by Jay Allan
“Confirmed, Grimaldi Base…and thank you. It’s good to be here. Dauntless out.” Captain Atara Travis twitched a little in the command chair—Tyler’s chair to her, still, despite almost six months as Dauntless’s captain.
She flashed a glance across the bridge, toward her old station. Commander Wolfe should rightfully have handled the exchange with Grimaldi, but Travis’s adjustment to command was still a work in progress, and she found it difficult to give up some of the tasks she’d carried out in nearly seven years as Dauntless’s XO.
“Bring us in, Commander.”
“Yes, Captain.” Stefan Wolfe was a gifted officer, one she knew she was lucky to have as her second-in-command. But he had a single flaw, one that afflicted many of her officers. He was new to Dauntless.
Personnel transferred between ships all the time, of course. She, herself, had served on three vessels before she’d ended up with Barron and Dauntless. But the old ship had proven herself to be something special, and Travis knew much of that had been the extraordinary crew, one that had served together with a devotion to each other that had brought them through seemingly impossible situations.
Many of the spacers from those days were still onboard, mostly junior personnel, but after the return from Alliance space, Dauntless had lost many of her officers, along with her legendary captain. Tyler Barron hadn’t had a choice, of course, not really. With Admiral Striker wounded, the fleet needed him elsewhere. Besides, she knew as much as it hurt him to leave his ship, he’d felt as though he’d been in her way, holding back her career and denying her the command position she deserved. She’d never found a way to tell him she was happy in the number two spot for as long as he cared to occupy the captain’s chair. But staying on Dauntless would have held him back too, and worse, denied the Confederation of a flag officer it desperately needed.
Travis didn’t doubt any of her crew. She’d hand-picked a number of them and approved all the rest. She just missed her family.
“Nearing designated docking portal, Captain.”
“Very well, Commander. See to the final approach.” Dauntless had been assigned a direct connection, at least, one that would save her people all the fussing around with shuttles and the like. Plus, it would get her aboard the base sooner. She hadn’t seen Barron in months, and she was anxious to connect with her old commander. Her friend.
Hopefully, he’d have some kind of news about the war, more than her mission had produced. The work on the bases was coming along, ahead of schedule even, but the roundabout route into the Union was still long, and it passed through sparsely developed systems that weren’t even close to industrialized enough to support an invasion fleet. The enemy’s superweapon utterly controlled the Bottleneck, however, and a move directly through that powerfully-held system was out of the question. The war had become a stalemate of sorts, the Confederation and its Alliance allies too powerful for the Union forces to attack…and the alien weapon holding the only invasion route that didn’t require at least two years of logistical development to attempt.
She had a strange feeling as she watched her crew manage the final docking. She’d always been comfortable around Barron, but now there was a nervousness that hadn’t been there before. She’d done her best as Dauntless’s captain, but this time when she saw her old friend, he would be judging how she’d taken care of his ship.
And, Travis knew, regardless of rank and assignment and who sat in the captain’s chair, Dauntless would always be Tyler Barron’s ship.
* * *
“You look great, Admiral.” Tyler Barron stood along the wall, watching as Van Striker pulled himself along a set of parallel bars, sweating profusely as he did it. It was Barron’s standard greeting to Striker. He’d begun saying it to try to bolster the admiral’s spirits, and somewhere along the line it had become a private joke between the two of them. This time, however, Striker wasn’t in the mood.
“The last thing I need from you, Ty, is the usual patronizing banter. You can give it to me straight. I look like shit…but shit is a lot better than dead, so that’s not so bad, I guess.” Striker had been assigned four hours a day of intense physical therapy, a prescription he’d changed to ten hours with the stroke of the fleet admiral’s pen. Not a pen, exactly, since he still didn’t have those kinds of motor skills back, but the navy commander’s howl was just about an irresistible force. His doctor—the fleet surgeon general—had given him a perfunctory warning that he was pushing himself too hard, along with pointed and colorful reminders of just how close he’d come to a permanent nap. Striker had listened patiently…and then utterly disregarded everything the doctor had said. There was a war on, he’d told anyone who came close enough to listen, and he needed to get back to his post, fully-functional and in one piece, as quickly as possible.
