by Jay Allan
“Don’t be like that, Tyler…” Her tone was softer now, as it had been earlier, all traces of the hard-driving mercenary bartering for payment gone. “You have your job to do, and I have mine. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. She stepped forward and put her hand on his arm.
He felt an urge to pull away, his dislike of Badlands-scavenging rogues fully awakened by their earlier exchange, but he didn’t. He was frustrated with himself. He’d dated his share of women, at least during shore leaves and the like, but he’d never had one affect him like this.
“Come on,” she said, a sweetness in her voice he wasn’t sure he believed, but couldn’t ignore either. “I’m the one person here who best knows her way around on this ship. I did manage to hide here for almost a week.”
Barron hesitated, unsure what to do for a moment. He’d been resisting his emotional urge to bring her with him, but her logic was flawless. She did know her way around the ship better than anyone else. He knew he was just excusing himself to do what he wanted to do, but what he knew he shouldn’t. But he did it anyway.
“You sure you want to be my tour guide?” he asked, turning back and looking right at her. “I’m afraid it’s not a paying position.”
He could see the flash of anger, for just an instant before she overcame it.
“You’re very funny, Tyler,” she said softly, with carefully placed hint of hurt feelings. Then her expression darkened. “It’s easy to react as you did, you know. The wealthy and beloved Barron family. Was there ever a day when you had to do more than ask for what you wanted, Tyler? What was the worst thing you ever had to do for a meal? The nastiest torn rag you huddled under to stay warm?” Barron stood and listened, losing track of what was theater, designed to manipulate him, and what was real. And for all his mustered cynicism, he was sure there was truth in her words.
“Maybe one day we’ll know each other well enough for me to give you my answers to those questions…but not now. Still, you can be sure it was more than deciding what I felt like eating and ordering it. Or wrapping up in a soft cashmere blanket in front of the family estate’s fireplace.”
He could see she was really upset, that he’d touched on a nerve. That, or she was the best actress he’d ever seen.
Maybe a bit of both…
Still, despite any doubts about her intentions, he felt ashamed. He had led a privileged life, and many people—apparently, Andromeda Lafarge among them—had suffered terrible deprivation, even in the Confederation. His own first officer was a testament to that. In fact, it sounded like the two had suffered through similar backgrounds.
“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.” He was sincere, and also a bit defensive. “I may have been born into a privileged life, but I’ve also fought more than one battle. I’ve killed, I’ve been wounded, and I’ve seen my people die, carrying out my orders. So, perhaps you’ll understand it upsets me when I see what seems like a price being placed on patriotism. You may have been born into bad circumstances, but you’re damned lucky that place was in the Confederation instead of someplace like the Union. And this thing…” He waved his arms, gesturing to the ship all around them. “…is more than a treasure to be paid for. Any nation that possesses the technology of the ancients will be able to subjugate the others if it chooses. So, unless you want to spend the rest of your life in a Union work camp—or worse—perhaps it’s best to save discussions about rewards and payments until later.”
He paused, and when he continued, his voice was grim. “Because, sure as hell, we’re going to have a fight here before we get a chance to move this thing…and you’re probably going to get an opportunity to see more of my people die.” He glared at her, his eyes wide, blazing. “And if you complain to me about money again while that is happening, I’ll throw your ass in the brig…if not out the airlock. Do we understand each other?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Command Center
Fleet Base Grimaldi
Orbiting Krakus II
“We have to send help to Captain Barron. We sent him there…him and all his people. You know the Union will have dispatched more than a single battleship.” Striker sat in his office, in one of the guest chairs next to his desk. Gary Holsten was sitting in the other one, looking back with a pained expression on his face.
“Yes, we did, Van. But that was before the Union launched its assault. If they have a new supply base, and if we lose Grimaldi again, they could advance all the way to the Iron Belt.”
“Yes, I know. That’s what I’ve been telling myself. But the fact remains…Dauntless is out there. And if the artifact we sent Captain Barron to find does, in fact, exist, and it falls into Union hands…”
“If,” Holsten replied. “If it exists, if the Union finds it, if they’re able to get it back to their space and decipher its secrets. I understand the danger. But there is no ‘if’ about that Union fleet, and your scouting reports leave little doubt. There is a large and powerful Union fleet one transit away, stronger even than we’d believed.” He looked right at Striker. “Can you guarantee me that you can hold Grimaldi, even with every ship and fighter you have here now?”
Striker paused, looking uncomfortable. “No, of course not. You knew the answer to that before you asked it.”
“Are you willing to abandon Grimaldi base? To fall back and select another system to make a stand?”
Striker shook his head. “That was Admiral Winston’s mistake in the initial campaign. Grimaldi is where it is for a reason. It’s a choke point. However badly Union numbers impact us here, it will only be worse if we give them more room and multiple paths of advance.” He paused. “The only reason to consider giving up Grimaldi is if the enemy has no supply base. Then we could trade space for time, knowing they can’t get too far too fast. But we very well might be betting the Confederation on that.”
