Nightfall

by Jay Allan

  Denisov was one of them. But, that didn’t matter. He could decide to hold the enemy back, to stand and protect the Pollux system’s sparse population. All that could achieve would be the destruction of his fleet.

  He stared at the screen in front of him. The rumors about the enemy main guns were true, he took that as proven fact. Another bit of unsubstantiated intel also appeared to be accurate.

  They don’t have fighters…or, if they do, they’re holding them back.

  His eyes moved to his own squadrons, even now closing to attack range. He’d armed a larger than normal number of the fighters with torpedoes, but now, as his eyes stared at the formation, he realized he’d sacrificed half his attack strength.

  “All interceptors are to break off at once, Commander, and return to base.”

  “Yes, Admiral.” Lambert repeated the order into the fleetwide comm.

  “I want those squadrons armed with torpedoes and relaunched, and I want it done in record time.” His voice was hard, an almost implicit threat in it toward anyone who did less than his or her absolute best to see it happen.

  “Yes, sir.” Lambert nodded as he responded. The aide clearly agreed with Denisov.

  The Union admiral looked out across the bridge, seeing the fear rising up in his people. They were all beginning to realize what they faced, the magnitude of the threat bearing down on them. He felt it as well, and he took a deep breath and pushed it back, deep into the darkest recesses of his mind. He was the commander, sitting in the seat he’d craved for so long. Now, he realized the crushing burden his long-desired position carried. He was as scared as anyone, and as uncertain of what to do…but no one else could know that. His people couldn’t see him scared or indecisive. He wasn’t sure what it would take to defeat this enemy—or even survive against them—but he knew his spacers had to believe he did.

  “Interceptor squadrons decelerating, sir. Project return in sixty-two to ninety-one minutes.”

  “Very well, Commander. Advise all bays to be ready. I want ordnance in position when those ships land.” That was the first non-standard risk he was putting his people through. A flight deck stacked with plasma warheads wasn’t the safest place for fighters to land. Or for flight crews to work.

  But, there was no time for safety. No time for anything except getting a second strike out before the enemy could close and blast his fleeing battleships to atoms.

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  “And all ships, advise medical staff. I want stim doses for all pilots as they land.” His fighter jocks were likely to have quite a protracted series of battle ahead of them. Losses would probably be high, and the stress unbearable. There was nothing he could do about any of that, but he would damned will make sure they were all wide awake and alert.

  Even if they were still running non-stop sorties twenty-four or forty-eight hours later…

  * * *

  Raketh sat in his sanctum, the massive screen on the far wall aglow with blue and yellow and red symbols. Those icons, circles, triangles, and a dozen other shapes, all had bits of tiny print next to them, but even his sharp eyes were too far away to read it.

  That didn’t matter. He could ask the AI for information any time he needed it, but right then, he knew all he had to know. He’d taken a risk—somewhat mitigated, at least politically, by obtaining Chronos’s approval before following through—and now it looked as though it might come to fruition.

  All he’d known about the Union and its fleet was what he’d gleaned from captured Confederation data banks and records. The Confeds, tough and nasty, it seemed, right to the end in a fight, had destroyed the vast, overwhelming majority of their historical, navigation, and other records before they’d withdrawn, and while the Kriegeri had recovered significant information, it was a stunningly small amount to be obtained from an entire world.

  He’d gotten enough to give him an idea of what to expect from the Union forces, at least to the extent he believed the intel. Their ships were similar to those of the Confeds, but not quite as good, and they lacked the heavy primary weapons the Confederation battleships possessed. Their numbers were badly reduced from the recent war, and almost certainly, they were still in the early stages of rebuilding. One other thing had become abundantly clear from the data sweeps. The Confederation had a very impressive economic machine, and its production outstripped that of the significantly larger Union.

  The Union small craft were inferior as well, both in design and in the skill and capabilities of their pilots. But, Raketh wasn’t sure how much stock he placed in that. Battles between the Rim powers appeared to have focused heavily on engagements between the squadrons of attack ships, and much of the quantification of force quality appeared to focus on such dogfights. Bombing runs against major capital ships were entirely different, and for all the skill and experience required for success, he suspected they were…he wasn’t sure if ‘easier’ was the right word.

  He’d reviewed the status updates from the main fleet. The reconfigured escorts had been quite effective in inflicting losses on the enemy small craft. But, he didn’t have any. Indeed, the Reserve’s escort contingents had been depleted to reinforce the main fleet. If the Union pilots were anywhere close to as good as their Confed enemies, his battle line was going to take some damage.

  But, if they could run down the Union fleet, destroy it in place, it would be worth the losses…and the war for the Rim would be that much closer to won.

  He reached out, waved his hand over the sensor to call in his aide. A few seconds later, the doors at the end of the room slid open, and a Kriegeri officer, a kiloron, stepped in.

  “Yes, Commander?”

  “The forward line is to increase acceleration to full.” The Union forces were overmatched, outnumbered, and outgunned. But, they could still escape.

