The Terran Gambit (Episode #1: The Pax Humana Saga) (11 page)

A red-headed man near the back interrupted. Jake recognized him as a Red Squad fighter jock. The pilot spoke with a thick cockney accent. “So what’s the deal here, Lieutenant? Does command reckon it’s time to make a stand again? Aren’t they afraid of risking another D-day? Somehow I doubt the empire has any qualms about replicating Dallas.”

“Then you would be wrong. Do they have qualms about Dallas? No. At least, not the emperor, nor his High Command. But the senate feels otherwise, obviously, and so yes, they are afraid of risking another D-day. It was a political disaster for them. The Resistance High Council believes that, in fact, now may be the time for another show of force. And this time, we mean to win.”

Jake thought the idea sounded dubious, and as he surveyed the room it became apparent to him that the rest of the officers felt the same. He raised his voice. “Just what is so special about now that makes it such a great time to put up another fight? Is it those Freedom-class ships up there? Big deal. A ship is a ship, and there are only nine of them. Nine against the imperial fleet seems a little suicidal to me.” He raised his hands in a show of bravado. “Not that I’d mind much, I mean I love hopeless causes. Just ask Po.” He winked at her, knowing she loved the playful jabs in spite of her icy stare.

The lieutenant’s smile splayed out even farther.

“But that is where you are wrong, Commander Mercer.” He pointed out towards the shipyards, which they could now resolve through the viewports. “Those are not just
any old ships
.” 

Jake looked at the vast, orbiting structure, its twelve construction rings circling twelve tremendous heavy cruisers—nine Freedom-class, and three other, smaller and only partially completed vessels—replacements, Jake remembered, for the three sacrificial ships Pritchard had used to nearly win the war the day before D-day.

“They’re not just any old ships,” the Lieutenant repeated, rubbing his hands—seemingly unable to contain his glee as he regarded the rapidly approaching orbital complex. “And by the end of this briefing, I think you will agree that the time to strike is not only now, but that to wait would be to risk the destruction of every freedom-loving world in the galaxy.”

The man next to Jake snorted. He looked over at him—gruff, graying five o’clock shadow, crew cut. A regular old soldier. Jake looked down at his insignia and name—Sergeant Pearson. “Sounds like a pretty juicy target, Lieutenant. Some old piss-ants like me might say it’s a little too juicy. You’re telling me that the empire is building these nine ships in Earth orbit, outfitted them with the most advanced technology, then invited every former Resistance fighter to man them? The High Command sounds pretty cocksure to me.”

Jake could see the bulge on the Sergeant’s lower lip, and smelled the faint odor of tobacco, reminding him of his father. Yet the man could be right. It sounded a tad suspicious.

The lieutenant in the front of the room nodded slowly. “We have considered the possibility that we’re being set up, yes. But we have reasons to believe this is the real deal. Intel services believe this is a genuine attempt by the Truth and Reconciliation Commission to, well, reconcile the empire with Earth. Let me brief you on the ship specs and you can make your own decision.

He laid out the case slowly, and carefully, repeating the details and the ship specs so that there was no misunderstanding, and when he had finished the room was abuzz.

Jake wasn’t sure he understood all the technical details, or even all the tactical and strategic advantages to the new innovations the Freedom-class ships sported, but by the end, he was grinning from ear to ear, and couldn’t wait to get started.

4

E
PSILON
E
RIDANI, THE NEAREST
sun-like star to Sol, was a great disappointment to the first explorers setting out from Earth. Captain Titus surmised that if the first voyages had been crewed by rich investors or government researchers, the desolate, solitary moon orbiting the bulging yellow Jupiter-like third planet might never have been settled.

As it happened, the explorers in those first ships were less-than-affluent adventure seekers, and though the prospects seemed daunting, they laid down roots in the thankless soil of Havoc—the first human colony outside of the solar system. Luckily, there was a thick, wet, argon-nitrogen atmosphere, which precluded the need for completely air-tight structures, and the soil held ample amounts of silicates, metal oxides, and rare earths, which, coupled with the abundant amounts of helium three—required for the nuclear reactors at the time—in the gas giant’s atmosphere, meant that the first humans had just about everything they needed.

