by Jay Allan
And she couldn’t afford to wait around to see.
She felt the pressure as the shuttle blasted off, moving toward her orbiting ship…toward escape. She was almost certain she would be given sanctuary in the Confederation, but she didn’t know what she’d do next. Certainly a life as a glorified prisoner seemed unattractive compared to being First Citizen of the Union.
But far preferable to what would await her if she fell into Villieneuve’s hands.
“First Citizen, if you are not fully strapped in, please do so now.”
The title mocked her now, the position she’d struggled so hard to attain, the one now being stripped from her, as if in slow motion.
“I’m strapped in.” Her tone was brusque, sharp. You have to watch that. You need to keep the few people you’ve got left close to you.
She knew her loyalists were already departing her in droves, and what few remained would soon be lost as she abandoned them. She had the resources to escape, but many of her followers did not. They remained on Montmirail, awaiting Gaston Villieneuve’s retribution.
She imagined they’d all be frantically trying to erase any records pointing to their cooperation with her. She almost laughed. Hope could drive people to believe almost anything, and fear even more. But her profession had taught her that such things, electronic trails and the like, were almost impossible to completely eliminate.
And Gaston Villieneuve was a master at uncovering such things. Few, if any, of those who’d rallied to her would escape discovery…and torment.
Thousands would die horribly, tens of thousands. She had no doubt Villieneuve would sweep through the capital like Death’s scythe, and she knew the man well enough to realize he wouldn’t lose any sleep over the innocents caught in his broad based purges.
“First Citizen…we’re going to be undertaking some evasive maneuvers. I just wanted to warn you.”
Her stomach went cold. Evasive maneuvers? What were they evading? Worst of all, perhaps, the pilot was clearly scared.
“What is happening?”
“The ship is under attack. We’re going to have to get through some fighter groups to dock.”
She knew, in one crushing instant…she’d waited too long.
“We’re going to get past enemy fighters? In a shuttle?”
“There is no choice, First Citizen. Unless you want to return to the surface.”
She considered that for a moment, but even before she could discount it, the option was ripped from her. The ship shook, hard. The pilots were clearly trying to escape from some pursuer. For a few seconds, she let herself hope they had gotten clear.
Then the ship rocked again, and flipped over, plummeting from the sky toward the ocean below.
* * *
“We have to abandon ship, Admiral. You have to come with us now.”
Denisov heard the words, but it took a few seconds for his mind to make sense of them. He had done what he’d come to do. He had destroyed Sentinelle. He had killed Gaston Villieneuve. That was his victory, and all he would have. Now, the choice was a simple one. A quick death, or a chance to survive as a prisoner of the Highborn. Or the most fleeting of chances to escape, to crawl back toward the Confederation border with a few ragged survivors.
Villieneuve’s death had made the idea of capture slightly less unthinkable, but Andrei Denisov did not wish to live as prisoner of the Highborn either. Neither did he have the will to survive the thousands of his loyal spacers he’d condemned to death. He wished the survivors among his people fortune in their attempts to flee. But he would die with his flagship.
“Go, Pavel. You have served well. Escape if you can, or make your peace with the Highborn. Take my best wishes with you, for that is all I have left to give, and all of mine that will leave this ship.” He turned and looked up at the aide, and he nodded gently.
“Admiral…you must come with us. You can’t stay here. We may not be able to escape the system, but we’re going to try.”
Denisov nodded again. “Your spirit is magnificent, Pavel. You are one of our very best. But my road is nearly finished. It ends here.”
“Incassable…is anyone there?”
The voice coming through the comm was strangely familiar. For an instant, Denisov thought he was hearing things. No, it’s impossible. Villieneuve is dead.
“Right now, you’re telling yourself I’m dead, that you killed me with Sentinelle. For all your tactical brilliance, you are a damned fool, Admiral. Did you really think I would let you get to me, expose myself to your foolish and suicidal ideas of honor? No, my old friend…I am here, alive and well and ready to take back all you tried to steal from me.”
