by Jay Allan
“I must go, Vian. Fortune be with you.” He cut the comm line, and he looked right at the main display.
At the column of Highborn ships transiting into the system.
He hesitated, for only a second or two, but in his mind, he stood frozen in place for almost an eternity. Then he turned toward Atara, the spirit inside that sustained him in battle taking firm control.
“Launch all squadrons,” he said crisply, coldly. “All wings are to advance at full thrust toward the transit point.”
Chapter Seventeen
Temporary Hall of the People
Liberte City
Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV
Union Year 227 (323 AC)
“Admiral Denisov…it is a great pleasure to welcome you home. You have been gone far too long, and your people have missed you.”
Denisov bowed his head slightly. Ciara knew it for what it was, a makeshift greeting, a way to show some respect without saluting or anything else that might signify acceptance of her authority. That was far from unexpected, but the disappointment she felt told her she’d allowed herself to imagine, if not expect, that Denisov would support her without hesitation or condition.
There are always conditions…
“The pleasure is mine…” There was a hitch, and it was obvious Denisov didn’t know what to call her. He wasn’t yet ready to recognize her as First Citizen, but he clearly didn’t want to offend her by falling back to her old title of ‘Minister.’
“Sandrine, Admiral. We have known each other for how long? Formality seems unnecessary.” Technically, they had known each other for more than ten years, but that was somewhat misleading. They’d never been close, neither personally nor professionally. But shifting to first names offered a way to avoid any…difficulties. Denisov clearly wasn’t ready to recognize her as First Citizen yet, and the last thing she needed was anyone else around her getting those kind of ideas in their heads.
“Thank you, Sandrine. And, of course, I am Andrei.” Denisov’s tone was cautious, but not hostile. She figured being Villieneuve’s enemy put her halfway, at least, to securing the admiral’s backing.
Ciara smiled sweetly. She was quite adept at manipulating people, especially men, but she had a pretty good idea that wasn’t going to work with the Union’s famous renegade admiral. The treatment Denisov had received from Gaston Villieneuve—including an attempted assassination that had come very close to succeeding—had hardly predisposed him to trust anyone who’d been part of Sector Nine.
But, of course, sharing an enemy had been the seed of many a productive partnership…and the former head of Sector Nine, the dictator who’d sent killers after the admiral, was not an enemy to be trifled with, even if he had been driven off Montmirail.
Ciara didn’t expect Denisov to trust her any time soon, but she couldn’t imagine he had many options other than throwing in with her. Unless he wanted to become a permanent exile, and inflict that fate on all his spacers as well.
Denisov could take his fleet back to Confederation space, certainly, even out to the Badlands to join Tyler Barron in the new fight that had drawn the Confeds so far out into the unknown, but that would be a temporary solution only, and it would leave him facing whichever side won the civil war. It made far more sense to pick a side, to gain influence and position, and to secure, to the extent possible, a future in the new regime. Give a choice between supporting her and Villieneuve, Ciara wasn’t overly concerned about how Denisov would land.
Besides, she was willing to bet the admiral was too much of a patriot to ignore the desperate struggle that had engulfed the Union, to remain in the safety of Confederation space while his nation tore itself apart.
And even less likely, to watch as his hated enemy, Gaston Villieneuve prevailed and imposed an even more despotic and paranoid rule over the worlds of the Union.
“Andrei, I believe you are at least somewhat aware of recent events, and the situation the Union now faces.”
The admiral looked around the room, and then back at Ciara. “Sandrine, I wonder if it is possible for us to speak alone.”
She was surprised at the suggestion. She’d imagined Denisov would want to spend some time looking around, talking to some of the others. She’d been ready to allow that, to an extent at least. But if the admiral was ready to deal, as far as she was concerned, the sooner the better.
“Of course, Andrei. My office—at least what I’m using as an office at the moment—is this way. I’d suggest someplace more comfortable, but here I can at least assure you there are no surveillance devices. None except the ones I had put in, at least…
“That will be perfectly fine, Sandrine.” The voice was unreadable, cold without being hostile. She considered herself adept at reading such things, but she was stumped at what Denisov was going to tell her.
“This way, please. Can I send for anything? Drinks? Some food?”
“No, thank you. Nothing for me. I have come a long way, and I would like to get right to our business at hand.”
“Certainly.” She gestured down the hall and led him to her office, a large room, nicely furnished…but not too plush. She’d been trying to establish her authority while also distancing herself from some of Villieneuve’s excesses.
She stepped aside and waved toward the doorway, waiting until Denisov was inside to follow. “Please, Andrei, have a seat.”
Denisov sat down at one of the chairs facing a large desk. Ciara was about to walk around and sit behind the desk, but at the last instant, she stopped and flopped down in the other guest chair. It seemed less formal, a better way to speak with an officer who was crucial to the success of her coup, but not yet fully onboard.
“As you know, the forces committed to me are fighting the traitors supporting Gaston Villieneuve.”
