Galactic Empires

by Neil Clarke

  “That man . . . ” Kern said. “He wants us to watch him, to know how unconcerned he is by our spying. He’s so arrogant, so certain of his victory. You would bow before this creature? Whatever the empire is now, it will be worse with him at the head.”

  Dennison watched Varion lounge in his ready room. But I am him—an inferior knockoff, at least.

  Kern eventually snapped off the feed. “I’m giving you a subcommand, Dennison.”

  Dennison frowned. “I thought we had an understanding.” “We have too many fighters and too few officers. The time for study is over.”

  Dennison felt himself pale involuntarily. “We’ll be facing . . . him?”

  “Just a minor battle,” Kern said. “A preliminary skirmish, really. I doubt Varion will bother directing his side of it. It will happen some distance from the bulk of his fleet.”

  Dennison knew Kern was wrong. Varion directed all of his battles personally.

  “This is a bad idea,” Dennison finally said, but Kern had already turned back to his review of the Kress incident.

  “Yes, son. It’s true.” The emperor looked . . . weary.

  “It’s illegal to clone a member of a High Family,” Dennison said, frowning as he knelt in front of the wallscreen image.

  “I am the law, Dennison,” the emperor said. “Nothing I do can be illegal. In this case, the potential benefit of a cloning outweighed our reservations.”

  “And I was that benefit,” Dennison said bitterly.

  “Your tone threatens disrespect, young Crestmar.”

  “Crestmar?” Dennison snapped. “Clones have no legal house or family.”

  The High Emperor’s aged eyes flashed with anger at the outburst, and Dennison looked down guiltily. Eventually, the emperor’s voice continued, and Dennison was surprised at the softness he heard in it.

  “Ah, child,” the emperor said. “Do not think us monsters. The laws you speak of maintain order in High Family succession, but exceptions can be made. It was your father’s stipulation in agreeing to this plan. Your right of succession was ratified by a closed council of High Dukes soon after your birth. Even had your father not required this, we would have done it. We did not create a life intending only to throw it away.”

  Dennison finally looked back up. The weariness he had noted in the High Emperor’s face was evident again—during the last few years, the man had aged decades. Worrying about Varion would do this to any man. “Your Majesty,” Dennison said carefully. “What if I had turned out as much a traitor as he?”

  “Then you would have gone to war against him,” the High Emperor said. “For Varion would never be willing to share rule, even with himself. We hoped maybe you would weaken each other enough for us to stand against you. That, however, was a contingency plan—our first and foremost goal was to see that you did not turn out as he. It . . . seems that we were too successful in that respect.”

  “Apparently,” Dennison mumbled.

  “If that is all, young Crestmar, then I must be about the empire’s business—as must you. The time for your battle approaches quickly.” Dennison bowed his farewell, and the wallscreen winked off.

  Dennison paused in the doorway, the command bridge extending before him. This would be his first time commanding a real crew since he had begun studying under Kern’s direction.

  The bridge of the Perpetual was compact, as one would expect from a ship of its class. Kern’s fleet had a dozen such minor command ships that traveled attached to the Stormwind. During a battle they were released and stationed across the battle space, allowing for a division of labor, as well as decentralizing leadership.

  The bridge was manned by five younger officers. Dennison realized with chagrin that he didn’t know their names—he had been too engrossed in his studies to mingle with the rest of Kern’s command staff. Dennison walked down the ramp toward the battle hologram. The officers stood at attention. There was something odd about their postures. With a start, Dennison realized what it was. None of them showed even a hint of disrespect. Dennison had come to expect a certain level of repressed scorn from those under him. From these men, there was nothing. No hint that they expected him to fail, no signs that they were frustrated at being forced to serve with him. It was an odd feeling. A good feeling.

  These are Kern’s men, Dennison thought, nodding for them to return to their stations. They’re not just some random crew—they trust their ultimate commander, and therefore trust his decision to assign me to this post.

  The battle hologram blossomed, and a crewman approached with a battle visor. Dennison waved her away. She bowed and withdrew, showing no surprise.

