Junior officers shared, two to a central
living area, with their own private bedrooms.  Senior NCOs had the same
arrangement, with the exception of the Chief of the Ship.  Junior NCOs shared
four to a living area, though that area was larger than that given to junior
officers.  And on a ship like
Khan,
even the junior enlisted had a small
personal room, eight of them on the central living area.

And that didn’t even consider all the
recreational spaces, gyms, bowling alleys and game courts, virtual reality
chambers.  Many mess halls serving the standard chow of the Fleet, which was
considered very good indeed.  Ships had been known to stay on deployment for
years at a time, and the Fleet didn’t want the crews going stir crazy.

For the moment the quarters were completely
bare of any personal touches.  He had several chests full of mementoes to liven
the place up, knick knacks, pictures, a couple of models.  And a very lively
little dog that had been his companion for the last decade.

“Let me see engineering, if you please,
Ensign,” he told the young officer, who led him out of the room to the nearest
lift station.

The Ensign tried to make small talk on the way,
but Collier was too anxious to see his new domain. 
The lass probably thinks
I’m a stuck up ass
, he thought as they left the lift at the station right
outside the door to the control room.

A pair of Marines in medium armor stood outside
the door, and Scott found himself being scanned before he was allowed in the
room.

“Can’t be too careful these days, sir,” said
the Corporal in charge of the team, doing a deep scan of Collier with a needle
probe.

“It was a good idea even before these shape
shifters,” agreed Scott.  After all, the chamber beyond this door had control
of the matter antimatter reactors of the ship.  The wrong hands on the controls,
with the proper codes, could blow the sixteen million ton ship out of space.