Nightfall

by Jay Allan

  “Yes, Admiral, it should have. For many years, your Confederation seemed to have little interest in the Sultanate, or, indeed, any of the nations on the Far Rim. Now, on this first visit, it appears you come not simply to establish diplomatic relations, but to ask that we join you in some kind of war. That is an audacious request on such short acquaintance, wouldn’t you agree?”

  She remained kneeling. Her advisors had been clear that she wasn’t to rise until instructed to do so. She fought off the urge to stand anyway and stare down the arrogant fool sitting in front of her, to show him how Confederation admirals really did their business. But, she thought of the combats, of the desperate fight, even then likely raging back home. Tyler Barron was counting on her. The whole Confederation was counting on her. So, she stayed in place, staring down, and said, “That is true, your Highness, and yet it is born not from arrogance, but from necessity. The enemy we fight is a danger to all on the Rim, indeed, to all of humanity not already under their control. I am here not because the Confederation wishes to interfere in your affairs, but because we…need you.”

  She struggled to get the words out. The Confederation was in dire straits, but it still hurt to pander to fools like the sultan.

  Duty. Duty calls. You have to succeed. You have to bring back help from the Far Rim, whatever it takes…

  Chapter Eighteen

  CFS Dauntless

  140,000 Kilometers from Megara, Olyus III

  Year 318 AC

  The Battle of Megara – The Walls Crumble

  “Full thrust, Captain…all ships. It’s time for the battle line to get into this fight.” Barron sat in his chair, struggling with all he could muster to hide the gloom building up inside him. His forces had fought well—and there were no words for what Stockton and his Horsemen had done, or for the price they had paid for it—but the cold reality that had been there since the beginning remained, as resolute and unstoppable as it had always been.

  The enemy was just too strong, their numbers too great, their technology too far superior. Heroism and sacrifice were powerful forces, but neither was an infinite resource. His people’s morale was still strong, surprisingly so, but he knew that wouldn’t last. Soaring speeches and displays of extreme heroism could work a group of warriors into a frenzy, but eventually, they would all come to the same desperate conclusion Barron himself had.

  They had lost. They were doomed, at least the half of the fleet positioned with him. He wasn’t going to get out of the system, and neither was Admiral Nguyen…but Clint Winters and his ships, at least, had a chance.

  A chance to keep the fight alive, however hopeless it might be.

  “Get me Admiral Nguyen, Commander.” Winters had to run, and he had to do it immediately. Every second that passed cut the chances of even half the fleet escaping. Worse, Tulus and his Alliance forces were positioned with Winters’s task force…and Barron couldn’t imagine what it would take the get the Imperator to run, and to leave his blood brother behind.

  He angled his head as he waited, glancing at the display. The orbital forts were fighting hard, most of them running their reactors—what they had left of them, anyway—at massive overloads. The platform crews were dotted with veterans here and there, mostly experienced fighters transferring to a less demanding post than the main fleet. There were more than a few political appointees, as well. No one had expected Megara to find itself on the front lines of a desperate battle anytime soon. Still, while he’d heard reports of some problems with morale, that all seemed to be under control…and the men and women still at their posts were as deeply in the fight as Dauntless’s veterans.

  Barron wondered if the fortress crews had figured out yet that most of them were going to die, and how they would handle that realization. Crippled forts would attempt to evacuate, of course, but the enemy railguns were still firing with deadly effectiveness, and that wasn’t going to leave a lot of time to get to the lifepods. The four platforms that had been totally destroyed up to that point had lasted less than ten minutes after their last weapons were silenced, and Barron knew—but had chosen not to share with anyone who didn’t—that fewer than six percent of the crews of those forts had managed to escape.

  “Admiral Nguyen on your line, Admiral.”

  “Tyler…” Nguyen beat Barron to the punch. “…we’ve got to evacuate the forces in the outer system.”

  Barron would have smiled if his mood wasn’t so grim. He tended to think of Nguyen as an old man, decades from meaningful service. But, the officer still knew what he was doing, just as well as Barron did himself.

