The Oppressed Read online

  "Tell Taylor to stick his head out the window so I can get s better view." Kendrick joked.

  The team clustered around the monitors, wanting to see the first real trial of their indigenous force.

  "'Hey, Taylor, it makes better TV if you can stand out by the road so the Hetarek can see you. Can you do that please?'" O pantomimed talking on the radio.

  Loki showed three Komodos, appearing white-hot on the infrared spectrum, coming down from north and the city. On the other screen, the Green Berets calmed down their local force. Taylor did peek through the window to get a better view of the road for his own benefit. They could barely make out the road surface between two other houses and through the trees. The whole image was at an angle as he struggled to see.

  The vehicles continued at a fast pace. They could start to make out the sound of the engines through the video feed.

  Taylor turned away from the window.

  "This is your show." He said to the local man nearest him. The lead trainer handed over a small bundle of wires connected to a switch. For a few seconds the camera view kept jumping from the local man to the window to the tiny screen Perkins held showing the Loki feed.

  The first vehicle passed.

  "Go." Bryan urged remotely.

  "Ok, go!" Taylor said through the video.

  The man pressed the switch.

  Loki flashed white, temporarily blinded. On the two video feeds, the blast sent static through the audio. When the Loki resolution returned, two of the Hetarek Komodos rocked back and forth, upside down. The first vehicle, which had not been hit, had driven another hundred meters and just sat in the middle of the road, frozen. The fourth had been unable to stop before it ran into the blast crater, where its tires started spinning as it struggled to get un-stuck.

  On the audio the local fighters cheered. "Hey this isn't over yet." On Taylor’s camera, they stopped and stared at him. He pointed out the window where the Hetarek, mostly injured, started crawling out on all six limbs. The warriors in the surviving trucks dismounted. "Start shooting!" He urged.

  And they did. The retorts of the weapons could be heard and the bright muzzle flashes seen on the screen. Within seconds, Taylor's view disappeared behind the sights of his M350 machine gun. The camera shook violently and he fired bursts towards the trucks.

  "Come on, Taylor, let them tackle this themselves." Bryan said out loud. In the second screen, Perkin’s camera showed him firing off a few rounds, but mostly keeping an eye on the situation and encouraging the local fighters.

  It didn't take long for the Hetarek to find them an start shooting back. Laser blasts started taking chunks out of the wall.

  The two Metic Ahai, the first recruits after the visit to their collective, stopped firing and ran to the back of the room. “Hey, get back here.” Taylor shouted. “You can’t run from them now. You’ve gotta fight. If you don’t keep shooting, they’ll overrun us.”

  Perkins went after the Metic Ahai while Taylor maintained his suppressive fire. Each time the Hetarek shot back, most of the locals didn’t take cover, they cowered. More than once Bryan saw Taylor nudge someone not so gently with his boot, encouraging him to reenter the fight. They would stand up get off a few rounds, and then take cover while the turrets on the two functional Komodos hammered away.

  Taylor put down his machine gun and ran through the falling dust and flying bits of wall. He found a man hiding in what was once a bathroom, crouched beneath a small, high window-frame opening up onto the street. From the Hetarek perspective, they wouldn’t be able to see in. The partisan gripped his weapon uselessly by the barrel, his back towards the fight. Taylor shoved something spherical into the man’s free hand. “They don’t know you’re in here. Just toss this out the window at the Komodo.”

  The man stared blankly at the grenade.

  “Just like we trained. They won’t even notice.”

  The would-be insurgent stared Taylor in the face. The professional grabbed him by the elbow and hoisted him to his feet. He spun the man around, and pointed at the window. “You got this. Just toss it.”

  The fighter did as instructed, and Taylor yanked him out of the bathroom. Five seconds later, a sharp explosion detonated outside. “Good job. Keep shooting.”

