“You’d end up with your own pocket empire, but I know you, James Walkingstick. You are a loyal son of Terra.”
“For which, it appears my superiors now wish to kill me,” he replied.
“Yes,” she said steadily. “The Star Chamber has betrayed you, James. But they are not the Commonwealth. The best way you can serve now is to disappear. Walk away before they end you.”
There was nothing to say, really. James spent a minute staring at the wall in silence. Burns didn’t say anything, just waiting.
“Damn it,” he finally said. “I appreciate the warning, Hope. But…in some ways, I’d rather have not known until it was too late!”
47
Niagara System
09:00 November 9, 2737 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time
Ontario Orbit
IT WAS A SMALL MEETING ROOM. A quiet space aboard a battleship which had few such spaces. Large enough for the dozen or so people James had summoned aboard Saint Michael for this council.
Lindsey Tasker and Mihai Gabor had barely met each other before, but the stresses of the last few months allowed them to embrace as old friends. It had been a hell of a war, and that the courier was carrying an ambassador to Alliance space to end it was as much a relief as anything else.
Even to James, he had to admit.
Commodore MacGinnis and Commander Messere were also in the room. The last occupant was a woman that James had rarely met in person, even as he sliced up her command to send her troops all over the galaxy.
General Pearle Krizman of the Commonwealth Marine Corps looked like she’d stepped out of a recruiting poster, even in this informal meeting. She was one of the most heavily muscled people James had ever met, even her Marine dress uniform clearly having been modified to allow for her bulk.
If there were any spare grams of fat on the six-foot-tall woman, forty years of Marine physical training hadn’t found them, and if Krizman was perhaps less attractive to most men than other women, she could not care less.
Not least, to James’s knowledge, because she was happily married to an accountant on Earth who took fantastic care of their three children.
The three-star General commanded the two Marine Deployment Groups assigned to his command. Each contained three Marine Expeditionary Groups for a total of twenty-four divisions per MDC and almost half a million Marines per the TOE.
The truth was, most of her divisions were understrength or had been chopped up to a thousand different purposes, sent out by battalion or regiments instead of division—and one of her subordinates had managed to get the last intact MEG shattered in the assault on Midori.
Nonetheless, there were plenty of Marines to hand in Niagara to load aboard the fifteen assault transports they still had.
If one James Calvin Walkingstick decided to do something…spectacular.
“People, you’re here because there are things I need to explain in person,” he told them all. “No encrypted coms. No recordings. No virtual meetings. What we are about to discuss is…”
He sighed.
“What we are about to discuss is arguably treason,” he repeated, finishing the sentence this time.
The five officers in the room were silent, all of them waiting for him to continue.
“I have been advised—by sources that I trust completely—that my recall to Terra is not for a debriefing,” he said slowly. “The Star Chamber intends to put me on trial for treason—and they’ve already decided on the verdict and the punishment.
“When I return to Terra, I am to be arrested, put to a kangaroo court, and shot.”
He let that hang in the room for a few seconds of silence.
“What has been recommended to me is that I disappear,” he admitted. “I…do not see a reasonable alternative.
“My intention is to take Saint Michael back into Commonwealth space, leave a letter of resignation and my mace aboard her, and leave at a location somewhere between here and there,” he confessed. “I will not use this fleet to set up a private empire, even if you would follow me, but I cannot blithely stick my head into the noose for the Commonwealth, either.”
The shocked silence continued. His officers traded concerned looks, thoughtful glances, a million pieces of nonverbal communication, but no one spoke.
Then General Krizman rose to her feet.
“Fuck that garbage, sir,” she told him. “My Marines will follow your orders to the end. No matter where you send us. If they want to hang you, they’re going to go through us.”
“General, I cannot—”
“No,” Tasker cut him off. “We will not permit this. We will not allow you to be executed or to disappear into obscurity. You are our Marshal.”
“If you go back to Terra, you’re going back with all of us,” Gabor concluded. “Together.”
“If I arrive in Sol with eighty capital ships and a dozen-plus Marine transports, that is treason,” James pointed out. He was touched. He was horrified. Stunned that his people would even offer this.
And he was so, so tempted.
“If the Star Chamber is prepared to execute you, they are prepared to doom the Commonwealth,” Messere, the most junior person in the room, said quietly. “Even if you go into hiding, someone else will be blamed. They will break the contracts and oaths that hold us together, no matter what.
“If you do not challenge them, they will destroy all that we are sworn to defend. What else can we do?”
The question hung in the air, and everyone in the room turned their gazes on James.
“So be it, then,” he said softly. “Prepare the fleet to move out. It seems we have a message to deliver to the Star Chamber.
“We will save the Commonwealth. With or without them!”
THE CIVILIAN PRISON platform that Kyle and his people had been delivered to was significantly more comfortable than he’d been expecting. It had the same security features as the military POW platforms he’d once sent his Marines to liberate—dual hull structure with a vacuum “moat”, automated security, armed garrisons—but the fixtures in the internal prison area were much more comfortable.
