Homeworld: A Military Science Fiction Novel (31 page)

Surrender

Colonel Miller looked first to his right and then to his left at the women and men on their knees with their hands behind their backs. He had had the honor of serving these past several days with this group. He could have asked for no finer group to die with if the Coalition planned to massacre them all but he and he noticed neither he nor had any of the other Infantry or civilian soldiers tossed their weapons so far away that they could not be snatched up again at a moment’s notice. They would not be slaughtered like domesticated livestock of old unless the Coalition failed to honor their surrender. The truth of the matter was, it would be suicide for them to fight on longer, but they would do just such on act just to die with their rifle in their hand if need be. Each of them had given everything they had to get to this moment. Too bad, it had to be a moment of defeat.

There was the hissing sound of the atmosphere equalizing, as the main hatch of the Coalition tank that had breached their defenses opened. At a much quieter level, a female voice asked from within the tank, “Who is in charge here?” He saw a lithe female form in the standard Coalition black with silver piping bearing the insignia of Captain leaping from the tank to the tarmac of the spaceport in one graceful motion. He also noticed that the woman was unarmed, but of course, she did have a tank providing fire support.

Colonel Miller stood to his feet and stood at parade rest, staring down on her from the wall above with all the contempt he could muster. “That would be me, Colonel Miller, highest ranking surviving officer of the Earth Republic Infantry.”

“Then, Colonel Miller, I, Captain Rachel Keil hereby offer you our official and unconditional surrender. We have been defeated. The last of our once great armada has fallen and Admiral Casa is advising that he will allow us to surrender or destroy us from orbit. I will not throw away the lives of my men, just as you would not throw away the lives of yours. We are at your disposal, Colonel.”

That’s when he heard a sonic boom and looked up as an unfamiliar fighter streaked by in the heavens above. Falling from the sky behind it, there was a multitude of dropships and transports, all of Republic design. A spontaneous cheer poured forth from his men. Miller gave orders to a few of those closest to him to secure the prisoners but treat them with every courtesy due a prisoner of war of the Earth Republic.

“Well then, ma’am, I guess I have no choice but to accept your surrender. It would be a shame to see us all blown into the beyond,” Miller roared over the crowd, as he grinned and picked up his rifle while calling out for his fellow citizens to do the same.

Celebration and Cooperation

Somewhere along the lines, one of his troops had seen a relatively untouched two-story tavern called “Calhoun’s.” That is where his battalion had gathered both inside and outside, as the beer and the spirits flowed freely. There was plenty of good cheer to be had as they laughed, cried, and challenged each other as to who could make a worse drunken fool of themselves. Colonel Miller did not begrudge his men the celebration they had certainly earned it.

He, however, sat on the second floor in the back corner near a relatively quiet table with two others. They had found him requesting news that they had not liked hearing. To soften the blow, Miller had bought several rounds for Dinah and Abigail. As point of fact, he was funding this entire drunken lot tonight and he didn’t care if it cost him a year’s pay to do it. However, he and his two female companions said little and drank little.

Dinah tried to start a conversation with, “So where’s Ben? It’s not like him to miss an occasion like this?” Abigail just turned and looked at the corner, while Miller cracked open another bottle of beer and said, “I don’t know. Not like him not to be here for this. As he had with every new beer he opened, he raised his bottle and cried, “To Admiral Clarkson!” There had always followed a return to the toast from all those within the sound of his voice, “To Admiral Clarkson!” The Colonel went back to sipping his beer.

Dinah felt like screaming, throwing her bottle against the wall and punching a hole in it for good measure. Instead, she just leaned in on her elbows, put her bottle to her lips, and took a slow pull of the thick bitter stout.

Ben suddenly leaned in against the table with a loud thump and said, “It looks like you are all here for a funeral? Aren’t you supposed to wait until the person is actually dead first?” Abigail looked as if she was about to break Ben’s neck until he stepped out of the way and revealed a very tired and very dirty looking Drake. Abigail leapt from her chair. She used one foot to leap off the table and into Drake’s surprised arms. He caught her and she had kissed him until it had become slightly embarrassing for those to watch. Colonel Miller coughed and said, “You might want to let him come up for air, private.” Dinah and Miller stood to offer a handshake or a hug, as the case may be.

“Why didn’t you turn up earlier? When Ben told us about what you did and we hadn’t heard from you, we thought you were dead for sure and certain. Are you trying to worry a girl?” Abigail demanded, refusing to let go of him. “Well, Ben’s aim was a little off and I ended up more than a few klicks to the south, but it’s alright. I called a friend to give me a ride home,” Drake said, smiling at Ben who just tossed him a beer and raised his own bottle, “To Admiral Clarkson.” The toast was echoed throughout the bar and the festivities did not die down for till well past the rising of the sun. There would be sour stomachs and headaches aplenty to go around when his lot woke up for work in the late afternoon, but until then, it was time to celebrate. Miller leaned back in his chair and drank the first good tasting beer of the night.

