by Jay Allan
She had endured a seemingly endless barrage of grim news for the past six months, and she’d succumbed to the fear growing all around about the enemy fighters, their skills…and their vast numbers. Her people had just engaged, and they’d had by far the better of the engagement, at least so far, but she knew she’d caught a small force. Her wings had two and a half times the numbers of their enemies. She told herself that, cautioned against arrogance, against unfounded optimism. But she was a fighter pilot at her core, and the sight of a shattered enemy formation lit a fire inside her.
“Full thrust forward. They didn’t leave any survivors at the outposts, and by God, we’re going to repay them for that!” The words just spit forth, almost unbidden. She tensed for a moment, wondered if she had gone too far, exceeded her authority. Confederation forces didn’t go out seeking to annihilate defeated forces, certainly not ones that tried to surrender.
At least not officially. War often bred brutality, even among those who decried it. If the enemy yielded, if they gave up…could she really order her people to gun them down?
Could she stop them?
Would she even try?
She wondered if Highborn forces even surrendered. They seemed the sort to fight to the death, especially since there were none of the actual Highborn themselves in those fighters, only enslaved humans, serving those they worshipped as gods. The whole idea repelled her, and it only drove her fury. Somewhere, deep inside, she pitied the humans so enslaved. But in the forefront of her thoughts, in the parts of her brain driving her forth, she only hated and despised them.
And she wanted them dead. All of them.
What kind of human being would serve those monsters…
Her jaw was clenched, her teeth grinding against each other in her mouth. The one-sided fight continued, and thirty more enemy fighters were destroyed as the rest of her missile barrage went in. The loss ratios were outstanding, and they would look great in the after action conference. But she still had no idea what would happen when she met the enemy on even terms. So far there had only been the attack on the outposts, where Highborn surprise attacks had given them the overwhelming advantage, and the current fight, where her people had the superior numbers.
That was going to be a very relevant concern if the Pact invasion continued. She knew the enemy’s numbers, that they had more fighters overall than she did…at least since they had no need to hold some back for use as bombers. She tried not to let one victory, not yet even fully won, affect her cold judgment of what her people faced. But there had been so much fear, such a grim perspective, she was starved for anything she could interpret as a good sign.
And cutting down Highborn fighters—ones she wanted to believe had been in the attacks on the outposts—fit that bill. Her missiles had done their job, and now it was time to finish it before the enemy could turn about and make a run for it.
“All squadrons, charge your lasers and increase thrust to full. It’s time to get in there and finish this.”
* * *
“Admiral Griffin reports the enemy force has been virtually wiped out. Her people are hunting down the last survivors now.”
Carlisle’s words had a hard edge to them, and Barron realized his aide was excited that Reg Griffin’s squadrons had not just defeated the enemy, but utterly destroyed them. Barron was pleased as well, but also a little concerned, not just because of the viciousness he heard in Carlisle’s report, but also because he felt the same way. He wasn’t sure if it was the arrogance of the Highborn, or the fact that he felt he had more to lose—or that Andi was out there, risking her life again—but there was a fiery rage inside him, one that challenged his ability to approach the war with cold analysis and deliberative tactics. Perhaps he’d just seen too much war, but he could feel himself succumbing to raw hatred. He could allow that, perhaps, when it came to the Highborn themselves, but he was beginning to come to the uncomfortable realization that most of those his people were killing were human beings just like themselves, men and women brainwashed by the Highborn, even enslaved with the mysterious device they called the ‘Collar.’
He told himself rage and lust for vengeance would color his tactics, deprive him of much of his skill. But then he disregarded that internal warning. Logic didn’t matter. Andi’s departure, the scattered dust clouds where the outposts had been, the thousands dead at Calpharon…they made rationality irrelevant. Barron hated this enemy as he had no other.
