by Jay Allan
His eyes darted around looking for fighters. If there was a squadron on patrol, his people were in big trouble. There were small dots clustered around the big ship, squadrons launching, no doubt.
They must have been on alert to react that quickly…
He scanned the rest of the display. Nothing else.
But no ships out on patrol. Some Union officer’s going to hear about that…
Stockton frowned. From what he knew of the Union service, an officer who allowed Confederation scouts to get into the system and escape would get worse than a talking to. Much worse.
Stockton put the thought out of his mind. It wasn’t his problem…and getting some scanning data and getting the hell out most definitely was.
He brought his ship around, feeding power into the thrusters, trying to put as much distance between him and the now-pursuing enemy fighters. He flipped on the long-range scanners and directed them toward the pulsar’s location.
Only it wasn’t there.
He set the sensor suite to a wide scan, even as his gut tightened with the realization of what he’d just discovered. For an instant, he feared the great weapon was gone entirely, but then he saw it, about ten thousand kilometers from its former position. It was still covered in superstructure, and still surrounded by service craft. He could tell almost immediately that the Union hadn’t completed their work.
But there was no question the thing had moved.
A test, probably. That means they’re getting close.
Stockton sighed softly.
We don’t have much time…
His head snapped back to the tactical display as he saw one of his fighters disappear. Then, almost immediately, another. His instinct, the result of years of combat leadership, was to bring his ship around, fly back and aid his pilots. But the priority for this mission was clear, and the admiral’s words echoed in his mind.
Two dozen pilots don’t matter, not when billions of lives are at stake…
Besides, there wasn’t much he could do without weapons, even if he did respond.
His hand moved over the controls, realigning the scanners, getting as much as he could on the pulsar and its new location. His eyes darted back and forth, watching the scans come in and keeping an eye on the approaching fighters. He didn’t have long. If he didn’t swing around and head back soon, he’d have half a dozen enemy birds on right on top of him, and a squadron at least between his ship and the transit point.
He’d always pushed things to the brink, but usually, there was a mothership nearby. An escape from a tough spot was typically a quick dash to a landing bay, not a six-day journey through empty space. Even minor damage could finish him out here, and as much as his reputation said he was crazy, the truth was, Jake Stockton didn’t want to die.
He’d watched his best friend die, in the cockpit where so many he knew had met their ends. For a while after Kyle Jamison’s death, Stockton truly hadn’t cared if he survived. He fought with abandon, and he chased down the pilot who had killed Jamison…only to let her go in the end. Jovi Grachus was an Alliance ace—the Alliance ace—the best pilot the Palatians had. Perhaps had ever had.
She’d been a match for him, as well, though in the end, he’d had her, dead to rights. She was an ally now, and he knew she’d do the fleet some good in battle, probably even save a lot of Confed pilots. But though he hadn’t killed her, he hadn’t been able to accept her either, or to forgive her.
He looked down at the display again. He had good scans. Not as much, perhaps, as he might have liked, but enough. Now, he had to get them back to base.
Half his fighters were gone, and the rest were heading back toward the transit point, enemy fighters close on their heels. Stockton swung his throttle hard to the side, blasting his engines at full, adjusting his vector to take him back to the point. Toward home.
He’d waited just a bit too long, though. A pair of Union fighters was coming at him, firing as they did. He shifted the controls again, pulling his best evasive maneuvers. The scout fighter was fast, at least in terms of straight line acceleration, but it wasn’t as maneuverable as an unmodified Lightning. That meant evading enemy attacks was…difficult.
But Stockton was one of the best. He angled his vector, back into the system, luring his pursuers after him. Then he swung around and blasted at full thrust, throwing off his safeties and burning the reactor at one hundred ten percent.
The move took the Union pilots by surprised, and he gained a jump on them. He blasted hard, his ship tearing toward the transit point and escape.
The enemy fighters were right behind him, still in firing range. Stockton zigzagged his ship, taking as irregular a course as he could without giving up too much of his advantage in velocity. He was almost there, just a few more seconds.
His ship shook hard, spinning end over end.
He’d been hit. It wasn’t that bad, at least he didn’t think it was, but the small explosion had altered his vector. He was gyrating wildly, and worse, he was going to miss the point.
His hands whipped to the throttle, angling the controls, trying to regain his ship’s course. There was no time to recalculate, no time to think. It was blind instinct. If he missed the point, he’d never make it back around, not before he had a dozen enemy birds on him.
He saw the circle on his display, the transit point. It was growing, getting closer. His vector was moving back toward his earlier course…but he was still wide.
The enemy fighters were on his tail, firing even as his course correction consumed his attention and his evasive moves dropped off. But luck was with him, as it had been so many times before. The pursuing pilots should have hit him again, they should have taken his ship down. But they missed.
Stockton upped the power to one hundred fifteen, and he blasted every bit of it toward the point.
This is going to be close…
He counted down softly. “Three…two…one…”
He closed his eyes. For an instant, he wasn’t sure. Had he made it? Then he felt the strange feeling, the mild nausea of alien space.
He’d never appreciated the usually unpleasant sensation before, but now he relished it.
