by Jay Allan
Perfect. His plan had been perfect. His years of preparation, his meticulous execution. All spot on. He had been on the verge of breaking the hated Confeds once and for all. And now the chance for ultimate victory was lost, for lack of supplies.
He still didn’t know what had gone wrong with his carefully-planned logistics. He’d heard nothing. Not from Admiral Lund and the missing convoy, not from those he’d sent looking for it. Not even from the supply base itself, though a second shipment should have been sent by now. It was maddening.
If I find that worm, Lund, I will have him skinned alive…
He was still wondering if there was more at play than simple incompetence. Was he dealing with outright betrayal? He’d always been careful, keeping his officers at arm’s length, but had he watched them closely enough? Had he somehow telegraphed a weakness, encouraged a move against him?
Anyone plotting to take his place would know the final victory in the war would make him untouchable. It seemed insane that Union officers would hamper their own war effort, but there was always a delicate balancing act between the state’s interest…and a desperate grab for more personal power.
D’Alvert hadn’t shared his thoughts or plans with anyone. Well, with Sabine, perhaps, though only to a limited extent. He was genuinely fond of his aide, thinking of her almost as a daughter. Was that where he’d gone wrong? Had she taken advantage of his feelings and betrayed him? Who was involved in the conspiracy? He swore to himself he would find out…and when he did, there would be a reckoning the likes of which his enemies had never imagined.
He realized he was sweating heavily, that he was standing there shaking with rage. His mind was racing, images of associates whipping before his eyes, wondering whether they were part of the plot against him. He’d kill them. He’d kill them all. Whatever it took to crush the moves against him, to ensure his grip on power.
But first, he had to preserve the fleet. He had to see it resupplied, and he had to lead it back against the Confeds and secure the victory the traitors had stolen from him.
He’d hurt the Confeds, badly in Turas. That was a solace, at least, though he’d been surprised at the ferocity of their attacks. He’d thought their morale had been shattered, but the fact that they had invaded Turas suggested otherwise. Something had changed…some force had poured new hope and determination into their defeated spacers. They’d clearly been reinforced, but not by enough to explain the change in their conduct.
A new commander? Did they finally put that old fool, Winston, out to pasture?
He didn’t know, and to an extent, he didn’t care. Things were still salvageable. He had to reopen the lines of communication with Supply One, that was the primary concern. Once he did that, when his fleet was resupplied, he could resume the offensive. The battered Confederation fleet could never withstand his resurgent forces.
He was tempted to retire with the entire fleet, dropping back until he was able to reestablish communications with Supply One, but he discounted that option almost immediately. His enemies would certainly use it against him, seeking to discredit him in front of the Presidium. And his own spacers were shaken now, their string of relentless victories snapped at Turas. He could analyze the losses, evaluate the respective conditions of the two fleets…but the men and women in the ranks only knew they had retreated. That, for the first time in this war, their enemies had pushed them back. If he abandoned Ultara, fell back farther, fear would spread.
The Union didn’t over-educate its masses like the Confederation did, but even the carefully-designed school curricula couldn’t entirely cover up the fact that the Union had fought the Confederation three times before. No school text would state that any of the wars had been lost, of course, but it didn’t take incisive brilliance to realize the need for a fourth conflict said something. He knew his spacers’ morale was fragile, even in victory. No, he had to draw the line here. Besides, there was no way the Confeds could follow, not for a few weeks at least. They’d suffered too badly, lost too many ships and seen too many others badly damaged. They simply didn’t have the strength to invade another system.
And by the time they gathered enough forces together, he intended to be resupplied…and ready to hit them first.
