by Jay Allan
He hoped to avoid battle, at least this far out, away from Vennius’s stronghold. He’d agreed completely when Corpus had suggested he made the entreaty, but it didn’t take too much analysis to realize the exchange was not going well.
“The Imperatrix is dead, Commander Corpus…murdered on the orders of Tarkus Vennius. The traitor has been stripped of his offices and ranks, and he and his followers have been trapped. The Imperator has sent forces to destroy Vennius and his band of traitors.”
“Imperator! There is no Imperator. And no one killed the Imperatrix. She is alive, and under the protection of Commander Vennius. You must listen to me!”
“I have been warned that Vennius adherents might attempt to suborn me. Do you have any proof of what you say? No, none. You simply offer your word, even as you enter Alliance space alongside a Confederation battleship. I was told Vennius had conspired with the Confederation, that he had killed the Imperatrix at their behest, but I could not believe it. Yet, here you are, along with a foreign warship, championing his cause. You are a traitor, Corpus, and your death will be a cleansing.” The line went dead.
Barron didn’t wait for Corpus’s communication. The effort to avoid conflict had failed. There was nothing left now but to win it. “Launch all fighters.”
“Yes, sir.” Travis turned back to her station. “Control, launch all fighters.”
“Acknowledged, Commander.” Barron could hear Stara Sinclair’s voice blaring through Travis’s speaker. Sinclair had been the heart and soul of Dauntless’s launch control section for as long as he’d been captain, but he’d finally made it official, along with the launch director’s title and a lieutenant commander’s insignia. Dauntless had the best fighter squadrons in the fleet, but it was easy to focus on the hotshot pilots and ignore the vital support staff that helped make them the deadly force they were in battle.
“Engines at fifty percent…5g acceleration. Full evasive maneuvers.” He was far outside any plausible firing range, but he wasn’t about to take any chances. His battle with Invictus hadn’t revealed any Alliance weapons as long-ranged as Dauntless’s primaries, but that was hardly conclusive. Better to be cautious, even if it meant a rougher ride into the fight.
“Engines ready, Captain…prepared to engage on your command.”
Barron sat quietly for a few seconds. Six months in paradise, a taste of a life of peace…and now I’m back here, staring into the burning eyes of death once again.
“Engage engines, Commander. Take us in.”
* * *
Stockton climbed into his cockpit, his leg freezing in place for a second before he forced it down. Jake “Raptor” Stockton was the fleet’s leading ace, widely regarded as the deadliest pilot ever to have launched into combat. It was almost as if he’d been born in a fighter, and he’d never felt quite as comfortable anywhere else as he always had in his sleek, deadly machine. But that had all been before.
Before his ship had crashed. Before the flames had engulfed his body. He could remember the agony, the astonishing torment of the fire. Stockton had always been the ultimate survivor, one who thought he would fight to the last and never surrender, but writhing in the twisted, half-melted wreckage of his ship, all he’d wanted was death. Anything to end the pain.
He hadn’t died. Against all odds, he’d survived. Stu Weldon, Dauntless’s chief surgeon, had saved him. Somehow. The procedure had been impossible outside a class one medical facility at a base, certainly nothing that could have been done on a ship in battle in the middle of the Badlands. But Weldon had indeed done the impossible, and despite the pain, and the long convalescence, Stockton had to admit he was fully recovered. At least physically.
He leaned back in his seat, reaching out for the fighter’s controls. His eyes were focused on his shaking hands as he willed with all he had—unsuccessfully—to steady them. Stockton had a reputation for fanatical bravery, and his exploits were spoken of on every ship of the fleet. But since the day he’d been cleared to return to duty, he couldn’t even walk into the launch bay without a pit of fear yawning in his gut.
He flipped the switches on the control panel, feeding power to his engines, readying for launch. He remembered past missions, sitting, waiting for the order to go…the excitement, the anticipation. Now there was nothing but cold fear. All he wanted was to pop the cockpit and climb out, run back to his quarters. The thoughts disgusted him, and he hated himself. But he couldn’t force them away.
