by Jay Allan
He thought of Andi, and of his daughter. It was a cheap trick, one he’d used more than a few times in the past weeks to keep himself focused on the war…on the reason he was fighting it. But it was still working.
He closed his eyes, planning to give himself a minute to center himself.
As it turned out, he only got about half that.
* * *
“Your Supremacy…Confederation comm traffic confirms our scanner reports. The enemy battleships have begun to transit into the system. Four confirmed, and energy readings around the point suggest more are inbound.”
Vian Tulus sat bolt upright in his chair. His duty in combat could take many forms, but at that moment, nothing was as important as setting the example for his people. He was the image of the noble warrior, a man unafraid of death, of defeat.
It is a pleasant fabrication, at least.
Tulus was a Palatian, through and through, but he was a man as well. He denied his fear, even to himself, but that didn’t change the fact that it was there, inside him, chewing away at every thought, at everything he did.
“Put me on the main fighter channel, Tal.” He had no real place in the coming fight between the bomber squadrons and the newly arrived enemy battleships. There were eight hundred of his warriors out there, the second largest national contingent, but that didn’t give him a role. Not when Jake Stockton was with them.
A young, impetuous fighter allowed himself to be governed by pride, by arrogance. Tulus was the Alliance’s Imperator, a role that was half military rank and half a designation of his status as head of state. There was no place in his life for youthful foolishness. A true warrior stood up to any enemy, fought with all the strength that remained to him.
He also recognized ability in a friend, an ally. And he stepped aside to allow a more skilled comrade take control when it was warranted.
The Palatian fighters were already technologically inferior to the Confederation craft, and the new Hegemony ships as well. He wasn’t going to increase the intensity of that disadvantage by denying his people the very best overall commander available. Even if he was a foreigner.
He’d been a bit concerned his pilots would object to being placed under Stockton’s command. Palatian culture was based on a nationalistic pride which sometimes made it difficult to work with allies. For sixty years, the Alliance had been built almost entirely on the notion that the only way to avoid falling to conquest and slavery was to be the strongest.
But they weren’t the strongest. The Alliance, for all the bluster and courage of its warriors, couldn’t have defeated the Confederation or the Union in a straight up fight, and even less so the Hegemony. Now, they were facing an even more powerful enemy. Vian Tulus had done all he could to lead his people into the new reality, and he’d realized that meant his people had to serve as the junior partners to Tyler Barron and his Confederation.
At least Tyler is one of us…
The blood brother ceremony that had bound him to Barron years earlier held a sacred place in Palatian culture. For all intents and purposes, Tyler Barron of the Confederation was also Lord Barron of the Alliance, and in every way that mattered, a Palatian warrior.
And Jake Stockton has almost godlike status among the pilots…even yours…
He was grateful Stockton’s mystique had proven effective with his own squadrons as well as those from the Confederation. Tulus wasn’t above a touch of Palatian arrogance, but he understood all he had seen, and he knew there was no chance for victory, none at all, not unless all the allied powers fought together as one. Petty rivalries, mistrust, half-hearted commitments…any of those would doom the war effort. Doom them all.
And defeat was inconceivable to a Palatian warrior. If it came to a choice, Tulus knew what he would choose, what all his people would choose.
Death first. Before defeat. Before slavery.
* * *
Reg Griffin looked down at her fuel gauge. Her tanks were close to dry. She still had enough to get back to Constitution and to land with some margin of safety, but not much more.
The AI had directed the small maintenance bots on her ship with considerable skill, and her damaged craft was mostly operational. She was going to make it back.
Or she could turn and join the attacking squadrons, help manage the attack. No one in the vast mass of bombers even then heading toward the point knew the enemy formation like she did. She might be able to help target damaged Highborn ships, to direct the thousands of attacking vessels to the places they could do the most damage. She could give the wing commanders valuable intel, and probably vastly increase the damage they inflicted.
She could help, she was sure of it. But the cost would be high, perhaps very high. She figured she had a chance, maybe ten percent, of getting her ship on a course back to the fleet after the assault wave went in. That, at least, would point her in roughly the right direction. But there was no way she could make it back and decelerate and maneuver into the landing bay. She’d be depending on the rescue ships to match course and velocity with her disabled ships and retrieve her, and that seemed like a longshot in the middle of what was likely to be the largest battle ever fought. Unless she could get well to the rear of the fighting, wherever that was by then.
If you’re going to worry about odds, think about what chance you’ve got of making it through another attack run, even one where you’re not launching anything.
The fight ahead would be a desperate one, and just maybe, she could do some real good. But it had to be immediately. The chance would pass if she went back to the ship, and it wouldn’t return. The next time bombers headed for the enemy, they would fly right into the teeth of the terrible missile barrages.
She was still thinking about what to do when her hand, seemingly on its own, jerked the throttle hard to the side. The positioning jets rolled her ship around, and then the engines fired hard, decelerating along the vector back to Constitution.