* * *
Lille sat in his quarters, his feet up on the bed, thinking. He wished there was some way to contact Villeneuve, but it was quite impossible. It would have taken weeks for a message to get through, even if he’d been able to get one off Victoire. His mission had been clear…wait until the victory was won, and then dispose of D’Alvert. He’d pondered his method and his timing, but never the idea that the victory wouldn’t come. Now, he wasn’t sure. The Union fleet was still the stronger, he had no doubt about that, but the ferocity of the Confeds had unnerved them. D’Alvert’s dispatches had suggested a demoralized foe on the brink of defeat, but that wasn’t what he’d seen in Turas.
Clearly, D’Alvert had suffered a setback, and just as apparently, he’d underestimated the tenacity of his Confed adversaries. It was all the more reason to move against him, but Lille was uncertain on the timing. Should he strike now? Or should he wait, bide his time, give D’Alvert the opportunity to regain momentum and finally win the war?
He wasn’t in the habit of giving second chances to those who failed, and he knew Villeneuve was the same. But despite his defeat, D’Alvert was still a capable admiral, considerably more skilled than any of the fools lining up to replace him.
Lille would have preferred to simply follow orders, but he was alone, cut off. He had to make a choice himself. Killing D’Alvert now would be preferable, at least from an assassin’s perspective. Even for an operative as experienced as Lille, remaining under cover was a stressful endeavor. And if he completed his mission, he could get the hell off Victoire, and away from the bare accommodations and unappetizing food endemic to military life. But he knew that wasn’t the right choice. The war came first, and as much as he disliked the pompous ass, he would give D’Alvert time to finish off the Confeds.
Then he would strike.
* * *
“I understand, Captain Quatraine. Virtually every battleship has damage, including Fortitude. But the enemy’s supply problems offer us a unique opportunity, one that will not last.” And I don’t have much time before I am relieved…and most likely imprisoned.
“Sir, if we could just wait another two days, it would make a major difference.”
“And possibly for the enemy too, Captain, if they receive a supply convoy while we sit here repairing damage. Their engineers will be working as ours are, so if we are in better shape, so are they.” Striker paused. “No, Captain, I’m sorry. We’re moving out in three hours, so do what you can to have Steadfast ready for action.”
“Yes, sir.” Quatraine didn’t sound entirely convinced, but it was clear he wasn’t going to change Striker’s mind. The admiral’s voice was like steel.
“See to it, Captain.” Striker cut the line and leaned back in his chair. He’d finally convinced Holsten to go back to his quarters and grab a few hours’ sleep. There had been no point in the intelligence chief standing at his side, watching as he obsessed over every detail of the fleet’s operation. Striker had no choice but to operate almost entirely on stims, and the meager snack he’d wolfed down a few moments before, but he’d ordered everyone not essential to repair ops to get at least two hours of actual rest. It wasn’t much, but to Striker’s strung out, exhausted mind it sounded like pure nirvana.
“Fortitude will take the lead.” His flagship was in as good shape as any of the fleet’s battleships, but it was more than just that. He was driving his people hard, perhaps even brutally. Pushing them forward, less than sixteen hours after the last battle ended, right into the teeth of an enemy that still outnumbered them. His fleet was full of veterans, hardened by months of war. They knew their chances, the danger that none of them would come back. But there was no choice. They would never have a better chance than now.
“You wanted to see me, Admiral.”
Striker turned to face the man who had just walked off the lift. “Yes, Lieutenant Stockton. Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“Of course, sir.”
“We have two squadrons on Fortitude without commanders, Lieutenant.” He didn’t say what had happened to the squad leaders, and Stockton didn’t ask. “Blackwind and Iron Duke. I’ve got an extra fighter too. Do you think you can help us out and lead them in the fight to come?”
“Yes, sir,” Stockton snapped back. “Of course, sir.” Stockton had badgered the officers on Repulse for a fighter when the battle began, but intra-service rivalries being what they often were, no one on the old flagship had wanted to let the famous ace steal their laurels. Striker had almost blown his top when he’d found out a pilot of Stockton’s talent had been ready to fight but was forced to sit on the sidelines, and he’d resolved to rectify that problem himself.
