by Jay Allan
His eyes darted up and down, noticing the fineness of her clothes, and even more the clearly expensive jewelry she wore. He had last seen Ciara in her drab worker’s garb, and the grim fatigues of a revolutionary soldier in the field. Clearly, she had decided such masquerades were no longer necessary.
They’re no longer necessary because the fleet has prevailed, because Gaston Villieneuve is trapped, the small cluster of systems he controls virtually surrounded and cut off. They’re not necessary because you have almost rid her of the threat of her deadly enemy. Have you fought, as you told yourself you were doing, to free the Union, or at least to move it somewhat in that direction, or have you simply replaced one brutal tyrant with another?
Denisov wasn’t sure of that answer, not yet. Ciara had cut back on some particularly oppressive regulations of the Villieneuve-era, but she still retained a firm hand on the wheels of government…and the lives of the people. And she’s cut through Sector Nine like a tsunami, eliminating anyone even suspected of lingering loyalties to her deposed predecessor and replacing them with her own creatures. But she’d taken no steps toward dismantling the notorious intelligence agency.
“I almost sent one of my commanders back to report, First Citizen, so I could remain with the fleet. I will feel considerably better when Gaston Villieneuve is dead.” Denisov wasn’t usually so blunt, but there was no point in prancing around the realities of the civil war drawing to its close. There was no way Villieneuve could be allowed to live. The blood of billions cried out for his execution, and Denisov had privately decided to spare the Union the pain of a trial or anything that might appear like a government-ordered murder. So much better if Villieneuve died in battle, fighting to the last against the legitimate forces of the Union.
Even if he ‘died in battle’ with his hands in the air, pleading for his life.
Denisov wasn’t a vengeful man by nature, but his hatred for Villieneuve was both fully earned and intense. And he wouldn’t rest until his enemy was utterly defeated.
“You did the right thing, Admiral. It is important we discuss…what happens after the final push. We must chart a course forward for the Union, and you should be part of that.”
Denisov wasn’t sure if Ciara was serious, or if she was managing him. Or a bit of each.
“I agree on the importance of that, of course…but until Gaston Villieneuve’s forces are completely defeated, the war is still the top priority.” A pause. “How are relations with the Confederation?” Denisov’s primary demand in return for his support had been a normalization of relations with the Confederation. And he was determined to hold Ciara to her promise. He’d served alongside Tyler Barron and his spacers, fought together with them against the Hegemony. He would have been with them even then, facing the new enemy threatening the Rim, if he hadn’t been called back home to help set the Union to rights. He had no intention of facilitating a renewal of tension and struggle with his recent allies.
“Everything is fine. The Confederation is quite distracted, I am afraid. The war beyond the Badlands does not go well, it seems. I have sent Admiral Kerevsky back to Megara, along with a delegation to work out a new treaty.”
“You sent Kerevsky back?” Denisov was surprised. The Confederation admiral—and spy—had been Ciara’s steadfast ally, and her lover, too.
“Yes…Alexander has been a great help to us, but I thought it was…wise…to remove him from Montmirail as we prepare to conclude our change of government. The Confeds will be good neighbors, even allies, but eliminating Gaston Villieneuve’s influence has required…direct…measures. Admiral Kerevsky was an ideal choice to accompany our new diplomatic mission back to Megara.” A pause. “No doubt, he understood what had to be done here. But there were things I suspect he did not wish to see.”
Denisov shifted on his feet. There were things he was uncomfortable hearing as well, and he wondered if Ciara was about to unleash some sort of reign of terror on Montmirail. Then he wondered if there was any other way. The capital had likely been infested with Villieneuve’s operatives—was likely still full of them—and unpleasant or not, there was only one way to clean house in a place like Montmirail.
He could only hope that’s where it would end. He was committed, and the thought of what Gaston Villieneuve would do if he ever regained power was almost unimaginable. He could support things he considered morally repugnant, at least to the end of eliminating Villieneuve’s influence. But if Ciara pushed it farther, if she started targeting her own political rivals…he would have to cross that bridge if it came.
“I cannot stay long, First Citizen. Much of the fleet was in need of repair, and the spacers were exhausted from the continuous campaigning. Villieneuve is trapped. He has some productive capacity in the systems he controls, but his only open supply line extends out into the Periphery. When I return, the fleet will move to close even that, and then we will begin the final phase…and the dark reign of Gaston Villieneuve will truly be at an end.”
Ciara smiled. “That will be a glorious day, Admiral. And I can think of no one more trustworthy or better suited to take on that burden. Stay for a few days, allow me to show you some of the steps I have taken here. You will see I have taken the promises I made to you seriously. Then go back and finish your task, lead your victorious spacers to final victory.”
Denisov nodded, and he managed a smile. He wasn’t sure he believed Ciara, and he almost certainly did not in everything she had said. But she had sounded convincing, and while he knew she was an impressive liar when she wished to be, he decided he had no choice but to trust her. For the time being.
Nothing was more important than ridding the Union, and the universe, of Gaston Villieneuve’s foul stench.
