by Jay Allan
Fighters were pouring out of the fortresses, engaging her own squadrons. Her people were fighting hard, but they were outnumbered four or five to one.
Retreat…it’s the only choice…
Vindictus couldn’t defeat the heavily-armed platforms. It would take half the fleet to destroy those fortresses. And her fighters could only hold so long against the massive cloud of enemy interceptors.
Then she saw the energy spike, the strange construct firing again, a massive burst of laser light, stronger than any she’d encountered before. Any she’d heard of before. It could only be one thing.
Bomb-pumped lasers.
The Alliance had been pursuing the technology for years, the use of controlled nuclear detonations to power extremely strong laser blasts, but it had never managed to get the system to work. Apparently, the Helians had…
She felt the tension in her body. Every military doctrine she knew, all her training told her Vindictus couldn’t face the two giant fortresses, not without help. She had to pull back, warn the fleet.
No…you can’t wait.
The Alliance fleet had blundered into a trap. Alliance arms had enjoyed half a century of unparalleled success, and with victory had come arrogance. They had viewed the Helians as a lesser foe, one they could easily overwhelm.
And now half the fleet is headed into a deathtrap…
“Increase reactor to one hundred ten percent. All power to thrusters.”
“Commander?” Wentus sounded confused.
“We’re going in, Optiomagis. We’re going straight for that space-cursed thing, and we’re going to blow it to scrap.”
“What about the fortresses?”
“Damned the fortresses! Forward…full power!”
Her eyes darted to the sides, to the two red circles on the screen, the orbital platforms that were going to blow her ship to scrap.
Let them do their worst…but we’re going to destroy that blasted gun.
Chapter Two
Lecture to First Year Cadets, Confederation Naval Academy, 286 AC
The War of Shame. Remember that name, all of you. Your texts will refer to it as the First Confederation-Union War, but that sterile designation is wholly inadequate, stripped of the true meaning, the grim reality. For it is only by the grace of fortune that we are here today, that our Confederation survived that disastrous conflict…and that we were afforded a chance at redemption, at an opportunity to regain our honor.
It is to that terrible struggle that we owe the navy you are privileged to serve, for from the ashes of defeat rose a new resolve, and a military force dedicated to one ideal, without question and above all others. Never again. Never again would we accept defeat, see our fellow citizens conquered, enslaved, by an enemy.
We will review the campaigns of the Second Confederation-Union War later in the semester, the glorious campaigns of Admiral Rance Barron and his colleagues, the victories that gave us back our pride. But we start now with ignominy, with defeat, so that you may understand what you truly fight for, and never forget that the Confederation exists only as long as we have the strength to defend it.
CFS Dauntless
340 Million Kilometers from Sentinel Three
Confederation-Union Border
307 AC
Tyler Barron stared at the three-dimensional display in the center of Dauntless’s control room. The complex holographic system, colloquially called the “tank,” was an expensive luxury. The Union—and most of the other interstellar nations that had formed in the centuries since the Cataclysm—got along fine with two-dimensional screens that simply used small numerals to show the Z coordinate. But the Confederation was the richest of the powers, with a per capita income three times that of the Union, and its politicians vastly preferred bringing home contracts for sophisticated holographic displays than orders for normal screens costing one fiftieth as much. So Dauntless and her sister ships in the fleet were equipped with the sophisticated tanks.
Barron felt an uncomfortable sensation, one that had dogged him for weeks now, a feeling of eerie silence. Space, of course, was always soundless, but what troubled him was more than literal quiet. It was the crew, their demeanor, the lack of conversation, even in the wardrooms. The reduced amount of recreation, the somber, hushed conversation in the corridors. His people were tense, and it was showing in all kinds of ways a watchful captain could see. He knew that was normal, to a point. But he also realized that at some point, the tension would affect Dauntless’s readiness.