He was in the tube. He’d made it.
Chapter Six
Public Address in Barroux City
Workers of Barroux, you have been liberated. No longer shall you suffer under the yoke of offworld masters who work you to death while your families starve. No longer shall your labor go to support a pointless and unjust war. No longer we will allow ourselves to be used as slaves, ruled by an oppressive and abusive government. Stand up now, with us. Stand up, and join the revolution. – Ligue d’Egalité
Barroux City, Union Sector Capital
Barroux, Rhian III
Union Year 217 (313 AC)
“If your soldiers had done their jobs, Bonnaire, none of this would have happened.” Victor Aurien sat on a hard wooden bench, a half-eaten chunk of stale bread in his hand. The Planetary Commissar, so recently the effective master of all Barroux, was clad in a tattered suit, dried blood crusted on a gash down his cheek and hanks of greasy and disheveled hair hanging down on both sides of his face.
“With all due respect, Commissar, with the war requisitions, my forces were down to minimal strength, backed up by planetary levies, half of whom deserted to the rebels the first chance they got. If I’d had any real forces, even a battalion of Foudre Rouge, I would have crushed this uprising the first night.”
“I’m not interested in excuses, Bonnaire. You and I are in this together. Fortunately, I was able to get off a call for aid before the rioters seized control of the comm stations.” Aurien paused, and when he continued his voice was edgier, the fear in it apparent. “Whatever our opinions of each other, Major, I suggest we put our heads together, not only on a plan of action, but on our story when the relief forces arrive. Pointing our fingers at each other won’t help either of us, and we’d damned well better have something more to say than that a botched paci
fication raid triggered a worldwide uprising.”
Bonnaire nodded. He didn’t much care for Aurien, but the Commissar was right about this. That doesn’t mean he won’t shove a knife in my back though, if he thinks it will save his ass…
“I agree, Commissar. Our first priority is finding a way to hold out until the relief gets here. We’re safe for the moment. I have enough troops to defend this facility for the foreseeable future, at least against a disorganized rabble.”
“That disorganized rabble drove us here, Major.”
Bonnaire didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if Aurien was trying to bait him, or if the comment had simply been an inarguably honest assessment of their predicament.
“You have what,” Aurien asked, “three hundred troops here?”
“Two hundred ninety-four. Not including myself. Fortunately, they are all well-armed, and we have sufficient ammunition to hold the facility for the foreseeable future.”
Aurien looked down at the bread in his hand with a scowl. “I wish our supply of other necessities was a bit better, Major. Your soldiers may be able to hold the compound, but they are likely to starve to death while doing it.”
“We are low on fresh food, Commissar, but we have a reasonable stock of combat rations. They’ve been in the warehouses for quite some time, but I suspect they’re edible, if less than appetizing.”
“Let’s get an inventory of that right away, so we know exactly where we stand. And I want guards on the food supplies at all times. We’re probably going to have to put your troopers on some kind of restricted rations, and we don’t need hungry soldiers ransacking what supplies we have.”
Bonnaire nodded, surprised at the practicality the Commissar was displaying. He’d always considered Aurien somewhat of a fool, but now the deposed planetary governor was showing some common sense…and some strength too.
“Yes, of course. I will see to it immediately.”
“And make sure you have enough guards posted at the perimeter walls. That rabble out there is after our blood. We should be able to hold out here, as you said, but if we let our guard down…” He paused. “I also need an inventory of military and security force supplies stored anywhere but here. Whatever is out there, that rabble will find it sooner or later. If they’re going to come for us with our own heavy weapons, we need to be ready for it.”
“Yes, Commissar, of course.” The last two weeks had been brutal, difficult, but now Bonnaire felt something unexpected, the last thing he might have imagined he would. Respect for Aurien. It was a spark, a small one in the darkness, but it was there, and he found himself wondering if, against all odds, Aurien could be the leader they needed now.
Because, if he wasn’t, they were all likely to die at the hands of an enraged mob.
* * *
Remy Caron stood along the side of the room, watching the others argue. The past few weeks seemed a blur to him. The attack on the League’s meeting had backfired, and all across Barroux City, the people had risen up, surged into the streets. The soldiers on duty were overwhelmed and killed, many of them beaten to death by enraged mobs. Remy had his share of resentment for his sufferings, and those of his family, but the sheer brutality of the uprising had shaken him. His fellow rebels had been like a horde of wild animals unleashed, rampaging through the streets, chasing down anyone even remotely related to the apparatus of Union government, beating, raping, killing. Remy had thought himself angry for what had become of his life, but he found the intensity of the violence sickening, all the more because he suspected many of the victims had been other workers, guilty of nothing save being in the path of the mob’s rage.
“Remy, come here. You must stand with us. We must assault the compound. We must destroy every vestige of the Union’s foul hand here on Barroux.”
“No, Remy…that is a fool’s game. They are trapped, surrounded. Let us starve them out instead of losing hundreds in a bloody assault.”
