by Jay Allan
“Sorry, Admiral. Still no response.” Krantz’ voice was grim.
West just nodded. It wasn’t a surprise, not after the last transmission. But it was still hard to think about the freighter, its entire crew infected, so sick that not one of them could reach a com unit and respond to the flagship’s inquiries. She didn’t know how many people were still alive on Nanking, but she pretty sure they were all suffering in their final hours. She felt the urge to send a relief expedition…there had been numerous volunteers among the med staff. But she’d refused them all. She simply would not—could not—take any risk she could avoid. The very survival of the fleet depended on her decisions now.
She knew what people would say. The cold-blooded admiral, sitting on her flag bridge, withholding aid from the stricken crews. Nanking was a CAC ship. They would say that’s why she refused aid, ignoring the fact that Snow Leopard had been an Alliance vessel. Her rivals for command of the fleet would use it all against her, even as her resolve kept them safe from the ravages of the deadly disease.
She’d even considered blasting Nanking to atoms, sparing its crew the agonies of dying unattended. But that would look even worse. She hated the idea of letting men and women suffer because putting them out of their misery would look bad…but that was also her reality.
West had long ago become used to the whispers, the stark stares from those who believed the stories about her. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t bothered by it. She’d thought she understood the pressure on Compton, but now that she was standing in his place the true weight of it all became apparent. And she lacked the emotional attachment Compton had enjoyed from most of the fleet’s personnel. West had loyalty, at least from her Alliance personnel, who knew she was a smart and capable commander. But the love Compton had felt from the officers, the spacers of the fleet…that was something she had never known.
She just sat, listening to the eerie silence on Saratoga’s bridge. She knew her officers were struggling with their own thoughts. They didn’t blame her for the situation…she was sure of that. But she knew they disapproved, as least in the non-specific way those removed from final responsibility could indulge themselves. But if adding to her reputation as a heartless automaton was what it took to keep them alive, such were the burdens of command.
She moved her hand toward the com unit, but then she stood up abruptly, turning toward Krantz as she did. “I’ll be in my office, Commander.” Then she walked toward the side of the flag bridge and waved her hand over the sensor. The door slipped open, and she stepped inside, pausing a minute and listening to the hatch close behind her. Then she walked over to her desk and sat down, tapping the com as she did. “Dr. Gower,” she said softly, “what updates have you got for me?”
“Very little, I’m afraid, Admiral.” Justine Gower had been Midway’s chief medical officer, but Admiral Compton had included her on the list of non-essential personnel transferred off the ship before he departed with the rearguard. West suspected that Gower’s transfer had less to do with her being non-essential than the fact that she was unquestionably the best doctor in the fleet, a precious resource not to be risked in his desperate rearguard action.
“Anything?” West felt some of the fight draining out of her. She didn’t know how long she could stay strong while she was watching people getting sick and dying throughout the fleet.
“Well, it’s definitely something similar to a severe Earth influenza, kind of a super flu. But it seems like the virus itself has been extensively engineered to resist all forms of treatment. All our antivirals are completely ineffective, as are all other treatments we’ve attempted.” Gower paused. “Honestly, Admiral, we simply have no idea how to kill it.”
“It seems to take quite a while to reach the critical stages. I would expect something this deadly would be faster to kill its victims.”
“I suspect that is by design, Admiral. This virus is a weapon, there’s no doubt in my mind about that. And a long incubation period, followed by a protracted stretch of mundane symptoms is ideal for maximum contagion. By the time anyone is obviously very ill, they’ve been spreading the virus for weeks.”
West sighed. It all made sense, in an evil, efficient sort of way. The way she suspected the Regent approached things.
“Justine, you’ve got to come up with something. Soon. You’re the best chance we’ve got to develop a treatment. And if you don’t…” She let her voice trail off. Without a cure, she was going to have to watch almost a quarter of the fleet’s personnel die slowly…and do nothing about it. Nothing at all.
