Fury Of War

Prologue

PROLOGUE

The War Room was abuzz with activity. Generals in Army green stood with admirals in Space Corps black, all talking in hushed, frenzied voices as they watched the reports coming in. There must have been at least three dozen monitors bolted to the gray walls, and every one of them displayed an ever-growing list of ships that had fallen or retreated. The holographic globe that rotated in the middle of the room projected red dots where enemy battlecruisers had assumed orbit above Leyria’s major cities.

It wasn’t going well.

The air was so thick with fear, Jeral Dusep could practically taste it. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to help. Five seconds after he arrived, they sat him down at a small, round table in the corner. And they had been ignoring him ever since. Every half hour or so, some lieutenant would come by to give him an update, but otherwise, they left him to stew in his own dread.

Fleet Admiral Shanis came to speak with him every time he called, but she took her sweet time about it, arriving ten – sometimes fifteen – minutes after he sent the lieutenant to fetch her. She would stay for all of thirty seconds, just long enough to hear Jeral’s latest suggestion and assure him that her ships had been deployed in the most effective way possible. She never took his advice. Never.

Grand General Koss was even worse; the man simply refused to speak with Jeral. At one point, Jeral had been forced to pen a sternly-worded note and send it along with the lieutenant. That had gotten a response.

The general had stormed over to his table, shouting for all the world to hear. “If I wanted advice from i***t civilians, I would call Jarid Ponorsi and ask for his reflections on proper troop deployment! At least that guy has a personality!”

Intolerable!

Jeral was the Prime Council! How dare they speak to him in that way? He would have relieved the general of duty, except his office lacked the authority to do that. Only a quorum of the Armed Forces Committee could relieve a Grand General of his command. Jeral was here to speak for the Council, nothing more. He had no authority to give orders to any member of the armed services, a situation that he would have to remedy.

So, he sat at his table, wrapped in the Prime Council’s thick, blue robe, carrying the golden shepherd’s crook that served as his badge of office. Matao had told him that there was no need to bring such things – they were purely ceremonial – but he wanted these people to remember who he was.

General Paydron, a tall and lanky man with pale skin, bushy eyebrows and a hawk-like beak of a nose, stood with a tablet in hand. “They’ve landed another five thousand troops outside Denabria.”

Koss looked up from the conference table, baring his teeth in a snarl. The man was an ugly brute with a double chin and thick wrinkles across his brow. “Send the Sixty-Third and Seventy-First divisions to support.”

One of those young lieutenants was already relaying those orders through the comm-system. Jeral could do nothing but sit here and watch. “Sir,” the young man cut in. “Major Zindosa is recommending a retreat.”

“Is she now?” Koss growled.

“They say they can’t hold, sir.”

General Koss sat back with a hand over his mouth, lost in thought. Was he contemplating a retreat? That could not be permitted!

Jeral was on his feet in an instant, his face aflame with fury. “We will not surrender the capital!” he snarled. “Do you hear me?”

“Shut him up or get him out of here!” Koss barked.

“I will not be spoken to in this way!” Jeral screamed, pacing across the room. He tapped his chest with his index finger. “I am the Prime Council! And you will show me the proper respect!”

The young lieutenant twisted around in his seat, looking over his shoulder. “Sir,” he said. “Major Zindosa insists that if her forces don’t pull out now, they will be surrounded and overrun by Ragnosian troops.”

“Tell them to keep fighting!” Jeral shrieked.

No one listened.

Wheeling his chair back from the table, Koss stood up. At first, Jeral expected another outburst, but the man had his anger under tight control. “Mr. Prime Council,” he said. “You will sit down and remain quiet, or I will have you removed from the room.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Koss nodded to the two guards at the door. Both hurried over and seized one of Jeral’s arms, pulling him toward the exit. “Unhand me!” he wailed. “How dare you? How dare you? I am the Prime Council!”

They tossed him out into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him, leaving him alone. Quivering, he braced a hand against the wall, hung his head and tried to take control of himself. “Tried” being the operative word.

This was not how it was supposed to go!

