by Jay Allan
Or, at least, he thought he had.
“Hectoron,” he said into his comm unit, speaking to another officer of the same rank as the firing squad commander. “coordinates G302/092. I saw a flash, possibly a reflection. Investigate at once.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer snapped, his voice pure discipline, without a hint of weakness or emotion.
Kaleth let his hand drop, still holding the comm unit, and he looked back, his enhanced eyes scanning every meter, looking for what he’d seen.
What he thought he’d seen.
* * *
“Colonel Blanth, I admire your tenacity, I really do. You are a warrior, even as I am. I respect your dedication to your people still in the field…though I would be lying if I did not say you might have saved many of them if you’d helped us end this costly resistance sooner. Now, most of them are dead, and the rest soon will be. They are at the end of their resources. I can’t imagine the misery and suffering their continued refusal to disarm inflicts on them. But, if you were to order them to lay down their arms…perhaps I could see to some leniency for their past actions, some exception from the mandatory death sentence for captured rebels.”
Blanth looked over at the Master, and he just smiled. It wasn’t an indication of joy, nor of friendship, though, while he certainly didn’t consider the Hegemony Master to be a friend, despite his best efforts, and the rage and animosity he felt against the enemy, his hatred for Carmetia had diminished. It remained, at least, in the faces of the Marines he saw in his dreams, spirits of the dead, staring back at the living as if to say, “why do you still live when we are gone?” But, it had faded in other ways. The Hegemony commander had been entirely humane with him, and she’d spared him even from enhanced interrogations.
That was, as much as anything, he suspected, because she knew he had very little useful information. He’d been a prisoner for months now, and wherever his Marines were, and whatever they were planning, he knew no more about it than she did. All he could do was to help her disrupt their operations by ordering them to stand down…and he was fairly sure he’d made it clear that was something he would never do, even if she took off the gloves and brought out the thumbscrews.
“Carmetia…” He’d been uncomfortable calling his jailor by her name, but she’d insisted so many times, he’d finally given in. Now, it seemed almost normal. “…we both know I am not going to help you hunt my people down.”
“But, you might be able to save some of them. If you do nothing, they will die, Steven. All of them.”
Blanth sighed, not an indication of boredom, but more of surrender to a difficult truth. “Most of them are dead already. And, you could never spare those who are still in the field, not after the damage they have done. We both know that. I may not be a Master, but I am no fool.” He suspected Carmetia just might have been willing to grant clemency to any survivors, but he couldn’t imagine her superiors, who had to be riding her about how long the pacification was taking, would go along with it. She would have to show them that she’d exterminated the defenders who had so upset operations on Dannith. Blanth’s only question was, would he be the final body in that mass grave?
He didn’t know, but, after all that had happened, he didn’t think he cared. He wanted to live, of course, some of the time at least, but death would also be a release from the guilt, the grief, the anguish at all he had seen. And, he didn’t particularly relish living a long life as a hostage of his Hegemony captors.
She looked as though she was going to say something further, a final effort to convince him, but before she spoke, the doors opened and a Kriegeri officer stepped inside.
“Forgive the intrusion, Master Carmetia, but Commander Develia is on the comm line.”
Carmetia paused for an instant. Then, she answered simply, “I will take it in here.” She reached over to a small table and picked up a headset.
Blanth was surprised when she didn’t leave the room—or have him removed—and despite the fact that it was certainly no surprise she wasn’t letting him listen in, he found himself disappointed. He was starved for information from the surface, on any clues he could get as to the status of his Marines.
“Yes, Commander. Report.” Her tone was sharp, not quite angry, but very matter-of-fact. Carmetia’s relationship with her immediate subordinate, also a Master, though a far more junior one, had deteriorated with the ongoing resistance operations on the planet, and the junior officer’s failure to put an end to it in a timely manner.
Blanth couldn’t hear what Develia was saying, but he could see a brief touch of excitement in Carmetia’s expression.
“That is good news, Commander, at least potentially. If you are able to find the enemy’s remaining strongholds, perhaps this seemingly endless nightmare will finally come to an end.”
Blanth wondered if what he was watching was the truth, or a charade concocted to convince him to give in to Carmetia’s demands. His skepticism told him that was exactly the case, but there was something in the Master’s voice, her expression. He wasn’t sure, but was it…sincerity?
His stomach clenched. Holcott has performed magnificently…but have they finally cornered him?
In some ways, Blanth imagined an end to the fighting would be a relief. But, it would also be defeat, as bitter and soul killing as such things could be.
Blanth knew one thing. If the end came down on the surface, he would mourn the dead.
And, part of him would envy them.
Chapter Eight
CFS Dauntless
Orbiting Megara, Olyus III
Year 318 AC
“We’ve got energy readings from the transit point, Admiral.” Atara Travis sat in her chair, the captain’s seat on Dauntless’s sprawling bridge. She’d commanded the vessel for several years now, and if Dauntless’s role as Admiral Barron’s flagship had muddied the waters between them in ways that had never been relevant in Tyler’s years as the captain of the last ship to carry the name, she didn’t mind. She knew Barron worried that he overshadowed her, that his presence robbed from her the true experience of independent command, and, truth be told, she probably would have thought that too at one time. But, no longer. She’d found her way from the desperate slums of a hellish industrial world to just where she belonged. It might be different from what she’d once imagined, but even scrappers with her stubbornness and unrestrained intensity were entitled to change their minds occasionally.
