by Jay Allan
In truth, they’d saved each other’s lives, and those of about sixty of their Marines. Peterson remembered every instant of that desperate moment, and the bloody battle on Carvellus, but there wasn’t time for reminiscing, not now. That could come later, over a few pitchers…assuming the two of them were still alive in another day or two. Right now, that prospect seemed just about even money to Peterson.
“Good to see your old carcass, too.” The officer returned the embrace, and the two stood for a few seconds before they stepped back and looked each other over. “I’ve got my people all over the street, Jon…and in a bunch of the buildings, too. I can’t speak for Troyus City overall—that’s going to depend on how some of the other regimental commanders break on this shit, and whether their Marines follow them or not. But, this sector is ours, at least for now.”
Peterson nodded. He was a longtime combat veteran, but the current situation was beyond anything he’d experienced before. Not only were his people preparing to fight other Confederation personnel, even other Marines, but there were huge question marks hanging in the air, uncertainty about which sides the various units stationed in the capital would support.
“I’ll let Admiral Striker and Gary Holsten know. The plan is to go in today. We just don’t have any time to waste, and there’s no telling if a delay would help us or the Senate.” It sounded bizarre to hear himself refer to the Senate at the ‘other side.’ His people had been on alert for a week now, and in all that time, he couldn’t recall a minute when his stomach didn’t feel like a deflated sack tied into knots. He would do what he had to do. He’d chosen his side, and he was sure he’d made the right choice. And, his people had come with him to a man…along with thousands of other Marines he’d helped to recruit. He was pretty sure Striker’s side had the edge in Marine strength…though there were commanders who had rallied to the Senate as well, bringing some or all of their people to side with the Lictors and Senate security…and most of the Troyus law enforcement agencies, eighty percent of which had rallied to the Senate.
It had been hard to claim legitimacy when standing against the highest legislative body in the Confederation, but Holsten and his people—still unofficial, but constituting more and more of Confederation Intelligence’s best agents—had managed to uncover a treasure trove of data from the ITN offices…all evidence pointing to Sector Nine involvement in the recent events. Peterson had expected the Senate to yield when the news had been released, but then he realized how foolish—or corrupt—those deeply involved appeared to be. They were holding out from reflex, from the desire to avoid being held to account for what they had done. It was hopeless, at least in the longer term, but Peterson suspected few of them had thought that far forward. And, there was almost no limit to the amount of damage they could do in the short term.
Peterson reached down and pulled the small comm unit from his belt. He’d sent teams out the night before to seize most of the power generation and communications facilities in the city. His people didn’t control all of Troyus, but most of what made the city function was safely in his Marines’ hands.
“Gary…Jon here. Colonel Devane has his people in place just south of the Senate Compound. Defenses look light from here, but that’s not much better than a guess at this point. Anyway, we’re ready to go in, as soon as you give the word.
“There’s no reason to wait, Jon. Give me ten minutes to alert the others. Then, we might as well…” Holsten’s voice stopped abruptly.
“Gary?” Nothing. “Gary…is everything alright?”
“Yeah, Jon…sorry. Hold in position. Something’s happening…the orbital platforms just went on alert. I think Tyler Barron just got here.”
* * *
Lille crept through the alley, moving slowly, quietly. There were Marines all over, and every other sort of armed Confederation police or troopers. The lid was about to blow, and as much as he enjoyed watching the Confeds on the verge of shooting at each other, all it was accomplishing now was to get in his way.
He had a ship stashed at the spaceport, under an alias, flight plans already filed. He just had a couple more jobs to do, and then he could bolt. Normally, he would take his time, move slowly, cautiously, but with the Confeds on the edge of an outright civil war, he was concerned the spaceport could close. Either side might want to shut the facility down if they gained control of it, and even if it remained above the conflict, in neutral hands, it seemed a distinct possibility launches could be suspended. The last thing he wanted was to get stranded on Megara in the middle of a war between Confed factions, his cover all but blown, and his resources almost depleted.
No, that was the second to last thing. The last thing he wanted was to leave without completing his missions. Without finishing his vendettas. His self-worth was tied up tightly in his skill and experiences as a killer, and it simply wasn’t in him to board a ship and blast off while his enemies were still alive.
He’d been tracking Andi Lafarge for days now. He’d always respected the adventurer, but now he realized he’d underestimated her. She was proving to be an elusive adversary, and truth be told, she’d come closer to taking him out than anyone ever had. On one level, he appreciated the challenge, the difficulty of hunting such a capable adversary, one not only hard to find, but also deadly dangerous herself. On another, he wished it could have come at another time, when he wasn’t under such pressure to finish and get out.
He’d caught a hint or two, vague, and invariably cold, but he hadn’t been able to catch sight of Andi, not since she’d taken the shot at him weeks before…and killed the agent he’s sent after her. Now, he thought he’d finally found something. He’d tracked financial dealings, hacked into the banking system and tracked an account he suspected was one of Andi’s aliases. It was a gamble—and even if it led to her, it was a s likely a trap she was laying for him. But, it was all he had, and that fact made the decision for him.