But life was difficult, and through the generations, it showed in their descendants. Uncouth, rough, uncivilized, and brash were all words regularly used to describe the inhabitants of Havoc, and Captain Titus loathed the idea that they might have to have dealings with any of the folk.

Ah, but they were not there to deal. They were there to engage in psychological warfare, as Admiral Trajan put it—a far more worthy term than stealing.

The gravitic shift placed them in high orbit around Epsilon Eridani Prime, an intense, yellow star, and the gravitic thrusters took them the remaining six light-minutes to the third planet in a matter of hours. And near it, the moon Havoc, hovering like a gray speck against the swirling red and orange clouds below.

“Order all hands to stand down from gravitic navigation stations and cancel yellow alert,” said Captain Titus to his XO, Commander Lasciveo, a lanky, gray-haired man with a stern, drill-sergeant’s manner.

“Aye, Captain,” Lasciveo said, and relayed the orders through the comm to the various departments.

“Inform Admiral Trajan we have arrived, Ensign,” he said, glancing at the communications officer. “And Mr. Evans?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Remember the Admiral’s orders. No off-ship communications without his express approval. Maintain radio silence. Do not answer any attempts to hail us without the Admiral’s presence on the bridge.”

“Understood, sir.”

Titus thumbed open the comm. “Lieutenant Pierce? Did you manage to get the hull nameplate changed before the shift?”

“Affirmative, Captain. We even matched the font.”

Titus smiled, and he remembered why he’d hand-picked his operations officer. He had an extreme, almost obsessive-compulsive attention to detail. It was a wonder the man could even get out of his quarters some days for all the time he spent on his reports.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Excellent work. Titus out.”

All right then.
Show time.

The door to the bridge slid open and Admiral Trajan stepped though, accompanied by the twang of a selection of music that followed him as he stepped up to the bridge deck. Apparently, he’d asked the computer to pipe the music through to wherever he went.

“Do you like it, Captain?” the Admiral asked, pointing a finger towards the ceiling, indicating the music. Titus listened to the twang, the steady, predictable, percussive beat, and, he almost frowned in disapproval, the jingoistic, workman-like lyrics.

“Catchy.” Titus did not know if the Admiral liked it or not, and so erred on the side of caution. No need to alienate himself from the man over something as silly, as quotidian, as music.

“Catchy indeed. Rustic. Independent. A tad on the irreverent side, but deeply religious and patriotic, urging loyalty to one’s countrymen and people. Frontier country music, Captain. Nearly every man, woman, and child on the dusty moon of Havoc listens to frontier country music, at least in this form—a variation on the Old Earth style.”

“Yes, sir. I’m familiar with the style.”

The Admiral raised his eyebrows. “Indeed?”

“I’ve been studying up since our last conversation in your ready room,” he said, internally repeating to himself the reference to the ready room as
my
ready room.

“Then you must know, without question, that no matter what the people of Havoc might tell us, they have no loyalty to the empire. None. They keep up the appearances for their survival’s sake, and during the Terran revolt they didn’t dare support the rebellion openly, but the truth lies in their souls, and I read their souls with this,” he said, pointing upward again, at the music.

“Understood, sir.” Titus couldn’t understand how the Admiral knew any such thing, but it was not the time for an in-depth musical discussion.

Admiral Trajan approached the central command station. “Navigation. Take us on an engagement vector towards the orbital defense platform. Tactical, prepare for multiple targeting options. Take out their weapons, and their life support.”

“Sir?” The tactical officer stared at the Admiral in horror.

Slowly, Admiral Trajan turned towards the Lieutenant and regarded him with an icy, one-eyed stare. “Did you have an issue with that command, Lieutenant?”

The woman gulped, and looking down, said, “No sir. Of course not, sir. Targeting offensive assets and life support.”

Titus had half a mind to intervene, but knew that if he did, he’d sit in the brig for the rest of the Admiral’s tenure. Targeting life-support systems? If the senate ever caught wind of it, the rabble rousers would have a heyday.

“If I may ask, sir … life-support?”