“Blue squadron, you are cleared to launch.” It was Stara’s voice, solid, confident…and far more to him. At least it had been more. Since he’d been released from the hospital he’d been moody, grim, closed off. He knew that, and he’d sworn he’d get a grip on himself, but he just didn’t know how. He couldn’t understand why she still put up with him, how she countered his callous indifference with continued compassion and understanding. He was more amazed by her than he’d ever been, and less able to show it.
He grabbed the throttle and then he hesitated. He’d been shaky enough in training runs and patrols, but this was the first time he was going into battle since the crash. The cool, deadly fighter he’d been was gone. In its place was a sweating, scared wreck of a man, his veneer of invincibility shattered by what had happened almost nine months before.
“Blue squadron,” Stara’s voice repeated, “you are clear to launch.”
All Stockton had to do was pull back on the throttle and blast his ship’s thrusters. The rest of the squadron would key off his moves and follow him. But that simple act, something he had done hundreds of times, now seemed insurmountable. Slowly, steadily, he steeled himself to the task. Then, with one burst of determination, he did it.
He was slammed back in his chair, the g forces pressing against him. He tried to focus, to reconnect with what had once made him the deadliest pilot in the war. He cursed the self-indulgence of his recent behavior, and he warred with himself to get back to where he’d once been. It was bad enough to sulk around the ship, answer Stara’s affection with anger, ignore his closest friends…but if he didn’t pull it together out here, he would get people killed. His people.
His hand tightened on the controls, and he brought the fighter around, moving toward the cluster of enemy ships on his screen. Dauntless had the edge in this fight, outmassing its opponent, and likely outclassing it too, though Stockton remembered enough from Santis not to underestimate Alliance adversaries. Don’t treat these people like Union pilots…they will be much better. Much more dangerous.
His fingers moved over the comm controls. He knew his people had to be worried about him. He’d tried to hide his fear, and for a time, he’d convinced himself he had. But now, he began to see things more clearly. His people knew him well, and they were perceptive. He remembered a dozen recent moments, seemingly chance encounters in the corridors, and he realized they had been probing him, trying to reach him, to help him. How blind could I be?
Enough. You are Jake Stockton. Raptor. This fighter is your arms, your legs, part of you.
He willed with all he could muster to regain his old focus. It worked, to a point, but still, in the background were the flames, the searing hot, vicious chemical fire that had charred his flesh. The pain, indescribable, so much so that he knew his recollections fell woefully short.
“Blue squadron, form up on me. It’s time to get back to work.” He tried to keep his voice as calm, as steady as it had always been. He came closer than he had in the last few weeks, but he could tell the difference…and he knew his veteran pilots could too.
He knew also, that as good as they were, if he was less than he had been, more of them would die. He fed on that, tried to bolster himself. But he knew “Raptor” Stockton was gone…and that he wouldn’t return. Not until the flames were banished from his mind.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Excerpt from the Inaugural Speech of Imperator Etticus Gratian Calavius Altudis (“The Pretender”)
It was with heavy heart that I moved to do what was
done, and nothing short of the sacred call to save the Alliance could have forced me to such action. Tarkus Vennius was my dearest friend, yet even friendship cannot stay the hand of the loyal Palatian in the face of treason. I received my decorations and my final military rank from the hand of the Imperatrix, and at the time my heart swelled with pride. Yet, she too, in age and dotage, abandoned her people. She left no choice to those of us who would preserve the nation our fathers and mothers forged from the chains of their bondage.
I call upon you now, all those who overcame the pain and did what had to be done. Raise your hands high, hold your heads like Palatian warriors, and fight—against those among us who chose treason, and against all foreign powers. I, for my part, promise to lead, to sacrifice whatever I must to ensure that our children—and their children—inherit an Alliance as strong and proud as we did. The Alliance forever.