  They trust me, Dennison thought uncomfortably. Kern trusts me. How can they? Can they really have forgotten my reputation?

  He had no answers for himself, so instead he studied the battle space. Varion’s ships would soon arrive. His forces were pushing toward Inner Imperial Space, surrounding the High Emperor’s forces in an attempt to breach the imperial line simultaneously in a dozen different places. Kern’s forces were arrayed defensively—a long double wave of ships positioned for maximum mutual support. Dennison and his twenty ships were at the far eastern end of the line—a reserve force, unless they were directly attacked.

  As seen in the holo, Varion’s squadron suddenly appeared as a scattering of red monoliths disengaging from the klage-dynamic. Their klage wouldn’t have been very fast—only a small multiple of conventional speeds—because of the large command ships at the rear. When traveling together, a fleet could only move as quickly as its largest—and therefore slowest—ships.

  Just a moment after the command ships disengaged from klage, fighters spurted from Varion’s fleet toward Dennison’s squadron. So much for staying in reserve. Dennison’s hologram automatically zoomed in so he could deploy his ships. He had twenty fighters and the Perpetual, a cruiser which could, in a pinch, act as a carrier as well. Directly to port was the Windless, a gunship with less speed and maneuverability but greater long-range firepower.

  Kern would make the larger, battlewide decisions, and subcommanders like Dennison would execute them. Dennison’s own orders were simple: hold position and defend the Windless if his sector was pressed. Dennison’s crew waited upon his commands.

  “Expand hologram,” Dennison said. “Revert to the main tactical map.”

  Two of the officers shared a look at the unconventional order. It wasn’t Dennison’s job to consider the entire battle. Yet they did as he asked, and the hologram zoomed back out to give Dennison a view of the entire battle space. He stepped forward—bits of hologram shattering against his body and re-forming behind him—studying the ships in red. Varion’s fleet. Though the Silvermane wasn’t present personally, he would be directing the battle from across space. Dennison was finally facing his brother. The man who had never known defeat.

  The man who had killed his father.

  You’re not perfect, Varion, Dennison thought. If you were, you’d have found a way to bring our father to your side, rather than just blasting him in the forehead.

  Varion arranged his defense. Three prongs of fighters bracketing larger gunships formed the most direct assault in his direction. Something was off. Dennison frowned, trying to decide what was bothering him.

  “Kern,” he said, tapping a dot on the hologram, opening a channel to the admiral.

  “I’m rather busy, Dennison,” Kern said curtly.

  Dennison paused slightly at the rebuke. “Admiral,” he said, a little more formal. “Something is wrong.”

  “Watch your sector, Lieutenant. I’ll worry about Varion.”

  “With all due respect, Admiral,” Dennison said, “you just had me study him for months on end. I know Varion Crestmar better than any living man. Are you sure this is the time to ignore my advice?”

  Silence.

  “All right,” Kern said. “Make it quick.”

  “The orientation of his forces is odd, sir,” Dennison said. “His fighter prongs have b
een deployed to focus on the eastern sector of the battle. Away from you. But the Stormwind is by far the most powerful ship in this confrontation—stronger, even, than Varion’s own capital ships. He has to deal with you quickly.”

  “He’s used this formation before,” Kern said. “Remember Gallosect IV? He focused on gunships first so that he could surround the flagship and take it from a distance.”

  “He had two-to-one advantage at Gallosect,” Dennison said. “He could afford to expend fighters keeping the flagship busy. He’s too thinly extended to try that here—by pressing to the east, he’s going to expose himself to your batteries. He’ll lose capital ships that way.”

  Silence.

  “You wearing your visor, Dennison?” Kern asked.

  “No.”

  “I thought not,” Kern said. “Put one on.”

  Dennison didn’t argue. The same aide walked back, proffering the equipment. Dennison slipped it on and saw a view from his fighter commander’s cockpit.

  “Here,” Kern said, through the earpiece, no longer using an open channel. “Look at this.”