“If you’re wondering, Captain, no, I do not mean for them all to die from oxygen deprivation. But I want them to think they’re going to die from oxygen deprivation. At least, I want them to think Admiral Pritchard is killing them. And when we do it over something so petty as rare earth elements, specifically, their entire store of Gadolinium, Promethium, and Neodymium, well, let’s just say that the good Admiral’s approval ratings may take a hit.”

“They’re hailing us, sir,” said Ensign Evans.

“Let them meet static,” said the Admiral, and he sat down in Pritchard’s chair near the command station.

Titus glanced at his readout on the central command station in the center of the bridge. “Two klicks away.” He looked up at the Admiral with a quizzical look, asking permission, and the man nodded. Titus turned to the tactical officer. “Very well. Open fire.”

The railgun batteries swiveled to point at the modest, but deadly-looking orbital platform, and began blasting away at the structure. Beams of bright blue light shot out from the ion beam cannons dotting the hull of the
Caligula
, and a few torpedoes streaked across the empty space between the battleship and the platform before the defense station managed to fire a single gigawatt laser bank, which it began to do in earnest when its occupants realized it was under attack.

A cloud of glittering, refractive dust erupted from the port flank of the
Caligula
, and subsequent blasts from the laser diffused through the billowing fog of high-index particles, rendering them so divergent and defocused that they caused little damage to the hull. Meanwhile, railgun fire devastated the side of the platform facing the battleship, and soon, every gigawatt laser bank and railgun turret on the station ceased firing.

The
Caligula
, however, did not. A particularly intense azure beam erupted from the forward ion cannon and connected with a section of the platform’s core, blasting an entire chunk of hull away and exposing the tanks of the oxygen re-circulation system. One tap of the tactical officer’s finger shot a single railgun slug at the tank, rupturing it and causing it to bleed its entire store of oxygen to space in a matter of seconds in an explosive rush.

Ensign Evans said excitedly, “Admiral, they’re hailing us again. They’re signaling surrender.”

“Very good. Open an audio channel.” The Admiral stroked his chin and smiled. “Time for my performance.”

The comm crackled with static, and explosions could be heard on the other end of the channel, followed by yells and plenty of graphic swearing. “Unidentified ship, we surrender. Repeat, we surrender. Please hold your fire, for mercy’s sake. We’re burning over here.”

Admiral Trajan elevated his voice in a high, gruff, eerily accurate impersonation of what Captain Titus remembered Admiral Pritchard’s voice sounded like from all the intelligence briefings he had sat in on. “This is the
USS Fury
, of Earth Resistance fame. I’m terribly sorry, I don’t mean to intrude, but I’m afraid you have something of ours.”

Unintelligible voices argued back and forth in the background before the first voice came back. “Did you say Admiral Pritchard?”

“The one and only, I’m afraid,” said Admiral Trajan, cocking his head to the side and raising the roof of his mouth in an effort to get the voice intonation just right. The man was good—Titus could give him that. Even down to the self-deprecating humor that was a hallmark of Pritchard’s.

“But Admiral, we have nothing of the Resistance’s. We’re a peaceful mining colony. We ain’t got no beef with no one. Why the unprovoked attack?”

“Simple, my good man. The Resistance needs supplies, and everyone knows that in this sector of the galaxy what the Resistance needs, the Resistance gets. And if you don’t like it you can bloody well take it up with the emperor for all I care.”

“But, we’ve got nothing you would possibly need! All we have here is minerals. Iron, silicon, magnesium. That’s it! You’re telling me you came all this way from wherever you’ve been hiding to blast some defenseless miners out of the sky for their metal?”

“Dog’s bollocks. You and I both know that you are not defenseless, and that you carry a very singular stock of rare earth minerals that are vital to the efforts of the Resistance.”

“But why the hell didn’t you just tell us you needed them! We would have gladly negotiated with you. Come to a fair price!”

“Ah, but my way is far more genius, don’t you think? I quite like the price I negotiated from you. A bargain, if you ask me. In fact, I’ll even sweeten the deal. You send one of your freighters over here with your entire store of Gadolinium, Promethium, and Neodymium, and in return, not only will I not destroy your platform, I’ll send over a replacement oxygen tank that will last you until you can evacuate the station. How’s that?”