Exodus: Empires at War: Book 11: Day of Infamy (Exodus: Empires at War.) (7 page)

And there really is
nothing we can do about it
, thought McCullom as she terminated the com, then sent a
request from her own office.  Moments later the face of the Emperor was looking
out of a new holo above her desk.

“The Elysium are going
home, your Majesty,” she told the Monarch, watching as his expression changed
and he looked down for a moment.

“Well, we knew it was
coming.  The Elysium government voted to withdraw them, but I was hoping we
could work something out before they actually did it.”

“So, your Majesty, what
do we do?”

“We make do with what we
have.”

“And should we move more
of our own ships up to take their places?”

“Not yet.  We’ve got a
number of them in for refit.  Continue to rotate them back for those refits
while we have the time.  We aren’t expecting anything out of the Cacas for the
moment, and hopefully that situation will maintain.”

“They are continuing to
probe the front, your Majesty.  They might be planning something.”

“And what do your experts
tell you, Sondra?” asked the Emperor, his forehead furrowing in thought.

“The experts say that the
Cacas couldn’t have reorganized on this front in the amount of time they have
had.  But…”

“You don’t agree,
Admiral?”

“It just strikes me as
irresponsible to assume that the enemy cannot do what we can.  We organized the
offensives that pushed the Cacas out in a couple of months.”

“But the battleground was
in our backyard,” argued the Emperor.  “The Cacas have a very long supply line
between their industrial base and the front.”

“And intelligence thinks
the Cacas might have wormholes of their own,” said McCullom.  “I know its
unfounded as of yet, but we have to think in worst case scenarios.”

“You are correct,
Admiral.  But we also have to balance our need for cautious preparation with
the need for not overtaxing our forces with unwarranted heightened readiness.”

“I have a bad feeling
about this, your Majesty.  Losing an ally, even if it turns out to be
temporary, is weakening us at a very bad time.”

“Okay, Admiral.  What do
you want to do about it?  Move more ships to the front?  Uncover or reduce some
of our inner system defenses?”

“That would be a start,
your Majesty,” said the CNO, nodding.  “When the Caca fleet strikes, they will
hit us on the frontier, not in the Core worlds.  If we don’t stop them there,
we will be giving them the frontier worlds.  The Core worlds will not be in any
danger until the Cacas fight their way through our defenses and the frontier
sectors.”

“Okay.  I will authorize
a redeployment of twenty percent of the Core world and uninvolved sector naval
forces.  No more.  And even that is going to end up in a fight with
Parliament.”  Sean had been fighting that battle the entire war.  The majority
of the members of all three houses of Parliament were from the most populous
sector of the Empire, the Core worlds.  Naturally they were invested in
protecting their constituents.  Even the Lords, who gained their seats through
inheritance, wanted the people in their systems to be happy with them.  And, in
the opinion of the Emperor, too many of them were more concerned with their own
hides than with the safety of the Empire.

“What about our
redeployments for upgrades?” asked the CNO, her tone implying that she wasn’t
really sure what the correct answer to that question would be.

That gave the Emperor
another pause for thought.   In most circumstances upgrades to ships could be
done on the spot in a couple of days.   Some nanites and a controlling computer
to organize them and lead them in their tasks, and electronic systems could be
upgraded to the latest standard, often overnight.  The ships being pulled back
for refit were undergoing a different process.  They were undergoing needed
structural enhancements and the installation of new large systems, based on
what had been learned in combat thus far.  If the refits were postponed, they
would still remain effective warships, just not up to the new standard.

“We will continue to
rotate ships back for refit,” he ordered his CNO.  “Five percent at a time
shouldn’t be too much of a strain, especially since we will be replacing those
ships with new deployments, all of which will have been upgraded already.”

“Very well, your
Majesty.  I will see that it is done.  On the plus side it will give the crews
a week or so to get in some shore leave on a Core world.  That can’t help but
raise their spirits.”

“While it leaves us
slightly weaker at the front,” said Sean, voicing her unvoiced concern.  “Try
not to worry, Admiral.  The summit is coming up.  I’m sure I’ll be able to get
the Elysium Empire to recommit their ships.” 
I hope.