* * *
“I would have returned sooner, Gaston, but your enemies have closed off almost all approaches to this remaining pocket of space you occupy. The route around the Hegemony and the areas of what you call the Badlands close to Confederation space, is a long and arduous one, even for vessels with the thrust capacities of ours.” The Highborn stood in front of Villieneuve, towering the better part of a meter over the ousted head of the Union. Percelax was not only Highborn, but also one of the Firstborn. That was a rank that perhaps slipped by Villieneuve’s understanding, but it signified the priority level Tesserax and the Colony had assigned to employing the Union to distract and damage the Confederation. Percelax had some difficulty accepting that such efforts were useful, much less necessary, but the limited intelligence available on Confederation production had painted an alarming picture. The war to unite the Rim under Highborn rule wasn’t being fought by all the forces available. Most of those were tied down on the primary front. The newly founded Colony had been thrown largely on its own captured resources to sustain the war.
Tesserax had worked wonders harnessing captured Hegemony technology, and upgrading and expanding it, but if it was possible to slip a blade into the weak side of the Pact, it was well worth the effort.
“Lord Percelax, I am most pleased to see you again. I am anxious to hear what resources you have brought.” Villieneuve was clearly trying to hide his fear, but it was obvious enough he was on the precipice of total defeat. That would have made him a poor choice for an ally, of course, at least in most circumstances. But the Union forces facing his own depleted fleet were also battered and worn. The Union’s economy was on the verge of total collapse, and most active shipyard capacity was committed to repair operations. That was mostly based on Villieneuve’s intel, of course, and Percelax would normally have placed little faith in it, save for the fact that it made perfect sense and correlated almost perfectly with his own computer models.
“I have brought enough, Gaston…enough to defeat your enemies and to restore you to unchallenged rule of the Union. When that is achieved, you will receive further shipments to prepare your forces to satisfy their obligations under our agreement.”
“I will do as I have promised, Lord Percelax…with great pleasure. First, we
must deal with these rebels, and I must be restored to my position on Montmirail. Then, I will repay my debt to you. The Confederation has been my enemy for as long as I have conscious memory. It is well past time to give them what they deserve.”
“Very well, Gaston. I suggest you assemble a group of your most reliable naval officers. I have brought a number of warships to supplement your forces, as well as weapons and other equipment to enhance your remaining vessels. Based on the intelligence you have provided, it appears you have roughly four to five of your months before your enemies are ready to resume their offensive, an effort they no doubt view as the final attack. Ideally, you will strike them while they are still mobilizing and organizing. Assuming they do not have active intelligence assets on your occupied worlds…”
“They do not.”
Percelax paused for a moment, struggling somewhat to defuse his anger at Villieneuve’s interruption. He found it quite exhausting dealing with the human on a level that even appeared remotely as equals, but it served his purpose for the time being. Once the Union Civil War was ended, and its enhanced forces were deployed against the Confederation, there would be time to put Gaston Villieneuve in his place.
“Assuming that is the case, they will almost certainly proceed as we have projected, giving us an opportunity to strike before they are fully prepared, with a vastly stronger force than they are expecting to encounter. We will obliterate their main fleet, and then, with the engine enhancements to your vessels, we will move on the capital before they are able to respond in any meaningful way. Your enemies will be destroyed in one swift stroke…assuming your engineering crews are able to work quickly enough. We have three months, perhaps even four…after that, there is risk the enemy will move first.”
“My people will do what has to be done, Lord Percelax, and they will do it in the allotted time. I can assure you of that.”
Percelax didn’t much like Gaston Villieneuve. He found most humans to be at best annoying, but the deposed Union leader was particularly loathsome. He was, however, just what was needed, the perfect proxy to carry out the mission, a man so blinded by lust for power and revenge, he would be easily influenced. He was a tool only, of course, and Percelax scoffed at whatever fantasies the human harbored about sharing power. He and the forces remaining under his control were resources to be used—and expended if need be—and nothing more.
“Very well, Gaston. Three months. In three of your months, the attack will commence. I will rely upon you to…motivate…your people to see that all the required preparations are complete.”
Chapter Five
Forward Outpost Seven
Delta Orion System
Year 327 AC (After the Cataclysm)
“Enemy fighters, coming in on attack vector.”
St. James listened to the report, but he just nodded in response. There was nothing to say, no orders to give. The outpost line had been a hurried project, and the resources available had been poured into areas that had been deemed most vital. That didn’t—hadn’t at least—included defense against small craft attacks.
Outpost Seven, along with its sixteen brethren in the other border systems, didn’t mount so much as a point defense turret to direct against the incoming squadrons. The enemy was fresh, their formations perfect. The first three hundred fighters launched by the Highborn fleet had engaged Commander Contrall’s squadrons, and were still in the process of hunting down her last few survivors. The force approaching the station was also three hundred strong, launched by the last enemy ships to transit into the system.
That, at least, has stopped…
It had been almost two hours since a ship had come through, but St. James knew that was of little relevance, at least to his people’s vanishing hopes for survival. The forces in the system were strong enough to destroy Outpost Seven a dozen times over.
At least it’s not a true invasion force.
