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From Chapter 7
“Screen Six shows enemy movement, Centurion.”
Khla’Chenga moved to look at the brightly colored dots that disclosed the Terran positions on the motion screen. Many days had passed since the longnoses had stirred. Sh’Alani, his deputy com¬mander, thought it likely that they were nursing their wounds until the time came for another assault. Khla’Chenga worried that the hiatus carried more sinister overtones.
“Transmit Terran movements to Tactics for analysis,” the Centurion said. “I wish to know of any change in the movement patterns we have observed…and whether there is anything new for us to take into account.”
“I understand,” said the monitor. “You wish to know if they have changed commanders.”
Khla’Chenga smiled. Though from a lowly station, this monitor had a keen mind and sharp powers of observation. “Let us hope that I am worrying like a grandmother,” he patted the monitor affectionately on his shoulder. “But I am worried, nonetheless.”
Leaving the monitor station, Khla’Chenga strode down the hall toward the Tactical Center. From there he would control the defense of the planet. The large room arched above and below, like the expanse in which the fighting would loom. Holographic projections would display the contours of battle. And in the center, suspended over the transparent flooring that his subordinates would share with him, was a blue globe, suspended in the darkened room, spinning in the blackness like the real Gr’Lusshe circled the heavens.
Technicians and assistants swarmed about the Center like summer insects, tending to the endless details that would help their commanders repel the invaders. Khla’Chen¬ga looked at the mass of activity. Like the planet below them, the great room was crowded with refugees. Only here they were refugees from fear, and their refuge was their work, rather than the warmth of a friendly world. The Centurion felt the weight of creation pressing upon him, for the fate of all on the planet below—on the Defense Station—even in the ships that had beaten back the longnoses for the past hundred days—rested upon him. Yet in a few days it would be over: the relief force was but two days away. If they could hold out until then, he could draw his first relaxed breath in what seemed like a lifetime.
Khla’Chen¬ga strode proudly into the Center.
“The High Commander comes,” called the Tactics Controller. The command staff stopped their tasks to stand stiffly in place, a gesture of respect for the one who had replaced their darkest fears with hope and pride.
“The Terrans are shifting their line of attack,” reported the Chief Monitor. “They are moving into Sector Twelve, and forming a broadened front for their assault.”
“I do not like this,” added Sh’Alani.
“You do not like the fact that they are moving between ourselves and our approaching relief force,” Khla’Chenga said wryly, “or the fact that they are trying something different this time?”
Sh’Alani fell into an embarrassed silence. At once, Khla’Chenga felt a sense of shame. Alani’s enthusiasm had proved a valuable asset during the long ordeal. The Centurion knew that it was wrong to use his rank to mock one who had performed so admirably.
“I apologize for my tactlessness,” smiled Khla’Chenga. “But we must forget our likes and dislikes. We must concentrate only on living through the next few days.”
“Their tactics are changing,” said his deputy. “I pray that it does not mean— ”
“We gain nothing by assuming the worst, Son of Gralani, except a paralyzing sense of fear,” said Khla’Chenga, strengthening his voice so that all could hear. “Yet we have all known that it could well come to this, that the Terrans might one day send their best into battle against us. And if it is truly the Beast himself who now seeks our destruction, then we owe our people, and our Imperator—and everyone huddling in fear on the planet we are guarding—all the courage and daring we can muster for the struggle before us.
“We have won a great battle, just by staying alive. In two days—three, at the most—the forces of His Worthiness will arrive to break the siege and bring us the rest we have not known for ages. Surely a few days more can be as nothing, for those who have already accomplished so much.”
A deafening cheer rose through from the throats of those assembled, and cries of “Victory!” soon filled the Center. Yet as they returned to their tasks, each felt the first twinge of despair start gnawing within.
They were within days of denying the longnoses the first contested planet of the war. Victory, however transitory it might prove to be, was within their grasp.
Yet each knew that the most hated Terran was out there, somewhere, looming in the blackness like death.
