The Others

by Jay Allan

  “Maintain fire, all batteries.” Tragus knew one thing. If he was going to lose his first command, if he and his people were going to die in Venta Traconis, they were absolutely going to go down fighting. He’d scored one hit already, he was sure of that…and a few seconds later, the flashes on his screen told him his batteries had connected again.

  He felt a brief rush of excitement, a few seconds of satisfaction that were quickly washed away by two stark realizations. First, his people’s life expectancies were likely measured in minutes, if not seconds.

  Second, even their success, the hits they had scored on the elusive enemy, were ultimately pointless. He didn’t know if the enemy hulls were made of imperial alloy, or of some other advanced hardened material, but he was pretty sure neither of the hits his small ship had managed would matter. Avia’s guns were just too light, too weak. He couldn’t imagine them doing more than superficial damage to one of the Others’ ships.

  And that seemed like a poor trade for loss of his entire crew.

  “Commander, we’ve got more ships adjusting vectors. They appear to be modifying thrust to move toward us.”

  Tragus shook his head. Such pointless excess. They’ve got us already, surely they know that…

  “Queue up navigation pattern five, Hectoron. Prepare to implement when new enemy ships are…”

  “No, Commander…the new contacts are not enemy vessels. Our own ships are adjusting course. I’ve got a minimum of twelve battleships and four monitors, sir…and they’re definitely heading toward our position.”

  Tragus was silent for a moment, stunned. The fleet was trying to escape, to save as many of the heavy ships as possible. Why would they be moving toward us, risking heavy units to save a cruiser?

  “Sir, I have Megaron Ilius on the line.”

  The words hung in the air for a second before Tragus could fully comprehend what his officer had just said. Then he slapped the side of his headset immediately. “Megaron…”

  “Listen to me, Kiloron Tragus, very carefully. Am I correct that you figured out how to target those…things?”

  “Yes, Commander…or at least I believe so. They seem to emit…”

  “Not now, Kiloron. I’ve got half the fleet closing on your position. You just keep those evasive maneuvers going and get that ship back to the tube. Stay alive, Kiloron, stay alive. Avia has just become the most important ship in the fleet.”

  “Yes, Megaron.” The words made sense, and then, in some ways, they didn’t. Tragus understood the tactical importance of the data and tactics his people had compiled for targeting the enemy, but the whole thing still seemed somehow unreal. And, no matter what Ilius ordered him to do, he was far from certain he could keep up his evasive moves going long enough to escape. It wouldn’t take more than one direct hit to obliterate his cruiser. He could be right fifty times, and wrong once, and he and his people would still die short of the tube.

  He sucked in a deep breath. He’d created the evasion plans before the fight, a bit of preparedness that had proven prescient, and had bought his people as much time as they’d had so far. But he was far from sure that would be enough, that he would be able to direct his hunted ship to safety.

  He saw a flash on the display, an enemy shot coming close—too close. A stark reminder that death was stalking his small band of Kriegeri and their ship.

  He took a deep breath and did what he could to center himself. “Shift piloting control to my station, Hectoron.” If anybody was going to try to fly Avia out of the desperate danger on its tail, it was going to be him.

  “Yes, Commander.”

  Tragus stared directly at his screen, even as his hands gripped the controls. The pre-programmed plans were heavily random, and they’d proven to be quite successful so far. But if Avia was going to make it to the end of its desperate run, it was going to take more, something extra.

  He flipped a series of switches, activating his manual controls.

  Let’s see if we can mix this up a little more…

  * * *

  “All ships, I want Avia surrounded by barrages. We may not be able to get hard firelocks on those ships, but we can do something to distract them, get their attention off Tragus’s cruiser.

  “Yes, Commander.” A pause. “We lost Gessalon, sir. And Moltara.”

  Ilius didn’t react to the news of two more monitors destroyed, though his mind held all the details, the lengths of the ships, the immense tonnages, the thousands of Kriegeri crew aboard.

