The Human War

By W Young

In a distant future the two dominant factions of humanity - the patriarchal Alliance and matriarchal Federation are locked in a war that has dragged on for centuries. The conflict trapped in a seemingly endless stalemate.
Stationed in a backwater theatre of the war aboard the Alliance Dreadnought Vengeance, Squadron Leader William Drake, member of the elite Templars is ordered to eliminate a Federation mining mission detected in a nearby system.
During the resulting violent confrontation, Drake’s craft is badly damaged in a clash with Federation fighters. With his ship failing, he crashes on a nearby planet where he discovers he is not the only survivor from the battle above.
Stranded on an alien world, it becomes a question of what is more dangerous - the planet or each other?

• Language: English
• Publisher: W Young
• Release date: Sep 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005087753

W Young

W Young was born in Auckland, New Zealand and currently resides there with their family.

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The Human War

By W Young

Copyright 2021 W Young

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

Drake fought to keep the dagger steady in his hand.

A grizzled voice asked him, Is there a problem, Squadron Leader?

Drake peered at Avorne. Formerly an Alliance general, Avorne’s gunmetal grey hair gave testament to his years of service. The black robed war priest stared back with his one good eye. Avorne hadn't lost the eye in combat, but had offered it as a sacrifice upon his ordination. A symbol of his devotion to the War Gods worshipped on all Alliance worlds.

Drake peered at the source of his misgivings; the Fed prisoner dragged up from the holding cells. She had bloodshot, glazed eyes and pale, greasy skin. She was drugged, clad in a baggy grey jumpsuit, and chained to the wall. With age lengthening treatments it was impossible to know her actual age, but she appeared to be in her mid-twenties. Sacrifices were drugged to prevent them from escaping. However, deep in the bowels of an Alliance ship, overseen by a Marine squad, and chains wrapped round their feet, Drake doubted a conscious one would get too far. He wondered if beneath the chemical fog clouding her mind, she had any idea of where she was or what was about to happen. He hoped not.

Drake kept his voice low, unwilling to let his thoughts echo around the Vengeance’s chapel. This does not feel right, priest. She might be Fed, but she’s still a warrior and deserves a better fate than this.

Grabbing the captive’s chin, Avorne said, "Do not let her appearance deceive you, Squadron Leader. If this…thing was loose it would wreck havoc."

It was all Drake could do not to laugh at the comment.

Avorne pointed to the dead woman strung alongside, her blood pooling on the stone steps of the altar. Squadron Leader Glazer did not have a problem carrying out his duty.

The light-haired Glazer, head of Dagger squadron stood ramrod straight beside his 'kill', his face betraying no obvious emotion, though Drake was sure he could detect a smirk. Besides being a rival leader, he was also a member of Shark Clan, long-time rivals of Drake’s Wolf Clan, the two strongest Clans among the twelve making up the Alliance. Promotion to the Templars meant you were supposed to put Clan rivalries a side, but years of indoctrination were difficult to just forget.

Avorne arched an eyebrow and said, You do remember they are the enemy?

The war between Humanity’s two great powers, the Alliance and the Federation, had been rumbling on for over 500 years. While both sides had experienced their share of grand victories, neither had proved strong enough to win, but that didn’t stop them trying and dying, thought Drake.

Still bristling at the comment, Drake replied, I have over 100 kills to my name, Priest. I’m aware of my duty. I would have no problem despatching her in a fair fight, but this is not fair.

Avorne shook his head. It’s not meant to be fair. It’s meant to be a sign of our devotion to the War Gods. Now carry out the sacrifice or I’ll have to inform Admiral Marko, Sabre squadron needs a new commander.

Drake almost flinched. To lose his squadron was unthinkable and Avorne’s words were not an idle threat, he had seen far worse happen to others. Frowning, Drake brushed the limp brown hair from the captive's face with the blade of his dagger. He had voiced his disapproval, anything more would be risking his own position and attracting the attention of the Coveners. He raised her chin up. Good journey, warrior.

After a second’s hesitation, Drake slashed the blade across her throat. Warm red blood sprayed onto him. Watching the blood drip down from her throat onto the stone altar he put his dagger uncleaned back in its scabbard. It had to be done, but he got no pleasure from the deed.