Tyler suppressed a laugh. “All right, sir, you look better than you did, how about that?”
“I can buy that, Ty.” Striker was the only one who called Barron, “Ty.” Even those who addressed him by his first name called him “Tyler.” He’d never really thought about it, and to be honest, he didn’t care at all, but he guessed it was his grandfather’s shadow at work again, coaxing the slightly more respectful full version of his name, even from his friends. From Andi, too. Though she called him a few other things no one else did.
“Any updates on the base construction program?” Striker’s voice wasn’t a growl, not quite.
Barron smiled. “I’m not sure the surgeon-general would approve of me hitting you with work while you’re in therapy. He’d say it distracts from your intensity.”
“The surgeon-general can go…” Fortunately for all concerned, Striker stopped there. “What is the latest? I know the Senate is bombarding us with requests—or, probably more likely, demands—for a timetable. You think you deflect most of those from me, Ty, but the fleet admiral has more than one source of information.”
“Yes, they are becoming impatient, sir. But I really don’t have much news on the actual progress. The distance is slowing the construction program, and even our ability to monitor progress. Grimaldi was built here precisely because any invasion, into or from the Union, was expected to go through the Bottleneck and not through a dozen backwater systems.”
“Well, Ty, the Senate can eat shit. If they don’t like that, they can have these damned stars back, and one of the pompous windbags from that esteemed assembly can get his fat, pimply ass up here and lead the fleet into battle.” It was an empty threat, one Striker made at least once a week. If there was one thing Barron was sure about, it was that Van Striker would have to be dragged away in chains before he’d let some unqualified hack lead his people into battle.
Striker had never been delicate with words, but the frustration of his long and slow recovery had made him downright ornery, at least when it came to creatures like Senators and their ilk.
“Well, sir, hopefully it won’t come to that.” He paused a few seconds, as Striker completed another trip across the bars. “Dauntless is docking now, Admiral, and I’m sure Captain Travis will be able to update us on the construction program as soon as she comes aboard.” Another pause. “You’ll recall, we instructed all vessels to cease transmissions of any militarily-sensitive information in the system since we caught the enemy spy ships. Otherwise, no doubt, she would have already sent a full report.” Barron wasn’t sure at all that Striker would remember that, mostly because he’d been about three days from being semi-frozen and unconscious when Gary Holsten had told Barron to institute the rule. Holsten had assigned Barron to look after Striker, a clever way to keep him on Grimaldi in a position to effectively oversee operations when he was far too junior in rank to be officially put in command of the fleet’s main fortress and headquarters.
“Oh, yes…” Barron wasn’t sure if Striker actually remembered or not. The admiral’s poker face was legendary in the fleet, a match for Barron’s own, more than one officer had told him, though the two had never put their skills to the test aga
inst each other. “We should meet with Captain Travis immediately.”
“Sir, perhaps I should get the captain’s report. You’ve been at therapy for a long time. I’m sure Doctor Javis would want you to get some rest.”
“I’m sure Dr. Javis wants a lot of things he’s not going to get, but he’ll survive.” Striker smiled, at least the closest thing he could manage while he struggled to move down the bars. “Why don’t you just tell me the truth, Ty? You’re dying for some time alone with Captain Travis to discuss all things Dauntless. I hope you don’t think you hide those thoughts well…or at all. You’d think I beat you with a stick instead of promoting you to flag rank.” A pause. “But I had a first command once too, my friend, so I understand far better than you think I do. I’ll tell you what. You meet with Travis. I’ll get cleaned up and join you in, say, an hour. I don’t suppose that’s enough time to ask her about every rivet on Dauntless’s hull, but we do have a war to deal with, so that’s all you’ve got. Make the best of it.”