For all the past two weeks had shocked and stunned Remy Caron, nothing surprised him more than the inexplicable way he’d somehow ended up among the rebel leaders. He’d been there the night of the initial raid, of course, but not as an organizer. He’d only come to watch, and it had been his first meeting among Barroux’s resistance. But now he was part of the leadership, and the various groups were urging him to support them.
He’d known his co-workers and neighbors had thought well of him, but he’d never expected them to look to him for inspiration and direction when they streamed out into the streets to join the uprising. In what seemed like a brief moment, he’d gone from scared and confused onlooker to rebel instigator. Still scared, though.
He’d done what he could to limit the brutality, but in the end, that hadn’t been much. He understood the anger the workers felt, but he ached for the innocents killed, the children he’d seen dead on the streets.
“I believe we should be cautious,” he said tentatively, still uncomfortable with the role that had seemed to find him from nowhere. “Many have been killed already, and we have much to do. We need to secure the food supplies, make sure vital services are restored. The hospitals have become a nightmare, virtually abandoned by their staffs, filled with the dead and dying.”
“No, Remy, we must first eliminate any possible challenge to our authority. We need to form a governing body now, and we must organize our people. It is vital that we eliminate any who would threaten our control.”
Remy shook his head. “The Unionists in the compound hardly threaten us, Matthieu. I agree we must keep them under siege, but it hardly seems necessary to risk assaulting the facility. At least not now.”
“I disagree.” Matthieu Vaucomme turned and looked around at the others. “Leaving the Unionists there only encourages other groups that would challenge us…and threaten the purity of the revolution.”
“What other groups?” Remy was uncomfortable with the way the conversation was going. “Most of the Union officials have been murdered, butchered in their homes along with their families and children. Even the workers who did no more than routine jobs in Union offices have been massacred. A few hundred holdouts in a military compound do not threaten us. It is the response that will undoubtedly come from higher authority that is the real danger. Do you think losing hundreds of our best people in a pointless attack is going to help us deal with that? Do you think more mindless barbarity against Union officials and soldiers is going to lessen the intensity of the government forces when they get here?”
Remy wasn’t sure where the words were coming from, or the energy with which he delivered them. “We must get ready to defend ourselves. We need to find any of our people with military experience, with technical expertise. We must gain control of the planetary defenses. We must get to the military storehouses and see what weapons and ammunition we have. It is not a time for pointless vengeance, nor for uncontrolled violence. When the Union comes, they will have real soldiers…Foudre Rouge. We must be ready.”
The room had been more or less silent as he spoke, but now it was utterly so as Remy uttered his reference to the Union’s dreaded clone soldiers. “Would you waste time and resources on foolishness now? We have risen up, taken our freedom, but if we are to hold it, we must be ready. Every citizen of Barroux must be organized, prepared to fight. Our greatest test lies ahead, not behind us. Either we stand, hold our world and win our futures…or we fall, into a darkness few could even imagine. What do you think the Union forces will do to Barroux? Everyone here, leaders of a rebellion, will almost certainly end up in the cellars of Sector Nine.” He paused, allowing his last words to sink in. Every citizen of the Union grew up around tales of the fearsome intelligence agency.
“Do you think only you will suffer? Will the oppressors spare our families? What will they do to your wives and husbands? To your sons and daughters?” He tried to push back an image of Zoe brutally murdered, and Elisa…
“What example will they make of this world? How many thousands will die? Millions, even? We must
forgo these petty arguments over vengeance and squabbles over power. We must stand together, as one…or else we shall all surely fall.”
He stood in the room, suddenly aware that his colleagues were utterly silent, staring at him with strange expressions on their faces. They were still for what seemed like a long time. Then, one began clapping…and then another. Almost as a group they stood and joined in, and then they began shouting, “Remy!”
He stood where he was, uncertain, scared, unsure what to do, even as the chant became thunderous.
“Remy…Remy…Remy!”
Chapter Seven
Fleet Base Grimaldi
Orbiting Krakus II
Krakus System
Year 313 AC
“Fritzie!” It wasn’t the way commodores were supposed to greet their subordinates, but Barron didn’t care. He’d always had a close connection to his engineer, and Anya Fritz’s near-wizardry had saved his ship and his people more times than he cared to count. For all the accolades he’d collected, all the honors and the claims that he was his grandfather’s true successor, he knew just how much he owed to Fritz and her unbelievable ability to drive her people beyond what seemed possible.
“It’s good to see you, sir.” Fritz was a bit cold by nature, and she stood stiffly at first, uncomfortable for a moment before a rare bit of emotion took hold and she returned the embrace.
“I’m sorry I had to drag you back here, Fritzie. I hate to interrupt your new position.” Though he rather suspected there were some cadets who would buy him a drink for relieving them of an instructor who, by all accounts, had become the terror of the Academy. He imagined they’d come up with a whole collection of names for Fritz, and probably none of them flattering.
“You rescued me, sir.” Fritz had never wanted to teach at the Academy in the first place, but she’d fallen victim to her own notoriety, as well as Barron’s repeated statements that none of his victories would have been possible without her skills. She was too good to assign to just another ship, and as an engineer, there were limited opportunities in the high command. So, teaching the next generation of technicians seemed like the best use of her talents.
