by Jay Allan
It didn’t matter, though, no more than it had when she was alive. He was still married to his job, still a creature of the navy, born into his role, and welded to it by long years of dedicated service and the shades of Barrons of past generations. Now, the Confederation faced its greatest challenge. Could he leave with darkness looming so close, even if he found that she was still alive? Could he desert his comrades, stand down when the greatest invasion in history was tearing through Confederation space, to slip off somewhere to sit in front of a fireplace with Andi?
No. He couldn’t. But, thoughts of her death still cut through him like a knife, and while he knew it wasn’t entirely fair, he channeled that raw pain, and the hatred it fueled, toward those who had caused the current mess.
And, anyone who still supported them. Anyone who refused his commands to stand down would be destroyed. Part of him, deep in his mind, was shocked at such thoughts, but there was no question, he was ready to do whatever had to be done. He’d allowed guilt to rule his decisions, concern for killing Confederation personnel, but now he let the darkness flow from deep within and take him. He would do what had to be done, without pause or hesitation.
Whatever had to be done.
Then, he would hand the fleet over to Van Striker…and they would set out together to join Clint Winters and his forces. He was far from sure the Confederation and Alliance forces could defeat the deadly new enemy, but he was damned sure he was going to try.
On some level, where the pain raged unabated, he wondered if he might meet his end in the fighting that lay ahead…and he wondered if he cared. Even if he preferred it. Andi was gone, and in his rational moments, he realized the Confederation itself was on the verge of collapse. He’d seen the Hegemony ships up close, and from the reports Winters had sent, the invasion fleet was almost unimaginable in size. Barron would keep fighting, of course. It was all he knew how to do.
But, he had come to believe the war was unwinnable.
Whatever lay ahead, though, he wasn’t going to allow a bunch of crooked politicians stand in the way of the fleet mounting the best possible defense, certainly not so they could try to escape the consequences of their own vile dealings. Human history was an unending saga of political leaders escaping the punishments they deserved. As far as Barron was concerned, that ended now.
“Commander, the fleet is to accelerate at 3g, directly toward Megara.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Atara’s voice was like forged steel. She was with him, as he’d known she would be, and it was clear she wanted everyone on the bridge to know it.
“Get me a channel…wide broadcast.” What he had to say was for the crews on the orbital platforms, but there was no harm in letting the others hear it. The personnel in the ground installations, the guards at the Senate Hall…every man, woman, and child on Megara had a stake in what happened next. He wanted them all to hear what he had to say.
“On your line, Admiral.”
He nodded. “Fleet ships are to power up all weapons systems.”
“Yes, sir.”
He reached his hand to the side of his headset, and he activated it.
“Crews of the Megara orbital stations—docking platforms, fortresses, everything—the fleet is now approaching. You must decide where you stand, whom you support. There is no middle ground now, and no more time for debate or prevarication. The fleet will enter firing range in seven minutes. In seven minutes and one second, every ship will open fire on any station that has not powered down and yielded. I regret that loss of life that will result from this, both in my fleet and on the stations, but that will not stop me. We face too great a threat to continue the absurdity of this internal conflict. We have too little time to waste it here. It is time to pay whatever price is required to reunite the Confederation…and I shall brook no further delay.” He paused for a few seconds. Then: “You have six minutes remaining.”
* * *
“Let’s go…move. You know what is at stake…so let’s go in and do what we know has to be done.” Jon Peterson stood next to a tall building, a massive skyscraper more than two kilometers in height, just one of many such structures in the central district of Troyus City. Glancing up at it, he knew just what was at stake, perhaps better than any of his Marines. He’d taken Tyler Barron at his word, and he had no doubt the officer would adhere to what he’d said, that he would do whatever he had to…including blasting the entire Senate Compound to radioactive dust.
Peterson wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be just as happy to see the arrogant fools of the Senate incinerated, but orbital bombardments were rarely surgical operations, and Peterson had a good idea just what Troyus’s magnificent central district would look like by the time such an attack was done.
He didn’t know what was happening inside the Senate Hall, or what kind of resistance his people would encounter, but he knew they had to go it. They had to resolve this nightmare right there, on the ground, even as Barron’s fleet dealt with the orbital defenses. The cost of the struggle continuing any longer was just too horrible to imagine.
Peterson watched as his Marines moved toward the Senate Compound’s outer walls. The complex hadn’t been built with defense in mind, at least not beyond basic security, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be defended. That all depended on what was going on in that building…and how many of the guards and security forces were prepared to make a stand against the attacking Marines.
A few shots rang out—defenders, Peterson knew, both by the pitch of the sound and the fact that he’d forbidden his people to shoot unless they were fired upon. Then, the familiar crack of Marine assault rifles rang out…his people returning fire. But, it was far down the line, and definitely contained, and as he moved toward the wall in front of him, there was still no defensive activity.
