The Prisoner of Eldaron: Crimson Worlds Successors II (32 page)

“We’re not likely to get any com back in the near future…even if by some miracle we figure out how the networks were corrupted.” Calman’s voice was cold, hard. He was as much a participant as any in Eldaron’s corrupt hierarchy, with two sons and a daughter comfortably placed in upwardly mobile positions. But the old general himself was raw and gritty…and far from devoid of military skill. It was clear he knew what was going on, even if no one else in the command center did. “Those airbursts aren’t intended to destroy cities…or even military bases. They’re laying down EMP…and a lot of the supposedly hardened equipment we’ve got is turning out not to be. My information is spotty, but we’ve got whole units with nothing more than rifles still functioning. In some cases, not even those.”

“How is that possible?” The Tyrant’s anger momentarily overcame his fear, and he glared at the general.

“Don’t ask me, Excellency. I didn’t handle requisitions. Perhaps you should start by asking why your minister of production has a residence that rivals your palace.” It was a bold thing to say to the Tyrant, especially when he was already angry and scared. But it was clear Omar Calman didn’t give a shit.

The Tyrant felt a flush of fresh anger, but he held it in check. Not many people spoke to him the way Calman had just done, but there wasn’t time for that now. The Black Eagles were coming…he knew it now, almost certainly. And that meant he needed his general. And Calman was right. He realized suddenly how much he’d allowed himself to be manipulated by those who used flattery to gain his favor.

It’s the power…it’s like a drug. And these parasites exploit that. But now I need to be strong. I need to focus on the real fighters. It is time to destroy the Black Eagles. Stay focused. Win this battle. And then you will rule over a hundred worlds…

“Very well, General,” he said, gaining control over his emotions. “What do you propose we do?”

“First we need to get some runners in here. We need to communicate with the capital area forces at least. The other cities are as good as lost.”

“I will not give up on…”

“Your Excellency,” Calman said, making sure his voice was at least moderately polite as he interrupted his sovereign, “If there’s an attack coming…” – and his tone left no doubt he expected an attack – “…it will be decided here. They’ve got to take the capital to control the planet, and they know it. The main fight will be within twenty kilometers of the Citadel. And we can’t communicate with the other cities anyway. All our focus must be here.”

The Tyrant was silent for a moment, staring back at his general. People did not speak to him the way Calman had. And they certainly didn’t interrupt him. But fear was firmly in control. He turned toward the colonel. “You heard the general. Go and get him fifty runners. No, a hundred. Anybody young and in good shape.”

The colonel snapped off a nervous salute. “Yes, sir.” He turned. “Captain, go and…”

“I said
you
, Colonel. Now go before I get truly angry.” He could tell the colonel thought the task was beneath him, but he realized the sooner they all understood there was no time for that nonsense the better. He’d pampered his senior officers, allowed them to become pompous, ruling over those they commanded with the same prerogatives he invoked in dealing with them. But
they
were not the Tyrant…only he was. Now they had to be soldiers. They had to defend their world against the most terrifying enemy any of them had ever faced.

He turned back around as the colonel raced toward the hatch. “What else, General?”

“We need to contact the Omega units.” The secret regiments the Triumvirate had dispatched to Eldaron were hidden in underground bunkers, ready to move out and surprise any Eagle invasion force as soon as it landed. But the com lines were down, just like all the communications on Eldaron.

“Yes,” the Tyrant said, struggling to hide his fear. “We must activate the Omega units. Do it at once.”

The general nodded. Then he turned back toward one of his aides. “Go, Captain. I want you to make your way to the main Omega HQ immediately…then come back here and confirm their alert status.”

The captain snapped off a salute—and a second one to the Tyrant standing next to the general—and he raced off to carry out the order.

“We must not panic,” Calman said quietly. “We must keep the Omega forces hidden until the enemy has landed and engaged.”

“Perhaps we should release them immediately.” The Tyrant was being driven almost entirely by fear, and it was obvious in his voice.

“No…I mean, I recommend against that, sir. Tactical surprise was always a key part of the plan. We should not deviate from that now. We must lure the Eagles down.”