  The years of construction required to build a ship of that size…

  He’d been struggling to save the fleet, to get away with the Hegemony’s main battle forces still more or less intact. He’d been on the verge of success with that…until he’d watched Avia score a direct hit—perhaps the only one any of his vessels had managed. The war was as good as over if the Hegemony forces couldn’t effectively target their enemies, and the only way he knew for sure to preserve the secret to whatever success Tragus and Avia had achieved was to get the ship out of the system, intact, or as close to intact as possible.

  However many heavier ships it cost. However many Kriegeri died in the hopeless fight.

  Hegemony’s Glory shook hard, and a shower of sparks cascaded down from one of the large ceiling conduits. For an instant, Ilius thought he was going to die, that his flagship had been crippled. But a series of preliminary damage reports confirmed that the hit had been a superficial one. In a relative sense, at least. A quick glance at his screen told him his ship had taken as much damage as it would have from a direct hit from a Confed primary battery. But the reactors were still in decent shape, and the engines were online.

  “All operational guns, maintain fire. We need everything we can get right now.” That wasn’t strictly speaking true. Ilius had more than forty ships of the line converging, covering the space behind Avia. Still, the enemy vessels had maintained their single-minded pursuit of the cruiser. Only Tragus’s skillful evasive moves had stymied their efforts to take the ship down.

  The small group of enemy ships had advanced well in front of their main formation, and Ilius’s vessels were almost within point blank range. Still, his gunners were unable to get precise locks, and their shots lanced all through space, coming within ten or twenty thousand kilometers of the enemy vessels, and sometimes much closer, but failing to score a single verifiable hit.

  For a time, perhaps four or five minutes, his battleships and monitors fired without stop, without a single return shot from their targets. Then, suddenly, all at once, the enemy ships veered off from their pursuit of Avia.

  Ilius was flooded with relief. For perhaps a second. Then, he watched at the Others engaged their thrusters again, altering their vectors…and coming around on the large group of battleships and monitors he’d assembled.

  He tapped his headset, even as he felt his blood run cold. “Tragus…get that ship the hell out of here, now! I don’t care if you have to burn your engines to smoking ruins.” He closed the line before the officer could reply, and he watched as a great beam lanced out from the closest of the enemy ships, slicing completely through one of his battleships—Sallinia, he realized almost immediately. The great vessel shook hard, and then its thrust dropped to less than ten percent. The scanners reported internal explosions wracking the ship, and half a dozen spots where fluids and gasses were leaking, pouring out in great gouts and freezing almost instantly in the black coldness of space.

  Ilius thought for a moment the ship would blow, but it remained on the screen, desperately wounded, its interior almost certainly a nightmare of fires and radiation and death. He wanted to feel relief that the ship had survived the hit, but his mind was too focused, too clear for that. Sallinia was still there, but the battleship had no chance of getting out of the system. None.

  And, unless its crew figured out how to target enemy ships in the next few minutes, whatever Kriegeri remained alive in that tortured hull could not expect the same treatment Tragus and his people were gett
ing. In the frigid terms of war, they were expendable next to their colleagues who possessed vital tactical information.

  “Commander, Avia is beginning its final approach to the tube.”

  Ilius moved his eyes to the side of the main display, grateful for something to look at beyond Sallinia’s continuing death struggle. The enemy had indeed given up its efforts to stop Avia. That was good, the result he’d hoped for when he’d sent so many ships in to run interference for the cruiser.

  Now, all he had to do was get those heavy units out…and that was going to be much more difficult than it had seemed twenty minutes earlier.

  Whatever Tragus’s people did…I hope it’s worth it. We’re paying for their escape in blood…

  And even as the thought went through his mind, his eyes caught a bright flare on the display. Bellophon, a monitor. The immense vessel suffered a far quicker, and much more spectacular death than the one stalking Sallinia. One instant the ship had been there, firing its massive broadside…and a few seconds later it was gone, nothing remaining but a roiling inferno of nuclear fusion and annihilating antimatter.