He pulled up, waiting as the demo teams set the charges against the wall. His eyes darted all around, still expected some kind of defense, watching for any sign of movement, the glint of a weapon in the morning sun. But, still nothing.
He knelt down on one knee, his rifle at the ready, and he prepared himself for the explosions all along the wall.
A few seconds later, a dozen charges went off with a deafening series of roars, and the wall along a three-hundred-meter length crashed into a heap of shattered masonry and billowing dust clouds.
He shook his head, trying to clear away the shock of the sound, putting his sleeve against his face as the dust filled the air all around.
Then, he stood up, and screamed, “Forward…to the Senate Hall.”
He leapt up and ran through the opaque clouds, with no idea of what was waiting beyond.
* * *
Claudius Gerard ducked down, a reflex action to the sounds of the explosions just outside. He’d been trying to remain calm and steady, even as the showdown in the Senate Hall played itself out, but the massive series of blasts was well beyond what his nerves could handle.
“There,” he said, regaining his composure as quickly as he could. “Those Marines outside…they’re not outside anymore. They’re on the way in, and there is no time left for debate. You all heard Tyler Barron’s messages, and you know his mettle, and the history of his family. He will do as he threatens, I have no doubt of that…not that it will matter to anyone here. Those Marines will be in the Hall in a minute, maybe even less. I call on my colleagues here, those who did not fall into the slime pit along with Senator Ferrell here, to stand up now. We must accept responsibility as a governmental body, and we must hold those who caused this accountable.”
Gerard knew he’d done his share of dirty dealings in his long political career—it was impossible to rise to the level he had without collecting a fair amount of private shame—but he had always been a patriot, and he would stand now on his legacy, face the Marines and Barron, and speak for the Senate…and he would hand over those who were guilty.
Most guilty, at least.
“Join with me now.” He raised his arm and pointed at Ferrell. “You all know tho
se who led us into this nightmare. Take them all, now. Bind them with whatever you have. Ferrell first among them. And Styles, Jorgenson, Dimitrov, Agencio, Borgala…” He began rattling off the names of the prime movers, the Senators who had seized virtual control of the body, fueled by their relentless campaigns of persecution, first against Gary Holsten, and then the military and so many others.
And, finally, any of their political rivals…
Gerard couldn’t believe how low the Senate had sunk, the disgrace that had accrued to all those present. Yet, he believed that Tyler Barron was a good man, that he did not seek to seize power…nor see Gary Holsten or Van Striker do the same. He could reason with Barron, make a deal. He was sure of it.
Together, they could end the disaster that had seen Confederation spacers and Marines fight each other, kill each other.
The sounds of gunfire moved closer, just outside the building.
First, you have to make your deal with whoever is commanding those Marines…
The doors blasted inward, the six-meter high, carved wood works of art reduced to matchsticks that showered across the room.
He could see figures moving forward, armed, obscured by the dust and smoke.
“Stop,” he screamed, as loudly as he could push his voice. “The Senate yields. We have taken those guilty into custody, and we will offer no resistance. I request a meeting with your commander to discuss terms…and what is to come next.”
Claudius didn’t have any idea who was in charge out there, and he was far from sure whoever it was would listen to him, but he knew he had to try.
His had been a life of dirty dealings, mixed with no small amount of what he considered decent governance. But, now he felt a calling. He had money, fame, and, if he managed to hang onto it in the coming days, power. But, none of that meant a thing if the Confederation fell…and, he had begun to consider what Tyler Barron had said months ago, the warnings all had ignored in the crazed zeal to prosecute an innocent man…and the more recent reports from Admiral Winters.
This was his moment, the time for him to actually do his job, to claim his place in Confederation history.
And, to help ensure there was such a thing as Confederation history.
* * *
“This is CFS Vista, calling to all Confederation authorities. We have been sent by Admiral Winters with an urgent communique.”
Tyler Barron’s head snapped around. He’d just accepted the surrender of the last orbital platform. Three of the ships that had originally sided with Admiral Whitten had fled, heading for one of the transit points, but the others had all surrendered and sworn to follow his order. He’d let the three diehards go. He didn’t have time to worry about hunting down small groups of ships, not just then. He suspected the refugees might cause some mischief down the road, but he had much bigger things to worry about just then.
A moment after the final station yielded, he’d gotten Van Striker’s message from the ground. Peterson’s Marines had gone in, and they’d found the Senate divided, the guilty members—the guiltiest ones, at least—the captives of the others. It was as good a result as he could have hoped for, no, it even surpassed the most optimist hope he’d been able to muster. Even as he sat on the bridge, Gary Holsten was negotiating with Claudius Gerard, trying to reach some kind of understanding between the rump Senate that remained, and the forces of what Barron still knew had effectively been a coup.
A coup you started…
His satisfaction at the relatively bloodless resolution, even at the prospect of preserving the Senate and avoiding he specter of military dictatorship, however benevolent its intentions, was short-lived. His stomach tightened immediately as he heard the first line of the communique. He knew any news from Winters was almost certainly bad.
