Shadows of the Gods: Crimson Worlds Refugees II (7 page)

Approximately 14,000,000 kilometers from AS Midway

The Fleet: 144 ships, 32,808 crew

“I want everyone to stay inside the defensive perimeter until the scouting parties report back.” James Preston stood in front of the crowd of scientists, members of Barcomme’s and Cutter’s expeditions. There were a few impatient looks in the crowd, but not many people argued with a fully-armored Marine standing a few meters away…and
no one
did when that Marine was Colonel James Preston.

“I understand the importance of your work and the urgency of allowing you to begin, but security comes first.” There were Marines everywhere, running around in a way that seemed like a wild scrum but was actually a perfectly choreographed operation. Two companies were moving out, setting up defensive positions around the entire camp. Others were sweeping through the area, searching for live defensive systems or other potential dangers.

There was no longer any question that a massive battle had been waged here long ago. The debris remained scattered around everywhere. The high tech materials of the First Imperium equipment had survived the ages of wind and rain and decay, at least to a point. Preston could tell the scientists were straining at the leash, dying to dive into the wreckage, to study the amazing technology of the ancient race that had fought a cataclysmic battle here so long ago. But he knew Admiral Compton was counting on him to keep everyone safe, and that was the primary consideration. If that meant everyone had to stand around and wait then so be it.

Preston looked at the row of shuttles lined up a few dozen meters behind the scientific crews. There were over a hundred Marines posted around them, fully armored with weapons at the ready. The craft had brought the personnel down to the surface, but most of their capacity had been used to carry the seed the agricultural crews would need. Barcomme’s people had worked tirelessly in preparation for the expedition, genetically modifying the seeds in the fleet’s dwindling stores, creating the most nutrient dense and fastest-growing crops known to mankind’s science. He knew the cargo was beyond price. It was all the fleet had, and if he let his guard down, of some enemy force penetrated and destroyed those shuttles, thousands on the fleet would starve to death. Not today, not even tomorrow. But soon.

He turned and looked out over the plain that had been selected as the landing zone. It was a long section of flat, open ground stretching kilometers in every direction, with only a single large rock outcropping to break up the endless flatland. Preston wasn’t sure who had started calling it Plymouth Rock, but he appreciated the humor. Still, he wasn’t sure it was a very suitable name. The men and women who’d landed at Plymouth Rock were settlers…they had come to stay. And James Preston couldn’t get off this haunted planet soon enough.

He frowned. The primary consideration in selecting a landing site had been suitable conditions for planting. And that it certainly was. But it was a shitty spot to mount a defense—he’d decided that the instant he hopped out of the shuttle and took a look around. Wide open, no cover, no trees, not even any significant undulation in the ground. If his people had to fight a battle here, it would be a bloodbath.

But defensibility was secondary to food production. He was worried about the possibility of combat, but it was a fact that people were going to die without the food they’d come to grow…and that took absolute precedence. Sophie Barcomme had selected the LZ, and that had been the last word on the subject. He understood…and he knew his Marines would handle things, somehow. Like they always did.

“The perimeter is in place, Colonel. We’ve got a hundred fire teams covering every approach.” Connor Frasier’s voice was gruff, but over the years he’d lost most of the remnant of the moderate brogue he’d brought with him to training camp.

Many of Earth’s accents had faded away over the years, as the Superpowers had encouraged homogeneity within their borders. The politicians had long understood that it was easier to whip their downtrodden subjects into wild fits of nationalism if racial and ancestral stereotypes were used effectively. But the Scots had defied that trend, at least in the region of the Highlands. The area had repeatedly rebelled against Alliance diktats, until finally an agreement was reached, one that granted a level of local autonomy. The perceived ‘victory’ over the central government caused a burst of hereditary pride, saving the Scottish accent from history’s dustbin. But nearly twenty years of service—and the realization that few of his fellow Marines could understand what the hell he was saying—had worn away at Frasier’s accent, until there was just a touch of it left.

