by Jay Allan
His mind raced, trying to imagine anything he had forgotten, any way Villieneuve could have mustered enough force to launch an attack. No, there was no way. Unless the former First Citizen had given up. Perhaps Villieneuve had chosen a suicide attack as his final maneuver. Denisov couldn’t imagine his adversary believed there was any way he would be allowed to survive defeat. Denisov hoped to spare as many spacers as possible from the defeated fleets, but Villieneuve himself had to die.
But Gaston Villieneuve would never surrender…and in its way, a pointless suicide attack would be just that.
“Probes launched, Admiral. We should have data streams in six minutes, thirty seconds.” A pause. “Ship’s scanners report another increase in energy levels. There is definitely something there, sir, but the scanners are having a hard time getting a fix.” The officer turned and looked over at Denisov. “I know this doesn’t make any sense, but it’s almost as though whatever is out there is flickering in and out of…reality.”
Denisov stared at the display. The officer’s words didn’t really make any sense, and yet they described exactly what he was seeing. Had Villieneuve developed some kind of new technology? Something that interfered with scanning beams?
He felt his insides tense. Denisov wasn’t the sort to allow confidence to overrule caution, but he’d analyzed the situation a hundred different ways, and he’d come to the same conclusion every time. Villieneuve was finished.
But if he has something we don’t know about…
Denisov sat, shaking his head as he watched the display. Villieneuve was no fool, and he had to know he couldn’t win a straight up battle, even with only half of Denisov’s fleet in place.
Not unless he thinks he has some kind of edge, something I’m not aware of…
“Bring the fleet to full alert, Commander. And I want all ships to go to full power on their scanners. I want every scrap of data on…whatever that is coming through.”
“Yes, Admiral…at once.” The officer’s voice made it clear Denisov wasn’t the only one who was worried.
What the hell are you doing, Villieneuve?
He almost gave the withdrawal order, commanded his ships to pull back. That would buy time, allow him to regroup with some of his returning forces. It would also allow his people to analyze the strange scanner readings in greater detail.
No, you’re letting your imagination run wild. Villieneuve is trapped, and eighty percent of his forces have been destroyed or have surrendered. He’s finished…whether you invade in two months, or you fight the last battle here.
“All ships…charge weapons, prepare to advance.”
* * *
Gaston Villieneuve sat in his chair, strapped in and trying to look as calm as possible. He had always been focused, deliberate, unshakable. He’d used those traits to reach what had once served as the heights of power in the Union, and then not only survived the disaster that claimed his colleagues, but turned rebellion and defeat to his advantage, gaining even more absolute power in the end.
But he had lost his cold view, gotten careless enough to allow traitors to plot in the dark shadows, and while he’d steadfastly maintained that his forces would prevail, he’d long since lost true hope. He’d even begun to imagine an escape route, someplace he could go unrecognized, to remain out of the reach of his enemies.
Then, Percelax arrived. The Highborn had been preceded by a single cryptic message, an offer of alliance, and of immediate help against his enemies. He hadn’t believed it at first, not really. Gaston Villieneuve had a lot of people who were afraid of him, but not too many allies. And none with the power to intervene and salvage his crumbling position.
Still, he’d responded, and that had led to a meeting with the Highborn representative…and a real hope of surviving, even of defeating his detested adversaries and returning in triumph to Montmirail.
There will be a reckoning that day…
He’d been cautious at first. His efforts to pursue an ‘enemy of my enemy’ strategy with the Hegemony had backfired badly, and in many ways, he could trace the start of his decline to that moment. But desperation left few choices, and as he sat there, he was watching the fruits of his diplomacy. His Highborn allies had only sent a limited number of moderately-sized ships, but they were vastly more powerful than anything he—or Denisov—had. And his own fleet had been hastily upgraded, at least as far as their technology levels allowed.
Now it was time. Time to crush the rebel fleet. Time to regain his power, and destroy his enemies with a finality that would almost erase them from history itself.