But she knew it was worse than that. If the enemy had spread the virus with their mysterious new delivery system, every ship in the fleet was vulnerable. She knew the forces of the First Imperium would be back, that more ships would be destroyed in the hell of battle…and that more would probably be hit by the tiny projectiles, that their crews would become infected. That even if they survived the fighting, they would be doomed to a slow death weeks later.
It was a grave danger, one that threatened the very existence of the fleet. And she had no idea what to do about it.
“I will try, Admiral.” Gower’s voice was doubtful, somber. It didn’t give West much from which to manufacture hope. And that wasn’t her way anyway. Erika West knew most people’s judgment was colored by hope, by the need to believe in something positive. But she had never been that way. She looked at things starkly, realistically. It was a draining way to live, but it was how she was. And even if the fleet was doomed, she was damned sure of one thing.
They would fight to the very end. No matter what.
* * *
Max Harmon stood in his quarters, staring down at the almost-full pack on his bunk and trying to think of anything he’d forgotten. It was a long trip to Deneb and back, though he was honest enough with himself to acknowledge that his chances of returning were pretty damned poor. The mission reeked of desperation, but he’d discussed it with Admiral West, and the two had agreed completely. It was the fleet’s best chance to survive. Standing at Shangri la and facing attack after attack didn’t seem to offer much chance at ultimate victory. And taking off, abandoning the amazing world the Ancients had left behind and plunging into the depths of unexplored space, running low on everything and with the enemy in hot pursuit, didn’t seem like a better option.
Harmon smiled for a moment when he thought of West. He was the logical choice to lead the mission, and he’d realized that the moment she described it in the conference room. But she’d given him a chance to opt out. She hadn’t ordered him to go…she’d asked him who he thought should lead it. He appreciated the thought behind her approach. He was one of the few people in the fleet who knew how undeserved West’s reputation for coldness was. But he also knew he had to go.
Harmon had never shied away from dangerous missions, and he wasn’t about to start…though he’d never wanted to shirk as much as he did now. After weeks at Mariko’s bedside, she was finely out of the woods, indeed, she was up and around. And now he had to leave….and perhaps never come back.
He walked over to his desk and pulled out several small boxes. They held his medals and decorations. It was hardly necessary gear, but he thought he should take them. If he was going to his death, they should be with him. There was also a small ’pad in the drawer. He pulled it out and flicked it on, thumbing through the photos on the screen. New ones…Mariko and Ana and Hieronymus. And Admiral Compton too, playing poker with some of the officers. Harmon remembered that night. Compton had cleaned everyone out, and Harmon had learned the stories of the legendary Terrance Compton, poker scourge of the Alliance fleet were all true. Compton hadn’t gambled for years, unwilling to take money from his subordinates. But Alliance credits were worth exactly zero to them all now, so he’d finally accepted an invitation to play…and he’d become part of the weekly game, a tiny scrap of normalcy that Harmon hoped helped the admiral as much as it had him.
There were older photos too. H
is mother, in her uniform, which is just about the only way he could remember her. Camille Harmon was the terror of the Alliance fleet, an iron-willed commander who exceeded even Erika West’s reputation for blackhearted brutality among the junior officers fated to serve under her. She hadn’t been the most attentive mother, and his had been the lot of a navy brat. But he’d never doubted her love…and he’d seen firsthand the grief she’d felt when his father was killed on Tau Ceti III. In the battle still known as the Slaughter Pen.
He had one photo of his father on the ’pad, wearing his uniform and holding the young Max in his arms. The image captured the last time Max saw him. Eleven days later he died in the bloodstained mud of the enemy world, along with thousands of other Marines in what was still considered the Alliance’s worst ground defeat ever.
