Nightfall

by Jay Allan

  * * *

  Holcott’s eyes darted back and forth, identifying one target after another. The fight had turned into a melee of sorts, and his people were mixed in among the Kriegeri, exchanging fire, even fighting hand to hand in places.

  The few of his people that were left, that is.

  He could hear the sounds of fighting coming from outside now, as well, and he knew the Marines he’d left on the first level were struggling to hold back the reinforcements the enemy had no doubt called in from everywhere. They were doomed, of course, and every man and woman down there knew their purpose was to sell their lives as dearly as possible, to buy a few more minutes for Holcott and the others to finish what they’d come to do.

  He turned and caught a Kriegeri in his sight line. The hulking trooper was faced off against one of his people. He brought his rifle around, just as the enemy soldier saw him. It became a race, the Hegemony warrior moving quickly, trying to dodge the shot, and Holcott firing. Once, twice…misses. And, a third time.

  A hit. The high-powered bullet sheered the top of the trooper’s head off, leaving a wild spray of blood all around. He exchanged glances with the Marine he’d just saved. He was still looking at the man when his face twisted into a horrible grimace, and his chest exploded into a bloody mess. Holcott had saved the Marine for all of five seconds.

  The fight devolved into a desperate exchange, a wild, deadly melee. For a moment or two, it seemed almost as though no one would survive. But, even as he pressed on, fought with all he had to give, Holcott could feel his assault had crested. The Kriegeri were good, as good as his Marines, even better. That was a bitter pill for a warrior like him to swallow, but it was one he couldn’t dispute, not after months of battling against the Hegemony fighters.

  Then, he saw something. A figure on the far side of the room, standing almost eerily erect, waving her arms and directing the Kriegeri all around her. She had no implants, and only a pistol in her hand. She wore a uniform, and, while Holcott had never seen the insignia she wore, from what he’d learned of Hegemony nomenclature, she was a high ranker…and certainly a Master.

  He brought his rifle up, his focus locked on his target now, no longer scanning the room for threats. He sighted the weapon, and his hand tightened on the trigger.

  * * *

  Carmetia saw the Marine…and, she immediately knew he was someone important, perhaps even the commander. Her rifle snapped up, but it was just an instant too late.

  She saw the whole thing, unfolding almost in slow motion before her. Develia, unaware at first, snapping orders to a pair of Kriegeri standing next to her. Then, recognition, as she saw the Marine’s weapon aiming at her, and tried to escape.

  Too late.

  The Master’s head lurched back, as a bullet tore through her neck, leaving a jagged and bloody path of tissue damage in its wake. The gun was an assault rifle, and at such short range, it almost decapitated her. Develia was dead, Carmetia suspected, before she even hit the floor.

  But, her killer didn’t have long to celebrate. Carmetia’s shot was no more than half a second behind the Marine’s, and it struck him in the side of the head. His rifle flew out of his hands, and he stumbled backwards and slammed hard into the ground.

  Carmetia ran forward, cautious, but as soon as she took her second step, she could tell he was dead. Then, she saw another wounded Marine. Blanth. On his knees, looking at the Marine she’d just killed—definitely their commander, she thought after seeing Blanth’s expression—struggling to bring a Kriegeri rifle to bear.

  He has me. The thought ran through her head like a fast-moving train, and for the briefest instant, she thought she was dead.

  But, Blanth didn’t fire. He held the weapon in place for a second, and then he let it drop, and he fell to the ground right after it.

  Carmetia didn’t know if Blanth had tried to shoot her and lacked the strength to fire…or, if he’d hesitated, if some part of him hadn’t wanted to kill her, and that had delayed his action.

  She was still wondering that as she realized the fight was dying out. The Marines had made a desperate fight of it, and they’d even killed the planetary commander, enough by most standards to call it a successful decapitation strike.

  Though, Develia was on her way out one way or another.

  It wasn’t a victory for the Marines. At best, it was only a more satisfying way to die. The resistance on Dannith was over, and the planet was as good as pacified.

  And, Carmetia didn’t even have to share credit with Develia.