From the tall window of the conference rooms, in the miraculously untouched Stellar Communion building, Ambassador Kal of the Earth Republic looked down on the flickering lights as power was restored to this devastated but celebrating city. His smile was reflected in the dark Plastisteel window. Even keeping his two counterparts from coming to blows over the last three hours had not soured his mood any. For truth be told, this victory would never have come about if it was not for their help, help that came in different ways but help nonetheless. The Darians had offered a fleet and their lives while the Geners had offered technology and information now if he could only get them to work together, he could ensure that this hard fought for victory would not be in vain.

“Senior Fellow Milar, First Partas Xarn,” Kal began as he turned back to his two counterparts.

“We need not start out as friends. Merely allies against a common enemy.” Noticing that it had softened the glares the two had been throwing each other, he continued, “I would not be standing here talking to you, and you are both well aware of that, if it had not been for the help our people offered each other. Senior Fellow Milar, you are now aware that the Earth Republic and the Darian Empire have formed a formal alliance and mutual defense pact. If your people were to join with us, we might stand some chance of withstanding the next wave of attack that we all know is coming.” Kal paused to let that sink in for both parties. “Xarn, my friend, it was the technology that the Geners gave us that allowed us to hold back the Coalition as long as we did. Had they not offered their help when they did, we both know that our people would never have been able to form an alliance for there wouldn’t have been a Earth Republic to share it with without the Gener’s Leap Frogs. Now they have offered to share their technology with the Darian Empire if only the empire will forgive a three hundred year old crime.”

Ambassador paused and resumed his seat a the conference table. “There is also the rather pressing matter of the declaration of war on all of our peoples delivered by Battle Lord Juma on behalf of the Ra-tids. So, gentlemen, we can argue and wrangle for a few hours more or we can go join the celebration after we come to the logical and obvious conclusion that none of the three of our governments will be around for long if we do not unite against a common threat.” Kal leaned back. He could think of nothing else to say that would help or hinder these two sentients from deciding. He could only hope that the creator would see to it that they saw things clearly and not let themselves be blinded by a generation’s old dislike, if not outright hatred.

Senior Fellow Milar blinked his eyes and extended his three-fingered hand across the table. “We will offer the hand of friendship to determine whether or not the Darian ambassador rips it off.” Xarn smiled, showing all of his pointed teeth. He gently took the hand and shook it just as gently, not wanting to break the frail bones inside of it. “Well then, gentlemen, we have an alliance and may it stand until the age of our great great grandchildren!”

The formal wording and signing of official sounding treaties could wait until the morning but the celebrating could not. Kal invited his friends to experience the true joy of a human revelry.

A quiet chime sounded from the brushed nickel-plated wall. An impeccably dressed servant answered the door and took the card of the man who offered it announcing, “Executive Officer Langston to see you, sir.” A week raspy voice responded, “Show him in, Bradley, show him in.”

Langston removed his hat, cane and cape and handed them to Bradley as he walked, hands clenched behind his back, to stand by the chair that faced an enormous window, which opened on the cold dark of space. “By now, you must have heard of Admiral Watkin’s failure, sir,” Langston said having prepared himself for this meeting with a calming sedative.

“Of course, of course, but that is of no consequence. The man was an overambitious fool but that is no matter. He served his purpose and softened them all up. We’ll crush them with this next armada or the next,” the raspy leader said as he waved his frail and wrinkled arm at the window as if presenting the next Coalition Armada as if it were the grand prize in a twisted game show of Universal Domination. “Now leave me be, Langston. I have things to think about.”

Langston bowed to the seated man in the chair and turned to leave when he heard the call over his shoulder “Oh, and Langston? Be a good chap and have those who appointed Watkins as admiral executed, will you? A few more seats on the board becoming open will provide just the incentive the truly ambitious require.”

END

Read on for a free sample of “I Am Automaton”

Tijuana, Mexico

Command Sergeant Major Peter Birdsall and his squad of ten were baking in a beat-up, unmarked van parked on the street. The men were hot, sweaty, and growing antsy.

They were all recovering from the night on pass cut short. They were a tight squad. Their motto was the squad that fights together, raises hell together, and last night they didn’t disappoint.

They were not supposed to deploy today, but apparently, the brass had received some new intelligence that made it imperative that they mobilize.

It was almost time. The sun was beginning to rise and bathe the cesspool of a town in golden light, purging the sins of the night prior.

The only remaining illumination was that of the holo-panels on parked cars flashing ads for Mexican beer and strip clubs. The cars were obsolescent models, the first generation of electric. The United States was already in its third generation.

Soon the streets would be bustling with people. If they were going to maintain a low profile, they had to move now. Peter cleared his throat.