Sean disconnected from
the com and went back to work, looking over the points he planned to bring up
to the Lords in their upcoming session.  There were a lot of concessions to
Elysium in his points.  Hopefully enough to get the ally back on board the
joint deployment, and not too much for the Lords to stomach.  He was ten
minutes into it when a priority com came across his implant, with the signature
of the CNO.

“Yes, Sondra?” he asked,
trying to keep the impatience out of his voice and failing.

“I just received a
communique from Admiral Mgonda, your Majesty.  Task group commanders are
reporting to him that Crakista task forces are pulling out of their assigned
systems.   They are giving no explanation, though they are reported to be
politely rebuffing our requests for such.”

“Just fucking great,”
growled Sean, slamming a fist on his desk.  Now they had another gap to fill in
their order of battle.

“Might I suggest we
withdraw some ships from the Fenri Empire, your Majesty.  They’re just about
out of the fight, after all.”

“But they’re not out of
the fight,” replied Sean, holding his voice down by force of will.  “I want
them knocked out of the war before we start pulling ships out.” 
Or at least
until we actually know the Cacas are attacking.
  “And don’t even think
about asking for ships from the Bolthole campaign, or the Second Front.  Those
are vital areas of operation.”

“Very well, your Majesty,
but my primary concern is our Front, and we are bleeding ships at this moment
with these defections.”

“Trust me, Admiral.  I
will take care of that.  We’ll have Elysium and Crakista back in the fold in no
time.” 
And now if only I could believe that as well.

Chapter Five

History shows that there are no invincible
armies. Joseph Stalin

JEWEL, CAPITULUM.  DECEMBER 21
^ST
,
1002.  D-10.

Debra Visserman had never
really like these precision flying drills.  She preferred to be in the sky by
herself, or at most with a wingman, able to maneuver as she wished.  Not with
other fighters less than ten meters to either side.  Even with full avoidance
systems engaged, there was too much risk of something going on.

“Tighten it up,
Visserman,” ordered the Colonel, observing the group from another aircraft well
separated from the sixty-four fighters that made up the formation.

Visserman sent the acknowledgement,
then made sure she was centered between the other two fighters, her eyes rarely
leaving the craft twenty meters ahead that she considered the greatest risk. 
If that ship went into an emergency decel to avoid something to its front, she
would have about one second to make her move or possibly run into it, dropping
them both to the ground as twisted wreckage.  If they were lucky they might
eject.  If not, both pilots would also be twisted wreckage.

Through every window of
her cockpit she saw the tall buildings she would be flying around.  The
holographic system of her ship duplicated the surroundings of Capitulum
perfectly, showing her the course she must fly to avoid the buildings while
giving the crowd on the ground the best show possible.

I’ll be glad to get to
that training unit
,
she thought, surprising herself.  She had been dreading the transfer to a
non-combat assignment, until now, when she realized that really all this group
did was perform as a glorified show flight, and nothing more.  Their ostensible
job was to protect the capital from atmospheric attack. 
As if that will
ever happen
, she thought with a snort.

“Execute roll over,”
called out the group commander over the com.  “On my mark.  Mark.”

The maneuver was much too
dangerous for actual pilots to execute.  Preprogramed automatic systems took
over, rolling the entire group over, ships on one side going up and over the
others, until every fighter was oriented with cockpits facing the ground.  The
maneuver disgusted the Warrant Officer, who hadn’t become a pilot to ride in a
robot controlled craft.  Of course she still had to be there, according to the
‘Man in the Loop’ law.  The ongoing war with the Machines had reiterated the
importance of that doctrine. 
Though the damned missiles that spaceships
throw at each other are under computer control,
she thought with a scowl on
her face as she looked up to see the ground passing below.

The Empire jettisoned the
law quickly enough when it suited them, or when it was necessary.  Ship
missiles could attack targets light hours from their launch platform, with no
way to control them from that distance.  She hadn’t heard of people lining up
to volunteer to ride the weapons into their targets, so computer control was
the only way to do it.  On the positive side, those missiles only had a maximum
power time in the twelve to fifteen hour range.  After that they were just a
rapidly coasting inert object, still dangerous, but unable to change their
course to go after targets their brains might decide to attack despite the
wishes of their masters.

