by Jay Allan
The screen glowed to life, its background darkening to black, with a number of white circles connected by faint gray lines—stars and transwarp connections.
Holsten walked toward the screen, staring intently. The Rim was the very edge of Confederation space, and there was little of value there. A few mining colonies, but nothing of much importance. He started to turn back toward Vonns, but then he froze, his eyes locked on one of the glowing circles. Krillus.
Of course…Santis…
“Mike, you know our cultural profiles on the Alliance as well as anyone. Would you say they’re prone to test enemies’ reactions? To probe for weakness?”
Vonns hesitated for an instant, a confused look on his face. Then he said, “Yes, of course. Certainly. They respect strength. That doesn’t mean they won’t take on a capable adversary, but they will definitely go after anyone who shows them weakness. Like a predator.”
“And we’re the prey…”
“I’m sorry? What?”
“They could be testing us. The Union agents almost certainly tried to tempt them by arguing we cannot mount a defense on the Rim while we are facing a Union invasion. They’re not ready for a full-scale attack, not yet. So they send something, a small force, even a single ship…and they see how we react.”
“You mean if we don’t meet them with strength, we’re inviting war?”
“I mean if we don’t destroy utterly whatever they sent, we are asking for war.”
“But the logistics…they still face the same probl…”
“Santis.”
Vonns stared right at his companion. He paused for a moment, and then he said, “Santis. Of course. The tritium facilities. If they capture them, they could use them to refuel an invasion fleet…”
“And having secured a source of reaction mass, they could probably come up with enough support vessels to carry minimal food and weapons and other supplies.”
Vonns held Holsten’s gaze. “We’re speculating pretty wildly, Gary. Even with the reaction mass on Santis, we’re talking about a logistical nightmare.”
“Is it that wild? Can you think of anything else? Any reasonable scenario to explain the situation?”
There was a long silence. Then: “No.”
“It makes perfect sense. A chance to probe our defenses, and a way to solve their logistical problem. If we don’t respond—or if we come at them and lose—it is a sign of weakness, confirmation of the Union’s promises that we can’t spare forces to fight them. They’ll invade as soon as they can get their fleets underway.”
“But if we defeat whatever they sent…we might just dissuade them from coming at us, at least long enough to deal with the Union attack first.”
Holsten was nodding. “But we don’t know what they have out there. Dauntless is a good ship, but she’s far from our biggest or newest. And Captain Barron is a good man, but he’s young, relatively new to command.” A pause. “What else can we get out there?”
“Now? Nothing.”
“There must be some available forces.”
“There aren’t.” Vonns’ voice was hard with certainty. “Even the closest fleet units are a month away…and many of those are reserve ships still being refitted for action.” He took a deep breath. “Dauntless is all we have out there, Gary…and we’re lucky she’s there.”
Holsten turned and looked back at the screen. “So, Captain Barron is all we have…he and his ship are all that stands between us and a war with the Alliance?”
“If our assumptions are correct, that’s probably true.”
“And there’s nothing we can do for him, no way to help him?”
“We can warn him, tell him he must prevail, whatever the odds, whatever the cost.”
Holsten exhaled hard. “So we send the grandson of the Confederation’s greatest hero into a possibly hopeless fight with no more help than to tell him to find a way to win?”
“I’m afraid so. Unless we count our best wishes as reinforcements…”
The head of Confederation Intelligence just stood and stared at the screen, his mind racing to find something, anything he’d forgotten. But there was nothing. A warning and best wishes were indeed all they had to send to Tyler Barron.
His hangover was gone at least, the alcohol-induced headache replaced by a new one, even worse.
“Godspeed, Tyler Barron…”
Chapter Sixteen
Near the Ruins of Base Tom Wills
Planet Santis, Krillus IV
307 AC
“Keep firing!” Hargraves was down on the ground, his rifle extended in front of him. He’d opened up on full auto, but now he was firing single shots. He didn’t have enough ammo to be careless, and the enemy troopers had dropped to the ground too. He just didn’t have a good enough target to waste more than a few rounds.
