Echoes of Glory (Blood on the Stars Book 4)

by Jay Allan

  “Yes, Captain.” She paused perhaps a second or two, looking Barron over. He figured she was debating whether to argue for him to stay in sickbay. But whatever thoughts had drifted through her mind, she just nodded and headed toward the door, pulling the comm unit to her face and snapping out a series of sharp orders as she disappeared into the corridor. “Lieutenant, bring us to red alert. Scramble all squadrons. Bring reactor output to full power…”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Fortress Sentinel-2

  Orbiting Planet Varena, Cilian System

  Year 61 (310 AC)

  Vennius sat at the edge of the bed, looking down at the frail, emaciated form lying there. The Imperatrix had been a tall woman in her day, muscular, in every essence an image of the Palatian warrior. But age and wounds and despair had worn her down to almost nothing. Vennius had been hounding the medical staff for weeks, driving them to do all they could. They had healed her wounds, though it was clear now to Vennius, watching as she drifted in and out of an unsettled sleep, that the strength that had driven her for so long was almost gone. For the first time, he began to fear that his quest to save the Alliance’s rightful ruler were for naught, that she was too weak. That he would watch her die in this bed.

  What would he do if that happened? He had lost friends and loved ones before…he would endure the personal pain. But she was the Alliance’s legitimate leader. What would his resistance be without her?

  It will be exactly what it is now. You fight for her, but also much, much more. The Alliance is not the Imperatrix. It is not you, nor Calavius, nor any thousand of its warriors. It must endure, and you cannot allow it to become the possession of a man driven mad by ego and ambition, or, worse even, the puppet of a regime as contemptible as the Union.

  Still, despite the thoughts, he felt lost, alone. He had many fine officers who had rallied to him, but without the Imperatrix taking command, so much of the responsibility had fallen to him. He had done what he could, but he was uncertain he was strong enough. They were all looking to him to lead them, to find a way to win. To save the Alliance. And he knew he was far likelier to lead them to death than an honorable victory.

  His mind wrestled with dark thoughts. It was unthinkable that the Alliance he knew should die, that the span of its existence could be shorter than a man’s life. Calavius would continue to call the domains he led the Alliance, of course, but in every way that mattered, the nation Vennius loved, and had served his whole life, would be dead.

  He looked back at the Imperatrix. Perhaps it would be merciful if she died. What could it serve for her, who fought for her peoples’ freedom, who saw her nation rise from subjugation to power and domination, to watch all she had fought and bled for destroyed? I will do all I can, Flavia, my dear friend…I will fight to the last of my strength. He shook his head slowly. But I don’t think it will be enough…

  The klaxons sounded. He turned with a start, reaching for his comm unit even as Cassius’s voice blared through. “Commander Vennius, Commander Egilius reports vessels emerging from tranwarp point one. Unidentified, but presumed hostile.”

  “I’m on my way, Commander. All stations are to prepare for battle. Commander Egilius is to scout the incoming force and report back as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  Vennius stood where he was, feeling as though he should do more. But there was nothing else to do, not yet. Egilius commanded the fleet, and the last thing he needed was Vennius meddling in petty tactical decisions. The base crew was well-trained, and he knew Commander Cassius was more than capable of running his station.

  Despite the almost unbearable weight on his shoulders, Vennius felt almost like an ornament, an officer of lofty rank with nothing much to do except watch…watch to see if his cause survived, or if it died under the guns of his enemy.

  * * *

  “It is time.” Calavius sat in the conference space that had been transformed into a makeshift throne room as he addressed the fleet he had led to the Cilian system. It was the first time in half a century that an Imperator of the Alliance commanded his fleet into battle, since the earliest days of Palatia’s wave of conquest. For all the desperate battles, and the thousands dead on so many worlds, the Alliance had never faced total war before.