The main “prison yard” area of the station even had trees. While there was no space specifically set aside for Wiccans, there were enough of Kyle’s coreligionists among the several thousand Alliance prisoners that a small copse had been unofficially designated.
He was sitting cross-legged in that copse in the plain gray jumpsuit they all wore now, meditating on a portable electric light—there were no candles inside the prison segment, so he made do as best he could—when he was interrupted by one of the Marines who’d volunteered as “the Admiral’s bodyguard.”
Kyle didn’t think he needed a guard there, but it made that dozen men and women feel useful—and he could tell already that feeling useless was going to be quite common in there.
“Sir, one of the guards is asking for you,” she told him. “Apparently, the Marshal wants to speak to you.”
The prison was structured so that it could be run with tight control, prisoners secured in cells when not specifically allowed out, armed guards everywhere…or it could be run more openly, with the prisoners mostly moving around of their own accord but the accesses across the vacuum moat heavily guarded.
For POWs, they appeared to have chosen the latter.
“All right,” he told the Marine, carefully rising to his feet. “I suppose I should go see what our captor wants.”
HE WAS ESCORTED through the accessway into the outer station. None of the personnel he could see were Marines. Everyone was Niagara System Judicial Wardens, trained specialist prison officers.
The Wardens had some trouble adjusting to guarding POWs instead of criminals, but in the main, the NSJW’s people had taken the task on with aplomb.
It was a surprise, however, to realize that Walkingstick was out of uniform. Every time they’d encountered before, the Marshal had been wearing full uniform with his insignia and working decorations.
This tim
e, Walkingstick wore a simple black shipsuit with no insignia. It wasn’t like insignia were necessary—there probably wasn’t a living soul for a hundred light-years who wouldn’t recognize him instantly—but it was unusual.
“Have a seat, Admiral,” he instructed, then glanced up at the Wardens.
“Leave us, ladies,” he ordered. “And turn off the recorders.”
“Of course.”
The guards withdrew.
“This is the last time we will meet, Admiral Roberts,” Walkingstick said quietly. “That’s not a threat,” he continued instantly as Kyle began to pull away from him. “It’s a statement of fact.
“Your freedom will be gained shortly,” he continued. “An ambassador for the Commonwealth is already heading to Alliance space to negotiate a cease-fire and, hopefully, a peace treaty. There is no question in anyone’s mind that the prompt and efficient return of all of our POWS as well as all occupied systems will be the minimum offer we can make.”
“Most likely, yes,” Kyle said carefully.
“That will be arranged between your government, the ambassador, and the NSJWs,” Walkingstick continued. “I am leaving.”
“So soon?” So late? In Walkingstick’s place, Kyle would have had his fleet in Sol already, pledging his undying allegiance to the central government and doing everything he could to keep the Commonwealth together.
But then, Kyle freely admitted he didn’t understand Terran politics.
“The choice is no longer mine,” the Marshal told him. “It falls to me now to convince my own government that the Commonwealth must be saved. Either they will see the light and save it…or I will find a way to save my nation without them.”
Kyle hid his wince. What Walkingstick was saying was quite close to what he’d been thinking, but suggested that the Commonwealth government might not be willing to believe the other man’s pledges of loyalty.
He definitely didn’t understand Terran politics.
“So, now what?” he asked.
“You and your people will remain here,” Walkingstick told him. “Once the ambassador has arranged for your release, presumably the Alliance will send someone to collect you.”
The Marshal shrugged.
“I have done all within my power to guarantee your safety and return,” he half-whispered. “I owe you that in exchange for justice for Kematian.”
“There are those who believe there has not been true justice for Kematian,” Kyle replied.
Walkingstick nodded.
“Oh, I know. You told me that yourself,” he reminded the Federation officer with a forced smile. “But I have a duty now. So do you.”
The Marshal extended his hand.
“I could hate you for what you planned and your people inflicted on my nation,” he said softly, the hand hanging unwavering in the air. “But the reverse is also true. We have done our duty. We shall see where it leads us both.”
Kyle hesitated for a few more seconds, then shook Walkingstick’s hand.
“I won’t wish you good luck,” he told the other man. “But…I understand.”
“That, Admiral Roberts, is all men like us can do for each other.”
48
Niagara System
06:00 November 14, 2737 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time
Alliance Seventh Fleet
AVALON BLAZED out of the Cherenkov radiation of her Alcubierre-Stetson emergence flash with every sensor online, Q-probes flashing from her probe bays and her first cycle of fighter launchers coming alive.
Vice Commodore Michelle Williams-Alvarez led her people into space, wave after wave of brand-new Reaper-type starfighters. Project Armada’s first product had hit mass production just in time for the freighters carrying ships out to Via Somnia to be packed full of the new ships.
