by Peter Nealen
“Are we still alive?” Kahane croaked.
“If you can ask that question, then the answer is yes,” Scalas rasped.
Even the absence of gravity didn’t alleviate the aches in his body. That launch had put every hard drop he’d ever done to shame. He was surprised that the passage through the atmosphere at superluminal speed hadn’t simply crushed the Pride altogether, but the triamic had built well. Even so, the shock and heat had been transferred through the hull, and it had felt like the starship had been shaking itself apart as the temperature had spiked painfully.
As he drifted up from the acceleration couch, he looked around. The lights were on, so there was still power. He checked his visor’s indicators; they still had air, though the temperature was still dangerously high.
“All Centurions, report status,” he called over the legio comm.
One by one, the others reported in. The numbers from Costigan, Soon, and Pa’u—who had taken over Century XXX after Kranjick’s and Kratzke’s deaths—were sobering. Nearly a third of the five hundred men who had deployed to Valdek were gone.
“Century XXXIV, forty-two, all okay,” Dunstan called.
Scalas’s eyes narrowed. Did Dunstan really think he could simply step back into control of his century with Kranjick dead? Did he have that much disrespect for the fallen Brother Legate’s orders?
“Rokoff, report,” he snapped.
There was an uneasy pause. Scalas felt the eyes of the rest of Kahane’s squad on him.
“Acting Centurion Rokoff, report,” he repeated.
“Century XXXIV, forty-two, all okay,” Rokoff reported nervously.
“All centurions to the command deck,” Scalas ordered. There was a great deal to discuss.
Rehenek was already pulling himself toward the elevator, using the handholds set into the deck, bulkheads, and overhead. Scalas was soon right behind him. The elevator was still working, though it made some strange noises as they swept toward the command deck. Scalas wondered just how much had been shaken loose in those horrifying first few kilometers of the launch.
At the command deck, Scalas and Rehenek swam out. Horvaset and most of the command crew, such as it was, were still strapped into their couches, though the centurions were mostly vertical, boots oriented down toward the engines and the deck.
Dunstan was hovering there too, with Rokoff just behind him, the two men noticeably separate from the other three centurions.
“What are you doing here, Dunstan?” Scalas asked quietly in Latin. This was hardly the ideal place to deal with this particular issue; every Valdekan on the command deck was watching and listening, most of them trying not to be obvious about it. But it couldn’t be put aside that easily. Either honor demanded that Kranjick’s orders be followed, or it did not. And Scalas was fairly sure he knew the way Dunstan was thinking.
“Kranjick is gone,” Dunstan said flatly. “And I am the one whom the Brothers of Century XXXIV know. I’m the one they will follow.”
“Brother Legate Kranjick gave orders,” Scalas replied coldly. “And does the Code not mandate that we follow the orders of the superiors in the Brotherhood appointed over us?”
“While the Brother Legate was alive, his orders held force,” Dunstan replied, his emphasis on Kranjick’s rank almost coming out as a sneer. “But now that we are no longer in a combat zone, I may appeal my unwise demotion to the Conclave on Caerfon.”
“Tread very, very carefully with your next words, Dunstan,” Scalas warned. His patience with the arrogant dandy was about at an end. “Appealing a demotion and ignoring it are two separate things. Or do you intend to challenge me as acting legate now? Because you will lose.”
Dunstan’s eyes flashed, but he paused and glanced sideways at the other three centurions, all of whom were glaring daggers at him. Costigan was actually cracking his knuckles under his gauntlets. Unsubtle, especially considering the Valdekans were looking on, but it got the message across. Dunstan was alone.
He shot Scalas a venomous glare. “This is not over, Centurion.”
“Acting Legate,” Soon growled.
Dunstan’s mouth worked as if he wanted to spit. But he finally bit out, “Acting Legate.”
Scalas jerked his head toward the elevator. “Get below with the rest of your century.”
Still managing to appear stiffly angry, Dunstan pushed off for the elevator. No one on the command deck spoke until the doors had closed behind him.