  If not better.

  “That’s why I commed you, sir.” A pause. “Clint Winters isn’t going to make a run for it on my orders.” He hesitated again. “And, I suspect it’s going to take both of us to get Vian Tulus to go with him.”

  “You may be right, Tyler. I will send a communications drone at once. Perhaps you could transmit a personal message to Vian Tulus for inclusion.”

  “Yes, sir.” Barron knew Nguyen realized it would be difficult to get Tulus to retreat, but he suspected the admiral couldn’t really understand the immensity of trying to get a Palatian Imperator to run from a battle, leaving his allies, and his blood brother, behind to die. It was almost an impossibility, but Barron knew Megara was going to fall, whether the Alliance fleet escaped or stayed and was destroyed. There was no longer any point in losing ships that could get away. He’d have ordered his own forces to retreat as well, but it was too late. The enemy was too close. His exit paths were blocked.

  His people would have no choice but to fight to the end.

  “I will send that immediately, Admiral.” A pause. Nguyen was on the very edge of the Confederation line. “Sir, you might be able to make it out with…”

  “No, Admiral. Our forces are committed here.” A short silence. “I’d rather fight to the end than die running.”

  Barron nodded his head gently. “Yes, sir.”

  He cut the line, and switched his comm to record mode. Then, his voice soft, making as little spectacle as he could in the middle of Dauntless’s bridge, he recorded a message to Vian Tulus. A request to his friend. And, a goodbye.

  He sent the message as soon as it was done, and then he looked back at the display, just as the two largest forts remaining in action fired a volley. Three of their primaries caught one of the big enemy battleships within seconds of each other. The massive vessel froze for a few seconds, and then it just vanished, consumed by the massive forces of thermonuclear devastation, instigated, Barron suspected, by the loss of containment on the antimatter pods used to fuel the railguns.

  Whatever happened in rest of the battle, he drew satisfaction from one fact he considered incontrovertible. The Hegemony forces were suffering losses they couldn’t have imagined. For all their technological advantage, for the overwhelming numbers the enemy had brought to bear, Barron’s people were giving worse than they got…and amid the sorrow for his people’s impending fate, and the fear closing in on his own mind, he felt a grim sort of pride.

  He watched again as the fortresses fired, claiming yet another Hegemony battleship…and then seconds later, as a railgun blast scored a direct hit, and vaporized the last chunk of what had remained of Megara’s Prime Base.

  There were half a dozen of the platforms still in the fight, and the need to engage them was giving Barron’s battleships the chance to close to their own firing range before the enemy could focus on them. Thoughts of doom still pressed in in him, but he rallied all that remained inside, and, as the range counted down, he said, softly. “Primaries, open fire.”

  The bridge lights dimmed, and he heard the familiar whine, the quad-barreled emplacement firing, in the place, in his mind at least—and his heart—of the old Dauntless’s double gun. He watched, supremely confident in the skill of his gunnery crews, defying the long-range of the shot, and staring with pure satisfaction, but no surprise, when the weapon struck one of the lead Hegemony battleships head on.
r />   This fight isn’t over yet, you bastards…

  Then, his thoughts shifted to Van Tulus, to the communique he’d sent to the flagship for transmission to the Imperator. He hoped it was good, that it would be compelling to its recipient. Because, if it wasn’t, one of his best friends would die needlessly, along with all his ship and warriors.

  And, Clint Winters is going to need the Palatians wherever he fights next. He’s going to need them desperately…

  * * *

  “Olympus and Indomitable are to move forward and take position with Task Group Beta, at the third moon of Electra.” Clint Winters’s voice slammed into his officers like a stone…or a Sledgehammer. His determination, his raw refusal to yield was clear in every word.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Winters had been moving his fleet up steadily, putting all his self-control into keeping himself from simply ordering all his ships forward. Vian Tulus had been urging him to do just that for the last hour, and he wanted nothing more than to comply. But, he had orders, and despite his reputation as something of a maverick, he’d actually always obeyed orders.

