Andrew relaxed, slightly. The only reason he could think of for the Admiral to call him to Sparta was for a special mission of some kind. The mission against the Dreaming Meme had been a success, but that wouldn’t have called for a special reward, apart from the medal his immediate superior had pinned on his chest. The only other reason was for disciplinary action, but he knew for a fact that he had committed no offence sufficient to be summoned before the Commander-in-Chief.
“Be seated,” Brent said, after studying him for a long moment. Andrew took the forming chair and waited patiently for the Admiral to tell him what he was going to tell him in his own time. “You did well against the Dreaming Meme, Captain; well enough to recommend you for a more dangerous mission. Admiral Al-Rashid was unhappy to lose you, but I insisted on having you and your entire attack wing prepared for a special mission.”
There was a pause. “You’re going into Killer space,” Brent said, after a moment. “We want you to capture — or destroy — a Killer starship.”
Andrew blinked, the only sign of concern he would allow himself. He’d seen the images of High Singapore; they’d been shown throughout the Defence Force. The entire Defence Force could have used the Anderson Drive and railed to the defence of the asteroid settlement, but it would have been a hopeless battle. It would have cost hundreds of starships, for nothing. His attack wing was the most formidable force humans had assembled — he had built and trained it personally — yet they could barely scratch the paint on a Killer starship. They would be decimated if they had to stand and fight.
Brent read his expression and smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re not expecting you to take the starship down yourself. We plan to board the ship.”
“Board the ship?” Andrew asked. It seemed impossible. “Can they actually get onboard?”
“We believe so,” Brent said. He didn’t say any more, not entirely to Andrew’s surprise. The chip in his head would have recorded it and if his body had fallen into enemy hands… they would learn everything he knew. The recording chips posed a security nightmare for the Defence Force, but there was little choice; if they had been banned, the recruitment stream would have dropped to almost nothing. “There are some possible ways into the Killer starships and the Footsoldiers will attempt to use them.”
He paused. “Once inside the ship, they will attempt to disable it and allow you to take it in tow to Star’s End,” he continued. “Your remaining ships” — neither of them had any illusions as to how many starships would survive the coming encounter — “will take it though by linking your Anderson Drives together. Once there, the researchers will take command and take the starship apart to find out how it works.”
Andrew scowled. “It seems like one hell of a gamble,” he observed. “What happens if they vanish somewhere within the Killer starship? We don’t have any idea what they’re going to be facing.”
“You fall back and break off the engagement,” Brent said. “If they lose contact… well, there’s no point in taking additional risks. One of the Footsoldiers will be carrying an antimatter mine and if that baby goes off inside the ship…”
“Goodbye Killers,” Andrew said, slowly. The plan sounded workable, but there were far too many unknowns. Defence Force training had focused on how dangerous unknowns could be in combat. On the other hand, there weren’t very many other choices. If they couldn’t gain samples of Killer technology to study, the Defence Force would never be able to match the killers.
“Probably,” Brent confirmed. Andrew nodded. Killer starships had survived enough firepower to lay waste a hundred worlds. They had barely even noticed that they were under attack — or perhaps they just hadn’t bothered to launch a serious counterattack. Who knew what really motivated them? “We’ll run through an entire series of simulations and contingency plans before the attack wing departs, but if the unexpected happens, use your initiative. We can’t afford to lose this one, Andrew.”
“Yes, sir,” Andrew said. The Defence Force might have been rebuilt, but its morale was fragile; they knew that they couldn’t defend humanity against its single worst enemy. The destruction of a Killer starship, one of thousands, wouldn’t alter the material balance of power that much, but it would give the human race a massive boost. They needed the victory desperately. “I won’t let you down.”
“I hope so,” Brent said, standing up. “Come and meet your team.”
The human race hadn’t developed much of a military presence in space — not that it would have done much good anyway — when the Killers arrived. The legendary human armies and Special Forces — the Special Air Service, the United States Marine Corps, the Spetsnaz and many others — had been wiped out along with their planet, destroyed by an enemy they couldn’t touch, let alone fight. The isolated law enforcement and paramilitary units in space had been folded into the Community, but there had never been a serious military presence. The Community had had to build one from scratch.
They called themselves the Footsoldiers, a name that Captain Chris Kelsey had always found more than a little ironic. The human race might have lost most of its heritage — he’d never been sure if some of the stories about Old Earth’s Special Forces were real or exaggerations — but the Footsoldiers were far from common infantry. They were too expensive to train and maintain. They had more in common with the Special Forces — they operated in small groups and were rarely deployed to the surface of a planet — but they wore heavy Armoured Combat Suits and carried enough firepower to take out entire armies, each. If a platoon of armoured soldiers had been sent back in time to the heyday of Old Earth, or the Second World War, they could have conquered the world.
Provided we had our armour, of course, Chris thought, as he took his seat in the main briefing chamber. There were over two hundred Footsoldiers gathered together, which was unusual. Normally, they operated in teams of ten to twenty Footsoldiers, rarely more. Without our armour, we’d probably be captured or killed outright within seconds.
The thought reminded him of the survival training they’d done on a nameless planet along the edge of the galaxy. The trainees had been dropped on the planet with nothing, not even their clothes, and told to make their way to the pick-up point alone. The planet was completely uninhabited, at least by humans. The local wildlife was nasty and intolerant, the local fauna was either disgusting or poisonous — or both — and it wasn’t easy to find anything that could be used as a weapon. Those who had survived had known that they’d been the best; those who had failed at that point had died. It hadn’t been a pleasant experience and it had given him a new respect for the old-style soldiers back on Earth. They’d probably gone through worse.
“Attention,” a voice said, and the Footsoldiers came to attention. Military formality wasn’t part of their nature — they’d been taught to use their brains and work together, not operate by rote — but they showed respect for officers who’d earned it. Admiral Brent Roeder had definitely earned their respect. “At ease.”
Chris opened a memory cell in his augments — the Footsoldiers might not quite qualify as Spacers, but they were almost as heavily augmented — and started to record as the Admiral began to speak. The locker rooms had been full of chatter about the mission, with speculation ranging from clearing out a pirate base to rescuing hostages, although that wouldn’t have required two hundred Footsoldiers to handle.