Nightfall

by Jay Allan

  Or, if the words spoken had been truth, if Nguyen had been not only helping him, but discharging and old debt of sorts, speaking for a lost friend in his absence.

  Or, was it both?

  Barron didn’t know, but if the shade of the last Admiral Barron was looking down over him, he hoped it would give him the strength he would surely need.

  He would do all he could, give every trace of energy and skill that remained to him to the fight.

  He would not fail the Confederation.

  And, he would not fail his grandfather.

  Chapter Nine

  UFS Illustre

  Pollux System

  Union-Confederation Border

  Union Year 222 (318 AC)

  Denisov watched as the second wave of bombers streaked toward the approaching Hegemony battleships, moving into attack range and launching their runs. It still seemed strange to send in massive groups of torpedo ships with no fighter protection at all, but he’d become entirely convinced the intel was correct.

  The Hegemony didn’t have fighters.

  What they did have, was a powerful line of capital ships, larger, stronger, and more technologically advanced than anything his fleet possessed. And, those vessels were closing rapidly, their great engines putting out thrust levels he could barely imagine. And, certainly couldn’t match.

  He’d been pulling back his battle line, keeping his big ships out of range of the enemy main guns, but he knew that was no plan for victory. He could only fall back for so long before the enemy caught him, and it was time to decide. Should he stand and fight? And, if he chose instead to break and run, which way should he go?

  He’d been cautious, maneuvered his forces as cannily as possible, trying to confuse the enemy as to whether he would fight it out or run, and which way he would go if he did retreat. He had to assume the Hegemony commander had significant information on the transit routes in the Union, and it was a good bet his counterpart expected him to retreat on Montmirail.

  That made sense. It was tactically correct. But, Denisov wasn’t sure he was going to do it.

  Retreating on the capital did made sense, at least according to the normal standards of war. But, Denisov knew his fleet couldn’t defeat the enemy force. Not in Pollux, nor sitting under the guns of the Montmirail fortresses. The enemy was just too strong.

  If he fell back on Montmirail, the Union would soon be cut off from Confederation space, and the enemy would have split the two greatest Rim powers, placed a wedge between them more impermeable than that a century of war and hatred had already fashioned.

  His mind reeled at the thoughts pouring through his head. The Confeds were his enemy. The Union had fought four wars with its neighbor in a century, and resentment and bad feeling were deeply implanted in the minds and hearts of his crews.

  And himself.

  But, now, he was imagining something different. A Confederation that was not an enemy, but an ally. Was such a thing even possible?

  He thought of the great Confed battleships, with Tyler Barron and the rest of the grim veterans commanding them…as comrades and not adversaries. His mind reeled. But, he held grimly to the image.

  The thoughts were fuzzy, still forming, but the feeling inside him, a driving need to hold open his mind to such an idea, was strong, powered by a need he could not doubt. Even with what little he knew of this new enemy, looking out at the force closing on his ships, he was sure of one thing.

  The Rim had to unite if it was to have any chance at all.

  If I fall back on the line to Montmirail, we will never have the chance to link up with Confederation forces and meet the enemy in strength.

  As alien as the concept was to him, his mind began to formulate strategies. A combined Confed-Union fleet could almost certainly defeat the force there in Pollux battling his ships. He didn’t know what other fleets the Hegemony possessed, how great a numerical advantage they had…but it didn’t take advanced analysis to figure the stronger a force the Rim could field, the better chance it had.

  But, if I fall back on the other course, along the border and into the Confederation, I’ll be cut off from the heart of the Union. I’ll be at the mercy of the Confeds.

  The idea horrified him. Denisov still saw the most recent war as a conflict that could have been won rather than lost. Years of Sector Nine harassment, even the murders of officers who’d come under some kind of suspicion—or, in one case he remembered bitterly, whose wife a member of the Presidium wanted for himself—had drained away the skill and professionalism of the officer corps. The Confeds had fought well, Denisov grudgingly admitted that, at least to himself, but he still truly believed the Union forces could have won the contest…if they’d been left alone to do it, if the most skilled and capable commanders had been given free rein to conduct operations as they’d seen fit.

