The Cost of Victory

by Jay Allan

  Garret was still 20 light minutes away from the enemy fleet, so it took some time for his message to reach its recipients and more for any response to get back to Saratoga. While he waited, he focused on readying his green crews for the battle they might have to fight and running diagnostics on his new and untested ships, but forty minutes later he was staring at the com, waiting for a reply that might come at any time…or not at all.

  The entire flag bridge staff sat tensely, waiting to see if Garret’s offer would be accepted. If it wasn’t, his people faced a serious fight, one they could very well lose. But if the Imperial and Europan contingents withdrew, they would seriously outnumber and outgun the CAC and Caliphate forces that remained. Soon they would know.

  Admiral Jacques Maret sat in his command center, his helmet visor closed so no one could hear his communications. He was conferring with Fleet Admiral de Santos, his French being translated to Spanish by his AI before transmission. “Have you conferred with Admiral Dieng?” He waited while his communication traveled the four light seconds to Emperador and the response made its way back. Maret had agreed that Santos, as leader of the larger task force, should discuss the situation with the CAC commander in chief.

  “I have. He is adamant that he will not conduct negotiations.” Santos’ voice was slightly electronic; the Imperial AIs weren’t as sophisticated as the Europan, and the translator didn’t replicate Santos’ voice as perfectly as Maret’s did his. “I believe he is afraid of ending up in one of Li An’s little rooms.”

  The CAC’s venerable spymaster had instilled considerable fear in the Coalition’s senior officers, and she also knew what was hidden in the mountains of Carson’s World. Dieng’s orders were clear; they expressly forbade retreat. If he obeyed he might die in battle, but if he withdrew he’d likely face a far more unpleasant death at the hands of C1’s interrogators. Worse, if he was branded a traitor his family would join him in Li An’s chamber of horrors.

  Santos and Maret had agreed that they would counter Garret’s truce offer with a proposal that the entire fleet, including CAC and Caliphate units, withdraw from the system. Neither admiral liked the idea of abandoning allies, even tenuous new ones, but neither was prepared to commit their forces to a fight to the death over a planet of no apparent importance. They’d been sent to participate in an ambush, not a battle of attrition, and certainly not against the legendary Admiral Garret commanding a force of superbattleships. They were prepared to try to bluff Garret into letting them all leave, but Dieng’s refusal put an end to that option.

  “My choice, at least, is clear. Honor is satisfied and Dieng has chosen his own fate. I cannot expose my task force to possible annihilation, especially as Prince de Conde has already been heavily damaged. I will accept Garret’s terms.” Maret had been under secret orders to conserve his forces; Europa Federalis was already at war with the German-dominated Central European League, and they could not afford serious losses, especially in capital ships.

  “Indeed, Admiral Maret, I concur.” Santos was a member of the Imperial family and as such he was well aware of the parlous financial condition of the empire. This fight had already cost him a battleship, and he knew the Imperial Navy could not afford further losses, especially not in a fringe system nowhere close to the worlds the empire sought to acquire. “I, too, will accept the admiral’s terms. I propose that we send a joint communication.” He paused briefly. “Let us extricate our forces from this mess.”

  Garret shifted uncomfortably in his command chair, unsuccessfully trying to angle his body in some way that didn’t hurt. It had been almost 90 minutes since he’d sent his truce offer, and he was about to give up and start preparing for the massive fight to come.

  “Sir, incoming message from Admiral Maret.” Lieutenant Simon turned to face Garret as she spoke. “Transferring to your headset.”

  There was a brief delay, then Maret’s voice came through in accented, but extremely passable English. “Admiral Garret. I wish to offer my best wishes and those of Fleet Admiral de Santos.” Maret’s voice paused. He was probably figuring out how to tell an enemy he’s happy he isn’t really dead, thought Garret, amused. “I had been shocked to hear of your demise, and I am gratified to see that these reports were in error.”