He was consulting his Mini-com Multi-tasker. Only the size of a pack of gum, it projected a screen that was flashing information.

“Alright, listen up. Intel says that some major players in the Navajas gang are staying in the second floor apartment across the street. There are reported to be only three of them, high ranking members, maybe even a capo, so this is going to be a simple smash-and-grab.”

There was backslapping, high-fiving, and a flurry of macho remarks. Peter put his hand up. They listened.

“But keep in mind that our Special Forces were down here not long ago training the Navajas to help the Mexican government in the war on drug cartels. Unfortunately, these Navajas realized that they could make more money using their new training as security for the cartels, and then eventually they became the cartels.

“These are not debutants. They know our tricks, they know our tactics, and they’re sure as shit going to use them against us.”

Corporal Apone was wearing a sly grin.

“Yeah, well, we’ve learned a few things since then. They haven’t tasted army tough yet.”

The other men hooted and hollered in support. They sounded like a football team in the locker room before the championship game.

Peter raised his hand again, half in recognition of Apone’s sentiment, and half to impress upon his men his point.

“While that is true, these Navajas are not to be underestimated. So listen up. We need to cross the street fast while keeping an eye all round us. Squad Vee formation. Once we breach the building through the front, we switch to two fire teams in squad column formation and take the second floor.”

Corporal Apone nodded, and the men grunted in affirmation.

“Remember your training, because it is that very training that will keep you alive. This ain’t amateur hour, and it’s no time for mistakes. Am I clear?”

The men grunted.

A bead of sweat ran down the side of Peter’s cheek. He checked his watch. He then extended his hand vertically and pointed in each direction. The men dispersed out of their van, covering each other, and proceeded across the street in Vee formation, Peter leading and Apone bringing up the rear.

There was a light breeze, and a stray paper was blowing down the vacant street. In the distance, a three-legged dog was watching them with lazy interest. But its attention quickly shifted to a dog biscuit ad flashing on the side of the nearest car.

They splashed through the filthy gutter as they approached the front door of the storefront. Peter produced his Mini-com Multi-tasker and activated the lock pick application. He began working on the digital lock quickly, but quietly. It was an outdated algorithm, no challenge. The flanks were scanning the quiet street.

All was still. The prostitutes, criminals, and morally licentious were all sleeping off a wild night of drunken debauchery. The city almost seemed decent in the tranquility of morning.

Peter disarmed the lock with what seemed like a pop, but he realized quickly that digital locks don’t pop.

Two men on the right flank were dropped—Spottiswoode and Bertucci.

“SNIPER,” Apone yelled.

Before Peter could bark a command to switch formation, Allen on the left flank was dropped.

“COLUMN FORMATION.”

The men quickly rearranged into two fire teams, and Peter pushed into the building. He felt something graze his shoulder as he dove into the store.

It was some kind of a general store with aisles and shelves. The store was lit, digital sales and prices were flashing on the walls and above the aisles, creating the effect of a consumerist discotheque.

Men filed past him, and each fire team went down an aisle past rows of antibiotics and various controlled substances that were illegal in the States. His squad was yelling all around him, and there was yelling in Spanish from inside the store.

This was going all wrong. The Navajas knew they were coming. Somehow, the bastards knew, and they were ready for them.

Before he could process the scene before him, his men were being cut down in the store by controlled gunfire. By being corralled into the aisles, the Navajas were able to take them out two at a time.

Peter ran down the aisle behind Apone, and in minutes, Navajas surrounded them on either side of the aisle with carbines. Apparently, they were putting the American weaponry they received to good use.

Peter had to make a snap decision. Fight or surrender?

“Throw your weapons down,” he ordered his men.

Apone looked back at his friend, multi-colored lights reflecting on his face. There was doubt in his expression. But Peter was in command. He placed his M-16 down to the floor slowly and put his hands on his head. The remaining three men followed suit.

One of the Navajas advanced and gestured with the barrel of his carbine for them to kneel. Peter nodded and they complied.

There was yelling in Spanish all around them. Before the situation got too out of hand, Peter figured he’d try to communicate.

“We are United States Army. I am Sergeant…”

The man with the carbine in his face told him to shut up. Peter’s Spanish was not the best, but he understood that much.

Apone looked at him nervously. Privates Wilson, Rodriguez, and Wilcox shifted nervously behind, but they remained silent, awaiting the lead of their sergeant.

The man with the carbine in Peter’s face was speaking rapidly in Spanish to another man, who then gestured for him to stand and come down the aisle.

“Rodriguez, you make anything of that?”

“They want you to go in the back while they watch us. They know we’re US Army.”

The man yelled for Rodriguez to be quiet, and then he gestured aggressively to Peter.

Peter stood slowly, his hands still on his head, sweat trickling down the side of his face, and began to follow the man. When he reached the end of the aisle, the man pointed for him to go into a back room.