  Chapter Six

  Hall of the People

  Liberte City

  Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV

  Union Year 225 (321 AC)

  “You’re on your own with all of this, Sandrine. I have exceeded my authority already. I can’t risk involving the Confederation any more directly in this…change of government.” Kerevsky was an ambassador, but at heart he was a spy. He longed to provide more assistance to Sandrine Ciara’s coup, to strike against a Union government that had been his people’s enemy since before he was born.

  He wasn’t naïve. He knew enough of Union culture to assume Ciara was no less power hungry than Villieneuve. A successful coup wouldn’t replace a communist dictatorship with a democratic government. It would probably change very little…save that the new First Citizen would be indebted to the Confederation. He didn’t expect friendship to replace a century of enmity, but he would be happy enough if functional cooperation between neighbors replaced an endless series of conflicts, separated by tense stretches of cold war.

  “Your assistance, both financial and otherwise, has been invaluable. I thank you again for all you have done, and I repeat my promise that the new Union government will be a far better neighbor to the Confederation.”

  Kerevsky nodded, and he looked over at her with a friendly smile. He could hear the tension in her voice, the slight variance in her normally cold and even tone. How could she not be scared?

  He knew only too well how Gaston Villieneuve dealt with traitors, and no one could face the possibility of such consequences without some trepidation. Hell, he was scared himself. He had no direct involvement, nothing official at least, but he didn’t doubt the Sector Nine interrogators would quickly draw what they needed from any captured conspirators, and trace how much of the financing had come from Confederation Intelligence’s discretionary funds. Diplomatic immunity, and perhaps more reliably, Villieneuve’s desire to avoid the risk of war with a Confederation now free of the Hegemony threat, would probably protect him, even if suspicion turned his way. And, if that wasn’t enough, he had escape routes, or at least places to hide if he needed them. But none of that completely banished the knot in his stomach.

  The two remained silent for a moment. Kerevsky was usually a cold-blooded professional, but he’d developed an affection for Ciara. They’d posed as lovers for months—indeed, they had been lovers—but from his professional position, she was also an asset, at best a temporary ally. He’d made his own plans for damage control in the event her coup failed, but he’d mostly tried not to think about the prospect of stepping back and covering his own tracks, while she was captured, and tortured and killed. There wasn’t much he could likely do to intervene in such a situation, but he’d begun to realize just how difficult it would be for him to sit back and not even try.

  You can’t involve the Confederation any deeper in the whole mess. You’ve already gone far beyond your mandate. You’ll be lucky if you don’t end up in the stockade when you get back home. Or worse.

  “Good luck, Sandrine,” he said softly, with no intention of anything more. But then he leaned forward and embraced her.

  “Thank you again, Alex…we’ll celebrate when this is all over.” She stepped back and looked at him for a few seconds, and he could see the true magnitude of the fear she was struggling to control. Then she turned and walked out the door.

  * * *

  “You all know what to do. The instant we get word that Villieneuve…that the first phase is complete…we need to gain control of the key strategic objectives. Gavrin, you and your people will seize the broadcast center. Victorine, your target is the main city utility control. Jean, you and your security forces are to occupy and hold the main approaches into the city center. The Foudre Rouge will likely accept orders from any government authority that seems legitimate. So, we’ve got to lock down control of the capital. We need a fait accompli, and we need it fast. Otherwise, we may end up fighting half a million Foudre Rouge who start taking orders from someone else.”

  The dozen or so men and women assembled were the prime movers in the coup about to commence. She’d gathered them together by a variety of means, exploiting animosity toward Gaston Villieneuve, liberally spreading Confederation cash around the group, promising plum positions to those who joined her. It had been deadly and dangerous work, and she’d approached them all with great care. One ill-fated recruiting attempt could easily have blown the whole effort, with unthinkable consequences for her. But she’d held her group together, a conclusion confirmed by the lack of Sector Nine death squads showing up at her door.