“Thank you, sir.” Barron nodded, an odd sort of grin slipping onto his face. He was anxious to see Atara Travis, there was no question about that. And Dauntless too. It was normal to have a soft spot for a first command, as Striker had suggested, but Barron felt lost without his ship. No one deserved her more than Travis, but Barron had a special connection with his vessel, and he still felt the loss keenly.
“Go, already. The last thing I need is a babysitter. Go down to the docking portals, snatch a glimpse at your ship.”
Barron was a bit surprised at how closely Striker had read his thoughts. “Very well, sir.” He turned and then stopped. “And, thank you, Admiral.” Then he walked out of the room toward the bank of lifts at the end of the hall. His stride increased as he got closer, and he could feel the excitement building inside him.
He was going to see his best friend…and his ship.
* * *
It was an unmilitary display, one that would give the crew in the docking bay something to talk about over their post-shift drinks. But Barron didn’t care if it was unseemly or not for a commodore to hug a captain as she debarked from her ship. He walked right up to Travis and, without a word to his old friend, threw his arms out and warmly embraced her.
“Commodore,” she said, as she returned the hug, “it is good to see you, sir.” Travis had always been formal with Barron in public, despite the closeness of their relationship and the informality they displayed toward each other in private. But this time, Barron was having none of it.
“That’s the last time I want to hear a rank, Atara, at least until Admiral Striker joins us. For now, two friends have perhaps an hour together. Let’s not waste it with ‘sirs’ and salutes.”
Travis smiled, nodding as she did. “It’s good to see you, Tyler. It’s been too long.”
“Yes, it has. Far too long.” Barron turned and looked through the clear, dense hyper-plastic of the observation port. About half of Dauntless was visible from where he stood, from about the midsection to the aft, offering a good look at the battleship’s great engines. The dull gray smoothness of her hull was still marked in places where hurried patches covered battle wounds, but overall, the ship looked good…and to Barron, she seemed perfection itself. Dauntless wasn’t the newest ship in the fleet—in fact, she was getting closer to a claim on being the oldest—but Barron would put her list of battle honors against any vessel the Confederation had put into space. Ever.
“I knew you’d be happy to see me…and I knew I couldn’t compete with her.” Travis turned and stood next to Barron, looking out over the rear half of the ship they had both commanded. “She did well, Tyler. You would have been proud of the old girl.”
“I couldn’t not be, Atara.” A pause. “And I know she couldn’t be in better hands. I don’t think I could have left her, if I’d been giving her to anyone else.” Barron stood where he was for a moment, and then, with a sigh and some visible effort, he pulled himself away. “Let’s go down to my quarters. We don’t have a lot of time, and we definitely have some catching up to do. It’ll be like old times.” Barron smiled, but it dropped quickly from his face.
He was glad to see Travis, but he knew things would never be the same as they had been. His crew on Dauntless had been something truly special, and he knew in his heart he would never see its like again.
Chapter Three
Dispatch from Victor Aurien, Senior Commissar, Jurain Province
I must urgently request additional aid to suppress unrest on multiple planets, and particularly on the sector capital. Barroux is in open rebellion, and traitors have seized control of much of the planet. It is essential that Foudre Rouge forces be dispatched to crush the rebellious forces and reestablish control over the planet.
Sector Nine Headquarters
Liberte City
Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV,
Union Year 217 (313 AC)
“That damned fool, Aurien.” Gaston Villieneuve slammed his fist down on his desk. It was an antique, a new acquisition, built from now-extinct Amerallian Blacktree. An attempt to cheer himself up, and one that had failed utterly. He’d hardly noticed the new desk since it had been delivered. He was besieged with problems. Economic collapse was certainly at the top of the list—and greatly exacerbated by the various frauds he’d used to fund his earlier projects, most of which had failed to some degree or another. The Union was in a precarious situation, and the need to try to match the production of the Confederation’s industrial worlds was pushing things to the brink. Villieneuve had been overwhelmed with reports from intelligence assets behind enemy lines, and it seemed like the Confeds were launching another battleship every fifteen minutes. Meanwhile, he’d had close to a dozen production managers shot, and yet unbuilt ships lingered in the yards, beset by one delay after another.