“One more go and we’ll
call it a day,” said the Colonel over the com as they came to the end of the
run.  “And remember, the Empress and quite a few VIPs will be watching.”

Debra cursed under her
breath.  The damned Colonel didn’t have to repeat the performance.  He was up
above hovering in a craft piloted by someone else.  And she could care less who
was watching them fly like a bunch of robots over a parade.  She craved combat,
and surely there was enough of it to go around.  But for some reason it was
being denied her.

“How did she handle?”
asked the Crew Chief after she had stopped her craft in its revetment.

“Like shit,” she
screamed, stomping off across the tarmac and leaving the wide eyed Crew Chief
speechless.

*     *     *

Sean woke with a scream
on his lips, staring wide eyed into the darkness.  The room lights came on at
the sound, and he looked to the side to see that Jennifer was not in bed.  It
took him a second to remember that it was midday, that he had laid down for a
nap, and that she wasn’t due home until evening.

“Is everything okay, your
Majesty,” came a voice over the intercom that he recognized as one of his
Secret Service detail.

“It’s fine, Collin,” he
answered, remembering the name that went with the voice.  “Just a bad dream.”

“Are you sure, your
Majesty?”

Sean could imagine the
young man sitting in the monitor room, probably looking on a vid screen,
forbidden of the Imperial bedroom but still used when the Service thought the
situation warranted it.  He was obviously monitoring the Emperor’s vitals over
remote pickups, making sure Sean was not under duress and answering
accordingly.

“I was just a dream,
Collin.  Probably brought on by stress.”

“Would you like for me to
send one of the servants in?”

“I’ll call one in a
moment, Collin.  For the moment, I just need to think, so please give me some
quiet.”

The intercom died, though
Sean was sure he was still being watched.  He didn’t like it, and he had the
command in his implant to shut down all of their surveillance when he wanted. 
When he in the Empress were alone he cut their feed, and the hell with whether
they liked it or not.  When she wasn’t with him he humored them, but he would
be damned if he let them observe his sex life.

Sean lay back on the bed,
hands behind his head, letting the environmental systems dry the sweat off his
body.   He could recall two dreams, both of a disturbing nature, though the
first had been more so.  The same dream he had gone through many times, with a
little more clarity in each rendition.

Capitulum was being
bombarded from orbit, while attack ships, something missing in the past dreams,
wove through the sky launching warheads and firing beam weapons into the
towers.  Mushroom clouds were rising across the city, while tall buildings and
massive archologies crumbled from kinetic strikes.  He couldn’t identify the
enemy, but did he need to?   Who could it be but the Cacas.

The dream had the feel of
a prophetic event, the curse of his line.  He had been told it had nothing to
do with the supernatural, but was a quantum event tapping into probabilities,
much like the quantum entanglement of the Klassekians.  He really didn’t
believe in the supernatural, so the explanation, that was really more of a lack
of one, had to do.  What he did know was that this event was likely to occur in
the future.  What he didn’t know was how far in the future.  That it had
occurred multiple times seemed to indicate that it was going to be soon, but
how soon?  A week? A year?  Longer?

The second dream had
shown the Emperor on the flag bridge of a ship in combat.  The ship was rocking
from hits, while it was dealing out even greater destruction to the Caca ships
around it.  Reports were coming in about losses, but even more about victories,
and the name New Moscow kept being mentioned.  This was the first time he had a
dream exactly like this.  He had numerous views of battles, including one where
he, as a much older man, led a fleet into the home system of the Cacas.  So how
did this dream mesh with the other?  Or did it?

The Cacas are going to
fight their way into the home system
, he thought, closing his eyes and trying to
relive the imagery of the dreams. 
They will invade the Core systems and
bombard them from orbit, ending with Jewel, and we will have lost the war
. 
The imagery of the second dream came back through his almost photographic
memory. 
Unless we stop them at the frontier, where they are now.  And I
have to be on the flag bridge of one of those ships for the victory to occur.

He wasn’t sure if his
interpretation was correct, but it was probably close to the mark.  How close
he couldn’t tell.  That was the curse of the gift.  It offered glimpses of a
possible future that might not come to pass, on an indeterminate time scale.  If
he did something it might not come to pass, or it might, depending on what
action he took.  And if it did not come to pass, something even worse might,
caused by the actions used to prevent the event from happening.  It was enough
to drive the person with the dreams mad, and there had been tales of former
Monarchs who had been treated for insanity while they remained mere figureheads
of the Empire.