“What was that?” Rehenek asked.
“Internal affairs,” was all Scalas said.
Rehenek studied him for a moment, then shrugged and turned to Horvaset. “What is our status, Captain?”
Horvaset unfastened the upper part of her harness and levered herself half upright. “We’re about three light-hours outside the system. And we’ll be here for a while; we have some repairs to make.”
“Did we change vector at all on the way out?” Soon asked. “Can the enemy follow us?”
Horvaset shook her head, her dark hair swishing about eerily in the zero gravity. “There was neither the time nor the opportunity. It’s a miracle we made it this far without something going catastrophically wrong as it was. I think we passed within a few thousand kilometers of the gas giant.”
That wouldn’t necessarily have been fatal, not when the ship’s mass was effectively negative, but it was certainly something no spacer would ever want to do.
“They could follow our vector,” Horvaset continued, “but finding exactly where we went inert will be difficult. They’ll have to go inert every few seconds to try to find us, and even then, they could overshoot by light-minutes. It’ll take time. Hopefully enough. I already have damage control teams at work.”
“And if they go inert close enough to be within our light cone?” Scalas asked.
Horvaset raised her eyebrows. She probably hadn’t imagined that a ground pounder would know about concepts like light cones—the space-time coordinates where the light from an event becomes visible to another observer. It was usually a spacer term.
“Then we’ll be in trouble,” she admitted. “The weapons systems weren’t fully prepped before we launched, and there was some external damage. We can put up a fight, but… we might not last long.”
One of the Valdekan crew called out, and Horvaset snapped her head around. Rehenek peered at the dim holo-tank sharply.
“What is it?” Scalas asked Viloshen, who seemed to have become resigned to his position as the Caractacan translator. Possibly because his unit was almost certainly dead to the last man, and he had no other position in Rehenek’s tiny ad hoc resistance force yet.
“There is ship incoming,” Viloshen said. “Coming fast. Something about ‘blue’… I do not understand.”
“It’s blue-shifted,” Soon said quietly. “Meaning whatever it is, it’s not tachyonic, but it’s incoming at a good fraction of the speed of light.”
That prompted another glance from Horvaset; she was learning just how well Caractacans were trained. The armored Brothers were far more than uninspired ground fighters.
“There’s a starship incoming from the edge of the system,” she confirmed. “No identification yet.” She paused as another crewer called out a report. “We’re receiving a tight-beam hail,” she said, surprise in her voice.
A familiar voice came over the command deck speakers. “Starship Pride of Valdek, this is Captain Brecan Mor of the Caractacan Brotherhood starship Dauntless. What is your status?”
A sigh passed through the command deck, and Horvaset’s shoulders slumped just a little bit. She touched a key in her armrest. That was when Scalas noticed that her control panel was a tablet that had been wired into the partially-disassembled armrest. Apparently the triamic controls hadn’t been sufficiently conducive to human manipulation.
“Dauntless, this is Pride of Valdek,” she replied. “We have sustained damage and are conducting repairs preparatory to leaving the vicinity of the system altogether.”
“Acknowledged,” Mor re
plied. “What is your combat readiness?”
“Minimal. Have you detected any Unity ships in pursuit? Our sensors took some damage.” She was obviously trying to keep her tone even and cool, but Scalas could hear the trepidation in her voice. She’d already had one ship shot nearly to pieces under her by the Unity; he could only imagine her fear of it happening again.
“Negative,” Mor answered. “Though that doesn’t mean they aren’t on their way. None have appeared within our light-cone, however. It’s only by the grace of God that we detected you.” He paused. “We’ve sent tight-beam messages to the Vindicator and the Challenger. They should join us within the next couple of hours. Conduct your repairs, Captain. We’ll hold overwatch.”
On the holo-tank, the Dauntless had gone inert barely ten thousand kilometers away, conducting her vector-matching burn. Even taking the distance into account, it was obvious that the Spear-class ship was dwarfed by the ancient triamic dreadnaught.
