Into the Darkness: Crimson Worlds Refugees I (19 page)

AS Saratoga

System X20

Approaching Planet Four

The Fleet:  225 ships, 47,842 crew

“Dr. Cutter, you might want to get your people ready. We’re beginning our final approach to the planet.” Admiral Dumont was standing next to his chair, looking at the Alliance scientist and his RIC cohort. “I want you to know, I understand the enormous importance—and the risk—of what you are doing, and I offer you my true respect and wish you the best of luck.”

“Thank you, Admiral. We are hopeful of success.” Cutter hoped he managed to sound convincing, but he rather doubted his ability to bullshit someone of Dumont’s age and accomplishments. He could see there was something troubling Dumont too. “What is it, Admiral?”

“I’m not going to lie to you, son.” His voice was soft, but it had great weight to it. “If it appears that you have reactivated the enemy vessel and cannot quickly verify that you have control over it, I am going to have to…” His voice trailed off. Even a veteran like Dumont had trouble facing some of his grimmer duties.

“You will have to attack and attempt to destroy the enemy ship. Before it can fully power up…with both of us, and our team, still aboard.” Cutter had no illusions about the danger of the mission. And he knew Dumont would have no choice. Whether or not his task force could strike quickly and hard enough to destroy the enemy vessel before it struck back was another matter, one Cutter rather doubted. He suspected Dumont doubted it too. But that didn’t mean the grizzled old admiral wouldn’t try like hell.

“Yes, Doctor. That is precisely what I will have to do. If we allow that thing to become fully operational, it could conceivably destroy every ship in the fleet.”

Cutter just nodded. “I understand, Admiral. And agree. Though I have done some force estimation comparing the length and tonnage of the Colossus class to smaller First Imperium warships. It is highly questionable whether your task force alone could prevail against the enemy even if they were less than fully prepared and operational. But I would expect that the entire fleet could destroy it, even if it was at full power. Losses would be enormous, likely more than 50%, but I do not believe one Colossus can defeat the entire fleet, not with Admiral Compton in command.”

“You have more of a grasp of naval warfare than I would have anticipated, Dr. Cutter.” Dumont sounded genuinely impressed and surprised…and that was an extremely rare occurrence.

The admiral paused for a few seconds and said, “Major Frasier’s Marines are already suiting up.” Compton had sent the Scots Company to provide security for Cutter and his team. The unit was one of the most elite in the Corps, all trained in Erik Cain’s special action tactics, and Connor Frasier had served directly under the legendary general. The unit was the successor to the one Connor’s father had commanded back on Epsilon Eridani IV in the last battle of the Third Frontier War. The Scots had gone into that bloody fight as a regiment, but they’d come out with barely enough to fill out an oversized company. And that is what they had been ever since.

“I guess it’s time,” Cutter said, his voice wavering a bit. His drive and scientific curiosity were wrestling with his fear. He’d been anxious to get aboard the enemy ship—at least until the boarding action was so imminent. Now he was fighting off a wave of panic, and getting a harsh reminder he was a scientist who’d spent his life in a lab and not a veteran Marine used to dropping into deadly danger.

“You will handle it, Doctor,” Dumont said softly. “You have achieved something amazing already, and you will find the strength to complete your mission. I am confident.” A lie, but a well-intentioned one.

Cutter looked up and saw the old admiral looking at him and nodding. He suspected he wasn’t the first—or the hundredth—Dumont had rallied before a decisive moment, but he appreciated it all the same. He could feel the respect from this fighting man, this warrior who had been in deadly danger dozens of times before Cutter’s father had been born.

“Thank you, Admiral,” he said, feeling his strength grow…and push away the blackness of his fear.

“Now go to your people,” Dumont said softly. “They are scientists too, not Marines. They will need you…and you will have to be strong for them.”

“I will, Admiral Dumont,” Cutter said, his voice firming with each word. “I will.”

