The question hung in the air, and everyone in the room turned their gazes on James.
“So be it, then,” he said softly. “Prepare the fleet to move out. It seems we have a message to deliver to the Star Chamber.
“We will save the Commonwealth. With or without them!”
The civilian prison platform that Kyle and his people had been delivered to was significantly more comfortable than he’d been expecting. It had the same security features as the military POW platforms he’d once sent his Marines to liberate—dual hull structure with a vacuum “moat”, automated security, armed garrisons—but the fixtures in the internal prison area were much more comfortable.
The main “prison yard” area of the station even had trees. While there was no space specifically set aside for Wiccans, there were enough of Kyle’s coreligionists among the several thousand Alliance prisoners that a small copse had been unofficially designated.
He was sitting cross-legged in that copse in the plain gray jumpsuit they all wore now, meditating on a portable electric light—there were no candles inside the prison segment, so he made do as best he could—when he was interrupted by one of the Marines who’d volunteered as “the Admiral’s bodyguard.”
Kyle didn’t think he needed a guard there, but it made that dozen men and women feel useful—and he could tell already that feeling useless was going to be quite common in there.
“Sir, one of the guards is asking for you,” she told him. “Apparently, the Marshal wants to speak to you.”
The prison was structured so that it could be run with tight control, prisoners secured in cells when not specifically allowed out, armed guards everywhere…or it could be run more openly, with the prisoners mostly moving around of their own accord but the accesses across the vacuum moat heavily guarded.
For POWs, they appeared to have chosen the latter.
“All right,” he told the Marine, carefully rising to his feet. “I suppose I should go see what our captor wants.”
He was escorted through the accessway into the outer station. None of the personnel he could see were Marines. Everyone was Niagara System Judicial Wardens, trained specialist prison officers.
The Wardens had some trouble adjusting to guarding POWs instead of criminals, but in the main, the NSJW’s people had taken the task on with aplomb.
It was a surprise, however, to realize that Walkingstick was out of uniform. Every time they’d encountered before, the Marshal had been wearing full uniform with his insignia and working decorations.
This time, Walkingstick wore a simple black shipsuit with no insignia. It wasn’t like insignia were necessary—there probably wasn’t a living soul for a hundred light-years who wouldn’t recognize him instantly—but it was unusual.
“Have a seat, Admiral,” he instructed, then glanced up at the Wardens.
“Leave us, ladies,” he ordered. “And turn off the recorders.”
“Of course.”
The guards withdrew.
“This is the last time we will meet, Admiral Roberts,” Walkingstick said quietly. “That’s not a threat,” he continued instantly as Kyle began to pull away from him. “It’s a statement of fact.
“Your freedom will be gained shortly,” he continued. “An ambassador for the Commonwealth is already heading to Alliance space to negotiate a cease-fire and, hopefully, a peace treaty. There is no question in anyone’s mind that the prompt and efficient return of all of our POWS as well as all occupied systems will be the minimum offer we can make.”
“Most likely, yes,” Kyle said carefully.
“That will be arranged between your government, the ambassador, and the NSJWs,” Walkingstick continued. “I am leaving.”
“So soon?” So late? In Walkingstick’s place, Kyle would have had his fleet in Sol already, pledging his undying allegiance to the central government and doing everything he could to keep the Commonwealth together.
But then, Kyle freely admitted he didn’t understand Terran politics.
“The choice is no longer mine,” the Marshal told him. “It falls to me now to convince my own government that the Commonwealth must be saved. Either they will see the light and save it…or I will find a way to save my nation without them.”
Kyle hid his wince. What Walkingstick was saying was quite close to what he’d been thinking, but suggested that the Commonwealth government might not be willing to believe the other man’s pledges of loyalty.
He definitely didn’t understand Terran politics.
“So, now what?” he asked.
“You and your people will remain here,” Walkingstick told him. “Once the ambassador has arranged for your release, presumably the Alliance will send someone to collect you.”
The Marshal shrugged.
“I have done all within my power to guarantee your safety and return,” he half-whispered. “I owe you that in exchange for justice for Kematian.”
“There are those who believe there has not been true justice for Kematian,” Kyle replied.
Walkingstick nodded.
“Oh, I know. You told me that yourself,” he reminded the Federation officer with a forced smile. “But I have a duty now. So do you.”
The Marshal extended his hand.
“I could hate you for what you planned and your people inflicted on my nation,” he said softly, the hand hanging unwavering in the air. “But the reverse is also true. We have done our duty. We shall see where it leads us both.”
Kyle hesitated for a few more seconds, then shook Walkingstick’s hand.
“I won’t wish you good luck,” he told the other man. “But…I understand.”
“That, Admiral Roberts, is all men like us can do for each other.”
48
Niagara System
06:00 November 14, 2737 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time
Alliance Seventh Fleet
Avalon blazed out of the Cherenkov radiation of her Alcubierre-Stetson emergence flash with every sensor online, Q-probes flashing from her probe bays and her first cycle of fighter launchers coming alive.