“Very well, General,” the Tyrant said, his voice soft, weak. “We will wait.”

“And then when the enemy has landed, we will release the Omega units from the bunkers…and we will surround and destroy the invaders.” Calman’s tone was powerful, confident…mostly, at least. But there was something else there too, well-hidden but still detectable. Fear.

Any man would have felt fear. The Black Eagles were coming.

Chapter 23

Atlantian Capitol

Planet Atlantia, Epsilon Indi II

Earthdate: 2319 AD (34 Years After the Fall)

“The funds have arrived, Mr. President…and they have been distributed as you instructed.” Asha Mazeri sat across the desk from Armando DeSilva. Her tone was pleasant, respectful, but DeSilva could see there was tension beneath her demeanor.

Well, it’s not every day you launch a coup…

Still, he’d never seen her so edgy before. She’d always been remarkably calm, whatever the situation.

She must be under pressure to get this done. Who does she really work for? What have I gotten myself into?

“Very well, Asha. We shall proceed as scheduled.” DeSilva felt acid in his stomach. He was attempting to remain calm, at least outwardly, but in truth he was scared to death. The people of Atlantia were disinterested politically, and he had used that to great effect over the years to maintain his power. His propaganda ministry had worked tirelessly to portray his administration in the most appealing terms…and it had put just as much effort into discrediting potential adversaries.

But that success had begun to wane. The people ignored the imposition of new laws when they were first enacted, accepting at face value the claims they were necessary and beneficial. More recently, though, signs of discontent had become widespread…and DeSilva feared his next election would be his most difficult. And if he lost, everything he built would fall apart. He controlled the law enforcement agencies and the entire justice system, and he’d used it to terrorize his enemies and enhance his own power. But if he lost his grip on the instruments of government power…

No, it was unthinkable. DeSilva lived for power, for control. And if he lost, there would be no holding back the investigations. A new Atlantian administration would almost certainly uncover all his misdeeds…and he would find himself in prison instead of sitting at the president’s desk in the Capitol.

“The operation will begin just before dawn.” The plan was a brilliant one, and DeSilva had to admit that Asha had been mostly responsible for its development. He’d initially planned a straight out coup, but Mazeri had urged him to consider something more elegant. The Atlantians were a crusty lot, by and large, and while they often ignored politics to their detriment, they were likely to react violently to any attempt to seize absolute power. The operation needed cover, she had argued, something that would deflect the peoples’ attention…and stall opposition to his power grab. If it was done right, she had said, the people will embrace it. DeSilva had been shocked when she’d first suggested the idea, but the more he considered it, the better it sounded. There would be more casualties of course, but that was of little account.

“Very well, Mr. President. I shall see to everything on my end. And this time tomorrow, you will be the absolute and unchallenged ruler of Atlantia.”

DeSilva smiled. He liked how that sounded.

*  *  *  *  *

Buck Tomlinson walked slowly down the street, enjoying the cool morning. Tomlinson was an early riser…he always had been. He loved this time of day, the quiet, the chill in the air streaming in from the sea. In another hour the streets would begin to fill, the people of Eastport moving to jobs and heading toward the markets.

The town was the planet’s third largest, but that meant little on a world as rural as Atlantia. There were perhaps 10,000 residents, including a fairly large community of retired Marines, attracted by the beauty of Atlantia’s rocky coastline—and the fact that Erik and Sarah Cain had chosen the ocean world as their home after retirement.

Tomlinson was a veteran himself. He’d been one of Erik Cain’s Marines in the Shadow Wars, though as a private he’d never met the legendary general in person, not until he’d followed him to retirement on Atlantia. In the small town culture of ocean world, Tomlinson encountered Cain many times, and the two had even played cards on several occasions. Tomlinson had gone back to war with the general during the Second Incursion—and he bitterly mourned Cain’s death in that conflict.

He walked toward the small square that overlooked the harbor, taking his usual seat at the café just a few steps from the water’s edge. He took a deep breath. He’d lived on Atlantia for more than thirty years now, and he still hadn’t gotten over the freshness of the sea breeze. He smiled as the café’s proprietor walked over.

