Exodus: Empires at War: Book 16: The Shield. Read online

  “What about our other ships?”

  There were eleven other destroyers in the squadron, replacing a like number of ships that would set a course through hyper as if they were leaving the vicinity. Every ship had a Klassekian aboard, though in their cases as backup. Main com was through the deployed wormhole they all carried, unusual for a squadron of such small ships.

  “All are reporting that they translated in without incident, sir. Nothing to report.”

  Henri let out a breath of relief. He, of course, didn't want to lose any of his ships, or the very important cargo that all carried. To him the ships and crews were more important than any cargo they might have carried. Command wouldn't have thought that way.

  And I wonder how Gloria is doing? He thought, the image of his new bride coming to mind. Gloria Francois-Ramirez was the captain of another destroyer. She had been serving on this front, but regulations called for any married couple to be deployed to separate commands. Not just because they might make decisions based on saving their spouse, but because hesitation might bring on a disaster during a battle. So Gloria had been transferred to the main front.

  It was a good rule, one that also applied to non-married personnel who were involved in a sexual relation. Of course some high ranking officers kept their affairs hidden, but couples that were married had their records immediately forwarded to Bureau of Personnel on Jewel. There was no hiding it, so now they were separated except for the infrequent times they might be able to get leave together.

  I'll think about you later, my dear, thought the squadron commander, opening his eyes and taking in the system plot. It was all well and good that his people were reporting that all was well and good. He needed to see that for himself, since the responsibility for the squadron rested on his narrow shoulders.

  All appeared to be well. Twelve destroyers spaced out in their intervals around the system. They were groups along one side of the system, close enough to move through normal space at a low acceleration and gather into their assigned groups. There were several score concentrations of enemy ships within the system. At first glance they appeared to be patrolling. Computer studies showed those apparent patrols to be too random and lackluster. Intelligence thought they were using the same devices they had deployed to fool the Klavarta before the rout of their main fleet. Something to make Admiral Bednarczyk think they were setting a trap.

  Also on the plot were the dozen stealth/attack ships still in the system. The Cacas would know they were there, but not where they were located., since they were giving off no graviton emissions. They were transmitting their locations through their wormholes, and the captain was seeing them through that. When the time came those ships would be firing streams of wormhole launched missiles, still not giving themselves away. The Cacas would be able to draw a line back from the trajectory of those missiles, but would not know where upon that line their enemy sat.

  His ships could also fire streams of missiles, but only when the command came down. Until then it was important that the enemy not realize they had wormholes aboard their ships.

  “Orders, sir?” asked his exec, Lt. Commander Crystal Ngursky over the com from the combat information center.

  “We sit and we monitor, Crys,” he told her, looking into her ice blue eyes. “I'll take first watch, so you and Daphne,” he continued, naming Lt. Commander Daphne Suarez, the chief engineer of the ship and third in command, “go ahead and get some rest.”

  We might as well get it while we can, thought the squadron commander. Because when the balloon went up, they were unlikely to be getting much rest until the fight ended. If they made it that far.

  “Iroquois reports enemy contact, sir,” called out one of the com techs, near panic on her face.

  “What?” blurted out Henri, shocked.

  “They're taking fire, sir. They're...We've lost contact.”

  They had always considered the possibility that an enemy might be lurking nearby, despite the constant surveillance the scouts had given this system. But no one really believed that such an unlikely occurrence, dropping out of hyper close enough to an enemy ship that they would be hit with energy fire, would occur. Yet it had happened.

  Almost three hundred crew, and the precious cargo that would concern command more than the loss of some spacers. They didn't even have a chance to fight back.

  “Enemy vessel is grav pulsing, sir,” called out the sensor tech on duty.

  Reporting back to their command. Well, he could talk to his ships too, without giving away positions by graviton emissions. Except they already know exactly where we are, he thought. Were more ships about to be hit?

  The next hour was filled with tension, as the captain waited for more reports of short, sharp battles to come in. Or for something to come out of the darkness and hit his ship, blasting it to plasma. Ending his life and his plans for the future.

  * * *

  “One of our scouts is reporting contact with an enemy scout, sir.”

  “And the result?” asked Mrastaran, sitting up straight in his chair.

  “Enemy ship completely obliterated.”

  The great admiral leaned back in his chair with a grin of satisfaction. His staff had thought it a waste of time to boost a hundred or so of his scouts into the outer system with strap on fusion engines. The area was too vast, the targets too small. Yet one had hit pay dirt, and an enemy spy ship was dead. It would have been better if they could have boarded and captured the enemy scout. That was probably too much to ask for, though.

  “Might we get another kill?” he asked the shift tactical officer.

  “Unlikely, sir. But stranger things have been known to happen.”

  Yes they have, thought the great admiral. Yes they have.

  * * *

  “We've lost one of the destroyers, ma'am. The Iroquois.”

  Beata sucked in a breath. It was always bad to lose ships and crew. But this was worse, with what they had been carrying. One twelfth of her planned deployment had gone up in plasma, just like that.

  “What's the chance they have more surprises waiting for us, Tac?” she asked, trying to calm the butterflies in her stomach.

