by Jay Allan
“Are you satisfied with the defenses?” Holsten changed the subject, just as Barron had been planning to do.
“No.” It was a simple answer, and an honest one. Barron had worked tirelessly to bring the Olyus system to a state of preparedness for what would almost certainly be the greatest battle in Confederation history. “The asteroids are almost ready. It took just about every tug in the system to move them into place. They’re not as built up as I’d like—and I wish we had more of them—but they’ll be tough. I doubt even a couple railgun hits will take one out of action.”
Barron had directed the fortification of a dozen asteroids from the Olyus belt, and had every reactor and weapon system he could lay hands on installed on the huge chunks of rock. There was no design elegance, no sophistication to the design, but the makeshift forts would be rugged, and they would pack a punch.
They were also expendable, something that had troubled him as he’d signed the personnel transfers sending crews to take their posts there. The bases were manned by volunteers, and that made it a little easier, but he couldn’t help but feel as though he was signing death warrants. He’d been grateful when Admiral Nguyen arrived, and took that particular duty from him.
Holsten paused for a moment. “Are you sure about Nguyen, Tyler?” It was almost as though Holsten somehow knew he’d been thinking about Nguyen. “He is a hero, without question, but he has been retired for a long time. I could push your assignment through the Senate, put you in the top command.”
Barron looked back at Holsten and shook his head. He knew his friend could very likely do just what he claimed he could. Barron probably didn’t even need Holsten to secure the top command. The Senate was scared to death of him since he’d come close to opening fire on Megara, almost as much as they were of the Hegemony. Between their fear of provoking him, and their recognition that they needed the navy united and ready to face the coming threat—to save their own skins, if nothing else—they would likely refuse him nothing.
That was one of the reasons he couldn’t command the fleet. Barron had his scores to settle, and his frustration and anger toward the often corrupt and foolish actions of the Senate, but he was sure of one thing. He didn’t want to be remembered in history as the dictator who destroyed Confederation democracy, however poorly that representative government functioned. Stepping aside, accepting his role in the chain of command, would send a signal. He was a loyal Confederation officer, and not a would-be strongman.
“It has to be Nguyen, Gary. You know that as well as I do. Clint Winters has done an incredible job, but he’s junior to me, if barely. I commanded one faction of the fleet that came close—very close—to fighting it out with another, and I almost ended up attacking Megara myself. Nguyen will be above any resentments that still exist out there. He is the one officer the entire navy can follow, a man with the unquestioned record and stature to lead us into this fight.”
Holsten nodded, but very slightly. Barron knew the intelligence chief would have preferred to force him right into the top command, but the truth was, he knew he just wasn’t ready. In his heart, he was still a ship’s captain, and for all that his dedication to duty pushed him forward, drove him to assume the responsibilities that had been thrust on him, he still imagined sitting on Dauntless’s bridge—his Dauntless, still, though she was years gone now—issuing orders to his crew. He was almost overwhelmed commanding the massive fleets he’d come to lead, but stepping fully into Van Striker’s shoes, accepting the final, crushing responsibility for defending the Confederation and its billions…it wasn’t time. Not yet.
If it will ever be…
“You are your grandfather’s heir, Tyler, in every way.” Barron always hated comparisons to his famous relation, mostly because they were usually platitudes with varying, and usually minimal, degrees of sincerity behind them. But, he knew Holsten meant what he said, and he appreciated his friend’s confidence.
But, he still wasn’t ready.
“Dustin Nguyen served with my grandfather. He fought in the campaigns I studied at the Academy. He’s the man we need now.” Striker is the man we need, he thought, sighing softly as a fresh wave of grief hit him.
“Well, he should be here in two days.” Nguyen had been roused from a comfortable retirement on his homeworld of Ghavion and recalled to Megara to take up the top naval command, a summons he had, by all accounts somewhat reluctantly, accepted.
Barron sat quietly for a few minutes. Finally, Holsten broke the silence. “I assume you’re taking a shuttle down to Troyus City later today?” The spymaster managed a slight smile. They’d been talking about grim topics all morning, and Barron figured even the grizzled head of Confederation Intelligence needed a few minutes of a cheerier topic.
He nodded before he answered, and despite the gloom that had dominated him while he worked to prepare a defense he believed was doomed to defeat, he returned the smile. “Yes…she’s getting out of the hospital early tomorrow…and, I’d like to be there.” There was the slightest hint of guilt, as though Barron didn’t believe he should take even a brief time away from his duties for what could only be considered a personal matter.
Though orders and duty and decrees from the Senate would all be insufficient to keep him away from that afternoon’s rendezvous.
“Make sure you’re on that shuttle. They can spare you for a day.” A pause. “She’ll never admit it, but she’ll need you, Tyler.”
Barron looked across the table, still, showing no reaction at all. But, inside he realized Holsten was right. However tough Andi’s exterior, however determined—and pigheadedly stubborn—she could be, she wasn’t a pillar of stone, she was a human being. She’d been through hell, and she’d come out the other side. And, whatever duty demanded of Tyler Barron, it would stand aside for a short time.