“Buck…nice morning, isn’t it? You want your usual?”

“Magnificent, my friend. A great day to be alive.” He paused, looking out over the calm waters of the harbor. “Yes, Bill, the usual.” He’d ordered the same breakfast every day for at least ten years…and every day, Bill Wentz still asked him if that’s what he wanted.

Wentz nodded and turned to walk back inside.

“Bill, what is that?”

Wentz turned abruptly. “What is what?”

“That transport parked next to the dock. Have you ever seen it before?”

Tomlinson knew it was the kind of thing people made fun of in small towns, but the truth was he knew almost everyone in Eastport, and there was something out of place about the large black truck.

“Can’t say that I have, Buck. But what’s of it? Just a truck someone left there.”

“At this hour?” Tomlinson stood up. “I’m just gonna have a quick look.”

Wentz made a face. “Whatever you feel like, Buck. I’ll get your breakfast.”

Tomlinson turned and walked toward the truck. It was black, with no windows. He tested the doors, and they were locked. He knew it was probably nothing, but he had a strange feeling…a kind of foreboding. The type of thing he’d experienced on the battlefield, when a bombardment or attack was about to commence.

He had an odd thought, wondering what Erik Cain would have said. The image of his old general was still in his head when it happened. There was a flash, so quick he had no time to even acknowledge it. Then he was consumed instantly, vaporized in the nuclear fire.

*  *  *  *  *

Armed men filled the streets in front of the Capitol, just as they were doing in every other city across Atlantia. Everything seemed like a normal response to a terrorist attack, and few noticed that many of the detachments were moving into residential neighborhoods, breaking into houses and taking away their occupants.

In each place, where screaming families were shoved roughly into unmarked black transports, neighbors looked on, wondering with a chill if they’d had terrorists and radical supporters living so near. They applauded the raids, shouted their support to the law enforcement authorities they were sure were reacting to the horrifying events of that morning. Images from Eastport had dominated the news coverage. There were thousands dead in the nuclear blast, and the town itself had been wiped away. It was a horror the quiet people of Atlantia could hardly comprehend. And they cried out to find and punish those responsible.

But those arrested had nothing to do with terrorism. They were, rather, the citizens deemed most likely to resist increased government control, to question too pointedly the reaction to the Eastport attack. They protested their innocence, even as they were dragged away, but no one listened. Atlantia was in a frenzy, and accusation equaled guilt in the minds of most.

Hundreds were arrested, all across Atlantia. Some were taken to special prisons, the ones suspected of having information on other potential resistance. They were destined for very aggressive—and unpleasant—questioning. But most of those arrested were driven directly to government facilities in remote areas. They were unloaded and herded into dark basements and concrete warehouses. One by one, they were pushed down to their knees…and an officer moved behind them, firing a single shot into each of their heads. There were no trials, no formalities, no appeals. DeSilva had decided to move quickly, to sweep away all potential resistance while Atlantians were focused on the attack.

Whole families had been arrested, and they went together into those terrible execution chambers, even the children. Pleas for mercy were ignored, even for the youngest present, who swiftly followed their parents into death.

The executioners were clad in Atlantian police uniforms, but many of them spoke with strange accents…and none of the unfortunates executed that day ever knew the men who murdered them were not Atlantians at all, but operatives of Asha Mazeri’s organization…and the allies of Atlantia’s president.

*  *  *  *  *

“My fellow Atlantians, it is with a heavy heart that I now address you all.” DeSilva wore a black suit, perfectly-pressed, and he spoke with a strong and clear voice, edged quite deliberately with a touch of both sadness and anger.

“Our world has just experienced the greatest tragedy in its history, an atrocity of immense proportions. Over ten thousand of our neighbors and friends are dead, killed by cowards and murderers…villains who have lived among us, nurturing their hatred and their radical agendas. I can say nothing that will help the thousands of our friends and neighbors who were killed, nor can I ease the pain we all feel. Nothing can do that, and I fear we will long grieve for those lost.” His voice deepened, took on an ominous tone.