“I’d consider it a favor, Lieutenant. Though, God knows, you’ve done enough already.”
“If there’s a fight coming, sir, that’s where I belong. Just have someone show me to my fighter.”
“We won’t be transiting for about two and a half hours, Lieutenant, so go down and get yourself something to eat first. Once we jump into Ultara, it’s liable to go on for a long time without a break. We’re going to push those Union bastards back where they came from, whatever it takes.”
“Yes, sir!” Stockton stepped back and snapped off a perfect salute. “And thank you, sir. It feels good to be back in the fight.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
FSS Victoire
Ultara System
Union Year 212 (308 AC)
“Fuel and supply transfers almost complete, sir. Priority one vessels averaging eleven percent fuel loads now, Admiral, up from five percent.”
It was far from ideal, but D’Alvert’s orders to move fuel and weapons from crippled and severely damaged vessels to those more combat-ready had given him a force that could put up a fight, at least for a while. Not that he expected the enemy to invade. He didn’t even think it was possible. But he wasn’t about to take any chances, not now.
He looked over at Renault, his eyes boring into her back as she stared down at her screens. He normally felt a rare warmth when he heard his aide’s voice, but now it was displaced by a deep suspicion. Sabine Renault had never given him cause to suspect her loyalty, but she was also one of the few people close enough to him to do real damage if she did turn. He hated the idea of having to kill her, but he knew he wouldn’t hesitate if she’d betrayed him. Or even if he was unable to rule out the possibility.
“Weapons status?” he asked coldly.
“X-ray laser cartridge inventory averaging sixty rounds on priority one vessels, sir. Priority three ships have transferred all their stocks.”
“Very well.”
His fleet’s secondary batteries were normal laser cannons. Given enough spare parts and a continued supply of energy, they could fire as long as the reactors had fuel and continued their power output. The primaries were a different matter. They were lasers, but they operated in the x-ray spectrum, and they were powered by the controlled detonation of fusion warheads. Each cartridge included an atomic bomb, and a magnetic bottle structure to contain and channel the massive energy of the nuclear explosion. Once his ships ran out of cartridges, their heavy batteries would fall silent, and they would have nothing with which to answer the devastating Confederation particle accelerators.
Assuming they’ve got any still functional…
D’Alvert knew the Confed weapons were notoriously fickle, and that their operation required almost all the available resources of a battleship. With the pounding he’d just given the Confeds, he wouldn’t be surprised if most of their vessels were down to just their secondaries.
Not that they’d dare come at us. It was only our supply deficiency that saved them from utter defeat…
* * *
“Entering transwarp in thirty seconds.” Jaravick’s voice was gravelly, but the strength in it was clear. The old commodore wasn’t having any trouble with his new subordinate role as Striker’s aide, but the combined fleet’s new commander couldn’t say the same thing. For all his current rank and his crushing responsibilities, barking out orders at the old officer made him feel like a child playing a game.
“Very well, Commander. Fleet order…all ships are to launch fighters as soon as they emerge in Ultara.” Striker had no idea what was waiting in the next system, how many of the Union ships were operational, or where they were positioned. It was reckless to proceed without scouting the other side of the jump point. But if he sent probes or ships through, he’d give away the fact that they were coming. The whole thing was a wild gamble anyway, so he decided to let it all ride and preserve whatever surprise he could. If he was able to catch the enemy napping, he just might gain the edge he needed.
“All ships report ready to launch, sir.”
Striker just nodded. He sat back, his hands instinctively tightening on the armrests of his chair as Fortitude slipped into the maw of the ancient transwarp field and out of normal space.
The trip from Turas to Ultara was a long one, at least in the physical universe, almost thirty light years. In the strange alternate reality of the transwarp tube, that meant roughly one minute forty-three seconds. As short a time as that was, it was an eternity in the strange, distorted reality of the link.