  Now it’s finally time…

  Kerevsky had helped her buy time as well, feeding her just enough Confederation secrets to keep Villieneuve satisfied. She’d despaired more than once of bringing the plan to fruition, but somehow, she’d managed it. A few more hours, and it would be done. Gaston Villieneuve would be dead, and she would be the new First Citizen.

  “Your teams should be moving to the rendezvous points even now. We’re ninety-five minutes from zero hour. The plans are set, and success depends on everybody doing his or her job. We’ve planned and planned this. Now, it’s time to do it. We all know what’s at stake.” She paused and took a deep breath. “In a few hours, we will have saved the Union. And each of you will be at the very center of power. Let’s get it done.”

  * * *

  The steward walked slowly down the corridor, struggling to hold the small tray steady. He’d delivered the tray, and others like it, a hundred times, but tonight was completely different. He was doing more than bringing tea this time, and it took all he could muster to push back against the barely controlled fear and to steady himself as he took the final steps to his destination.

  He knew the deadly danger of what he did. If the plot failed, if the intended victim survived the poisoning attempt, the consequences would be unthinkable. He’d worked in the Hall of the People for years, and even as he’d strived to remain in the background, almost as part of the furniture, he’d seen his share of nightmares. He didn’t know exactly what happened to those unfortunates Sector Nine dragged from the premises, but his guesses were vivid enough to keep the sweat pouring down his back.

  Elise…and the children. This is for them…

  He reminded himself yet again why he was taking such a terrible risk. Sandrine Ciara had approached him, but it had been the Confederation ambassador, Kerevsky, who’d finally lured him in. The price had been a simple one. His family would be smuggled out of the Union and resettled in the Confederation. His children, and one day his grandchildren, would know opportunity and freedom he could never imagine. It was a reward worth any risk, and of course, all the discussions had spoken of him joining his wife and children. That was a pleasant hope—or fantasy, depending on how much optimism he could muster in any given moment—but in his heart, he knew he was sacrificing hi
mself for all of them, to get them out of the hell that imprisoned the Union’s working classes.

  But a plot against the First Citizen…

  The consequences of failure were beyond the limits of imagining. But he doubted even success would save him. He’d be lucky, perhaps, if the guards simply shot him on sight. A quick death ranked disturbingly high on his list of desirable outcomes.

  They will remember you…they will live lives they never could have here…

  He’d negotiated hard, secured guarantees not only of asylum, but of a considerable stipend as well. His family would live in comfort, his children would gain top quality educations. It was a fair deal, even worth the consequences if things went bad.

  He took a deep breath, and he realized he’d been at the door for several seconds. He drew on all his strength and will to steady himself. Gaston Villieneuve rarely gave him so much as a second glance. The First Citizen wouldn’t notice his evening steward was a bit sweatier than usual, his hands a little shakier than they normally were.

  Would he?

  * * *

  “So, it is confirmed. The Confederation, and its allies, have made peace with the Hegemony. That is quite disappointing, even if we have strongly suspected it for some months now. The Confeds have suffered considerable losses, certainly, but we might have hoped for them to be rendered rather weaker by the conflict before it ended. Our own reconstruction continues apace, but after the losses we suffered when the traitor, Denisov, defected, any hope of resuming hostilities to take advantage of the weakened Confederation fleet is out of the question, at least for the time being.” Gaston Villieneuve leaned back in his chair and sighed. The Hegemony had been a threat to the Union as well, of course, and their apparent withdrawal from the entire Rim was good news of a sort as well. But his hatred of the Confederation made it difficult for him to truly understand and appreciate that fact. Villieneuve had been measured and deliberative in his younger days, if always cruel and power hungry, but in recent years he had found himself ever more hotly obsessed with the idea of avenging past defeats on the Confederation.