  Garret smiled. We may try to kill each other, he thought, but that’s no reason not to be polite. Sometimes I think we are under the impression this is all a game and not the deadly business it really is. Yet he knew that he, too, often participated in the same farce.

  “If you are prepared to provide adequate assurances that we will be allowed to leave this system and return with all speed to our respective nations’ space, both Fleet Admiral de Santos and I are prepared to accept your terms.”

  Garret let out a deep breath; he was glad they were communicating at long-range and not sitting together at a table where his adversaries would have seen the relief he felt. He usually had a good poker face, but he really preferred to avoid a difficult fight with his green troops and brand new ships, and it showed. He carefully put together his response, providing specific instructions to the Europan and Imperial commanders and transmitted it.

  After the allied contingents departed, the outcome of the battle for Epsilon Eridani was never in doubt. The CAC and Caliphate ships put up a hard fight, badly damaging Saratoga again and seriously wounding Compton, but they were outgunned and systematically destroyed. Garret was relentless, pursuing every enemy vessel as it tried to flee. Now there wasn’t a CAC or Caliphate ship left in the system. The Alliance owned Epsilon Eridani space. The cost had been high, but not nearly as bad as it might have been.

  Now Garret was going to call General Holm. Space was theirs; now it was time to deal with the surface.

  Chapter 28

  I Corps HQ

  Durang Valley

  Epsilon Eridani IV

  Darius Jax walked painfully toward a large modular structure set in the middle of a cluster of similar but smaller buildings. He was limping and leaning on a cane to take some weight off his right leg, but he was happy to be out of bed – or the pile of rags that had passed for one. He’d expected Sarah to give him a hard time about leaving, but her hospital was so overcrowded, she’d sent him away with a hug and instructions to “go bother Erik instead of me.”

  He’d checked on some of 1st Brigade’s wounded before he left. Most of them seemed to be doing well, despite the difficult conditions in the hospital. Even Lieutenant Marek looked like he was going to recover fully, though he would spend considerable time at Armstrong Medical in the regeneration ward before he returned to duty. Jax had thought Marek was done, but Sarah had worked on him herself, and somehow she’d managed to repair enough of the nuke-inflicted damage to stabilize him.

  Jax looked up at the sign above the door. Someone had scrawled I Corps by hand. He laughed to himself, but laughing still hurt, so he stopped abruptly. Someone could have gotten a better sign for the HQ of the largest ground force the Alliance ever deployed in space, he thought, still amused.

  He walked up to the door, staring into the retinal scanner for clearance. After a delay of a second or two, the door popped open, allowing him to enter. He walked through, shuffling slowly down the corridor to the conference room.

  “Look what just walked in!” Cain’s voice was cheerful, more so than it had been since I Corps had landed on Carson’s World. He glanced at Jax’s cane and the heavy cast still on his right foot. “And I use the word walk loosely.” He leapt to his feet and embraced his enormous friend. “It is good to have you back, Jax.”

  “It’s good to be back.” Jax scanned the room. Seated around the table were the senior officers of the corps, at least the ones healthy enough to be there. General Gilson sat along the far wall, leaning at an odd angle, trying to keep the weight off the sorest areas of her battered body. Gilson had been another troublesome patient Sarah was only too happy to send on her way once she was out of danger.

  The political officers were all ther
e too. Most of I Corps command staff had managed to maintain better relations with their minders than Cain had, but none of them really got along, and there was an overall feeling of discomfort. Holm found the whole thing very upsetting; he’d put an enormous amount of effort into forging a team that enjoyed mutual respect and worked well together, and the assignment of the political officers had stripped away that comfortable environment. He didn’t appreciate the added stress on his people.

  Captain Warren sat on the opposite side of the room from Cain with an expression on his face that could curdle milk. He avoided looking over at Erik and remained silent during the entire meeting. Cain simply ignored the political officer as if he didn’t exist.