She hesitated, but just for an instant, and she eased off on the thrust…but she knew there was no time to think, no time to do anything but decide. Every second that passed by took her farther toward the fleet, the opposite direction if she was going to join the attack. She shook her head, and she decided to go back, to land and then to relaunch to join the fight. It would be insane to turn around, to dive back into battle with a damaged ship and depleted fuel tanks. It was fear exerting control, self-preservation, and though it was only a rational response, she immediately felt shame about it.
Her ship tore through space toward the fleet for another ten seconds, perhaps fifteen, while Reg Griffin fought another war, one with herself. Then her hand moved abruptly, jerking the throttle hard to the side. She brought her ship around again, repositioned the main thrusters, and blasted at full thrust…away from the fleet, toward the strike force and the still-transiting enemy ships. It wasn’t a decision, at least not a conscious one. Her hand seemed to move on its own, driven by some part of her brain she couldn’t unlock. Some part that scoffed at fear.
She’d done the calculations…twice. She would complete the required deceleration and then re-accelerate to match the strike force’s velocity, just about the time the first line passed her position.
That would also leave her with less than five percent of her fuel load remaining.
She wouldn’t have to make an attack run, at least. For all her knowledge of the enemy formation, she didn’t have any torpedoes left. She just needed to stay close enough to help the wing commanders direct their squadrons.
Assuming they listened to her. She was just one of them, a wing commander, and one who’d led back barely fifteen percent of her wing to boot. But she had to try.
It was a chance to make a difference, to help the fleet. To try one more time to help defeat the enemy, to turn back the deadly assault.
To avenge her lost people, the pilots who’d left the landing bays with her a few days before, and who were now mostly gone, nothing more than names to be spoken solemnly at some m
emorial service after the battle.
If anyone was still alive to mourn, that is.
Chapter Nineteen
Senate Committee Chamber
Troyus City
Megara, Olyus III
Year 322 AC (After the Cataclysm)
“I can assure you all, the Union is not an imminent threat, not at this time. Confederation Intelligence has operatives in key positions, and the two prime factions are faced off against each other. There appears to be no chance of reconciliation between them, and short of this extremely unlikely development, no possibility the Union will be able to conduct offensive operations against us, regardless of how weakened our border defenses have become.” Gary Holsten stood at the front of the room, trying to hide the disgust in his expression as he looked out over the senior Senators assembled for his briefing.
Holsten has always been cynical, but his years of work in Confederation Intelligence, and his constant interactions with the foul and putrid swamp known as the Senate, had only hardened and sharpened that callous view. He liked to imagine that the Confederation’s government had been less corrupt in the early days of the nation, that there had been at least some honesty, and some dedication to national service and to the good of the people. Something besides constant maneuvering for personal power and influence.
Something other than self-serving nonsense that could be packaged as ‘good for the people’ in order to secure what needed votes couldn’t be outright bought.
“I appreciate your report, Mr. Holsten, but I believe this committee requires some degree of evidence to feel confident. After all, the safety of the Confederation and its billions remains our primary consideration and our sacred trust.”
Holsten felt acidity in the back of his throat. He’d likely have lost what control he had and failed to hold back the contents of his stomach at that kind of self-serving prattle…save for one thing. The words came from Speaker Flandry’s mouth, and the Senate’s highest-ranking member was actually his ally at present.
It was a disturbing state of affairs, but a necessary one. Flandry was as corrupt and self-serving a politician as Holsten had ever met, one who would normally have evoked his utter contempt. But something had happened to Flandry, and the power and responsibility of holding the Speakership seemed to have forged some kind of sense of duty in the scoundrel. He’d risen at least to the point where his petty power games could be separated from the Confederation’s future, even its survival.
He’d grown up, in a manner of speaking, and he’d become an adult of sorts, looking over a group of spoiled and pandered to children. Otherwise known as the Senate.
It still wasn’t easy for Holsten, and even as he continued with the script the two had rehearsed, he found thoughts invading his concentration, things like how many votes Flandry had gathered in his career from graveyards and crematoria. And how many he’d simply invented, phantom men and women who’d existed, such as they had, only in their votes for the Honorable Emmit Flandry, Senator from Philophoria.
The fact that Holsten had himself run roughshod over more than one set of rules seemed a more distant thought, one that was in there somewhere, but also…different. The thought that he was a part of the same grotesquely corrupt machine was too difficult to face head on. Better to push it back, to reconsider it another day.
“I cannot disclose the names of operatives, save for code names. I am sure you will all understand this is a matter of personal security for those involved, and in full compliance with Confederation law.” That was normally true, of course. Operatives could be placed in grave danger if their identities were leaked. But in the current case it was more Holsten’s desire to avoid giving the Senators all they wanted. Alexander Kerevsky was the primary source of intel from the Union, and the only real secret there had been that the military liaison to Montmirail was also a Confederation agent. That was information of limited sensitivity, now however, since Sandrine Ciara was well aware of Krevesky’s true identity and, at the moment, she was the only one on the Union’s capital planet that mattered.