And let us never forget the simple maxim, the words handed to us, so simple, yet so deep in meaning. The way is the way…
Imperial Palace
Victorum, Alliance Capital City
Astara II, Palatia
Year 61 (310 AC)
“You did the right thing…Your Supremacy.” Ricard was an accomplished spy, an assassin without equal, but even his iron control almost failed him. He’d urged Calavius to move forward with the proclamation naming him Imperator, despite his own doubts about proceeding while the Imperatrix and Vennius were still at large, but he was still uncomfortable with the whole thing. The consolidation of power was still shaky, and he suspected many in the Alliance fleet and army were paying lip service only to the new regime. He’d done all he could, his staff bribing and blackmailing as many officers of note as they could manage, but the whole plan had been based on the lack of viable opposition. And Vennius, sitting at Sentinel-2, certainly qualified as opposition. If he was still too weak to be considered “viable,” that could change at any moment.
“I did,” Calavius replied. His arrogance that seemed to have increased exponentially after the Council, with armed soldiers standing along the walls of the Great Hall, officially deposed the Imperatrix and named him the Alliance’s new ruler. Ricard contrasted the man in front of him with a panicked Calavius, overwrought over news that the first expedition he’d sent had been repulsed by Vennius’s forces. He’d had to talk Calavius into proceeding with the coronation, and now the newly-official ruler walked around the room like history’s greatest conqueror.
The Union spy had decided moving forward was the best option, or more specifically, the likeliest to result in the outcome he desired. Destroying Vennius would have been ideal, of course, but failing that, a war against the Confederation declared by the new Imperator would suffice. Those unwilling to blindly follow Calavius, or to raise their weapons against Vennius, would find it far more difficult to remain on the sidelines when a foreign war beckoned. When the Alliance forces moved against the Confeds, Vennius and his small fleet would become irrelevant. More than irrelevant. Forcing Vennius to operate against Alliance forces engaged in a war with the Confederation would turn other officers and spacers against him, men and women who might otherwise support his cause.
Ricard’s thoughts drifted to Calavius and the now-deposed Commander-Maximus. He had always suspected Vennius was far the superior of the two men, much more capable than his now-estranged friend. Now, of course, after the events of the past few weeks, he was sure of that. But none of it mattered. Tarkus Vennius had been a brutal warrior during his career, but nevertheless, he was that rarest of mythical beasts…an honest man. No amount of urging or bribery could have turned him against the Imperatrix, nor convinced him to support the Union. So, there had been no real choice. Ricard had been compelled to choose the lesser of the two…and turn him into a winner.
He had hoped at first, for a brief instant, that Vennius might be open to his appeal. The Alliance’s fleet commander been close to Katrine Rigellus, very close, and Tyler Barron had defeated her. Killed her. Revenge, rage, resentment…they were powerful tools, and ones Ricard was an expert in wielding. But then he’d come to truly understand the Alliance’s bizarre culture. Yes, Vennius hated Barron for killing his friend, almost his daughter…but he respected the captain for the very same reason. Dauntless’s victory over Invictus made Vennius less likely to oppose the Confederation, not more, and for all his personal pain at the loss of Rigellus, Barron’s victory had increased Vennius’s esteem for Dauntless, and for her captain.
“We must discuss next steps…Your Supremacy.”
“Next steps…there is but one step before all others. That traitor Vennius must be killed.”
“Yes, of course, but we must also move against the Confederation while the time is ripe, before they are able to deploy newly-built ships to the border.”
“I will honor my promises to you, Mr. Ricard. After Tarkus Vennius is dead.”
Ricard noted Calavius had ceased to include the Imperatrix in his demands for Vennius’s death. He didn’t fool himself that there was anything substantive to that. Calavius needed the Imperatrix—the former Imperatrix, Ricard reminded himself—killed, perhaps even more than Vennius. But having taken the scepter himself, he seemed to have developed a distaste for the subject of regicide.