  There was another concern with the route toward the Confederation. Denisov’s orders were clear. In the event of any problems, return to Montmirail. Changing his course, retreating in the other direction, would be a direct violation of orders. And, even if Villieneuve was likely to approve such a strategy—and it seemed virtually a certainty he wasn’t—there was no time to get a message to the capital. He had to make a decision, and he had to do it now. His heart told him to head toward Confederation space. His mind did, too.

  But the knot of fear in his gut held him back. He would be openly breaking with Gaston Villieneuve. That would have been dangerous enough when Villieneuve had been the head of Sector Nine and a member of the Presidium, but now, he was the sole and unchallenged dictator of the Union. If Denisov disobeyed, he would be relieved the instant he returned to Montmirail.

  Relieved? That was putting it lightly. If he took off toward Confederation space and Villieneuve caught up with him, he’d be as good as dead. At best, he could hope for a quick bullet to the head.

  At worst…

  Villieneuve doesn’t have to catch up with me. How many undercover political officers are in this fleet? And, what orders do they have if I do anything unauthorized? Gaston Villieneuve was both a genius and a fool to Denisov’s way of thinking, but more than anything, he was paranoid. He’d have imagined a hundred ways his admiral could betray him.

  A hundred ways I am being watched…

  He stared at the screen, trying to take his mind off that upsetting fact, at least for a few minutes. You’re never going to make it out anyway. Those ships are too fast.

  Unless…

  His eyes fixed on the map of the system, on the outer planets. Maybe, just maybe…

  He did calculations, his fingers running rapidly across the small workstation at his command chair. It just might work…

  “Commander, fleet order. All ships are to engage maximum thrust, course toward the Avignon transit point.” The way back to Montmirail.

  But, the fleet wasn’t going to Montmirail.

  Denisov’s eyes were fixed on the map, focused on the large gas giant in the outer reaches of the system. Its gravity well was huge, and enormously powerful.

  Strong enough for one hell of a gravity assist…

  He would take the fleet toward the Avignon point, show all signs he was running back to Montmirail, as the enemy no doubt expected. And, once they’d changed their own vectors, he would issue new navigation orders. If the calculations were dead on, the fleet might just manage it, a rapid vector change, and one that put his ships on a direct course toward the Sauvon transit point.

  And the Confederation.

  Assuming they made it out at all. The ruse, if the enemy bought into the appearance that he was falling back on his lines of communication, would give his people a chance, but it would still be one hell of a race to the point if those Hegemony monsters opened up at full thrust and pursued.

  And, assuming I make it out. He had no doubt there were political officers planted in the fleet, covert ones backing up the ones he knew about. He’d have to find them, somehow…because if his instincts about Villieneuve were c
orrect, the Union leader would almost certainly have at least one operative planted on Illustre with orders to assassinate him if he veered too far from his orders.

  And, heading toward the Confederation was about as far as he could get, sort of surrendering outright to the Hegemony.

  * * *

  Raketh felt the distant rumbling under his chair, his feet. Omadias was accelerating at full thrust, directly toward the retreating Union fleet. He had expected to eventually be compelled to pursue the enemy in order to finish the battle, but he was surprised at how quickly the force deployed in the system broke formation and ran. The enemy bombing strikes had been less effective than the Confederation’s, but then, this was the first time the Union had faced Hegemony forces. The Confeds had been fighting for more than a year, and they’d had time to maximize their tactics against an enemy that didn’t possess the small craft that seemed such a standard part of the arsenal of the Rim nations.

  But, as he watched the enemy flee, without even the stomach for a real fight with his lead elements, he began to believe the data from the Dannith banks. The Confederation’s analysis of Union capabilities, had not only been fair, but perhaps too generous.

