The Prisoner of Eldaron: Crimson Worlds Successors II Page 31

  The enemy fleet had been ravaged, not a ship remaining from those in its first line. But the second line had moved up into position. More than half of those vessels were gone too, mostly at the hands of Caravalla and his pilots, but now a third line had formed up and was advancing. And ships were still coming through the warp gate. Cranston was too old a veteran to try and fool himself. The Eagles weren’t going to win this fight.

  This isn’t a normal enemy. Any of the colonial forces—and even the other merc companies—would have broken off after suffering losses like this. But they are still coming.

  His people were outnumbered, and if they couldn’t break the enemy’s morale, they’d eventually be overwhelmed. He stared at the damage reports scrolling down his display. Two of the landing bays had been destroyed, along with half the surface docks for the big ships. When Darius Cain returned, much of the Eagle fleet would be unable to land. But Caravalla’s fighters were a worse problem. There was only one bay still functional, and if that one went, the strike forces would have no place to land. They’d be trapped in space, unarmed and low on fuel. And that meant they would die. All of them.

  Cranston felt a wave of frustration move through him. He was a man of action, accustomed to meeting an enemy head on, not sitting five klicks below ground waiting helplessly. But there was nothing for him to do. He couldn’t move his garrison forces to the surface, not in the middle of a nuclear bombardment. So all he could do was sit and watch…and wait until his remaining weapons were picked off one by one.

  He turned and looked over at Anders. “Captain, I think it’s time to dispatch the Flare.”

  Anders nodded. “Yes, sir. I agree.” Anders turned toward his workstation, turning a lever and opening a small cover over a large red button. He glanced back to Cranston, and at his superior’s nod, he pressed it.

  The Flare was a small ship located a million kilometers from the Nest, a two person vehicle that was constantly manned and positioned when the Eagle fleet was out on an operation. Duty on the Flare was commonly dreaded, for its boredom rather than its danger. Its crew generally did a 72 hour shift before being relieved by shuttle. While aboard, they endured the dim lighting and minimal life support of a vessel operating on low power. It had two purposes: to remain as undetectable as possible and to make a run for one of the warp gates if the Nest was threatened…and to find its way to the main force, to alert Darius Cain and the rest of the Eagles that their home was under attack.

  “Flare alerted, sir. She is activating thrusters, and heading for the Omicron-5 warp gate.”

  Cranston nodded and sighed. The Flare was the fastest thing in the Eagles had, and she was heading almost directly away from the enemy fleet. And that meant she would easily get away. How long it would take to reach Darius Cain, and what the general would be able to do, remained to be seen. But Cranston realized, as he watched another half-dozen warheads slam into the surface, that he had only one purpose…to dig in underground, to hold onto the Nest at all costs.

  “Evacuate all surface personnel,” he said grimly. “We’re closing the vault in five minutes.” The most recent wave of warheads had obliterated the last of the landing bays. He felt a pain in his gut, a wave of guilt at abandoning Caravalla’s fighters. But he knew those crews were as good as dead without a place to land. And if he didn’t close the vault he risked radiation penetrating to the main facility. Once the last of his surface weapons were destroyed, nothing would stop the enemy from carpet bombing the surface. The Nest’s underground facilities were deep, located there for the express purpose of resisting such an attack. But if he intended to hold out, he knew he had to go by the book, whatever the consequences. And that meant closing off all access to the surface…and giving up on Caravalla and his squadrons.

  Chapter 28

  Below the Citadel

  Eldaron City

  Planet Eldaron, Denebola IV

  Earthdate: 2319 AD (34 Years After the Fall)

  “Team Three, bogies coming down the left corridor toward your flank.”

  “Roger that, Team Five. We’ve got the approach covered.”

  “Team Five, we’ve got your left flank. Four bogies here, all down.”

  “Team Four, Captain Alcabedo here. We want prisoners, don’t forget that.”