“We will do so, Captain,” Horvaset said. “And thank you.”
“We are Caractacan Brothers, Captain. We defend those in need of it. Is Brother Legate Kranjick aboard?”
Horvaset looked back at Scalas, her eyes widening a little. Scalas directed his voice toward the pickup, noting how hoarse it sounded in his own ears.
“This is Acting Legate Scalas, Captain. Brother Legate Kranjick is dead.”
There was a long pause. When he spoke again, Mor’s voice was distinctly subdued. “May the souls of the Faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.”
“Amen,” chorused the five Caractacans.
“What are your orders, Acting Legate?” Mor asked.
“For the moment, just as you’ve planned,” Scalas said, feeling odd about his old friend’s deferential tone. “I will discuss our next steps with Commander Rehenek and Captain Horvaset, but for now, prepare to return to the Sector Keep.”
“Yes, sir,” Mor replied. “Dauntless out.”
Rehenek had bowed his head at the brief prayer, though Scalas suspected that if the man had any beliefs, they were the pantheistic sort expressed by his mother and father. When he lifted his head, he looked at Horvaset.
“How can my men contribute to the repairs, Captain?” he asked.
“Very little, I’m afraid,” Horvaset answered, “unless any of them are familiar with welding triamic hull plating. My crew is having difficulty enough, but it’s a matter of technicality, not numbers or brute strength.”
Rehenek nodded. “Show me where your damage control crews are, and I’ll send working parties, with instructions to stay out of the way unless the crew chiefs have something for them to do.”
“Thank you, Commander.” Horvaset brought the wireframe of the Pride of Valdek closer in the holo-tank, then highlighted several areas. Rehenek activated his comm and spoke rapidly into it, giving orders and instructions.
Scalas looked at his centurions. They nodded in understanding. There would be Caractacan Brothers there to help, as well. Having a task to focus on would keep them from dwelling too much on what they had lost on the planet below.
The repairs were coming along quickly, and there was still no sign of the Unity fleet. It was entirely possible—in fact, it was likely—that there were hundreds of the white, pyramidal ships out there looking for them, but space was vast, and the odds of finding a single ship that did not want to be found, that far out in deep space, were very long. Those odds would run out eventually—there was no hiding a starship’s emissions, and there were now four ships floating in the void within a few hundred kilometers of each other—but it took time.
Scalas paused outside the compartment that Rehenek had taken up as his headquarters. They needed to discuss their next move.
He knocked, and a muffled voice from inside called out in Eastern Satevic. From the tone, Scalas gathered that Rehenek was telling him to come in, so he opened the door and pulled himself inside.
Rehenek was strapped into a chair in front of a holo pickup. He looked over his shoulder as Scalas entered, and inclined his head. “Come in, Legate. I have one more thing to do, and then we can discuss our course of action.” He turned back toward the holo pickup, which glowed red. It was recording.
Rehenek spoke at length in Eastern Satevic. Scalas found that he was able to pick up a few bits of it. Not enough to tell what exactly was being said, but it was unmistakably a rallying cry and a call to arms.
When Rehenek finished, he shut off the recorder and turned to face Scalas with a faintly amused look. “You’re wondering why I’m recording speeches at a time like this.”
Scalas folded his arms across his breastplate. “We’re about to leave your conquered home system, possibly for quite some time to come,” he said dryly. “I think I can figure it out.”
Rehenek laughed humorlessly and leaned back in the chair, although there was no gravity to make it anything more than an affectation. “People of Valdek, my people,” he quoted in Trade Cant, “this is General-Regent Amra Rehenek. By now the invaders have doubtless told you that I am dead or captured. As you can see, that is a lie. I am alive and at large, with a core of Valdekan spacers and commandos who will form the seed of the Free Valdekan resistance. I promise you now, and let the Universe snatch the breath from my lungs if I lie, I shall return. Look to the skies, and do not lose hope. Someday, I will appear at the head of a fleet and an army that will scour our beloved planet’s surface clean of these inhuman invaders. And I promise you, once the last Sparatan functionary on our beloved soil is dead, then we shall move on Sparat. There, I will launch a memorial to my mother and father’s memory, a memorial that will float for all eternity across the lifeless debris field that will be all I leave of that accursed system. Survive, my people. Resist. And do not lose hope.”