  Maybe the last war broke their spirit…

  Whatever was at play, it didn’t matter. Raketh knew he could catch their fleet before they could transit…and, when he did, he would destroy it. Any small number of damaged ships that made it through would be scattered fugitives, far too weak to oppose any invasion that followed.

  That final operation, the actual invasion of the Union, would have to wait, of course, until the Grand Fleet had crushed the Confederation. Raketh couldn’t keep the Reserve tied up deep in Union space for long, and he lacked the ground forces needed for a true invasion and pacification. But, with their fleet obliterated, the Union would be defenseless, waiting helplessly for the Hegemony forces to return and finish the job.

  He’d studied the intel on the Rim powers, analyzed their strengths and the dangers they might present. The Alliance was somewhat of a concern, a polity out on the Far Rim, one with an extremely warlike society. They were fierce, no doubt, but their technology was behind even that of the other Rim nations. And, the rest of this far out cluster of human habitation was divided into several dozen small entities, ranging from independent planets, to federations and kingdoms of up to a dozen or so systems. They were fractured and weak, and once the Confederation and Union were gone, they would fall rapidly.

  And, he then he would return at Chronos’s side, and glory and esteem would wash away the shame of his retreat from Dannith.

  * * *

  “Commander Auverge…I am sorry, sir, but you are under arrest.”

  “I don’t know what this is about, Lieutenant, but I have neither the time, nor…”

  The officer facing Auverge nodded his head sharply, and two of the spacers standing next to him moved forward and took hold of the officer’s arms. Two others, standing off to the side, drew their sidearms.

  “Lieutenant, I do not know who sent you, but…”

  “I sent him, Pierre.” Andrei Denisov stepped out from behind the bulkhead.

  “Admiral…I do not understand.”

  “Sure, you do. Did you really believe I didn’t know you’re Sector Nine?” Auverge had been easy to spot. He’d never been Denisov’s worry. It was the more junior political officers, the ones that didn’t stand out quite so blatantly that worried him. If he missed even a single one, it could easily prove fatal.

  “Admiral…I don’t know what is behind this, but I insist you release me immediately.”

  “Take him to the location we discussed, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir.” The officer’s voice was firm, no sign of hesitancy. That was probably foolish. Throwing in With Denisov now was dangerous. The admiral had chosen his people carefully, and as afraid as he was of disregarding Villieneuve’s orders, he’d found the tensest part of the whole thing to be trying to decide who he could trust.

  Who he could really trust.

  Friendship was one thing, but involving others in a plot that could lead only to death for all involved if it failed was difficult. Suddenly, doubts appeared when considering those he thought of as friends, questions of just how far they would go, how absolute their loyalty was to him.

  The lieutenant was good, he was almost sure of that. He’d plucked the officer from the ranks after the Battle of the Pulsar, and he’d obtained a commission for him. He was confident in his judgment, as sure as he could be of the officer’s gratitude and loyalty.

  He was less comfortable with the guards themselves, though the lieutenant had assured him they were reliable. He had no reason to doubt that, but since he was effectively betting his life on it, he was still edgy.

  “Commander Eustus is waiting in the designated location to…interview…Commander Auverge.”

  “Yes, sir.” The officer waved to the guards, and they pulled the struggling Auverge down the hallway.

  “You will pay for this, Admiral. I insist you release me at once…”

  Denisov turned silently and walked back toward the lift. He’d been gone from the bridge for too long. The Hegemony forces were closing rapidly, and the gravity assist maneuver would begin soon. It had to be perfectly executed, or all his planning would be for naught.

  He could still hear Auverge screaming, demanding release, his voice growing quieter as he was led farther down the corridor. Denisov detested the idea of using harsh methods to question members of his crew, even when they were Sector Nine agents and political officers who would think nothing of throwing him from one of the airlocks. But, he had no choice, and even less now that he’d involved those he trusted. They had to make it work…or they would all die.

  They would die for their loyalty to him.