“I’ve never met him, Gaston, but from what little I’ve heard, he seems to be typical for a provincial commissar.” Ricard Lille sat opposite his friend, sipping casually at the coffee Villieneuve’s assistant had just brought in. From his tone, it was clear that “typical” was not a compliment.
Villieneuve looked back at his friend, suppressing a touch of irritation. Lille had long been his most reliable operative, but the assassin’s efforts over the past few years had been no more successful than his own. He’d considered—briefly—holding Lille more…accountable…but he’d decided against it. Despite recent missteps, the operative was still his best. And Lille had one more attribute, a trait that was exceedingly rare among high level agents and officials in the Union. He didn’t have a shred of political ambition. Lille was as ruthless as anyone Villieneuve had ever known, and a bit twisted to boot, but as long as he was personally secure, and was able to live the lifestyle he wanted, he never craved political power. Indeed, he showed an active disdain for it, as though he didn’t want to be bothered. That made him trustworthy in a way none of his other senior subordinates, all the rest of whom wanted to take his place, could match.
There was something else, too. Villieneuve didn’t doubt Lille had gone to great lengths to secure his own status, and he suspected the agent had made certain to ensure anyone who successfully moved against him tasted his posthumous revenge. That had been a factor in Villieneuve’s decision to forgive his friend’s mistakes. The last thing he needed now was to deal with whatever traps a murdered Lille might have left behind.
“He is not particularly inept, Ricard, or at least not uniquely so.” Villieneuve waved his hand toward several tablets lying on the edge of his desk. “There are reports coming in from all across the Union. Dissent, riots, uprisings. I doubt there was much Aurien could have done.” A pause. “Of course, that doesn’t mean I don’t have to hold him responsible. I can’t really tell the Presidium that Barroux is in the hands of rebels because the funds expended on our past failed endeavors have helped push the Union even closer to the brink of disaster, can I?”
“No, I would think that an unwise course. Certainly, far better in the
short term to serve up Aurien as a scapegoat. But that doesn’t really solve any problems in the long run, does it? The pulsar has secured the Bottleneck without question. But it does nothing to force the war to an end. Worse, the enemy has another route of invasion. It is a longer path, of course, one that will compel them to build a series of bases to support their advance. But time is on their side in this regard, is it not?” Lille hesitated, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Especially now that they have Alliance forces supporting their own fleet.” His tone was softer, more tentative than it had been a few seconds before.
Villieneuve gave his friend a hard gaze. Yes, you should be uncomfortable. It’s your fault the Confeds have the Alliance on their side instead of us. The thought of the vast resources wasted on the effort to coopt the Alliance, expenditures that backfired badly, briefly reignited his anger. “The situation at the front is…difficult.” His words here hard-edged, and he kept his eyes boring into Lille’s own.
The room was silent for a moment. Finally, Villieneuve pushed aside his anger again, and he said, “I have every top scientist and engineer in the Union analyzing the pulsar. If we can build three more, we can cover every possible approach to our space. That would essentially eliminate any danger of invasion.”
“Has there been any progress on that front?”
“I will know better soon. I have summoned the project heads back here to report. I felt some…encouragement…would be helpful in speeding their efforts. But, I suspect we’re looking at a longer than ideal time frame on building new pulsars.”
“Even if we are able to build copies of the weapon, and to do so quickly enough, does that solve our problem? Defending our borders is certainly useful, but can we sustain ourselves without a victory? A strong frontier is of little value if the Union collapses from within.”