  Well, maybe usually…

  Dustin Nguyen’s orders at the start of the battle had been clear, however, and if Winters was going to ignore someone’s commands, it wasn’t going to be those of an officer who’d fought alongside Admiral Barron. The old Admiral Barron, the savior of the Confederation.

  Even as he thought of Tyler’s grandfather in those terms, he realized his respect for his own comrade was nearly as strong. He’d follow Tyler Barron anywhere, though the two were almost of the exact same rank. But, right now, Tyler Barron was back at Megara, looking very much like he was trapped.

  And, that meant Clint Winters’s forces had to attack. They had to break through to Barron and Nguyen…before it was too late.

  Still, despite his nickname—and Sledgehammer didn’t exactly imply reasoned and considered thought—Winters was actually quite meticulous in his operations. Getting his ships shot to pieces wasn’t going to help anyone, and he’d been using every planet and moon in the outer system to provide cover for his fleet. He’d worked his way closer, into the enemy’s railgun range, leapfrogging his ships, getting them back behind a planet or some other cover as quickly as possible.

  He’d lost two ships outright, vessels caught in transit and blasted to bits by the heavy Hegemony guns, but that had been far less than he’d feared, and his advancing ships had opened up with their own fire, emerging from behind the cover of the gas giant and its moons, shooting, and ducking back before the enemy targeting systems could lock on and return fire.

  Usually before. His forward ships had taken a few hits, though all but three were still in the fight, and even that trio was still active, part of his second line, waiting for the enemy to close. Those ships had lost their primaries, at least unless their sweating engineering teams could get them back online, but they were far from finished.

  Winters watched as the two battleships he’d ordered forward increased their thrust. The pair of ships would be exposed to enemy fire for a short time—six minutes, he thought to himself, with some degree of rounding in the number—but the course he’d set was an unpredictable one, and with any luck, the two vessels would reach their destinations intact. The battleships would both fire before they ducked behind the gas giant’s massive bulk, and then they would sit there and recharge, before emerging again for another blast.

  Winters’s forces were doing better than he’d dared to hope, and he knew he owed that to Barron and Nguyen, and the pounding they were taking. The enemy was trying to hold his ships back with a blocking force, exactly what he would have done in their position, while they moved directly on Megara and the ships stationed there. It was the proper strategy, no question, but the Sledgehammer wasn’t about to let it happen, at least not unmolested. He didn’t have orders to close now…but he didn’t have specific orders not…”

  “Admiral…we’ve got a communications drone approaching. Beacon indicates it is from fleet command.”

  Winters froze. He hadn’t had any order to prevent him from advancing. He flashed a glance back to the display, to the spotty long-range readings he had of the nightmare unfolding around Megara. Things didn’t look good there, which was one major reason he was pushing his forces forward. But, his gut told him Admiral Nguyen and Admiral Barron would see things differently.

  He almost told Davis Harrington that the officer had only thought he’d received a message from a drone, that it had actually been some sporadic cosmic energy—or any other pure bullshit that popped into his head. He was pretty sure Harrington would go along with him. Orders were orders, of course, but what difference did any of it make if the fleet was lost?”

  “On my line, Commander.” The words came out almost on their own, as though some disciplined part of himself had taken over, demanded he listen to the orders that drone almost certainly carried.

  He listened as the sound of Nguyen’s voice, shaky with age, but still strong, filled his ears. The orders were just what he’d expected, dreaded. He rebelled against the thought of pulling out of Olyus, of turning tail and running. Abandoning Megara was unthinkable enough, but leaving his comrades trapped, surrounded by the enemy, it made him want to double over and spill the contents of his stomach on the deck.

  But, those words were orders…from the mouth of a man who’d served decades before alongside Admiral Barron, when that famous officer had saved the Confederation from ruin. Winters had allowed himself to imagine that the younger Barron was destined to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps, that once again, a member of that naval dynasty would step in and ward off doom.