  * * *

  “Well done, Commander.” Denisov had intended more enthusiasm in his commendation for Lambert, but he was constrained by the need to hold back the contents of his stomach. The gravity assist had worked, at least for the sixty percent of the fleet that had so far completed it, and his ships were now on a vector more or less toward the Sauvon transit point.

  Toward the Confederation border.

  The ride had been a rough one, even to career spacers used to free fall and combat acceleration and deceleration. Union ships lacked dampeners and compensation systems as sophisticated as those in Confederation vessels, but even the newest ships rolling out of the Iron Belt shipyards would have been hard pressed to offset the wild pressure the close pass by the gas giant had exerted on the Union ships, and on the men and women inside.

  The bridge reeked of vomit, and at least half his officers were, at the very least, half doubled over their stations and looking somewhat green. But, such visible distress was a luxury that availed itself to normal spacers, even to bridge officers. Denisov was in command, and he was leading his people not only though desperate danger, but from many points of view, into mutiny. He had to be above such things as being sick or seeming afraid. He had to be an inspiration, keep his peoples’ attention focused on him…so it wasn’t on the overwhelming strength of the enemy pursuing them, or the cold reality of what their actions meant, to their futures, and to their families back home.

  He turned his head, slowly, closing his eyes for a few seconds until the bridge stopped spinning wildly in his field of view. He focused hard—an act far more difficult than it seemed—and he looked at the Hegemony ships on the scanner.

  The enemy fleet was still on the same vector, still chasing the route the fleet had abandoned. Even as he watched, he saw the enemy’s reaction, watched as their vessels fired their engines, decelerating hard to try and change their vectors to follow his forces. But, they couldn’t copy the gravity assist; they were out of position. They would have to adjust course conventionally, and that gave Denisov’s ships time…enough of a head start to just make it through the transit point.

  Or just to miss it.

  Exact calculations required b
etter information than he had, especially on the levels of emergency thrust the Hegemony ships might be able to draw upon. If those ships were faster than he was guessing, if they could push just a little bit harder, Denisov and his people would still die in the Pollus system.

  And, if his estimates were spot on, they just might escape, for a while at least. A transit from Pollux would lead to a wild dash toward the Confed border, and beyond, to some system where he could contact the Confederation government…and somehow try to negotiate an alliance with his former enemy. A treaty he had no legal authority to propose or accept. He didn’t speak for the Union, no matter how fancy a uniform he wore, that much he knew. But, with any luck, if he could make his case, talk to his spacers and win them over, he just might speak for the Union’s fleet.

  Assuming he got away from his pursuers, that is. Assuming he somehow reached Confederation space before the Hegemony forces ran his fleet down and destroyed it. Assuming he got someone high up in the Confederation hierarchy to listen. Assuming he didn’t miss a political officer lurking in the shadows, one with summary execution orders.

  He took a deep breath that almost gave him the heaves. Assuming all that…then he would just have to learn to work with his hated enemies, and to figure out a way to defeat an enemy that outmatched both the Union and the Confederation in every measurable area save fighter squadrons.

  He’d known fleet command would be a burden when he’d accepted it, but now he wondered if it was more than just the gravity assist maneuver struggling to bring his last meal back up.

  Chapter Ten

  CFS Dauntless

  850,000,000 Kilometers from Megara, Olyus III

  Year 318 AC

  The Battle of Megara – The Initial Onslaught

  Barron knew what was coming. He’d faced the Hegemony forces for almost two years now, ever since the White Fleet had first encountered its forces far deeper toward the center of the old empire than he’d even imagined anyone had survived. It had long been assumed that the Cataclysm had wiped out all human populations save those on the Rim. That logic seemed flawed now, obviously, yet he understood how it had come to be accepted fact. The Badlands closest to Confederation space had been depopulated, and system after system had been found to contain nothing but dead worlds, ancient graveyards with little to offer save for bits and pieces of ancient and lost technology.