Drake looked out into the Vengeance’s Grand Chapel. It was a massive space designed to accommodate over 500 worshippers at a time. The walls were lined with trophies captured from previous victories. These included pieces of enemy ships, unit banners and even the skulls of slain enemy commanders.

Now the Chapel sat almost empty except for the two-dozen pilots of Sabre and Dagger squadrons seated together at the front row. Watching silently from the side gallery were Avorne’s two grim faced, blue robed acolytes and a small marine squad ready to remove the bodies once the blessing ceremony was complete. Off in the distance, standing guard by the door was a pair of Coveners, members of the Alliance’s military police, dressed in their ceremonial black armour. Watching over services was the last contentious of their duties, which didn’t make Drake any less wary of them.

The sacrifice has been made, Avorne proclaimed.

Cheers arose from the assembled flyers. Avorne swept his gaze across the flyers, as if looking each one in the eye. The War Gods have seen fit to offer you a chance for glory. A chance to honor your Clan and the Alliance. Let the War Gods see your actions and earn yourself a place in Valhalla. Amen.

Blake joined the pilots in saying, Amen.

Avorne pounded his fist in his hand in the Alliance salute. Strength and honour.

Strength and honour! echoed the flyers.

Drake waited for Glazer to descend the granite stairway first, trying hard to ignore the faint, smug grin on his face. To make matters worse, despite being equal in seniority, Glazer had been chosen to take charge of the coming mission. Drake thought it was due to the politics rampant in the fleet, but deep in the recesses of his mind a tiny part feared Glazer might be a slightly better pilot.

The two hard faced Coveners gave no sign of noticing his hesitation up on the altar as he passed them, but then again, the first anyone knew they were in trouble was when the Coveners turned up to arrest them.

His two flight leaders, Walker and Foster, met him outside in the grey, grime-covered corridor. They were already dressed in their black Templar flightgear. The three had served together for four years. A miracle given the war’s high casualty rate.

I hate all that crap, said Drake. Such a bloody waste of time.

Careful, said Foster with a smile. That’s blasphemy.

We’ve been doing this shit for years, replied Drake. It’s never made a blind bit of difference.

Never make Admiral like that, said Walker.

Drake grinned. I’d probably never make Admiral to begin with. I just want to get back to the real war instead of searching for this phantom.

For the past two months, the Vengeance had been searching for a Fed capital ship rumoured to be patrolling the surrounding systems. So far, the rumours had proved just that, rumours, and it was getting the crew down.

I hope this is the Fed ship we’ve been hunting for, said Foster. We destroy it, maybe High Command will finally reassign us back to the real action and not these bloody backwater systems.

That’s in the hands of the War Gods, replied Drake. He looked at his hands. Valhalla knows I just spilt enough blood for them.

One of their probes had detected energy signatures corresponding to a Federation fighter squadron in the Clarion System but Admiral Marko, commander of the Vengeance didn’t want to disrupt his search pattern by diverting the dreadnought there. However, Marko didn’t want to miss out on a chance to finally find the ship that had been ghosting them for several months, so he had dispatched Sabre and Dagger squadrons to check it out.

Arriving at the flightroom doors, Drake said, Go get ready, you two. I’ll see you space side.

They gave him a nod and disappeared down the corridor. He made his way inside. The smell of stale sweat and old uniforms wafting back to him. His wingman, Lieutenant John Burges occupied the flightroom. Burg was a rookie on his first deployment. Templar squadrons were meant to be the elite, men who had proven themselves in combat, however the Council liked to blood a few talented rookies to see how they measured up. So far Burges had been on several patrols but hadn't encountered any Fed ships, and he was eager to see action. Well, sir. Do you think we’ll finally get some Feds today?

Drake had gone on countless missions in his six years of active service, and many had led nowhere, but he tried to sound upbeat. We’ll see, Burg. We’ll see.

He punched the young man on the shoulder. When you’ve been out on the line for a while, you find out the quiet times outnumber the rest.

Burges nodded. It’s just I wanted to get my first kill by now. He sighed. It’s been six weeks and nothing.

Drake smiled. We all feel like that at the start. Don’t worry the Feds aren’t going anywhere. He slapped Burges on the shoulder. Now get to your fighter. I’ll see you on deck.

Burg nodded. I’ll see you there, sir. Strength and honour.

Strength and honour.