  She turned, even as a pair of Kriegeri stood over the wounded Blanth. She wasn’t sure if he’d spared her or not, and his immediate usefulness had declined with the end of active resistance. But, as she saw one of the Kriegeri raise his weapon and prepare to fire, she waved her hand and shouted, “No. See to that one’s wounds. He is still needed for questioning.”

  She wasn’t even sure why she’d saved him.

  Maybe she believed she could learn more from him, understand how to better fight his people.

  Or, maybe she just thought enough people had died that night, and over the last months. The Hegemony was there to rule, to show the Rim barbarians the way to the light of civilization. When they allowed that mission to descend into savagery and pointless killing, they had turned down the road the empire had taken.

  Then again, maybe she just liked the Marine, despite the fact that she knew he was her enemy.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Orbital Platform Killian

  Planet Craydon, Calvus System

  Year 318 AC

  “The Core is the heart of the Confederation, but it’s been a long time since it’s been the driver of its strength. The Iron Belt has served that role for generations now, since the second war with the Union at least.” Clint Winters was freshly showered and wearing a spotless new uniform, but his attempts to create a look of ‘normal’ were hindered by the three visible wounds he carried from the recent battle, most obviously, the fifteen-centimeter gash across his forehead, now covered with a bandage crusted over at its edges with dried blood.

  Tyler Barron stood on the observation deck next to his friends and comrades, staring out through the clear hyper-polycarbonate windows. The grayish-blue disc of Craydon lay in the lower field of view, and directly outward, there were no fewer than three other massive platforms visible, barely a tithe of the more than thirty industrial behemoths orbiting the Iron Belt world. Factories, shipyards, refineries…the industry of Craydon ran the gamut, both on the surface, and in orbit. Raw materials from the system’s asteroid belts and outer planets poured into the great industrial machine, and all manner of manufactured products came out, filling a dozen freighters a day. But, the most important production just then was in the planet’s orbital shipyards, and in the dozen munitions factories accompanying them.

  “Perhaps.” Barron’s voice was soft, somber. He’d felt a burst of excitement when he’d managed to extricate his task force from almost certain destruction, some of his task force, at least, and the rescue of Stockton and the last seven fighter pilots had actually put a smile on his face. But, it hadn’t lasted. He hadn’t been in command at Megara, just as he still wasn’t at Craydon, but he blamed himself for the defeat anyway.

  I’m sorry, Grandfather. You were the man who saved the Confederation…and I am the one who lost its capital.

  Barron knew that wasn’t entirely fair, but he didn’t care either. He couldn’t see any way to avoid final defeat in the war, and he was in no mood to let himself off the hook for any failings, actual or invented by his own raging mind.

  “Admiral Winters is right, Tyler.” There was a somber tone to Dustin Nguyen’s voice, and something else. Barron couldn’t place it at first, but then he realized the admiral sounded old. He was old, of course, but now there was a frailty and a quiet sadness that hadn’t been there when the officer had first reported for duty and taken command. “I remember those days. Your grandfather was all history makes him o
ut to be, Tyler, but if he were here, he would be the first to admit, it was the astonishing production from the Iron Belt that enabled him to win the war. The spacers of the fleet earned their glory, but the laborers and engineers of the Iron Belt deserve at least as much credit.” Nguyen paused, taking a raspy breath. “If we can hold the Iron Belt, we are still in this war. We still have a chance.”

  Barron heard the words, and his head believed them, at least to a point. But, in his heart, there was only defeat.

  He also knew the situation was far more complex than a simple, ‘we lost the Core, but we hold the Belt’ assessment. The Hegemony had only occupied two of the seven Core worlds, Ulion and Megara. But, the other five Core worlds had been more or less abandoned to their own resources by the fleet when it withdrew to Craydon. That was more than forty-five billion human beings, abandoned, left to wait and see if the Hegemony would come, or, more accurately, when they would come.