Holsten nodded. “My conclusions exactly. So, if you’re not sure you’ve got enough force to win the fight, and you can’t or won’t fall back…how exactly do we detach battleships from the line to go to the Badlands?” He let the words hang in the air, the image of thousands of men and women dying as their massive warships were battered into rubble.
“And if we lose,” he continued, “the Confederation could easily fall even without the enemy gaining ancient technology. We don’t have a good choice here, Van. Just a bad one and an even worse one.”
Striker exhaled hard, turning and staring at his desk. “You’re right,” he finally said. “The Union outnumbers us by too much, especially with the extra ships we detected.” His head angled back, his eyes locking on Holsten’s. “We need every vessel here.”
The two men sat quietly for a few minutes. Then, Holsten said, “I feel it too, Van. Tyler Barron is a good man. His crew are among the best the Confederation has. But the cost of this war has already been enormous. If the enemy gets by, if they defeat your forces here and break through…and we have nothing left to stop them, we won’t be talking thousands dead or even millions. The toll will be in the billions. Do you think the Union cares how many civilians they kill?” Holsten paused. “You have to win here, Van. You have to. And nothing else matters right now. No one else matters.”
Striker held Holsten’s gaze, and then, unable to say the words, he just nodded.
* * *
Villieneuve looked out over Victoire’s flag bridge. Admiral Beaufort had offered him the command position, volunteering to vacate his chair not once but twice. Villieneuve had refused both times. He needed Beaufort at his station—and at his best—and though the head of Sector Nine had to admit to himself he was as power mad as most of the Union’s top officials, he was also far less controlled by his ego…and its companion, insecurity.
Beaufort was a good officer, though not an especially skilled tactician—Villieneuve had to admit he wasn’t his predecessor’s equal in that regard. But Admiral D’Alvert had been consumed by ambition, so much so that he became too great a danger, if not to the Union, to the career
s and positions of other men and women of power. In the end, Villieneuve sent Ricard Lille to “deal with it,” thereby effectuating Beaufort’s rise to the top field command.
Villieneuve would have preferred someone more imaginative in command of the fleet, but he had to admit, to himself at least, that the Union’s system did not encourage creative thinking. Mavericks either rose to the very top—and then only if they were lucky and extremely careful—or they tended to destroy themselves, scaring those who had too much at stake in maintaining the status quo.
At least Beaufort is a soldier, not a hybrid like D’Alvert. The late admiral had been both a senior military commander and a member of the Presidium, an almost unheard of achievement in a system as paranoid as the Union’s. It had also sealed his fate. Villieneuve might have let an admiral survive a military reverse, but he hadn’t been able to pass up the chance to get rid of D’Alvert.
“The fleet is ready, Minister Villieneuve.” Beaufort sounded shakier than Villieneuve would have liked, but he doubted there was an officer in the Union service who would have been steadier right now. The battle in the Krakus system would be a bloodbath, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind. The Confederation had yielded their great base early in the war, almost without a fight, but Arthur Winston had been in command then. That aged officer had been among the last to have a pedigree tracing back to service with the great Rance Barron, and he’d ridden it well past his usefulness. Indeed, the fact that a tired old man had commanded the Confederation navy had been a major factor in choosing the time to initiate hostilities. Villieneuve himself had raised that issue in the final Presidium meeting before the invasion, urging his fellows to strike before younger and more aggressive admirals moved into command positions in the Confederation.
But Winston was gone now, and Van Striker wasn’t old or a fool. Of all the officers of the next generation that might have succeeded Winston, Striker was the one Villieneuve had feared the most. He was smart, and he was popular among the spacers. He was daring, too. A risk taker, but not reckless. Every report on the man stressed how resolute he was, how deeply he dug his heels in the ground when he deemed it necessary. There was no way Striker would yield Grimaldi as his predecessor had.
Villieneuve knew the base itself would add great strength to the defense. Winston had failed to destroy the facility when he’d abandoned it, leaving it battered but still there for the Union to take. He’d laughed at the foolishness, but then months later he’d seen the Union forces make the same mistake, abandoning the fort, but leaving it mostly intact. That was a mistake he wouldn’t see made again. Striker was unlikely to neglect to destroy the facility if he was driven back and forced to abandon it…and even if he did, Villieneuve would make absolutely sure that if the Confeds recovered Krakus, the base would be nothing but radioactive dust.
Villieneuve looked at the display. Forty-four battleships, and over a hundred escorts. Almost all the force the Union still possessed, save for the four battleships dispatched to the Badlands.
Eight battleships…
It had been a gamble, pulling four more ships from Beaufort’s battle line, one that few would have understood. He’d analyzed things ten different ways, and he couldn’t see how there was more than one Confed ship in the Badlands. But the data—and his gut—told him that ship was Dauntless. He’d developed a healthy respect for that ship and her captain…and a seething hatred. Besides, he’d added ten ships to Beaufort’s fleet and only taken four away. The Presidium would erupt like a volcano when his colleagues discovered that he’d released the strategic reserve—and forged their approvals to do it—but that was tomorrow’s problem, and one he was sure he could handle if his action had gained an ancient battleship.
