The Colossus Read online

  The Colossus

  Blood on the Stars 12

  By Jay Allan

  Copyright 2019 Jay Allan Books Inc.

  All Rights Reserved

  Chapter One

  Confederation Ground HQ

  Just Outside Troyus City

  Megara, Olyus III

  Year 321 AC

  The sky was dark, a grim haze covering all the eye could see. Great pillars of smoke rose, charcoal gray and obsidian black towers, rising over a macabre skyline, where shining buildings had once stood, reaching optimistically toward the heavens. Troyus City was the capital of a nation of more than two hundred billion people, and it had once boasted with unspoken pride of the greatness and glory of the Confederation.

  Now, it testified only to the nightmare of war.

  As far as the eye could see, the once-magnificent city lay in ruins, its buildings smashed to rubble, its people driven away or killed, or hiding terrified in the shattered rubble of their homes. In the shadow of war that lay everywhere, remained only the soldiers, the grim fighters who had liberated what remained of the vast metropolis.

  The clouds were thick, floating everywhere, blocking the sun, save for the occasional trickling ray that reached the ground for a few fleeting moments. Even where Tyler Barron stood, kilometers away, the air was acidic, pungent. He blinked two or three times—again—and he wiped his sleeve across his face, blotting the moisture from his red and aching eyes.

  “Is the city secure, Bryan?” Barron’s tone was deep, the darkness and aching pain he felt inside clear with every word.

  Is Troyus even a city anymore, as it once was…or is it only a graveyard?

  “Yes, Admiral. For all practical purposes, at least. I can’t guarantee there aren’t a few Kriegeri still dug in, deep in some cellar or pile of rubble. We won’t be sure of that until we can finish meter by meter sweeps, and that’s going to take some time. Maybe a week…more if I need to transfer troops from here to the front to the south.” Bryan Rogan stood next to Barron, on the summit of a small hill, a position of no real value, save for the wide-open view it offered of the Confederation’s dying capital. “There’s not much left standing, Admiral, but Troyus is big. That’s a lot of ground to cover, especially one wrecked building at a time.”

  “Make it a priority, Bryan. The victory in the fleet battle gave us a nice morale boost, but that’s fading now. Getting the capital back in operation…” Barron paused for a few seconds and looked back out over the ruins of the city. “…or at least some semblance of operation…will be a help in that department.”

  The fleet’s triumph of the previous year had been used extensively by Gary Holsten’s propaganda machine that was working around the clock to hold the Confederation’s citizens back from despair, to keep them in the fight. News of the liberation of Megara had proven to be very effective in rousing the public, but it hadn’t done much for Barron’s spirits. He was determined, committed to fight to the end, but in the shrinking part of him that was still his—the vanishing vestige of Tyler Barron the man, and not the great admiral, the hero—there was only fatigue. Bone deep exhaustion, physical, mental, and emotional.

  “Of course, Admiral.” Rogan turned and walked back a couple meters, a pronounced limp, and obvious pain, evident with each step. He gestured to a nearby officer. “Major Simonsen, Colonel Fitz is to begin final clearing operations in Troyus City at once.” Rogan turned back to Barron, clearly catching a hint of the admiral’s surprise at Rogan’s apparent prescience regarding his just-issued orders. “I knew that’s what you’d want, Admiral, so I worked out the final plans early this morning.” Rogan stood quietly after his answer to Barron’s unspoken question.

  Barron nodded, still surprised—mostly with himself for underestimating Rogan. He should have known the Marine would be ready for whatever he ordered.

  Ordered…is that what I’m doing? Issuing orders?

  Barron officially commanded the fleet. That was where the permanent authority of his rank theoretically ended, and the temporary provisions of the state of martial law in effect on Megara came in. He could lawfully order almost anything at that moment, at least on the surface of the planet, but his influence went far beyond that, or the standard prerogatives of his rank.

  Barron’s unofficial powers had expanded rapidly over the past several years of war. His threat to resign, followed by his victory in the Second Battle of Megara, had rendered any who opposed him effectively powerless. Not even the Senate, nor the Grand Alliance Council itself, dared to challenge him—though he imagined no small number of the politicians there were secretly waiting for his comeuppance, for their chance at petty revenge for what they no doubt perceived as his poaching in their backyards.

  They would just as soon wait for their vengeance, he suspected, until his downfall didn’t put them in further danger, however. Still, despite that quasi-aligning of interests, Tyler Barron had never been one to confuse allies of convenience with true friends. His trust was a rare and precious commodity, and only those who had truly earned it got any at all.

  Bryan Rogan was one of those rare few.

  The Senate, the Council, and the legions of politicians, vacillating between fear and lust for power got none.

  Barron sighed, softly, hoping it hadn’t been too evident to the Marine. It hadn’t been directed at Rogan, nor at anything the Marine had said or done. Barron had given himself over entirely to the war effort, but he was only human, and he realized his reward for final victory in the war—if such an unthinkable goal was now, even remotely within reach—would be endless investigations and harassments from the restored Senate. The politicians, once relieved from their paralyzing fear of the Hegemony, would do whatever was necessary to restore and defend their power and prerogatives, and a military officer like Tyler Barron, who had handled them so roughly during the war, could expect nothing but retribution once he had saved them all.