  After its warriors had poured forth from their newly-freed homeworld to take vengeance on their former masters, none had been able to match them. A warrior’s struggle on an enemy planet, the trials of a ship or even a fleet fighting a capable foe…it was upon those things the Alliance’s warrior culture was built, and none doubted the pain and suffering endured by its fighters. But as a nation, once established, it had never faced a war that truly challenged it, where defeat was a real fear.

  But now Calavius, Imperator to some, black traitor to others, knew defeat was a possibility. He had the advantage, certainly, and his ego was largely in control now. But in the recesses of his mind, he knew the stuff from which Vennius was made, and for all he now hated and despised his former friend, there was realization, at least some portion that remained, that it would be a titanic struggle to destroy his enemy. That numbers alone would not be enough. That was why he was there, on Perigrinus, leading his fleet…because he knew, through all the self-aggrandizement and the fealty he had accepted from so many hundreds of officers, that he could still lose this war.

  He waved his hand to the officer standing alongside the communications panel, and a moment later, the technician said, “You are live, Your Supremacy.”

  Calavius looked straight ahead. He was clad in a full-dress uniform, hastily modified to create the grand look he felt befitted him in his new rank.

  “My warriors, I speak to you now as we move forward, into battle. This struggle is different from those we have endured over the years. We fight fellow Palatians, this time—traitors, warriors we once held as our brothers and sisters, who have lost their honor and loyalty. Who have made themselves our enemies.”

  Lille stood quietly against the far wall, watching as Calavius addressed the fleet. Ideally, Lille would have found a more grounded officer, but there were unfortunate tendencies among those susceptible to such persuasion, and any who were likely to accept his aid suffered from the same flaws as Calavius. Lille used their egos to gain their cooperation, but then he had to endure them during the actual operations…and do what he could to ensure megalomania didn’t derail success.

  “I urge you all to put aside any remembrance of those who have turned traitor. The warrior who fought at your side years ago but now stands with the vile Vennius is your enemy. Do not doubt that, not for an instant. Strike him down, as you would any foe. Nothing is so detestable as a traitor. Go forward, win the victory…and secure the Alliance for centuries to come.”

  Lille nodded, to himself as much as anything. He’d offered to help Calavius write his address, but the Imperator had said he would do it himself. And he’d done a respectable job. Enough to lift the morale of those following him, to help divert any hesitancy they had about fighting old friends.

  Probably, at least. That is always difficult.

  Lille had always felt different than most people, even from the days when he was pulling himself from the streets and beginning his rise to wealth and comfort. He didn’t crave political power, like most of his peers in the Union, at least no more than was necessary to ensure his personal comfort and protect himself. He had an ego, he supposed, but not one that got out of control. Indeed, his mind was typically far more often focused on ways he could fail than on confidence of success.

  He lacked the sense of camaraderie people seemed to feel so strongly. He enjoyed being alone. He had minions to support his efforts, but that was their sole purpose to him. He did not begrudge them their own rewards for service well done, but neither did he unduly mourn them when they were killed. His servants existed to do his menial chores, his lovers for sex, his contacts among the powerful to secure his position.

  Gaston…he is a friend. Villieneu
ve was one of the few people for whom he had genuine emotion. But even that only went so far. The two were friends, of a sort at least, but they were also an excellent team. Lille wondered what would remain if he stripped away the patronage, the desire to perform a job well, the mutual protection the two men offered each other. Is there something else there? Or is that just more of the foolishness people heap upon things?

  He looked up at Calavius, sitting on his—why not call it what it is…a throne? There was no feeling there, at least, no loyalty, and, indeed, very little basic respect. The new ruler of the Alliance was a tool, one he would dispose of if it became useless. But you are not useless, not yet. Win this battle now, Calavius…crush Vennius so that we may rally the rest of the fleet and invade the Confederation.

  As soon as the main comm line was shut down, he moved to the center of the room, looking right at the man he’d maneuvered to within a hair’s breadth of total control of the Alliance. Calavius had rallied his troops, and now Lille would do the same.