Vice Commodore Michelle Williams-Alvarez led her people into space, wave after wave of brand-new Reaper-type starfighters. Project Armada’s first product had hit mass production just in time for the freighters carrying ships out to Via Somnia to be packed full of the new ships.
The new bombers hadn’t arrived yet, but the newly repaired and refitted Seventh Fleet had been entirely reequipped with the eighth-generation starfighters. As a hundred starships flickered out of Alcubierre drive around Avalon, hundreds and then thousands of the tiny parasites flared out around them.
Between Forty-First and the Medusa fleets, two hundred and fifteen ships had been sent into Commonwealth space. Only a hundred had been fit for combat when Admiral Rothenberg had decided to move out immediately…but with the Reapers, that should be enough.
“Ma’am?” Eklund said slowly. “There’s no fleet here.”
She paused, studying the tactical feed.
One hundred Alliance carriers, battleships and cruisers had emerged from Alcubierre. A second wave of twenty assault transports and another four capital ships would arrive in about twelve hours.
And they were the only starships in the system. The immense fleet anchorage in orbit of Ontario was empty, though its fortresses and repair yards continued to glitter with electromagnetic radiation.
“Defenses are intact,” Eklund continued. “I’m reading dozens of fortresses and fighter platforms around the fleet base and the planet, but no warships at all. None of the Marine transports that should be here.
“Nothing.”
Michelle found herself chuckling at the ridiculousness of it all. They’d brought a fleet that could crush the eighty starships they knew Walkingstick had—and his fleet was gone. Completely.
“Well,” she said after a moment, “that was unexpected. What about the defenses?”
“They’re limited to lightspeed sensors,” Eklund pointed out. �
�They won’t know about our arrival for another forty seconds, and we won’t see their reaction for a couple of minutes after that.”
He smiled darkly.
“Best guess is that they have about three thousand Katanas and Longbows,” he noted. “They’re doomed.”
“I wonder if they’re prepared to accept the inevitable for once?” Michelle asked. “I’d rather not be in both the first and last battles of the damned war!”
Kyle was awoken by the sound of an argument right outside the door to the slightly nicer cell that his people had insisted become his quarters.
“If you do not stand aside, I will have the Wardens stun you,” an authoritative female voice barked. “I understand what you feel your responsibilities are, but I do not have time for this game!”
Since they were only issued the one style and type of garment, dressing had become entirely second nature after two weeks. By the time the speaker had finished threatening his bodyguards, Kyle was dressed and flinging open the door to his cell.
“What is going on?” he asked calmly.
A quartet of Wardens and two youthful men in carefully tailored black suits were standing off with the two Marines outside his door. Those two women might have been unarmed, but they certainly looked prepared to throw down with the Wardens and the…security detail?
The ninth person outside his door had probably been the speaker. She was a tall woman with a wide face that looked used to smiling and long dark hair, clad in a suit tailored almost identically to her security detail.
“I need to speak to you,” she barked at Kyle. “Your guards’ enthusiasm is commendable, but we have very little time if we are to avoid bloodshed!”
Kyle smiled cheerfully.
“I find myself suddenly extremely willing to hear you out, ma’am,” he told her. “Your office or mine?”
His feeble attempt at humor at least calmed his guards and earned him an appreciative nod from the Wardens.
“No bloodshed here,” she told him. “Come with me, Admiral Roberts.”
He shrugged at his guards and fell in behind her. The assorted security guards fell in behind them like the tail of a pair of comets as she led the way.
“I am Premier Jessica Nkele,” the dark-haired woman told him as they walked. “The elected representative of the people of Niagara. I answer, of course, to the Star Chamber of the Commonwealth.”
“I am surprised to see a system executive in my, ah, lack of office,” Kyle replied. “What do you need?”
“I need you to talk your people out of blowing my orbitals to hell,” she said flatly. “There’s an entire fleet heading towards my planet, and while I may not be a military woman, I can run the math between a hundred warships and thirty-six fortresses in my head.”
“Ah.” The Alliance was here, then. That was good news—but he could see Nkele’s concern. “You realize, of course, that we are still at war?”
“The ambassador was sent to negotiate a peace treaty,” she pointed out. “I am prepared to offer Niagara’s…parole, I think is the term?
“We won’t fight you and won’t participate in any future war against you. But your fleet will pick you up and leave. No fighting. No death.”
Kyle nodded slowly.
“Yeah. I can do that, Premier Nkele.”
Nkele led him across the vacuum moat and into a small office, then linked him into the station’s implant network.
“You should be able to send a message from here, yes?” she asked. “I assume you’ll want privacy?”
“If you would be so kind,” he agreed.
To his surprise, Nkele gestured for her guards to leave and exited the room with them. There was just him and his two self-assigned Marine bodyguards.
“You may as well be seated, troopers,” he told them. “Without q-coms, this could take a while.”
He fully accessed the station’s systems. Nkele was being true to her word—not only did he have communications access, he also had full access to the station’s sensors. He could see the massive armada bearing down on Ontario.
