The Omicron Invasion
Volume 9 in The Family d’Alembert Series
by E. E. “DOC” SMITH with STEPHEN GOLDIN
CHAPTER 1 Omicron
With nearly fourteen hundred planets in the Empire of Earth, each world either had to strive to attain its own distinct character or end up as an anonymous statistic in galactic society. Some worlds, by their physical nature, had it easier than others; they could claim to be hotter or colder, wetter or drier, bigger or smaller than other planets. They could have unusual configurations of moons, heavier or lighter gravity, variable or multiple suns, or even be surrounded by ring systems of moonlets. They could become noted for some strange native plant or animal, or for some natural resource or bizarre topographical feature. Such worlds had their reputations already established; you merely had to mention their names and even schoolchildren could tell you something about them. Names like DesPlaines, Gastonia, or Floreata conjured instant images in people’s minds.
Other worlds were noted more for their cultures than for their physical attributes. During the great exodus from Earth in the twenty-first century, many separate cultures were established so their inhabitants could be free to pursue the lifestyles they preferred. Some planets were settled by religious fanatics; Purity became a haven for hardline Judaeo-Christian fundamentalists, Anares was settled by Oriental mystics, and Delf-well, no one from outside the planet ever had a clear idea what the Delfians believed in, but they were quiet about their faith and seldom bothered others, so they were tolerated in the cosmopolitan imperial society.
Still other worlds established their character only after settlement. The inhabited moon Vesa became an empire-wide tourist attraction because of its exotic gambling parlors; Glasseye became the symbol of transience and impermanence because of its inhabitants’ fascination with newness. Becoming different or unique was a way of establishing a reputation.
The planet Omicron was undistinguished as far as physical appearance and climate were concerned. It came close to being a twin of Earth, circling a yellow star and having but one large moon. The polar caps were suitably cold, the equatorial zone was suitably hot; there were deserts and rainforests, mountains and plains, oceans and continents. The native lifeforms were distinctive-as were the lifeforms on every planet-but none were so unusual they’d instantly bring the name Omicron to mind. The people who had settled Omicron in the late 2300s were decent, hardworking folk from a variety of social and religious backgrounds-hardly the fanatical types needed to create a public relations image. By the reign of Empress Stanley Eleven the planetary population was approaching a hundred million-a drop in the bucket compared to Earth and other population centers, but still bigger than many other worlds.
Omicron’s sole claim to fame was distance. At nine hundred and sixty-nine parsecs from Earth, it was easily the most distant planet ever settled. Located at the outer rim of Sector Twelve, it represented humanity’s deepest penetration into the heart of the Milky Way Galaxy. Omicron stood at the Empire’s edge, far removed from the bustle and furor of imperial civilization. The name Omicron conjured visions of incalculable distance, as the phrase “the ends of the Earth” had done in earlier times.
Because it was so far away from the center of activity, Omicron was often a little behind the times. Imperial fashions tended to reach it later, and gossip was usually wildly distorted by the time it reached the outpost of civilization. The people of Omicron didn’t mind; they were largely self-sufficient, and viewed their separation from the mainstream of interstellar society as a form of independence. One local wag had called Omicron “the wart on the end of the Empire’s nose,” and the citizens had adopted that epithet with a perverse enjoyment.
In 2451, Empress Stanley Eleven was well past the second anniversary of her coronation, and peace had returned to the Empire once more. The horror of the Coronation Day Incursion, that ruthless attack upon Earth, was but an unpleasant memory in the minds of most people. The common man still could not understand the precise circumstances that brought the raid about, nor did he know who the Empress’s enemies were. The palace had issued reassuring pronouncements, though, and the subsequent years of tranquility had calmed the populace.
Only the upper echelons of imperial government remained concerned, because they alone knew that the threat was far from over. The vast hidden conspiracy had made one direct assault against the Service of the Empire six months after the coronation; when that failed, it was followed by an ominous silence that made everyone more than a little nervous. A silent enemy is the worst of all.
None of these matters really bothered the citizens of Omicron. They were so far away from the center of any action that it was hard for them to care. The wise and just reigns of Stanley Ten and Eleven had numbed them to political reality. What did it matter who was on the Throne, they thought; Earth was so far away that the administration had little impact on their daily lives.
Then one horrifying day, death rained out of the skies. Nonnuclear bombs began failing on the major cities and settlements of Omicron simultaneously all over the planet. There was never any accurate count of the people killed and wounded in those first few minutes, but the number easily ran into the millions. People died as buildings collapsed around them; others died from flying debris or the concussions of explosions. The SOTE office in Omicron City, the planet’s capital, was smashed to rubble. Between one moment and the next, devastation and disaster settled upon peaceful Omicron.
Because Omicron was the planet farthest from the imperial center, the Navy had a base located there. Several battleships and cruisers were stationed at the Omicron base, and it had always been considered a quiet assignment; aside from occasional maneuvers and war games, nothing ever happened. Even pirates and smugglers left Omicron alone; perhaps they felt it would not be worth their while to travel so far for the small potential rewards.
The Navy must have been as surprised as everyone else by the suddenness of the attack. There must have been someone manning the sensor screens when the invading ships appeared out of subspace. An alarm of some sort must have been given. The Navy crews must have scrambled frantically into their ships even as a challenge was broadcast to the unknown force overhead, either to identify themselves or to leave the vicinity of the planet immediately.
As well trained as the Imperial Navy was, it would be difficult to believe they would not have responded instantly to the threat. But standard procedures in this case were not sufficient. No one knows precisely how the base reacted, because within minutes after the invading fleet appeared in Omicron’s skies the base was pounded into oblivion with beams and bombs. After the invaders landed and took control of the planet, they finished off the job they’d begun at long distance. There was not a fragment of evidence left to give posterity a clue about the actions of those valiant men and women. In addition to the loss of personnel, twenty-six ships of various sizes were destroyed on the ground, without even a chance to fight back against the unknown enemy.
As luck would have it, there were eight naval ships in orbit around Omicron, undergoing training maneuvers. They must have witnessed the destruction because, under the command of their senior officer, Captain Osho, they rallied together in a brave attempt to strike back at the invading force.
They were terribly outnumbered; the enemy strength was well over a hundred ships. But numbers meant little when weighed against the courage and loyalty of the Imperial Navy. The eight ships and their crews put up a valiant fight to protect the planet from tragedy.
Unable to make a frontal assault, the eight naval ships had to settle for harassment tactics. As the enemy fleet surrounded Omicron and pounded it with bombs and radiation, the remaining defenders swooped in from behind and made pesky little raids at their rear. It’s impossible to tell whether their actions saved any lives on the ground, but they did divert some of the enemy’s attention to protecting its flanks instead of putting all its energy into offense against the helpless planet below.
Once the initial bombardment had finished, the attacking fleet began to descend into the atmosphere, seeking to consolidate its gains. Again the Navy ships made daring maneuvers, almost suicidal in their willingness to weave in and out among the enemy vessels, firing shots broadside whenever a target presented itself. The invaders suffered two ships destroyed and four others disabled before they decided to put a stop to this harassment once and for all.
A detachment broke loose from the invading formation to chase down the annoying imperial craft. The Navy ships, even knowing they were outgunned, did not flee the battle. Instead, they made their pursuers chase them through the descending ranks of enemy craft. Two enemy ships crashed spectacularly as one of them chased an imperial ship a little too closely. The fiery explosion brought cheers to the defenders’ lips.