  “Well said, Calavius. You have come far and struggled hard. Let this be the last battle, the first glorious victory of your reign. With one blow here, you can secure your rule.” A short pause. “Lead your fleet…lead it to victory.”

  * * *

  “The line will advance.” Brutus Egilius sat in his command chair on Bellator’s bridge, looking forward, his face cold, almost like his visage had been chiseled from marble. The enemy ships had stopped coming through the transwarp point. Fourteen battleships. It was a large force, a powerful one, and it was supported by more than forty smaller vessels. It was enough to crush his fleet, to sweep forward and blast Sentinel-2 to atoms.

  He had analyzed the tactical situation, reviewed an endless series of possible battle plans…but in the end, he knew. His forces would lose. He could give speeches, rally his warriors, as he already had, but he couldn’t fool himself. The battle was virtually hopeless.

  Not that it matters…

  Egilius was a Palatian warrior in every way. He would find victory if it was possible, make any sacrifice to attain it. But even in the face of certain defeat, he would fight to the end. There was nowhere for his fleet to retreat, no option to fall back and regroup. Commander Vennius had understood that from the beginning, and he’d made it clear to his fleet commander. Left with no option save certain death in battle or surrendering, calling upon the mercy of the enemy, Egilius’s choice was made. It was no choice at all. If he could not have victory, he would have an honorable death…and he would kill as many of his enemies as possible before they took him down.

  “Interceptor squadrons about to engage approaching enemy fighters, sir. Bomber squadrons are ten thousand kilometers behind.”

  “Very well. The bombers are to remain back until the interceptors are fully engaged.” Egilius was taking a chance. He’d had a much higher percentage of his fighters equipped for anti-shipping strikes than normal. It would make the fight that much tougher on his interceptor squadrons, but there was no way around that. Something had to give. His battleships couldn’t win a fight outnumbered more than two to one by vessels of the same types, crewed by men and women with identical training. If his bombers could get through in enough force to cut those odds, it just might make a difference. Even one worth the hell into which he was casting his massively outnumbered interceptors.

  “All squadrons confirm, Commander. Lead interceptor squadrons now engaging.”

  Egilius flashed a glance at his aide. Metus was as much a warrior as he, but here was a difference. It was far easier, Egilius found, to commit to a fight to the death for oneself, and much more difficult to lead others there. Especially those like Metus, loyal, steadfast, admirable. Bellator’s executive officer deserved better than to die in a lost effort, blasted to bits by those who had once served alongside him. But that was likely the fate that awaited him. That awaited both of them.

  He wondered if Vennius felt the same way, if he was on Sentinel-2 now, resigned to his own fight to the finish while feeling the weight of leading so many there with him. Perhaps this is part of command, something thousands who came before me felt. Regardless, he found it the most difficult part of the desperate fight, one that dug at him more, even, than the fear.

  He stared up at the screen, watching as the fighters engaged. His interceptors were outnumbered four to one right now, and they would have to hold, somehow…at least until the squadrons from the base arrived. Sentinel-2’s wings wouldn’t even the score, not even close, but they would help.

  His eyes moved to the side, to the cloud representing Dauntless’s fighters. His Alliance warrior’s pride made it difficult for him to admit that the Confederation wings were superior to his own. He tried to write it off to better technology, which was certainly true, though he knew there was more at play. Dauntless was the most famous ship in the Confederation navy, and her squadrons boasted not just the top ace in their fleet, five of the top ten. Captain Barron’s squadrons were an elite tool, a killing machine on par with the reaper’s sickle. Egilius resented the thought that his allies were more capable than his own people in any way…but he was damned glad the Confeds were on his side.

  He watched as the dogfight increased in size and ferocity. His people were holding out, somehow, taking down as many of the enemy as they lost themselves. That was losing math for an outnumbered force, of course, but it was still an excellent performance for vastly outgunned squadrons.