Sandrien was positioned back from the main fleet. Villieneuve was hopeful his new allies would help him carry the day, but he wasn’t about to put himself within reach of his enemies. Denisov would come after him with a ruthless abandon if he was able to detect and close with his ship. Better to let the Highborn and their technology deal with the rebellious admiral and his traitorous spacers.
He stared at the large screen in front of him, watching as sixteen Highborn ships, none larger than a cruiser, moved forward, racing toward the enemy’s port flank. Denisov had one hundred seventy ships, and Villieneuve less than sixty. He felt his nerves tingling, wondering if the Highborn were being too reckless.
That concern escalated as the display showed a large part of the opposing fleet, over sixty hulls, moving to intercept the advancing Highborn. No doubt Denisov was snapping out orders to his scanner crews, preparing to launch more probes, wondering in near panic what he was facing. But he hadn’t backed down, and he was making use of his numbers with great tactical skill. Villieneuve felt his own fear rising, and some of the confidence he’d recovered when his new allies had arrived dissipated.
Then the Highborn ships opened fire.
Their guns came to life far outside firing range. At least what had been firing range, in the Union Civil War, and in every conflict Villieneuve had ever seen.
The weapons were different, still energy and light based, at least he assumed they were, but clearly not lasers, nor particle accelerators like the Confed primaries. They were electric blue, speckled strangely with moving bits of blackness, seeming almost like a glimpse into some dark and deadly abyss. And when they struck their targets, they inflicted fearsome damage.
Villieneuve watched as a destroyer took a direct hit…and vanished almost instantly. A pair of enemy beams struck a heavy cruiser, and seconds later, the vessel lay there, a dead and ruined hulk.
A flood of emotions took him, awe at the power of the Highborn weapons…and fear as well. He wanted their help, he needed it, but he felt as though he was playing with something volatile and dangerous. It didn’t take his level of advanced paranoia to imagine such fearsome power turned on his own forces. He told himself the Highborn needed him, that he was a blade they could shove into the Confederation’s back…and that was true. But he knew he had to do whatever it took to make sure the Highborn still needed the alliance.
At least until he found a way to steal their technology…and put the Union on a true course to dominating the Rim.
“First Citizen…the rebel fleet appears to be repositioning.” A pause. “No, they’re retreating!” The surprise in the officer’s voice confirmed the caution his spacers had carried into the fight. They had expected to lose, and no doubt many had planned to surrender when things appeared hopeless.
That won’t happen now…
“All ships forward, 105 on the reactors…we need to get into range before Denisov can escape.” Villieneuve felt a new kind of panic, a fear that his enemies were so stunned by the Highborn ships and their weapons, they were breaking off and running before they could be fully engaged. Villieneuve was stunned by the power of his new allies—he was still watching as the sixteen vessels tore into the flank of the rebels, gunning down ships even as they tried to flee. But he was loathe to allow his enemies to escape with their fleet anything like intact. He had regained the advantage, he was sure of that now that he’d seen the Highborn in action, but time wa
s a slippery tactical element. Denisov would call out for help from his Confederation friends, for one thing.
It was unlikely the Confeds could spare enough strength to make a difference, but he didn’t want them to have any warning of what was coming either. His deal with the Highborn called for the Union to attack the Confederation as soon as Villieneuve was securely back in power, and he intended to live up to that promise to the letter. The Confederation border had been stripped of its defenses, save for a few fortified stations. It was open, like a bare breast inviting the knife to strike.
“The rebel forces are definitely decelerating, attempting to withdraw. The Highborn ships are following, maintaining their range and continuing to fire.”
Villieneuve looked straight at the display, feeling his hands clench tightly. His ships were moving forward with all the thrust they could manage, and the rebels had to offset their inbound velocity before they could begin to move away. Still, it was a close call on whether his people would get into firing range.
He figured maybe two chances in three his ships would get some shots in, perhaps a bit better than that after the Highborn upgrades to their weapon systems. Even if they didn’t, it was becoming clear Denisov’s fleet was going to suffer severe losses from the attack of the Highborn alone.