“I detest Villieneuve at least as much as you do, Sandrine, perhaps more. But let us dispense with labels like ‘traitor,’ shall we? It is not difficult to imagine an officer seeing him as the rightful head of state. Good men and women have followed many bad causes.”
“Yes, certainly.” Denisov’s directness struck her abruptly, and she realized the only way to deal with the admiral was with her own unvarnished directness. And with a lot more honestly than she usually employed.
“Very well, Admiral, let us get to the point. If Gaston Villieneuve wins this fight, I am dead…or at least, I will have to flee into exile and spend my life trying to evade his assassins. You, as well, will be forever barred from returning home, and I have little doubt you will find you have not had your last encounter with Villieneuve’s killers. You may have formed an alliance of sorts with the Confeds, but this is your home. You may not trust my ability or intentions regarding governing the Union if I prevail, but I hope, at least, you believe I would be preferable to the monster who has so long held the power.”
“I think you know I would never support Gaston Villieneuve.” A pause. His cold mask of emotionlessness failed for an instant. “If I may be blunt, Minister Ciara, my time in the Confederation has opened my eyes in many ways. You and I have never crossed paths, at least not in any confrontational way, but you are Sector Nine…and we all know what Sector Nine is.”
“Admiral…” The reversion to formal titles was not a good sign, but she didn’t think she had any choice except to follow Denisov’s lead. “…Sector Nine is a large organization with many…”
“Please, Minster Ciara…I will not insult your intelligence. I will be appreciative if you return the favor. I know what Sector Nine is, and I know what you have been. Your government would probably be less brutal than Villieneuve’s, I grant you that, but you will still rule as a dictator.”
“Admiral, I can assure you…” She stopped. She wasn’t going to convince Denisov by lying. “Yes, you are correct. The Union has known nothing but autocratic rule for two centuries. I appreciate your infatuation with your friends in the Confederation, and I cannot guess at what makes their chaotic mix of scattered would be autocrats
and marginal democracy work, but I can assure you, replicating that in the Union, at least in the short term, is a recipe for disaster.”
“I agree.”
Ciara stared back, stunned. That was just about the last thing she’d expected to hear.
“I’m sorry?”
“I did not seek this meeting to convince you to transform the Union into another version of the Confederation. I am as aware of our history as you, and I know very well, for whatever skills I possess, I attained my rank through the same corrupt system that powered your rise to the top. Even if I was so inclined, I do not have the strength alone to wage a battle to establish a democratic Union government. If I possessed such strength, and sought to bring democracy to the Union, the vestiges of Sector Nine would almost certainly seek to destabilize any nascent republic.” A pause. “No, Sandrine, I did not come here to make a pointless effort to convince you to give the people freedom. My goals, and sadly, my ideals, fall well short of so lofty an achievement. I am prepared to bring my forces to your side, but I need certain guarantees from you.”
Ciara struggled to hold back a smile. Trading in political promises and corruption was her specialty. If they were down to horse trading, she figured she had already won. “What do you want, Andrei?”
“First, while I do not believe the Union can emulate the Confederation’s ways, at least not for a very long time. But I have made promises to their officers and political leaders. My fleet has been their ally for several years now, and I will not be a party to any bloc seeking to continue the cold war between our nations—much less, to begin any actual future conflicts.”
“I can assure you, Andrei, I am not looking for more enemies. Indeed, I may even be able to put your mind more at ease in that regard than you probably imagine.” She hesitated for a moment, unsure how much she should say. But she needed Denisov, and that meant she had to trust him. “First, I must have your sincere promise that nothing I am about to say will leave this room.”
“You have my word.”
“My effort to overthrow Gaston Villieneuve was financed, in large part, by Confederation Intelligence.” She hesitated, unsure if Denisov was going to respond. But he was just looking back at her with a stunned expression on his face. “Our century of conflict with the Confederation was both pointless and destructive, I agree with you fully on that. I can promise you, if Villieneuve is defeated, the pointless animosity between the Union and the Confederation is over.”
Denisov finally nodded his head, still looking like he was processing her unexpected response. “Very well. Second, you will grant an immediate pardon for all of my officers and spacers. No doubt, Villieneuve has condemned them all in absentia, and branded them all as traitors.”
“He has. If we strike a deal in this room, the pardon will be issued within the hour.”
“Very well.” A pause, a longer one this time. “One more thing, Sandrine. I have a pretty good idea that Villieneuve has managed to gain the edge in this conflict, notwithstanding the fact that you still hold Montmirail.” He put his up hand to silence her just as she was about to argue. “Please, Sandrine…this is not the time for lies or propaganda. If we join forces, I will need to know every detail of the tactical and strategic situations. Every last bit.”
“I will do better than that, Andrei. Join me, and I will place you in supreme command of our forces, all of them. I will look to your skill and experience to help find a way to rid ourselves of Villieneuve. Our adversary has managed to secure the support of roughly seventy percent of the fleet, not counting your forces.” She shook her head. She’d been surprised and disappointed at the number of flag officers declaring for Villieneuve, but then she thought about her enemy’s paranoia. She realized she shouldn’t have been surprised that he had all sorts of influence over many of the officers, all sorts of well-placed blackmail, bribery, threats to their families, anything it took to win allegiance. She was confident of her own abilities, but she’d gotten a refresher course in just how good Gaston Villieneuve was at manipulating and intimidating people.