I have to make sure I’m
with the Fleet in the next battle
, he thought.  Perhaps by being on the scene he
would be able to make a snap decision that saved the battle.  And prevented the
first dream from becoming reality.  Was that the smart way to bet?  He didn’t
know, but it was the way he would bet this time.

*     *     *

Angel had been in rougher
places.  The Fleet had placed him in more dangerous situations, but then he had
all of the resources of the Imperial Navy at his beck and call.  Even when he
had worked as an assassin he had often been able to count on the resources of
his employers.  Not so this time.  This time he was truly a lone wolf, and
there was nothing between him and death but his own strength, skills and wits.

Every eye in the bar
turned his way as he walked in.  He knew his disguise was good, the best money
could buy.  It included false DNA traces that would be scattered about as he
moved, and a nanolayer that prevented his own cells from falling from him to
get sucked into nearby sensors.  At least most of the time.  He hadn’t set off
any of the alarms on the remote drones that had populated the streets outside
this area, which was a good sign.  That there were so many more of them than
had been the case some months before, when he had attracted the attention of
the authorities, was anything but good.  At least there had been none when he had
entered this neighborhood.  Too many young hackers in the employ of the local
Mob, and any drones that wandered into this airspace became spare parts for
that organization.  It was a game that had been played for thousands and years,
cops and robbers.  And whenever the cops developed some new tech, the robbers
soon had the answer.

The bar hadn’t had a sign
in front of it, and only those that knew the code were admitted.  Angel had
bought the code from a lowlife who had gone into severe withdrawals and needed
money for his favorite fix.  Angle thought he would be better served to have
sought medical help, which could have cured him of his addiction in no time. 
But addicts didn’t think that way, they wanted the high as much as they
regretted the low, probably more so.

The bar was half full,
about what the assassin had expected.  Most of the tables had two or more
patrons, about two thirds of the bar seats were full, and a few slutty looking
barmaids moved languidly to bring drinks to customers.  While he watched one of
the barmaids, a Malticon, laughed at something a customer said, then led him by
the hand toward a curtained doorway.  Angel needed to imagination to figure out
what was going on there.

Angel made his way to the
bar and slid onto an empty stool.  The woman behind the bar, this one human,
moved up and raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll have a whisky,” he
told the woman.  “Neat.”

As he accepted his drink
another Malticon moved up beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder.  Angel
tensed for a moment, overriding his inclination to react to aggression with the
same.

“I haven’t seen you
before,” said the human looking alien.  “Want some company?”

The Malticon was dressed
in childish clothing, her hair in pigtails.  The aliens were prized as sex
workers, their small tight bodies desired by many humans, while their alien
physiology had made them the perfect prostitutes, incapable of pregnancy and
unable to transmit human diseases.  Of course nanites had made those advantages
moot, and as of seven hundred years ago human females were also immune to
pregnancy and STDs.

“Not at the moment,” said
Angel, turning a cold stare on the female.  “Maybe later.”

The Malticon hurried
away, and Angel was sure she would bother him again.  He had a way of looking
at people that made them want to be elsewhere, a trait that had served him well
in the past.

The next one to approach
him was a human, male, who had the look of someone who had something to sell. 
And there were only a few things likely to be in the inventory in a place like
this.

“You looking to get
high?” asked the man in a loud whisper.  “I have the best Dust and Zip in the
city.”

Angel stared at the man,
wishing he could kill the vermin on the spot.  Dust was a synthetic powder that
put the user into a weeklong state of euphoria and hallucinatory dreams.  It
was highly addictive, in some cases making an addict with the first use.  Zip
was made from a plant from some frontier world eight hundred light years away. 
It was an interdicted substance, but still found its way into the Core worlds. 
Zip gave the user amazing energy, and the feeling of invulnerability and
omnipotence.  It was also highly addictive, and only put the user in the
desired state for several hours, after which the addict needed another dose. 
Sleep was impossible, eating became problematic, and most users died within a
month of becoming addicted.  Angel didn’t know why anyone would take the drug,
but there were plenty of people who would.