by Jay Allan
The White Fleet
Blood on the Stars VII
Jay Allan
Copyright © 2018 Jay Allan Books
All Rights Reserved
Contents
Blood on the Stars Series
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Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Epilogue
Strata of the Hegemony
The Crimson Worlds Series
Blood on the Stars Series
(Available on Kindle Unlimited)
Duel in the Dark (Blood on the Stars I)
Call to Arms (Blood on the Stars II)
Ruins of Empire (Blood on the Stars III)
Echoes of Glory (Blood on the Stars IV)
Cauldron of Fire (Blood on the Stars V)
Dauntless (Blood on the Stars VI)
The White Fleet (Blood on the Stars VII)
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Chapter One
Fleet Control Center
CFS Dauntless
Year 315 AC
The command center was massive, a gleaming open room filled with more than forty workstations, each with a plush black chair positioned behind it. The stations were arranged in circular groupings, each designed to house a specific team—navigation, helm, communications, tactical, fleet control, operations. And in the center, on a small raised platform, was the admiral’s chair. It was almost grotesque in its grandiosity, at least to Barron’s eyes. To the left sat the flag captain, the officer in actual command of the vessel, and to the right, the fleet commander’s senior aide.
The size of the room was nothing compared to the enormous ship that housed it—over five and a half million tons and bristling with weapons. She was the pinnacle of the Confederation’s power, the greatest war machine that nation had ever produced, larger and stronger than anything its neighbors could field. Barron was still in awe, still processing the ship’s immense capabilities, almost a year and a half after he’d first set eyes on her out at Station Grimaldi. She’d been nearly finished then, but not quite.
She was called Dauntless. The name had been official now for nearly six months, ever since the day Barron himself had led the christening ceremony. He’d been surrounded by all the survivors of his old crew, and a crowd of fawning dignitaries the likes of which he had never before seen. He’d spoken the words, bestowed the name on the vast and amazing construct with all the enthusiasm he could muster, but his heart just hadn’t been in it.
It had been a difficult day, one he still remembered with some discomfort. Van Striker and Gary Holsten had meant well, and Barron was fully aware that they’d been driven only by a true and deep respect for him and for the last ship to have carried the name. But Barron still felt a bit disloyal calling another ship Dauntless. It had bothered him then, and it still did even now, just days before the great ship was set to officially enter service, with him in that monstrous admiral’s chair to lead a great fleet deep into the unknown.
Barron fully supported the White Fleet’s mission. Twice in the last war, the Confederation had faced the specter of defeat at the hands of an enemy armed with ancient technology. Exploration for and use of such artifacts was strictly regulated by international treaty, but Barron sometimes thought the Confederation was the only nation that burdened itself with compliance to what had to be the most-ignored document in diplomatic history. Certainly, the Union—not to mention the vast network of smugglers and adventurers on the Confederation’s Badlands border—plied a healthy trade in bits and pieces of the amazing technology that mankind had lost to the Cataclysm so long ago.
The trade in ancient tech, such as it existed, was confined to black markets and obscured by shrouds of secrecy. It had operated for at least a century, various scraps of ancient devices selling for enormous prices. All tremendously useful technology, but rarely enough to upset the balance of power. Until recently. The discoveries made during the last conflict—the planetkiller and the pulsar, even the stealth generator Barron had used—had threatened to upend the entire international order. Any nation that was able to secure and deploy a weapon of such magnitude would become massively more powerful than its neighbors, with consequences that could only be imagined.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
Barron allowed himself a little smile, half forced, half genuine, but he didn’t turn around, not yet. He hadn’t heard Van Striker coming onto the bridge, but he recognized his voice immediately. “She is that, sir,” he said, trying, not entirely successfully, to keep the doubt from his tone.
“But she’s not Dauntless, is she? Not really.”
Barron did turn now, his eyes finding Striker’s. “She’s an amazing ship, sir. There’s nothing else like her.” It wasn’t an answer to the admiral’s question. Barron didn’t want to admit just how much he ached for his old vessel. It had been more than a year and a half, and he was becoming a bit embarrassed about how frequently his lost ship remained in his thoughts.
“You can talk to me, Ty. I’ve been there. We all remember our first commands, but Dauntless was something truly special, wasn’t she? The two of you saved the Confederation, more than once. At least that’s how I see it. Whatever happens, your first Dauntless is immortal…she will live forever in the history texts. But your career isn’t finished yet, my friend, not by a longshot. The war may be over, but the danger is still there. You know that as well as I do. It’s time to go on, Ty. Time to start a new chapter. You didn’t die on Dauntless, and you can’t keep on acting like you did. There’s too much ahead of you.”