Ricard held back a sigh. He had planned the entire coup. It was his tactical capability, not Calavius’s that had led to the Imperator’s palace. And yet, here he was, arguing to be heard, to be listened to. I could take this all away from you, Calavius, and I will do just that if you double cross me…
Ricard had only come to the Alliance because Villieneuve had asked him to, because the Union was in danger of falling onto the defensive in the face of massive Confederation production. But it was only after he’d arrived that he realized how important his mission truly was. Alliance culture had been based on a sort of tunnel-vision, a reaction to their history of subjugation and enslavement that bordered on the fanatical. The early Alliance had faced mostly independent planets and small, loose federations, none of which had been able to stand up to the zeal and energy of the liberated Palatians and the warrior culture they had created. But now, the Alliance was on the verge of coming into contact with larger entities, such as the Confederation and the Union.
Their hard-edged creed led to an insistence that they could face any enemy, and any who suggested otherwise were in danger of being called cowards or traitors. Yet, Ricard could see there were those in the Alliance’s upper echelons who had begun to understand that its future must include allies and cooperation. The Imperatrix had been cautious about committing to his proposals three years before, and he suspected Vennius, too, saw the need for the Alliance’s intractable ways to change. He could even see the Commander-Maximus bringing the Alliance closer to the Confederation. Another reason why Vennius needed to die. Soon.
“I will continue to supply the resources you need, Your Supremacy…” Remind him he is still dependent on your funding. He may have officers hesitantly taking his orders, but he is far from having control of the full revenues of the Alliance government. “There is another vessel on its way with more coin.” Which I wasn’t entirely sure Gaston could procure. He was impressed, and more than a little surprised, at the truly staggering amount of money his commander and friend had managed to deliver. Neither he nor Villieneuve had been prepared for just how much subverting the Alliance government would cost. They may be warriors, but the asceticism of their fathers and mothers is long gone. Hardly an officer he had suborned had not negotiated and renegotiated, walking away with two or three times what Ricard had thought would do the deed.
Ricard looked at Calavius, and he allowed a bit more forcefulness into his voice. “But I have superiors to whom I must answer. We have provided an extraordinary amount of funding and aid, and I must have something to show for all of that.”
“You have the word of the Imperator of the Alliance, Mr. Ricard. That should be sufficient to satisfy your masters.”
Ricard noted the imperious tone, and the d
isrespect implicit in replacing his word, ‘superiors’ with ‘masters,’ but his discipline held, and he didn’t react. “Of course, your word is of tremendous value, Your Supremacy. But there is more than trust at play here. There is timing. There is urgency. We have extended our hand in friendship, helped you in eliminating the traitors from your government. Now, we need your promised aid. If the Confederation is able to survive the war, even secure a favorable peace, there can be little doubt they will next look in your direction.” Ricard knew his words were pure fiction. The last thing the undisciplined, spoiled masses in the Confederation would tolerate was an offensive war, one waged for conquest instead of defense. But he was betting that Calavius’s Alliance training would make it impossible for him to imagine any nation not exploiting an advantage against a neighbor.
“You say that your people cannot fight their war without our assistance. And, as I have promised, we will aid you. We will invade the Confederation, and we shall destroy their fleets. We will avenge Invictus, and we will seize their worlds. Their people will serve the Alliance.”
Ricard didn’t reply at first. Even before the Union had gone to war with the Confederation, he’d expected the Confederation to be a tough enemy, though he’d held his tongue. Yet, even his own caution had proven inadequate. The Confederation forces fought with great courage and ferocity. He suspected Calavius would learn the lesson he’d failed to absorb from Invictus’s defeat…that the Confederation was far more dangerous than it appeared.
He kept his discipline, held back the smile he felt pushing its way out. That would be perfect, of course, Alliance fleets, arrogant from decades of victory against lesser opponents, running right into brand new Confederation battleships. The Palatians would get a chance to test their courage and their image of themselves as warriors, and when all was finished, the Confederation would be destroyed by a two-front war, and the Union forces would then advance…and they would crush a weakened Alliance fleet. A war between the Alliance and the Confederation was likely to be a holocaust, and Calavius would rule over a nation riddled with the scars of dissension remaining from the coup. When both nations had fallen, the Union would be supreme, and the rest of the cluster would fall like overripe fruit.