He’d taken one of the enemy down, maybe two…he wasn’t sure if he’d hit the second trooper or if his target had just dived to the ground for cover. But now they were in a protracted firefight, and that was bad news. The enemy would be getting reinforcements any minute now, and his Marines were on their own.
He stared out across the scrubby grass growing up and around the clusters of rocks. He was looking for movement, for any sign that he had a shot at an enemy. But it was clear they weren’t facing poor quality troops. Whoever they were, they were as good as the Marines…almost. And that meant they weren’t going to make any mistakes.
Hargraves was frustrated, angry. He had to get his people to the refinery, somehow. But he had no idea how that was possible now. He’d be lucky to get anyone out of here alive.
“Sergeant…” It was Tomas Rivera.
“Tomas, you need to get back. You and your techs need to stay…”
“There’s another way to get to the refinery.”
Hargraves was focused mostly on the soldiers to his front, the ones shooting at him. But Rivera’s words got his attention.
“How? Where?” He reached out and grabbed Rivera, pulling him down closer to the ground as a series of bullets whizzed by overhead.
“Down along the sea. At the bottom of the cliff.”
“There’s a path down there? I thought the water came right against the cliff.”
“No, not for most of the way, at least. There’s a narrow spur of rock. There’s only one stretch, maybe a hundred meters where we’d have to go through the water.”
“Do you realize how cold that water is, Tomas?” Santis’s sea was mostly ice this far north, and it was liquid here only because of the massive refinery and the immense heat it produced. That was enough to melt the ice, but barely. “You would freeze to death.”
“Not if we can get across quickly enough, Sergeant.”
“But you’ll be soaking wet…it will freeze on you as soon as you get out. You’ll die, Tomas.”
“Not if we can get to the refinery. It’s warm in there…we could heat up while we plant the bombs.”
“How will you even get down there? It doesn’t look like an easy climb.”
“What’s the alternative, Sergeant? Die here? At least this way we have a chance to accomplish something.” The technician paused. “We both know none of us are getting off Santis, Sergeant.”
Hargraves paused. He tended to look at civilians as soft, useless. But Rivera was showing him a side he rarely saw in those outside the Marines. Guts. Real hardassed, bloody guts.
“You sure, Tomas?”
“Yeah, Sarge. I’m sure. Give me two of your Marines with the explosives. My people and I will do our best.”
“Okay…let’s give it a try.” He fumbled to get his com unit out from under him. “Wedge, Plinth…you’re gonna grab the explosives and go with Tomas and the other techs. Do whatever he says, no bullshit. He knows what he’s doing.”
“Yes, Sarge.” The responses came back almost immediately. They didn’t sound enthusiastic about being placed under the command of a civilian, but Hargraves knew they would follow his orders no matter how they fel
t about them. They knew what would happen if they didn’t.
“We’ll hold here as long as we can, Tomas.”
“Don’t throw your lives away, Sergeant. Give us a ten-minute head start. Then bug the hell out of here. You won’t be doing us any good after that.”
“Ten minutes. You got it.” The Marine paused for an instant. “Good luck, Tomas.”
“And to you, Sergeant.” The civilian hesitated for a few seconds. Then he turned and crawled back toward the cliff.
* * *
“Decurio, move your troopers forward now. I will send the rest of the century after.” Millius’s voice was a barely-controlled roar. He’d already been frustrated with the unexpected resistance on Santis, and now he’d been humiliated in front of Commander Rigellus. The matriarch of the Regulli was a stunningly successful officer, exactly the kind of commander who had coattails. But beyond that, Millius just respected her. She was the Alliance ideal, the Palatian Patrician born to duty. And he looked like a damned fool who couldn’t round up a handful of Confederation Marines and civilians.
“Sir!” The junior officer snapped off a sharp, chest-thumping salute, and he turned and jogged toward his still-assembling unit.
