by Jay Allan
Barron inhaled deeply. “I think we’d better send scouts to the other outposts to check on their status.” A pause. “Perhaps we should even order them abandoned. The automated systems can send warning of any additional Highborn attacks. We’re asking our people to throw away their lives if we keep them there.” Barron phrased his thought as a question, but he knew it was his call. Vian Tulus would support any decision he made, he was sure of that. And he doubted Chronos would object, especially since the construction and manning of the outpost line had been a Confederation responsibility. The men and women up there alone, in those lightly-armored stations, were Barron’s.
“I agree, Admiral.” Winters nodded. “If it’s not already too late.”
“You think they’re going to hit more of the outposts, Clint? Or that they already have?”
“Two might have been a sign of a split attack, but five? I doubt they’re going to divide their forces that much. Perhaps they’re trying to throw us off, keep us guessing where the main attack with come. I don’t know, but is it going to surprise you if another series of drones limps into the system from one of the others?”
“No, it’s not. Let’s see to that evacuation order now…if it’s not already too late.” He turned toward the officer sitting next to him. “Commander Carlisle, see the order is issued at once. Send a courier ship to every remaining outpost with orders to prepare for evacuation. Then arrange for transport to follow up and pull the crews out of there.”
“Yes, Admiral.” The officer stood up and saluted, then he strode briskly out of the room to carry out Barron’s command.
Barron had come to lean on Tilson Carlisle more and more over the past three and a half years. He looked across the table at Atara Travis. Travis had been his chief aide in one way or another almost since he’d taken his first command. She had followed him around the fleet, and up the chain of command, and now she wore her own admiral’s stars. But she hadn’t been the same, not since she’d been wounded at Calpharon. She’d survived, something that had seemed unlikely at first, mostly because of Chronos’s intervention and the application of superior Hegemony medical technology. She looked much the same as she ever had, though Barron knew about three kilometers of her body weight now consisted of bionic bits and pieces, as well as three metal alloy bone segments. The treatments had been painful, the recovery slow and grueling. But she had recovered. Physically at least.
Barron wasn’t so sure about emotionally. He was worried about his friend, and that had caused him to rely more heavily on his junior aide…which was probably just making things worse. He’d started by trying to ease her workload, give her time to fully recover. He’d intended to give her time, but recently he’d been concerned he might have given her the impression he’d lost confidence in her. Perhaps his efforts to help her had turned counterproductive. He had to sit down with her and have a long talk, but he’d been putting it off. That was something else that had slipped away. Once, he’d have spoken comfortably with Atara about almost anything.
But seeing her so badly hurt, watching her fight on the edge of death…he wondered if he wasn’t part of the problem, if seeing his oldest friend suffer so badly had affected how he perceived her, dealt with her.
Barron had been grateful at first for the respite from action, but he’d come to wonder if that hadn’t been harmful to Atara. She had been wounded before, just as he had been, and both had always returned to action as soon as they were up and around. Perhaps an extended rest was counter-productive. Four years was a long time to think about things, to dwell on what had happened, how close she had come to death. Sometimes, he knew, the voices inside, and the rambling of one’s own thoughts, were the deadliest enemy.
“Very well…that is decided.” He looked across at Atara, giving her a passing smile. She returned it with one of her own, but there was just something in her eyes that troubled him. His friend needed help, and he wasn’t sure how to give it.
He hated to think that answer was combat, that returning to battle would restore Atara’s confidence, that she needed to prove to herself she could be as effective as she had once been, and battle was the only way that could happen. He hated the thought…but he realized he had come to believe just that.
“Now, if the enemy does launch an invasion soon, before we’re able to do any serious reorganization and training of the wings…” He glanced over at Reg. “…how do we respond to these Highborn fighter squadrons. The easy answer is to outfit all our wings as interceptors, in spite of the lack of dogfighting experience among the pilots. But we don’t have enough ordnance for that. Interceptor kits have not been a production priority for more than ten years. We might put a thousand ships in space right now, at most. And our ability to resupply those with missiles or to repair damaged ships will be extremely limited. I have already dispatched a message to Gary Holsten, one that expresses our urgent need for more ship to ship missiles and interceptor gear…but we all know it will take close to two months for that communique even to reach him. It will likely be a year, perhaps more, before we are able to massively increase our supplies of interceptor kits.”
“We have some production capacity, Tyler…left over from…” The words, ‘when we were fighting each other’ seemed to echo off the walls and ceiling, though Chronos hadn’t actually said them. He’d let his voice drift off to silence for a few seconds instead. “It’s not enough to provide what is needed, and we will have to rework much of it to fit your Lightning fighters, but I believe we can get at least some equipment and ordnance flowing to your squadrons before you can hope to begin receiving shipments from the Confederation.
