The Sentinel Gate Affair, Episode VII: Memphis Blues

Continued from Episode VI: The Battle of Kerberos

          Colorado inhaled the reek of sweat and sadness that had settled about her bed. For nearly everyone else in Logansport that day had brought victory and celebration. The battle at Kerberos had been brilliant beyond the fledgling Republic’s dreams. The Terrans had walked in, expecting everything to be easy. Only a small mixed force of Burkhan Kaldun and Tahti ships had been in system to intercept them, which might just have been enough, though the arrogant High Lords back in their ancestral warrens probably wouldn’t haven’t credited it. They couldn’t have known a much more substantial Tartaran force was already inbound, weaving through the surreality of transit space, making the odds overwhelming.
          But the dwarves and their elfin allies had needed to hold the line at least long enough to prevent the Terrans slipping away before the hammer fell. And Lucas and Sir Stanley had been aboard the BKN flagship, Chinghis Khagan. She was the biggest target, so all the wrath of the Imperial Fleet fell on her massive bulk. It hadn’t even slowed the monstrous dreadnought. But one shot, one stray shot, had crippled Colorado’s heart, mortally wounding her.
          The casualties had been fairly light on the Tartaran side. On the Terran side they’d been nearly complete; within a hairsbreadth of the total annihilation. All their cruisers. Every filigreed battleship. Their entire landing force. Nearly all even of their escorts, with only three escaping back to Memphis to tell the tale. The HQ had been abuzz with incoming dispatches, couriers running with flimsies still warm from their printers, waveless sets chattering, clerks shouting and typing with glee. Until a single somber one, Inspector Nguyen, walked over to her; his expression grim and solemn in the midst of the celebration.

          “You might want to sit,” he’d said.
          He didn’t even need to continue. She collapsed onto the nearest bench in utter disbelief. Somehow, Colorado already knew what he would say: in the midst of a victory he’d worked so hard to engineer, Sir Stanley had been deprived of its vision, leaving Colorado bereft of any joy in it.

          Odd to take pleasure in so much death and destruction anyway. Surely the Terrans who had died had families too; lovers and children, mothers, fathers, friends who had enjoyed their warm smiles. Even zealots might be missed, she thought. Even xenophobes could feel pain; could suffer. She wanted to hate them, to feel nothing but bitterness towards them, to joy in their demise, especially now that they had ripped away half her own soul; her right hand and her faithful companion.
          But she couldn’t quite do it. And so she lay in her bed that day and most of the next, feeling dark and storm tossed.
          A quiet knock intruded, stirring her slightly before a head poked past the doorpost.
          “Colorado, there’s news from the front,” said the deep, musical voice of Christos Commodus, the Tartaran proconsul. Former proconsul, she corrected herself. She wasn’t quite sure what he’d be now that they were in open rebellion against Terra. A heretic, probably.
          “Can it wait?” she said.
          “Probably best if it doesn’t,” he replied. “No need to be fancified, but take a moment to compose yourself and I’ll have tea and cakes brought. You’ll feel better for it.”
          “Can you manage coffee?” she said.
          “For you.”
          “All right, give me a moment,” she said.
          He turned and quietly closed the door. Colorado rose and pulled a bathrobe off a chair back, but cast it aside in favor of the rumpled clothes she’d worn when she heard the news. She buttoned the top tightly, hoping it would choke off some of the pain, and stepped out.
          “All right, what is it,” she said.
          “Lucas has decided to give chase. He’s hoping he can intercept the stragglers before they can carry word back to Terra,” said Christos.
          “Does he hope to preserve some element of surprise?” she asked.
          “Maybe. He thinks he can head them off in the Memphian Sector. And unless their Waveless network is a lot better than we’d guess maybe we can limit the damage and forestall all-out war a little longer.”
          That cheered her up a bit.
          “Wasn’t there an old Earth story about lost legions in the Black Forest in the ancient pre-Imperial days?”
          “There was. A situation not completely dissimilar from our own. Word never made it back to the Emperor of one of their larger states; a Roman named Augustus. And he had enough troubles elsewhere he didn’t pursue the matter further, leaving the sweaty leather-bound barbarians to fend for themselves a while longer.”
          “I’m not that sweaty,” she said.
          Christos gave a sniff. “Yes, you are Colorado. You need a bath and a meal.” There was a knock at the door. “Sit. That’ll be the meal.”
          A page sat a steaming tray down on a small table with two chairs in her sitting room. The proconsul waved him off with a nod and then pulled out the chairs himself. Colorado took the one nearer her bed chamber door. Christos poured her a cup of coffee and then took the other.

          “Has he set off then?” she said.
          “Probably. He indicated that it was his aim to leave immediately, taking only the time to refuel, and reload.”

Colorado sipped gingerly. Her mouth was dry and unpleasant to her taste. The coffee would have been better if she’d taken the time to freshen up first, but maybe it would still give her the energy to face the terrible days ahead.
          “What’s the next step?” she asked.
          “I’ll need a new Secretary of War,” he said. “Do you think you would be up to the task? You knew Sir Stanley’s plans better than perhaps anyone else; better even than I, I think.”
          “Will the Diet approve?” she said. “I’ve never been a senator.”
          “You’re already a Councilor,” Christos replied. “I don’t think it will be a problem. I’ll make an interim appointment and put the nomination before the full Diet as soon as I’m back on Proserpine.” He paused, then added "It'll be easier now that Astride has brought Propraetor Angeline on board."

          Colorado sipped her coffee and ate a bit of the cake. "I was terrified she'd try to hand us over."