  Perkins managed to get the Metic Ahai fighting again, firing their weapons blindly through the windows. The rounds almost certainly hit nothing, but at least they were participating. With some video editing and a good story-board, Bryan could send those images back to the fleet for their ongoing negotiations with the Ahai fleet.

  Taylor managed a glimpse out the window. Back at the lodge, Siskind paused the video feed so they could study it in more detail. The angle was terrible, but they clearly saw one Komodo still operational, and they could make out at least five Hetarek that weren’t clearly dead.

  Siskind restored the video to live mode and checked his more detailed feed from the surveillance satellite. “Loki is picking up more vehicle signatures about ten clicks out.”

  “Taylor, it’s Howe.” Bryan called over the radio. “Go ahead and break contact. You got more incoming.”

  “Roger.” On screen, Taylor rallied the fighters. “Fall back. We’ll provide cover fire while you all get out the back. Go.”

  “But there are still more of them out there!” Someone objected, and not because the job wasn’t complete.

  “And they’ll be even more in a minute. So break contact and get out of here. Go!”

  Taylor returned to his machine gun, and Perkins intensified his fire. The soldiers kept checking over their shoulders until they found themselves alone in the room. Perkins snapped up his monitor and shoved it in his pack, then fell back to the rear of the building. One last, long burst of fire from Taylor’s weapon kept the Hetarek at bay until he suddenly stopped, turned, and ran out the back door. The team at the lodge watched as the two bounded through the cluster of houses in stages, each providing cover for the other. Hetarek fire could be heard, but became less frequent and more distant as the occupiers continued to engage a now empty building. Heavy breathing clogged the audio as they ran as quickly and tactically as they could to their extraction point.

  Then they got there. And the trucks were gone. Their partisans had left them nothing but dust clouds and tracks.

  “Well, fuck.” Perkins cursed to himself.

  “Motherfucker.” Bryan confirmed.

  “Well, Alpha, it looks like they got a little enthusiastic in fleeing the scene.”

  In the lodge, Smythstyne grabbed his rifle and gear, heading outside, undoubtedly to their remaining civilian vehicle. Bridget grabbed a radio and her medical kit and ran after him.

  “We see it, Bravo. Smythstyne already ran out of here with the truck. Go find yourself a strong point outside of town and call in your location. We’ll get you in about an hour or so.”

  “Good copy, Bravo. Thanks.”

  Raghnal looked over at Bryan. “Well, that went well.”

  “It’s not too bad. They did a half-way decent ambush and killed some Hetarek. What more would you want?”

  His team sergeant stared at him for a moment, suppressing a sarcastic remark, before he headed back into the kitchen to start on dinner.

  Jess stared at Bryan, a raised eyebrow, her mouth poised to add to the criticism.

  “Baby steps.” He said and retreated before she could say a word.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Costeaux would later tell the incident investigator that fatigue hadn’t dulled his senses. In reality, he could barely keep his eyes open. Sasha, Dauod, Quinn... all of them struggled to function. Losing two spacecraft was hard. They doubled the number of Operation Aeneas missions. Twice a week, they flew for twenty-four hours straight. Usually, they got a day off. But the bulk of the Free Human fleet had left the twins, returning to the Ahai Great Fleet, and someone needed to fly patrols. Sporadic four hour missions became regular eight hour missions. They had been in the cockp
it nearly every day since the fleet’s departure. The image of the empty sensor screen had burned into Jean’s eyes. In his exhaustion during that patrol, his eyes remained blurred until the rare anomaly appeared.

  His screen flashed, announcing a wormhole opening on the far side of Castor. The readings told him it was a small, self-generated wormhole suitable to an individual ship rather that the fleet-wide gates opened by the Ahai. By the time he announced it, Sasha nosed their fighter towards the planet’s horizon.

  “I got nothing on the schedule.” Quinn said over the radio.

  “Cobra flight, Intrepid, be advised new ship in the area is unidentified and not responding. Please establish contact.”

  “Copy, Intrepid.”

