The Others

by Jay Allan

  Her head pounded, and she put her face forward, cradling it in her hands. She was frustrated, scared…heartbroken. She was no fool, though sometimes she wondered if life as one wouldn’t sometimes be easier.

  She knew what the situation meant. Tyler was already there, hundreds of lightyears coreward, facing a deadly new danger. If the Senate did as he asked, if it committed the Confederation to a new war, sent the fleet to the front lines, it would be years before Tyler returned to Megara…if he ever did.

  For an instant, against all logic, she hoped the Senate would refuse. But the solace only lasted a few seconds. No, she realized, that would be worse…

  She knew Tyler too well. If he believed the enemy was a threat to the Rim, he would act, with whatever he had. And without the rest of the fleet, he would have only the task force he’d led to the Hegemony capital. It was a powerful force by any measure, save by comparison to the entire fleet. The thought of him fighting with such limited resources, facing an even greater chance of failure…of death…was too much.

  There had to be something she could do, some way to help him.

  But there wasn’t. There was nothing at all.

  She sat still, unmoving, and she lost all track of time. Then, the frustration overwhelmed her. She had no options, no way to help.

  So, she did something she almost never did, something she would have ridiculed others for doing.

  She sat there, and she cried.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Planet Calpharon

  Sigma Nordlin IV

  Year of Renewal 267 (322 AC)

  “Chronos…I just wanted to say…” Akella’s words, soft when she’d started, slipped into total silence.

  “I know, Akella…I know.” Chronos knew what she was trying to say, and he knew how difficult it was. The Hegemony was a society based on individualism above all things. Men and women could be friends, of course, or comrades, but each member of the ordered society, and especially the Masters at the top, were expected to exist on their own. They had duties, and all shared a stake in the sacred obligation to shepherd humanity, to guide it away from another decline—or pull it from the continued slide, depending on the theories to which one subscribed. But relationships were limited, based on shared interests or obligations, or on mutually satisfactory recreational sex. But mating decisions were expected to be purely rational, and Hegemony society had no equivalent of the pair bonding so common in other cultures.

  Akella had conceived her first child with Thantor, a man she’d never much liked, and one who had become her greatest rival. But the pressure for the first and second highest rated human beings in the Hegemony to combine their DNA had been irresistible.

  “I feel the same.” It was as much as he would say, as much as he could say. He knew he’d allowed his affection for Akella to progress beyond what was allowed, especially for two top ten ranked Masters…and he was almost certain she shared his feelings. He didn’t know what that meant, long term. If there even was a long term. But there was no time for it now, and no place for the controversy that would erupt if anyone else found out about it. He’d been able to disguise his visits to see Akella as trips to see the child the two of them shared, and that would have to hold for the time being.

  “Be careful out there.” Chronos could see from her expression, she felt foolish even as the words came out. They both knew the Hegemony was fighting for survival. There was no room for caution, no sacrifice too great to make in the pursuit of victory. Chronos had never been one to leave for war feeling he wouldn’t return, but as he stood there and let his thoughts drift forward, there was only darkness. But he needed something better than that to tell Akella. If the words he was about to speak were to be the last between them, he would say something she could bear to remember, and not just warnings of grim darkness.

  “Take care of yourself, Akella. Watch the Council. Without me here, you’re one ally down…and Thantor is a snake. You’re smarter than he is, but don’t take your eyes off of him. Not for a second.”

  “I won’t. I know what Thantor is.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her. He hadn’t intended to do it, but his impulses took control…and he could feel her responding, her arms slipping around his back. He couldn’t do anything so primitive as tell her he loved her, that they would be together when—if—he returned. He knew that wasn’t possible, not for them. But for a few seconds, perhaps half a minute, he cast aside the obligations of a Hegemony Master, the concerns of the supreme military commander. For those fleeting seconds, he felt only what he wanted to feel.

  Then, he pulled slowly back, his eyes locked with hers for an instant, one last bit of silent communication. Then he turned slowly, and he was gone.

  Off to face the Others…and, very likely, to his own death.

  * * *

  “All ships report ready, Admiral. The fleet is prepared to depart on your command.”

  Barron glanced over at Travis, acknowledging her report with a nod. His ships were ready, the morale of his crews better than he could possibly have expected. He knew his deeds had won him some of that, the respect and confidence of his spacers, and his grandfather’s exploits contributed as well, the family name that carried so much weight with the Confederation’s military.

  It was also ignorance, he knew. The rank and file of the fleet no doubt seethed with resentment and anger toward the Hegemony, but they hadn’t seen the footage he and the senior officers had, the scanner data showing the Others’ vessels cutting through the Hegemony ships like cordwood. The vessels that had so battered their own ships, that had seemed so invincible when they had faced them in desperate combat. Barron didn’t like hiding things from his crews, but his people were far from home and no doubt confused about why they had come so far into what they still regarded as enemy territory. He didn’t need to test the limits of their endurance, not until there was no choice.

  “Admiral, I have Commander Chronos on your line.”