“Very well, Commander. The fleet will remain at full alert.” Barron still felt strange when Atara wasn’t sitting at the fleet tactical station. He’d almost left her back at Striker, but in the end, he hadn’t been able to do it. He was still worried about her, concerned she wasn’t yet the officer she had been before she’d been wounded so horrifically. There was something else, though, something he was loathe to acknowledge. He wondered if he could trust her as he had for so many years. He didn’t doubt her loyalty, not for an instant…but he wondered if she was still capable of being the granite pillar he’d relied on for so long. She was one of the toughest people he’d ever met, and he’d come to see her as invincible, relentless in every way.
But everyone had their breaking point.
Barron wondered what was happening across the system. He’d sent an advance guard forward, half a dozen battleships with escorts…and Reg Griffin to directly command the fighter wings. The scanners had detected a moderate-sized enemy force waiting there, mostly the new carriers. He’d wanted to hit them with enough force to assure victory, without pushing the bulk of the fleet too deep into the system, at least until he was sure there were no other Highborn forces hidden and waiting to ambush him. It was caution that made sense, but it also left him almost five light hours from the forward strike force…and he realized everything he was seeing had already happened hours before.
He considered giving the fleet the order to advance, but he hesitated. He was still waiting for many of the probes to report their findings, as well as a much more comprehensive update from the advance force. Coldly put, he’d sent those ships, and Reg Griffin along with them, to flush out any traps. He didn’t like to think of any portion of his fleet as expendable…but in the context of the war as a whole and the force he led, there was no way else to put it.
All except Reg. He had Timmons and Federov back with the colors, which made Griffin less singularly irreplaceable, but the loss of Stockton had left him fully aware of just how vital his key commanders were. He’d never have let Reg go so far forward…but he hadn’t really had a choice. The Highborn fighters were a deadly new threat, and Reg Griffin was in the forefront of fighting them. She needed to see them up close, experience them. He knew if he’d been in her position, he would have insisted on leading the squadrons directly, and he hadn’t been able to force himself to deny her that chance. Not when her ability to face the Highborn wings was one of the largest variables in whether the Pact had any chance to prevail.
To survive.
Barron wasn’t in direct command of the fleet, of course, at least not officially. In a practical sense, however, the burden had fallen most heavily on him. Vian Tulus would do as he commanded, he was almost sure of that, and Chronos had become somewhat more passive, ready to follow Barron’s lead without argument. That had felt strange at first, but Barron had come to realize the Confederation had become something like the lead power in the Pact. The Hegemony had been larger, and more technologically advanced—and the Confederation had originally come to that power’s aid—but half of it now lay in enemy hands. The loss of the Hegemonic capital, along with vast numbers of warships and huge swaths of industry, had struck a blow more damaging than just the battle results implied. The assured confidence of the Masters, so long the Hegemony’s defining principle, had been eroded by a growing sense of defeatism.
The Confederation, on the other hand, had lost none of its systems. The war hadn’t even come close to its borders, at least not yet. The fear of the Highborn had galvanized its entire society, and
the Rim’s mercantile and industrial marvel had become energized as it had never been before. Ships rolled out of the shipyards, and weapons and ordnance poured forth from the factories in quantities scarcely imaginable.
The great effort had begun to show signs of strain, of course, in both the Senate, and among the sweating, exhausted populations of the industrial worlds. That was one reason Barron had decided to push forward, to test the enemy, see just how powerful they truly were. The Confederation couldn’t maintain the pace it had for the past four years, the withering rates of construction and production…but at that moment, it was, in every quantifiable way, the beating heart of the Pact.
“The fleet will hold on station until Admiral Griffin follows up her initial report and deploys her fighters to scouting duty. Send her my congratulations, and instruct her to land and refuel her squadrons, and then to begin a comprehensive survey of the system.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“And, Tilson, she is to keep a contingent of her relaunched fighters on station and ready…just in case.”
“Yes, Admiral Barron.”
She will know that already…and your message will arrive far too late, even if she doesn’t…
But it helped Barron to issue the order, to feel as though he was doing something.