Not yet. But who knows what is waiting beyond that point…
St. James heard the sound of the outpost’s laser batteries opening fire. They weren’t designed for targeting maneuverable small craft like fighters, but they were what his people had. His gunners might take out a handful of enemy bogies, especially since the attackers had to be inexperienced and new to small craft operations. Still, even that was eating away at him. There was something not quite right. The enemy pilots were good. Too good. He’d seen the first Hegemony formations, witnessed the skill and dedication in their performance, but also their greenness. That didn’t matter much for the outpost’s chances, perhaps, but he could feel his apprehension rising for his comrades, those he would very likely leave behind shortly, those who were facing a war even more unwinnable than they’d imagined.
Highborn fighters…we should have expected this…
He was frustrated, angry with himself for not being more ready for what he was facing. The Confederation had watched as the Hegemony developed small craft in response to the success the squadrons had achieved in the last war. As he watched the deadly swarm closing, it seemed downright careless and stupid that the possibility the Highborn would do the same had been ignored.
He’d known just what his duty would be if the enemy appeared on his watch, and the Highborn squadrons had just upped the stakes on that. He had to get word back to Admiral Barron, along with as much data as he could on the fighters…and on the apparent and inexplicable skill of the pilots flying them.
* * *
Contrall’s back ached, pain radiating out from her shoulders and just under her neck. She was curled forward in her cockpit, every centimeter of her body wracked by tension. She was afraid, scared to death in fact. But she was also consumed with battle lust, with the need to strike back at the enemy for the deaths of so many of her people.
Most of them…
And for her own death, which she knew could not long be delayed.
She had six pilots left in action, at least that’s what her scanners told her. The others were all dead, save perhaps for a few floating in space in their survival pods with no hope of rescue. Dead too, just not officially yet…
And those remaining, herself included, had lifespans measured in minutes. She’d considered giving the order to try to break off, to flee back to the outpost. But aside from the remote chance that any of her people could escape the faster enemy fighters, there was no point. Another strike force had launched, bypassing her beleaguered wing and moving around the flank on the outpost. The station was already under attack even as the enemy hunted down the last of her fighters. She knew the end was near, for the outpost as well as for herself and her survivors, and her mind was focused on all she had left…fighting to the last, hurting the enemy as much as she could.
Scoring her fifth kill. She’d taken down four of the enemy fighters in the swirling combat, and she needed one more. It was pointless, of course utterly without meaning in any conventional sense. Her AI’s recordings would be destroyed with her ship. Not even a posthumous record would remain that listed her as an ace pilot. Another kill wasn’t going to save her, make her less dead. But she wanted it. It was all that was left to her.
She brought her ship around, blasting wildly along different vectors to evade the fire of at least half a dozen pursuers. She had an enemy ship in her sights, just ahead. The pilot had almost shaken her three times, but she’d managed to hang on.
A pair of laser blasts ripped by, coming within a hundred meters of her ship. She could feel death stalking her, and she knew every second that passed could be her last. Her eyes were fixed on her own display, trying to get a lock on her target even as she used every trick she knew to buy a few more seconds of survival, perhaps a minute. She’d lived her whole life, and she knew she was at the end. Just a few more seconds…
There was hopelessness weighing down of course, for herself certainly, but also for her comrades, for Admiral Barron and the fleet…and the entire Rim. The enemy was too strong, and now they had fighters. Worse, those small craft were flown by well-t
rained pilots, perhaps even a match for the fleet’s bombing-focused squadrons. That seemed inexplicable, impossible even. Technology was one thing, but the Highborn hadn’t even seen Rim squadrons battling other fighters. Such combats had become vanishingly rare in the last decade. How had they developed such advanced tactics, trained their pilots so well?
She didn’t have an answer…and she knew she would never would.
Another shot flashed by, even closer than the last two. She fired as well, missing her target by two hundred meters. The Highborn pilots were not only well drilled in formations and flying, but they had clearly been trained to evade pursuing fighters. If she’d had an interceptor kit, and a pair of ship to ship missiles, she would have fared better, but she was still pleased with herself at managing four kills, at least to the extent such feelings could push through desperation and terror. None of her people had come close to that total, though a few had distinguished themselves before death caught up with them.
She’d imagined her own death many times. That was the curse of the fighter pilot. She’d held her breath as she’d closed on enemy ships, evading point defense fire, and those deadly missiles the Highborn ships mounted, feeling the cold shadow all around her…but she’d never been in a situation as hopeless as the current one, never before been sure she was about to die.
Her life’s wishes’ desires, all she’d hoped to achieve, to see, to do…it was all gone, all save the burning need to kill the pilot in front of her before the pack behind finished her.
She fired again, and then again. Two more misses, both close. But not close enough. The enemy ships on her tail were closing, her time was running out. The Highborn fighters had stronger thrust levels even than the new Lightning IIIs. The fire was getting heavier, and the group pursuing her had grown to eight or nine. The fire was constant, a pulse of deadly energy ripping by every few seconds. One of them would get her, it was almost a mathematical certainty. Whatever evasive routines she executed, however well she flew, sooner or later, she would guess wrong.