“Thank you, Chronos. Anything you are able to do in that regard will be most helpful. Of course, you will have to retain enough unaltered production to supply your own wings. Your pilots were trained from the start for fighter versus fighter actions. They may actually be among the best suited right now to face the enemy squadrons.” He turned to look over at Vian Tulus. “The Palatian wings, at least, are well-supplied with interceptor ordnance.” Barron barely managed to suppress a laugh. Dogfighting fit the Palatian warrior ideal far better than coordinated bombing runs, but he still found it amusing that the Alliance had shipped large quantities of the materials all the way across the Confederation, the Badlands, and into the Hegemony…when there had been little reason to expect any of it was necessary. For all the thought and strategy and tactical debates that had failed to create readiness, pure Palatian pride and stubbornness had won the day.
“I will order all of our squadrons configured for interceptor operations at once.” The eagerness in Tulus’s voice was clear to Barron. For all the imperator’s tactical wisdom, he was still a Palatian warrior at heart, and it was clear he was anxious to see his squadrons take on the enemy wings. “At least until we are able to get more of your ships so equipped…and we decide on the appropriate force breakdowns to face the enemy in the future.”
“Thank you, Vian…that will be most helpful. With the Palatian and Hegemony squadrons configured as interceptors, plus the portion of Confederation forces we can currently so equip, we will have a substantial force available to screen our bombers and meet the enemy fighters.” He turned and looked down the table. “We will have to give some thought to the ideal allocations once supply constraints are no longer making our decisions for us. We can’t convert all the wings to anti-fighter operations. I think we can all agree, the fleet has no chance at all against the Highborn forces without bomber support. We’ve…hopefully…improved our targeting and scanner locks over the past few years, but I think it would be extremely unrealistic to assume that alone will be sufficient. And yet, if we have too few interceptors, the enemy squadrons will obliterate our unprotected bombers.”
The room was silent. Barron wasn’t surprised. He had no idea how many fighters the Highborn had, or what numbers his mostly-inexperienced wings would need to combat them. He wasn’t surprised no one else did either.
“Okay, we’ll table
that until we have more data. Or until we run out of time. It’s possible a closer review of the scanner data from the destroyed outposts will give us at least a start. And, on that topic, there is one more thing we should discuss. What we have analyzed suggests a level of cohesion and order in the Highborn squadrons that greatly exceeds what we might expect from a force so new to small craft operations.” He looked one way and then the other, panning his eyes over the officers present. “Does anybody have any thoughts on how that is possible?”
Chapter Eight
Highborn Flagship S’Argevon
Imperial System GH9-4307, Planet A1112 (Calpharon)
Year of the Firstborn 389 (327 AC)
“You have done well, Thrall-Commander Stockton. Very well indeed. Your pilots have exceeded all expectations and parameters, and their kill ratios have been excellent.”
Jake Stockton knelt in front of Tesserax, waiting for the Highborn to give him permission to rise. He’d resisted prostrating himself, at least in the small part of his brain that was still his. That was still him. But as always, he’d had no control. He retained only enough consciousness of his own to feel remorse and self-hatred at what he’d been forced to watch himself do for more than three years.
“Thank you, Highborn. I exist to serve.” The words, too, came from part of his mind he couldn’t control. Stockton would have put a gun in his mouth before he’d have uttered such obsequious drivel to an enemy. He’d longed for death, begged the forces of the universe to let him die, stared with longing at guns, knives, vertical drops, anything that promised the sweet relief of oblivion…but all to no avail.
His brutal fate, the cold destiny that had claimed him, denied him the escape of death. He’d imagined his end a thousand times, but never in his darkest nightmares had he imagined the hell that had consumed him.
His body simply wouldn’t respond to his commands, no more than it had the vast number of times he’d tried to attack his captors or end his own life. The Collar controlled him, his every move, even his mental activities. He was unable to refuse orders from the Highborn, incapable of trying to escape. He’d told the Highborn everything he knew about the Confederation forces, spewed out information in a torrent, each word a profound betrayal of those he’d left behind. He’d tirelessly trained thousands of Thrall pilots, too, teaching them every dogfighting tactic he knew.
Preparing them to kill his comrades. His friends.
Jake Stockton had been a Confederation legend, the supreme commander over thousands of loyal pilots, and a hero celebrated from one Confed planet to another. And now, at least to the sensibilities he retained, he was the foulest, most vile traitor in history.
“ We will soon face the human forces, Thrall-Commander, and you will be a central figure in our victory. You will serve us well, Jake Stockton, and secure a place for yourself among the very highest of the Thralls.”
I will live to see you choking to death on your own blood…if there is any justice in the universe.
But Stockton didn’t believe there was justice or fairness. They were fairy tales, invented to brainwash children.
“Thank you, Highborn. Your words do me honor.” More words he couldn’t stop…and more self-loathing.
“You still have some time to complete your training operations, Commander. We have destroyed all seventeen of the enemy outposts along the border, each of them with your fighter squadrons. The primary assault, however will not commence at once. Our goal is to break the morale of the humans, to destroy their will to fight. They will be shaken when they realized that all of their forward positions have been extinguished simultaneously. They will debate and argue as they try to decide from where our attack will commence. They will review scanner footage, watch the skill of your fighter wings, the sharpness of their maneuver…and then they will realize that six hundred of the small craft attacked each of seventeen outposts. They will know we can deploy over ten thousand fighters…and they will quake with fear.”