The war should have been over months ago with a decisive Leyrian victory. The people would hail him as a hero. Jeral Dusep: the man who restored Leyria’s former glory. Once Ragnos had been put in its place, he would turn his attention to the Antaurans who had been encroaching on Leyrian territory for decades. He would take back Belos and annex a few worlds on the Antauran side of the border. A little payback for the years of humiliation his people had suffered.

He would imagine it every night before he went to sleep: this golden vision of a Leyrian Empire that stretched across the galaxy. It was a beautiful dream. And now, it was all turning to ashes.

Jeral was fuming, unable to stay still, filled to bursting with rage. “I won’t let them take it from me,” he whimpered. “I won’t-”

“Sir?”

Taking control of himself, Jeral let out a breath. Calm. He had to display at least a modicum of dignity. “Yes, Matao, what is it?”

The other man was waiting halfway up the corridor, afraid to approach. Tall and broad-shouldered with a neat goatee, Matao Zaranthel wore his short, brown hair parted in the middle. “My apologies, sir,” he began in clipped tones. “But the Council is waiting to speak with you.”

“Yes,” Jeral said. “Yes, of course. Let’s go.”

Matao led him to a small conference room with a table of polished mahogany and a screen on the wall. Claiming one of the cushioned chairs, Jeral composed himself before his aid opened the conference call.

The screen lit up with dozens of small windows, each one depicting a different room. Most of the councilors had gathered in an underground bunker several hundred kilometres north of Denabria. A few of them had retreated to their own personal panic rooms. Four hundred and thirty-two people, each representing a different province, and they all looked like they hadn’t slept in days. Some of them probably hadn’t.

Adra Koliar, a short and plump woman with dark, tanned skin and voluminous, brown hair, stepped forward to address him. “Mr. Prime Council,” she said. “What is our status?”

Leaning back, Jeral crossed his arms and answered her with a frown. “It’s not going well,” he said. “Most of our ships have been heavily damaged. The enemy now controls the skies. The troops we sent to defend our cities are being overwhelmed.”

“That’s it then,” Garza Prell said. “It’s over.” Jeral couldn’t see the cowardly, old buffoon; he was somewhere in the crowd behind Adra. Regardless, such ideas could not be allowed to take root in their minds.

“It is not over,” Jeral insisted. “We will fight to the last.”

“Mr. Prime Council,” Adra began cautiously, “it seems the outcome of this battle is now a foregone conclusion. Further hostility will only result in more civilian casualties. Perhaps the time has come for a negotiated surrender.”

Jeral raised an eyebrow. “And how, Councilor, did you come to that conclusion?”

“The military has shared its assessment of the situation with us.”

“I see. And by any chance, did they tell you what the Ragnosians are planning to do with all of you?”

“With us?”

Chuckling softly, Jeral smiled as he shook his head. “I see that General Koss’s proclivity for keeping things on a ‘need to know basis’ extends to his own government. There is intelligence that you have not received.”

Adra was skeptical; he could see it in her eyes. The woman just stared him down, waiting for him to elaborate, and when he failed to do so, she asked, “And what is this so-called intelligence?”

“Matao,” Jeral said. “Please forward the document I sent you.”

“Yes, sir.”

That document was a complete forgery, a contingency plan that Jeral had created months ago when the generals started talking about ‘a negotiated surrender.’ He would not allow Leyria to become subordinate to any other world. Surrender was not an option. He would drive the very idea from their minds.

Multi-tools started beeping as each councilor received copies of “the intel.” He prayed that it would look official enough to convince them.

“What is this?” Tylar Krenik demanded. The old codger came forward, practically shoving Adra out of the way, and glowered into the camera. “Is this legitimate, Jeral? Are you convinced of its veracity?”

“I am.”

“They’re going to kill us?” Maleen Dorsavin stammered. “But why? What threat are we to them?”

Resting his elbows on the chair arms, Jeral steepled his fingers and regarded them with cool, calm composure. He was in his element now; convincing these fools to do what he wanted had never been difficult. “LIS was able to procure that document after successfully cracking the Ragnosian Central Command’s datanet.” No need to give them any further details. “General Koss thought it necessary to withhold that information from you. I wonder why.”