Striker tried to sit quietly, ignoring the fear, and the strange side effects of the jump. He needed to be focused. His whole life had led to this moment. All the times he’d read about Admiral Barron, the endless series of memoirs by officers who’d served with the great man, when he’d heard the stories and watched the vidpics…he’d imagined himself someday in the same position as his hero. But he’d always considered that to be the wild dream of a young officer. Now, here he was, in the same situation. The future of the Confederation rode with him. He couldn’t fail…he wouldn’t. He needed every scrap of strength he possessed, every bit of cold analytical brainpower…and he was determined to give it all.
Suddenly the screen went back, tiny pinpricks of light appearing in the background. Normal space. Fortitude was in Ultara. In an enemy-controlled system.
“Launch operations commencing, Admiral. Scanning data coming in.” There was a short pause. Then Jaravick continued, “Preliminary data indicates the enemy fleet is still here, sir. They’re deployed back from the transwarp link. We should have time to get the entire fleet into formation.”
Striker took a deep breath. It was time.
* * *
A mass of fighters moved across the interplanetary space of the Ultara system, dozens of squadrons, hundreds of tiny vessels. The first wave consisted of interceptors, lined up ahead of the bomber squadrons they were there to protect. And in the center of the formation, two squadrons in particular blasted their thrusters, heading for the enemy wings in front of them.
“All right, Iron Duke, Darkwind…I know you both fought hard—and lost hard—in Turas. You both had good commanders, squad leaders who made you proud, who led you to victory. I can’t hope to take their places, nor would I try. But we’re here together now…and the enemy is in front of us. So, let’s fight as one today.”
Stockton was relieved to be back in the cockpit of a fighter, a real fighter, one with lasers and missiles, though he was a bit wistful about his old ship. He’d been frustrated at her lack of firepower and almost insane from being cooped up in her for so many days, but she had gotten him across a vast distance and saw him through to his destination…if barely. She had given all she had to do it, and there was nothing left of her now but scattered debris, abandoned two systems back.
There is plenty to worry about here beyond a shattered old fighter…but she was a good ship, and I will always remember her…
His eyes moved to the display, passing over the serried ranks of approaching Union fighters. The enemy wings had been savaged at Turas,
and they were outnumbered now. They didn’t seem to have launched any bombers of their own, sending nothing but a wall of interceptors to defend their battleships against the assault. There were enough of them to rush the Confederation screen, and if they did it aggressively enough, some would get through to the line of bombers. Unless he could disrupt their formation.
“Everybody lock on a target with your first missile…but don’t fire, not until I give the order.” He wanted to create maximum disruption, and hitting a whole section of the enemy line with a coordinated barrage seemed likely to do just that.
He picked out his own target, flipping the locking switch and nodding at the tone that confirmed his AI had acquired the target. He waited a few seconds…the closer his people were when they fired, the likelier they were to hit. His actions were logical, the strategy itself based on pure rational judgment. But his gut was completely in charge of the timing.
“Fire,” he said sharply, pressing down on his own button as he did. The fighter lurched as the missile kicked off its mounting and accelerated toward its target.
He waited a few seconds, his eyes dropping to the screen to confirm his pilots had all followed suit. Then he said, “Arm second missiles…pick out another round of targets.” Even as he spoke, detonations began to appear on his display, one hit after another blasting enemy interceptors to atoms.
“Prepare to launch…now,” he snapped. He’d have waited longer, but the enemy ships had begun launching their own missiles, and his people couldn’t start evasive maneuvers until they’d fired. He locked onto a second enemy fighter. “Launch,” he said, his finger tightening over the firing stud.
“All right, let’s break. We’ve got missiles coming our way now, so look out for yourselves.” He slammed his throttle hard to the side. Three missiles were coming right at him, the targeting a little too close for comfort. Stockton was nothing if not a confident pilot, but now he felt heat around his neck as his arm moved wildly over the controls, veering off on a wild escape route.