He continued down the small service road, dressed not in his usual attire, but as a Troyus City police officer. Chasing Andi had been extremely difficult; spotting a Troyus cop about his size and dispatching the fool without getting blood on the uniform…that had been almost embarrassingly easy.
He crept up to a corner and peered around, looking down the street. It was almost impossible to tell whose side the various Marines, police, and other authorities were on…and that made his own cover vulnerable. His instincts told him to lay low, to wait and see if the storm blew over, if the Confeds managed to resolve their standoff without bloodshed. That moment of relief would be the ideal time, the moment for the skilled assassin to strike, when his targets were at their lowest level of alertness.
But, there just wasn’t time. He had to finish things, and he had to do it quickly.
Where are you, Andi…where are you hiding?
* * *
“Alright, Commander…let’s get this done with. We’ve been delayed far too long already. Whatever we’ve got to do, it’s time to stop worrying about it and just do it.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Atara Travis’s tone was hard and focused as she replied to Barron’s order. Dauntless had transited first into the Olyus system, but even as the battleship’s systems rebooted and adjusted to the reemergence into normal space, the other units of the fleet began to appear. Barron’s force was almost a third of the fleet’s entire strength, and it was coming through the point in combat formation.
“Set a course for Megara. Acceleration at 4g.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barron leaned back in his chair and looked out at the display. There was a small cluster of ships deployed on one side of the planet, a handful of escorts that had fled when the rest of Whitten’s fleet had changed sides and a pair of battleships, units that appeared to remain loyal to the now-imprisoned Whitten, or to the Senate, or to another faction claiming some kind of authority. Barron still hated the idea of killing his fellow spacers, but the situation had become more desperate, the communiques from Admiral Winters too dire to
allow him to humor foolish allegiances any longer. He would offer those ships one last chance to yield, or at least to stand down, and he would do the same with the orbital defenses. And, then he would obliterate anyone who continued to stand in his way. He was going to unite the Confederation, whatever the cost, and those who couldn’t be persuaded of the need to join forces…he would destroy them. Utterly and without hesitation. It was brutal, perhaps, cold…but it was the only way.
The only way besides meekly accepting slavery under the Hegemony, without even putting up a real fight.
“Put me on the systemwide comm, Commander.”
“Yes, sir.” A few seconds later. “Live on your line.”
Barron sighed softly, even as he pulled the headset on. He closed his eyes, an image of his grandfather floating in his thoughts. I need you to be with me now…help me do what I have to do…
“Attention all Confederation vessels and installations, this is Admiral Tyler Barron aboard the CFS Dauntless. There have recently been unsettling developments in the government and military of the Confederation, including several fraudulent scandals and a large amount of misinformation that spread widely. This was all part of a carefully planned effort to destabilize the Confederation…for purposes as yet unknown. I cannot explain why this happened, or who is responsible. But, I can say one thing with absolute, iron certainty. It is over. Now.” His voice was cold, almost like the sound of a hammer striking an anvil. He was full of doubt and uncertainty, but not a trace of that escaped his lips.
He could feel the eyes of Dauntless’s bridge crew boring into him. His people were all with him, he was confident of that, but even loyal followers needed encouragement, reassurance that what they were doing was right.
“I order all military vessels in the Olyus system to stand down at once. Any warship operating at full power will be targeted and destroyed without further warning. The Megara orbital defenses are also to power down and to prepare to be boarded at once.”
Barron could feel the anger rising up inside him, the rage focused at whoever was truly behind what had happened. He’d gone through all he had, he’d killed fellow Confederation spacers…and, perhaps worst of all, Clint Winters was trying to hold back a full-scale Hegemony invasion with a fleet cobbled together from bits and pieces from a dozen frontier bases. It was intolerable, and for all Barron’s hesitation on allowing anger and the need for vengeance to guide his actions, he knew one thing.
Everyone responsible for this debacle had to pay. Treacherous officers, government officials…even Senators. He promised himself he would see to that.
“All defense facilities on the surface of Megara are also to disarm. All Marine and other units are to stand down at once and await further orders. I have over one hundred ships with me, and my fleet will secure every centimeter of this system. All space traffic is to cease at once. Vessels underway are to decelerate to a dead stop and await further instructions. All vessels docked or at spaceports will remain where they are.” He paused, then added, his voice as cold as space, “Any violations of this order will be dealt with immediately, and without additional warning. I urge everyone to take my words seriously. Do not test my resolve.”
He turned and gestured for Atara to cut the line. Then he leaned back in his chair, and let out a deep exhale. Well, if there wasn’t a case for treason against me before, it’s damned certain one could be put together now. Threatening the entire capital system is definitely beyond the given power of my rank.
Like it or not, Barron knew he’d taken another step. A life as a career officer, following orders, and moving through the system…and now all that was gone. He was a revolutionary, and he was on the verge of launching a coup.
Part of him couldn’t believe what he’d done, and part thought of Winters and his battered fleet, and the vast forces of the Hegemony…and he wondered what had taken him so long.