  Raketh had no intention of allowing that to happen…even if it meant pushing his lead elements directly into the approaching enemy strike craft. The first wave of attack ships had caused considerable damage, but it was clear the Union forces lacked the Confederation’s newfound experience at using their bombers effectively. The Reserve could afford to take some damage, especially if the reward was the utter destruction of the Union fleet.

  There were two transit points behind the enemy formation, and the Union ships were roughly equidistant from them. But, Raketh had valuable intel, comprehensive maps of the Union, courtesy of the archives on Dannith. One of the points led along almost a direct line to the Union capital, while the other only skirted along the Confederation border.

  The Union commander was obviously capable…and he was clearly trying to confuse Raketh’s forces, to mislead as to which way they might go. But, they didn’t know Raketh has the intel he did…and that would be their downfall.

  “All first line ships are to set a course for jump point A.” He’d send his leading ships to get between the Union forces and their line of retreat. “Second line vessels to adjust vectors to 120.260.090…and increase thrust to eighty percent.” The second line would move as though it planned to try to cut off the other escape route, the decoy point that led away from the vital Union systems. Then, at just the right instant, they would change course again, and press the disordered enemy against the force behind them.

  It wouldn’t be success. It wouldn’t be victory.

  It would be annihilation.

  * * *

  Denisov watched as his fighters sliced into the pursuing Hegemony formations, groups of four and five, sometimes all that remained of entire squadrons cut down by defensive fire, pushing to ranges far closer than normal. The absence of defending interceptor squadrons opened the door for bombing runs to point blank range, but the accuracy of the enemy’s point defense fire made such strikes costly.

  He’d directed the AI to feed him data on squadron loss ratios, and the conclusions, however preliminary, were startling. The inexperienced squadrons were getting torn to shreds, and the veterans, while suffering losses, were adapting quickly to
the new situation. They were handling evasive maneuvers better, and their casualties were correspondingly lower.

  “Commander, all wing leaders are to stay on top of their squadrons. Evasive maneuvers at max for all ships going in for attack runs.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lambert repeated the command, with all the force in his voice that Denisov had put into his.

  The Union admiral stayed focused on the screen, his attention almost entirely on the fighter wings. His battleships were already pulling back, trying to stay away as long as they could from the longer-ranged heavy weapons of the enemy vessels. The Hegemony ships were faster, but the need to deal with his bombers was slowing their advance, buying his capital ships time to…

  To what? Escape? No war has ever been won by running away.

  And yet, what else could he do? His squadrons were fully committed, the second wave—the ships launched first as interceptors—were attacking, while the initial strike force had returned to the launch platforms, their ships already halfway through being refit and rearmed. They’d be back out and headed into the fight in less than thirty minutes. Minus the fifteen percent of their number that had never returned from the first attack.

  Denisov knew already, whatever course he took, however the Union fought this new enemy—and there was no longer any doubt the Hegemony was an enemy and not a potential ally—the fighters would be the most effective weapon in the arsenal. He remembered the Confederation wings from the past war, and he imagined they had developed all sorts of new tactics for facing the Hegemony. His people were behind, but he wasn’t going to let them stay there. Not if the Union was going to have a chance. Any chance at all.

  Hell…this isn’t a Union problem. These people are here to conquer the entire Rim.

  Chapter Seven

  Just Outside Port Royal City

  Planet Dannith, Ventica III

  Year 317 AC

  The sky was dim, the shafts of early morning light mixing with residual fog to create a thick, gray haze. Holcott could barely see through it, and he was grateful, for once, to endure such a handicap. A lack of visibility was a negative in almost any operation in war, but he was there, looking through the lenses of his scope, to see something he’d just as soon miss.

  Still, even such a fleeting mercy was not to be his. The dawn light was intensifying, and the heavy fog began to dissipate in the warming air. Gaps opened up in the field of view, and from where he lay, he could see what he’d known he would, what he’d desperately hoped was a mistake.

  A row of figures stretched along a line in the valley below, a mostly open stretch of low grasslands, just outside Port Royal City. At least a dozen.

  Fourteen, he thought, as he finished his count.

  They were all clad in the same dark gray garb, clearly uniforms, and ones entirely familiar to him and to the rest of his people. They stood stonelike, appearing almost as statues, and not one showed any sign of fear or desperation. They were Marines—his Marines—and they were behaving as such.

  Right to the end.

  They stood there, lined up against the remains of an old masonry wall, even as a row of stocky soldiers stood in a line twenty meters away. The Kriegeri looked strange to Holcott, as did most things about the enemy cyborgs. Their implants gave them a different profile than normal human beings, a sinister look, a hint of something alien, to his perception, at least. But, he knew a firing squad when he saw one.

  The men and women in that line, standing so stoically, facing death with grim courage, they were his people…and they there because they had followed his orders.

  He’d sent them in, along with over a hundred of their comrades, a strike against one of the Hegemony convoys from the spaceport to their positions outside the city. It was a normal operation, no different than a hundred others he’d planned and executed since the defense of Dannith had turned from a military operation into a partisan resistance. No different, save in the outcome.