Her portfolio of duties was an extensive one, and included the command of the massive battleship, as well as wearing her other hat, as Tyler Barron’s aide and tactical officer. It was somewhat out of the ordinary, perhaps, for an officer to take on so much, but she and Barron worked together almost as though they were linked telepathically. Sometimes she thought she could actually hear him thinking, before he even spoke, and the fruits of their flawless teamwork had been evident in an almost uninterrupted string of successful operations. She was proud of what they had done in their years together, and for all her early years as an intractable individualist, she realized she’d become an immovable part of the team. It was where she belonged…and where she wanted to stay.
“One of the scouts?” Barron’s tone was cautious, some tension bleeding through, but nothing too upsetting. Everyone on Dauntless, hell, everyone in the entire fleet and the system, knew the Hegemony forces would eventually come through that transit point. So far, there had also been considerable traffic, but it had been limited to movements of the scouting forces positioned on the other side of the jump. Admiral Nguyen had ordered reports every four hours, a failsafe, just in case an enemy move somehow managed to knock out the scouting force before it could get the word back to Olyus.
There was nothing scheduled for several hours, but Travis was no readier to assume the invasion had come than Barron was. It was far likelier something mundane.
But, her stomach felt differently.
She glanced at the screen, checking the readings. It definitely wasn’t enough ene
rgy to signal a fleet transit, at least not yet. It wasn’t even enough for a scoutship.
“Low level readings, Admiral. Looks light, even for a scout.” She paused. “A shuttle, maybe? Or a drone?”
Neither of those would likely be optimistic signs. The scouting force’s orders were clear. Transit back immediately and report any contact with Hegemony forces. She couldn’t imagine why Captain Elsinore would disregard her instructions.
Unless a drone was all she could get back.
An instant later, she had the answer. A drone came ripping through the transit point at high velocity.
A battered, battle-scarred drone that had clearly just made it.
“Admiral…”
“I see it, Atara.” Barron paused for an instant. “I think we all see it…and we all know what it means.” He turned and looked across the few meters between their posts, and his eyes connected with hers, a silent communication of the kind they’d shared for more than a decade. Then, Barron’s face hardened, a stony expression taking shape. “Patch the report through to me as soon as it is decrypted. And, send a communique to Admiral Nguyen immediately. Advise him indications are strong that the enemy is on the move.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barron leaned back in his chair and drew a deep breath, holding it for several seconds before exhaling. Then he looked back toward Travis’s station.
“Issue a fleet order, Commander.”
He waited for her to look up, for her gaze to meet his one more time. Then, he spoke, almost softly, with no emotion save a gentle grimness.
“Battlestations.”
* * *
“Alright…you all know where we are. You all know why we’re here, what will happen if we don’t stand and hold this line. The four of you are veterans, and I say that only because I don’t know a stronger word to describe your experience and quality. Crack, elite…they all apply to each of you. I have fought alongside you, some of you for a very long time. I could give you a speech, try to work you up for battle, but there is no need of that. Not with the four of you.”
Stockton stood on Dauntless’ flight deck, completely ignoring the cacophony of the battleship’s launch crews working feverishly to prep the ship’s six squadrons for the battle that had long been coming, and now seemed to be almost upon them. The drone data was fairly comprehensive, and it left little doubt the enemy was on the move. Still, there had been no sign of additional energy readings at the transit point, and normally, Stockton would have waited until that confirmation to launch. But, nothing about the present situation was normal, and he couldn’t afford to wait. His wings had to hit the enemy as hard and as often as they could, and the fight he intended to give those Hegemony bastards right there, at Megara, started with slamming into their formations just after they transited and went through the minefields.
Then, the fight would just continue, through the hours, days…longer. There would be no sleep, no food, save an occasional sandwich wolfed down while a fighter was being refit, no end to the carnage and exhaustion. This was the battle, the one he’d seen in his mind in the distance, through the smoke and fire of the terrible fights he’d already led his pilots through. This was the fight that would save the Confederation…or lose it. Words poured into his mind, expressions of simple truth that formed one rallying cry after another. But, the two men and two women in the room with him did not need such encouragements. They were spirits of fire, as he himself was, avatars of whatever gods of war drove mankind from one deadly fight to the next. They would do what they had to do, what he’d commanded them to do, because he doubted any of them even knew how to give less than one hundred percent.
“We’re ready, Raptor.” Dirk Timmons spoke first. He’d known Stockton the longest, and he was the only one there who’d ever really challenged the fleet’s top pilot for supremacy. “We’re ready to follow you…wherever you lead.”