  Even a decision to ‘hold the Belt’ was a commitment to a vague and fuzzy strategy. The systems were often spoken of together, but they were located roughly in a ring around the Core, which meant that some worlds of the Belt were actually closer to the Hegemony forces at Megara than they were to the Confederation fleet at Craydon.

  “We will fight here, of course.” Barron didn’t have any real hope of victory, but the idea of not fighting to the end had never entered his mind. “And, anything these shipyards and factories can produce before that battle comes, will only help.”

  “Additional forces will be arriving from Palatia within the next week.” Vian Tulus sounded defiant, unbowed. Whatever effect the loss of Megara had on his Confederation allies, it was clear the Alliance Imperator was ready for the next fight…and nowhere near giving in. “Commander Globus confirmed the communique…and he also received news of Admiral Eaton’s stop at Palatia. I am pleased to report she made quite an impression. The treaty between our peoples started amid difficultly, but we are now as one. Your battle is our battle, and we will not stop until the enemy is driven from the Rim. Indeed, the time will come when we pursue them back to their own worlds, and show them of what we on the Rim are made.”

  Tyler nodded toward Tulus. He respected his Palatian brother, and counted him among his closest friends, but he didn’t share the almost unbreakable optimism the Imperator enjoyed. He wondered if Tulus would sound so defiant if Palatia had been lost instead of Megara.

  Gary Holsten had stood silently next to the three admirals and the two Palatian warriors, but now he spoke up. “We must fight here, and this time, if we lose, it may well be the last fight. At least the last resistance of any consequence. The Hegemony is overpowering, and we have no hope at all to defeat them without the Confederation’s industrial might. If we are driven back from here, if we fall back on the Far Rim, we are lost, whether we stage a token fight someplace like Archellia or not.

  Holsten turned toward Tulus. “Even Palatia could not stand against this tide.” Barron understood what the spy chief was trying to say, but he hoped it hadn’t offended the Imperator or Commander Globus. Holsten had meant no disrespect to Alliance arms, but the Palatians could be touchy and difficult to predict at times.

  “You speak truth, Mr. Holsten. It is no shame to admit this enemy vastly outnumbers us…and we are still far from restoring Palatia’s defenses after the damage done during our recent civil war.”

  Damages that Tyler Barron had done, fighting alongside the Gray Alliance forces and attacking Red-held Palatia.

  “So, we all agree. We fight here…and this time there will be no retreat. We will stop them at Craydon…or the war will end here.” Tyler Barron still had his doubts, grave doubts. But, he knew what he had to do, what the fleet had to do.

  And Tyler Barron never ran from his duty. Even when he saw the specter of his own death in it.

  * * *

  “I’m not sure what to say, Dr. Witter. What you’ve accomplished in such a brief time is nothing short of amazing.” Tyler Barron stood in the large room, a storage area, he guessed, recently transformed into a makeshift laboratory and test facility. “I’m particularly excited about the particle accelerator improvements. If it is truly possible to match the range of the enemy railguns, that would be an enormous tactical factor.” Barron was impressed, but he wasn’t sure excited was the right word. He still felt a deep sense of gloom, and, he didn’t see anything happening that would allow the Confederation and its allies to defeat the Hegemony. The enemy was simply too strong.

  There was something else, too, another impetus behind the despondency he was trying to hide. He’d commanded the White Fleet. He’d brought this nightmare down on the Confederation. The White Fleet expedition had not been his idea, nor had he been an early supporter, save joining with his comrades in hope that the needs of the exploration mission would slow down the Senate’s rapid decommissioning of ships after the end of the war. Still, he blamed himself, and he’d stared into a bitter irony that existed only in his own mind. His grandfather had saved the Confederation…and, he was going to lose it.

  “All of this needs more testing, of course, but…”

  “No.” The answer came from the part of Barron that would never yield, however morose his view of events got.