Harmon took a deep breath. You don’t have time for a trip to the past. You have a job to do, and if you walk around in a trance certain you’re going to die, you will make it so…
He tossed the ’pad on top of the clothes in the pack and zipped it shut. He sat down and took another breath, trying to relax. Harmon had been raised from birth to serve. Indeed, if his father had lived he might as easily have become a Marine rather than a naval officer. Regardless of his choice of service, Harmon had always been a warrior. But now he had to admit to himself he was scared. It was one thing to fight a desperate battle, but to sneak into the heart of a domain like the First Imperium, and then into the depths of its greatest fortress, to the inner sanctum of the Regent…any sane man would have been afraid.
He’d said his goodbyes to Mariko earlier. They’d spent the night together, but they’d just lain there, too somber for anything else. Fujin was a fighter pilot…and there wasn’t a more dangerous posting in the navy. Harmon could tell how upset she was that he was leaving, how scared. But she hadn’t objected. She knew better. She’d just held onto him all night and then said her goodbyes in the morning…and run out of the room before her tears came.
Harmon was scared for himself, but he was worried about her too. She’d recovered rapidly after awakening from her coma. Under normal circumstances, she’d have been on limited duty for a while before her flight status was reactivated. But Admiral Hurley had gone off with the rearguard, and Bev Jones had died in the last fight. There weren’t many fighters left, but Admiral West would need every one of them…and Mariko was the only one who could lead them.
Harmon had been horrified when she’d told him, but he couldn’t really object. He knew there was no choice…and besides, she accepted his duty. There was no way he could deny hers.
He let his mind wander, just for a moment. What was the chance he would survive, that she would? That both of them would? But he pulled himself back. He didn’t want the answer.
He slapped his hand on the bunk. Then he got up and walked across the room, tapping on the com unit and calling his steward. “I’m ready,” he said simply. “Come down and get the bags and bring them to the shuttle.” Then he paused for a few seconds…and walked out into the hallway. He had time for one last conference with the admiral. And then he would be on his way.
* * *
Ana Zhukov stepped out of the shuttle and into Cadogan’s landing bay. The Alliance cruiser was one of newest in the fleet, and one of the fastest. It couldn’t outrun a fast attack ship, at least not over short distances, but Zhukov knew West had decided it was the best ship in the fleet to make the long trip to Deneb.
And back, she reminded herself. She wasn’t sure she really believed any of them would return, that they could destroy the Regent and somehow manage to escape that final cataclysm. But she was trying to stay positive. She’d have volunteered, even if it meant certain death…she knew in her heart the mission’s success was the only thing that would save anyone in the fleet. Still, she preferred to think she might make it back. The thought of peace, of an end to the fighting, was appealing. The survivors would still face a daunting prospect to build a home, but that would be a far more pleasant challenge than constant warfare. It was a future she would like to share, though her efforts to believe she would were shaky at best.
She sighed as she walked through the door and into Cadogan’s main corridor, glancing down at the small ’pad in her hand. “Cabin 17c,” she read aloud to herself…her assigned quarters. She walked down toward the lift.
She was scared, as afraid as she’d ever been. She was controlling it, at least as well as she could. But there was sadness there too, regret. Hieronymus had been upset with her, and he’d tries his best to get her to stay behind. But at least the two of them had argued themselves into exhaustion, and in the end, he’d reluctantly wished her the best. It wasn’t the parting she’d have chosen from the friend she considered a brother. But it would have to do.
It was her last words with Connor Frasier that really weighed on her. The two could have spent her final night on Saratoga in each other’s arms. They could have parted with sweet words, and affection. But instead, they’d wasted their last hours arguing, saying things she knew neither of them meant. And in the end, he’d stomped out of her quarters. And she hadn’t seen him since.
She’d expected him to be in the shuttle bay at least. However angry he was, she couldn’t have imagined he wouldn’t come see her, to say goodbye. But he wasn’t there, not when she arrived…and not when they slammed the shuttle airlock shut and blasted off for Cadogan. She’d been angry with him, frustrated at his stubbornness. But it broke her heart when he didn’t even come to see her off.