Something other than waiting.
* * *
“Scouting groups are beginning to report in, Admiral. No sign yet of any further enemy forces in the system.”
Reg Griffin sat in her small office, just aside from the cacophony that was Vanguard’s alpha fighter bay. The space was a borrowed one, and her permanent office was a larger, but mostly similar, space on Dauntless. She commanded the entire fighter corps—and her place was on the flagship. Usually.
She’d had to be with the first force to engage the enemy, however. At least the first since the destruction of the outposts. Because her people needed her there, because she needed to be there. For more reasons than she could easily count. She’d been prepared to fight Admiral Barron tooth and nail to get permission, but he’d agreed right away, if not without some hints of hesitation.
She understood Barron’s concerns, his clear worry for her, but she also appreciated his confidence in her. She couldn’t even imagine the stress crushing down on the Confederation’s senior admiral, nor how the loss of Jake Stockton had affected him. He’d shown her nothing but support, but if the legendary Raptor had been lost in the struggle, how could Barron not worry about any officer in his command, and especially one charged to lead the squadrons in Stockton’s place.
She was still struggling herself to accept her role as that replacement. The old saying about big shoes to fill didn’t even come close. Somewhat to her surprise, Dirk Timmons and Olya Federov had deferred to her in that capacity without any signs of resentment, and she’d found that more than anything had helped build her confidence a bit. But she still felt out of place.
“All scouting teams are to continue on their assigned course, and…” She stopped suddenly. There was something on her scanner. Activity at the transit point.
The transit point coming from deeper in the heart of the Occupied Zone.
“Scanner command…are you picking this up?”
“Yes, Admiral.” The same voice as a moment before, but considerably more strained. “No confirmed transits yet.”
She stared at her screen for a moment, deep in thought. She hated the idea of terminating her scouting operations, pulling those ships back to the main force…especially if she was watching something like a meteor or comet fragment coming through.
But if there were more enemy forces on the way…
“Issue a recall order to the scouting groups. All squadrons are to return to primary positions.” She was going to feel like a fool if nothing but a chunk of rock and ice came rolling through the point, but she wasn’t going to get caught flatfooted, not with her small force almost six light hours from the main fleet.
She sat quietly for a few seconds, perhaps half a minute. Then her scanner relieved her of her concern, at least that she would look foolish.
There were Highborn ships coming through. Carriers, one after the other. She hesitated, counting softly under her breath. When she got to ten, she leapt up to her feet.
“Get my fighter ready…I’m launching immediately.” He turned and stared at the aide seated about two meters from where she stood. “And confirm all search groups have all received the recall order. We need them back, now. We’re not done with the fight here, not yet.”
From what she could see still coming through the point, not by a longshot.
Chapter Fifteen
Forward Base Striker
Vasa Denaris System
Year 327 AC (After the Cataclysm)
“Colossus, you are cleared to dock at port station Beta-3. Take position two hundred meters from the station, and we’ll extend the umbilicals.” The voice from Striker flight control was a bit tinny over the bridge speakers. Sonya Eaton made a mental note to mention it to her engineering team. It wasn’t mission critical, of course, but it grated on her craving for order.
“Bring us in as directed, Commander.” She turned and looked at the display, trying to hide her astonishment at the immensity of the orbital station. Her last recollections of Striker were almost four years old, and they were of a rough cylinder, no more than a hundred meters long…instead of the ten kilometer behemoth floating before her eyes.
“Yes, Commodore Eaton.” The officer at the nav station turned and began to execute her command.