Denisov’s quick thinking and decision making was going to save at least part of his fleet. That was a disappointment. The war wouldn’t end then and there.
But the battle would put Villieneuve’s forces on the road to victory. He would follow Denisov, haunt his every move, chase his fleeing ships all the way back to Montmirail.
And then they would fight the final battle…and Gaston Villieneuve would pay many debts that day.
Chapter Twelve
Highborn Flagship S’Argevon
Imperial System GH9-4307, Planet A1112 (Calpharon)
Year of the Firstborn 389 (327 AC)
“The Hegemony and the Rim dwellers have shown considerable initiative, and we should not disregard their capabilities. They are, of course, no match for us, and indeed, their likely tendency to create false equivalencies between our order and theirs may well facilitate the fastest and least costly path to our final victory. It is far easier for us, as the superior intellects, to model and predict their plans and reactions, than it is for them to discern our own. It is on this basis that I have developed our operational plan, and I do not believe the factual data have changed sufficiently to suggest any changes are now in order. We can predict with considerable expectation of accuracy, the actions of the humans…but not the precise timing. There are simply too many variables to develop more than a range for their expected response, which I submit extends from imminently, to perhaps six to eight of their months from now.”
Stockton sat along the wall, next to the other high-ranking Thralls. He seethed with burning hatred, but only in that small part of his mind still left to him. As far as he could see, the rest listened intently, sitting upright and showing the Highborn seated at the table all the respect due to superiors. To gods.
He wondered if he was the only one with disguised fury, if those raised on Highborn controlled worlds were adapted to being controlled.
To being slaves.
The whole thing sickened him, or at least it would have if he’d been able control his stomach enough. It was disturbing enough to see his fellow humans behave in such a manner—and as much as he resented and detested them, the Thralls were human beings, just like him—but to see, to feel, himself taking part in the whole hideous affair, was more than he could endure.
He wasn’t being fair to the other Thralls, he knew that. They wore the Collar, just like he did, and he heard and saw how they behaved…but not if there was some spark of who they truly were, or who they had been, somewhere deep, trapped even as he was, watching helplessly.
“Your analysis is flawless, Tesserax, save for one factor that bears closer examination. Reports from the capital suggest the situation on the primary front has experienced some degree of decay. Your success in building the Colony, in turning the effort to bring the humans to heel, into a self-supporting enterprise has been of great assistance in that regard. Nevertheless, there is some urgency to completing the integration of the humans, and the rest of their industry, into the fold…just in case the news from the primary front continues to worsen.”
“Your words are wise ones, Phazarax, and I would consider them sufficient alone to alter our strategy…if our estimates of the time required to provoke enemy action were longer. If the humans do as we expect—and I assign to that projection a probability of greater than ninety percent—their action, and our response to it, will greatly reduce the total time required to fully absorb the entire Rim. Indeed, if the humans respond with a force at the higher end of the range of probabilities, we may indeed have a chance to end the conflict in one climactic battle. If I am wrong, we can proceed with our offensive at any time, but let us remember that such a course will likely be costly and time-consuming, and the enemy will have repeated options to withdraw, to offer multiple layers of defense. Even with our superiority in technology and intellect, such an operation could take many years. If we are able to trap the humans in the space we occupy, and destroy the bulk of their forces in one swift stroke, there is a strong likelihood we will break their will…and bring them into the fold without further bloodshed and loss. In that case, we will not only gain control of the human industry and resources in a short time frame, we will release much of the armament we have constructed here for deployment on the primary front.”
Stockton listened, both the part of him controlled by the Collar, and the small bit trapped in the depths of his consciousness. He’d heard mention before of the ‘primary front’ before. At first, he’d assumed the Highborn were planning to strike the Rim along some other, unknown approach, but he’d come to realize his captors were, in fact, fighting someone else. Were there other humans, perhaps survivors from the empire, somewhere coreward, on the other side of Highborn space? Or had the Highborn encountered hostile aliens of some kind?