  Barron’s frustration was enhanced by his realization that he could, if he chose, seize total control, make himself the Confederation’s dictator. The fleet would follow him anywhere, and the Marines would, too. Even the populations of a hundred worlds would welcome him to rule them, sacrificing their freedoms with open arms and frenzied shouts. They would storm the public offices and tear any politicians that opposed him into bloody chunks if he bade them to. It was heady stuff, and tempting, even to one like Tyler Barron, who’d never had the slightest crazing for political power.

  Clint Winters had almost suggested he do just that, that he throw the Senate in chains and dispense with the pointless effort of humoring them. That had come after one particularly difficult session with the provisional Senate, and it had been spoken only in total privacy. But the exchange had left no doubt where the Sledgehammer stood.

  Still, Barron wasn’t going to do it. He’d fought as he had for many reasons, to stand with the men and women who served with him, because he’d been raised to follow wherever duty led him…and because the Confederation, in spite of the corruption and foulness so endemic in it government and its political leaders, was the freest, most enlightened society anywhere in human-inhabited space. Barron had been unable to stand aside, to let that spark of liberty, however flickering, die. He’d be damned if he was going to kill it himself.

  “We need to wrap up this operation, Bryan. We’ve got to get past the reconquest, and start on the rebuilding, at least in a symbolic sense.” Barron knew there were no meaningful resources available for reconstruction projects. The entire Confederation was existing at near sustenance levels, as every scrap of available production went into the war effort. Not even the desperate fights against the Union had been so hard on the average citizen, and Barron knew he only had so much time to win the war, so many months, so many casual
ties…before the people of the Confederation would begin to wonder if life under the Hegemony would really be so bad after all.

  “I’m trying, Admiral. These Kriegeri…they know their stuff.”

  “They should. They’re picked out from vast populations for their military aptitude, and they’re trained from a young age. Not exactly the same as the Foudre Rouge, but similar, at least from the perspective of one of our boys or girls, who probably walked into a recruiting center on their homeworld when they were eighteen or nineteen.” Barron detested the Hegemony, and all it stood for, but he was too much a warrior at heart not to respect an adversary’s abilities. The Kriegeri were deadly in battle, and their armament was more advanced than the kit the Confederation Marines carried. The Marines had distinguished themselves, and they’d faced off against the enemy, winning their share of fights. But they had paid dearly for that.

  “The latest reserves will be some help. I’ve got units that have been in the line for six months without a break, some that have lost a third or more of their strength. A few that are under half strength. I might be able to push fresh units a little harder.”

  Barron wasn’t sure he agreed completely, nor that Rogan really did either. The newer forces—and he had done everything possible to find ground units and ships to carry them over the past ten months—were mostly new recruits or former garrison troops, mostly raw and untested. Rogan’s line units might be depleted and tired, but there was no question they were hardened veterans.

  “Whatever you have to do, Bryan. We need the planet pacified. I hate to push, to risk even heavier casualties among your Marines, but we need another victory for the people. We need to keep everyone in the fight, believing that we can prevail. Or, we’re as good as defeated, victory at Megara or no.” Barron knew what the people needed to see, even though he wasn’t sure he himself believed they had a chance.

  There was more at stake than just morale, but Barron kept that to himself. The Hegemony forces had been licking their wounds since their retreat from Megara, as had Barron’s victorious fleet units. But the respite couldn’t last much longer. The Hegemony had to break the Rim’s resistance, Barron knew that much. They were still strong, likely powerful enough to turn the tide and complete their conquest after their period of reorganization and reinforcement. Barron had no delusions about the condition of his own forces, as weakened from victory as the Hegemony’s were from defeat. He was going to need Bryan Rogan before long, he suspected, and he wanted his favorite Marine general to finish the work on Megara, so he’d be free for the next mission.

  Barron felt guilty even thinking that as he looked at his friend. Rogan had been badly wounded in the raid against Hegemony communications that had made the naval victory and the planet’s reconquest, possible. He’d been hit again in the subsequent liberation operations, and he’d only partially recovered from his injuries. He was a living contradiction, pure stubbornness, looking at once as immovable as a granite block and exhausted enough that he might fall over at any second.

  But Bryan Rogan would do his duty as long as he drew breath. Barron knew that with unshakable certainty. It was familiarity that fueled that unquestioned faith, and his confidence in his friend was unshakeable.

  Barron was about to wrap things up with some kind of encouraging words for Rogan. Keeping his people motivated was number one in his job description, but he never got to it. His peripheral vision caught something unexpected, Gary Holsten jogging up the hill, followed by a pair of Marine guards who clearly didn’t know how to deal with the Intelligence chief’s utter disregard for battlefield procedure.

  “It’s okay, Sergeant. Let Mr. Holsten through.” Barron had shouted out the command, but of course, by the time he did, Holsten was already through. If the Confederation’s intel chief had been an assassin coming for the navy’s commander and the Marine general in charge of the Megara campaign, he’d have earned his pay already.