And each knew that the One Called Khu’ukh had yet to lose in battle.
* * *
“WITH ALL DUE respect, Commodore... ”
“Get to the point, Forestall. I don’t want to keep the Crutchtans waiting.”
“Setting your people off to the side…and splitting the troop landers like that. I don’t understand— ”
“We went over it all at the briefing, Captain. This is not a debate, and I’m not conducting a tactics seminar.”
“But— ”
“If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to discuss the matter afterwards. If we both live through this. And if I’m not called away as soon as it’s over. Right now, I don’t have the time.”
“But why— ”
“That is all, Captain. You have a squadron to tend to.”
“Yes, sir.”
“D’Artagnan out.”
“Over and out—sir.”
* * *
SLOWLY, THE ENEMY forces drew closer. The Terrans advanced along a broad front, the Crutchtans moved cautiously, approaching in a single, tight formation aimed at the Terran midsection. Just beyond the solar limits of Gr’Lusshe, the Terran left flank raced forward and pivoted forty-five degrees, seeking to engage the Crutch¬tan flank at an angle to soften them for the bulk of the Terran attack. It was a maneuver that Khla’Chenga had seen before, though only in briefings and study sessions, and he countered by sending a small detachment to engage and deflect the Terran charge.
But concern rippled throughout the Crutchtan defenders. Few Terran commanders dared to split their forces at the onset of battle, and the One Called OOH-eh’thr¬li lacked both the wit and the vision to begin a battle with such a maneuver. This concern soon matured into worry, as the Terrans followed their opening slant by pivoting the main body of their forces and slicing toward the besieged Crutchtan flank, isolating the Crutch¬tan wing and positioning the bulk of the Terran force to lunge directly toward the besieged planet.
It was a thrust both daring and simple, and bore the dreaded hallmarks of Crutch¬ta’s deadliest enemy. As it became apparent that the longnoses had changed commanders for a last attempt to take the planet, a cold fear spread among the Crutch¬tan defenders.
“CHANDLER REPORTS the bulk of the main Crutchtan body moving past Squadron Four to engage him.”
“Already noted.”
“Forestall reports enemy reinforcements moving toward our left flank.”
“Commodore, a trailing enemy squadron has engaged Squadron Four. Captain Drake reports stiffening resistance.”
Cook looked up from his star map. In his command room, adjacent to his office, he kept the lights dimmed, better to see the movements on the screens. As his tactical aides kept their eyes glued to their computer screens, his own eyes narrowed in fierce concentration, the monitor lights casting a soft glow across his face.
“Tell Tanana to move into position to support Chandler’s squadron, and await the order to engage. I expect the fighting will be rather intense, and he’ll need all the help he can get.”
“Aye aye.”
“In the meantime, I want to know the instant the Crutchtans begin moving their second wave into position.”
“Yes, Commodore.”
“And Calloway— ”
“Sir?”
“Page the bridge, and tell Commander Mendelson to have the first team stand down. They shouldn’t be needed for the next hour or so. Tell her not to start worrying until I show up there.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
KHLA’CHENGA LOOKED anxiously at the monitor screen. Grimly, he paced the Center, his eyes never moving from the center of the battle.
“Report,” he commanded.
“Engagement proceeding. Detachment Six reports heavy losses.”
“Detachment Five reports their lines under attack.”
“Detachment Two reports their lines are holding, but the Terrans are intensifying their attack.”
Khla’Chenga felt his mind under siege. Khu’ukh pressed upon them from every corner of the battle, giving them not a moment’s reflection. Forcing himself to remain calm, he called for Sh’Alani. His voice was dispassionate and controlled, but Alani could sense the growing anxiety of his commander.
“Analysis?”
“Our reserves remain uncommitted.”
“As are those of the Terrans.”
“They are directing their thrust toward the middle of our forces. Perhaps a counterthrust along the peripheries... ”
“Our peripheries are barely holding their own. Without reinforcements, they cannot attack. And if we commit ourselves there, the Terrans will press their central attack and overrun our main force.”