He was going to be there when Andi Lafarge was discharged from the hospital, and it would take nothing short of Hegemony battleships streaming through the transit point to stop him.
* * *
“The numbers just don’t add up. I thought if we increased the flow rate…but that just brings up another batch of problems.”
Carson Witter was silent as his colleague spoke. Lucinda York was a gifted scientist and a brilliant woman, but sometimes she had trouble breaking free from the academic orthodoxy that so weighed down his colleagues. The technology they were studying was well beyond anything possessed by the Confederation. Much of it seemed to be direct application of imperial science…and there was just no way to analyze that within the constraints of Confederation academia.
Especially when they had to accomplish something useful, and do it damned quickly.
Witter had let his mind go in his work, reaching beyond what he knew, to what he could imagine was possible. It took a different approach to look at something and ask, “This shouldn’t work, but it does. How is that possible?”
How could it be possible?
“Lucinda, this is beyond our basis of knowledge. We have to break free, to consider things that might not seem feasible to us. You’ve done the calculations, and you know the energy flows that must have run through these things. It works. We know that, whatever we learned, whatever we’ve seen in our own work.” His voice turned somber. “We’ve got the dead spacers and shattered hulls to prove it. If it works for them, it can work for us, too.”
York looked as though she was going to respond, but she didn’t for a considerable time. Finally, she said, “I don’t know where to go next, Carson. We’ve tried everything I can know.”
“Then it’s time to move on to what we don’t know.” A pause. “The navy needs this stuff. You know that. The Confederation’s future hangs in the balance.”
“I know.” There was sadness in her voice. Witter knew York had a brother in the navy. He was still alive, which was no small achievement after the battles that had already taken place, but Witter knew, as virtually everyone in the system did, that the Hegemony was coming to Megara. There would be a b
attle around the capital, throughout the entire Olyus system, and by all accounts, it would be the largest, deadliest, bloodiest conflict the Confederation had ever seen.
And, it will be a defeat…unless we can get some of this stuff into Tyler Barron’s hands…
Witter headed up the greatest collection of scientific minds the Confederation had ever known. The usual staff of the Institute, already at the pinnacle of the scientific community, had been supplemented by every leading physicist, engineer, and weapons designer who’d been able to reach the Olyus system. They even had Anya Fritz, the fleet’s most renowned engineering officer, and probably the single person with the most field experience dealing with Hegemony technology.
And, for all that brainpower, all we’ve got is a dozen half-finished projects.
Witter pushed back against the despair hovering around him, and he redoubled his commitment. We will do this. We will get the fleet the tools it needs to win this war.
To save us all.
* * *
“Harder. You have to drive them harder. All of them. Even the veterans.” Jake Stockton stood in the small conference room, looking out at his four colleagues, the best pilots in the Confederation. The best pilots in all of human space, as far as he was concerned, and perhaps, the greatest that had ever existed. “Especially the veterans.”
“I understand, Jake, but there is only so much they can take. If we drive them to exhaustion, to the verge of nervous breakdowns…what shape will they be in when the enemy gets here?” Dirk Timmon’s voice was calm, even tentative. Timmons had once been Stockton’s rival, and he remembered arguments between them, times he’d outright despised the cocky pilot. But, Stockton had matured since then, and so had Timmons. They’d long been friends now, and they treated each other with a private respect each reserved solely for the other. Stockton knew they were the two best pilots in the service, and any doubts he’d had that Timmons had retained his ability through the loss of his legs and years behind a desk had been washed away. The veteran ace was as good as he’d ever been. Better, perhaps.
Stockton paused. He’d worked himself up into a tirade after watching the most recent maneuvers. By any measure, the wings had conducted themselves brilliantly…but Stockton knew it wasn’t enough. Not against the Hegemony.
“You’re right, Dirk. Or, in any other situation, you’d be right. But, this is no ordinary enemy. They’re way beyond us in tech. This battlefleet of theirs isn’t only massive, it has an enormous support fleet. Cargo ships, mobile shipyards, factory vessels. They used it to reconfigure hundreds of escorts for antifighter ops…and they took down almost a thousand of our fighters in the battle at Ulion.” Stockton cringed slightly as he spoke of the losses his people had suffered in the fight a few months earlier. “We managed to hurt them enough to buy some time, but they’ll be here soon enough. And, we’ve got to be ready. That means new tactics…and getting damned proficient with those munition pack cluster bombs.”
Stockton hesitated. He knew he was riding hard on the four people in all of Confederation space who were likely as aware as he was of what the fighter wings would face in the next battle. But, he’d seen too much death already, too many old veterans—friends—killed, and young pilots brimming with potential, shot down by the hundreds. Thousands.
He was thankful the enemy didn’t have fighters. If they’d possessed their own squadrons, he suspected the war would already be over. But, the blood of his pilots had staved off final defeat, at least so far.
There was one other thing the enemy didn’t have, besides just squadrons. They didn’t have his four horsemen. Dirk Timmons, Olya Federov, Johannes Trent, and Alicia Covington. Four of the greatest pilots the Confederation had ever produced.
