The Armageddon Inheritance fe-2 Read online

  “The Captain is on the bridge,” Dahak intoned, and Colin winced. He was going to have to do something about this mania Dahak had developed for protecting his commander’s precious dignity!

  The half-dozen members of Colin’s skeleton bridge watch, Imperials all, began to stand, but he waved them back and crossed to the captain’s console. Trackless stars drifted beneath his boots, and Fleet Commander Tamman, his Tactical officer and third in command, rose from the couch before it.

  “Captain,” he said as formally as Dahak, and Colin gave up for the moment.

  “I have the con, Commander.” He slipped into the vacated couch, and it squirmed under him as it adjusted to the contours of his body. There was no need for Tamman to give him a status report; his own neural feed to the console was already doing that.

  He watched the tactical officer retire to his own station with a small, fond smile. Tamman was Jiltanith’s contemporary, one of the fourteen Imperial “children” from Nergal’s crew to survive the desperate assault on Anu’s enclave. All of them had joined Colin in Dahak, and he was damned thankful they had. Unlike his Terra-born, they could tie directly into their computers and run them the way the Imperium had intended, providing a small, reliable core of enhanced officers to ride herd on the hundred pardoned mutineers who formed the nub of his current crew. In time, Dahak would enhance and educate his Terra-born to the same standard, but with a complement of over a hundred thousand, it was going to take even his facilities a while to finish the task.

  Colin MacIntyre reclined in his comfortable command couch, and his small smile faded as he watched the stars sweep towards him and the sleek, deadly shapes of Achuultani starships floated behind his eyes once more. The report from the sensor array replayed itself again and again, like some endless recording loop, and it filled him with dread. He’d known they were coming; now he’d “seen” them for himself. They were real, now, and so was the horrific task he and his people faced.

  Dahak was more than twenty-seven light-years from Earth, but the nearest Imperial Fleet base had been over two-hundred light-years from Sol when Dahak arrived to orbit Earth. The Imperium proper lay far beyond that, yet despite the distances and the threat sweeping steadily towards his home world, they’d had no choice but to come, for only the Imperium might offer the aid they desperately needed to save that home world from those oncoming starships.

  But Dahak had been unable to communicate with the Imperium for over fifty thousand years. What if there no longer was an Imperium?

  It was a grim question they seldom discussed, one Colin tried hard not to ask even of himself, yet it beat in his brain incessantly, for Dahak had repaired his hypercom once the spares he needed had been reclaimed from the mutineers’ Antarctic enclave. He’d been calling for help from the moment those repairs were made—indeed, he was calling even now.

  And, like the sensor arrays, he had received no reply at all.

  Chapter Two

  Lieutenant Governor Horus, late captain of the mutinous sublight battleship Nergal and current viceroy of Earth, muttered a heartfelt curse as he sucked his wounded thumb.

  He lowered his hand and regarded the wreckage sourly. He’d worked with Terran equipment for centuries, and he knew how fragile it was. Unfortunately, Imperial technology was becoming available again, and he’d forgotten the intercom on his desk was Terran-made.

  His office door opened, and General Gerald Hatcher, head of the Chiefs of Staff of Planet Earth (assuming they ever got the organization set up), poked his head in and eyed the splintered intercom panel.

  “If you want to attract my attention, Governor, it’s simpler to buzz me than to use sirens.”

  “Sirens?”

  “Well, that’s what I thought I heard when my intercom screamed. Did that panel do something, or were you just pissed off?”

  “Terran humans,” Horus said feelingly, “are pretty damned smart-mouthed, aren’t they?”

  “One of our more endearing traits.” Hatcher smiled at Jiltanith’s father and sat down. “I take it you did want to see me?”

  “Yes.” Horus waved a stack of printout. “You’ve seen these?”

  “What are—?” Horus stopped waving, and Hatcher craned his neck to read the header. He nodded. “Yep. What about them?”

  “According to these, the military amalgamation is a month behind schedule, that’s what,” Horus began, then paused and studied Hatcher’s expression. “Why don’t you look surprised or embarrassed or something, General?”