“Very good, Major.” He watched as Frasier trotted the last few meters and stopped in front of him. It didn’t really matter where they stood—they were buttoned up in their armor and talking on the com—but certain affectations had proven to be hardwired into the human mind. Including the ‘face to face’ conversation. “I want you to organize sweeper teams to go through the camp area. For all we know we could be standing on top of undetonated ordnance.” Preston knew that was unlikely after half a million years, but the point was still valid. There were a hundred other potential dangers, and that meant they had to know everything that was in the area. Fast.

“Yes, Colonel. Right away.” Frasier paused. “Sir…when you release the research party…have you considered what security to send with them?”

Preston paused. It wasn’t like Frasier to poke around the edges of a topic. The massive Scot was as direct and to the point as anyone Preston had ever known.

Except when he’s trying to be subtle and get assigned to protect the scientists…a group that just happens to include his girlfriend. And he’s about as good at subtlety as most Marines…

“Let’s worry about getting everything in place here, Con…then you and your Scots can escort Ana Zhukov and the rest of the scientists. Alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Frasier replied, sounding as contrite as a veteran Marine ever did.

Technically, Frasier wasn’t in the normal chain of command. He was the CO of the Scots Company, an elite commando formation—and the remnant of the battalion his father had led in the Third Frontier War. But he was also the second-highest ranking Marine officer in the fleet, and Preston had made him his unofficial exec.

Preston watched as Frasier jogged off waving his arms as he no doubt fired off commands to a formation of Marines thirty meters in front of him. He smiled for a few seconds as he watched his number two herding them into action. Frasier was one of the toughest Marines Preston had ever commanded…ever known…and it was amusing to think about how hard he had fallen for Ana Zhukov. It was no surprise, really. The Russian scientist was beautiful—there was no question about that—and she was one of the nicest, most pleasant people Preston had ever met. And Frasier had seduced her in the most Marine way possible…saving her life, almost getting killed in the process.

He wished Frasier and Zhukov all the best, but he felt a doubt creeping up, and he wondered if he should assign someone else to the guard detail for the exploration team. He knew why Frasier wanted the job, but his training and experience were telling him duty and romance were bad bedfellows.

He almost commed Frasier to tell him he’d changed his mind. But something held him back
. No, we’re not in a normal situation anymore. This is no conventional battlefield, and the fleet is no normal military force. We’re going to need to think differently if we’re going to survive…and Connor Frasier is one of the best Marines I’ve ever known. I trust him
.

He paused for another few seconds then he turned and started walking back toward the command post.
If things ever get to the point where I can’t trust a Marine like Frasier…we’re as good as done for anyway.

*    *    *

“The expedition has landed, Admiral. Scanners report all shuttles have set down safely.” Jack Cortez was a first rate aide, fit to serve any admiral. Compton knew it, and he had no complaints about the tactical officer. Save that Cortez had the misfortune to be filling Max Harmon’s chair…and that was a comparison no naval officer wanted to face.

Compton had been hesitant to make a change in his flag bridge team, but he realized Harmon was long overdue for the promotion. Besides, he needed an aide he could truly trust to work on his own…more than four meters away from his commander’s chair. And that was Max Harmon.

“Very well, Commander.” Compton stared at his display, the blue and white semi-circle of the planet as seen from
Midway’s
exterior scanners. He knew his people were down on the surface now…and in many ways he understood they had the fate of the fleet in their hands. Barcomme’s food, and possibly Cutter’s scientific advancements, were the keys to their long term survival. Nothing was more important than their mission.

But you’ve got to make it through the short term or you’ll never get to the long term
.

“The fleet will prepare to maneuver toward the X50 warp gate.” He didn’t like the feeling of abandoning those on the surface, but he knew keeping the fleet safe was his first priority. And he realized the expedition’s best chance relied on secrecy, on remaining undetected. A handful of people on a planet could defy cursory detection, especially if they followed his orders and used their portable reactors sparingly. But almost a hundred fifty ships floating around in or near orbit was as good as a beacon. Any enemy vessel that came through the warp gate would identify them at once…and then they would almost certainly scan the planet closely…and discover the landing parties as well.