“Help is less than two days away. If we can last— ”
“We must first fight the Terrans to a draw. We cannot do so if our lines collapse around us.”
As Sh’Alani pondered the problem, Khla’Chenga glanced again at the battle projector. Khu’ukh was a more daring commander than he had ever encountered, with a quick, adaptable mind and a stunning sense of timing. So far, the Terran had anticipated and countered his every movement, pressing the attack closer and more furiously with each turn of battle.
And yet with each passing moment, the Terran line was arching forward at the peripheries, leaving a bulge in the center of battle where the fighting was most intense and resistance by the g’Khruushtani was the fiercest.
Suddenly, it struck him; coldly, he mulled it over in his mind until he was certain. Soon a grim smile danced over his lips, and those closest to him felt their own spirits lifting with the growing hopes of their commander.
Khu’ukh could be beaten.
Now.
There!
And Khla’Chen¬ga knew exactly how to do it. It had been so simple that it nearly escaped his notice.
“Order two squadrons of the reserves forward,” he said, his voice carrying echoes of his own confidence. “The remainder shall await my order.”
“And they are— ”
“They are to attack,” said Khla’Chenga. “Let the longnoses feel the lash of defeat. Today, let their ashes light the skies, and let the Imperator’s Medallion go to the defender who destroys the One Called Khu’ukh.
“They are to attack! They are to push at the center of the Terran positions and not let the longnoses shake loose until the battle is won. They are to attack!”
“WHAT?”
“I said— ”
“He’s ordering us to do what?”
“We are ordered to disengage and retreat, and reestablish our lines one-hundred klicks due east of— ”
“Get him on the line.”
“I beg your par— ”
“Get our esteemed commodore on the line, Lieutenant. Right now.”
“But— ”
“Don’t give me ‘buts’ — or I’ll kick yours myself. Just do it!”
As the radio officer hastily tried to raise the d’Artagnan on the emergency channel, Captain Chandler fumed in his command chair. Outside, just beyond the range of his visual sensors, a furious battle was raging. His tactical screens told him that his ships were starting to turn the battle. Though the toll was high on both sides, the enemy was starting to give way. If they kept up the pressure, they might well break through the enemy line, though how long it would take was anyone’s guess.
But now, if this latest scheme wasn’t countermanded....he just didn’t want to think of the consequences. A stern voice on the communications screen jolted him back to grim reality.
“All right, Chandler, what is it? And why are you still holding your position?” It was Cook; his angry eyes told Chandler that he was in more trouble with the commodore than he was with the Crutchtans. But Chandler was hardly in a defensive mood. Having his own commander angry at him was the least of his worries.
“I wanted to confirm— ” he began.
“Retreat order is confirmed,” Cook said sharply. “Reestablish your position one-hundred astrokilometers due east of McGregor’s Star. You may make your retreat as orderly as possible, but you are ordered to withdraw, immediately.”
“But that means that Drake— ”
“Immediately.”
“They’ll have to slug their way back, Commodore. And there’s no telling— ”
“You have your orders, Captain.”
“Dammit, Cook! You’re cutting off our own people!”
“Those are your orders, Captain.”
Chandler signed off angrily, and nodded to his radio officer to relay the order to the rest of his squadron. He tried to ignore the twisting, gnarled feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew that the battle would soon come hurling toward him in its full fury. But his own squadron would hardly know the worst of it. Already, Drake’s people were in the thick of the battle. Chandler realized that if he retreated, the front around them would collapse, letting lizards pour through the breach and cutting Drake off from any help from the rest of the attack wing.
It was almost as if Cook was dooming his point squadron to a pointless death.
Chandler felt fear gnaw at his belly. All around them, the Terran battle lines were collapsing. It seemed clear that Cook had finally met his match.
Either that, or the man had finally lost his mind.
* * *
© 2011 by Jeffrey Caminsky