But Holsten held back the name, as much as anything because he had lost a bit of his trust in Kerevsky. He wasn’t concerned the agent was actually disloyal…but he was a bit worried about the relationship that seemed to have developed between Kerevsky and Ciara. He had no problem with his operative gaining information through access to Ciara’s bedroom, but he had a feeling the emotions involved had gone somewhat beyond pure professional necessity. He’d made a note to keep an eye on the situation, but the last thing he wanted was input from the Senate.
“You expect us to simply believe when you tell us you have an unnamed agent close to Minister Ciara or First Citizen Villieneuve?” Cyn Avaria’s tone was moderate, indicating some mistrust, but perhaps not resolute opposition. That was a good sign.
“With all due respect, Senator Avaria…” And, in truth, Holsten thought very little respect was actually due. “…would a name give you anything of greater substance? I can show you identity redacted reports, operational records…enough to prove that we indeed have operatives in the Union, and that we have received current data on the situation there.”
Data Holsten had carefully edited before he’d provided it to the Senators. The civil war was an unexpected opportunity to keep the Union destabilized, possibly even to see Gaston Villieneuve defeated, and to establish a far better relationship with his successor. There was only one problem with that scenario. It was beginning to look like Villieneuve was going to defeat Ciara and retain control. And Gaston Villeneuve’s hatred for the Confederation was pathological.
“Yet you provide no battle reports, no real evaluation of the conflict. I assume you have contingency plans in the event First Citizen Villieneuve retains his position, and especially if he does so with his forces intact enough to become a renewed threat?”
Holsten took a deep breath. Avaria was corrupt, a woman with an almost unquenchable thirst for power, but that didn’t mean she was stupid. She was chasing him down like a bloodhound, and it was pissing him off.
“Senator, of course we have contingency plans in place.” He didn’t. He’d gone all in supporting Tyler Barron at the front. Other than a desperate attempt to arrange an assassination plot to get rid of Villieneuve—something that had failed half a dozen time before—he had no idea how he’d respond if the First Citizen won the civil war with enough of his forces intact to take advantage of the weak Confederation border defenses.
But he had done something, at least, to forestall that victory, to give Ciara a chance to prevail. Andrei Denisov had been prepared to lead his Free Union forces to the front lines in Hegemony space, to support Admiral Barron and the other contingents deployed there.
Then, word had come of the outbreak of civil war in the Union. Denisov had raised the issue first, suggesting that perhaps he should lead his forces back to his homeland. He’d been tentative, feeling as though answering that call might let Barron down. But Holsten had encouraged him.
Barron needed all the forces he could get, no doubt, but anything that allowed Ciara to defeat Villieneuve, or at least prolong the conflict, kept the Confederation border safe.
And it gave Holsten a good chance to send Barron the reserves and support he needed from other sectors.
“But, quite apart from plans to counter any Union offensive, we have taken steps to ensure that no such threat can materialize. Even as we speak, Admiral Denisov and his Free Union forces are en route back to Montmirail to support Minister Ciara. Our intelligence on force distribution is still based somewhat on estimates, but it is very likely that the admiral’s arrival will place Ciara’s forces at least on parity with Villieneuve’s. With luck, she will prevail, and we will have a leader on Montmirail with whom we can negotiate a long-term peace. Even in the worst case, the war there will last a number of years, giving us the time to fully support Admiral Barron at the front…and still recall enough forces to strengthen the Union border in the event Gaston Villieneuve ul
timately prevails.”
It all sounded good, but Holsten could think of a hundred ways he’d attack the argument if he was on the other side. He didn’t need everyone onboard, just enough for force a majority vote on the floor, and his argument just had to be good enough to secure that support.
Separating The Reds from the Greens might just be an added benefit if he managed things just right. The two parties controlled over seventy percent of the votes in the Senate, and Cyn Avaria and Kettle Vaughn, the respective leaders of the two blocs, long in perpetual opposition to each other, had shown a disturbing tendency recently toward cooperation.
But Avaria was more concerned with the prospect of Union aggression. Holsten was shooting for a place in the middle, where his arguments were persuasive enough to secure Vaughn and the Greens, but not Avaria and the Reds. That would accomplish two goals in one…and a divided Senate would be that much easier to manage if he needed anything else to support the fleet.
“I must congratulate you, Mr. Holsten, on your management of the Union situation. No doubt, Admiral Barron would have found Admiral Denisov’s forces useful, but this allows us to more fully support his efforts with Confederation vessels and supplies. I am still uncomfortable with the weakened status of our borders, but considering the severity of the situation in Hegemony space, and the fact that the Alliance forces are all far out in the Badlands and the Union fleets are fighting each other, I believe I can support your requests.” Vaughn spoke slowly—annoying slowly, as he always did. But it was worth listening this time. Holsten had done all he could to secure the support of the Greens, but he hadn’t been sure he’d succeeded, not until he heard Kettle Vaughn trying to spit out the words.
