The Oncoming Storm (41 page)

One more thing for the Board of Inquiry to judge, she thought. After they’ve buried Morrison, perhaps they’ll bury me.

The thought was a bitter one. She hadn’t been expected to assume command of the fleet . . . in hindsight, perhaps she should have made contingency plans to do just that. But she had never believed the disaster could be on so great a scale. It was a failure of imagination that would cost the Commonwealth dearly. If the Admiralty wanted a scapegoat, and Admiral Morrison was safely dead, they might turn their gaze on her.

Lightning shuddered violently. “One of the missiles engaged us,” Roach snapped. “No major damage.”

Kat exchanged glances with the XO. “Pull us back,” she ordered. She glanced at the display, wondering if the enemy had worked out that Lightning was the command ship. But if they had, they would have thrown everything at her. “Time to escape?”

“Four superdreadnoughts are reporting that they’ve lost their drive sections,” the XO said. “The remainder will be ready to open vortexes in two minutes.”

Kat felt very cold, very composed. “The starships that cannot escape are to move forward and shield their fellows,” she ordered, hating herself. “The remainder are to keep falling back.”

There was no choice. She knew there was no choice. With so many weapons being fired in the same region of space, it would be impossible for one starship to open a vortex for the stragglers. And yet it smacked of sacrificing others to save herself.

“Aye, Captain,” the XO said.

The fighting seemed to grow more intense as the enemy ships concentrated their fire on the lead superdreadnoughts. Their commanders switched all remaining power to shields and weapons, then fought savagely, trying to hold the line. For a long moment, Kat dared hope that they would manage to hold the line, but she knew it wouldn’t happen. The Theocracy was already targeting those ships specifically.

“Captain,” the XO said, “the superdreadnoughts are reporting that they’re ready to jump.”

Kat hesitated. Davidson was on Cadiz, along with thousands of Commonwealth personnel, all of whom would be at the mercy of either the Theocrats or the local insurgents. She had no idea how the Theocrats would treat their prisoners, but she suspected it wouldn’t be in line with any of the post-UN conventions. She didn’t want to abandon them, yet she knew all she could do was die in their defense, perhaps costing the Commonwealth its chance to win the war. They had to retreat.

“Open the vortexes,” she ordered. There was no longer any time to delay. “Take us out of here.”

“Admiral,” the sensor officer snapped, “the infidel fleet is retreating.”

Junayd cursed under his breath. Four superdreadnoughts seemed determined to fight to the last, but the remainder were falling back and opening vortexes, escaping into hyperspace. He knew he couldn’t give chase, not now. An engagement in hyperspace could easily go either way.

“Let them go,” he ordered. There were still the few remaining superdreadnoughts in real space, fighting desperately. As he watched, one of them lost a shield and immediately rotated to avoid exposing the chink in its defenses to incoming fire. “Retarget missiles on the remaining ships.”

He watched, feeling an odd glow of admiration, as the four superdreadnoughts fought and died. They couldn’t stop him, they had to know they couldn’t stop him, but they fought desperately to win their fellows time. In the end, they died, but they died bravely. It sent shivers down his spine. They’d calculated the infidels would be weak, that they would not put up a fight—and they’d been wrong. It was easy to imagine, now, that the war would be far from victorious.

They might have staved off defeat, he thought. And who knows what that will cost us, in time?

But he couldn’t say it out loud. Who knew who might be listening?

“Clear the planet’s skies,” he ordered. The remaining platforms were fighting desperately, but there could only be one outcome. It was the PDC that would pose a more significant problem. “And then prepare the landing force.”

“I think that was the fleet leaving,” Corporal Loomis said. “We’re on our own.”

Davidson nodded, looking up to see flashes of light in the sky and pieces of debris falling through the atmosphere. No one had come hunting for them, as far as they could tell—perhaps the insurgents had assumed the marines had died in the crash—but the area was about to get very dangerous. The PDC would be able to engage anything it saw landing, yet that wouldn’t be enough to stop the Theocracy. They’d simply land their troops outside the PDC’s range and advance towards Gibraltar.

He consulted the planetary map he’d downloaded into his implants. There were a number of small farms nearby, largely ignored by both sides of the war. They might make a good place to hide. The alternative, heading further into the undeveloped regions of the planet, would take them out of the war completely. He considered it briefly, remembered his oath to the Royal Marines, and then made up his mind.

“We head towards the farms,” he said. “If we can find a place to hide there, we’ll hole up and wait to see what happens.”

More flashes of light filled the sky as the Theocracy closed in on the undefended world. It wouldn’t be long before they started landing troops, Davidson told himself, or scrutinizing orbital imagery for any sign of stragglers. He and his team needed to get under cover long before that happened, or at the very least abandon their uniforms. The marines kept moving, slipping into a forest in the hopes it would provide at least some cover as a series of thunderous explosions sounded in the distance. Davidson turned in time to see a fireball rising up from the east. It suggested the enemy fleet was softening up the planet by bombarding known Commonwealth positions from orbit.

“I’m picking up a message,” Loomis said. “It’s on the emergency frequency.”

Davidson opened his implants and accepted the message. “. . . is Eastside,” a voice said. It was so wracked with static that it was impossible to be sure, even with his implants, that it actually was General Eastside. “The Theocracy is landing troops. If you can disengage and hide, do so. The Navy will . . .”

The message faded as the Theocracy jammers went to work. Davidson scanned the airwaves through his implants, hoping the signal would be repeated, but there was nothing. The enemy had control of the high orbitals now and they intended to use them. Flashes of light burst out from the direction of the PDC, weapons being dropped to test the base’s force field. It was clear the PDC was holding out, but not for long. The base might be able to stand off projectiles from orbit, yet it couldn’t defend itself against ground troops indefinitely.