Millius spun around. “First century, assemble. Anyone not in position in one minute will be digging latrines…if they’re lucky.” The troops were already lining up, rushing out of their makeshift shelters, pulling on bits of body armor and cold weather gear. His troopers had been grumbling about the weather, rushing into the semi-heated portable structures the instant they got off duty. He shook his head as he watched them hesitating for an instant as they opened the tent flaps and felt the frigid breeze.
Are we past our prime already? Is the heart of the Alliance rotten so quickly, even as our ancestors who made us are still warm in their graves…or, indeed, still alive?
He’d been brought up on tales of the idealized Alliance warrior, the iron man capable of enduring anything…pain, wounds, weather. Alliance warriors didn’t stop, no matter what they faced. At least that was the mantra. Now he wondered if that had ever been true. Was it all propaganda, the heroic stories that had shaped who he’d become? Certainly, Alliance forces had conquered. But perhaps they weren’t invincible after all. Maybe there were warriors out there who could match them.
Like these Marines…
He waved his arms, gesturing for the just-awakened stormtroopers to hurry. His people had a group of Marines cornered, trapped against the sea cliffs. And he wasn’t going to let them escape, not one of them. No matter what it cost.
He walked over toward the troopers forming up. They looked a little ragged, but they were all armed and equipped. And they were Alliance stormtroopers. Perhaps they weren’t the equals of their fathers and mothers, but Millius knew they were veteran soldiers.
“Prepare to move out,” he shouted, staring out over the surprised group. He was Praefectus, commander of the entire ground force. But none of that mattered now. The image of Commander Rigellus, listening as the sounds of the enemy launching a raid blared through her com unit…it was too much. He wasn’t going to leave this to anyone else. He was going to lead the attack himself.
“Forward…”
* * *
“Careful, sir.” Tony Plinth was standing on the narrow strip of shoreline reaching up toward a man climbing down a rope. Plinth had scrambled down first, and now the civilians were coming…much more slowly than he had. But slow was better than falling, and even the Marine had to admit it wasn’t easy scaling down a rope wearing a heavy parka.
“I’m fine, Corporal…just not as fast as you, I’m afraid.” Tomas Rivera dropped down the last meter or so, grunting as he landed and stumbled on the slick wet rocks below his feet.
Plinth grabbed the technician, holding him up…though he figured the chances were about fifty-fifty the civilian would have managed to regain his balance without assistance. “You gotta watch this ground, sir. Not much of a beach, I’m afraid, just a bunch of rocks. And wet and slippery at that.”
“Thank you, Corporal.” Rivera leaned his head back and looked up, just as Plinth was doing. Joe Wedge was still up on the cliff, standing guard while the civilians made their way to the bottom. Plinth had come down first to check the area along the shoreline, make sure it was clear. He reached up again as the second tech lost his grip about two meters from the bottom. He dropped hard, but Plinth caught him. The two stumbled back together, but they managed to stay on their feet.
The Marine had known the civilians would have a hard time with the climb. Scrambling down a rope under near-combat conditions was tough enough, but even with the heavy gloves they all wore, the cold was biting through. Plinth’s hands were half-numb, and he couldn’t imagine any of the techs were in better shape.
The third civilian managed to make it all the way without incident. Plinth looked up to the top, seeing Wedge staring back down. He waved for his comrade to climb down, but even as he thrust up his arm, he saw Wedge spin around. Then he heard the sounds of fire, Wedge’s gun first…then a higher-pitched sound. Enemy assault rifles.
“Go,” he shouted, turning toward Rivera and the other two techs. The three men stood where they were, looking back with stunned expressions on their faces. “Go!” he repeated, gesturing wildly with his arms.
The three techs jogged down the narrow strip of rocky shoreline, moving as quickly as they could in the near-total darkness. Plinth spun around, looking up at the top of the cliff. He couldn’t see Wedge, but he could hear continued gunfire. He wanted to throw his rifle over his shoulder and climb back up, but he knew his duty was to get the techs to the refinery.
He hesitated for a few more seconds, stepping backwards, trying to get a glimpse of his comrade. He was just about to give up and follow the techs when he saw movement…and then something falling. A body.