“Why indeed?” Valis Bradarin shouted. “This information should have been shared with us as soon as its legitimacy was confirmed! Why would the military withhold such a crucial piece of intelligence?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Jeral replied. “If Leyria surrenders, the military isn’t going anywhere. We have an entire fleet of highly advanced starships that the Ragnos would love to get its hands on. And they will need crews who know how to fly those ships. But the only way to ensure the compliance of the civilian population is to eliminate any vestige of the former government.

“Koss wants to surrender because his skills will be in demand once Ragnos takes control of this planet. But all of you will be scheduled for immediate termination. To quell any thought of an uprising against the new regime. Unless the Council acts quickly, that is precisely what will happen.”

“What…” Adra wet her lips, working up the nerve to speak. “What do you suggest?”

Swiveling his chair, Jeral smiled behind his clasped hands. “Invoke the War Powers Act,” he said. “Give me direct control of the military, and I will ensure that we do not surrender. And that you have adequate protection.”

It wasn’t unanimous, but with a two-thirds majority, it was enough.

Half an hour later, he stormed back into the War Room, causing several generals to turn around. They gave him a dismissive glance and then immediately returned to what they were doing. Well, they would soon learn their mistake.

Koss rose from the conference table, his lips parting to show clenched teeth for only a moment. Just like that, he was the very image of poise and control once again. “Mr. Prime Council,” he said. “I do believe I-.”

“Sit down, General,” Jeral snapped. “That’s an order.”

“You can’t give me orders, sir.”

A wolfish grin split Jeral’s face in two. “Oh, but I can!” He rolled up his sleeve to expose his multi-tool, his deft fingers gliding over the screen. “I suppose I can’t blame you for your ignorance. The notice was only posted a few minutes ago.”

Every other tool in the room started beeping. Disconcerted admirals and generals checked their screens. Within seconds, the whole place was a hurricane of angry mutters and shocked protests.

Quite satisfactory.

“The Council has invoked the War Powers Act,” Jeral said. “You’re all taking orders from me now. We’re going to take a different approach to this battle. Our troops will fight, and they will fight mercilessly until the enemy is broken at our feet! No more excuses! Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Admiral Shanis mumbled.

“Do I make myself clear?”

A chorus of booming voices answered him with a perfunctory, “YES, SIR!”

Standing tall with his hands clasped behind his back, Jeral flashed another smile. “Good,” he said, nodding once. “I’m pleased that we could come to a mutually-beneficial understanding. General Koss, I relieve you of duty.”

“Sir!” one of the comm officers shouted. “The Ragnosian Flagship is broadcasting a message to the whole planet.”

“Let’s see it.”

The rotating globe fizzled away, replaced by the hologram of a woman with a chin-length bob of brown hair. By the markings on her gray uniform, he knew that she was a Ragnosian vice admiral. So, this was Telixa Ethran.

She wasn’t exactly a pretty woman; her pale face had a dour quality to it. More to the point, she looked like she had been surviving on caffeine and painkillers for several weeks. “People of Leyria,” she said. “Your fleet has been scattered, your cities captured. This battle is over. There is nothing to be gained from further bloodshed. We urge you to surrender now. I promise you that our terms will be generous and that you will have an honoured place within the Ragnos Confederacy.”

Jaw clenched, Jeral trembled with rage. “Broadcast my image across the Link,” he rasped. “I want to send a reply.”

“Sir, are you sure that’s-”

“DO IT!”

One of the lieutenants, a tall and skinny woman with a blonde ponytail, started tapping away at her SmartGlass console. “Channel open, sir,” she said. “Your words are being broadcast to the whole planet.”

Drawing himself up to full height, Jeral tried to project calm self-confidence. It did no good. The fury he had walled off was about two seconds from bursting free, and when it did, it would incinerate anyone who got too close. “This is the Prime Council of Leyria responding to the admiral’s generous offer,” he said. “There will be no surrender! Our people will fight until every last Ragnosian who set foot on this planet is exterminated like the sub-human filth that they are! Know that you will pay a price in blood for your actions here today. We will hound your ships back to your worthless planet and reduce Ragnos to a cinder. Is that understood?”

The only answer he got was Telixa’s hologram disappearing.

“Now,” he said. “Let’s get to work.”