  “Unlikely, ma'am. The ships of the translating in squadron were light minutes away from those ships which translated out. Chance. Bad luck. But unlikely to happen again.”

  And unlikely to have happened once, but it did, thought the admiral. The enemy commander was a canny son-of-a-bitch, and who knew what else he had waiting.

  “Any orders, ma'am?” asked the duty com tech. All of the primary officers were on duty breaks, since they would be needed at their posts when the operation commenced.

  “Have all ships in that insertion contact the chief of staff,” she said, thinking about how Janssen was not going to like going into the battle sleep deprived. Well, it was his job, and she wasn't getting a lot of sleep herself. “We need to re-task them to other insertions.”

  This will work, she thought, shaking her head. If it didn't there would be a lot of dead, humans and alien, and the responsibility would be hers. The Emperor might disagree, since his had been the final determining vote. No matter, she would always know that she should have come up with a better plan.

  But there were no better plans, she thought. While she realized she wasn't the greatest tactician in the fleet, those who were so considered had looked it over and thought it as sound as could be. Given the circumstances.

  Even with the new untried tech. Everything depended on that. Her ships, the lives of their crews, the planet. There had been some dissenters to a plan based on something yet to be field tested. However, Admiral Chan had looked it over and approved it, and when had that woman ever been wrong.

  Well, there was that one time, thought Beata, closing her eyes and letting out a calming breath. Such things were known to happen, but hundreds of brains had looked over the tech, and all had agreed that it would work. Though not all agreed as to its efficacy. She would just have to trust that everything would
work as advertised. What other choice did she have?

  * * *

  The Klavarta warrior froze in place as the being he was stalking turned nervously around, taking in his surroundings. His nostrils flared as he took in the stench of the alien. Though only a stench to other species. The Caca might have smelled like a bouquet of flowers to others of its kind. The Klavarta doubted that as soon as the thought entered its mind. It knew enough about the sense of smell from the early lessons in biology it had endured before graduating to warrior training. Animals, including those with intelligence, evolved their sense of smell, adapting chemical locks for the keys of various odors. Often creatures from a different evolutionary line couldn't even sense what to a native animal would be a klaxon call of a warning. Unfortunately, the Klavarta could sense the Cacas as a foul, sulfur odor, and it thought the Cacas would be able to pick up his kind as well. Just not from as far away.

  The fierce biologically altered human was large for his species, but the Ca'cadasan he was closing with outmassed him by three. To many it would seem insane that he would try to force a hand to hand kill. However, the warrior was confident of his ability to kill this enemy, quickly and silently, if he could get close enough. If revealed to the enemy he was likely to end when the others in their patrol turned their powerful particle beams on him. This one would surely die, though.

  Against a low tech opponent this would have been an easy stalk. The warrior was naked, leaving behind all but the monomolecular knife gripped in a strong left hand. There would be no noise from rustling clothing or clanking harness. Even the knife could have been left behind, though it gave the warrior comfort to have a weapon that could penetrate just about anything.

  The Klavarta placed a foot carefully on the ground, shifting it instinctually as it felt a twig underneath the foot-pad. Something it wouldn't have been able to do with boots. As a plus, its skin shifted with the shadows, much like a chameleon's. The warrior had covered its skin with a botanical scent that blended in with the forest around it, masking it from the noses of the enemy. Not that it thought the Cacas had that sharp an olfactory sense, but some of their servants were known to be very sharp. Surprisingly, none of those servants, who would have been perfect for this environment, had made their presence known. Something to worry about, though command, not giving any details, had hinted that they would not be showing up on this front.

  Maurids were a terror, much as the Klavarta warriors were. Fast, strong and tough, with natural weapons that were almost the match of the genetically engineered humans, they possessed a much more sensitive sensorium. Those creatures would have had no trouble detecting the silent assassins.

  The main concern the Klavarta had in moving against the Cacas was body heat, something they had little luck in masking, something that could be detected with simple sensors. The botanical covering help to break up their heat signature, not enough to hide them completely, but sufficient to make them look like something they weren't.

  The enemy warrior shifted nervously, and the Klavarta froze in his tracks once again. He was within leaping range, but would have preferred to be closer. Unfortunately, it was looking like he was not going to get within the range he preferred. He tensed his muscles, then released, propelling his hard muscled body forward. The Caca saw him out of the corner of its eye and started to attempt a block. Right in the way of the monomolecular blade. It sliced into the armor and through the flesh of the forearm underneath. The Caca jerked its arm, trapping the blade for a moment. But leaving its throat open to the natural weapons of the Klavarta.

  Canara's hard left hand darted in, the five long, razor sharp claws aimed perfectly. Penetrating the flesh and into the airway of the alien. With a quick jerk the captain ripped the throat out of the Ca'cadasan warrior, silencing the call that would have turned into a scream.

  Around him in the forest short screams and yells sounded. Klavarta warriors who hadn't been as fortunate with their kills. The enemy had still died, but now the rest of them knew that there were assassins in the dark, and the Klavarta were sure to sustain casualties of their own. Of course the well trained, well conditioned Klavarta would all die without a sound, so Canara would have no idea of the butcher's bill until he reached the rally point, if he made it there at all.