Dauntless had been on patrol for almost nine months now, and the pressure had built steadily, wearing hard on his crew. He’d tried to keep formal alerts to a minimum, an effort to control the stress levels as much as anything else, to keep his people as rested as possible. But it was a losing fight. They all knew why they were there, and for all their training and courage, they were afraid. Even without the yellow or red warning lamps lit, they all knew the call to battlestations could come at any moment.
War was coming. They’d all heard about it for years now. Vague warnings at first, then firmer ones, reports from the intelligence services of Union buildups, force movements. Finally, the Code Black alert had gone out, a designation that had one meaning. Invasion imminent.
But the invasion hadn’t been imminent. It had been almost a year, and the frontier had been quiet. The intel reports were still coming hard and fast, manifests showing fleets of new Union warships pouring from shipyards, moving toward forward bases behind the border. But they hadn’t attacked. Not yet.
Barron looked around Dauntless’s bridge, feeling a twinge of guilt as he watched his officers at work. They were here to patrol the frontier, and to report if—when—the enemy came streaming across the border. It was a dangerous job, suicidal, many would say. The primary mission was to send off a warning, along with as much data on the invasion force as possible. Survival was decidedly a secondary prospect, and an unlikely one at that. And that weighed heavily on Barron, for reasons that went far beyond personal fear.
His people were here because of him, because he had rebelled at the preferential treatment he’d experienced his whole life, the assignments to rear areas, the efforts by the admiralty to keep him safe even as he served in the fleet. He’d practically demanded the frontier posting, going so far as to threaten to resign his commission if his request was denied.
And now, more than nine hundred officers and spacers face desperate danger because you wanted to prove you’re more than just Rance Barron’s grandson…
Barron shifted slightly in his chair, expending a bit of nervous energy as much as anything else. Dauntless had been his for almost a year, and she had spent most of that time on the border, staring into the face of an invasion everyone knew would be massive when it came. He was the youngest captain in the fleet to command a capital ship, and he knew he owed at least some of that to his last name, the one he shared with his famous grandfather.
Barron’s own service record had been exemplary. He’d graduated first in his class at the Academy, and his postings as a junior officer had earned him commendations from every commander he had served. But he knew deserving had little to do with his command of Dauntless. If his name had been Garibaldi or Elione or Jacarde, respected naval families all, he’d still be a first officer somewhere. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind about that. But his name was Barron, and the Barrons were like royalty in the Confederation navy.
“Sentinel Three transmitting security protocols, Captain.” Lieutenant Vin Darrow manned Dauntless’s communications station.
“Authenticate.” Barron was sure the codes would be verified, but the command procedures were clear, and there were no exceptions. Barron agreed with the regs on this one. This close to the enemy on the eve of war, it didn’t make sense to take chances.
Darrow paused a few seconds. “Confirmed, sir.”
Barron moved his hand toward his own comm unit, flipping up a small cover and punching a series of numbers into the hexadecimal keypad. �
��Barron, Captain, CFS Dauntless. Transmit priority identification codes now.” He pressed his finger against a tiny scanner. It looked like a fingerprint reader, but it was much more. The device also analyzed DNA from a microscopic skin sample it harvested, making it as close to foolproof as Confederation science could manage.
“Identity confirmed, Captain Barron. Transmitting now.” The AI’s voice sounded almost human, though Barron could pick up on the difference. The tell was the almost overpowering calm of the tone. Barron had confidence in his people and their courage, but no one human sounded that relaxed waiting for an invasion.
The fleet was already on wartime protocols, and that meant using the priority codes to confirm the identification of any vessels or installations. It tended toward the cumbersome, but it was worthwhile. In the unlikely event the crew of Sentinel Three were clustered in their control room under the guns of Union commandoes, he needed to know…just as they had to be sure his ship was really Dauntless, and that she hadn’t fallen under enemy control herself.
The Sentinel stations were the extreme forward vanguard of Confederation defense, positioned mostly in the empty systems between the inhabited space of the two powers. Their primary purpose was to keep an eye on the border and to warn the forces positioned farther back of any incursions. The stations were armed, but no one expected any of them to survive more than a few seconds in battle against a serious invasion fleet.