The words were meaningful, especially coming from the one pilot who’d been a true rival, a man Stockton had once casually despised, and one who’d returned the feeling in full. They were well past that now, of course, and Stockton considered Timmons one of his few true friends. And, in the return to duty of the badly wounded pilot, Stockton saw a flicker of justice in an otherwise dark and terrible nightmare. It had taken the terrible threat of Hegemony invasion to override the navy’s regulation relegating Timmons and his prosthetic legs to the Academy classrooms and to return one of the best pilots who ever lived to the cockpit where he belonged.
“It’s an honor to lead you all.” His response was heartfelt, but it still felt strange to be in command…of anything really, beyond his old Blue squadron, but especially of the vast force of fighters assembled in the Olyus system, almost five thousand strong.
His rise since his Blue squadron days had been dramatic and unsettling, driven in part by the increased importance of the squadrons in the fight against the Hegemony, and even as he sat in the small room, alone with his top four comrades, he thought of his last true pilot-commander he’d known, and the closest friend he’d ever had. Kyle Jamison had been gone for years now, just one of so many hundreds, even thousands, of men and women Stockton had known who’d been claimed in the endless battles of the past decade. He mourned all his lost comrades, but the loss of Jamison was still an open wound, and he still thought of his friend every day.
Kyle would be here now, if he was still alive, where I sit…and I would be facing him, a fifth horseman, sitting with Warrior and Lynx and the others.
But, there was no time for such thoughts, not now. Rumors were sweeping through the fleet that a drone had transited in. Tensions had been high, and every crew member in the fleet, whether pilot, gunner, engineer—or a fourth-rate spacer who cleaned out reactor cores every day—knew the word could come at any time that the enemy was there.
“I think it would be smart if all of you transferred back to your base ships now…just in…” He never got to finish the sentence. The room was bathed in the red glow from the two lamps on the wall, and the battlestations klaxons sounded.
The enemy was there.
* * *
“If you have a moment, Tyler…I’d like to have a word with you.” Dustin Nguyen was old, by far the most aged officer in the active fleet. He’d been retired when the last war with the Union had begun, the fourth such conflict, but he had served in both the second and third incarnations of the long struggle between rival nations. He’d fought alongside some of the most renowned officers who’d served the Confederation, and he’d won no small amount of acclaim for his own victories. He was the only active officer in the navy who had served with Tyler’s grandfather, the legendary Admiral Barron who stood like a giant in the Confederation’s history.
Barron didn’t have a moment, not even part of one, but Nguyen was his commander, and a tenuous link of sorts to his lost grandfather. He wasn’t capable of refusing.
“Of course, Admiral. Let’s step into my office.”
The two men walked toward the back of the bridge and down the short corridor that led to the two private workspaces, one for Dauntless’s captain and the other for the admiral flying his flag on the battleship. They both stepped inside, and Barron gestured toward one of the chairs, offering Nguyen a seat.
“No, Tyler. Thank you, but I only need a minute…and I suspect that’s all we have. I just wanted to tell you something before the battle begins, something I want you to know now…in case we do not meet again.” The admiral paused. He was weak, that was clear, and although Barron still believed in his reasoning for turning down the top command in favor of the reactivated Nguyen, he worried whether the aged officer had the physical stamina to endure the likely long and difficult fight ahead.
“Yes, sir. Of course.” Barron didn’t know what Nguyen wanted to tell him—they’d already discussed every aspect of the battleplan more than once—and he was well aware of everything he had to do to attend to his task force before Hegemony ships started pouring through the transit point.
>
“I just wanted to tell you what a tremendous job you have done, what a fine and brilliant officer you’ve grown to be. Your missions, your successes, have rivaled those of your grandfather…and even exceeded them. I knew the admiral well, Tyler, as you are aware, and I just wanted you to know how deeply and profoundly proud he would be of you if he was here.”
Barron hadn’t known what to expect from the old admiral, and that definitely hadn’t been it. The words took him by surprised, and he stood for a moment, just staring back in some sort of shock. He’d always strived to live up to his famous grandfather’s reputation, to both honor the lost hero, and also to emerge from his shadow, to stake his own claim at renown. And, hearing Nguyen’s words, delivered with a striking sense of sincerity, he almost lost his iron grip on his emotions.
“Thank you, Admiral,” he finally said, his words coming slowly and with some difficulty. “I have long missed my grandfather, and always sought to honor his memory. For one of his comrades to speak as you have…” He didn’t finish the sentence. The words just didn’t come, but the expression on Nguyen’s face told Barron he’d gotten his meaning across.
“My shuttle is waiting, Tyler. Fortune go with you, my friend.” Nguyen was flying his flag on Vanguard, one of the new, enhanced Repulse-class battleships.
“And with you, Admiral.” Barron nodded, and then he snapped off something close to a perfect salute. “I’ll escort you to the launch bay, sir.”
“No, Tyler…you have much to do. I will not take an admiral from his bridge when the fleet is on battlestations. Your people need you, and I am not so old and fragile that I can’t make it to my shuttle unassisted.” The admiral bowed his head slightly, and then he turned and walked back out into the hall, leaving Barron alone with his thoughts.
Nguyen’s words still echoed in his mind, and he wondered if the old officer had just worked him a little, rallied him with the skill and dexterity he’d always used to draw the best from his own people.
