by Jay Allan
Barron didn’t know how much time he had, how long it would be before Hegemony fleets were slicing deep into the Confederation, but he knew it wouldn’t be much. The realities of logistics in space warfare would slow the enemy, buy more time. Even the advanced Hegemony would have to bring supplies forward, stop to build bases on occupied worlds or moons. If he could end the schism in the Confederation, reunite the fleet—and add Tulus’s Palatians to the mix—perhaps there was a chance to mount a defense in time, one strong enough to hold the Hegemony back before their forces could penetrate to the Iron Belt and the Core. It was a brutal calculus, but the loss of sparsely populated worlds closer to the frontier wouldn’t affect the war effort that much, not for a while. That was a stark mathematical outlook, but one he’d been forced to adopt before. Barron took his oath to defend the Confederation to heart, and if there was no choice but to sacrifice entire worlds to the enemy, he would do just that to keep the fleet in action. To keep the war going, until he and his comrades found a way to win.
He leaned back and sighed softly. First things first. Before he could intercept Whitten’s approaching forces, he had to convince Vian Tulus to stay out of the fight. And the difficulty of telling a Palatian to stand by and watch while others fought was something few people could understand. Only those like him, who’d done it before.
He wasn’t looking forward to the discussion.
“Admiral…the Alliance Imperator’s shuttle has just landed. He will be in your office in ten minutes.” Atara’s voice was soft, and he knew she understood the task ahead of him. She’d offered to go, to help him explain to Tulus…and she’d understood when he’d declined her offer. Barron was Tulus’s blood brother, one of the Imperator’s closest and most valued friends. This was a conversation that had to be between the two of them. Only them. It was more than Barron’s persuasion in play. Agreeing to stay out of the fight would be a shameful act for the Imperator, and Barron knew that would be easier for the Palatian to bear with none save his blood brother present…and certainly without other Confederation officers watching.
“Very well, Captain. You have the con.” He stood up and walked back toward his office, trying to work himself up to tackle the task at hand. He stopped and looked back toward Atara. “We are not to be disturbed, Commander.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Barron walked the rest of the way down the corridor, and he slipped inside his private office and study to await his friend and brother, the Imperator of the Alliance.
* * *
Torrance Whitten sat on Exemplary, the newest battleship in the Confederation, and the first of a new modification to the Repulse-class, out-massing the navy’s greatest ships by a solid two hundred thousand tons…even bigger and more powerful than Tyler Barron’s new Dauntless. Whitten had pulled the vessel from the Ionian shipyards almost a month ahead of schedule. He’d given a list of reasons for the action, but he’d left out the only one that was true. Tyler Barron had been racing all over Confederation space, recruiting naval units to join his treasonous rebellion…and Whitten knew it was only a matter of time before the problematic admiral turned his eye toward the Iron Belt shipyards and made a move to gain control of the vessels under construction there. Barron had acted more quickly than Whitten in most areas over the months the two had faced off against each other, but this was one area the Senate’s admiral had gotten to first.
Whitten had crewed the vessel with family loyalists, and, despite the effect his ego cast on his judgment, on some level he knew Barron had more experienced officers. He’d even seen a number of veterans disappear from the Megara area forces, leaving their posts, presumably to rally to the Confederation’s former golden child. Whitten had given rousing speeches, he’d said often that the Senate and legality were on his side, but the traitor Barron had proven charismatic enough to lure formerly loyal officers to treachery.
They will pay, all of them. I will remake the fleet in my image, crew it with spacers loyal to me. I will create a new golden age…and whatever threat has appeared on the Badlands frontier, I will crush it. After I have defeated Tyler Barron.
Whitten believed his own ego-driven boasts—at least, half of him did. He’d long resented Barron and the way acclaim and advancement seemed to fall upon the officer, while Whitten himself appeared to fade ever more into unjust obscurity. Whitten knew he could have done all Barron had, and more, if only he’d been given the commands, the opportunities. But alongside the bluster, and the self-defensive egotism, some part of him understood that Barron was the best tactician in the navy.
Whitten had the numbers, but, in the deepest part of his mind, he knew he’d have one hell of a fight on his hands when he finally met up with Barron…and the thought scared him to his very core.
* * *
“Vian, my friend, thank you for answering my call so soon. I should have come to you, of course, but I’m afraid I have been tied up in a number of matters. My workload has undermined my efforts at diplomatic niceties, I’m afraid.”
“There is no cause for concern, my brother. You need only call when you need me, and I shall come, for rank means nothing between us.”
Barron smiled and nodded. He had stood up while the Imperator walked into his office, and he’d waited patiently as the Alliance’s head of state brusquely waved off his bodyguards and stepped toward Barron alone, unprotected.
Barron understood the complexities of what he’d just watched. To a Palatian, even the Imperator himself, it was shameful to act as though one needed protection in the presence of a blood brother. Yet, the guards had all taken blood oaths to protect Tulus, and, Barron suspected, to them, that obligation superseded the respect due to a bonded brother.