  The right half of Dennison’s visor changed, showing a smaller version of the battle map. It was covered with arrows indicating attack vectors, and there were annotations around most of the vessels.

  “What is this?” Dennison asked.

  “Speak quietly,” Kern said in a whisper. “Not even my bridge officers know about this feed.” “But what is it?”

  “Intercepted klage communications,” Kern said softly. “This image is being sent from Varion to his commanders here. It’s how he commands— not verbally, but with battle maps outlining what he wants done.”

  “You can intercept klage communications!” Dennison said quietly, turning away to muffle his voice. “How?”

  “Varion wasn’t the only one who spent these last few decades working on technology,” Kern said. “We focused on communications and may have gotten the better end of the bargain, since it appears his shields are only effective on a personal scale. Our scientists developed a special bug that can work on a klage transmitter. The bug in Varion’s ready room, the one he thinks he’s so clever to have found, is just a red herring.”

  “Can you intercept the responses from Varion’s commanders?”

  “Yes,” Kern said. “But only if they come through the klage transceiver on the Voidhawk.”

  “And could we change the orders he sends?” Dennison asked.

  “The techs say they might be able to,” Kern said. “But if we do, we give away that we’ve been listening in. This gives us an edge. Read that map and tell me what you think.”

  Dennison zoomed his visor in on Varion’s orders. They were succinct and clear. And brilliant. As the fighters engaged, he saw patterns emerge and interact. His brother made brave moves—daring, almost ridiculous moves. Here, a squadron of fighters was lured too close to another group. There, a gunship used its opponents as screens, keeping their cannons silent lest they destroy their own forces.

  And he continued to push east. Varion didn’t explain himself in his transmissions, but after just a few minutes of watching, Dennison had confirmed his suspicions. “Kern,” he said quietly, drawing the admiral’s attention back from his command. “He’s coming for me.”

  “What?” Kern asked.

  “He’s coming for me,” Dennison replied. “He’s defeated every commander he’s ever gone up against—and now he has a chance for what he sees as the ultimate battle. He wants to fight himself. He wants to fight me.”

  “Nonsense,” Kern said. “How would he know where you are? He doesn’t have our klage interception capability—of that, we’re as certain as we can be.”

  “There are other ways to get information,” Dennison said. He stood quietly for a moment. And then he felt a chill. “Kern,” he snapped, “we need to retreat.”

  “What?” the admiral said with frustration. He obviously didn’t like being distracted.“This whole battle is wrong,” Dennison said. “He’s planning something.”

  “He’s always planning something.”

  “This time it’s different. Kern, he wouldn’t expose himself to the Stormwind like that. Not even to get to me. We need to—”

  A blast—sharp, shockingly loud—sounded in Dennison’s ear. He jumped, crying out.

  “Kern!” Dennison yelled.

  Chaos. Screaming. And then static. Dennison whipped off his visor, looking at his startled crew. “Raise the admiral!”

  “Nobody’s responding,” said the comm officer. “Wait—”

  “. . . Lord Canton from the Stormwind reserve bridge,” a voice feed crackled to life. “There has been an explosion on the main bridge. I am assuming command of the ship. Repeat. I am assuming command.”

  Kern! Dennison thought. He spun, looking at the holographic projection of the Stormwind. An explosion on the bridge—sabotage? An assassin?

  A shot sounded. Several of Dennison’s crew jumped—but this too had come over the comm.

  “Lord Canton!” Dennison shouted. Screams. Weapons fire.

  He scanned the battle map. Kern’s forces were in chaos. Even within the careful structure of the Imperial Fleet, the loss of an admiral was devastating. Varion’s forces pressed on, fighters darting, gunships firing. Pressing toward Dennison.

  Kern might still be alive. . . .

  No. Varion’s assassin wouldn’t fail. Varion wouldn’t fail.

  “This is Lord Haltep of the Farmight,” a voice crackled over the comm. “I am assuming command of this battle. All commanders secure bridges! Squadrons Six through Seventeen, press toward the Stormwind. Don’t let the flagship fall!”