No…no, it can’t be…
“This is some kind of trick. It’s impossible…” But he knew it was true. Despair flooded over him, like dark billowing clouds of an oncoming storm. He had been ready to face death, knowing at least he had rid the universe of Gaston Villieneuve. Now he would perish in utter failure, defeated, humiliated by the man he hated worst in the universe. He silently beseeched death, bade it come faster and take him from his pain.
“I have ordered the ships around Incassable to cease fire, Admiral. You will not die in the ruins of your flagship. If you would escape the fate that awaits you in captivity, you will have to kill yourself. If Incassable is to be destroyed, it will be at your hands, not mine. One final disgrace for an officer finally brought low by his treachery, and his foolishness. You have failed, Andrei Denisov, more utterly and completely than any who has come before you.” The grim satisfaction in the voice grated on Denisov, tore from him everything save misery and darkness.
No…no…no…
It was all Denisov could think. He’d lost, in every way that mattered. His life was in ruins, his dreams utterly destroyed. The only relief would be death, and that as soon as he could get see that his people on Incassable got their chances—however remote—to escape.
His aide slammed his hand down on the comm unit, cutting off Villieneuve’s line. “Admiral, we…”
“Pavel, I am entrusting you to take care of my people here on Incassable. Go to the shuttles, take your chances to get away. I only wish you had better hope for success than I expect you do. You have been a reliable and honorable officer, and…”
“Come with us, Admiral. You can’t stay here.” There was desperation in the aide’s voice.
“I cannot come with you, Pavel, my friend…but nor will I stay here, at least not in any form that will do Gaston Villieneuve any good.”
“No…please. Come with us.”
“Go, Pavel…every second lessens your chance of escape.” He turned toward the officers remaining on the bridge. “All of you. Go with Pavel. Try to escape. But don’t let yourselves fall into Villieneuve’s hands.”
The aide looked around the bridge, and then back at Denisov. “I am sorry, Admiral…please forgive me…”
Denisov was confused, unsure what Pavel meant. Then, he saw the shadow of the officer’s fist approaching him…and everything went black.
* * *
“They always say Union manufacture is inferior to that in the Confederation. I’ve long bristled at that, thought it terribly unfair. I am gratified to see that our safety mechanisms are so effective. When I received the report that your shuttle had been shot down, I despaired for your safety. But here you are, alive, and if not exactly well, better than one might expect after surviving such a crash.”
Ciara looked up, bleary eyed, confused. Her memories were starting to come back. Her escape attempt, the battle…
Her stomach clenched suddenly, as realization returned in full. She had lost, her effort to take and maintain control over the government utterly defeated. Even her desperate attempt to escape had failed. And Gaston Villieneuve stood above her, staring down with feigned sympathy that couldn’t hide the malevolence in his eyes.
No…not this…
She was afraid of death, terrified. Still, she would have taken her life, whatever monument
al instant of focused control and determination it would have taken. Anything except falling alive into the hands of her deadly enemy. Thoughts passed through her mind, what he was likely to do with her, all the more terrifying in its way for the fact that she had condemned so many others to similar fates. Some part of her understood the balance of it all, realized she deserved no sympathy…certainly not from the dead faces of her own victims, staring back from the abyss. But mostly, she just felt, pure, unrestrained terror. She tried to respond, to shout, to plea pointlessly for mercy, but her throat was a parched and silent desert.
She tried to lunge from the bed, to make some mad, pointless dash for escape. But her arms and legs wouldn’t move. She was restrained, unable to do more than angle her head slightly.
“We have had to restrain you, of course. After all you have been through, we couldn’t risk your harming yourself, could we? I also thought perhaps it would be wise to drug you, to paralyze your vocal cords. We wouldn’t want you saying anything…unfortunate, would we? Not in your current situation.” Villieneuve stood just next to the bed, and behind him she could see soldiers…and something else. The figure appeared to be human, but it was large…very large. Two and half meters tall, at least, and with an immense build. There was something else about him, a strange sense of presence, of one who looked and seemed of a higher order.