As he reached the part about destroying the Sparat system, Rehenek’s voice took on a new intensity, a new fire. He might have written that speech for effect, but the words expressed an anger and a hatred that the man clearly felt in every fiber of his being.
He blinked and cleared his throat, composing himself and putting back on the detached, vaguely amused look that seemed to be his mask. “That will be put on a signal drone,” he said coolly. “We’ll launch it just before we leave the system. It should be able to blanket the planet with the signal for at least a day before they can destroy it.”
“Hopefully enough of your people still have the ability to receive it,” Scalas said.
“Enough will.” Rehenek unstrapped himself from the chair. “My father was already working on contingency plans within the first day of the invasion, once it became clear how outmatched we were. There are resistance cells scattered across the planet, and all of them will be listening for that message.”
“Your father seems to have been a man of great wisdom,” Scalas observed. He was still feeling Rehenek out. He suspected that everything had changed, and that his own future was now inextricably caught up in what had started with the fall of Valdek. The Caractacan Brotherhood would not stand still for such an atrocity. The lines had already been drawn.
Rehenek’s gaze turned somewhere far away. “He was,” he said quietly. “He was a great man in many ways. Though I think that without my mother, he never would have been the leader that he was.” His expression hardened again, as he took a deep breath. “But they are dead, and we have much work to do.”
“Indeed,” Scalas agreed. “We can reach the Avar Sector Keep in less than three days.”
Rehenek shook his head. “We will go there—I can think of no better place to begin building our alliance—but I have another destination in mind first.” He looked at Scalas with a glint in his eye. “I am taking the Pride of Valdek to Sparat.”
Scalas kept his expression carefully neutral. “A suicide run is not exactly in keeping with the message of hope and resistance you just recorded, General-Regent,” he said evenly.
Rehenek’s laugh was a dry bark. “Trust me, Legate, I have no intention of attacking Sp
arat. Not yet. But I want to see it. I want to see what my father’s treacherous friend has wrought. The Sparat that my father described was a rich system, but a sparsely populated one.” He nodded in the general direction of the outer hull, indicating the Valdek system beyond. “The force that invaded my homeworld was far too large to have been raised in the same system my father spoke of from the days of the Tyrus Cluster campaign. I want to see what we’re up against. What we’re really up against.”
He straightened, holding himself still with one hand on the back of the chair, his feet just above the deck. “If you must return to your Sector Keep, I understand. I am sure we can transfer you and your men to your starships in a relatively short time.”
But Scalas had been thinking about it, and shook his head. “No, I think you are right. And if I really am to be a Brother Legate in the war to come, then I agree. I want to see our enemy’s system, too.”
Rehenek smiled wolfishly. “Then let us go see if Captain Horvaset is ready to depart, before the Unity ships back there catch up with us.”
“This is unbelievable,” Horvaset breathed. “Has anyone ever seen the like?”
Scalas and Rehenek were floating behind her acceleration couch, watching the holo-tank as the Pride of Valdek’s computer slowly filled in the image of the Sparat system, collecting light and radiation from farther and farther out to increase the detail.
“I have heard of a few systems that attempted it, but none that succeeded,” Scalas said. “Logistics and unity of purpose have always broken down.”
The Sparat system had once been a typical frontier system—a relatively agrarian “first world” with industrial platforms built on orbiting space stations and asteroids. But sometime in the last few years, it had all been industrialized. Completely. The entire system seethed with comm chatter, and hundreds of thousands of ships moved between the planets and asteroids. Not a single asteroid seemed to have been missed; every one had either been converted into an installation of some sort, or mined into oblivion. Even the gas giants had extensive stations in orbit or in the upper atmospheres.