Four cold-blooded killers in the cockpit, striking at the enemy like the very shadow of death.
He was grateful for them all. Because his people, his massed fighter wings, veterans and fresh recruits alike, were the only thing buying time. The only thing giving the Confederation any hope at all.
And, the cost was becoming more than he could bear.
Chapter Three
UFS Illustre
Pollux System
Union-Confederation Border
Union Year 222 (318 AC)
Andrei Denisov sat in his office, silent, staring at the large screen on his desk, but seeing nothing save for his own thoughts.
Dark thoughts.
His orders were clear. To stay where he was, to wait for word from the diplomatic team. But, his fleet had been on station for more than three months, and there hadn’t been any word at all from the ambassador, and Montmirail had sent only a command to remain on station until further notice.
Denisov was struggling to fight against the morose feelings that threatened to take over his thoughts. He’d achieved the command of his dreams, a position he’d never dared to believe was in reach. He commanded the entire navy, a fact that guaranteed him either a retirement awash in luxury and riches…or one resulting from a pair of shots to the head. Service in the upper ranks of the Union armed forces carried many dangers, and the enemy was only one of them.
He was thrilled with the job. He loved the fleet, and he was dedicated to its personnel and proud of the professionalism they displayed, despite the corruption and disorder that riddled every layer of Union society. But, the current mission troubled him, as it had from the moment the orders had left Gaston Villieneuve’s mouth.
Denisov didn’t object to a rematch with the Confederation, or at least part of him didn’t, the martial side of his personality, the officer who craved glory, and revenge from the humiliations of the last war. But, he knew what the cost would be, the thousands, perhaps millions, who would die. Worse, the fleet wasn’t ready. The Union wasn’t ready. It would take years to get the navy back to the strength it had boasted before the losses of the war. Any move against the Confederation before then was premature and dangerous, regardless of the new struggle that seemed to have come upon the Union’s rival.
He understood Villieneuve’s desire to capitalize on the fact that the Confederation was at war, apparently with a powerful and advanced civilization from beyond the Badlands. It made sense, tactically, strategically, in every way possible.
Save one.
Denisov didn’t trust this enemy or its motives. He knew almost nothing about them, and worse perhaps, he was pretty sure Villieneuve didn’t know much more. He’d dreaded receiving an order to advance into Confederation space, to begin another war so soon after the last, based almost entirely on reliance on an unknown and untested ally. Now, that fear had receded slightly, as the official comm lines remained silent.
His worries had shifted to the ambassador, why nothing had been heard in almost three months. His crews were getting edgy. They could see the fleet massed, and they had to wonder why. He suspected even the lowest grade spacers knew they weren’t a match for the Confeds. Not yet.
By all accounts, this new enemy is pushing the Confederation forces back, which means they are strong. Villieneuve sees them as an ally, but what if…
He let the thought stop. There was nothing to be done. He couldn’t leave the system without violating his orders, and as edgy as he was about what might happen, he wasn’t ready to end up in some cubicle in a Sector Nine black site somewhere.
Peoples’ Protectorate, he reminded himself, reeling once again at the dishonesty and hypocrisy in the new name of the Union’s feared secret police agency.
“Admiral, we’re picking up energy readings at the Outremer transit point.” The tactical officer’s voice crackled slightly through the comm speaker. Like everything of Union manufacture, it was inferior to its Confederation equivalent, a device that worked, but not quite perfectly.
Denisov’s head snapped around toward the screen on the far wall of his office. His first thought was, a courier ship. Perhaps he was receiving word from the ambassador.
Finally.
But, something was wrong. The energy levels wer
e too high. Far too high for a single ship, or, as he continued to watch, he realized, even for a small flotilla.
Could the Confeds have discovered that Villieneuve was planning to attack? Had they managed to put together a force to strike first? For an instant he feared that, but it didn’t feel right. That wasn’t the Confederation’s way, a fact that had often hurt them strategically.
The Confeds don’t have enough free forces now anyway, not if half the intel we’re getting is accurate.
But, then, what?
He felt his stomach tighten, a cold feeling taking hold, as another possibility came to mind.
* * *
“Our forward units have begun the jump into the Sigma-6 system, Commander.” The Kriegeri stood before Raketh’s elevated chair, looking up at the Master as he made his report. “The completion of movement into the target system is projected in one hour, four minutes.”
Raketh just nodded. Then, he waved his hand, dismissing the officer. But, before the Kriegeri had reached the door he called him back. “Kiloron…”
“Yes, Commander?” The officer turned back and bowed his head, a repeat of the respectful salute he’d given when he’d first entered Raketh’s sanctum.
“All ships are to transit at maximum velocity and accelerate at full power as soon as their systems have recovered from the jump.”
“Yes, Commander. As you command.” The officer waited again, leaving only when Raketh repeated the dismissal gesture.
The Master watched the Kriegeri leave and the doors slide shut behind him, though he was barely seeing any of it. He was deep in thought, reviewing every aspect of the battle he was about to fight. Ideally, he’d assemble his fleet into formation after all the vessels had jumped, but he had no scouting data, no idea where the Union ships were positioned in the target system.