  “I want to thank you all for coming.” General Holm stood at the head of the large table and looked out at his assembled staff. He was wearing gray duty fatigues; they all were. Sarah had given the all-clear regarding the supposed pathogen that had wiped out the population. Whatever it was there was no sign of it in her multiple tests, so with combat operations ending Holm could allow his people to shed their armor. Living in a fighting suit for weeks on end was almost unbearable, and Holm’s announcement was met with universal acclaim.

  “It has been an extraordinary campaign.” The general’s voice was slightly hoarse. There’d been no heavy combat for over a week, but he had still been overwhelmed with tasks, and he was tired…tired to the bone. “I just wanted to assemble you all to tell you personally how proud I am of I Corps. We faced extremely difficult and unexpected conditions here, and at no time did any of our personnel perform with less than total professionalism and preparedness.”

  The officers in the room were grizzled veterans, but Holm’s praise touched them all. They had fought together on multiple worlds, and they had become a cohesive team. Forged in the inferno of some of the most brutal fighting in history, and led by a man they trusted utterly, they had evolved into the most elite fighting force ever deployed. Their enemies had set a trap for them here, one that was foolproof on paper. But I Corps didn’t cooperate; they didn’t yield to the mathematics that mandated their defeat, and they overcame the odds to survive and ultimately prevail.

  After Cain’s stand on the plateau, and the subsequent breakthrough by the Scottish brigade, the enemy’s lines were compromised, and they fell back 100 kilometers to regroup. I Corps had suffered heavy losses, but the carnage they had inflicted on the enemy was far worse. The Imperial and Europan units, mostly raw and untested, were not remotely prepared for the intensity of the fighting.

  When Admiral Garret and General Holm broadcast the lenient surrender terms, it was almost impossible for their commanders to refuse. The CAC and Caliphate leaders, commanding veteran units and facing dire consequences if they failed, tried to intimidate their allies into continuing the fight. It took a tense few days of negotiations, but in the end, 55,000 Europan and Imperial troops marched out and surrendered.

  The CAC and Caliphate hardcore units dug in, however, and refused to give up. No longer strong enough to take the offensive, they dared the Alliance forces to dig them out of their mountainous strongpoints. They were motivated to hold out. The officers faced harsh reprisals if they surrendered. Their orders were clear; they were to hold Epsilon Eridani IV at all costs. All costs.

  The engagement transformed from a pitched battle to a series of costly search and destroy missions against scattered enemy positions. The Alliance forces were re-provisioned by the returned supply and transport fleet, while the CAC and Caliphate holdouts were cut off.

  Cain commanded 1st Division, or what was left of it. General Gilson had been in the hospital and Brigadier Slavin was dead. The special action battalion was assigned to onsite security at the cave, and the rest of the division was taken out of the line and assigned to guard the prisoners until they could be loaded onto transports and shipped out.

  Holm assigned 2nd Division and the Oceanian units to dig out the last of the defending units. The outcome of the battle was no longer in doubt, but there was still a month of brutal fighting before the general was able to declare combat operations concluded.

  He looked out over the assembled officers, their job done, at least for now. With Garret’s victory in space and the total defeat of the enemy ground forces, it was possible they had won the climactic victory of the war. Though no one dared say it out loud, everyone present wondered if the fruit of this victory might be peace.

  “I Corps will be remaining here indefinitely, so we’re going to start reorganizing and rebuilding. We will be expanding our facilities here significantly to accommodate a long term presence, so we have hard work ahead, though I daresay it will be a little easier than the work we have done to date.” The officers around the table smiled grimly. The work they had done had been difficult indeed, and costly.

  Holm reached down and picked up the cup that had been sitting on the table in front of his seat. He motioned for the other to rise and do the same. “To our fallen brothers and sisters.” He raised his glass as his officers repeated his toast.

  Still holding his cup aloft Holm smiled. “And to the Corps. Now and forever!”