*  *  *

“McCloud, take two squads and see what is on the other side of that door.” Conner Frasier was standing in a large compartment, dark and mostly empty. He wasn’t sure what it had been used for, and he hadn’t chosen it with any degree of tactical consideration. Knowing nothing about the interior layout of the enemy ship, he’d simply picked a spot on the hull for the entry point and directed his assault shuttles there.

Normally, the heavily armored attack craft would simply drive their combination ram/access tubes through the steel hull of the target vessel. But the First Imperium hulls were built from a dark matter infused alloy vastly stronger than plasti-steel or the osmium/iridium combination in his armor. He’d been obliged to wait while two Seal teams performed an EVA operation, affixing heavy plasma warheads to the hull and blasting holes in the enemy armor. There wasn’t any particular schedule to the operation, but he still felt like he was running behind.

“Yes, Major.” Duff McCloud snapped off a textbook acknowledgement. The big Scot was a combat veteran—almost a cliché of the veteran sergeant. He turned around, and Frasier knew his subordinate was relaying orders to the other men of his squads.

Frasier had organized his expanded company carefully, and he’d arranged the OB down to the placement of every Marine. McCloud was his toughest NCO, so he’d given him the head cases, eleven privates and corporals who were such good fighters, they’d remained in the Corps despite a list of discipline problems that would have gotten any other Marines shipped off to the stockade. Even a private who got into constant fights, who feared no enemy, who’d stayed in the fight in battles where he’d been wounded half a dozen times, was afraid of Duff McCloud. It was widely rumored in the Corps that the veteran sergeant could chew steel, though no one had ever actually seen it themselves.

All of Frasier’s Marines were crack veterans, and every one of them had come from the Alliance’s Scottish Highlands district. Most of the rural and suburban areas of the Alliance had long ago been cleared of their populations. The government found it easier to keep the Cogs in line in densely-populated urban areas, and it wasn’t of a mind to try and maintain order in thousands of scattered communities. But the highlands had experienced somewhat of a throwback to earlier days during the years preceding the Alliance’s formation, as thousands of Scots moved into the remote areas and rebelled against an increasingly totalitarian UK government.

After the UK was absorbed into the Alliance, there were three punitive expeditions sent to the region, all bloody failures. Finally, the exasperated government reached an agreement with the local leaders. The highlands region would be recognized as a partially self-governing province of the Alliance, the only one of its kind. In return, the highlanders would provide recruits to maintain a regiment within the newly formed Alliance Marine Corps. That regiment had served with valor and distinction for almost a century—until the final battle on Epsilon Eridani IV—Carson’s World. The Scots had covered themselves in glory there…and blood as well. The regiment was almost destroyed in the bitter fighting, and only a tiny cadre remained when victory finally ended the Third Frontier War.

Connor’s father Angus had led the Scots to Epsilon Eridani IV, and now his son commanded the remnants of that storied formation, a double-strength company instead of a regiment, but also one of the most storied formation in the Corps.

“We’re moving down the corridor, sir.” McCloud’s voice blasted through Frasier’s com, shaking him out of daydreams of his father and the fighting on Carson’s World. “No sign of any activity. No energy readouts except the same one from deep inside the ship. Everything else is dead.”

“Very well, Sergeant. Continue…and search every compartment you pass.”

“Yes, sir. McCloud out.”

Frasier turned and took another look around the room. He’d done everything he could to check for threats, and he’d found nothing. There was no point in delaying any further. This was as good a place as any to bring the research team onboard.

“Dr. Cutter…Major Frasier here. You can start bringing your people through.”

*  *  *

“Any idea where we are?” Zhukov asked, turning slowly and lighting the dark space with her forehead lamp. “I mean with respect to a likely location for the command AI?”

Connor Frasier had gotten them onboard the enemy Colossus, and his people had set up a perimeter, ready to advance in front of the research party whenever they decided where they wanted to go. But the Marines had no idea where anything was in the enemy warship, and Cutter had to admit to himself he didn’t have much better an idea.

“I’m afraid not, Ana.” Cutter was looking around himself, the long thin shaft of light from his forehead moving around, over the floor, the walls. “I’d say the first step is figuring out where we are. This ship is immense. If we don’t manage to narrow down where to look, I suspect we could wander the corridors for weeks.”