But not to Vian Tulus, not where Tyler Barron was concerned. He’d chased his guards off as one might shoo an animal about to ransack a pile of food. It was a bit of show, of course, Tulus’s way of emphasizing his respect and trust for Barron, and the Confederation officer accepted it as it was intended.
“Vian, sit, please. There is something we must discuss.” Barron felt his throat tightening. He hated what he had to say, and it was all the harder because he knew how badly he would need the forces Tulus had brought with him.
“You are tense, my friend. There is no need. There is nothing that cannot be said between brothers such as us.” Tulus paused. “I understand this situation is difficult for you. As you are aware, the need to face one’s comrades and countrymen in battle is burden with which I am all too familiar.”
“Vian…”
“No, my friend…first, let me finish. Do not allow this internal trouble in your Confederation affect you unduly. We will crush the traitors, and the vast majority of their followers will then flock to your banner. This will not be a civil war as my people endured. It will be a brief moment, a passing tragic bloodletting…and then, with your people reunited and tested once again by their trials, we shall turn to face the true enemy together, side by side.”
“Vian, you are my brother, and I know you are mine, that each of us is bound and ready to come to the aid of the other on call. You are here because I beseeched you for help against the Hegemony invaders, and you came, as a true brother in arms. I thank you for that, and I repeat all my oaths of friendship and loyalty to you.” Barron paused, trying to muster the will to say what he had to say. “But I cannot have your forces fight with me against my own people.” Another pause. “For many reasons, but for one above all. Your people and mine must stand together against the Hegemony, fight alongside each other. There must be trust, mutual respect. If your forces engage Confederation vessels, even those opposing me, I fear it will destroy that trust. We would meet the Hegemony not as one inseparable force, but as two fleets, riven by mistrust and bad feeling.”
“You would have me stand by while you fight alone? Watch as you engage an enemy—and make no mistake, right now, those who oppose you are your enemies—and do nothing?”
“I do not ask that from my heart, Vian,
for there is no fight in which I wouldn’t revel to have you at my side. I ask from my rational judgment…for, as we have discussed, must not the true warrior allow cold reality to take precedence, even over matters of honor?” It was a bit of a dirty trick, throwing things the two had spoken of in private back at the Palatian.
Tulus was silent for a moment. His eyes were unmoving, fixed on Barron’s, and his face was as carved stone. Finally, Barron felt a wave of relief as the slightest of smiles slipped onto the Imperator’s face.
“Tyler, my brother…your ability to cut to the heart of the matter is, as always, an inspiration. It is hard for a Palatian to stand by, to watch any fight without joining the melee, and all the more when it is a brother engaged in the struggle. It goes against every conception of honor, of the loyalty to an ally that underlies all relationships in war. And, yet, is not the true fight before us the one against the invader? You are correct to look toward that struggle, and not the present one.” The Imperator was silent for a few seconds. “I will order my fleet to stand by when you engage your people, Tyler. I will allow you to deal with this internal matter yourself…with one caveat.”
Barron was surprised how easily Tulus had agreed, but he was also worried about whatever condition was about to follow.
“As you yourself came to the aid of Tarkus Vennius when he faced defeat, I, too, shall come to your aid in the coming battle. Only if, through whatever circumstance, your victory appears in doubt. I will allow you to face the traitors in your ranks, to destroy them yourself and reunite your people…but I will not sit idle if your defeat seems imminent.”
Barron was silent now. He knew Tulus had made a considerable concession, and without any lengthy speeches about honor and tradition. But Barron had been prepared to face defeat if it came, to allow Whitten and the forces he led to reunite the Confederation if the fortunes of war so dictated. If it was the only way, he would choose a united Confederation over his own victory.
Barron didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want to rot in a cell on some prison moon for the rest of his life, branded a traitor…but even less, he wanted to see the Confederation overrun by the Masters and their Hegemony. However, Tulus’s terms left him no choice but victory.
He could live with that. He’d never accepted any other possibilities before save victory, and this would be no different. He would defeat Whitten, he would reunite the Confederation…and, after that, he and Tulus together would face the Hegemony.
Then the Masters would see just what kind of fight the Rim could offer.
Chapter Thirteen
CFS Repulse
900,000,000 Kilometers from Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 317 AC
“Captain, the rad levels in here are…”
“I know, Commander.” Anya Fritz stood next to her number two, her uniform jacket cast aside, the tight white shirt beneath soaked in sweat. It was hot in the reactor room, so hot the normally impervious Fritz felt like she was going to pass out. “If we need a cleanse after the fleet bugs out, then we do…but if we don’t get this under control, Repulse isn’t going anywhere, even when the admiral gives the order.”
The power spike had spread to half a dozen lines, and now the reactor was a hair from redlining. The thing would probably scrag before it blew, but the real problem was figuring out what was wrong with the thing. For the first time she could remember, Anya Fritz had no idea what was wrong, not even an idea of follow on. The only diagnosis she was confident about was that Repulse’s power systems would fall like a line of dominoes, and soon, leaving the battleship stranded and defenseless as hundreds of enemy vessels moved toward her.