  “Put him through.” Barron tapped the side of his headset. “Commander.”

  “Admiral Barron, I wish to thank you for your decision to join our forces in Pharsalon. Even if you are barred from combat, it will only serve to reinforce your conviction that we do indeed face a mutual and deadly adversary.”

  “That is my belief, Commander. I have already requested that my government authorize my forces to engage the Others, and that reinforcements be sent at once. While I am hopeful the Senate will heed my warning…” A lie, or close to it. Barron rarely expected anything but grief from the politicians. “…it can only help if I am able to send additional evidence, this time collected by my own people.” Barron felt a brief concern about his words. He hadn’t intended to suggest that he still doubted the Hegemony-provided data. But he suspected Chronos understood. He imagined his Hegemony counterpart would feel much the same about the Senate as he did, and completely understand the difficulties Barron faced dealing with them.

  “I fear you will see more than you could wish for, Admiral. All reports suggest the enemy forces have massed and that a large fleet is advancing on Pharsalon even now. We should arrive before them, with luck, but not by long. You will very likely get a firsthand view of the enemy’s combat power…as will I. This will be my first time facing the them myself.”

  “Good fortune to you, Commander Chronos. That is what my people wish to each other on the eve of battle.”

  “Good fortune to you as well, Admiral, in this campaign, and in whatever follows.”

  Barron cut the line. He was beginning to respect Chronos, even to like the Hegemony commander…and part of what lived inside hated himself for it, just as it did for his growing—friendship was the only word that came to mind—with Akella.

  “Admiral Travis, our rules of engagement require us to avoid contact with the enemy, but our mission is to gather as much information as possible. So, while we will not be joining the Hegemony forces in their fight, I want every vessel ready for action at all times. T
hat means rotating duty squadrons on alert, all systems maintained for combat operations, and scanners on full power at all times.”

  “Yes, Admiral. Understood.”

  Barron almost laughed. His order was for the benefit of the officers on the bridge. He and Atara had already discussed all of that, and she’d issued the necessary orders. If anything, his second in command was more hawkish than he was. In an odd contradiction, Atara both retained more animosity toward the Hegemony and exhibited more drive to engage the new enemy as well. She’d never been one for half-measures.

  The fleet was ready…for whatever happened in the coming days.

  But that readiness was largely wasted. Barron’s rules of engagement shackled him, prevented him from intervening. He knew what he could do, and he was coldly aware of how inadequate it was.

  Hold back and watch…and if the enemy approached, to run. The thought of fleeing sickened him, and if a small part of him still felt the Hegemony was only getting what it deserved, it went against everything that made him who he was to run and leave others to their doom.

  He wasn’t sure how he’d do it when the need came, which it almost certainly would. But he had a little time to find a way, to dig up the resolve to go against his every impulse and instinct.

  * * *

  “We’re operating under restrictions that limit the admiral’s options should he encounter any…enemy ships.” Stockton had been fishing around for a way to refer to the Others. They weren’t the Confederation’s enemy, at least not officially, not yet. And though he knew the truce had been signed and ratified by all nations involved in the recent war, his instinct was still to think of the Hegemony as ‘the enemy.’ “That is a reality Admiral Barron will have to deal with, but for us it is far simpler. All we have to do is follow whatever orders he gives us. That brings me to my point. We must be ready to do whatever we are ordered to do, up to and including defending the fleet against an enemy about which we know almost nothing. That means full wartime footing, maximum patrols, exercises whenever the fleet stops or maintains constant thrust levels long enough. I know you’ve just gotten used to the idea of peace, but from the looks of things, you can forget that right now. I’ve let you all loosen up a little, figured you’d earned it after the last six years. But that’s officially over right now, so consider my foot back on all of your necks, effective immediately.”

  Stockton was standing on Dauntless’s flight deck, addressing the flagship’s combined fighter wing. Behind the pilots, in serried ranks, lay their fighters, neat and clean and perfectly aligned in parallel rows. The deck, and the Lightning fighters stowed down its length, looked better than he could remember, cleaner and neater than they ever had during the war. The pilots, and their flight crews, had enjoyed a year without combats, without klaxons sounding and scramble orders reverberating from the comm speakers down in fighter country. The maintenance crews had used that free time to reorder their domain, and the flight deck looked almost like new.

  The pilots, to Stockton’s dismay, if not his surprise—you would have done no differently when you were their age—had gone the other way. The razor-sharp instrument he’d created had dulled a bit, and it needed to be re-honed, restored to the deadly weapon of war it had been not long ago.

  Stockton stared out at the eighty-six officers assembled, seventy-four fighter jocks and a dozen shuttle pilots. But even as his eyes panned over them, he knew the squadrons on the other battleships were similarly formed up, watching on their comm displays as the fleet’s flight commander handed down the new realities. The message left no room for doubt, and no one who had come up under Stockton’s leadership—almost everyone present—had the slightest doubt he meant what he said. They’d heard stories, of course, of the wild young pilot, with a loose interpretation of what following orders meant. They’d probably even heard a few of the old veterans, the handful who’d survived so many years of war, tell stories…of desperate fights in the depths of space, and poker games in the officer’s clubs of the fleet. But all the younger pilots knew was the grim legend they saw before them, a man forged by loss and pain from the clay of that wild and talented young pilot into the hardened alloy of an admiral who had led the squadrons to victory over the Hegemony invaders.