  “Because we’re ahead of where I expected to be,” Hatcher said, and Horus sat back with a resigned sigh as he saw the twinkle in his eye. Gerald Hatcher, he sometimes thought, had adapted entirely too well to the presence of extra-terrestrials on his world.

  “I suppose,” the general continued unabashedly, “that I should’ve told you we’ve deliberately set a schedule no one could make. That way we’ve got an excuse to scream at people, however well they’re doing.” He shrugged. “It’s not nice, but when a four or five-star general screams at you, you usually discover a few gears you weren’t using. Wonderful thing, screaming.”

  “I see.” Horus regarded him with a measuring eye. “You’re right—you should’ve told me. Unless you’re planning on screaming at me?”

  “Perish the thought,” Hatcher murmured.

  “I’m relieved,” Horus said dryly. “But should I take it you’re actually satisfied, then?”

  “Given that we’re trying to merge military command structures which, however closely allied, were never really designed for it, Frederick, Vassily and I are pleased at how quickly it’s moving, but time’s mighty short.”

  Horus nodded. Sir Frederick Amesbury, Vassily Chernikov, and Hatcher formed what Vassily was fond of calling Horus’s military troika, and they were working like demons at their all but impossible task, but they had barely two years before the first Achuultani scout forces could be expected.

  “What’s the worst bottleneck?” he asked.

  “The Asian Alliance, of course.” Hatcher made a wry face. “Our deadline hasn’t quite run out, and they still haven’t gotten off the fence and decided whether to fight us or join us. It’s irritating as hell, but not surprising. I don’t think Marshal Tsien’s decided to oppose us actively, but he’s certainly dragging his feet, and none of the other Alliance military types will make a move until he commits himself.”

  “Why not demand that the Alliance remove him, then?” It was a question, but it didn’t really sound like one.

  “Because we can’t. He’s not just their top man; he’s also the best they have. They know it, too, and so much of their political leadership was in Anu’s pocket—and got killed when you took out the enclave—that he’s the only man the Alliance military still trusts. And however much he may hate us, he hates us less than a lot of his juniors do.” Hatcher shrugged. “We’ve asked him to meet us face-to-face, and at least he’s accepted. We’ll just have to do our best with him, and he’s smart, Horus. He’ll come around once he gets past the idea that the West has somehow conquered him.”

  Horus nodded again. All three of his senior generals were “Westerners” as far as Tsien and his people were concerned. The fact that Anu and his mutineers had manipulated Terran governments and terrorist groups to play the First and Third Worlds off against one another was just beginning to percolate through Western brains; it would be a while yet before the other side could accept it on an emotional basis. Some groups, like the religious crackpots who had run places like Iran and Syria, never would, and their militaries had simply been disarmed … not, unhappily, without casualties.

  “Besides,” Hatcher went on, “Tsien is their senior commander, and we’ll need him. If we’re going to make this work, we don’t have any choice but to integrate our people and their people—no, scratch that. We have to integrate all of Earth’s military people into a single command structure. We can’t impose non-Asian officers on the Alliance and expect it to work.”

 
“All right.” Horus tossed the printout back into his “IN” basket. “I’ll make myself available to see him if you think it’ll help; otherwise, I’ll stay out of it and let you handle it. I’ve got enough other headaches.”

  “Don’t I know it. Frankly, I wouldn’t trade jobs with you on a bet.”

  “Your selflessness overwhelms me,” Horus said, and Hatcher smiled again.

  “How’s the rest of it going?”

  “As well as can be expected.” Horus shrugged. “I wish we had about a thousand times as much Imperial equipment, but the situation’s improving now that the orbital industrial units Dahak left behind are hitting their stride.

  “A lot of their capacity’s still going into replicating themselves, and I’ve diverted some of their weapons-manufacturing tonnage to planetary construction equipment, but we should be all right. It’s a geometric progression, you know; that’s one of the beauties of automated units that don’t need niggling little things like food or rest.