The new bombers hadn’t arrived yet, but the newly repaired and refitted Seventh Fleet had been entirely reequipped with the eighth-generation starfighters. As a hundred starships flickered out of Alcubierre drive around Avalon, hundreds and then thousands of the tiny parasites flared out around them.
Between Forty-First and the Medusa fleets, two hundred and fifteen ships had been sent into Commonwealth space. Only a hundred had been fit for combat when Admiral Rothenberg had decided to move out immediately…but with the Reapers, that should be enough.
“Ma’am?” Eklund said slowly. “There’s no fleet here.”
She paused, studying the tactical feed.
One hundred Alliance carriers, battleships and cruisers had emerged from Alcubierre. A second wave of twenty assault transports and another four capital ships would arrive in about twelve hours.
And they were the only starships in the system. The immense fleet anchorage in orbit of Ontario was empty, though its fortresses and repair yards continued to glitter with electromagnetic radiation.
“Defenses are intact,” Eklund continued. “I’m reading dozens of fortresses and fighter platforms around the fleet base and the planet, but no warships at all. None of the Marine transports that should be here.
“Nothing.”
Michelle found herself chuckling at the ridiculousness of it all. They’d brought a fleet that could crush the eighty starships they knew Walkingstick had—and his fleet was gone. Completely.
“Well,” she said after a moment, “that was unexpected. What about the defenses?”
“They’re limited to lightspeed sensors,” Eklund pointed out. “They won’t know about our arrival for another forty seconds, and we won’t see their reaction for a couple of minutes after that.”
He smiled darkly.
“Best guess is that they have about three thousand Katanas and Longbows,” he noted. “They’re doomed.”
“I wonder if they’re prepared to accept the inevitable for once?” Michelle asked. “I’d rather not be in both the first and last battles of the damned war!”
KYLE WAS AWOKEN by the sound of an argument right outside the door to the slightly nicer cell that his people had insisted become his quarters.
“If you do not stand aside, I will have the Wardens stun you,” an authoritative female voice barked. “I understand what you feel your responsibilities are, but I do not have time for this game!”
Since they were only issued the one style and type of garment, dressing had become entirely second nature after two weeks. By the time the speaker had finished threatening his bodyguards, Kyle was dressed and flinging open the door to his cell.
“What is going on?” he asked calmly.
A quartet of Wardens and two youthful men in carefully tailored black suits were standing off with the two Marines outside his door. Those two women might have been unarmed, but they certainly looked prepared to throw down with the Wardens and the…security detail?
The ninth person outside his door had probably been the speaker. She was a tall woman with a wide face that looked used to smiling and long dark hair, clad in a suit tailored almost identically to her security detail.
“I need to speak to you,” she barked at Kyle. “Your guards’ enthusiasm is commendable, but we have very little time if we are to avoid bloodshed!”
Kyle smiled cheerfully.
“I find myself suddenly extremely willing to hear you out, ma’am,” he told her. “Your office or mine?”
His feeble attempt at humor at least calmed his guards and earned him an appreciative nod from the Wardens.
“No bloodshed here,” she told him. “Come with me, Admiral Roberts.”
He shrugged at his guards and fell in behind her. The assorted security guards fell in behind them like the tail of a pair of comets as she led the way.
“I am Premier Jessica Nkele,” the dark-haired woman told him as they walked. “The elected representative of the people of Niagara. I answer, of course, to the Star Chamber of the Commonwealth.”
“I am surprised to see a system executive in my, ah, lack of office,” Kyle replied. “What do you need?”
“I need you to talk your people o
ut of blowing my orbitals to hell,” she said flatly. “There’s an entire fleet heading towards my planet, and while I may not be a military woman, I can run the math between a hundred warships and thirty-six fortresses in my head.”
“Ah.” The Alliance was here, then. That was good news—but he could see Nkele’s concern. “You realize, of course, that we are still at war?”
“The ambassador was sent to negotiate a peace treaty,” she pointed out. “I am prepared to offer Niagara’s…parole, I think is the term?
“We won’t fight you and won’t participate in any future war against you. But your fleet will pick you up and leave. No fighting. No death.”
Kyle nodded slowly.
“Yeah. I can do that, Premier Nkele.”
NKELE LED him across the vacuum moat and into a small office, then linked him into the station’s implant network.
“You should be able to send a message from here, yes?” she asked. “I assume you’ll want privacy?”
“If you would be so kind,” he agreed.
To his surprise, Nkele gestured for her guards to leave and exited the room with them. There was just him and his two self-assigned Marine bodyguards.
“You may as well be seated, troopers,” he told them. “Without q-coms, this could take a while.”
He fully accessed the station’s systems. Nkele was being true to her word—not only did he have communications access, he also had full access to the station’s sensors. He could see the massive armada bearing down on Ontario.
He didn’t feel particularly bad for the planet that had spent the last few years hosting the people determined to conquer his home nation, but…the war was over. He didn’t have it in him to let people die just because that news hadn’t made its way around yet.
Operation Medusa (Castle Federation Book 6) Page 31
