The RCX Nikitovna's massive fusion thrusters warmed up for a few seconds, then let loose a torrent of cyan plasma, boosting the ship in a prograde direction. The sudden change in its orbit set it out of sync with the orbit of the Poslushi fleet, which had set its own trajectory to be constantly just over the horizon for the Nikitovna and its fleet. However, the Russian task force was now moving faster than the Poslushi, and it was on a course to come within a hundred kilometers, a point-blank encounter by astronautical standards.
A shrill alarm blared through the decks of the ship as marines, technicians, and other assorted crewmen rushed to their stations. Banks of laser point-defense guns activated and began to sweep the skies, their AI cores autonomously isolating incoming projectiles and craft from background noise. The massive, heavily armored conveyors ferrying ammunition around the ship sparked to life and the 50-centimeter coilgun turrets on the ship's top deck swiveled into position. Then, the ship rolled 180 degrees to the right, stopping when it was upside down from the planet's point-of-view.
The digital fleet uplink in the bridge turned on and displayed a flickering holographic projection of the task force, with five distant red dots showing the approximate locations of the Poslushi vessels. Georgy drummed his fingers on his chair, working out firing angles, where to send his picket ships, and whether or not the 120-kiloton nuclear shells in his ship's magazine would be necessary. He decided against it; while the capacity to turn their entire fleet to slag in a single salvo was alluring, he couldn't risk escalating the conflict beyond what it had already become and inducing the Poslushi to unleash whatever hellish weapons they had in store. Besides, he had to get authorization from the President to launch them, which might not come in time.
They were lucky this time around; the encounter would take place over one of the planet's seas, meaning there wouldn't be any stray shots raining down on populated areas. The assets were set, the pieces put into play, and the battle ready to begin. There couldn't be a moment's hesitation.
"Fire a salvo on their second-largest ship." Georgy ordered. Almost instantly, the whole ship rattled as it discharged half a dozen metric-ton slugs at the enemy. A few seconds later, the radar officer spun around in his chair.
"No hits, sir."
Then, the comms officer raised a hand.
"RCX Novosibirsk reports damage, looks like the Poslushi hit it with some sort of directed-energy weapon. They're still operational, but the shot went straight through and it doesn't look good."
"We'll send them one of our damage-control teams after this is over. Radar, our shots didn't miss because of their magnetic field, did they?"
"No, sir, they're too heavy."
"So they just missed?"
"Yes, sir."
"Fire another salvo. Target their escorts this time; I've changed my mind. We want their flagship and slave barge intact."
The ship shook a second time. Georgy wanted to look the enemy commander in the eyes before the GRU got a hold of him.
Suddenly, one of the blips on the hologram representing an escort for the Nikitovna blinked out.
"Jesus Christ, they just put down the Novosibirsk. Looks like it got one through the magazine." the radar officer reported.
"Scramble rescue shuttles."
"Negatory, sir; no lifeboats and nothing left to look through."
Georgy sighed. There were 36 men aboard the Novosibirsk. "Were" was the operative word there.
"What's the status on our salvo?"
"Glancing hit on one of their escorts, but nothing else."
"What, are these things invincible? Adjust your firing solutions. Account for magnetic deflection. If the next shot we fire goes wide, someone's getting court-martialed."
The weapons officer spoke up. "Sir, the amount of time that would take--"
"Do it. Fire the neutron rays, the lasers. Hell, ram them if you have to."
Georgy hated the Nikitovna with a passion. It was a holdover from the days when spaceborne missiles were unreliable at best, rather than the deadly-accurate kings of space warfare they were today. The first *Rykov-*class missile cruiser hulls were being laid down in Earth orbit when the war began; hopefully, the Russian government would speed up their production and Georgy could send the Nikitovna to the boneyards of Mars where it belonged.
The radar officer went pale for a few seconds. "Enemy fleet is burning in our direction, full steam. I think they'll be preempting us in the ramming."
"How fast are they coming in?"
"Collision in T-minus one minute."
"Navi! Redirect course, bearing oh-nine-four by two-nine-six. Fire forward thrusters, take us out of the way."
The ship lurched to one side and Georgy grabbed one of the arms of his chair for support.
"All ships clearing intercept zone. Enemy fleet is not adjusting course." the radar officer called.
"Weapons, cancel ballistic calculations! I want every goddamn gun on the ship on their fleet!"
Georgy quickly learned to be more careful with his wishes. The Nikitovna jolted so powerfully that everyone not sitting down was quickly left sprawled on the deck. That included the emphatic admiral, who had leapt from his chair in excitement at some point without realizing.