He turned back toward the small cluster of support personnel standing behind him. “Let’s get some light in here. If there’s anything live on this ship that can detect us, I think blasting through the hull already did more harm than some lamps will do.”

Three of the shadowy figures moved forward. They were carrying large plastic cylinders, and they placed them around the room, flipping a switch on each as they did. The portable lamps shone brightly, bathing the entire room in soft light.

“Alright everybody,” Cutter said into the group com. “Spread out. We need to know what this room is so we can start to get some idea where to go next.”

He turned and walked toward one of the walls. They were built from a material he’d never seen before, some type of metal alloy with a slightly blue cast to it. They were smooth, almost shiny, despite their vast age. He turned and stared out across the entire compartment. It was large, perhaps thirty meters by twenty, and the ceiling soared ten meters above the floor.

“If this was a human ship, I’d swear this looks like some kind of gym or athletic facility.” Ana had wandered a few meters away, but her voice was crisp and clear on the com. “Like a place to play some kind of sport.”

Cutter looked around the edges of the room. There were rows of small ledges.
Seats. Ana is right. But what do robot ships need with athletic facilities?

“This door leads deeper into the vessel, Hieronymus,” Ana said softly, gesturing toward a hatch on one of the walls. “The artificial intelligence core will be in a protected area. That means deep inside.”

“I agree.” He walked toward the open hatch. The Marines had already gone through, scouting forward to clear a path. Cutter flipped the com channel to the Marine command line. “Major Frasier, we’re going to move through this hatch and head deeper into the ship.”

“Very well, Dr. Cutter. My men have been through there. No signs of any danger.” A short pause and then:  “I have detached a squad to escort your party, Doctor. Just in case.”

Cutter sighed softly. Still, he was just as glad to have the Marines so close. His intellect—and his ravenous curiosity—had overwhelmed his fear, at least for now. But he had to admit the veteran warriors made him feel a hell of a lot better.

“Very well, Major. Thank you.” He flipped the com to his party’s channel. “Okay, we’re about to head into the bowels of this ship. You all know what we’re looking for. Signs of any kind of data processing center or even conduits or equipment that could be peripheral systems of the intelligence that ran this ship. Maintenance systems, weapons, navigation and guidance equipment—all of it has to be connected into the vessel’s data network. And that has to lead back to the main processing unit.”

He took a deep breath. “So let’s go find it. Whatever it takes.”

Chapter Twelve

From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton

As I dictate this, I am standing on the surface of an alien world, striding through the ruins of a city that once dwarfed any human metropolis. Though it is but a wreck, an ancient ruin, old almost beyond imagining, it remains a wonder. I am convinced it was magnificent in its day, beautiful in a way I doubt I can understand. I can see in the materials, so many of them astonishingly well-preserved through the endless ages, and in the layout, still discernible amid the crumbled towers and shattered thoroughfares.

My thoughts of the First Imperium have been formed by war and conflict, by the actions of the robot servants that once-great civilization left behind. By thoughts of friends killed in terrible battles, of colony worlds reduced to radioactive nightmares. But now I see something else. I see a race of surpassing capabilities. Even in the ruins, this city shows me much of these long lost people. They appreciated art and beauty, that is clear even from the broken remains of their constructions. Though their instruments of war are powerful beyond reckoning, I can see as I walk through the ghostly city that this was no warrior race, devoted to conquest above all things. These were artists and scientists and philosophers as well. And yet they left behind so much death and destruction waiting to be unleashed.

Perhaps none of this matters. When I return to
Midway
, nothing will have changed. The ships of the First Imperium will still be enemies. They will attack and kill my people if they find us. None of the magnificence of this city, nor any imaginings about what these people were like, will change that fact. Yet, something is nagging at me, a regret that we are fighting the legacy of this extraordinary race. More than that. Though I cannot explain it, I am coming to believe that this war was not meant to be, that the death and destruction and terror—and the brutal necessity that stranded us here—were all parts of a terrible mistake of some kind.