2954-02-25 – Tales from the Service: Emissary of the Seventy-Three

Obviously, as I alluded to in last week’s entry, I am aware of the recent announcement by Seventh Fleet of the raid conducted on one of the Incarnation core worlds, an arid but well-populated planet known to its inhabitants as Prospero but identified by Navy planners as Target Karma. 

The official name of this operation seems to be Sledgehammer, though none of the fleet press releases named the offensive. As I indicated last week, at least two head-fake operations seem to have been tied to this to try to conceal the operation – some personnel seem to have been informed they were involved in operations “Ludendorff” and “Juno” with different operational parameters. 

This deception, however, had little to no effect. The raiding force for Sledgehammer ran into a formation of Incarnation cruisers which blocked it from doing much damage to orbital infrastructure, and several lesser warships were destroyed in the ensuing battle. In the grand scheme of things, such a skirmish would barely deserve a single press release from Seventh fleet headquarters, except that it took place over an enemy world. 

That’s all I can really say for the moment about Sledgehammer. Target Karma (I will use this term, for consistency with Navy releases and to avoid confusion) appears to have avoided significant damage, but there must be some effect on enemy morale to see Confederated warships over Incarnation worlds for the first, and certainly not the last, time. The raid, minor though it is, begins a new (and hopefully final) phase of this war. 

This week’s entry is, or claims to be, an account brought to us from the Kyaroh front. Due to the lack of HyperComm connectivity to Force 73, I have no means of verifying this, so I present it with the caution that, as the fog of war clears on the operations in that quarter, we may find that this is only a clever invention. I have made no alterations to names, as the submitter made clear it was already anonymized. 

At a signal from his guide, Lieutenant Vasili M. eased his rail carbine off his shoulder and sat down on the dust-strewn floor of the ruined structure, grateful for a chance to rest after nearly six hours of hiking through the most broken terrain imaginable. The trio of Marines who followed him picked out spots for themselves, though they showed no sign of fatigue. They never did. 

“How much farther?” Vasil asked, reaching into his pocket for a food bar. 

Bel’itec, their Kyaroh guide, peered through a jagged hole in the wall opposite they’d come through, his vast shoulders briefly blocking the stream of daylight which lit the space. “The perimeter approaches.” His rumbling voice formed clear Anglo-Terran words, though he had only started learning the language a few weeks prior. “Before dark, we will be with my kin.” 

“Good.” Vasili bit off a chunk of the meal bar, and chewed thoughtfully. He had volunteered for this duty, and he wasn’t sure he regretted it yet, but two days and nights of hiking and sleeping rough had been hard on him. He didn’t want to admit it, but three years in Navy service had begun to dull woodcraft honed among the rugged hills of Planet at Centauri. 

Woodcraft, of course, had precious little benefit, when one’s course took one through vast kilometers of ruined mega-city. From Bel’itec, he’d learned that the place had once been a grand place, a center of culture and the arts, as well as the main hub of the planet’s weapons industry. Some ten million Kyaroh had once called it home – but that had been before the Incarnation arrived. Now, it was a shattered jumble of broken artifice, a haven for renegades both human and Kyaroh, shallowly colonized these past two decades or so by weeds and vermin. 

So far, the little band had run into little trouble. They’d spotted a few Incarnation air patrols, but these perfunctory overflights, even with all the sensors that festooned Incarnation aircraft, could do little to penetrate the shambolic wilderness that had once been a grand city. The occupiers knew better than to commit troops to ground patrols; even if they never spotted a single Kyaroh, there were other dangers to contend with. 

The planet’s original inhabitants, of course, had never quite abandoned the city. The surface was a total loss, but according to Bel’itec, life of a sort still went on in the many tunnels bored below the surface, where many thousands of Kyaroh sheltered, out of reach of Incarnation captivity and enslavement. 

No doubt the Incarantion force suspected the presence of this redoubt; after all, it was one of many such on a planet they nominally controlled, and not even the largest. The surface and the day belonged to the occupier, but the depths and the darkness favored the Kyaroh who still dared to resist. They seemed to have little will to reduce it, however. Their occupation force controlled and operated what heavy industry had not been destroyed by their assault, with the dubious help of nearly a million enslaved Kyaroh. Why should they care if, in warrens, tunnels, and mountain caves, there were still many who called themselves free? It made little difference to their war machine. 

That, of course, was what Vasili and his little band were here to change. They had crept down to the surface in a stealth-equipped shuttle launch to avoid the lone enemy cruiser stationed in orbit with a message for the leaders of the subterranean resistance. Force 73 was on its way. The time to strike was at hand. 

“We should not linger.” Bel’itec gestured back out the door through which they had come, to a street choked with titanic chunks of what had once been a towering skyscraper. “We must not be detected so close to the redoubt.” 

Wearily, Vasili got to his feet, and his trio of Marine compatriots silently followed suit. “I hope there’s some hot food and a few soft beds waiting for us when we get there.” 

“You will see.” With that, Bel’itec crept outside, moving more stealthily than anything that big had any right to. 

With a sigh, Vasili hefted his carbine and followed.