But, he didn’t realize how bad.
“The fleet has engaged the Hegemony forces again, at Miramar…and once again, we were forced to retreat. We have suffered heavy losses, but we were able to inflict even greater damage on the enemy force. However, the Hegemony armada is still vast, apparently unbeatable.”
Barron listened. The news was bad, of course, but no worse than he’d expected. He could have imagined just what the message would have said. He could have written it. Winters was still falling back, maintaining his strategy of trading space for time…and now that the situation on Megara appeared to be resolved, he could bring his forces to join Winters’s.
Then, maybe we can give these bastards a real fight…
He felt a moment of excitement, a small, transient spark. Then, he heard the next words, the rest of Admiral Winters’s report…and all the hope in his mind faded away, replaced only by despair, and by the realization that all that had just happened, all Winters and his people had done over the past few months…was all for naught.
Chapter Forty
Occupation Headquarters
Port Royal City
Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 317 AC
“Begin level one sanctions immediately, Kiloron.”
“Yes, Master Develia. At once.”
Develia sat at the large table, her desk since she’d landed in Port Royal City to take command of the occupation. She’d been a bit disappointed to be assigned a mere frontier planet, but further consideration had changed her point of view. Dannith, she’d realized, was not only the first planet to be occupied, and a possible model for pacification programs on worlds occupied as the invasion progressed, it was also a crucial base, at the end of the long trip from the Hegemony’s inhabited planets. The supply and support ships of the logistical train could keep the fleet supplied almost indefinitely, but that still didn’t account for needs like bringing more Kriegeri to the front lines or transporting rare and vital supplies. Even with the support units, the invasion would eventually need a major base, and Dannith was the logical location.
She scoffed at her notion of the planet as an ‘example’ for future occupations. Her entire occupation was in a complete shambles. One on one, her Kriegeri were more than a match for the enemy warriors, and even with the bulk of the invasion force withdrawn, she was fairly certain her army still outnumbered the hidden defenders, or at least had parity—though, she had to concede that was little more than a guess.
Still, despite her advantages, despite absolute and unchallenged control of the air and the space around the planet, she was still struggling to put down the constant guerilla strikes. Her forces had rooted out a number of the enemy strongholds, but several they’d attacked had been deserted—and boobytrapped. She was losing Kriegeri every day, and even while she was killing enemy fighters, time was passing. The invasion schedule called for her to begin a number of construction projects crucial to the planet’s future role, but almost all the enemy industry she’d expected to use had been shut down, at least, by the resistance fighters, if not destroyed outright. She’d just gotten power restored to the capital city, and, in the ten days without electricity, the subjugated population had grown ever more sullen and restive.
She’d come to realize that Walter Cantor was not terribly representative of his people, or, at least that there were many quite different in temperament and strength. Even while the guerillas were striking out from their hidden bases, she could feel the simmering resentment in the capital. She’d tried to keep conditions something close to satisfactory, to ensure food was available, and the people were as comfortable as possible, but now she wondered if that was the wrong way to handle the Rim dwellers. What she’d seen of their culture from the captured databanks and information nets suggested a certain…difficulty…a lack of the kind of pliability the other human populations had displayed when first contacted by Hegemony forces.
She hadn’t intended to employ brutal methods, and she preferred to avoid such tactics, but the resistance fighters weren’t leaving her any options. She simply didn’t have the ground forces to cover the vast undeveloped areas of the planet, to root out the tunnels and caves and other places the enemy was hidin
g, while also protecting vital installations against attack. Not quickly enough, at least.
Only a small percentage of the enemy’s elite fighters—Marines, she remembered they were called—seemed to have families on Dannith. But, some did…and the local troops and support units among them likely all did. It was time to see how the guerillas responded to their loved ones being imprisoned in camps around the city.
She didn’t like the strategy, not at all, but she couldn’t argue against its likely effectiveness. It would damage the morale of the fighters, almost certainly, and perhaps it would even lure them into attempting rescue operations…attacks her own Kriegeri would be ready and waiting for.
She was intrigued by the nature of the Rim dweller’s relationships, their customs of marriage and raising children in family unit, of grandparents and aunts and uncles and the like being deeply rooted in peoples’ lives. It wasn’t unlike the records of life in the old empire, but the customs that seem to have endured on the Rim had been abandoned in the Hegemony. Genetics ruled all there, and parents only paired for the act of breeding, after which, children were raised in communal creches, with periodic visits from their mothers and fathers, though almost never together.
It wouldn’t be entirely accurate to suggest that there were no emotional ties between children and their parents in the Hegemony…there certainly were. But, it was clear such relationships were far more important on the Rim, as were connections to more distant blood relations, which were almost irrelevant in the Hegemony.
That was a weakness, and one she intended to exploit, despite her distaste for such tactics.
In the end, she had only one mandate. Secure the planet.