Or were they battling some self-created nightmare, even as Stockton’s old comrades, and the other descendants of the empire, were doing in fighting the Highborn themselves?
“Your words are convincing, Tesserax. I propose we continue with the current plan for three more months, a quarter of an imperial year…and if the humans have not responded as we have predicted, or at least shown signs such a course is imminent, we reconvene on the issue, not necessarily to change our strategy, but at least to reevaluate it based on current data.”
Tesserax nodded solemnly. “Agreed, Phazarax. My model suggests an eighty-one percent probability the humans will respond as projected within the specified time period. Are we of one mind?”
The other Highborn at the table voiced their agreement. The decision was unanimous.
“Very well, with that decided, perhaps you can update us, Phazarax, on your progress as head of the church in the Colony. Specifically, what can we expect in terms of Collar implementation and increased production levels in the three months ahead, while we wait for the humans to fall into our trap?”
Phazarax turned and looked down the table at his colleagues. “I have much to report, Commander Tesserax, and all of it quite positive. The vast genetic databases of the Hegemony, and the societal dedication ingrained in its citizens to accepting their place and obeying those placed above them, have been considerable aids to our efforts. We have been able to locate the superior genetic specimens and focus on encollaring them first. Those brought under our control, especially those the humans called ‘Masters,’ have proven quite useful in helping to control the rest of the populations. The lower order humans of the Hegemony appear to be highly disposed to obeying the Masters, regardless of the circumstances. The use of encollared Masters to directly supervise the as yet uncollared segments of the working classes has allowed us to exceed production targets, while reducing the number of terminations required by o
ver seventy percent.”
“That is good news indeed, Phazarax. The humans do breed quickly, and they will do so at an even greater rate when we enlighten them further with regard to their purpose and their obligations to us. Nevertheless, in consideration of events on the primary front, preserving current population levels, where possible, seems a wise strategy.”
“I concur. I have endeavored to keep executions to a minimum, and in total, fewer than two billion have been liquidated on occupied worlds. That is well below pre-invasion estimates.”
“That is very low indeed, and we have seen little disruption or civil disturbance despite your…light touch.”
Phazarax nodded, and then he began to share details, production figures, reports on church construction…and one thing that hit Stockton like a hammer.
“…and total Collar implementation rates throughout the tier one occupied portions of the Hegemony exceed twenty percent…”
Twenty percent of Hegemony citizens wore the Collar already? The same device that enslaved him, that forced him to obey…that had turned him into a traitor against his own people? Stockton didn’t know exactly how many Hegemony planets the Highborn had occupied, but what he’d just heard suggested that Collars had been implanted in tens of billions of human beings. Stockton had known for a long while the Highborn wanted to subjugate humanity, but he only realized in that instant they wanted to turn all humans, hundreds of billions of sentient beings, into drones, mind-controlled slaves, utterly devoid of free will, following the commands of their gods for all eternity, unaware even of the living nightmare they endured.
Save only for a trapped spark of themselves, a miserable and helpless remnant imprisoned for all time.
* * *
“You will have your wings ready at all times, Thrall-Commander.” Tesserax looked down at Stockton. He towered over the human under any circumstances, but with the Thrall on his knees, the height difference was enormous. “You have done well, Thrall-Commander, very well, and you will be rewarded. You will rise high in the ranks of Thralls, and you will be a hero to the masses of humans who serve us. You may even find yourself holding a place in the Church. But first, there is more to do. It is likely your former comrades will push forward shortly. They have been given the opportunity to make a grave mistake, and ample encouragement to entice them in that direction. I assign roughly an eighty percent probably that they will cross the border and engage us. We cannot be sure if this will be a full-scale assault, or simply a large reconnaissance, but in either event, we will lure whatever force advances on us deeper into our trap, and we will destroy it utterly. And you shall have your place with our forces, at the head of your vast wings.”