“Sentinel Three reports all codes confirmed, sir. Beginning data dump now.”
“Acknowledged. Relay to my screen after decryption.”
Barron glanced over at the lieutenant. Darrow was a good young officer, but he’d had the misfortune of serving under the only Confederation captain ever convicted of treason. Clive Toland’s name had become synonymous with treachery when he was caught selling secrets to the Union, and while Darrow had been completely exonerated of any involvement in his commanding officer’s betrayal, that kind of mud splattered widely. The gifted comm officer had struggled to find a posting after that, rejected by half a dozen captains before Tyler pulled out the Barron name and threw its protective aura around the grateful lieutenant. Tyler had been angry at the injustice of the whole thing, but there was a more manipulative angle at play as well. He had learned many things from his illustrious grandfather, and how to cultivate loyalty among men and women had been at the top of the list. Vin Darrow did his job as well as any officer in the fleet…but now, he’d jump into the reactor core as well, if Tyler Barron ordered it.
“Sending data stream now.”
Barron nodded in the direction of the comm officer. Then his eyes dropped to his own screen.
Dauntless had been in stealth mode, Barron setting his own course as his vessel patrolled the border. There were no orders detailing its route, no records that could be stolen or fall into enemy hands. And without accurate locational data, there was no way for the high command to communicate with its battleship until it showed up at one of the stations. Communiqués intended for Barron, and the members of his crew, were sent in code to the Sentinel outposts, and transmitted when Dauntless checked in.
He watched as the batches of data continued to move down the screen, folder after folder of routine dispatches, supply manifests, news updates…and mail. Terabytes and terabytes of mail, the best possible therapy for his crew’s strained morale.
“It looks like the enemy will have to wait. It’s going to take two weeks just to get through the mail.”
A few tentative chuckles broke the bridge’s silence. Barron had recently been making an effort to loosen up a little. With limited success. He knew he looked a little like a martinet, a hardcore “by the books” type with a puffed out chest and a raging ego, ready to bust a subordinate for the slightest infraction. But his crew knew him better than that after ten months’ service together, and for all Barron was aware they considered him a little stiff in his mannerisms, he knew he had their loyalty…and their true affection too. They had been through a lot together, endured the tension of patrolling the front line.
They should live a week in my shoes, feel what it’s like to be the grandson of the great Rance Barron. “Ironheart” Barron, the man who saved the Confederation…
Tyler’s grandfather had been more than a hero…to the people of the Confederation he was the hero. Tyler had loved the old man for as long as he could remember, and he’d grown up as awed by the great admiral as everyone else. But he had other memories too, fonder ones. Fishing trips and long walks through the woods, days the two had spent together with not a word spoken of battles fought and glorious victories won.
Still, the legend of Admiral Barron had proven to be inescapable, and the family reputation had dogged him from his first day at the Academy, enough to induce him to go by his middle name instead of being the family’s fourth Rance to serve the fleet. He couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t being rated against the older Barron or when he’d last received praise that didn’t compare him in some way, favorable or otherwise, to his grandfather.
Tyler had endured such comparisons since childhood, but they had only become worse after the old man died in the last war, and he passed from living hero to deceased legend. Compliments like, “that was how your grandfather would have done it,” had come to grate on him, like an unpleasant squeak. And the worst part was, the frustration seeped into his memories, dulling fond images of a grandfather he’d loved dearly and creating resentments he regretted but felt nevertheless.
Tyler had mourned his grandfather’s death even as he endured the increased attention it brought upon him…and he did his best to live up to the pressure to follow in the great man’s footsteps. He carried the weight all the more for the loss of the father he had hardly known. Rance III died in a reactor accident years before, when he was still a junior officer, leaving the heavy expectations of an adoring and demanding Confederation on the shoulders of his three-year old son.
