The Prisoner of Eldaron: Crimson Worlds Successors II (51 page)

“Good luck,” Kuragina said. “I’ve got a company and some walking wounded working on a backup defensive line, but it won’t be ready for at least another eight hours, maybe ten.” A pause. “You have to hold until then, Dan. No matter what.”

“Don’t worry, Colonel. We’re Black Eagles. We know what to do.” He swallowed hard. “Sullivan out.”

He ducked and scrambled down the line. Bull Trent had taken over an autocannon after its crew had been killed, and he was manning the weapon alone. Sullivan could see exactly where the veteran was by the swath of dead enemy soldiers lying in the field in front of him. He jogged over behind the non-com.

“Nice shooting, Bull…but I’m gonna have to have you hand that weapon off. I need you for something else.”

“Sir!” Trent snapped back, still firing as he acknowledged his commander’s orders. “Perretti, Horn, get your asses over here and take over this gun.”

Sullivan watched as the two veterans came running over, each of them crouched just enough to stay behind the gentle rise the company was using for cover. They walked up behind Trent, who fired right up until the instant Perretti took the weapon from his armored hands.

“
Sergeant
Perretti,” Trent barked, emphasizing the rank as he did, “We are low on ammunition, so I expect you to actually aim with this fucking thing, you hear me?”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Tony Perretti was a troublemaker, a man who had served years in Eagles yet managed to give back every promotion he’d ever gotten through one form of indiscipline or another. But he was a born soldier too, and his extreme reliability on the field of battle had saved him from expulsion…or discipline more severe than a demotion.

He was Sergeant Perretti now, and he was likely to stay that way. He’d made the mistake of becoming too much of a hero on Lysandria, and Darius Cain himself had put the stripes on his duty uniform. The promotion had come with congratulations…and a warning to cut the shit and accept the responsibility he had earned. Perretti was as tough as they came, and he wasn’t scared of anyone. Except Darius Cain. And Bull Trent. And both of them had spoken.

Trent watched for a few seconds as the two non-coms got the autocannon back in operation. Then he turned and faced Sullivan. “Where do you want me, sir?”

“This is your Tony Perretti moment, Sergeant Trent.” Sullivan was grateful for the helmet that hid his shit-faced grin.

“Sir?”

“With the authorization of Colonel Kuragina, I am herby giving you a field promotion to the rank of lieutenant and placing you in command of the company.”

“But sir…”

“Silence, Lieutenant Trent. I know you have fought this for a long time, but in case you didn’t notice, we’re up to our necks in shit right now. Perretti is doing his duty…and you’re fuck well going to do the same. Do you follow me?”

“Yes, sir.” The voice was sullen, defeated. But there was a spark there too. Sullivan suspected Trent would prove to be as good an officer as he’d always been a non-com. Better, even.

Which was a damned good thing, because it was going to take everything all of them had to survive this fight.

*  *  *  *  *

“Get the wounded back,” Darius yelled into the com. “Set up an aid station closer to the detention area. And clear these corridors!”

Cain and his soldiers had been halfway to the infirmary when the attack began. Enemy troops poured down every corridor, and almost immediately, the Eagles were bogged down and fighting off attacks from every direction.

“Yes, General.” Captain Clive was the only surgeon he’d brought with him. Along with two medical techs and half a dozen privates hastily designated as orderlies, he was all that was available to deal with the mounting casualties. The Teams were the best of the best, and they fought with enormous skill and distinction…but they were outnumbered and unfamiliar with the layout of their battlefield. And they knew they had to press on, regardless of position or losses. They had to reach the infirmary. If Erik Cain was truly there, every second was the one the enemy could choose to kill him.

Alcabedo was right next to Darius.
As usual…how does he do that
?

The bodyguard was firing like a machine, putting a three shot burst into every enemy soldier within view. He’d apparently decided trying to get Darius to stay back was a futile effort, so he took it upon himself to try to blast every enemy that came close to the general.

And Darius had to admit, he’d come quite close to meeting that impossible goal.