One of the Highborn…
She had assumed the Confederation’s enemy had been Villieneuve’s newfound ally, but she hadn’t been sure, not until just then. She had planned for every eventuality, at least she thought she had. The mysterious Highborn reaching across a vast route around the Hegemony, the Badlands, and the Periphery, to reach Villieneuve and aid him in his struggle, had never occurred to her.
Villieneuve reached down, gently stroking her cheek. “Rest now, Sandrine…and when you are well, when you have a bit more energy, we will…talk.” He smiled, a sickly sight that made her already roiled stomach a shriveled wreck. “Yes, Sandrine…we have so much to talk about…”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Forward Base Striker
Vasa Denaris System
Year 327 AC (After the Cataclysm)
“Admiral…we’re receiving a message from Excalibur.”
Clint Winters turned and looked over at the aide. “On my line, Commander.”
Winters had been spending a lot of time in Striker’s main control center, for no other reason, perhaps, than it made him feel less useless. He understood why Barron had left him behind, entrusted him to gather the newly constructed units and prepare Striker and its remaining fleet for whatever might happen.
Whatever? You know exactly what he was thinking. If the fleet is defeated, even destroyed, he wants you ready to hold the line here…and you will try, fight as you always have.
But could he win? Was there a reasonable chance of turning back an enemy assault without the forces Barron had taken into Occupied Space? Winters would have answered that question with a firm and resolute, ‘no,’ when Barron had first left, but since then Colossus had returned from its lengthy period under repair, and Excalibur had just transited into the system with two dozen escorts. The return of the ancient imperial warship, and the Confederation’s first scratch-built vessel powered by antimatter seemed like massive additions to his strength. They were far from the only ones.
Confederation production had exceeded even his wildest hopes, making the nation the clear and unquestioned heart of the Pact. But the remaining Hegemony systems had continued to produce as well, and the Arbeiter working in the shipyards and factories, and the newly-trained Kriegeri manning those vessels, acquitted themselves quite well, too. Even the Palatians, with a far smaller industrial base and a vastly greater distance from the front, had expanded their forces considerably. No more than a week before, Vian Tulus’s fleet had added three new battleships along with a vast train of ordnance and supplies.
Even Striker’s defenses had grown. The base itself had finally been completed after nearly four years of immense effort…but the network of minefields, laser buoys, and fortresses surrounding it continued to grow. Winters found himself in command of a force of considerable strength, even with the main fleet gone.
Anything with Colossus and Excalibur—and the biggest fortress ever built—was a serious force. Part of him regretted that the two massive ships hadn’t arrived in time to accompany Barron, and part was glad he had them. If Tyler Barron was defeated, if the admiral didn’t return, Winters would mourn one of the few true friends he’d had in his life. But he would also be tasked with the last responsibility that friend had given him…finding a way to stop the Highborn. Colossus and Excalibur would be of great help in that goal.
“Admiral Winters…I request permission to dock Excalibur with Fortress Striker.” Cliff Wellington’s voice was crisp, alert. He sounded almost eager to be up near the front with his new command.
That won’t last…
Blood had a way of washing enthusiasm into the gutter.
“Permission granted, Captain. Welcome to Striker.” Winters looked down at his screen for a moment, and then he said, “Docking station eleven will be good.” A pause. “That’s a big tub you’ve got there though, Cliff, so ease her in.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“And come up and see me as soon as you’re settled. I’ll bring you up to date, and we’ll work your ships into the OB.”
“I’ll be there in an hour, Admiral…faster if I can make the docking approach on my first try.”
Winters cut the line. He sat quietly for a moment, then he turned toward his aide. “Contact Commodore Eaton, Commander. Advise her I would like to see her in my office as soon as possible. And send Captain Wellington as soon as he arrives.” Barron had taken Vian Tulus and Chronos with him, but much of the cream of the Confederation high command was now at Striker. Winters had strict orders not to send any additional forces forward, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t prepare his defenses…and maybe work out a contingency plan or two.