It crashed hard onto the rocks with a sickening thud. Plinth ran over, and in an instant he knew. It was Wedge. And he was dead. The fall alone probably would have done it, but the Marine had a dozen bloody holes in his midsection as well.
Plinth was staring at his friend’s body as a blast of gunfire splashed in the nearby water. He snapped his head up, bringing his rifle around and firing at the top of the cliff. There were two—no, three—enemy troopers up there shooting down at him.
One of them dropped his gun and fell to his knees. His comrade reached out, trying to grab him, but he was too late. The soldier fell forward over the cliff and crashed down alongside Wedge’s body. Plinth felt a rush, a small taste of revenge for his friend. But now there were at least four enemies at the top. They had position and numbers. It was a losing fight. And Plinth understood his duty.
He slammed hard against the rock wall, grabbing as much cover as he could from the enemy fire. He moved down the meter-wide slip of ground, back pressed against the sheer cliff. He couldn’t see the techs…they were too far ahead and it was too dark. But there was only one way they could have gone, and he moved forward, stumbling over the loose rocks as he accelerated to a slow run.
* * *
Hargraves reached around, pulling a grenade from his belt. It was his last one, and he knew he had to make it count. He was sure there were at least two enemy soldiers down behind the rock in front of him. He’d caught their movement several times as they’d worked their way forward, and now they were within twenty meters.
He knew what they would do, at least what two Marines would do. They’d come around different sides of the rock, force him to react in one direction or the other. He’d hoped his people could hold off their attackers indefinitely…at least while their ammo lasted. But these were skilled troops, far more capable than any he’d ever faced, and that included the Union FRs. They outnumbered his people too overwhelmingly. If he didn’t order his survivors to bug out now, none of them would get away. Assuming it wasn’t too late already.
He glanced at his chronometer. Nine and a half minutes. Close to ten. But it wasn’t ten…and Marines kept t
heir promises. His people would hold out another thirty seconds. Then they would get the hell out of here.
He tensed his legs, and then he sprang up, pulling his arm back and throwing the grenade. He felt the urge to watch, to see if his aim had been true. But his instincts took over, dropping him to the ground, hard, painfully, just before a stream of bullets zipped by overhead. A couple seconds later, he heard the blast of the grenade and, he thought, a muffled cry. He looked up, toward the rock. The sound had seemed spot on, just in the right place. But he knew he wouldn’t know if he’d taken out his enemies until he made a break for it. He’d know he failed when the bullets slammed into his back.
His eyes dropped again to the timepiece. Ten minutes, ten seconds. It was time.
“Alright, Marines…let’s get the hell out of here!”
He turned and threw himself up into a low crouch, moving as quickly as he could without straightening up. He scrambled over the rough ground, seeing his people do the same. There had been eight of them when he’d sent the techs away, but two of them had been hit in the firefight. He knew Lipton was dead, but he wasn’t sure about Garavick. “Go,” he shouted into the com unit. “Back to HQ!” But he didn’t follow. He moved off to the side. He couldn’t leave. Not without checking on Garavick.
He could see the shadowy image of the Marine, lying partially covered by the high tufts of grass. He scrambled forward, dropping to the ground next to the unmoving figure. He let out a deep breath. It looked like Garavick was dead.
“Sarge…” The voice was weak, soft. But it told Hargraves all he needed to know. The Marine was still alive.
The sergeant turned his head, looking all around. He could hear the sounds of enemy soldiers moving forward, but none near him. The Marines had put up a fierce fight, and it seemed their attackers were moving cautiously.
“Alright, Rich, this is probably gonna hurt like fuck, but we ain’t got no choice right now. Try not to scream, eh? You’ll just lead them right to us.”
He reached his arm under his comrade, pulling hard and pushing his head under Garavick’s shoulder. He couldn’t carry the Marine, not without standing up and making a perfect target of both of them. But he could help the wounded man crawl. If they could get a few hundred meters, the scrub became a lot taller and rougher…perhaps even enough to hide them.