          "Her interests are too tied to the Rim. She's no fan of mine, but she's not going to accept Terran hegemony any more than you are," Christos said.

          They ate in silence for a few more minutes. Colorado rose first.

          "Thank you Chris," she said.

          "You're become quite dear to me, and you've lost a lot," he said. "It's the least I can do."

          "Just the same," she said and stopped. "Thank you," she added, walking out the door."

. . . . .

          Warmbier briefed the officers under his command in a voice grown hoarse from barking out orders over radios and waveless alike. There'd been damaged ships to send to dockyards, munitions to allocate and order. Fuel tenders needed tanking and cruisers didn't run on liquified deuterium alone. Nothing ever seemed quite done. But the men around him were to be the ferrets chasing the rat into it's tunnel lest a swarm of them come pouring out and tearing the fragile peace to shreds. What irony that such a new alliance would drag them into an existential war. But dame fortune always seemed to enjoy a farce.

          The squadrons were scheduled to depart before daybreak, barely more than a day after Kerberos. Most ships were still taking on missiles from the precious local stock, but a few could be spared that used more conventional beam weapons. For the escorts that had escaped the battle that should suffice. Admiral Bobson of the Tartarus Navy and Admiral Telvanni of Warmbier's own Burgkhan Kaldun service would each command detachments. Warmbier himself was aboard the cruiser BKN  Jaruud. 

          A short time later, aboard his new flagship, Warmbier listened to the familiar rhythms of a ship casting off into deep space. The bridge watch discussed navigation and reported transit conditions. Sensor techs in the CIC immediately aft of the command bridge warmed up their sets, concentrating first on passive arrays and waiting to test active arrays until they were a little distance from the station. Warmbier gazed fondly at the massive domes on Lachesis visible to port out the bridge windows. Those would come in handy.

          The chatter grew more formal, orders fewer, but quicker and crisper. They cast off their moorings and reaction thrusters carried them gently away from the docks. The main drive thrusters kicked in shortly after with a subtle hum that pulsed through the ship, pushing them towards the invisible point where they could warp into transit space. A klaxon buzzed as the transfer unit engaged and pulled the cruiser through the seams of spacetime into transit.

          To experienced spacers and grizzled veterans like Warmbier the shifting lights of transit space came almost as a welcome embrace. The chase was on.

. . . . .

          Aboard Piscivorus Lieutenant Commander Markus wept at the sight of Barankus Station. The transit from Kerberos had been even more terrifying than usual. Tendrils of unreality stretched from horizon to hull, from nowhere to everywhere. Each could conceal a heretic as warped as the strange transit dimension itself. At any moment they might mutate into beams of energized particles to begin boiling away his viewscreen into streams of plasma. Seeing the station, glittering in realspace when they warped back out meant he'd be able to sleep at least one more night behind fortified walls; that he'd have one more day, one more opportunity to carry news of the xenophiles home.

          Someone had to inform His Sublime Majesty, the Emperor of Terra and all Space, the Defender of Humankind; that the Tartarans had some kind of dark sorcery. He had to learn that they had vaporized great galleons in moments; that they had autonomous kamikaze drones, probably from the cursed Tahti; energy beams of the greatest range and capacity apparently mounted in ordinary batteries; that their ships were fast and well built, and worst of all, piloted with skill. He would do it. He would carry the word.

          Incoming transmissions made it clear Inquisitor Augustus had come forward to Memphis awaiting word of the battle. Markus would tell him all that and more, carrying him to the safety of Holy Terra.

          Piscivorus docked and Augustus came aboard. Markus met him at the gangway and showed him to the captain's mess where the two could talk privately.

          "You were meant to return victorious. I gather from your numbers and the initial reports this is not the case. Why so few?" he said.

          "It was a trap, father," replied Markus. "We never had a chance."

          At that Markus related the tale of Kerberos, of the many headed guardian at the gate devouring the souls not of the sinners, but of the faithful.

          "Is there no word of Gaihomme or Castrian?" Augustus asked.

          "None, father," he said. "Legatus was disabled fairly early, and she was in the center. There was a lot of radio interference from mcironukes exploding everywhere."

          "Micronukes?"

          "The enemy appear to have suicide drones that track a ship and explode when they get close enough. Our energy shields couldn't handle that kind of punishment. They're optimized for the B class beam batteries everyone uses, so the drones just slipped past completely."

          "So they have new weapons, surpassing us technically?" Augustus said dourly.

          "Yes, father." Markus replied. And he related the rest of the battle in greater detail.

          The two made plans late into the night as the little flotilla refueled. In the morning they went aboard the station and briefed the local Memphian forces. They left instructions for the station and the gigs. The former was to destroy the fuel rather than surrender it to the heretics, the better to slow their pursuit. The latter were to do whatever possible to protect themselves and their families from the greenies and poncies; the frogs, rats, and mutants who were hell-bent on enslaving humanity. Augustus admonished them that it was far better to meet death with honor than to fall prisoner to such corrupt and degenerate souls as had taken over their neighbors to rimward.

          If there were a few skeptical glances from the back of the crowd Augustus didn't notice it. Markus watched as a few people left early. Not everyone looked completely enthusiastic about what was to come, but given what he'd seen he wouldn't rush to face it again either. These poor souls were stuck here with their families. For them there could be no flight. But Markus had to get Inquisitor Augustus back to earth to inform the Collegium. Somehow they had to spare enough from the Hexie front. After the victory Pomadorus had won maybe, just maybe they could. All too soon Markus and his brethren warped back out of Memphis, flying on the winds of luck and the scraps of a plan.

. . . . .

To be continued.