his subordinates. “I understand the nature of your concern, Colonel,” he said smoothly. “Gamma-014 is well-known for the severity of its winters. Fortunately, our forces will be able to land and eradicate the bugs before the really nasty weather sets in. It may be necessary to leave an occupying force behind of course—but the Hegemony will supply them with whatever they need. Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” Kobbi said, as he came to his feet. “I wonder if the general could provide us with more information regarding the capabilities of the Civilian Volunteer Army. . . . Specifi?cally, how much training they’ve had, what role they will play, and for which units?”
General-453 didn’t like the question, as was clear from the expression on his face and the contemptuous way in which his response was worded. “Kobbi is it? Well, General Kobbi. . . . Had you taken time to read the Plan of Battle, especially the subsection titled ‘The Role of Civilian Volunteers,’ you would already know the answer to your question. But, since you didn’t, I will reply by saying that each volunteer is genetically qualifi?ed to fulfi?ll his or her role, is already an expert in one of three clearly defi?ned support specialties, and has been through four weeks of rigorous military orientation. That training includes familiarization with the chain of command, roles and responsibilities for each rank, and the appropriate protocols.”
Everyone watched as Kobbi, who was still on his feet, nodded respectfully. “Sir, yes sir. . . . But can they fi? ght?”
That produced a nervous titter, followed by a series of coughs, and a rustling noise as some of the offi?cers repositioned themselves. The clone, who was visibly angry by that time, seemed to spit out his words one at a time. “Yes, General. The CVA can fi?ght if need be. But if you, and your troops, do the job properly, they won’t have to. Will they?”
The caustic interchange might have continued had it not been for one of Four-fi?fty-three’s aides, who took the opportunity to intervene. “I’m sorry to interrupt gentlemen, but the general is due aboard the Mimas two hours from now, and his shuttle is waiting.”
The meeting broke up shortly after that, and Santana was forced to wait as more than a dozen offi?cers stopped by to thank Kobbi for asking about the CVA, before fi?ling out into the corridor. Finally, once they were alone, Santana had the opportunity to tell Kobbi about Quinlan’s daughter. The senior offi?cer winced and shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid things aren’t going well, Tony—not well at all.”
Was Kobbi referring to Quinlan’s daughter? General453’s arrogant leadership style? Or to the conduct of the entire war? There was no way to be sure—and Santana knew better than to ask.
5
There is no better fate than a glorious death in the face of insurmountable odds for the sake of one’s clan.
The Warrior’s Way
ABOARD THE BATTLESHIP
Except for the LEDs on Fleet Admiral Cory Trimble’s workstation, vid screen, and bedside clock, it was pitch- black inside her cabin as the com began to chirp. Trimble swore as she surfaced from a deep sleep, fumbled for the handset, and brought it up to her ear. “Yes?”
The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Flag Captain Hol Baraki. The two offi?cers had known each other for more than twenty years, so when Trimble heard the tightness in his voice, she knew something was wrong. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Admiral,” Baraki said formally. “But we need you on the bridge. The fi?rst elements of what we assume to be a Ramanthian fl?eet dropped hyper fi?ve minutes ago.”
Trimble felt an iron fi?st grab hold of her insides and start to squeeze. Here was one of the scenarios that she and her staff had warned the Joint Chiefs about when President Nankool took 10 percent of the already-anemic home fl?eet and sent it off to take part in the attack on Gamma-014. But the knowledge that she and her staff had been correct brought Trimble no pleasure as she said, “I’ll be right there,” and put the handset down.
Klaxons had begun to bleat by that time, but could barely be heard within Trimble’s tightly sealed cabin, as the ship’s crew went to battle stations. The Stern-Krieger (Star Warrior), was a sister ship to the famous Gladiator, which had been lost to a Ramanthian ambush only months before. Her fi?ve-milelong hull was protected by energy shields, thick armor, and an arsenal of weapons that included both energy cannons and missile launchers. And, like any vessel her size, the Krieg was accompanied by more than two dozen escorts, including a couple of heavy cruisers, a medium-sized carrier, six destroyers, and a variety of smaller warships, supply vessels, and a fl?eet tug. All of which sounded impressive, but was only onethird of the force assigned to protect Earth prior to a long series of peacetime budget cuts, increasing apathy on the part of the planet’s citizens, and the steady erosion of assets associated with the war. But there wasn’t a damned thing Trimble could do about that as she took the time necessary to apply some makeup before donning a fresh uniform. Not because she was vain, but because it was important to look the way she usually did, especially during a time of crisis. The face in the mirror had a high forehead, wide-set hazel eyes, and lips that were too thin to be sexy. It was a fl?aw the offi?cer had always intended to fi?x, but never gotten around to, like so many things related to her personal life. Her hair, which was silvery, barely touched her collar.
Once dressed, Trimble took one last look in the mirror, threw her shoulders back, and left the cabin. A pair of marine guards came to attention, offered rifl?e salutes, and followed the admiral up the corridor toward the bridge. It was a short trip, and intended to be, since her sleeping cabin was located just aft of the control room.
The battleship’s primary Command & Control (C&C) computer was generally referred to as Gertrude for reasons lost to history—and was currently making use of onebillionth of her considerable capabilities to communicate with the Krieg’s crew. “This is not a drill. . . . Secure all gear, check space armor, and strap in. Primary weapons systems, secondary weapons systems, and tertiary weapons systems have been armed. All fi? ghter aircraft are prepared for immediate launch. . . .”
The two smartly uniformed marines posted just outside the control room crashed to attention as the admiral approached, and remained in that position until the hatch hissed open, and Trimble entered the bridge. The marines assigned to protect her remained outside.