Darius lunged forward, firing his own rifle as he did. The enemy soldiers were good…clearly these weren’t standard Eldari levies. But they were no match for the veteran—and fully-powered—Black Eagles. They lost five, six, seven men for every casualty they inflicted, but Darius knew that was a winning trade for them. He had to keep pushing forward, not only to see if his father was there, but to prevent his forces from getting bogged down.

“I want a Team at each intersection or passageway,” he snapped. “We’ve got to keep the line to the detention area open.” He hadn’t intended to allow his forces to get this stretched out, but he’d had no choice. His troops had suffered more than forty casualties. And the wounded couldn’t keep up with the advance.

He moved swiftly down the corridor, and he whipped around the corner, ahead of Alcabedo and the three other Eagles who’d tried to get in front of him. There were three enemy troops there, and they opened fire almost immediately.

Darius dropped low and fire back on full auto. The enemy shots went over his head, the rounds impacting on the rough stone of the walls, sending shards of rock flying in all directions. His own fire was far more accurate, and in an instant the three enemies were down, their bodies torn almost to shreds by his hyper-velocity rounds. There was a brief clicking sound as his autoloader replaced the spent cartridge.

“That should be the infirmary right up ahead,” he said, his com set to the unitwide frequency. “Let’s go!” He ran down the hallway, his rifle in front of him as he did.

He stopped in front of the closed hatch. “Plasma torches,” he yelled.

Two Eagles pushed their way forward, each of them holding a large plasma cutter. They thrust the tools forward, one on each side of the hatch, and they sliced downward, cutting through the hypersteel like a razor slicing a sheet of paper. In a few seconds it was done, and the two of them kicked the door hard, sending it flying into the room beyond.

Darius pushed past the two of them, leaping first into the room. It was reckless, a stunt for which he would have disciplined any of his people. But Darius Cain the military commander had momentarily lost his control over the persona he now shared with Darius Cain, seventeen year old boy, first hearing his father had been killed. His heart pounded in his ears, and he was shaking inside his armor. That had been the worst day of his life, and now he was minutes from finding out if it was true…or if it had been a fraud all along.

In a few seconds, you’ll know…

He looked around quickly, his eyes confirming the room was indeed part of an infirmary. There were medical machines of various types and a row of cots along the side wall. He turned and looked at the beds, frantically searching, feeling the hope he’d so firmly kept under control escaping its bonds, driving him forth with unrestrainable excitement.

He retained enough of Darius the soldier to watch for enemies, but that discipline had been off, below its usual standard. Just enough. He didn’t even see the man, he just felt the impact, like a sledgehammer in his shoulder. He staggered backward, but he steadied himself and didn’t fall. He had a vague sensation of his soldiers firing, a passing image of the man who had shot him blown halfway across the room, his body shredded by at least a hundred rounds.

Darius felt hands on his armor, those of his Eagles, but he swung his arm back, pushing them away. The wound was bad, but his AI had already packed it with sterile foam and pumped him full of painkillers and stims. He’d deal with it later. Now he had something more important to do.

He pushed through the infirmary, shoving stacks of equipment out of his way with the enhanced strength of his armor. He spun around the corner, this time with his rifle drawn, held in front of him with one arm.

He was staring down a long wing of the room, his eyes moving from cot to cot. He felt the chill of the cold sweat on his neck, and he wondered if he’d even recognize his father after so many years. What torment had he lived through, what profound, aching loneliness? Would he be older? Yes, of course. Would he be changed, hurt? Would he even recognize his own son…a thirty-two year old man he’d last seen as a boy of fifteen?

He pushed himself forward, snapping an order to the AI to increase his visor’s magnification.
No
, he thought, looking at a man in one of the cots.
No…no….no…,
he thought, quickly discounting each of them in turn.

He froze. There was a cot at the far end of the room. A man was lying on it, covered to his chest with a white sheet. His head was turned, and a mass of stringy, gray hair hung over the edge of the bed. Then he saw it…the man’s arm was along the edge of the bed…bound in a restraint of some kind.

A prisoner…

Darius pushed forward…just as he saw a man coming from the other side of the room. He was tall, wearing the uniform of an Eldari guardsman. He was walking right toward the man in the cot.