Chapter Thirty-Six
CFS Repulse
Miramar System
Five Transits from Dannith
Year 317 AC
“Captain, Commodore…we’ve got him! He’s in the bay, and he looks fine!”
Sonya smiled as she listened to Stara Sinclair’s report. She’d watched, as her sister the Commodore had, with baited breath, knowing Repulse could hold its position just so long, and not a second longer.
Not if they were going to have any chance of getting out of the system.
“That’s good news, Commander. Very good news.” Sara responded before Sonya could get the words out, and that was fine with her. She was Repulse’s captain, but her sister commanded the entire task force, and as much as Sonya had grown into her role and developed more confidence, she was glad to stand aside and allow the older, more experienced Eaton handle the current desperate situation.
The battle was raging all around, and losses in the task force were heavy. The forward enemy ships had been badly battered, but that hadn’t stopped them from unloading savagely on the vessels holding their positions, waiting for Stockton’s fighter to arrive. She’d watched her sister direct the task force, and she was more impressed even, than she’d been before. Sara Eaton had become a master at space battle tactics, a development Sonya thought shouldn’t be surprising since the commodore had spent no small amount of time fighting alongside Tyler Barron.
The task force had lost one battleship and half a dozen escorts, bad, but perhaps not as disastrous as it might have been. The rest of the fleet had taken considerable damage in the fighting in Miramar…and a catastrophe had only been averted by the dedication and sacrifice of Stockton’s fighter wings, who threw themselves at the approaching Hegemony ships, targeting the two behemoths with still-operational railguns. The fearsome enemy main guns had torn apart Goliath, and severely damaged two of the other capital ships, as well as obliterating several cruisers. It had been a display of just what would happen if an intact enemy battle line ever managed to close to firing range of the Confederation battle line.
A reminder of just how vital the squadrons were in this war. As if we needed another…
“Recall all squadrons. I want those fighters back in the bays as quickly as possible.” She heard her sister give the order, one she’d expected. Sara had been pulling back the squadrons gradually, ordering them to break off as soon as Stockton’s fighter came within twenty thousand kilometers of Repulse. Most of the wings had considerable velocity built up already, along preplanned vectors. If all went well, they would catch their motherships about three-quarters of the way to the transit point.
If things didn’t go well…an attempt to save a single hero could end up costing the lives of hundreds of his people.
“Fleet order four, Commander. All ships are to disengage immediately and proceed toward the transit point. Battleships are to have their bays ready to recover fighters while on the move. I want full emergency protocols on all vessels.”
“Yes, Commodore.” John Fuller was doing a solid job as an aide to both Eaton sisters, and Sonya was proud of her exec. She felt a spark of hope as well, knowing that Stockton was aboard and the fleet’s sole remaining duty in Miramar was to recover its squadrons and run. With any luck, the rest of the task force would get out of the system.
But, then what?
She’d seen Stockton’s transmission, though she hadn’t spoken of it. Sara had seen it, too, of course, but Admiral Winters had ordered the information classified…and kept from the fleet’s crews. Sonya understood his reasoning, but she didn’t agree with the decision. The fleet had pursued one goal in both engagement with the enemy, a tactic that had worked in every war for a hundred years. And, now, it appeared the entire strategy was doomed to failure. The Hegemony invaders had enormous capability to resupply and even repair damage to their ships without pulling back or even building bases on captured worlds.
She knew there had to be a line, of course, that even the immense supply and support train the Hegemony fleet possessed had to have its limits. But, the initial analysis of Stockt
on’s images suggested the enemy could continue its advance, regardless of any battles Admiral Winters forced…not perpetually, perhaps, but far enough for the limits not to matter.
All the way to Megara if they chose.
It was terrible news, and when it became public, she couldn’t imagine what would happen to the fleet’s morale. Though the fighting at Miramar had been executed flawlessly, with considerably greater losses inflicted than sustained, in the end it was the same as Dannith. Another retreat. Another planet left at the mercy of the invader.
Another step closer to the very center of the Confederation, toward what would have to be a final, cataclysmic battle.
And, soon.
* * *
Stockton climbed down from his cockpit, slowly, every move a minor agony. To say he was stiff didn’t come close. He’d been in his fighter for almost two weeks, the only breaks being short spacewalks to pry his way into fuel storage tanks, to snatch what he needed to catch the fleet. He’d stretched his emergency rations—supplemented by every stim he could scrape up in his personal kit—and the recycler had given him enough water to survive, but in no way could he describe the trip as anything short of hellish.
And, the fact that he was desperately trying to deliver what could only be considered as ominous news only increased the load he carried…though it had also bolstered his stubbornness, his unyielding insistence he would find a way to survive, to get back. Whatever it took.
He had made it back, and as he thought about the trip, he realized he wasn’t sure if he’d believed he would make it or not, if his usual fortitude had endured. Part of it had, of course…the part that had always driven him to his very best, but that was far from the whole story. The doubts had nearly taken hold this time, and as he thought back, he wondered if they hadn’t gained control, at least for a while.