It had been a heavy burden for a young child, and for the cadet he became…and it remained so even for a seasoned captain. Ironheart Barron was a tough act to follow, and with war imminent, things had only become more intense.
“Lieutenant Darrow, you may distribute the mail and personal communications to their recipients. And forward housekeeping communication to the appropriate department heads.” Barron was a hands on captain, but he didn’t feel the need to poke his nose into updated equipment specs and reactor cooling rod process modifications. Rank had its privileges, and one of them was delegating at least some of the boring nonsense to someone else.
“Yes, Captain.”
Barron’s eyes focused on one of the items addressed to him. Orders.
He moved his hand over the screen, opening the file. He read it carefully, getting about a third of the way down before his eyes darted up with surprise, and he started again, checking a second time to be sure he’d read it correctly.
Dauntless was to proceed to the fleet base on Archellia for rest and refit. After ten months of sneaking around, of waiting for war, his people were being relieved.
But Archellia? That’s clear across the Confederation…
He realized then just how mobilized the fleet was, how ready for a war it considered imminent. If Archellia was the nearest base with available capacity to refit a battleship like Dauntless, everything the Confederation had that could fly must be clogging the facilities nearer the Union border.
He nodded to himself. Archellia was a few weeks’ extra travel, but the trip would be like a vacation itself, without the crushing stress of watching the frontier. And there wasn’t a quieter place for his frazzled crew to take their shore leave and prepare for the struggle everyone knew was still coming.
He leaned back and sighed softly. The constant stress had worn him down as much as his people, and his refusal to acknowledge that, to himself or anyone else, made it no less true. It was time. He had demanded a dangerous posting, and he and his people had completed it with distinction. Now they were going home.
“We’re going home,” he said, feeling a rush of satisfaction. “We’re going to Archellia for refit…and for shore leave.”
He held his smile as the bridge officers met his announcement with a round of applause. It wasn’t strictly by the book, but Barron didn’t care. Not one bit.
Archellia…I can’t think of a quieter, more relaxing spot…
Chapter Three
From the Last Testament of Stantus Allius
First Imperator of the Alliance
I leave these words to my peers and countrymen, and to all who have followed me. I, who was born into servitude, who knew the sting of the lash on my bare back, and yet rose to the leadership of my people, lay this sacred burden on all Palatians…to pay forward the debt they owe for freedom, and to secure it for generations to come.
Go forth then, and be always the strongest. Attack before you are attacked. Defeat those who would be your masters. Reduce them to the servants they would make of you. Bring fear to all who would be your enemies. Remember always the mantra, the grim verdict of the universe, that we now adopt as the central tenet of our own Alliance. Vae victis. Woe to the defeated.
Victorum, Alliance Capital City
Astara II, Palatia
Alliance Year 58 (307 AC)
The streets of Victorum were festive, the massive, blocky buildings of the city draped with banners and flags, their broad marble columns and facades polished to blinding white and shiny midnight black. The air was alive, strident chords rising from a seemingly endless procession of marching bands. All the martial brilliance of the Alliance was moving down the Via Magna, to the delight, real or feigned, of the hundreds of thousands present along the line of march.
The day was a special one. Indeed, its like had not been seen for many years. Life in the Alliance was generally a Spartan affair, its culture and economy focused almost entirely on feeding the endless needs of the military machine that formed the centerpiece of its society. Armed strength was almost a religious imperative in the Alliance, and frivolous pursuits were usually sacrificed to the call of war. But the arms being celebrated had just won another great victory, perhaps the most momentous in their history, conquering more neighboring systems, rich prizes that would bolster the strength and power of the Alliance, and launch it once and for all into the ranks of the great powers. That was a cause for celebration, one of the few events worthy of an official holiday, of a break from the endless toil and discipline of daily life in the Alliance. There were speeches and parades, fairs and festivals in every town on Palatia’s three continents. And with the fall of night, fireworks and glittering balls would follow the day’s reveries.