  “Admiral? I’m not sure I under…”

  “There is no more time for testing. We need to get what we can into production and deployed as widely as possible. We have two months, maybe three.” Barron had no idea how long it would take the enemy to follow up, but his experiences with the Hegemony gave him a good guess. Any conventional invasion force, so far from home and so battered by a desperate fight, would be stopped in place for a year, probably more. But, the enemy’s logistical supply train was so vast, everything Barron thought he knew about such things was irrelevant in this war. They had stopped at Ulion for three months, and he felt somewhat confident that they would need at least that long at Megara. Bryan Rogan was in command of the ground defenses, and he would put up one hell of a fight. And, the fleet had battered the Hegemony forces even harder at Megara than they had at Ulion.

  Yes, he felt reasonably sure they had three months. Counting on any more than that felt more like a prayer than reasoned analysis, though.

  Witter just stared back, an incredulous look on his face. “Admiral, that’s just not possible.”

  “You’re going to have to make it possible.”

  The scientist looked dumbstruck. He turned toward Andi Lafarge. The smuggler turned navy captain had become somewhat of a friend as she’d ferried his people to Craydon. But, her expression offered him no support. It was clear she agreed with Barron.

  “Admiral, Captain…it will takes months more testing before we can even think of mass production, much less installing systems in our active warships. If we move too quickly…there could be a hundred problems, dangerous flaws, malfunctions that could cripple a ship, even destroy it.”

  “I understand that, Doctor. What you need to understand is that this will very likely be the last battle, at least the last one of any consequence…unless we can find a way to win it.”

  “And, what if we install new systems in your battleships, and they fail? Or worse?”

  Barron stared back at the scientist, his eyes cold and unmoving. “How much worse than total defeat can we get, Doctor? How much worse than death?”

  He took a deep breath and continued, “We are past nightfall now, Doctor Witter, and deep into the cold and obsidian darkness. Dawn is only a dream, the faintest glimmer of a hope, and it will never come unless we are able to find a way to defeat the enemy. Your research, the amazing inventions and improvements your team has provided, are almost certainly our best chance, regardless of the risks involved.”

  The researcher looked as though he was going to reply, but Barron kept going. “We will face them here with fewer ships than we had in Megara, a smaller complement of orbital defenses. We will lose, almost certainly, unless we are able to deploy something new. Your new weapons, your amazing i
mprovements, offer us at least some shreds of hope. I don’t care about danger. I don’t even care about odds of success. I will settle for the chance of success, however remote.”

  “Ah…Mr. Davidoff. Just in time. Thank you for responding so…promptly.” Andi turned and spoke as a man stepped into the room. He was smartly put together, perfectly manicured from head to toe, and wearing probably two years of the average spacer’s salary in stylish clothing. Barron recognized an Iron Belt oligarch when he saw one, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he seemed to recall that the Davidoffs were Craydon’s preeminent family.

  That explained the fine clothes and the air of relaxed superiority. It didn’t explain the strange look on his face, in his eyes, particularly, like some kind of cold fear wrestling with a lifetime’s practiced arrogance.

  One glance over at Andi told him she was most likely responsible for that. She’d carried the initial orders for the shipyards to launch any spaceworthy vessels, and he didn’t doubt Davidoff had seen easy pickings in some random cruiser captain delivering him requisitions. He almost laughed through all his doom and gloom, imagining how Andi had probably unloaded on the unsuspecting fool. The only real question in his mind was, how literally did she describe the dismemberment, or whatever else she threatened him with.

  “How may I be of assistance?” Barron could hear the hatred, and he knew that was directed toward Andi. The fool wasn’t as good as hiding it as he probably thought he was. He was rich and powerful, and no doubt used to dealing harshly with those who got in his way. Barron made a note to tell the magnate, one day when they were all alone, that Captain Andromeda Lafarge wasn’t only enormously wealthy in her own right, and a stone-cold fighter from the Badlands, but she was also the one who’d killed Ricard Lille. The Union assassin had been known throughout the Rim, though some no doubt had believed him a myth and used his name symbolically.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Davidoff.” Barron interjected. Andi had secured the man’s attention, and likely his grudging cooperation, but he figured it would be best if he took it from there. “We have a number of new systems we need to put into immediate production…” He paused, staring at the man, only scarcely less coldly than Andi had. “…and, I cannot stress how literally I mean ‘immediate…’”