He didn’t feel particularly bad for the planet that had spent the last few years hosting the people determined to conquer his home nation, but…the war was over. He didn’t have it in him to let people die just because that news hadn’t made its way around yet.
Vice Admiral Kyle Roberts sighed and turned on the pickup.
“Alliance Fleet, this is Kyle Roberts,” he greeted them. “I assume I have been declared missing, presumed dead, but as you can see, I was taken prisoner by the Commonwealth.
“I have attached my level-one authentication sequences to this message. This channel is not secure enough for standard interrogations for level-two and higher authentications. My understanding is that the locals will happily deliver me to a vessel of your choice for those authentications.
“The Niagara System government does not want a battle today,” he continued. “Walkingstick has returned to Sol to deal with internal Commonwealth business—and there is an ambassador on their way to Alliance space to negotiate the end of the war.
“Which means that I don’t believe we want a battle today. The Premier has offered to release all Alliance POWs and offer the parole of the Niagara System.”
He smirked.
“For obvious reasons, I do not regard myself as empowered to negotiate on the Alliance’s behalf, but…I think her offer is genuine.
“And speaking merely for my own personal desire to no longer be a prisoner of war, I strongly recommend we take it.”
49
Castle System
12:00 November 26, 2737 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time
Castle Orbit
It was fitting to Kyle that he returned to Castle at the end of the war aboard Avalon. The big ship had been his first real command after the loss of her namesake, his first acting command. He was a passenger on her this time, but it was still the only ship he would have wanted to come home in.
The big carrier had docked with Merlin Orbital Four, giving him momentary flashbacks to returning from the Battle of Tranquility with the crippled old Avalon. He and his trio of guards—the Marines from the POW camp hadn’t given up the duty yet, and he’d used a little bit of the influence his stars gave him to get them a permanent assignment—were almost lost in the crowds as they boarded the station.
Six capital ships of the Castle Federation Space Navy had docked within minutes of each other, half of the dozen ships escorting liberated prisoners from Niagara home. The six military stations were going to see a massive amount of traffic over the next few weeks, too.
The news had been confirmed earlier that morning: Ambassador Hope Burns and the leadership of the Alliance had extended the initial cease-fire into a ten-year armistice to allow for careful negotiation of a longer-term peace treaty.
The war was over. So far as the civilians could tell, the Alliance had won.
Kyle had read the terms of the armistice agreement. The Alliance had won. Commonwealth forces would be withdrawn from all occupied Alliance systems. The independence of Presley was recognized. Via Somnia was officially a joint Castle Federation–Coraline Imperium protectorate.
It was all over.
And he was struggling through the crowds, trying to find a specific set of faces. There were too many people there, and even his stars and Marines only bought him so much space. Mira was supposed to be there, but he couldn’t find her.
“Admiral!” a familiar female voice bellowed over the crowd. “Hey, people! Make way for the damned Fox!”
He turned to see Kelly Mason, in full Navy Captain’s uniform, sending a quartet of uniformed Marines forward to intercept him. A fifth uniformed Marine stood next to her, holding a tiny blond baby.
The crowd heard Mason’s words and for the first time actually turned to look at Kyle. The result was impressive. A corridor opened between him and the Captain, the crowds suddenly all focused on him.
It was frankly embarrassing, but he put
on his biggest grin and walked toward his old XO.
“Captain Mason,” he greeted her. “Congratulations on the promotion.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “We’ve been trying to keep people’s kids out of the scrum,” she continued, glancing around at the chaos around them, “with only mixed success.
“That said, your ex is engaged to an MFA, your fiancée is a bloody Admiral in her own right and you are the Stellar Fox.” Mason grinned. “I used that collection of gravitas to take over a private meeting room and stuffed your family in there.”
“Thank you,” he breathed. “You are, as always, a lifesaver.”
Mason shook her head.
“Consider it repayment for not asking for me as your flag captain,” she told him. “I had Sunset ready to go to war with you, but I won’t pretend I wasn’t glad to be able to stay home with Mike here.”
Kyle smiled at the chubby little boy. From this distance, he could see both Michael Stanford and Kelly Mason in him.
“Meeting room, then?” he asked quietly.
“Follow me.”
Kyle was at most three centimeters inside the room when a bundle of hyperactive teenager collided with him, Jacob Kerensky burying his face in his father’s midsection in a moment of relief.
“Wasn’t sure,” his son whispered. “Mom and Mira and Dan all said nobody knew, but the news kept saying you were definitely dead!”
Kyle grimaced.
“I’m not dead,” he promised Jacob. He shook his head sadly, considering the officers and spacers who wouldn’t be coming home. “I’m not dead, Jacob,” he repeated, hugging the boy.
He looked over his son’s head at the three adults waiting in the room. They were all standing back to let Jacob hug his father, but then Lisa slipped forward and put a hand on Jacob’s shoulder.
“You do have to share him, you know,” she told her son with a laugh. Her embrace was much quicker—but with Mira barely steps behind her, that speed was as meaningful as Jacob’s refusal to let go.
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