“All ships are to be ready for acceleration in one hour.”

“Yes, Admiral. Transmitting orders now.”

“Very well, Commander.” Compton sat for a few seconds before he shifted in his seat, leaning forward to get up. “I’ll be in my office, Jack,” he said softly, his voice distracted, as if he was thinking about something. “Check on everyone’s status when we’re thirty minutes out. And again at fifteen.”

“Yes, sir.”

Compton knew he was becoming ever more demanding of his people, and utterly unforgiving of the slightest drop in efficiency. If he couldn’t sack the weaker officers in the fleet—and he knew he couldn’t, not without risking serious unrest in some of the national contingents—then, by God, he would drive them until they dropped on their own…or until they improved.

But now his mind was on something else, something he’d been thinking about for a while now. His paranoia had been growing, the constant feeling that he had to consider his every move, rethink everything a dozen times. He could elude the fleet’s pursuers twenty times, but if he slipped on the twenty-first, his people would all die.

He’d tried to relax, play cards with some of the officers, spend time with Sophie. He realized he needed to keep himself from going insane, that no man could endure the constant unrelenting stress without some kind of solace. But he also knew he had to come damned close…and not make that tragic mistake. Not on the twenty-first time…nor the hundred twenty-first.

Whatever it takes
.

*    *    *

“This debris is fascinating. These materials are far beyond anything we have. This stuff has been here for half a million years, through summers and winters, storms and floods. Yet some of it looks almost new.” Hieronymus Cutter was standing in front of a portable table, poking through a pile of artifacts the exploration teams had found. Sophie Barcomme had selected the landing site because of its topography and the spectrographic analysis of the soil…but by sheer coincidence, she’d chosen a chunk of ground that had also been an ancient battlefield.

It had been less than three days since Preston had given Cutter the OK to start exploring in the immediate area of the camp…and the scientist had put that time to good use. He had half a dozen excavation machines running around the clock, and his people had uncovered hundreds of bits and pieces of First Imperium equipment.

“A lot of it is familiar, military equipment we’ve seen before…or at least parts of it.” Ana was on the opposite side of the table, digging through the same pile. “But not all of it.” She held up a chunk of some kind of mysterious metal. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Or this,” Cutter said in response, holding up a similar shard of another strange black metal. “A lot of this consists of bits and pieces of the usual types of battle robots and supporting equipment…stuff we’ve seen before on the other worlds, even on the battlefields back home.” He paused, pulling out another artifact and staring at it. “But some of it is different…different than anything we’ve seen before.”

“Could the First Imperium have fought an enemy here we haven’t discovered yet? Why else would all these new items be mixed with a familiar-looking array of battle bot debris?”

“That’s a big jump, Ana.” Cutter didn’t sound like he doubted her hypothesis…more like he was trying to slam on the brakes before they both jumped to wild conclusions. “Perhaps we simply haven’t encountered everything they have. The Colossuses were certainly a surprise in X2.”

The enemy had thrown massive fleets into human space, and hundreds of ships had fought in the battles along the Line. But through all those terrible fights the First Imperium had never sent its largest, most powerful vessels into the maelstrom. Not until Admirals Garret and Compton had pushed into enemy space. Not until X2.

“I don’t know, Ronnie.” Zhukov’s insistence on calling him ‘Ronnie’ had driven him crazy for months, but she’d long ago worn down his resistance. Now it seemed normal, and if she stopped he actually thought he would miss it. “Everything you say is correct, but there’s something…different…about this stuff. I don’t have any specifics…it’s as much a feeling as anything else. But I don’t think these are just chunks of normal battle robots.” She held another piece of the mysterious metal in each hand as she spoke.

Cutter felt his head moving, an almost involuntary nod agreeing with her. He was a scientist as she was, trained to analyze facts, not feelings. Yet he felt the same thing, a haunting sense that these chunks of metal had not been part of any robotic warrior. Indeed, though he couldn’t offer any real evidence yet, he had the overwhelming sense that they were looking at chunks of battle armor and weapons…equipment that had been used by living soldiers.