“So, with my forces in the mix, we’re looking at what? Something like an even match?”
“Yes, I believe almost exactly even. So, you see, Andrei, I need your assistance…very badly. Will you help me? Will you side with me so we can prevent Gaston Villieneuve from returning to power?”
Denisov stood up, and he extended his hand.
Ciara followed suit, and she finally let out a smile, and a deep breath, as she clasped her new ally’s hand. She’d been on the verge of outright desperation just days before, but the return of Denisov’s forces changed the situation completely.
At least it was an even fight now.
Chapter Eighteen
CFS Dauntless
Sigma Nordlin System
Year 323 AC (After the Cataclysm)
The Battle of Calpharon – Invasion of the Highborn
“Admiral Stockton has landed. The flight teams are working on his ship.”
Barron nodded at Atara. He’d almost ordered another ship be prepared, and transferred to Stockton, one that would be ready to launch the moment the pilot landed. But Stockton had been in his cockpit for days, and he’d just made a desperate run back to the fleet. An hour walking around the flight deck wasn’t exactly shore leave, but with the main fight still ahead, Barron figured it was a lot better than nothing.
And, perhaps, so did Stockton. The usually aggressive officer hadn’t raised the issue either. If Stockton thinks he needs a few minutes, even subconsciously, he damned well needs a few minutes…
Besides, the wings were all launched and on their way to meet the enemy fleet. Ideally, Stockton would have been there with them, but the fighter corps had deep leadership, and the tactics for the first assault were almost absurdly simple. Race to the point, and hit anything that emerges…focusing first and foremost on the massive battleships. For all his skill and experience, Stockton could do little to add to the equation from tens of thousands of kilometers behind, trying to catch up with a strike force that would be on its way back before he got there.
Barron turned and looked at Dauntless’s giant main display. The system was laid out in all its glory, and a wide swath of small dots was arranged in a semi-circular formation around the planet Calpharon. Over twelve hundred ships had been massed, and they were sitting and waiting for the enemy. Another four hundred hung outside the displayed area, he knew, in reserve and waiting within striking range of transit point one…just in case the enemy came in from two directions.
“Still only the smaller vessels coming through, Admiral.”
“For now…but we know they’re on the way.” Barron knew just how powerful those ‘small’ ships were, and what they could do to his fleet, and to the forces of his allies deployed alongside. He knew the bombers could hit the advance line hard, but he was wary to give them the go ahead…not when he knew the enemy battle line was still coming.
Though you will have to move at some point if the battleships hang back…
It felt odd hoping that the enemy battle line would transit, that the behemoths would come at his forces. Launching the bomber attack before the battleships had transited had been a gamble, one that would pay off if the enemy heavies came through as expected. But if the Highborn sent only their smaller ships at first, the attacking wings would have no choice but to hit them. Every enemy ship damaged or destroyed was a good thing, but Barron knew any chance of ultimate success depended on neutralizing the Highborn battleships.
“Admiral…we’re going to have to put someone in command of the strike force until Admiral Stockton is able to get out there.”
Barron nodded, but he didn’t say anything. Atara was right, of course. Sending the wings in without an overall commander was only risking confusion…and a failed attack with heavy casualties. But Stockton was one of a kind, and Barron didn’t know where to start trying replacing his friend, even for a hour or two.
He was still thinking when Atara t
urned back toward him. “Listen to this, Admiral…”
He tapped his headset, and he instantly recognized the voice in his ears.
“…just follow my instructions. I’ll be there shortly, but until then, I’ve got you all on my screens. Your formations look great, and I expect you all to keep it that way. We’ve got one chance to hurt these things before they can hit us with their missile strikes. Don’t sweat that you don’t see them yet, they’re coming—and we’re not going to blow it by losing our shit.”
Barron looked over at Atara’s station.
“He’s in flight control. He’s directing the attacking wings from there.”
Barron just returned Atara’s glance, and then he looked back at the display. It hadn’t even occurred to him to order Stockton to flight control to command his people remotely until his ship was ready to launch. He was surprised to hear Stockton on the comm…and then he wasn’t surprised.
You should have known he wouldn’t rest, not even for an hour on a bench on the flight deck. Not while his squadrons are out there…
Commanding the bombers from Dauntless was far from ideal. The distance from the flagship to the wings was already causing a six second delay in communications. Not an eternity by any measure, but far from ideal in battle—and it would only get worse. Still, Stockton’s tactical skill and his voice on the comm by itself was worth another fifty squadrons by any measure.
Barron leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath, and readying himself. He was no stranger to desperate battles, but he knew even he had a limit to his endurance. The fighting in the system hadn’t even started yet, and despite his efforts to hide it from himself, he felt a level of fatigue beyond any that had plagued him before. He was tired—used up is what they call it—and he dug as deeply as he could for whatever strength remained to him.