  Shots started flaring the darkness with their bright red beams. The angry buzzing of multiple weapons sounded, making the movement of the surviving Klavarta even harder to detect. The bright flashes spoofed the heat sensors of the enemy. That enemy would be expecting their attackers to hunker down or retreat. However, that wasn't how the Klavarta played the game.

  Canara ran as fast as his modified musculature would carry him, very quickly indeed. Right at a pair of Cacas who were firing at something in the other direction. At four meters distance the captain launched himself into the air, coming down between the Cacas. His blade darted into the neck of the one on his left, slicing through the twin spines that ran through the thick column of muscle and bone. That Caca fell like a poleaxed meat animal. The other Caca he struck with his right hand claw, trying to get the same kind of kill he had achieved to start this fight. He hit armor, and his claws slid off and away.

  The Caca brought its pistol to bear at close range, and Canara thrust in with his jaws. The sharp teeth penetrated flesh, while the jaws clamped down with a killing force, crushing the windpipe of the alien. A quick jerk of the head and the Caca was spurting its life blood into the night. Its foul taste flooded Canara's mouth, and only his killing instinct let him follow through to insure the death of his opponent.

  His two victims lying lifeless on the ground, the captain took a quick second to collect himself. His limbs were trembling, he was breathless, while his heart pumped fast enough to pound the walls of his chest. Contrary to popular belief, his subspecies were not so cold blooded that they didn't feel fear. The scientists who had engineered them generations before had been wise enough to realize that fear was useful. Canara didn't want to die, and neither did any of his warriors. Which made them fight all the harder.

  A quick scan showed another Caca, trying to crouch down and find a target for its particle beam. The Klavarta had come into this attack with no intention of retreating into the night with an enemy taking potshots at their backs. No, only one side would survive this fight, and the officer was determined that it would not be the Cacas.

  Less than a minute later it was over, the Cacas of this detachment all gone to their reward, if such really existed. Canara let out a quick whistle, starting everyone back to the rally point after a quick search for their own wounded. They wanted to gather up all their survivors, but not at the cost of providing Ca'cadasan gunships with targets for strafing runs.

  “What's the count?” asked the captain of his senior NCO, a grizzled male who had come through the fight with a badly burned right arm. It was a miracle that the particle beam hadn't burned the limb clean off, but the Caca had probably been more worried at the time about not dying than in killing the attacker.

  “We lost thirteen, sir,” said the senior sergeant.

  Which means I have thirty-three left, thought the saddened officer. Out of the one hundred and eighty-three his company had mustered before the Cacas had come. Less than a platoon. But still enough for another hit and run raid, on another night. After the Plesian irregulars had tried their hand at some strikes.

  No, Captain Canara of the New Earth Army did not want to die. At the moment he didn't give much hope of surviving this fight. The only solace he would received would be the knowledge that his own life would be paid for by many more of the enemy.

  * * *

  Great Admiral Mrastaran stared at the casualty figures coming up from the planet with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  That many, he thought, closing his eyes. He had known there would be losses, but not entire companies, wiped out where they bivouacked at night. His first real experience with Klavarta warriors, and they had so far proven every bit as effective as the Maurids
or the human augmented from the other Empire.

  If only he had Maurids. A dozen of them with every company and the night ambushes would cease. Not that he had any illusions that the killing would stop. Maurids were tough, but so were the Klavarta warriors, and there would be losses among the wolf like sentients. But the loss ratio would have shifted in his favor. Unfortunately, for some unknown reason, the slave/allies were not available on this front. Of course rumors circulated, as they always did. Rebellion, a word not uttered often within the Empire, since every sentient species knew what that would get them. But with the humans on the other front driving in whole planets had risen in revolt. So why not the Maurids. If that were so, Mrastaran thought the odds of this war had shifted a little more in the favor of the humans.

  “I suggest we remove our troops from the hinterlands and concentrate them in the cities,” said his chief of staff.

  “Unfortunately, that young, fo,” mrastarann gave a head motion of negation as his clamped his mouth shut. The other male was a trusted subordinate. But, then again, no one was to be trusted when negatives were said about the Emperor. If word got back the utterer was likely to be short a head, while the reporter gained a rank.

  “Unfortunately,” the great admiral began again, “the Plesians have fled the cities for the hinterlands. The harvest is sparse in the cities.”

  Only the very old and the infirm were still in the larger habitations, unable to make the arduous journey into wilderness. That there were way too many of the beings out in the forests to survive was a given. They would eat the lands to desolation. However, they probably thought they only needed to survive for a couple of weeks, then the humans would be back and the Ca'cadasans driven off.

  Such faith in their saviors, thought the admiral, huffing out a breath. More fools they. Of course, they wouldn't know the plans the Ca'cadasans had for them. Mrastaran felt a twinge of guilt at the thought. Of course he was a Ca'cadasan through and through. He felt no guilt at killing an enemy. For vengeance, for duty, even for food. But here he was being asked to exterminate an entire planet, an entire genetic heritage. No, not asked. Ordered. Action demanded by a child who should never have ascended to the throne at his age.