  Sasha accelerated to full speed. “I feel like I’ve seen this movie before.”

  The counter scrolled down rapidly, and soon a green box appeared in their HUD around the target. They confirmed the ship as an Ahai personnel transport, often used to take small populations from one fleet to another to maintain diversity. It continued to move at full burn towards one of the captured and repurposed orbital stations, now under repair for a third time since the liberation. “ETA to that station is about three mikes.”

  Data started flowing through the sensor screens as line of sight gave them a better view.

  “Jean, I’m reading it as Ahai, but it’s not broadcasting a transponder signal.” Quinn announced.

  “I’ve got the same thing, but I’m not getting a good scan. There’s a lot of interference.”

  “Me too.”

  Costeaux turned on the translation program and called out on a broad spectrum of channels. “Unidentified Ahai craft approaching Castor, cut engines immediately and respond or we will engage.” He flipped on the targeting computer, hoping that the other craft could understand the difference between a cautious sensor sweep and the detailed pinging of a fighter hunting for prey.

  They picked it up visually, more from the running lights than the dark gray exterior. The near complete lack of windows seemed to confirm the ship was Ahai. It sent no response to any of their calls.

  “Three, it also looks like it’s not under manual control.” Quinn announced. Costeaux realized that each maneuver had the blocky, rough feel of a computer making them instead of the fluid movements of a live pilot.

  Costeaux opened the Petrel’s main weapon bay, lowering the torpedo. Any active scan would recognize the implications.

  “Unidentified vessel, this is your last warning. Cut engines and respond immediately.” It sent no response. “Intrepid, Cobra Three receives no response from the vessel. Request to engage.”

  The warship didn’t respond immediately. With Columbia gone, the carrier remained in command. But it had been a long time since any ship had had to make a decision without the flagship present. The lack of experience and confidence came through the radio. “Cobra Flight, Intrepid, can you do a fly by to confirm?”

  Costeaux checked his data. “Negative, Columbia. If we do a fly-by it will be within range of Orbital Station Alpha.”

  “Roger, Cobra Flight. Fire warning shots.”

  “Cobra Flight copies all.” Costeaux flicked off the radio. “Not that they’ll be able to see anything at this distance.”

  Sasha angled the fighter, aiming just in front of the Ahai ship. “Guns, guns, guns.” The cannons shook the fighter as they fired their short burst. The tracers arced out in a path that took them a kilometer in front of their target. Even knowing where they were, Jean could barely see them.

  The ship maintained its course.

  “Intrepid, Cobra Three. No response to warning shots. ETA to Station Alpha blast zone is ninety seconds.”

  “We’re cutting it close.” Quinn said unnecessarily.

  After more wasted seconds, instructions finally came. “Cobra Flight, Intrepid, weapons free, weapons free, weapons free.”

  “Cobra Flight confirms weapons free.”

  Costeaux turned off the safety and let the torpedo’s targeting system digest the sensor data. Sasha lined the fighter up for the shot. “Shit, time to target is going to be seventy-two seconds.”

  “That’s just barely out of blast range.” Sasha commented.

  “Rifle.” Costeaux depressed the last safety, but before he could squeeze the trigger, red lights started flashing on the targeting computer and a dual tone began pulsing through his helmet. “I’ve got a weapons malfunction. Four, can you get a firing solution?”

  “Already on it.” Quinn announced. “Rifle.”

  Beside them, the white-blue streak of the missile shot forward, arcing towards the non-responsive Ahai ship.

  The two fighters stayed their course, with their nose towards the vessel.

  When the vessel started flashing its running lights, they noticed. They also saw the torpedo mere seconds from impact.

  “What the hell is it doing?” Sasha announced.