Four ships had seemed like enough to handle Dauntless no matter what. He’d analyzed it every way he could…and then he’d sent the extra ships anyway. Tyler Barron had caused him too much trouble…and it was long past time to blow the man, and his cursed ship, to plasma.
He looked over toward the command station. Then, after a moment of thoughtful silence, he said, “Admiral Beaufort, the faith and confidence of the Union and its people are with you now. Lead your fleet, sir. You may commence the attack.”
* * *
Sara Eaton was silent, staring at the small screen on her workstation. She avoided looking out at the main 3D display tank in the center of Intrepid’s bridge, mostly because it was hard for her to look that way without seeing the first officer’s station out of the corner of her eye.
She’d lost one first officer in the Battle of Arcturon. James Vargus had been her number two since the moment she’d stepped onto Intrepid’s bridge, and his loss had hurt her deeply. But, against all odds, she’d become even closer to Vargus’s replacement. Heinrich Nordstrom had not only been a top notch executive officer, he’d been a friend. And now, he too was dead.
She knew she had to get a grip. The captain of one of the Confederation’s line battleships couldn’t allow the deaths of crew members—any crew members—to interfere with her operations. But it didn’t help that, with all the repairs that had to be done, there hadn’t been time yet to clean the stain Nordstrom’s blood had left all around his shattered chair.
“Longsword squadron has completed their patrol circuit, Captain. They are requesting permission to land.”
Taylor Johns was a fine officer, and she was sure he would be an excellent exec…if she could just get to the point where the sound of his voice coming from Nordstrom’s semi-repaired station didn’t cut into her like a knife in the chest.
“Launch Black Helm squadron first…then the Longswords can land.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“And tell the bay I want those ships refit and ready in record time. We’re on point here, and if Union ships start pouring through that transit point, we’ll be the first to engage. We need to be ready.”
“Yes, Captain Eaton.” Johns had been respectful, almost reverent. Eaton was sure her new second was well aware of her feelings. One of the effects of raw grief was a tendency to be a bit hard on others. She knew Johns hadn’t had anything to do with Nordstrom’s death, but he’d moved up in rank because of it, and some part of her—one she wasn’t very proud of—resented him for it. She knew it wasn’t fair, and she was sure she’d get over it…but she couldn’t deny that was how she felt.
Nordstrom was a terrible loss, a deeply painful and personal one, but the tragedy could have been even worse. For a few terrible moments after the enemy fighter had rammed Intrepid, Eaton had thought her ship was lost. The hit had knocked out power and thrust, and the battleship had been left floating dead in space. But the Union AI had miscalculated, waited a millisecond too long to convert the warheads the fighter carried to plasmas. Intrepid took the kinetic impact, and perhaps half the reaction mass converted. Bad, but not as disastrous as it could have been. If the enemy line had been following up the fighter strike, Intrepid would have been lost for sure, but there were no Union forces left in the system, and within two hours Commander Merton and his people had restored partial power and enough thrust for basic maneuvering. Over the next few days her people had worked nonstop, and they’d managed to put the tortured ship into something vaguely resembling operational condition.
Intrepid’s primaries were so much scrap, and nothing short of six months in spacedock would change that, if the spinal mount system could be fixed at all. Half her secondaries were lumps of twisted and melted metal. But she still carried working weapons, and half her fighters remained. In any reasonable circumstances, she’d have been sent to the rear for repairs, but Admiral Striker didn’t have a ship to spare. Not if the Confederation was going to hold Grimaldi. So, the orders had come down for Intrepid to remain in the line.
Eaton had felt a moment of resentment, realizing that her people would be in that much more danger in any fight to come. It wouldn’t take much to cripple Intrepid again, and being helpless in the middle of a major fleet action was decidedly unhealthy. She felt
, for a few moments at least, that her crew was being deemed expendable. But Admiral Striker was a good man, and she knew he’d only kept Intrepid in the line because he needed her there. Because the Confederation needed her there.
“Black Helms launched, Captain. Longswords commencing landing oper…” Johns’s voice stopped abruptly.
Eaton’s head snapped around, overcoming her earlier reluctance to look at the exec’s station. Something was wrong.
“Captain,” Johns said, “we’re getting energy readings from the transwarp point.” He looked up from his scope, turning back to face Eaton. “Massive readings. If I had to guess, I’d say we’ve got one hell of an enemy fleet about to come through.”
Eaton nodded slowly and took a deep breath. “Red alert, Commander Johns. All personnel to battlestations.”
“Yes, Captain. Red alert.”
Intrepid’s battered bridge was bathed in the red glow of the battlestations lamps. Eaton felt a deep exhaustion, a grinding fatigue at the nightmare of war. For more than a year her ship had been in the thick of the fight, and there was no end in sight. Nothing but more war…and now a battle she had expected, but had somehow hoped to avoid nevertheless.
“Scramble all fighters, Commander. Advise the launch bay I want the Longswords’ ships refueled and ready to launch as soon as possible after they land.” Her voice was hard, terse.
“Yes, Captain.”
Eaton just nodded curtly, scolding herself as she did. You’ve got to stop punishing Johns because he’s not Nordstrom…