  But, if Winters’s ships fled, Tyler Barron was almost certain to die right where he was, meeting his end along with his second Dauntless.

  He couldn’t obey that order. He couldn’t leave his comrades behind, leave Megara to the enemy. But, Nguyen’s last words struck him hard, and he leaned back in his chair, almost recoiling from their power.

  “The future of the Confederation is in your hands now.” The sentence rang out in his head, again and again, almost like some massive bell tolling. He longed to try to rescue Barron and Nguyen, to find a way to save Megara…but he knew it was hopeless. He was too far away. There were too many enemy ships in the way, and too little time. He could leave now, as ordered…or he could throw away his entire task force, almost every warship the Confederation still possessed.

  Or would still possess, once the fighting in the Olyus system was over.

  He wrestled with himself, fighting to override every impulse he possessed, every urge that seemed even remotely natural to him. He hated Nguyen for what the old admiral had said, for placing the responsibility for the Confederation on him as he had.

  He wanted to fight, to battle it out until the end, and if need be, die right there. But, duty was there again, a shadow looming over him, and behind it, billions of Confederation citizens, staring at him from the darkness, looking to him to keep the fight going, to endure, to find some way to defend them, even to just hope for a miracle.

  He listened to the rest of the message, including Tyler Barron’s appeal to Vian Tulus. Winters hated the idea of withdrawing his fleet, but he could only imagine the fight the Imperator would have with himself. Palatians didn’t run, and certainly not when their allies were trapped and facing almost certain destruction. But, Barron had made it a point of honor. He’d requested as Tulus’s blood brother that the Imperator carry on the fight for Barron, once he could no longer do it himself. That was a request no Palatian could refuse.

  Winters even managed a smile, for a couple seconds, a silent tribute to Barron’s craftiness, and his knowledge of the Palatian mind. He’d given Tulus an impossible contest, two inviolable—and contradictory—demands on the Imperator’s honor.

  Winters turned toward the job duty had thrust on him. He was morose as he calculated the retreat vectors for his fleet, and as he prepared to give the order he knew he
would choke on. But, there was one bright side.

  He wouldn’t be on Invictus’s bridge when Tulus got Barron’s message.

  * * *

  “I know I place an impossible demand on you, that no matter what you do, you will feel as though your honor is lost. I ask you, as your brother, as a warrior who has shed blood with you, do not think this way. If I fall here, in honorable combat, there is no one I can rely on to continue my personal fight, no one to stand in the line where I would have…save you, comrade and brother. I ask much of you, I understand this, and I would not do it if there was another way, if our fight was any less dire. Go, my friend, carry my respect with you, and the memories of the battles where we have fought side by side. Remember me, and if you see through to victory, and return to Palatia, light the candles for me, and toast to the victories we have won together.”

  Vian Tulus was a Palatian warrior, the Imperator of his people, a hard man who had lived a life of combat and bloodshed almost without pause since his fifteenth summer. Yet, as he read Barron’s words, sitting on his flagship’s bridge, he felt the walls inside him crumbling.

  There was sadness, deep and unbearable, a weakness unseemly for a warrior of his stature, yet one he couldn’t push back, no matter how hard he tried. Rage, too, like a force of nature, a roiling storm growing inside him, a screeching howl into the wind demanding the blood of his enemies. Honor and loyalty clashed in him, anger and obligation. He couldn’t leave, flee the battle now. It was inconceivable.

  But, Tyler had laid the obligation on him to carry his brother’s fight forward. It was a request no Palatian could refuse…yet Tyler Barron wasn’t yet dead. Did such a request—could it—come before the need to come to a brother’s aide?

  Tulus wanted to scream, to throw his head back and howl to the gods, or whatever unknown power rejoiced in deeds of battle. He wanted to let loose his frustration, the fury churning inside him, the venomous anger he felt toward the Hegemony, the enemy that had brought him—and Tyler Barron—to such a dreadful pass.