  Other attacks had failed, a few miserably, with vastly higher casualty figures. Losses had been heavy even in the most successful strikes, but this was the first time he’d seen his people captured, and witnessed the grim reality of what that meant.

  He’d lost most of the forces he’d originally managed to extricate from the overwhelmed defensive positions and, despite the fact that he knew his efforts had caused massive damage and frustrated the Hegemony occupiers, he was just as aware that the resistance was failing.

  He lay on his stomach, looking down at fourteen of his Marines about to be executed, and his stomach roiled with hateful intensity. He wanted to vomit or scream…or something. What he really wanted to do was kill Kriegeri…and the Masters who commanded them. But, he remained quiet. It had been a risk to come at all, to venture so close to the city, closer than he’d dared to send anyone in months. He had no hope of saving his people.

  He was a fool to take the chances he had in coming there. He was the leader of the resistance, what was left of it at least, and the dozen Marines with him were all veterans, and a meaningful segment of what little strength remained to his cause. His first reaction had been even more insane, a stirring declaration that he would, in fact, mount an operation to free the prisoners. He’d blurted it out of his mouth without thinking, a slip in discipline he knew was only one symptom of his own crushing exhaustion and declining mental state. He’d never have let his Marines see such a display months before, but the constant losses, the deprivation, the drop to half rations, and then again to one quarter, it was all too much. Marines were tough, but they were men and women, too. They had their breaking points, and Holcott suspected his people were all near theirs.

  As he was dangerously close to his.

  He’d realized almost immediately that his impulsive promise to free his captive people was not only unfeasible, but that it was virtually guaranteed to cost the lives of the Marines required to mount such a foolish operation. Still, he’d needed his closest comrades, the few remaining senior officers who still survived at his side, to pull him back from the precipice.

  So, why had he come? Why was he there, taking an insane risk so he could watch his people die? He didn’t have an answer, none save the meaningless, yet uncontestable fact that he had to be there.

  He stared down, lying still, fully aware that anything that drew attention to his small group would provoke a tragic and deadly response. He felt the urge to leave, but he couldn’t do it. Perhaps it was self-flagellation, a need to punish himself for the thousands who had died under his command, but whatever force was at work, it was irresistible.

  He had to stay. He had to watch these fourteen men and women die. He owed it to them.

  Then he could leave, he and his small band of comrades could make their way back to HQ, back to the day to day duties of running a dying resistance operation.

  * * *

  Kaleth stood on the flat section of ground, his boots covered with mud created from late night rains and early morning fog. He was a kiloron, an officer commanding a thousand soldiers. His rank was well beyond that suitable for the commander of an execution detail…and, indeed, he commanded far more than the twenty Kriegeri lined up before the captured enemy fighters.

  His soldiers were in every building within five kilometers, hiding in patches of woods, behind rock outcroppings, even crouched down behind ridgelines…anywhere they could lay in wait for the resistance fighters he hoped would come.

  He’d been skeptical. Any rescue attempt would be foolhardy, even in the seemingly exposed spot he’d chosen for the executions…and the commander of the defense forces turned resistance fighters was anything but a fool. His resources had to be dwindling, his forces on the verge of starvation and extinction, and yet they fought on, and they had caused massive disorder among the occupation forces.

  He would simply have killed the prisoners inside the city if it had been his decision. But, the orders to try to entice the partisans had come from Develia herself, and the Master in command of ground operations wa
s to be obeyed without question.

  Kaleth felt some resentment when a Master like Develia refused to heed the advice of her far more experienced Kriegeri subordinates. He did not dispute the system that valued genetic quality, but he sometimes felt frustrated by the arbitrary line that seemed to divide the highest of one level from the lowest of the next. He, himself, had almost achieved Master status when he’d submitted to the Test, and he had a cousin who had actually succeeded in advancing to the exalted rank, a great honor for the family, though one that gave him pause. He’d always thought Teleth was a bit slow, and Kaleth had never lost a game of chess with his cousin, at least before the Test put a great gulf between them, and advanced one of them to a life of great opportunity while relegating him to the hard life of a Kriegeri combat officer.

  He looked around, disregarding such thoughts. Old frustrations offered little of productive worth, and he had a job to do. “You may proceed, Hectoron,” he said grimly, still looking around the surrounding hillsides, not quite convinced the enemy hadn’t foolishly taken the bait he laid out.

  “Sir!” The officer turned on his heels, and he stepped forward, next to the line of executioners. “Ready,” he snapped, slapping his boot down hard on the still-wet ground as he did. It made more of a wet, splashing sound than the hard click Kaleth suspected the officer had intended.

  The soldiers brought their weapons up, all twenty moving almost as one, with the practiced efficiency of a group born and bred to combat and trained almost since birth for war.

  “Aim!” The officer’s voice grew in volume, and even more, intensity. The troopers stood still, almost like statues, their silhouettes bulky with implants against the rising light.

  Kaleth stood and watched, even as the Hectoron said, “Fire,” and the entire squad discharged their weapons in unison. He would have looked at the line of stakes, and confirmed what he knew was the virtual certainty the prisoners were all dead, but he’d seen something.