A torrent of fire was directed downrange towards the fleet, of which the coilgun shells were only a part. Battering the enemy flagship, the neutral particle beams baked the outer decks, horrifically irradiating anyone unfortunate enough to be situated there. At the same time, megawatt-scale lasers sliced through the hull, leaving huge breaches that the half-cooked damage control teams simply couldn't hope to patch. The coilgun salvo came last, a barrage of kinetic rods aimed perfectly, flying in to punch holes in every inch of their flagship, to destroy it utterly, to--
Fail.
Georgy watched the projection, incredulous, as the enemy's escorts threw themselves in the path of the incoming shots, saving the flagship at the cost of their crews. Then, the two remaining ships of their fleet disappeared, apparently making their transit into whatever they used for FTL.
Georgy didn't even have the energy to feel anger. He simply collapsed into his chair, mouth agape and gaze hazy. There were so many innocent souls on that ship, so many Svetlanas by different names.
And he had failed them all.
---
The Epiphany had come shortly after her capture--no, her salvation, by the Poslushi. They had restrained her--how foolish she had been, then, to resist--and placed their mask upon her. Even then, she had fought them, tried to foil their attempts to enlighten her, but she eventually came to accept the truth into her heart. Some species were simply more fit to rule than others, and the rightful and natural position of humanity was on one knee. For the gift of knowledge, Captain Hutchins thanked her new, beneficent rulers.
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The act of infiltrating the greatest planet of humankind had been easy. She and her group had been inserted with a cover story. They were members of a survivalist group that had bugged out to the wilderness when the first of the Driver Caste arrived. Too harried by caring for an entire planet's worth of refugees, the Americans hadn't the time nor manpower to screen them more carefully. A visit to one of the planet's few standing spaceports later, and she was on Earth, carrying a bag full of various lustrous metals, nigh-worthless to her benefactors but invaluable to the unwashed masses.
The newest recruit stood before her, an aerospace engineer prior to his enlightenment and now a serviceable Acolyte Caste. He was the first human of that caste, and if Waffen succeeded in its duties, he would be far from the last. Captain-General Rapier had spoken many lavish stories of the high status and decadence that awaited those who accepted the inevitability of servitude before the rest of their species. After all, species didn't really matter as long as one did their job and accepted that the Poslushi would always be their rightful and benevolent masters.
"Do you, James Pharrell of the Acolyte Caste, swear your fealty to our mistress, High Judge Katana of the Pos brood, at war and at peace, in life and in death?"
"I swear my fealty."
"Then congratulations. Welcome to Waffen. I'd show you around, but..." Hutchins gestured around the abandoned warehouse they had set up shop in. There wasn't much to look at.
James chuckled. "What's my assignment?"
"Until your loyalty is proven, you, as an Acolyte, will be assigned with keeping us out of official record. When you have proven yourself and additional Acolytes have arrived to do that job, you will take assignment as I see fit."
James nodded. Just then, Hutchins' burner phone vibrated. She retrieved it from her pocket and listened to the voice on the other end. "I'm on my way." she said, flipping it closed.
"I'm so sorry, but I can't see you off. I have a deal to make."
The man would've looked like he was dressed for a normal day, if not for the bandana on his face. His bodyguards were dressed similarly, openly wielding MP12s. Hutchins had no doubts that the man had something similar under his coat. She found herself glancing nervously at the entrances to the parking garage; sure, the factory above hadn't been used for years, but it didn't deter her animal fear.
The man straightened as he saw Hutchins and her men. Hutchins stopped and the two stood off, some twenty feet apart. She outnumbered him, but given the handguns she and her soldiers had, she doubted they could take down more than two before the third sprayed them down with his submachine gun. They were at perfect range for their SMGs, too.
However, this didn't seem like a path the man was intent on taking. "Well, if it isn't the new kids on the block. I heard you were selling something juicy, and I just couldn't resist." the man had a distinctive Southwestern twang in his voice, and the way he spoke and carried himself suggested that he was older than he looked. Hutchins felt like a journeyman staring down a master of his craft.
"Indeed we are."
"Though, before I see your product, I do have to ask. You don't just show up in this game with millions already in the bank expecting nobody to notice. So, who's funding 'ya? Some megacorp tired of being on the up-and-up, or do you have friends across the Pacific?" then, he leaned forward a little bit, and his tone dropped.
"And, just between friends, if the Russians sent you, if they're trying to get into my spots, I want to know, just so you can be excluded from the utter hell I'm gonna bring down when I see them again."
"We're not associated with anybody."
"Ah, rich kid playing with her daddy's money. More common than you think, but you just don't really fit that bill. No tuxedos, no trademark air of superiority that's just so fun to watch disappear as I put a pistol in your mouth, but I digress. What, precisely, are you here to sell?"
"Oh, just some information."
The man perked up at this. "Ooh, how I love that."