  “We’re just about on schedule setting up the tech base Anu brought down with him, and the part Dahak landed directly is up and running. We’re hitting a few snags, but that’s predictable when you set about building a whole new industrial infrastructure. Actually, it’s the planetary defense centers that worry me most, but Geb’s on that.”

  Geb, once Nergal’s Chief Engineer and currently a senior member of the thirty-man (and woman) Planetary Council helping Horus run the planet, was working nineteen-hour days as Earth’s chief construction boss. Hatcher didn’t envy his exhausting task. There were all too few Imperials available to run the construction equipment they already had, and if purely Terran equipment was taking up a lot of the slack, that was rather like using coolie labor in light of their monumental task.

  Geb and Horus had rejected the idea of reconfiguring Imperial equipment—or building new—to permit operation by unenhanced Terra-born. Imperial machinery was designed for operators whose implants let them interface directly with it, and altering it would degrade its efficiency. More to the point, by the time they could adapt any sizable amount of equipment, they should be producing enhanced Terra-born in sufficient numbers to make it unnecessary.

  Which reminded Horus of another point.

  “We’re ready to start enhancing non-military people, too.”

  “You are?” Hatcher brightened. “That’s good news.”

  “Yes, but it only makes another problem worse. Everyone we enhance is going to be out of action for at least a month—more probably two or three—while they get the hang of their implants. So every time we enhance one of our top people, we lose him for that long.”

  “Tell me about it,” Hatcher said sourly. “Do you realize—well, of course you do. But it’s sort of embarrassing for the brass to be such wimps compared to their personnel. Remember my aide, Allen Germaine?” Horus nodded. “I dropped by the Walter Reed enhancement center to see him yesterday. There he was, happily tying knots in quarter-inch steel rods for practice, and there I sat in my middle-aged body, feeling incredibly flabby. I used to think I was pretty fit for my age, too, damn it! And he’ll be back in the office in another few weeks. That’s going to be even more depressing.”

  “I know.” Horus’s eyes twinkled. “But you’re just going to have to put up with it. I can’t spare any of my chiefs of staff for enhancement until you get this show firmly on the road.”

  “Now there’s an efficiency motivater!”

  “Isn’t it just?” Horus murmured wickedly. “And speaking of getting things on the road, how do you feel about the defensive installations I’ve proposed?”

  “From what I understand of the technology, it looks pretty good, but I’d feel better if we had more depth to our orbital defenses. I’ve been reading over the operational data Dahak downloaded—and that’s another thing I want: a neural link of my own—and I’m not happy about how much the Achuultani seem to like kinetic weapons. Can we really stop something the size of, say, Ceres, if they put shields on it before they throw it at us?”

  “Geb says so, but it could take a lot of warheads. That’s why we need so many launchers.”

  “Fine, but if they settle in for a methodical attack, they’ll start by picking off our peripheral weapons first. That’s classic siege strategy with any weaponry, and it’s also why I want more depth, to allow for attrition of the orbital forts.”

  “Agreed. But we have to put the inner defenses into position first, which is why I’m sweating the PDC construction rates. They’re what’s going to produce the planetary shield, and we need their missile batteries just as badly. Not even Imperial energy weapons can punch through atmosphere very efficiently, and when they do, they play merry hell with little things like jet streams and the ozone layer. That’s one reason it’s easier to defend nice, airless moons and asteroids.”

  “Um-hum.” Hatcher plucked at his lip. “I’m afraid I’ve been too buried in troop movements and command structures to spend as much time as I’d like boning up on hardware. Vassily’s our nuts-and-bolts man. But am I correct in assuming your problems’re in the hyper launchers?”

  “Right the first time. Since we can’t rely on beams, we need missiles, but missiles have problems of their own. As Colin is overly fond of pointing out, there are always trade-offs.

  “Sublight missiles can be fired from anywhere, but they’re vulnerable to interception, especially over interplanetary ranges. Hyper missiles can’t be intercepted, but they can’t be launched from atmosphere, either. Even air has mass, and the exact mass a hyper missile takes into hyper with it is critical to where it re-enters normal space. That’s why warships pre-position their hyper missiles just inside their shields before they launch.”