  Stockton stood for a moment, silent, mildly amused at the collective, as a partially restrained groan went up from Dauntless’s pilots. They’d gotten used to fewer flight hours and less intense discipline, and they were beginning to realize that was all over. Stockton didn’t know if his pilots were going to war again. That wasn’t his call. It was his job to make sure they were ready, ready for whatever Admiral Barron needed of them.

  And nothing was going to stand in the way of that.

  Nothing that didn’t want to be obliterated by his unstoppable stubbornness and determination.

  * * *

  Ilius sat in his Sanctum, relishing the silence, and even more, the solitude. He’d always enjoyed his time alone, and he often sat for hours, thinking, meditating. But this was different. It wasn’t the allure of silent hours of unobstructed thought that had pulled him from the bridge into his private domain. He wasn’t escaping noise or the beehive of activity of the ship’s main control center. He was hiding.

  Ilius had long prided himself on his honesty, above all with himself. He’d always been able to keenly analyze his own weaknesses and work to improve on them. It had been some years into his adulthood before he’d realized just how rare a trait that was. But now, it was failing him. He was in his Sanctum because he was afraid…and he was trying to hide that from his staff and his crew.

  Ilius was a combat veteran, with a flawless record. He’d been decorated for both skill and bravery multiple times, and he was a Master of high—if not Council level—rating. But since he’d returned from his second encounter with the Others, something had been different. The grim and relentless power that drove him seemed stalled, and every thought of engaging the enemy again—what would be his third encounter with the Others—shook him ever more deeply. He’d managed to disguise it while he was on the bridge, but he’d come back to the Sanctum to focus, to meditate and open the depths of his mind. To regain his power over the fear that was gradually taking control of him.

  He’d always considered himself a creature of logic, of rational thought, and that had carried him through the many dangers he’d faced in his military career. But there was something…different…about the Others, something that overcame his reason, that reached down to a place deep inside, where his darkest fears lived. He was determined to drive the force from within him, to regain his cold and analytical view of things.

  The Others are only an enemy, like many you have fought. Stronger, perhaps, more advanced. But only an enemy, nevertheless.

  He continued the mantra, in almost silent speech as well as thought, repeating it again and again, willing his mind to accept his reassertion of control. He pushed away the doubts, though they quickly returned, as some enemy throwing itself at his defenses.

  You are above this. You control your emotions, your thoughts…your fear. This is the fight you were born for, the battle you have been training to fight all your life. You will not be defeated by fear, crushed before the final fight even begins.

  He believed all that he was telling himself, some of the time. And then the doubts and terror renewed their seemingly relentless assaults.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Senate Compound

  Troyus City

  Megara, Olyus III

  Year 322 AC

  “With all due respect to our esteemed Admiral Barron, I strongly urge caution on any action of this sort. It has been barely a year since we signed the truce ending the war with the Hegemony, and the admiral would now have us rush to their aid? Not just provide financial support or limited military intervention, but to mobilize the entire fleet, to send it dozens of jumps from Confederation territory to the barely known coreward depths? Tyler Barron is a hero of the Confederation, and no one can
take that from him. But he is not a diplomat, and he does not have the experience to negotiate alliances with former enemies. I move that we send a blue ribbon task force to Calpharon to examine the situation firsthand, and to negotiate directly with the Hegemony leaders before reporting back to this body.”

  Kettle Vaughn was the leader of the Greens, one of the two political parties dominating politics on the worlds of the Iron Belt. The Greens, and their counterparts, the Reds, agreed almost universally in their support for strong industrial policy…and on virtually nothing else.

  “With all due respect to my esteemed colleague…” Cyn Avaria stood up and glared across the Senate floor at Vaughn. Avaria was the leader of the Reds, the longtime controlling party in the Iron Belt, but currently the Opposition from those industrial powerhouse worlds by the razor slim margin of a single seat. “…it is not only foolish and ignorant, but also an astonishing display of ingratitude to so easily disregard the admiral’s warning and his requests. No one wants war, of course, but few citizens have worked and fought and bled as much to protect the Confederation as Tyler Barron has. I demand we debate the merits of his request here and now and not simply defer the matter to a group of appointees chosen from Senator Vaughn’s cronies.”

  The Senate erupted into shouts and sharp arguments, back and forth between individuals and small groups. Andi looked on, watching, getting angrier with every passing moment. She could feel Gary Holsten’s hand on her arm, his grip tightening. Next to Tyler, and of course her old crew from Pegasus, no one knew her better than the Confederation spymaster…or had a better read on when she was about to lose her temper.