"Here's just a taste of what we have." Hutchins said, handing the man a few papers stapled together, typed up by a Poslushi Acolyte Caste regarding the effects of and how to utilize neuroforming masks. It was, unfortunately, all stuff the human governments already knew, but that meant she could be a little more liberal with who she gave it to. The man's eyes widened and an odd glee filled his posture, like a child having been given his favorite sweet.
"My, my, my. And this isn't the full extent of your info?"
"Not even close. You really think I'd just let you have the product?"
"Of course not, miss...?"
"We needn't go by names here. You will address me as 'Captain.'"
For a brief moment, the man's eyes darkened and Hutchins saw that, for all his formality and showmanship, the man really was a killer at heart. She sensed that she had made a big mistake. "I will address you however I wish. But, Captain does have a nice ring to it. My name is Mr. Lovelace, and I represent the esteemed Lovelace Group. Now, if what you have is true, and my source in DARPA has been saying things to that effect for the past few weeks now, then your other information is quite valuable to me."
"If you want it, I have a few transfer plans for you, intercepted transmissions from a friend of mine." they both knew what those transfers contained.
"Oh, I want that very much. Now, what're you asking?"
"We don't want cash. We want bullion, weapons, and ammunition. The exact amount can be negotiated later."
"That's all fine and dandy, but do you realize precisely what you have? If word gets out that you're dealing in these things, everybody in the world with shady interests will be out after you. You're startups without the muscle to keep people off your turf."
Hutchins realized that Mr. Lovelace was right. "And what do you propose we do about it?"
"Well, if you were just another rich kid, I would've had you gunned down right here and now and taken every bit of your intel. However, you're not just any oddly well-connected newcomer. I feel like you're a little more professional than that. So, I'll make you a deal. We'll take you under our wing, supply you with what you need and keep away the bad guys, and in exchange, you'll ensure that your friend keeps stumbling on those transmissions for us."
Hutchins hated to basically sign over her organization to the Lovelace Group for the time being, but the Poslushi simply couldn't continue to supply her without arousing suspicion. "We'll take your offer."
Mr. Lovelace put out his hand and Hutchins shook it. "Well ain't that just wonderful. The Lovelace Group prides itself on excellent customer--and supplier--service, and we won't disappoint you. Speaking of, a shack in upstate New York is no place to headquarter any self-respecting outfit. How about we move you to somewhere a little nicer, give you a corner office in Manhattan?"
The offer was nice, but Hutchins made a mental note to ask Mr. Lovelace how he knew their base of operations later. It was vital that their operations couldn't be traced, and an urban base made incoming and outgoing traffic easy to lose in the background noise. "That's quite nice as well. We'll take that too."
"Don't worry about your finances for the time being; this is the biggest organized crime syndicate in America, after all. I was thinking a little ways out of the city center, nice office building, security systems, and a big ol' private 'parking complex' underground that you can redecorate to your little black heart's content."
"We'll work out the details later, Mr. Lovelace."
"Actually, call me Andy. You are, for all intents and purposes, my employee now, and I like to stay respectful of those who work for me. Though, I imagine our business here is done?"
"Indeed it is, sir."
"Alrighty, then. I'll give you a call when your place is all ready to go." Andy said, spinning on one heel and trundling off towards the black SUV he arrived in. If--and it wasn't a very big if--Captain's intel was accurate, then he had just found a way to get the Russians off his back. When that happened, the whole country's underworld would be, essentially, his own little fiefdom. Wouldn't that be something?
---
"Hey, come check this out." Svetlana called. Johann nearly fell out of his chair where he had been dozing with his cap over his eyes, then got up and jogged over. Svetlana was sitting on the ground, her green camo uniform caked with dust. She was holding her cellphone and watching an American news channel, translated into German for them both. The anchor looked somber as she narrated over footage of a burning line of trucks and armored cars.
"...the Department of Defense has refused to comment on the situation. However, according to a press release by the New York National Guard, the contents of the military convoy in upstate New York that was raided today consisted primarily of medical supplies, namely stocks of high-tech painkillers due to be issued to field hospitals on the Poslushi front. So far, no one has claimed responsibility for the attack. Now, on to the new rise in stock prices in..."
Johann immediately spotted the discrepancy. "Hey, Iris AFB only has a clinic; they wouldn't need nearly that much medicine."
Svetlana shrugged. "What else would they be carrying?"
"I don't know, but I heard that DARPA has a lab around there. Maybe they were carrying something else. Food for thought, is all."
In reality, Johann knew exactly what that convoy had to have been carrying, and that scared him even more than the newly-absent Poslushi threat on New Vancouver. If masks had fallen into the wrong hands, then this war would have even more long-reaching effects. Fanatical soldiers at a dime a dozen. Sleeper agents for every tinpot dictator with more than a dollar to his name. Human trafficking on a scale unseen since the abolition of the slave trade.
A new, alien future was barreling towards humanity at frightening speeds, and Johann knew that they weren't ready for it.