Stockton felt as though his body was quivering with rage, but he knew he was still kneeling perfectly still in front of Tesserax. The Highborn had not given yet him leave to rise, no doubt a way of making a point to the scrap of Jake Stockton that remained under the Collar’s crushing power.
He’d expected the orders for the offensive to come immediately, and he felt relief at the apparent delay. He understood the Highborn plan. It even made sense to him, save for one thing. It didn’t account for the will of his colleagues. It didn’t matter what force the Highborn paraded before the scanners. Clint Winters would never yield. Stara Sinclair, Reg Griffin, even Chronos and his top Hegemony commanders…they would never give way.
And Tyler Barron, his friend, his mentor, his commander for almost all of his illustrious career, Tyler Barron, the Confederation’s hero, the very embodiment of his famous grandfather…Tyler Barron would never surrender, no matter what force, what deadly danger the enemy threw at him.
His certainty in that was the first sense of relief he’d felt since the day he’d been captured.
* * *
“You have done well, Keremax, beyond even the high expectations I had for you.” Tesserax stood next to the other Highborn, looking out from what had once been the Council’s Hall on Calpharon. The Hegemony capital had put up a short but nasty fight, and the Kriegeri’s resistance had caused considerable damage. But much of the planet’s industry had been captured nearly intact, and the repairs that were needed had been combined with upgrades and modifications to meet Highborn standards. Production had commenced less than six months after the occupation, and Calpharon’s factories, and its orbital shipyards had been producing weapons, supplies, and ships at a breakneck pace ever since. The same was true on almost a hundred other planets, but Calpharon had been in every way the powerhouse of Hegemony industry and power. That was why Tesserax had proclaimed it the capital of the Colony, and the center of Highborn rule in the Rimward sectors of the old empire. One day it would be revered as a sacred world by hundreds of billions of humans, and they would look to its star from their home worlds and know that is where the gods dwelled.
“You do me honor, Commander. We did face some challenges, at least before we were able to begin local production of Collars. But more than half the population here is now encollared, and the reduced need for conventional security had enabled us to increase production more rapidly. In another year, every human on Calpharon will wear the Collar.”
“See that we achieve that goal in six months, Keremax, even if you are required to terminate surplus segments of the population to do so. The humans breed rapidly, and any damage done to long term productivity by unanticipated population losses will soon be repaired. We are to begin the final phase of the reduction of the humans remaining in arms against our sacred rule…and I would risk no distractions from uncontrolled populations in the occupied areas.”
“I will see it done, Commander. I believe we can increase Collar production, perhaps not enough to fully encollar the population in the specified time, but I am confident we can keep the surplus down to perhaps one hundred million. The terminations of such a small population segment will hardly affect productivity, especially since the Hegemony was thoughtful enough to maintain detailed genetic records on its population. We can quite easily target those remaining of moderate to high capability to be given the Collar, and ensure that any groups eliminated will be among the lowest rated, those with little measurable value to our efforts going forward.”
“Excellent, Keremax. I leave such details in your capable hands.” Tesserax was pleased with his subordinate’s efforts, and he considered Keremax one of the most valuable members of his team. Still, he felt a prejudice of sorts, a sense of superiority that had little to do with achievement or accomplishment. Tesserax was of the Firstborn, the initial quickening of the Highborn, and a group that had become a sort of royalty among the others, rulers over the gods in a manner of speaking. Keremax was of the second group of Highborn, placing him near the top of
the second and middle level, which consisted of those quickened before the exodus from the empire. The Highborn created in the centuries since the departure from imperial space were the lowest of the three groupings, gods still, in relation to the humans, but a decidedly lower order in the minds of those quickened earlier.
Tesserax might have considered, for all the superiority of the Highborn mind and the millennia of genetic advancement they represented, the foolishness of such pointless claims to rank and prestige. The thoughts existed, no doubt, somewhere deep in his vast mind, but they were far from his consciousness. To the speaking, thinking, acting being he was, his superiority as one of the Firstborn was self-evident, and he never imagined it as something subject to question or doubt.
Tesserax turned and looked out again over the broad street below. Hundreds of humans were visible, moving in neat lines, coming to and from the factories and other places of work. All he could see exhibited the orderly and pleasing crispness of motion common to encollared humans. The Collar had been an enormously successful invention, one that had unfortunately come too late for use in the early struggles to control and save the empire. The Collar didn’t eliminate a human’s memories, nor even his personality. It simply directed all mental efforts, focused energies on the subject’s true obligations…and restricted action initiated by wrong-minded thoughts. Encollared humans were obedient, worshipful, hard-working…in every way the ideal subjects for the Highborn to rule.
“I see the church construction program is also well underway.” Tesserax had been with the fleet for much of the past six months, and before that he’d returned to the Highborn capital to report his progress to Ellerax, the First of the Highborn. The churches were a paramount part of the long-term plan to rule over and control the humans, and to facilitate their worship of the Highborn. But in the shorter term, they had been subordinated to the need to put the industrial facilities back into production.