by Jay Allan
His thoughts wandered even farther, into unexpected places. He couldn’t get Katrine Rigellus out of his mind. She had been his enemy—she had attacked Dauntless, killed his people. On one level, he despised her, cursed her for the damage she’d done to his ship and its crew. But there was more to it than just that, and he found himself wondering about her, even sympathizing. She had been a creature of duty, even as he was. The ideals of the Alliance were repugnant to him, but the more he thought about it, the more he understood them.
He’d read everything the Archellian base library had on Alliance history. It wasn’t much—the Alliance was far away and not very well known or understood in the Confederation. He was struck by the history of Palatia, the primary world of the Alliance. The Palatians had been subjugated, their world ruled for almost a century by invaders from another planet. And from the few accounts he’d been able to find, that occupation had been anything but gentle. The Palatians had become warlike, bloodthirsty, even cruel…but Barron was far from sure his own people would have been any different.
He tried to imagine his grandfather breaking free of servitude rather than leading fleets in battle. How would he have reacted, what would his bitter experiences have made of him? What would the Confederation be if it had grown from that kind of nightmare? It was already a morass of corrupt and incompetent government, with more than one planet that sustained virtual caste systems and huge poverty-stricken underclasses. What if it had been born in fire, in a rebellion against those who had enslaved and tortured its people?
It was easy to pronounce judgments, to make grand moral and ethical gestures, but reality often presented itself in far more complex ways. And Barron suspected his adversary had indeed been a complex and intriguing woman. For all the damage his people had suffered at her hands, he found himself mourning her death.
He was startled out of his introspection by something behind him, someone walking through the woods, snapping branches. He turned, letting out a loud sigh, wondering how someone—a reporter, an Archellian admirer, a local functionary who just wanted “one picture with the hero”—had found him.
“A sigh? I came all this way for a sigh?” Atara Travis stepped out of the foliage, and she walked toward Barron’s perch.
“Sorry, Atara.” Barron smiled. He was relieved to see his first officer. For an instant. Then he realized there had to be a reason she’d come looking for him. “I figured it was one of the Archellians. It was bad enough before…but now everybody wants to hear about the battle, about how Dauntless saved Archellia.”
Travis walked over and sat on one of the stones near Barron. “And you’re not ready to talk about it.”
He nodded. “No, I’m not. And now I wonder how my grandfather put up with it for so long. It’s a story to these people, Atara, something exciting and heroic. But our friends died out there. They died following my orders. Would these Archellians like it if that were the story I told? About the bodies all over the ship? About the blood on the walls, the severed body parts, and the pilots blown to atoms?”
“They’re civilians, Ty. You can’t expect them to understand.” She looked down at the ground. “I can’t say I did myself. Not really. At least not before everything that happened out there.”
Barron nodded. The Confederation had been at peace throughout his career. He’d seen some minor action chasing down pirates and poachers in the Badlands, but the battle out by Santis had been his first taste of all out, brutal warfare. He wasn’t sure what he thought of it all, not yet. But he was certain of one thing. It had changed him.
“I understand that. It’s not reasonable to expect them to know what we went through. And yet, every time someone wants me to come to dinner and tell stories, or they want to pose for a photo, I can’t help but think of the men and women who fought with us…and never made it back.”
Travis just nodded. Then she said, “I feel the same way you do, Ty…but I didn’t come to ruin your solitude because of that. It’s Admiral Lowery. He wants to see both of us. As quickly as possible.” She stood up. “I have a ground car just outside the woods.”
Barron jumped up. “The war? Orders?”
“I can’t think of anything else it could be.”
“Maybe he has news from the front.”
“That’s possible. He wouldn’t tell me anything over the com. He just told me to find you and get over there.”
She turned and reached down, starting to help Barron pack up his kit.
“As soon as possible.”
Chapter Two
Base Command Complex
Archellia, Cassiopolis III
308 AC
“Captain Barron, Commander Travis, please come in. Have a seat.” Admiral Davis Lowery was a tall man, almost two meters, and his impeccably-tailored uniform hung neatly from his rail thin frame. Lowery had a reputation as a humorless martinet, but Barron had come to feel the base gossip did the admiral a bit of a disservice. The base commander had let more than one of Dauntless’s disorderly fighter pilots off the hook for their various offenses with nothing more than a stern talking to.
“Thank you, Admiral. I apologize that it took so long, but I’m afraid I indulged in a little trip to the woods and neglected to bring my comm unit with me.”
“Neglected?” Lowery smiled, or at least his own version of that gesture. “I can’t say that I blame you, Captain. My memories of battle are over twenty years old now, but I can surely understand the need for some time to yourself after what you have been through.”
“Thank you, sir.” Barron suspected he knew more of Lowery’s history than the admiral would have guessed, including the fact that, as a young officer, he had spent most of the Third Union War on convoy duty, protecting supply shipments. Service, certainly, and dangerous at times, but no match for the meatgrinder he and his crew had just come through. Still, he could excuse the admiral a small boast or exaggeration, especially since he seemed to be willing to overlook the fact that command officers were required to have their comm units with them at all times.