Darius’ eyes snapped into laser focus. There was a pistol in the man’s hand…

*  *  *  *  *

Eagle One
shook hard, and a spray of sparks exploded across the bridge. One of the big power conduits had broken loose, and it fell in the middle of the bridge. The two security guards rushed over to secure the flopping cable, but one of them slipped and touched the live end. He thudded to the deck immediately, dead, his body stinking of burnt flesh.

“Get a damage control team up here now, Lieutenant.” Allegre sat in his chair, trying to remain as calm as he could. He knew his people would look to him in this desperate hour, and he intended to give them all he had left to offer. He couldn’t save them, he knew that. He had no tricks, no tactical wizardry to extricate them from this hopeless battle. But he could show them how to face death…and how to lash out in defiance with the very last of their strength.

“Sir, more ships coming through the Upsilon-2 gate. At least ten so far.”

“Very well Lieutenant.” He sighed. The enemy already had enough to finish off his fleet. They didn’t really need any reinforce…”

“Admiral!” The tactical officer spun around, staring over toward Allegre’s command chair. “We’ve got incoming communications from the arriving vessels.”

Allegre felt an odd feeling…he wouldn’t have called it hope, exactly, but it was something similar.

“Put it on the main speaker, Lieutenant.” He wouldn’t normally broadcast something unknown to the entire crew, but he figured they deserved to know what was happening. Whatever that was…

“Attention Black Eagles. Attention Black Eagles. This is Admiral Augustus Garret commanding the Marine Corps fleet. We have come to aid you in your struggle.”

Allegre sat still, utterly stunned by what he had just heard.
Is this a trick? Are they trying to fool me, gain an advantage? But why? They know they have us.

“I want scanning data on those incoming ships, Lieutenant. Now!”

He glanced around the bridge. Even his disciplined crew was distracted, looking around with confused expressions on their faces.

“Seventeen ships have transited, sir. They match the basic size distributions the database has for the Marine fleet from Armstrong, sir.”

“It’s not possible,” Allegre snapped back. “How could the Marine fleet be here? How would they even know we were here?”

“They’re requesting visual communication, sir.”

Allegre shook his head.
It just can’t be
. But he simply said, “Activate visual com.”

He stood up, and he found he was subconsciously brushing himself off, straightening his uniform. He didn’t really believe Augustus Garret was on the other end of the com line, but just in case…

The main screen lit up…and there was Augustus Garret. He was older than the last time Allegre had seen him—
which one of us isn’t
—but he knew without the slightest doubt. It was humanity’s great admiral, the man who had, more than anyone, saved mankind from the First Imperium…and from the orgy of self-destruction it tried to inflict on itself in the Shadow Wars.

“Hello, Gaston,” Garret said simply. “It is good to see you. It has been, what? Seventeen years?”

Garret stood still, staring into the screen. He wasn’t wearing a naval uniform, just a simple set of fatigues over a survival suit. He looked the same as always. His still-thick hair was completely gray now, and his face showed a bit more age, but the stare was the same…warm and cold at the same time. Reassuring…and deadly.

“Admiral Garret,” Allegre said, his throat suddenly so dry he could barely force out the words. “How?”

Garret managed a thin smile. “Well, I tried to stay on the sidelines for this one…but what can I say? It’s just not in my blood.”

Garret turned to the side, gesturing to someone off-camera. “Or, if you mean how did I know
you
would need my help here…”

Garret stepped aside and another man walked into view. Allegre was confused for an instant, but then he saw the face, and he gasped. “I don’t under…”

“Hello, Admiral Allegre. I am Elias Cain. I’m sorry if I gave you a bit of a start. I know my brother and I have quite a resemblance.” Elias grinned. He and Darius were identical, and beyond hairstyles and clothing, it was almost impossible to tell them apart. At least physically.

Allegre shook his head, trying to clear away the shock he felt. “Mr…”
No, it’s captain…
“Captain Cain, I still don’t understand.”

“Gaston,” Garret interjected. “I realize this is quite a surprise for you, and you no doubt have many questions. But I suggest we deal with this enemy fleet before the Q&A session. What do you think?”