“Of course, Admiral. I’m fine…and I’m ready.” Truth be told, Barron didn’t want to go at all. He liked the new Dauntless well enough, and he’d even mana
ged to think of the battleship as the rightful successor to the sacrificed original. He had almost all of his original crew under his new command, somewhere in the fleet if not on the flagship itself, and he believed completely in the mission. But his heart just wasn’t in making such a long journey.
He wasn’t sure if it was still fatigue from the war, if he’d simply watched too many of his people die, or if he’d exhausted his ability to face endless crises. But deep down, he wished he could stay. He’d tried to fight it, to embrace the mission. It was an extraordinary chance to explore deep into the unknown, into mankind’s mysterious and tragic past. It was something that would have filled his younger self with almost boundless excitement. But the old spirit just wasn’t there anymore.
“I wouldn’t have asked you to go, Ty, but there’s no one else who could take your place. The cream of the navy is serving with the White Fleet, volunteers all, mostly because they wanted to serve under you.” Striker hesitated and then continued slowly, “You’re the navy’s hero now, Ty, as much as your grandfather was in his day. I know that’s uncomfortable for you, but it’s well-deserved…and you’ll have to learn to embrace it, because it’s not going anywhere.”
Barron just nodded. He would admit he’d done his duty, perhaps even a bit more. He was gratified that he’d served as he had, and he allowed himself to imagine that his famous grandfather would have been proud of him. But the public adoration grated on his nerves. He constantly tried to direct some of the praise streaming his way toward Atara Travis and Anya Fritz. Jake Stockton, Sara Eaton…dozens of others who’d fought and served, and no small number who’d died. All to no avail. The public had made him the symbol of the navy’s victory, and he’d had almost no success in deflecting or evading it.
But there was no victory. The Senate threw away the victory. We survived the fight, that’s all…and we left the conflict unresolved, condemning another generation to war and death because we lacked the resolve to do what had to be done.
“Perhaps it will be good to get away for a while, sir.” It was somewhat of a tangential response, but as he said the words, he realized he truly meant what he had said. He didn’t want to go, not really, but there was one unmistakable benefit of leaving. He’d be away for months, perhaps a year or more. Away from the interview requests, the parades, the fawning local dignitaries who plagued him everywhere he went. He thought about it all for a few seconds, feeling a touch of excitement build about the impending departure…but then he stopped, a somber look slipping back on his face.
He would be away from Andi, too.
He was hard-pressed to categorize his relationship with the now-retired adventurer. She had the ability to frustrate him like no one else he knew, and she was as pigheadedly stubborn as…well, as he was. She’d also claimed a place like no one else ever had, in his thoughts and in his life, and he hadn’t been able to dislodge her from either. He’d even realized somewhere along the line, he didn’t want to.
He knew he could never escape the navy. It was an obligation into which he’d been born, and one that his exploits in the war had only made stronger and more demanding…and it complicated any relationships he might have, especially one with her. Andi Lafarge was a lot of things, but no part of her resembled the dutiful spouse of a career flag officer, and Barron knew, as well as he knew anything, that any attempt she might make to pretend that wasn’t the case was doomed to failure.
Nevertheless, he loved her. He’d finally admitted that to himself, and he knew she returned the feeling. But, for two people like them, their lives fixed on such diverse trajectories, that just wasn’t enough. The most they could hope for was a collection of fleeting moments together. His had been an arranged marriage…to the navy itself, and in the end, he’d remained faithful.
“I think you’ll feel better once you set out. You’ll leave behind all the cameras and the reporters.” Striker’s words pulled Barron from his thoughts, at least partially. “They’ll probably all come after me when they can’t get to you.” The admiral grinned.
Barron returned the smile robotically, but his thoughts were still mostly on Andi. He’d remained at the front for almost six months after the destruction of the pulsar, as the temporary ceasefire gradually gave way to a semi-permanent truce and, ultimately, a full-fledged peace treaty. He’d been against the whole thing, absolutely convinced that after four wars, the Confederation should invade the prostrate Union and make damned sure there was never a fifth conflict. But it quickly became clear that the Confederation’s population was tired of war. They would never support an offensive of that magnitude, even one history seemed to justify so clearly.