“We keep moving,” he grunted. “And pray we find a way to strike back at the bastards.”

It was nearly forty minutes before they came across their first farm. Davidson surveyed it from a distance, looking for signs of life, but saw nothing. The complex was really nothing more than a handful of small fields with some sheep, cows, and chickens, large enough to be productive yet small enough to be operated by a single family. He felt a sudden sense of wistfulness for the farm he’d left behind, then started to walk down towards the barn. His men followed him at a distance.

There was no sign of anyone in the barn, but his experienced eyes could see signs that the farm had been tended recently, which suggested the owners were hiding. He motioned the marines forward, then slipped up to the farmhouse. It was a wooden structure, like many early colonial buildings, but someone had added brick and stone outhouses to give the family more living space. Davidson was more impressed then he cared to admit, but froze as he heard someone talking inside. The voice was local—and sounded fearful.

He hesitated. If they asked for help, they might be betrayed—and if they took what they needed, they would be betrayed. The only safe options were to back away from the farm or kill the inhabitants. But he was damned if he was slaughtering innocent people whose only crime was being a potential liability.

And what will you do, a nasty little voice said at the back of his mind, when the Theocracy is torturing your team because you were too nice to the locals?

He motioned for Loomis and Private Jackson to cover him, then opened the door and stepped inside. A family—a surprisingly large family—looked up from their table and stared at him, their eyes wide with horror and fear. Like most of the locals, they had dark skin and darker eyes, but their clothes suggested a prosperity most of their compatriots didn’t share. The oldest man stared, then moved to protect his five daughters. His three sons looked as though they wanted to hurl themselves at the marines, but didn’t quite dare.

Davidson found his voice. “We’re looking for a place to hide,” he said. He hoped the locals understood Galactic Standard. Cadiz certainly should have included it as a second language, but he could understand why they might have resisted its introduction. “We mean you no harm.”

The farmer stumbled to his feet. Davidson read his expression and felt a moment of pity. The man was scared, caught between multiple fires . . . just like everyone else trapped in the middle of the war. If he tried to send Davidson away, the marines might turn on him; if he helped, he might be branded a collaborator and killed by his own people—or the Theocracy.

“You can’t stay here,” he stammered, finally. “You’ll be seen.”

“We can hide,” Davidson said as reassuringly as he could. “And we won’t cause you any trouble.”

He paused, then took a gamble. “And we also need to talk to the local fighters,” he added. “Can you introduce us to them?”

The farmer stared at him in shock. Davidson understood all too well. At one point, admitting any connection with the insurgents would have been a death sentence. But now . . . making contact with the insurgents was a gamble, but it was one he knew they had to take. And besides, it might give their unwilling host some limited protection. The insurgents would know he’d done the best he could.

“You can wait in the barn,” the farmer said after a moment. “I’ll have food brought to you.”

The farmer’s wife eyed Davidson unpleasantly—she didn’t seem any happier than her husband about having the marines anywhere near her daughters—but stood and started to gather a batch of fruit and vegetables. Davidson nodded, then slipped out of the door and led the way back to the barn. In the distance, the sound of explosions was growing louder, carried on the still air. The Theocracy was definitely landing troops.

He sat down in the barn and started to check his weapons, motioning for the other marines to do the same. If the insurgents attacked or called the Theocracy, they would have no choice but to fight to the death. There were just too many horror stories of what happened to prisoners who fell into Theocratic hands. He was damned if he was allowing them to take him alive.

“I’m picking up a general broadcast,” Loomis said suddenly. “It’s on all frequencies.”

“Let me hear,” Davidson said.

“It’s repeating,” Loomis said. “Hang on.”

“This planet is now under the jurisdiction of the Theocracy,” a stern voice said. “Troops are landing and will occupy strategic points of importance as soon as possible. Civilians are warned to stay off the streets. Do not carry weapons anywhere near Theocratic soldiers or you will be shot or detained. Commonwealth military personnel are ordered to make themselves known to Theocratic authorities as soon as they arrive. Monitor radio broadcasts for further orders.”

“Well,” Jackson said, “they’re not mincing words, are they?”

“Here comes the new boss, same as the old boss,” Corporal Marsha agreed. “Sir?”

Davidson looked up sharply. The farmer and two of his sons were standing in the doorway, carrying trays of food. Davidson rose to his feet, took one of the trays and thanked the men profusely. The farmer looked irked but grateful that he hadn’t been shot. He motioned for Davidson to follow him outside.

“I have sent my daughter to speak to the freedom fighters,” he said. “You may have a visitor.”

“Let us hope so,” Davidson said with the private thought that one visitor wouldn’t be a problem. A whole army of visitors would be a major threat. “Have you heard the broadcast?”

“It’s on all channels,” the farmer said. His expression twisted. “Your people did the same when you took our planet.”

Patrick lowered his eyes, ashamed.

“Wait,” the farmer said. “See what the fighters have to say.”

The food was tasty enough, Davidson supposed, as the marines ate and then tried to catch up on their sleep. He spent the time listening for other broadcasts, trying to identify snippets of conversation that made it through the omnipresent jamming and create a working picture of just what was actually going on. But it was impossible to draw more than a very rough idea, based on the location of enemy transmitters. It looked as though the occupation force was taking up positions round Gibraltar before moving into the city itself.

Reasonable, he thought sourly. They’d want to try to make sure they cut all lines of supply and that no one could escape before they entered the city and secured it for themselves.