“You must be wondering why you’re here, so let me get right to the point. Our forces have suffered a string of defeats on the battle lines. Losses have been heavy, and we’ve been driven back at all points of contact. Five Confederation systems have been occupied.”
Barron stared back, the surprise obvious on his face. “I’d heard there had been a few minor setbacks, but nothing like you’re describing, sir.” He paused. “I’d never have gone off like that if I’d known.”
“You don’t know because everything I am telling you is highly classified. The information released to the public and the news organizations has been tightly censored.”
Barron shook his head. He didn’t like the sound of that. The Confederation was supposed to be a republic, a free society distinct from the dictatorships and oligarchies that surrounded it. He understood why the Council would want to withhold such information, but he still wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
“I know, Captain. My first reaction was similar to yours. But there will be no Confederation at all if we don’t win this war. It’s clear the Union intends complete conquest, the subjugation of all our worlds.”
“I understand, sir.” He didn’t, not really. The admiral had repeated the kind of line that was frequently used to justify one dubious act of government or another. But was national security really served by such secrecy? The people might be upset by such news, even scared. But then they would rally. Patriotism was a strong motivator…and fear could be an even stronger one. Most citizens, save perhaps for a small fringe group of radicals and fifth columnists, had an idea of what life under Union rule would be, just how much they had to lose if the Confederation fell.
His grandfather had railed against just this sort of thing, and the virtual revolution he had led swept away a layer of calcified generals and admirals who’d seemed more interested in covering up their failures and preserving their careers than they had in winning the war. The elder B
arron had embraced the people and brought them to his side. He made speeches that were transmitted to every world in the Confederation. He rallied the citizens in the streets, the factories. Cheering crowds lined the streets as new recruits marched toward the depots to report for duty. Workers on dozens of worlds labored around the clock, producing arms and armament, and the convoys flowed to the front, turning the output of a mobilized and energized people into military force. Into victory.
I wonder if the navy grandfather created is backsliding to what it was before, hidebound, run for those in high positions and not for the protection of the people? Of the Confederation itself?
He snapped his focus back to the admiral, who had continued on. “In any event, Captain, what is and is not released to the population is not our decision, nor our concern. Our orders, however, most definitely are.”
“Yes, sir. Of course.” Barron might disapprove of the withholding of information from the public, but there wasn’t a doubt in his mind he’d follow his orders to the letter.
I wonder if Captain Rigellus had similar thoughts when she was invading Confederation space, killing my people…
“Dauntless will be leaving as soon as possible. Your trip to the orbital station the other day, as it turns out, was opportune.” He paused, and his eyes caught Barron’s, and the look of not-quite-surprise they held. “Yes, Commander Farnor…mmm, how shall I put this…advised me of your visit.”
Barron had no doubt Farnor had cried like a baby to Lowery, especially after he’d had a few hours of Commander Fritz. “Perhaps I should have checked with you, sir, before I went up…”
“Not at all, Captain. Dauntless is your ship, and you were right. Commander Farnor is a good engineer, but no one would call him the quickest worker. Commander Fritz’s willingness to cut her leave short will no doubt have a significant effect on the pace of work up there.” He glanced down at a small tablet on his desk. “And that coincides well with your new orders, Captain. And mine.” He paused, a sour look passing over his face before he squashed it. “I have been ordered to assign Marines and fighter pilots from the garrison to bring your vessel up to full strength.” He hesitated again. “I’m not sure how I’ll defend Archellia if anything threatens us, but orders are orders.”
Barron just nodded. He doubted Lowery would need the transferred personnel any time soon. The Alliance had shown no signs of hostility in the months since Dauntless had engaged Invictus. The diplomatic mission sent to Palatia in the wake of the incident had been greeted with nothing but steadfast denials that any Alliance ship had entered Confederation space, and repeated assurances the Alliance had no intention of initiating hostilities. Barron tended not to speak the language of diplomats, a dialect he typically referred to as “bullshit,” but it seemed unlikely that Archellia would face any more threats from the Alliance, at least not in the near future. And if the Union got there in force, it meant most of the Confederation was already gone.
“Yes, sir,” he finally said. There was nothing to be gained by offending Lowery. Barron had come to realize that admirals were touchy creatures, best handled with care. At least by those of less exalted rank.
“I’ve already prepared the transfers. The fighters will be loaded as soon as Commanders Farnor and Fritz give the word. The pilots and the Marines have already been notified and given forty-eight hours to pack up and prepare to ship out.”
“Thank you, sir. What are our orders, if I might ask? Where are we going?”
“Admiral Winston is rallying segments of the fleet to make a stand somewhere along the front line, probably at a major choke point like Arcturon or Belatar. He’s looking to fight one massive battle to stop the enemy invasion and turn them back. You are to leave Archellia in ten days and proceed at maximum speed to join this force. You will go to Corpus, where a courier ship will be waiting to meet you with further orders.”