  A burst of static came through the extremely short-range, ship-to-ship radio. By the time the recognized enough of what the Ahai yelled through the open channel, the torpedo struck. As planned, the detonation occurred towards the bow, the force shoving the Ahai transport on a different trajectory away from the station. They expected a secondary explosion, something that would confirm the ship had been packed with explosives and sent on a suicide run. Instead, the body of the ship peeled back with venting air, spilling its contents into space. For their distance, the fighters could only discern a few of the dots silhouetted against the glare of the planet’s surface, the limbs flailing about desperately. Three life boats jettisoned from the spine of the ship, moments before the reactor detonated and engulfed two of them in its fireball.

  The third life boat transmitted its message it the distinctive song of an Ahai speaking English.

  “Human vessels, why did you shoot us? We needed help! We needed help and you killed us!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Lines of shorthand scrolled down four screens while Xander and Lutierez stared at them from inches away. The trick, Xander had learned early in his career, was to unfocus his eyes while trying to take in as much as possible. If something stuck out, they could grab it and toss it in a folder for more detailed analysis. Data helped; too much data hurt.

  "There." Lutierez pointed, snagging a fleeting line and capturing it.

  Xander expanded the packet on a separate screen and read the printout. "It looks like they're talking about Metic Ahai." He said.

  "Sorry. I just saw the word for 'betray' and 'Ahai.'"

  "No worries." They went back to their hunt for something that would connect the recent incident with the Hetarek. Xander didn't expect to find anything, but he wanted to be able to tell the colonel and admiral that he looked.

  The door to the signal room slide open, but Xander didn't bother looking up.

  "Xander." The commander's voice called from just inside the doorway. "Can I borrow you?"

  "Yes, ma'am." Xander stood. "Keep looking. I'll be right back." He told Lutierez.

  "This is going to take some time." The Colonel responded, gesturing for him to follow her turn the corridor. "I'm glad to see you're presentable."

  "People keep saying that ma'am. I guess it's the conventional officer in me."

  "I'm glad someone knows how to shave and wear a complete uniform. I need you looking respectable. The Ahai are pissed. Again."

  "I can understand that, ma'am, but it was a legit shoot. The lawyer says the investigation is going to clear the pilots."

  "We gave the Admiral our lawyer for this, right? He'll make sure the paperwork comes out right. I trust him at least."

  Xander realized they were heading for the hanger. He pulled out his tablet. "You want me to get the lawyer to meet us?"

  Tamaka shook her head. "Let him finish the investigation. Besides, I need your Ahai expertise."

  They entered the small hanger bay on the special operations side of the bulkhead, just
barely large enough for the two Quinalts belonging to them. One, a dark matte black instead of the typical steel gray, sat with its engines spooling and side cargo door open. Admiral Sykora's distinctive figure stood next to it, his deceptively small stature dwarfed by the size of his aide and body guard.

  "Good afternoon, sir." Colonel Tamaka greeted him.

  "Colonel." He scowled back before stepping onto the Quinalt. They sat across from the admiral, knees almost touching in the confined space. Xander strapped himself into the five point harness, repressing, as he always did aboard the utility transport, the feeling like it would drop him off directly into a firefight.

  From the look on the admiral's face, Xander was about to step into a new type of conflict.

  The crew chief stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The passenger compartment was dark, and strangely quiet without being packed with soldiers.

  "This would be a lot easier if it weren't one of your Petrels that blew it up." The admiral said.

  Xander looked at the crew chief, sitting at his station a few feet away absorbed in whatever appeared on his screen. The engines revved and they perceived the ship take off. Through the small window, the gray of the hull disappear into the black of space.

  "Sir, respectfully it wasn't 'our Petrel.' It belonged to the Three-Seventy Second Attack Squadron."

  "It’s detailed to your mission."

  "It wasn’t on our mission at the time. Sir."

  "How am I supposed to explain why they were there and why they fired missiles?" The Admiral shot back.

  "Sir, they perceived a threat, a threat they had seen before, and they engaged with the weapons they had available. With the information they had, the Hetarek tactics used, the trajectory, and the lack of communication, they reacted. If this were someone not stopping for a security checkpoint, they would do the same thing."