  Of course, if they hadn’t known just who Gary Holsten was, the guards would have blown him away down at the base of the hill…

  “What is it, Gary? Something important enough to rile up the Marines?” Barron managed a bit of humor, but as Holsten approached, and he caught a good glimpse of his comrade’s expression, whatever scraps of mirth he’d managed had vanished.

  “It’s important, Ty…” Holsten came to a stop about two meters from Barron. He stood, looking uncomfortable as his eyes darted back and forth between Rogan and Barron.

  “General Rogan has top security clearance, Gary. It’s okay, you can…”

  “I need to check on the status reports anyway, Admiral. With your permission, I’ll head down to headquarters, while you discuss things with Mr. Holsten.” Rogan stepped back and saluted, and then he nodded toward Holsten, with no signs at all of resentment for being excluded. Then he raced down the hill.

  “I meant no disrespect to the general, Tyler, but…” He paused for a moment. “I just thought that we should keep this on a need to know basis, at least for now.”

  “I understand. And, don’t worry about Bryan. He’s a Marine through and through, and he’s focused now on the ground campaign here right now. He was probably relieved to be left out of it.” Barron inhaled deeply. “You’ve got me nervous as hell, though, so out with it. What’s going on?”

  “It’s the communication intercepts, Ty. You know I was sending reconnaissance units to spy on Dannith, trying to pick up on any Hegemony communications. It’s hard to figure what they’ll do next, except I don’t think there’s any doubt they’ll hit us somewhere once they’re finished licking their wounds.”

  “I think you’ll have a hard time finding somebody to take the other side of that bet. So, I’m guessing you got something else? Something useful?” The words came out with more edge than Barron had intended.

  “Well, yes. You know the loss rates have been extreme. We’re using the new batch of stealth units, the smaller ones. I think they’ll be useful as hell once they’re perfected, but for now, they’re spotty. Maybe one in three ships gets in, maintains coverage for a while, and gets out. But we just got lucky. The last three ships have all made it back.”

  “And?”

  “You remember that earlier traffic referring to something called ‘Project Zed?”

  “Of course. You think I can forget anything about this war? Are we picking up mentions of that again?”

  “More than just messages, Ty. An enormous uptick in traffic, and a change in context, too. The earlier instances referred to some kind of research or development project. At least, we were pretty sure about that.”

  “And that’s changed?”

  “There’s guesswork to all of this, you know that. Our ability to decrypt their code is limited at best, and the intel is still damned spotty.”

  “Just give me your conclusions, Gary. You know your guesses have always been good enough for me.” Barron considered Holsten one of his closest friends, but their relationship had changed considerably over the past few years. Barron had always been the clear subordinate, even though their chains of command weren’t directly aligned. But Tyler Barron’s stature and position had grown, and he was now, by most measures, the more powerful of the two. Holsten hadn’t shown any problems with such a shift, but it still made Barron uncomfortable.

  “The change in traffic frequency and context suggests strongly that whatever ‘Project Zed’ is, it is active now, and present on the Rim. Ready to go. At Dannith…or damned close.”

  Barron sighed again, louder this time, and with no effort to hold it back. “So, this—what is it, weapon, system, fleet?—called ‘Project Zed,’ it’s real and its coming at us? And we still have no idea what it is?”

  “That’s essentially correct.” A moment of tense silence. “I’ve done everything possible to get more data, Ty, but whatever the hell this is, they’ve got it clamped down hard. Even my assets on Dannith, the few I’ve got left, don’t know anything. Nothing but the code name, ‘Project Zed.’”

>   “Well, if that’s all we know, we’re just going to have to go on the assumption that its some kind of new fleet or weapons upgrade…or something similar. Whatever the specifics, it probably means we’re looking at another Hegemony offensive, and sooner rather than later. So, we’d better get ready. It would help if we had any idea where they were planning to hit. A push back to Megara? Or a move on the Iron Belt? Maybe an offensive on some of the border and fringe worlds?”

  Holsten shook his head. “I wish I knew, Ty, but there hasn’t been a peep from them, not one communique suggesting a target.” Holsten shifted his feet nervously.

  “What? You haven’t told me everything.” Barron wondered if he’d become more perceptive, or if everyone who came to see him simply had a bottomless bucket full of bad news.

  “We’ve picked up another code name. It seems to be related to Zed, but there’s no way to be sure. And, we’ve got absolutely no details at all about it.”

  “What do we know then?”

  “Just the name. Red Storm.”

  Chapter Two

  Hegemony Supreme Headquarters

  Port Royal City

  Planet Dannith, Ventica III

  Year of Renewal 266 (321 AC)

  “Zed command reports all diagnostic routines completed, Commander. All systems have been certified ready for action, and all personnel are in place and prepared to commence full operations.”

  Chronos sat in his seat, listening, at least some part of his mind focused on what the officer was saying. He knew it all already, of course. After all the testing, the years of development, he hadn’t doubted Zed would work as expected…though he knew the awesome new weapon could only be reliable and controlled to a point. Imperial technology was a was a dangerous force to employ, something akin to riding a harnessed wildcat, and for all his people had been training and preparing, he didn’t lie to himself about the reasons for the sudden deployment.