Billings looked back at her, and it was clear from his expression he was still worried. Radiation cleanses were often extraordinarily unpleasant medical procedures, but she knew that wasn’t what was bothering her engineer. He was as aware as she was that if the shielding failed—and it looked like it just might—the two of them would get a dose of radiation so intense that even the strongest cleanse couldn’t reverse the deadly effects. They’d both be done for, even if it took a few hours for their bodies to catch up with the damage they’d suffered and get around to actually dying.
“Check the control circuit wiring. There’s got to be a problem we’re missing. This thing’s got a heavy shimmy, and something’s causing it.” Worse, the other reactors are starting to show the same kind of thing. She didn’t think Billings knew that yet, and she didn’t see any reason to tell him. If they figured out what was wrong with reactor three, they could fix the others too. And, if they didn’t…well, it wouldn’t matter for much longer.
“Captain…I think I’ve got something here. It looks like these regulator lines are partially burned out. I’m not sure why this didn’t show up on the reactor system scan. Must be just enough power getting through to keep the thing from tripping the warning circuits.”
Fritz looked up from what she was doing and slid over toward Billings. She looked down at the section of conduit he’d opened. She found grim humor in that fact that the officer had expressed concern over the radiation levels, and then, almost immediately, he’d opened up a line leading directly into the reactor core. Fritz wasn’t sure how much additional radiation was leaking out of that unit—and her failure to recall those figures only emphasized just how frazzled she was trying to fix the malfunction—but she knew it was substantial. Enough to push the repair attempt into a borderline suicidal operation.
She looked down, and half a dozen beads of sweat fell from her forehead onto the conduit. She moved her arm across her face, drying the sweat as well as she could with the already soaked cloth of her sleeve. Billings was right…the lines were heavily damaged, just short of completely burned out. But Fritz had no idea what was causing the problem.
She stared down at the assembly, shaking her head slightly in frustration. What is the problem here…what the hell is causing this? Why can’t I put this together?
But she couldn’t figure it out, and as she tried to work through it, she could feel the nausea beginning in her gut, and the fuzziness in her head. Her hands tightened into fists, and she struggled to stay focused. She had to solve this problem…and she had to do it quickly. To save Repulse.
Before the radiation finished her.
* * *
Clint Winters was frustrated. He wanted to smash his fist through Constitution’s six-meter-thick steel hull. He’d faced desperate battles before, swallowed the bitter taste of defeat…he’d even sat on his ship’s bridge while Confederation naval forces fled, leaving helpless worlds behind to the enemy.
But this was the first time it had fallen on him to give that command.
He’d almost done it before at Dannith, in fact, technically he had ordered the withdrawal. But the White Fleet had shown up just in time to spare him from having to follow through on abandoning millions of Confederation citizens.
There would be no White Fleet this time, no miracle to save Dannith. Winters didn’t expect any reinforcements at all. Whatever was going on back on Megara, things were a mess, and, for the time being, the frontier forces were on their own. There were a few other fleet contingents he might be able to order forward from nearby bases, and some support units and supplies still at Grimaldi, but nothing close to giving him what it would take to stop—or significantly delay—the massive enemy force in front of him.
He looked down at the deck. The normally gleaming metal was covered with scattered debris. Constitution had been the in thick of the fight, where the Sledgehammer’s flagships had always been. Winters knew no other way, but he realized the importance of keeping a command structure intact along the frontier. Sara Eaton could replace him, he was confident of that, but there wasn’t another officer in the makeshift fleet he would entrust to defend the worlds behind the Dannith position, and their billions of people. That meant one of them might be expendable, but not both.
Constitution shook again, the seventh hit the battleship had taken. This time,
while there was no apparent damage on the bridge, Winters knew there would be affected systems elsewhere in the battleship, possibly critical ones. He hated the idea of fleeing, of leaving Dannith to the enemy, and he wanted to exact a heavy price from the Hegemony invaders before he fled. But he was taking a huge chance by staying too long. One well-placed hit could damage Constitution’s engines, leaving the admiral and his staff at the mercy of the enemy. Worse, if the fleet didn’t bolt soon, it wouldn’t be able to escape from the Hegemony fleet’s second wave, much less the first…and those advancing battleships no doubt had fully operational railguns that would blast his heavy vessels to so much scrap.
And those huge monsters have more thrust than you do…remember that…
He’d been delaying, manufacturing reasons—excuses, really—to hold the fleet in the line, to put off issuing the command he dreaded to utter. But there was no choice now…no more time.
“Commander…” He could feel his throat tightening, his body resisting the action he knew he had to take. “…all fleet units are to withdraw to the Carthago transit point at full thrust.”
“Yes, sir.” He could hear both regret and relief in the aide’s voice, and again, as he listened to the officer repeating his command. “All fleet units, withdraw at once to the Carthago transit point at full thrust.”