Just in case circumstances compelled him to…massage…those orders…
* * *
“We cannot advance, Captain. I have specific orders to remain at Striker, and do everything possible to keep the fortress fully prepared to defend against any attack that might come.” Clint Winters sat at the end of the table, acting in effect as the overall commander, even though his position as such was far from clear. The documents that formed the Pact had been deliberately vague on the chain of command, not because ambiguity was in any way desirable, but because the distances between the respective capitals and governmental bodies necessitated an agreement that would quickly gain the acceptance of all parties. Arguing over whose officers would outrank whose could have taken years, and by the time the politicians finished their debates, the Highborn would have been having lunch amid the ruins of Megara.
Such confusion would have been highly problematical already, save for one thing. Everyone had been willing to accept Tyler Barron as the informal leader of the Pact’s military. Vian Tulus was Barron’s blood brother, and Chronos and Barron had forged something of a friendship, despite having been bitter enemies for six years.
But Winters wasn’t Barron, and the fact that he’d been designated as commander by that very officer didn’t guarantee everyone would agree. Ilius was in command of the Hegemony forces that remained at Striker, and Tulus’s legate was a commander named Vestilius. By all accounts, the officer was a skilled and courageous warrior…but he was old Palatian through and through, and by that Winters meant in every way that made him a pain in the ass.
“We have a very considerable fleet here now, with the recent arrivals. What if Admiral Barron encounters enemy forces he cannot handle?”
Winters shook his head and raised his hand up toward Wellington. The officer was a skilled veteran, but he had limited experience serving at the upper levels of command. “Captain, as I said, Admiral Barron was quite clear. So, unless you are prepared to recommend mutiny, I sugg
est we move on to the next topic at hand.” Winters knew his remark had been a bit of hyperbole. He wasn’t ready to ignore what Barron had asked of him, not yet. But he knew there might come a time when he was ready to plunge in after his friend, and if that day came, he doubted he could think of it as mutiny.
So much is in the eye of the beholder…
Wellington didn’t look satisfied, but he didn’t say anything else either.
“However…” Winters leaned back in his chair and looked out at the others. “Admiral Barron did not leave any orders against our conducting preparatory drills…just in case something should change, and we are charged with advancing to his aid. To that end, I have a few fleet orders I wish to implement, and I would like to issue them jointly from the three of us.” There were a number of officers present, but Winters was looking right at Ilius and Vestilius, the commanders of the two largest fleet contingents after the Confederation’s. Winters tended to be a bit of a rampaging bull when issuing orders, but he had enough statesman in him to recognize that his position as effective commander of the fleet largely depended on the continued support of the Hegemony and Palatian leaders.
“What would you have us do, Admiral Winters?” Winters knew Vestilius was simply asking a question, but somehow, the arrogance of the Palatian grated on him. In truth, Tulus’s legate had done nothing so far save support his plans and follow his…suggestions. But Winters still found the warrior abrasive.
Perhaps two wildcats stuffed in a bag together can never truly get along…
“First, I would transfer fighters and crew from the fortress to any battleships with less than full complements, even those housing regulation wings that can accommodate additional squadrons. I would maintain homogenous wing structures on ships where possible, simply due to differences in ordnance and equipment, but based on my preliminary analysis, we may have to intermix squadrons on some vessels. This will require close examination of supply manifests, to ensure that all vessels are stocked with the required items. I don’t want to see any avoidable snafus, flight crews standing in front of stacks of ordnance that won’t fit in the fighters they’re refitting and the like. With everyone’s agreement, I would like to appoint Captain Jahn to see to the shuffling of forces and supplies.” Winters looked down the table at the logistics officer who’d been instrumental in organizing the massive flow of ordnance and supplies from the Confederation to the war zone. He wasn’t an Academy graduate, like most of the top Confed officers, but his competence was beyond question. Jahn had come to the service as a volunteer, the scion of an Iron Belt industrial dynasty who’d come forth to answer the call, and who had contributed more than any other single man or woman to the efficiency of the supply lines supporting Striker and the fleet. He didn’t have any tactical experience, but his organizational ability was beyond question.