“Yes, sir.” His voice was crisp, loud. Barron didn’t relish the thought of leading his people into combat again so soon, but he hated it a damned sight less than standing by out on the Rim while the navy fought for its life. For the Confederation’s very existence.
He turned and looked over at Travis, and he could see immediately she felt the same as he did. They had just returned from one nightmare, but it was time to go back.
“With your permission, Admiral, I will shuttle up to the orbital platform and check on Commander Fritz’s…and Commander Farnor’s…progress with the repairs.”
“By all means, Captain.” Lowery stood up slowly, waiting an instant while Barron and Travis did the same. Then he continued, “My best wishes to you, Captain, Commander. And to those who serve with you.”
“Thank you, Admiral.” Barron flashed another glance at Travis. Then he snapped off a salute and turned to walk out of the room.
* * *
Barron walked down the corridor, inhaling deeply. The smells of burnt machinery and leaking chemicals had been replaced by those of sealant and freshly welded metal. Dauntless wasn’t the newest ship in the navy, nor the biggest, but she’d been reborn, at least after a fashion.
Dauntless wasn’t one hundred percent, not yet. Her primary and secondary batteries were fully functional, though Barron was, as usual, a little worried about the temperamental primary guns and the patchwork repairs that had put them back in working order. Her reactors had been repaired, though he knew Fritz would have preferred to replace at least unit B if there had been any spares available. They both functioned at one hundred percent, but Barron knew their age and the punishment they had taken could rear their heads at any time.
Despite the best efforts of the base staff and his own engineers, his ship still carried scars from its great struggle. The repair teams had focused on structural issues and vital systems. There were still areas where walls were battered and bulkheads blown to twisted wrecks. But in every way that was truly important, his vessel was ready.
Ready to go back into battle.
He’d just dropped his kit in his quarters. He’d been surprised to see his rooms had been fully repaired. They’d been gutted and completely rehabbed, every surface brand new and gleaming. He’d felt a twinge of guilt when he walked in. He knew Fritzie had meant well, that she was only showing her dedication to him by making sure the captain’s suite was in top condition. But there’d been little time for repairs to most of the other crew quarters, and truth be told, if he’d thought about it, Barron would have told her to leave his as they were as well.
He walked down the hall toward the lift. The senior officer’s quarters were almost directly below the bridge, three levels above. Barron stepped into the intra-ship car. “Bridge,” he said softly.
“Bridge,” the AI repeated back as the car began to move up. A few seconds later the door opened, and Tyler Barron stepped onto his bridge. For the first time since he’d nursed his broken and bleeding ship back to base, his bridge crew were all at their posts. More than one of them, he knew, had spent good portions of their “leave” in the hospital, recovering from the wounds suffered in battle. He had the utmost respect for his crew, for the courage they had shown in battle. But the officer inside him, the commander who would be leading Dauntless back into war, couldn’t help but wonder how they’d been affected by the brutal fight at Santis. And whether any of them blamed him for the losses they had suffered. He’d grown close to his people in the long months patrolling the Union border. Had the nightmare at Santis changed that?
“Captain on the bridge.” Travis’s voice was sharp, crisp, and it took Barron by surprise. Announcing the captain’s entry and exit onto the bridge was a procedure definitely buried somewhere in the regs, but most ship commanders tended to eschew the custom, following his grandfather’s example and running their ships less formally. Still, not all officers were created in the elder Barron’s image. Tyler’s first commanding officer had been an officious martinet who had enforced every pointless show of outward respect for his rank, and all he could remember was the caustic resen
tment of the crew, the nicknames and nasty comments that whipped back and forth, all behind the captain’s back, of course. He’d promised himself then and there that when he rose to command rank he would never forget his experiences as a junior officer. And he liked to think he hadn’t.
Would you know if you had?
Barron turned toward Travis, but before he could hit her with a questioning glance, the entire bridge crew got to their feet and began cheering. Barron was surprised again, and he stopped and stood motionless in the center of the bridge. He hated it, every second of it, and he knew Travis had been well aware that he would. But he also understood. His first officer knew him better than anyone else, and this was her way of assuring him that the crew didn’t share the recriminations he’d insisted on directing against himself.
“Thank you,” he finally said. “All of you.” He stood where he was for another few seconds, and then he moved to his chair and sat down. It was a signal for the cheering to stop, though it was some time before the raucous welcome finally died down entirely.
“I’m pleased beyond words to be back here, with all of you.”
Except all of you are not here…
There were new faces, but not as many on the bridge as he knew there were in the fighter squadrons and among the gunnery crews. He’d known for months, of course, how many people he’d lost, and he’d spent a lot of time brooding about it. But being back onboard was throwing fuel on that fire, and he knew every time he looked at a new face at a station, the daggers of guilt would hit him again.
“We fought a desperate battle together, and we came through victorious. We paid a terrible price for that victory, and I wish I could tell you all that the pain and loss is behind us…but it is not. We leave now for the battlefront. The war we have so long expected is here. The Confederation expects much of us…it needs us. And we will answer that call.”