Once Burg had disappeared out the door, Drake opened his locker and his reflection stared back at him. He smoothed out his red hair. He would have to go the ship's barber on his return. Comparing his image to the picture on his I.D. badge taken only four years before. He couldn’t help thinking the war had dulled the blue of his eyes and the colour of his hair. Removing his black flight suit from his locker, Drake placed his ceremonial dagger inside.

After putting on the suit he drew out his blaster Pinpoint and admired the intricate etching on the barrel and handle. Unlike the utilitarian weaponry of the Federation, Alliance weapons were designed to be more individualistic, and troops were encouraged to take a personal interest in their weapons to the point of assigning them names. He placed Pinpoint in his holster. Although he hadn’t used the weapon in combat for years, it was a reassuring weight on his waist, and before a mission he needed all the reassurance he could get. He patted the dagger one last time for luck. Closing the locker door, he made his way out.

#

Tech crews swarmed the flightdeck as they made sure the Lancers were prepared for action. The mainstay of Fighter Command, the L-11 Lancer had been in service for nearly fifty years. It was powered by a Cal fusion cell, which supported the Youngcraft engines. Like everything else in the war, weapon development had stagnated, neither side really bothering to invest in new weapons.

The Vengeance had twelve launch tubes each one able to launch three ships in short succession. However, with Axe and Sword squadrons staying behind, the ship’s crews only had to prepare the tubes for two. Dagger squadron would be launching off the port side while Drake’s Sabre Squadron would launch off the starboard side. Each pilot’s name was electronically displayed over his tube, but weeks of routine ensured most pilots knew their launch tube by habit. Drake headed over to launch tube A1. His Lancer was first in the rack while Burges was directly behind. He gave Burg a thumbs up as he walked past which the young pilot enthusiastically returned.

Each fighter had its own team of six techs and Drake’s was headed by Crew Chief Grint. He looked up from his datapad and saw Drake coming. Afternoon, sir, he said gruffly.

What’s our status, Chief?

Grint gave his checklist a quick once over. We’re about done with munitions. All systems are in the green. He’s armed and ready to go.

Drake took a seat out of the way as the techs finished their work. Each team took a lot of pride in their pilots and there was a fierce rivalry over who had the best. He glanced over at the side of his fighter, there were over 100 fighter symbols stencilled on plus two capital ships. He smiled as he remembered that Fed frigate going up in a blaze of glory. Hopefully he’d get a chance to increase his score today. All The fighters were painted in garish designs. Elaborate images decorated the sides of all the fighters, though the nature depended on the inclinations of the pilots themselves. Drake’s fighter had a skull on the fuselage. Not the most original, but Drake was more concerned with the number of kill signs, not the artwork emblazoning his fighter.

Drake saw weapons specialist Mishama inserting the power cartridges for the two M-79 Widowmaker turbo cannons and shouted, Hey Mishama, did you replace the laser cannon barrels?

Mishama gave him a thumbs up. These barrels are brand new, guaranteed for a million shots. They won’t melt, I promise.

You said that last time.

Mishama flinched. Some of the barrels we’ve been getting from the Khorlofs have been a bit slipshod lately, but I checked these ones myself.

Okay, Mishama, I trust you. I just don’t want to be dogfighting and have my cannons cut out.

Mishama smiled. Don’t worry, sir. These fail and I’ll cleanse myself the next day.

The diminutive tech was known for being overdramatic, but Drake knew he meant every word he said. Ritual suicide wasn’t encouraged by the War priests, but in the face of failure it wasn’t discouraged either.

Well, sleep on it first, he replied. I’d hate to have break in a new weapons technician.

A blue power lifter thudded by carrying a clutch of eight small Cobra missiles in its massive metallic arms for dogfights. The tech carefully guided them into place on the Lancer’s wings where they hung bunched together like a deadly harvest of grapes. Besides the Cobras, the Lancer also carried six Proton torpedoes for assaults on capital ships and Federation Starforts.

With the ordinance loaded and the preflight completed, Grint signalled he could board. Good luck, sir.

Thanks, Chief, but it’s the Feds who need the luck.

Grinning, Grint thumped his chest in salute.

Drake clambered up the ladder and settled down in the cockpit. He felt more at home here than anywhere else. Truth be told, he resented the time he had to spend on the Vengeance crammed together with thousands of others. Drake preferred the freedom of his fighter - just him and the stars. For an all too brief time he could