  “Yes sir, Captain. This group put up a fight. We had to take ‘em down. But Hemmes and Ferrus are checking for survivors.”

  “Check, Team Four. Carry on.”

  Darius Cain stood in the dimly lit corridor, listening to the chatter of his forward teams. He couldn’t help but smile at the way they worked together so coolly under fire, snapping warnings and status reports back and forth. That was years of training and experience at work, and he felt a flush of pride at how well his finely tuned machine functioned in action.

  His troops had found three more access points from the sewer, but they all seemed to lead to the same main corridor. From the looks of things, this section of the Citadel was more or less abandoned. They’d found a few storerooms full of weapons and other supplies, but the crates were old, covered with years of dust.

  Finally, his people ran into an enemy patrol. At first he feared the incursion had been detected, and that a defensive force had been sent to engage his people. But there weren’t enough of the enemy for that, and he decided the Eldari were actually searching these old warehouses for weapons that had survived the EMP blasts.

  That strike succeeded on a level I couldn’t have imagined. How can a planet’s whole army be so utterly unprepared for the threats they might face?

  He knew the answer to his own question. He’d seen it again and again, even among the forces of the governments who’d hired his Eagles…and the less fortunate ones who’d faced them on the field. Their armies were continually plagued by problems with materiel—shortages and quality issues that resulted not from a lack of funding or technology, but from pure graft. Behind each substandard batch of supplies, he suspected, stood a well-connected magnate, and a pack of corrupt politicians, profiting immensely by supplying inferior goods and pocketing the difference.

  That was something that simply couldn’t happen with the Eagles. It was anathema to their culture…and there could be little doubt about the punishment Darius Cain would have pronounced on a supply officer who put his comrades at risk through his corruption.

  He could hear the distant shots as his forward pickets took out the outmatched and outnumbered Eldari. The Eagles were quick and efficient, and the fight lasted perhaps half a minute. Still, Darius realized, that was plenty of time for the enemy to get a warning out. And even if they’d failed to do so, the disappearance of the patrol would be noticed. His people had gotten as far as they were going to get undetected, and that meant they could expect to fight their way forward the rest of the way.

  “Any prisoners?” Darius spoke calmly, professionally. He understood the difficultly of taking captives during a fight like this. Accepting surrenders was one thing, but holding back from killing an enemy who was still fighting was dangerous...and Darius had taught his Eagles to survive their battles, mostly by avoiding foolish chances.

  “Looks like two, General.” Alcabedo snapped back an answer almost immediately. Darius knew the veteran was mostly concerned with his role as bodyguard, but he had to admit, Alcabedo made a first class aide as well. “One’s pretty bad…they’re questioning him now, but I don’t know if he’s going to last long. The other’s on the way back now.”

  Darius hadn’t even responded yet when he saw the small cluster of armored figures ahead of him move aside. Two Eagles were walking down the corridor, pushing a dazed, but only lightly wounded, man ahead of them.

  “A prisoner, General. One of the Eldari soldiers.”

  The Eagle had his name stenciled on the outside of his armor, but Darius knew his people well, and he recognized the voice before he even looked. “Thank you, Sergeant Darrow,” he said. “This place reminds me of the underground city on Baragon II,” he added, instinctiv
ely dropping the type of morale-building comment that showed he remembered that Darrow had gotten a medal, and his sergeant’s stripes, on that campaign.

  Darius had to admit to himself that his legendary familiarity with his men, the almost eidetic ability he had to recall the names and deeds of the soldiers under his command, had failed to keep up with the growth of the Eagles’ organization, and he’d come to rely on clandestine reminders from his AI at times. Including the fleet personnel, logistical corps, and Nest staff and garrison, the 6,500 strong ground force the Eagles deployed was part of an overall organization of nearly 18,000 men and women, including some of the most highly-trained specialists in Occupied Space…more than even than his legendary father could have kept track of individually.

  “Yes, sir,” the veteran non-com replied. “It’s a lot like those tunnels. Though the Baragonese put up more of a fight than these Eldari.”