  Chapter 29

  C1 Headquarters Building

  Wan Chai, Hong Kong

  Central Asian Combine, Earth

  Li An sat at her desk, a crystal glass of bourbon sitting untouched off to the side. She was frustrated and angry. Her plans, so carefully prepared and well-conceived, had completely unraveled. “Liang, you incompetent fool. You almost succeeded in your mission and you threw it away and let Garret escape in a lifeboat?” She was taking to herself, her voice soft but dripping with anger and bitterness. “If I get my hands on you, hell itself will be a relief when I finally let you die.” Garret’s survival, and his subsequent actions, had turned her grand plan in Epsilon Eridani into a total disaster. They had been on the verge of a stunning success; instead, they lost the war there.

  Liang was, by all accounts, a prisoner of the Alliance now. Not only had he allowed Garret to escape the trap she’d so carefully planned, he’d managed to get his task force obliterated as he withdrew. He’s probably in one of Stark’s dungeons, she thought, giving up every secret he has. She couldn’t even take it out on his family. His parents were dead, and his wife was the daughter of a Committee member. And the last thing Li An needed now was more trouble with the Committee. She knew where enough bodies were buried to survive this, but there was no question that the series of debacles had seriously damaged her position.

  The war had been a disaster. The CAC navy had been virtually destroyed, and its ground forces were sorely depleted. It would take years, and financial resources they didn’t have, to recover. The Caliphate was also prostrate, crippled by the loss of the vital resource-producing worlds that had been its primary source of wealth.

  Europa Federalis and the Empire had made their own peace, quickly accepting the lenient terms offered by the Alliance. But the treaty being negotiated at the Ares Metroplex was anything but lenient. The Alliance was dominant, its victory decisive. The CAC and Caliphate would pay dearly for the peace both desperately needed.

  Worst of all, the Alliance had control of the alien artifact. She didn’t know much about it except that it was a technology thousands of years ahead of Earth’s. That game, at least wasn’t over. None of the Powers would allow the Alliance to monopolize such a find, and even with Garret and Holm to fight their battles there was no way they could stand up to all of the Superpowers long enough to research and adapt the new technology. She’d never actually gotten anyone inside the facility, though, and she didn’t have the proof she’d need to put together a grand coalition against the Alliance. She didn’t have it now, but she was determined to get it.

  She looked over at the credenza, two boxes sitting opened on its polished wood surface. The first was a case of bourbon, a very rare and expensive one. There was a card attached: With all my love, Gavin.

  Stark had gotten the better of her, she had known that already. Bu
t it wasn’t until she opened the second box that she realized just how he’d done it. It was a large cube of clear polymer, and inside, suspended artfully, was a head. A pale-skinned face framed with white-blond hair stared out at her, lifelessly. Carillon.

  All the effort to turn a member of the Directorate and the fool gets himself caught. She figured that Carillon’s death had likely not been a pleasant one. Gavin Stark did not take kindly to betrayal; she knew that much.

  She hated the smug bastard, and she was determined to have her revenge. She turned her chair and leaned back, looking out over the harbor to Kowloon. “This is not over, Stark,” she muttered to herself. “Enjoy your success while you can, because the wheel will turn.” She reached behind her, taking the bourbon in her hand and raising it to her lips. “Yes, my friend. The wheel will definitely turn.”

  Thirteen thousand kilometers away, two old friends were sharing their own drink, though it was Scotch, not bourbon.

  “To victory.” Gavin Stark sat behind his massive mahogany desk, smiling broadly. He raised his glass, admiring the caramel color of the Scotch in the almost priceless ancient crystal glass. Stark admired antiques; his office was furnished with old and extremely valuable pieces. His desk had been salvaged from the wreckage of Langley; it had belonged to the last director of the old CIA, and before him to a U.S. president.

  His companion was standing at the side table, another priceless antique, pouring his drink. He added a splash of water to his Scotch, something he had been doing more often in recent years. It brought out the flavor of the fine single malt, he felt. “To victory,” he responded, raising his glass before taking a drink and walking over to one of the guest chairs. “But not arrogance,” he added as he sat, slowly lowering his aching joints into the plush leather seat.