Peter didn’t want to go. He was unarmed, and totally at the mercy of these Navajas. He knew what would happen if he went into the back room. Moreover, he knew what was going to happen to his men kneeling in the aisle.

Once again, he was at a decision point. He could try to fight back, but then he would probably lose and his men would surely be executed. Nevertheless, if he complied, they were surely dead…most likely, anyway.

It was a judgment call, and Peter had no time to make it.

Peter turned and began to walk towards the door to the back room. He heard the swish of the man’s clothing and Apone yell his name when he felt a blunt object hit the back of his neck.

He went down hard, his face smashing into the tile floor spilling blood and shards of teeth onto an advertisement for aspirin.

He tasted copper as blood ran over his broken teeth before he blacked out.

***

Peter felt like he was floating in darkness as his head swam. When water splashed into his mouth, he realized that he was literally floating.

He screwed his eyes to clear his vision, and he was apparently in some kind of cave. As he looked forward, he saw the ceiling drop towards the water until the two met in the distance.

Suddenly Peter heard several loud splashes behind him, as if cinder blocks were being dropped into the water. He did not know why, but something inside him very urgently told him to move deeper into the cave, away from the splashes.

He began to wade deeper into the cave, the splashes echoing off the ceiling, and as he did so, his feet left the ground and the ceiling was beginning to drop towards the water.

There was splashing behind him, but not the splashing of things dropping. Concentric ripples made their way towards him and splashed gently against his neck. Someone was in the water with him, and they were now wading towards him.

He swam farther and farther in. He could now see the guano on the ceiling and stalactites. The water was very cold from lack of direct sun exposure.

The splashing grew louder…closer.

He pushed further into the cave until the rock ceiling was practically scraping the top of his head. In his haste, he was now swallowing water.

He closed his eyes and commanded himself to remain calm. His training told him that he had to assess the situation and evaluate his options. Panic was not one of them.

He opened his eyes and saw that there was no room to progress unless he went underwater. He would have to turn and face his pursuers if he was to get out of this cave.

Therefore, he turned in the other direction and found himself gazing into blackness. He couldn’t even see a few feet in front of him.

The splashing stopped. Were his pursuers just treading water in darkness, waiting for his next move?

Hand-to-hand combat in deep water without oxygen was clumsy, but he was ready. Perhaps he would make it through the gauntlet by being evasive and just focusing on getting through rather than engaging.

He felt something bump against his foot.

He looked down into the black water, but he could not see beyond the surface.

He felt it again.

He began to kick his feet and swim forward when a hand wrapped itself tightly around his right ankle and began to pull him down.

Peter struggled against the grip to stay afloat, kicking wildly. A second hand wrapped itself tightly around his other ankle, and he was able to yell as he was being pulled under the water.

He grabbed frantically at his ankles and at the hands holding him, trying to pry them off, but the grip was unnatural.

Other hands began to reach out of the darkness and pull at his clothes and tear at his skin as he sank further into the dark void.

He knew he was going to die.

He looked up towards the receding surface and let out a loud yell as water rushed into his lungs and there was an awful burning in his chest—

***

Peter woke with a start to darkness. He heard voices around him in Spanish. His hands were bound tightly in front of him with rope, and his own breath was hot against his face. He was sitting on hard wood, a chair of some kind.

Suddenly something was pulled from over his face, and light flooded his vision. As his eyes adjusted, he saw men kneeling in a row in front of him facing in the other direction…his men.

There was a cartel member standing between him and his men. He was holding the burlap sack that was just removed from Peter’s head. There were two men with AK-47’s guarding the door, and another to Peter’s right polishing a machete with a dank rag.

Peter looked around and guessed that they were in some kind of a shack. It was close quarters, the walls were made of dilapidated corrugated tin, and through the chinks in the walls and joints, he could see daylight and hear nothing but the breeze.

They were out of the city.

His head was spinning, but he recalled storming the store. He remembered shots being fired from within the store as soon as they breached the front door. He remembered his men being cut down.

The Navajas had gotten the drop on them. There would be no reinforcements. Not in time for what was left of them.

The man with the burlap sack spoke first.

“Well, good morning, senor.”

“My name is Sergeant Major Peter Birdsall of the United States Army…”

“I know who you are, pig.”

The other men chortled.

There were four of Peter’ men left kneeling in front of him. They had their hands on their heads and their legs crossed. They were in a perfect row. This was to be an execution.

“There are others on the way. If any harm comes to my men, you will be hunted to the ends of the earth.”

Peter tried to sound confident and forceful while trying not to choke on the dust flying around the shack.

The man tossed the burlap sack into Peter’s lap. “Senor, you are out in the middle of nowhere, no one knows where you are, and you are all alone.”

“Well, I suggest you run now while you have the chance. Reinforcements are closing in.”