  “We’re just getting started here, Sergeant. I want you to stay sharp. I think we’re going to see some of the worst fighting of our careers before we leave…and the only way we’re going to get through it is if I can count on the absolute best from my old veterans. Eagles like you, Greg.” He’d remembered Darrow’s first name, but he wasn’t above a secret assist from his AI when he couldn’t recall a similar bit of info.

  He turned and looked toward the prisoner. The man was bleeding from a wound on his arm, but otherwise he seemed fine. He was scared to death—that was no surprise—but otherwise in pretty good shape.

  “I am General Darius Cain.” He towered over the unarmored captive, well over two meters tall in his fighting suit. “What is your name?”

  The prisoner shied away. He was breathing heavily, but otherwise silent.

  Darius popped his helmet, and it retracted behind his head. It was a breach of normal procedure, of course. He’d designed the Eagle protocols to protect his soldiers, and casually opening a helmet could expose an Eagle to gas, radiation…an almost endless lists of hazards on the modern battlefield. But Darius figured the situation was low risk—though the instant the helmet came down he could smell the residue from the sewers that was caked all over the legs. Not deadly, but not pleasant either.

  But he wanted to look the prisoner in the eyes, to try to get to him with a combination of intimidation and empathy. He knew he could get information out of any captive, with enough time and lack of moral restraint on his methods. But the quicker he managed to scrape up some decent intel, the better chance he had of getting to his father—if he was even on Eldaron at all—before the Tyrant felt threatened enough to order the prisoner killed. And Darius knew making himself seem more human—and less like a terrifying armored killing machine—could only help him reach this soldier.

  “C’mon boy, just tell me your name. I don’t want to hurt you.” I don’t want to, but I will if you make me…

  As he took a closer look, he could see the Eldari soldier was young…very young. He had to be at least somewhat connected to get himself assigned to duty in the Citadel…but Darius knew anyone with real contacts would be an officer, not a private sent down to fetch old weapons.

  Probably the son of a long-service non-com or something like that. No real power, but enough to get him a cushy position in the fortress garrison. Just the kind of person who probably knows his way around in here…

  “My name is Camus. Henri Camus.” The voice was pinched, shaky. Darius didn’t hold that against the kid…there were few people in Occupied Space who could stare up at a force of armored Black Eagles and maintain their calm.

  “Okay, Henri…listen to me. You know who we are, right?”

  The Eldari soldier nodded gently, as he struggled to maintain Darius’ gaze.

  “No doubt you have heard many things about me…about all of my people. Some are true, many false…others perhaps exaggerated. The truth is actually quite simple. We are here for a reason, and we complete our missions, whatever it takes. We need your cooperation. You can give it willingly or you can resist, delay us. But that will not stop us…and it will only make this entire affair vastly more unpleasant for you than it needs to be.” He paused, allowing the ominous nature of his last sentence to hang in the air.

  The Eldari private was losing the battle to retain his composure. His eyes slipped from Darius’, dropping to the floor, and his body began to shake.

  “There is no need for fear, Henri…not if you cooperate with us. I do not require much of you, only that you lead us to the detention area of the Citadel. There is a prisoner, one who has been captive here for a long time. I am here for him…and when I find him, we will release you, allow you to return to your compatriots.”

  Camus looked up, forced himself to meet Darius’ stare again. He was shaking a bit, but he managed to maintain his gaze. “You will release me?” he said, his voice weak, his tone skeptical.

  “Henri,” Darius said, his voice as gentle as he could manage, “there is one thing I suspect you haven’t heard about me, though it is something that is absolutely true. I have never gone back on a promise; the Eagles have never reneged on a contract. I do not give my word often, but when I do, I keep it.” He stared at the captive with a withering intensity. “And you have my word, Henri Camus, if you lead us to the detention area, help us find the prisoner we seek, and do this without treachery, without betraying us to the guards and security forces…then you will be released unharmed.”