He got an extended leave after the final peace was signed, and he spent almost all of it with Andi. She’d settled on Tellurus, one of the wealthiest worlds in the Confederation, a playground for the rich and pampered. She had bought an immense villa overlooking one of the planet’s pristine inland seas, and they’d spent nearly six blissful months there…before duty called again and pulled him back to his real life.
He missed her now, but he was also worried about her. Andi Lafarge had come from grinding poverty so intense, few who hadn’t experienced such deprivation could imagine it. She’d been driven since childhood, not just to pull herself up from the bottom, but to gain the vast wealth she’d seen as a child, watching the industrial barons and merchant princes living lives almost beyond the imagination of an orphaned street urchin.
She’d attained that, and more. The stealth generator had been a find of epic proportions, and Gary Holsten had paid her a vast fortune for it. Now, she spent her days walking around a magnificent villa, almost a palace, her ship, Pegasus, stored in spacedock, and her crew scattered across the Confederation, spending their own considerable wealth.
She’d been happy during the time they’d been together, he was sure of that. But, he still remembered the look in her eyes when he said goodbye. She’d been sorry to see him go, of course, but he’d seen something more there. She seemed…lost.
Barron had never met anyone as determined and strong-willed as Andi. She’d achieved her lifelong goal, but now, he wondered if she would find contentment in retirement…or if the inaction would wear her down. Those concerns had been there since he’d parted with her, but now, on the verge of beginning a bold new adventure of his own, he wondered if she would find satisfaction in her newfound wealth and luxury, or if she would wither away in her gilded palace.
“I see you’re already gone.” Striker’s tone was genial, amused, but Barron realized the admiral had been talking for some time, and he hadn’t heard a word of it.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve just got things on my mind.”
“She’ll be fine, Ty. It will take more than a couple billion credits to take down Andi Lafarge.”
Barron felt a wave of surprise that the admiral knew what he’d been thinking about. Then he realized he shouldn’t have. He and Andi had been about the last two people in the fleet to recognize the obviousness of the connection they shared.
Barron almost denied he’d been thinking about Andi, but then he just gave in. “I know she will, sir. It’s just that, well, I’ll be gone for so long, and she…” He let his voice trail off. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have any specifics, just a feeling that boredom would drive her crazy, no matter how opulent her surroundings.
Striker didn’t say anything else, and neither did Barron. They just stood in the command center for a long time, silent. Then, they turned and headed toward the shuttle bay, for one more trip down to Megara’s surface before the fleet departed.
One more damned parade to attend.
Chapter Two
People’s New Service Announcement
Workers of Liberte City, rejoice! This morning, seven traitors met final justice in the Place de Revolution on the orders of Citizen Villieneuve. These men and women betrayed their fellow workers and conspired with fugitives from the old government to destroy the ideals of the revolution. Death to
all who conspire against the revolution. Long live the People’s Union.
Hall of the People
Liberte City
Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV
Union Year 219 (315 AC)
“I understand your reluctance, Ricard, but I need your help. We have done far better than we could have dared to imagine over the last year and a half, but the situation is still fragile. We cannot take any chances, and I need someone extremely capable—and who I can trust—in charge of the PP. I’m afraid that pretty much narrows it down to you.”
“Gaston, it’s not that I don’t want to help…but administration is not my strength. You know this. You, better than anyone, are aware just where my true skills lie.” Ricard Lille sat on the hard, uncomfortable chair, looking across the cheap, mass-produced metal desk at Gaston Villieneuve. The room had nothing of the obscene luxury that had been so prevalent in Villieneuve’s old office. It reeked of the workplace of a man of the people, one concerned only with the good of society, utterly unconcerned with wealth and the trappings of power. Incorruptible.
It was all a sham, every creaky, rusted millimeter of it.
Lille stifled a smile. The past eighteen months had confirmed the gullibility of the people, if nothing else. Gaston Villieneuve was a capable man, but his new image as the champion of the masses was a fiction far removed from the motivations that actually drove him…notwithstanding the grubby office and the factory worker’s garb he’d taken to wearing in public.
Lille had hoped the assassination of the entire Presidium would allow Villieneuve to escape the retribution of his political rivals, to buy time to figure a way to prevent—or survive—the Union’s collapse. But, he hadn’t for an instant imagined how far his ally might press his advantage. Gaston Villieneuve had been a member of the now-despised Presidium himself. Worse, he’d been the head of the dreaded Sector Nine, the feared intelligence agency. Yet, he’d somehow survived the downfall of the Union…survived and come out on the other side as the reborn nation’s sole and uncontested ruler, his power vastly more complete and absolute than it had been.