She stepped into the lift. “Cabin 17c,” she said softly, her voice strained, emotional. Thinking of Frasier was getting her upset again.
She tried to force her thoughts back to the mission. She’d been aggressive in claiming to have as much knowledge of the virus as Cutter, and she knew that wasn’t true. She did know a lot, more than anyone else. But she also knew she had to be on her game, that there was no room for error. She intended to spend the long trip to Deneb in her quarters, studying line after line of code. By the time Cadogan arrived, she would know the program every bit as well as Cutter did. Whatever it took.
She stepped out of the lift and walked down the corridor, stopping in front of a door with ‘17C’ on the wall next to it. She waved her hand over the sensor and the hatch slid open.
She walked inside, and the lights snapped on. The quarters were nice, a small workspace with a kitchenette and a separate sleeping area. Square meterage was always at a premium in spaceships, but she knew Cadogan was going to Deneb with a barebones crew…and there was no reason to let the nicer quarters go unused.
She dropped her duffle on the small table, and looked at the large mirror on the far wall. She could see the stress in her face, the sadness, and she tried to suppress it all. There was no room for emotions, not now. They only got in the way, a distraction that served no purpose. The First Imperium intelligences have something on us in that. They don’t waste time feeling miserable, crying themselves to sleep…
There was a sound, the door signal.
“Open,” she said. She heard the door slide open, and she started to turn around. But before she did, a familiar voice filled her ears.
“You left without giving me a kiss,” the voice said. “I couldn’t have that.”
She spun around, feeling the tears well up in her eyes. “Connor!”
“I’m sorry, Ana…I’m an ass. I had no right to argue with you about going along. You are the most qualified. The fleet needs you to be here.”
She took a few steps forward and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder as he returned the embrace.
“Wait,” she said, pulling back slightly and looking up at him. “What are you doing here? We’re already pulling away from the fleet.”
“Well,” he said, putting his hand gently on her face. “I know you have to go…but I couldn’t let you go without me now, could I?”
She stared back at him, the surprise still all over he
r face. “But Colonel Preston was leading the Marine contingent…”
“Yes, well let’s just say Jimmy owed me a favor…and it wasn’t too hard to get Admiral West to sign off on the change. I think she figured I’d keep an extra close eye on you.” He smiled. “So here I am. What do you say we make up for all that time we wasted last night?”
Chapter Twenty
From the Research Notes of Hieronymus Cutter
The deeper I get into the notes and files left here for us, the more convinced I am that, given enough time, we will be able to adapt the ancient technology, to advance centuries in the blink of an eye. But the problem is that part about having enough time. The enemy knows where we are, and they are throwing everything they have against us. If this world were still as it was half a million years ago, I believe it would be nearly impregnable. But even the amazing technology of the First Imperium is subject to time’s ravages. The weapons and equipment have endured, over a time when anything built by man would have gone back to dust. But still, only a portion has survived. And as far as the defense grid is concerned, we have almost exhausted what remained.
I know Ana was right. I had to stay behind. But I wonder if she realizes that our only true hope now rests on her shoulders and not mine. Given time, I could make this planet invincible. But I will not be given that time. So, if Ana and the others fail, it is over.
AS Saratoga
System X108
The Fleet: 82 ships (+2 Leviathans), 19372 crew
“Alright, Hieronymus…now. Everything you’ve got left!” Erika West was leaning forward in her chair, her body visibly tense, rigid. Her battle plan had been daring, unconventional…and it was working. The enemy fleet had been strong, almost a hundred ships. Big enough to finish off the fleet if she wasn’t careful. But careful wasn’t in her book…and instead she’d gambled everything, splitting the fleet into four task forces and spreading them throughout the system. And she used Saratoga as bait, keeping its fire to a minimum, releasing fluids and gasses into space as it pulled back, giving a First Imperium scanner every reason to think the human flagship was critically wounded and near destruction.