  Darius paused, maintaining the hard stare. Then he added, softly, almost incidentally, “And if you do not…” He let his voice trail off to nothing. Some things were better left to the imagination.

  The prisoner stared back for a few seconds, his eyes wide with terror. Darius knew that the Tyrant’s servants lived in constant fear of their brutal master. On some level, perhaps, he even sympathized with the poor devil. But that wasn’t going to interfere with what he did. He was here to see if his father was the Tyrant’s prisoner, and nothing—not enemy soldiers, not devious traps…not even pity for a pathetic common soldier caught in the middle—was going to interfere.

  He glared at the Eldari, wordlessly communicating his impatience. A few seconds later, he snapped his wrist, extending the dreaded blade from his armor. “Do you know what a molecular blade is?” he said, his voice becoming darker, more sinister. “It is a knife honed to the width of a few molecules, almost unimaginably sharp. With the strength amplification of powered armor, a blade can slice through a steel girder. For a soft target, human flesh say, the strength of a fighting suit is hardly needed. The weight of the blade itself is more than sufficient to slice a man in half.” A pause. “Shall I prove it?”

  “No!” the whimpering Eldari screamed, dropping to the floor, unable to make himself look at Darius. “Please…no…”

  “Then show us to the detention area!” Darius’ voice was frigid, commanding. His words echoed off the walls and ceiling of the tunnel with a force that took even his veteran soldiers by surprise. “You are out of time,” he continued, his tone moderating slightly. “It is time to make your choice…”

  * * * * *

  Jordyn Calfort stared at the display projected inside her visor, sighing softly as she read the casualty figures scrolling by. The battle had been a cakewalk for the first half-day, nothing but advancing after a retreating enemy, one that had been inferior to begin with and had been crippled by the Eagles’ stunningly successful cyber and EMT attacks. But eventually the enemy mounted a significant defensive effort. The Eagles had landed close to the Eldari capital, and they’d immediately began driving toward the planet’s largest city…and the Citadel that rose above it all like a physical representation of the Tyrant’s power. And that compelled the Eldari to choose a place, and try to stand their ground.

  The enemy had occupied a long ridge, not enormously high, but enough of a defensive feature to offer them cover…and a perfect field of fire over the two klicks of open ground lying before it. Normally, the Eagles would have put a screening force opposite the ridge and probed around the
enemy’s flanks, looking for a weak spot to assault. But there hadn’t been time. The enemy was still suffering from degraded combat effectiveness, and every hour the Eagles let up, their enemies would have more time to reorganize and to replace fried equipment with new gear. But that wasn’t their only reason to attack immediately. General Cain was behind enemy lines, most likely in the bowels of that massive fortress. And the longer it took the main army to break through, the longer he’d be stuck there, surrounded by enemies with only a small force. And there was no way Calfort—or Captain Tonn or Colonel Teller or any other Black Eagle—was going to waste time on wide flanking maneuvers. Not when the boss was in danger.

  Her platoon had been part of the attack across the open plain. Two full companies had jumped off, racing across the blackened grasslands as quickly as the powered servos of their armor could carry them. It was difficult to run in powered armor without bounding high into the air—and making yourself a juicy target—but the Eagles were the best-trained force in Occupied Space. Calfort had waddled across the field, just as she’d been taught, sliding her body from side to side to keep herself low, maintaining fire the entire time to keep the enemy suppressed while her people raced toward the defensive line.

  Casualties had been light, at least by the standards of the situation. An enemy attacking the Eagles across that ground would lose at least half their number…and they might be wiped out entirely. But Calfort’s platoon had only four down, and only one of those was KIA. It was as good a result as she could have hoped for, but it still hurt to lose any of her people.

  The enemy had looked like they might put up a serious fight, but the reputation of the Eagles had been too much for them in the end. They broke and ran before her people reached the crest, and they’d suffered terribly as the attackers took position along the ridge and gunned them down as they fled.