  Hatcher leaned forward, listening carefully. Horus had been a missile specialist before the mutiny; anything he had to say on this subject was something the general wanted to hear.

  “We can’t do that from a planet. Oh, we could, but planetary shields aren’t like warship shields. Not on habitable planets, anyway. Shield density is a function of shield area; after a point, you can’t make it any denser, no matter how much power you put into it. To maintain sufficient density to stop really large kinetic weapons, our shield is going to have to contract well into the mesosphere. We can stop most smaller weapons from outside atmosphere, but not the big bastards, and we can’t count on avoiding heavy kinetic attack. In fact, that’s exactly what we’re likely to be under if we do need to launch from planetary bases.”

  “And if the shield contracts, the missiles would be outside it where the Achuultani could pick them off,” Hatcher mused.

  “Exactly. So we have to plan on going hyper straight from launch, and that means we need launchers big enough to contain the entire hyper field—just over three times the size of the missiles—or else their drives will take chunks out of the defense center when they depart.” Horus shrugged. “Since a heavy hyper missile’s about forty meters long and the launcher has to be air-tight with provision for high-speed evacuation of atmosphere, we’re talking some pretty serious engineering just to build the damned things.”

  “I see.” Hatcher frowned thoughtfully. “How far behind schedule are you, Horus? We’re going to need those batteries to cover our orbital defenses whatever happens.”

  “Oh, we’re not really in trouble yet. Geb allowed for some slippage in his original plans, and he thinks he can make it up once he gets more Imperial equipment on line. Give us another six months and we should be back on schedule. By Dahak’s least favorable estimate, we’ve got two years before the Achuultani arrive, and we should only be looking at a thousand or so scouts in the first wave. If we can hurt them badly enough, we’ll have another year or so to extend the defenses before the main fleet gets here. Hopefully, we’ll have more warships of our own by then, too.”

  “Hopefully,” Hatcher agreed. He tried to radiate confidence, but he and Horus both knew. They had an excellent chance of beating off the Achuultani scouts, but unless Colin foun
d the help they needed, Earth had no hope at all against the main incursion.

  The cold winter wind and dark, cloudy sky over T’aiyuan’s concrete runways struck Marshal Tsien Tao-ling as an appropriate mirror for his own mood. Impassive and bulky in his uniform greatcoat, Tsien had headed the military machine of the Asian Alliance for twelve tumultuous years, and he had earned that post through decisiveness, dedication, and sheer ability. His authority had been virtually absolute, a rare thing in this day and age. Now that same authority was like a chain of iron, dragging him remorselessly towards a decision he did not want to make.

  In less than fifty years, his nation had unified all of Asia that mattered—aside from the Japanese and Filipinos, and they scarcely counted as Asians any longer. The task had been neither cheap nor easy, nor had it been bloodless, but the Alliance had built a military machine even the West was forced to respect. Much of that building had been his own work, the fruit of his sworn oath to defend his people, the Party, and the State, and now his own decision might well bring all that effort, all that sacrifice, to nothing.

  Oh, yes, he thought, lengthening his stride, these are the proper skies for me.

  General Quang scurried after him, his high-pitched voice fighting a losing battle with the wind. Tsien was a huge man, almost two hundred centimeters in his bare feet, and a native of Yunnan Province. Quang was both diminutive and Vietnamese, and all rhetoric about Asian Solidarity notwithstanding, there was very little love lost between the Southern Chinese and their Vietnamese “brothers.” Thousands of years of mutual hostility could not be forgotten that easily, nor could Vietnam’s years as a Soviet proxy be easily forgiven, and the fact that Quang was a merely marginally competent whiner with powerful Party connections only made it worse.

  Quang broke off, puffing with exertion, and the marshal smiled inwardly. He knew the smaller man resented how ridiculous he looked trying to match his own long-legged stride, which was why he took pains to emphasize it whenever they met. Yet what bothered him most just now, he admitted, was hearing a fool like Quang say so many things he had thought himself.