  “Optiomagis, the battle line is to extend itself. Move to forty thousand kilometer intervals between capital ships.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  He didn’t like spreading his forces so thin, but it was better than being outflanked on both sides. He had half his escorts ships deployed between the battleships, struggling to plug the great holes and prevent enemy forces from swarming his big ships. The other half were deployed to each end of the line, as badly outnumbered as the fighters in the center, and tasked with buying as much time as possible before the enemy’s light forces broke through, and took the battle line from the flank and rear.

  His eyes were on the display, fixed on the approaching enemy line, when four of the battleships on the extreme left began to move away from the main force. He was confused at first, concerned it might be some kind of flanking maneuver. But then he saw it. They were moving directly toward Dauntless. The Confederation battleship had drawn more than its share of attention.

  His first instinct was to divert a portion of his own line, to match the enemy maneuver…but he remained silent. The diversion of almost thirty percent of the enemy’s heavy vessels created an opportunity to meet the others with less onerous odds than he’d faced moments before. He’d sent his own interceptors against a similar ratio, for comparable purposes. Dauntless would have a difficult time facing four battleships, but perhaps she could buy the time he needed. His ships would still be outnumbered, but it was the best chance they were likely to get.

  “The line will accelerate forward, Optiomagis. Acceleration at 5g. All gunnery stations ready to engage as soon as we enter range.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  Egilius looked back at the small blue circle representing Dauntless. The Confeds had answered Vennius’s call and sent their famous battleship to his aid. Dauntless’s reputation alone was proving useful, provoking an overreaction from Calavius’s fleet. Egilius had been doubtful that one Confederation ship—any ship—could alter the situation appreciably, but now he wondered if he’d been wrong.

  Perhaps they can make a difference, after all. Though they may pay dearly in doing so…

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  CFS Dauntless

  Cilian System

  Deep in the Alliance

  Year 310 AC

  “Enemy battleships closing rapidly, Captain. Primaries charged and ready to fire as they enter range.” Travis was staring across the bridge at Barron as he exited the lift and strode to his chair. The bridge crew was at full alert, but seasoned veterans that they were, every
eye was on the captain. They’d all been told he was okay, that he’d be reporting to the bridge shortly, but Barron suspected that was the kind of thing most of them had to see to truly believe.

  “Very well, Commander.” Barron slid his chair around and sat down, his eyes moving to the main display. Still four ships heading our way. I guess we do have a reputation in the Alliance.

  Barron knew the attention the enemy was paying to his ship was helping to give Vennius’s people a chance, but it put a lot of pressure on his crew. They had bested this many capital ships at Chrysallis, but there had been considerable luck at play there as well as skill…and those had been Union vessels. These were Alliance ships, and though they were supporting Vennius’s rival, they were still from the same service that had produced Katrine Rigellus and her crew.

  He hoped his people wouldn’t draw false confidence from their engagement out in the Badlands. Memories of the titanic struggle with Invictus should temper any cockiness, but only half his crew had been there for that vicious battle. The others were replacements, some filling in for those who had been transferred, but mostly, for those who had died or been seriously wounded in combat.

  Travis had commed him while he was on his way to the bridge to tell him what Dauntless faced. But even for him, it hadn’t seemed real, not until now, sitting on his bridge, staring at the display.

  “We will maintain fire with primaries until the enemy is in range of secondaries…then we will switch to laser fire.” Dauntless’s particle accelerator primaries were deadly weapons, and even more so at short range, but they were very slow firing, taking over two minutes to charge compared to fifteen to twenty seconds for the laser batteries. The newer units had proven to be more durable than the old ones, but the charging time was a function of the vast amount of power required, and had not improved much. The upgrades had shaved perhaps ten seconds, but the primaries soaked up virtually every watt of power available, effectively shutting down the secondaries. And there was no way Dauntless could fight four Alliance battleships by shooting once every two minutes.