Eaton sat in the center of Colossus’s gargantuan control center, feeling strangely at ease. She’d commanded the massive vessel for more than four years, but that tenure had been split into a short time during the Battle of Calpharon, and more than three years back in Confederation space under repair. Colossus had fought off the entire flank of the Highborn fleet, suffering massive damage in the process. Eaton had been stunned after that epic struggle, as she still was, that the vessel had survived at all. It had taken an almost unimaginable pounding, more punishment than she’d ever seen anything manmade endure. But the skeleton of the imperial behemoth proved to be made of tough stuff, and it had not only brought her back from the battle, along with almost ninety percent of her crew still alive, it had made it back to the Confederations Iron Belt for repairs. That had been a good thing, because she was far from sure that any fleet of tugs could have gotten the hulking ship back in less than half a century.
The losses she’d suffered had been devastating to her, as they always were, but she’d been prepared for a far worse number, and she couldn’t help but feel relief at ten percent casualties, and less than five percent killed. But while Colossus had survived and saved many of her people, the ship itself had been badly damaged. Much of the fleet had been battered, of course, but the battleships and cruisers had been quickly repaired and returned to service. Colossus had languished for more than three years, as attempt after attempt to conduct repairs slowed to a crawl. The ship was too big for any spacedock in the Confederation, and the destroyed imperial systems proved difficult to replace. Restoring Colossus to fleet service had been as much an R&D project as a repair operation. It had required the construction of special facilities, and a series of repair operations that had been at least half guesswork.
Sara Eaton had been there the entire time, nursing her ship through, pressuring the work crews…and in one case, sending her Marines to ‘encourage’ one particularly troublesome Iron Belt magnate to throw his full support behind the effort. The stunned expression on his face when the Marines had dragged him into her office had been one of the highlights of her life, and she would never forget it. Eaton had lost too many friends and comrades, not to mention her only sister, in battle to manage much tolerance for corrupt and conniving shipyard owners.
Eaton had worried she would miss the renewal of hostilities, and while she’d been terribly shaken by the brutality of the fighting at Calpharon, that only made it m
ore essential to her that she be at the front when the fleet faced what had been perceived as an inevitable invasion. Only the expected attack hadn’t come. Even as the months passed in various shipyards, the news from the front had remained quiet. There should have been relief in that but, somehow, it only increased Eaton’s tension. She didn’t know why the enemy had taken so long, but she was sure it wasn’t good, and she’d pushed ever harder to complete the work and get her ship back to the fleet. She’d been halfway to the new Striker base, when she got the word along the com chain.
Admiral Barron had led most of the fleet forward. The Pact wasn’t waiting for the enemy to attack anymore…they were taking the initiative. And she was just a few weeks too late to join the advance.
Her first response had been disbelief. It made no tactical sense to her, none at all, and she couldn’t believe Barron had issued those orders. The entire purpose of Striker, the reason for building such a monstrous fortress had been to back up the fleet, supplement its combat power when the next great battle came about. But then she’d put herself in the admiral’s place, imagined the troubles she’d had just getting Colossus repaired…and then increased them a hundredfold. Barron had to deal with the Senate, and the entrenched bureaucracy throughout the Confederation, not to mention the Iron Belt industrial barons and a hundred other obstacles, and all that in addition to managing a bunch of allies, the other members of the Pact. The Hegemony leadership had to be anxious to liberate their occupied worlds. Eaton remembered well enough from years before, sitting two jumps from Megara, bristling for the chance to return and liberate the capital. The Hegemony Masters and Kriegeri were likely no different.
And the Palatians were always spoiling for a fight.
Eaton looked at the main display, and she couldn’t help but feel surprise at what she saw. Or, more accurately, what she didn’t see. The Pact’s Grand Fleet, as it had come to be called, was over two thousand ships strong, by far the vastest force ever assembled on the Rim, or in the Hegemony…at least since imperial times. Four years of construction, of massing every available vessel, of repairing every ship that had survived Calpharon, had produced a force far stronger than the one defeated at the Hegemony capital. Eaton shared the caution, and even outright pessimism, of her comrades—she’d seen the Highborn fleet in action, after all—but the thought of such a massive force, formed up and ready to fight around the immense base built to serve as Pact headquarters had cultivated some level of hope.