  That’s what Varion wants, Dennison thought. He presses east, creates a disaster on the flagship, then cuts us in two.

  This battle could not be won. It was hard to see—technically, they still outnumbered Varion’s forces. But Dennison could see the death of Kern’s fleet in the chaos of the battle space. Varion was control. Varion was order. Where there was chaos, he would prevail.

  But what could Dennison do about it? Nothing. He was useless.

  Except . . .

  I can’t let Kern’s fleet be destroyed. These men trusted him. “Open a channel to the commanders of every capital ship,” Dennison said quietly to his crew. They complied.

  “This is Duke Dennison Crestmar,” Dennison said, feeling a bit surreal as holographic ships burst and died around him. “I am invoking Article One Hundred Seventeen and taking command of this fleet.”

  Silence.

  “What are your orders, my lord?” a stiff voice eventually asked. It was Lord Haltep, the one who had only just assumed command.

  These are good soldiers, Dennison thought. How did Kern, who seemed so relaxed about military protocol, command such respect from his men?

  Perhaps that was what Dennison should have been studying these last two years. Regardless, he had command. Now, what did he do with it? He stood for a moment, watching the battlefield in its chaos, and felt a twinge of excitement. This was no simulation. That was Varion, the real man, on the other side. This was what Dennison been created to do: to fight Varion, to defend the empire. Why else had he studied all those months?

  Why else did I study? So I could know that this battle was unwinnable. Our admiral dead, our forces divided. Varion would easily beat me in a fair battle. And this one is far from fair.

  “All fighter squadrons to the eastern flank,” Dennison said.

  “But the flagship!” Haltep said. “Our forces have regained control inside. They’re on the third bridge!”

  “You heard my orders, Lord Haltep,” Dennison said quietly. “I want the fighters back, arranged in a tight aegis pattern.”

  “Yes, my lord,” a dozen voices came through the com. Their fighters and gunships complied, pulling back into what was known as an aegis pattern—the fighters defending the larger ships at very close ranges.

  Dennison lost some fighters as they broke off from the enemy. Come
on, he thought. I know what you want to do. Do it!

  Varion’s ships swarmed the Stormwind. It began to fire back, displaying awesome power, but without its own fighters, it was at a distinct disadvantage. Explosions flashed on Dennison’s hologram.

  “All ships to dock,” Dennison said.

  “What?” Haltep’s voice demanded.

  “Varion’s fighters are busy,” Dennison said. “I want all fighters to dock in the closest command ship. The gunships can even take a few, if necessary. We only have a few minutes.”

  “Retreat,” Haltep spat over the comm.

  “Yes,” Dennison replied. I’ve certainly had a lot of practice.

  It worked. Varion realized too late what Dennison was doing—he’d already committed to taking down the Stormwind. It wasn’t a mistake, but it was as near to one as Dennison had ever seen from his brother. Obviously he hadn’t expected Dennison to concede and run so quickly.

  As the larger ships began to klage away, Dennison watched the Stormwind finally break, its massive hull blowing outward from a ruptured core. Debris sprayed through his hologram as the mighty ship died.

  And so, I fail again, Dennison thought as his own ship klaged away.

  Dennison strode down the walkway, clothed in a crisp white uniform. It bore no ornamentation—no awards, no badges of service, no indications of commissions fulfilled. His speeder sat cooling in the dock; he’d spent nearly a week in transit back to the Point, thinking about Kern’s death and the loss of the Stormwind. Why did the admiral’s death bother him even more than his father’s had?

  A squad of six armed MPs met him at the foot of the ramp. Six? Dennison thought. Did they really think I’d be that much trouble?

  “Lord Crestmar,” one of them said. “We’re here to escort you.”

  “Of course,” Dennison said. He walked, surrounded by soldiers, still lost in thought.

  What would have happened if he’d fought his brother? He couldn’t have won, but Kern likely hadn’t believed he’d beat Varion either. Kern had fought, rather than giving up. Rather than running. Now he was honorably dead, while Dennison still lived.