by Jay Allan
And they’d been slaughtered. At least in a simulated way.
Timmons had the most AI-allocated ‘kills’ at eleven, besting ‘Lynx’ Fedorov by a single one. It was a friendly rivalry, and one Reg imagined would continue, but her mind was mired deep in fake casualties, and in loss ratios that threatened her resolve. Half her people were dead, if only in the memory banks of the computers running the wargames, and fewer than forty of Timmons’s and Federov’s pilots had suffered similar make believe deaths.
That was worse than a ten to one ratio. She knew, intellectually at least, that however inexplicably well-trained the enemy pilots were, they wouldn’t be match for the very best of the Confederation fighter corps, led by two certifiable legends. But it wasn’t going to take anything like ten to one ratios to doom her forces, and the entire fleet. They had to do better. A lot better.
And fast.
Admiral Barron had been excruciatingly clear. There wouldn’t be enough ordnance to arm all her ships as interceptors, not anytime soon. And even if there had been adequate supplies on hand, the fleet still needed a powerful bombing force to have any chance against the enemy battle line.
That meant, whatever force she threw against the Highborn fighters, it was going to be outnumbered. Badly outnumbered.
She looked at her display, her fingers punching at the controls, replaying the last segments of the simulated engagement. She was looking for errors, mistakes in her formations. But there weren’t any, at least none that explained the fictional loss rates. Her people just didn’t fly that well, not when they were engaging small craft. They had almost no experience battling other fighters, and it was showing with glaring clarity against pilots who had.
At least the enemy doesn’t have any either. They might have found some way to train their pilots well, but they still don’t have any experience in actual fighter combats. They can’t possibly.
Her people would do better against the Highborn than they had in the encounters with Timmons and Federov and their veterans. But how much better?
Not enough. Not yet. But she was going to get them there, whatever it took.
They would improve given time, she was sure of that. The big question was, how long would she have?
“Alright, we’ve got enough fuel for one more run. Attack forces, get ready to come in again. Defenders, do better this time.” That probably hadn’t been the most helpful thing she could say, but it was all she had. She’d instructed them, harangued them, showed them endless recorded battles from the Union War. They knew what to do. They just weren’t good enough at it, not yet.
They will be good enough…or I’ll kill them trying to get there…
* * *
“I don’t think there is any other way, Admiral. I know it’s risky, perhaps it even seems reckless, but wargames and training aren’t going to get us there. We need to find some enemy formations and fight it out with them. The pilots need to know they can do it, that they can defeat the enemy. The Highborn haven’t invaded, and it’s been months since the outposts were destroyed. They probably don’t have large forces deployed forward, not unless they’re ready to launch their invasion. That would be a supply and logistics nightmare. And if there is a huge fleet massed just behind the border, then this mission will let us know about it, which alone has to be worth the risk. If I’m right, if there aren’t any major forces positioned forward, it means we can probably find some small task force somewhere…and see just how our squadrons match up with theirs.”
Barron nodded, his head moving only a few centimeters as he did. He agreed with Griffin, at least that the squadrons needed real combat experience against enemy fighters. He needed them to have it. He had to know what he could expect, what they could do. It was the only way he could plan a battle when it finally came. But pushing forward past the line of destroyed outposts and into Occupied Space…it seemed wildly risky.
Still, there was something about it, a gravitational pull of sorts, drawing him in. Barron would be happy if the enemy came forward and threw its forces into the teeth of his defenses, but he’d begun to doubt they would be so accommodating. He didn’t know what they would do, but half a year of inaction following the attack on the outposts suggested a level of planning far beyond a direct lunge forward. He felt as though he had surrendered the initiative, and that feeling was becoming more and more uncomfortable. Sending a small force into Occupied Space would at least be doing something.
And sending a larger fleet would be doing more.
The thought flooded into Barron’s mind, and almost as quickly his defenses flew into action. No, it’s too dangerous, too reckless…
But you can’t just sit here, allow them to dictate the course of the war…
“Admiral?”
“I’m sorry, Reg, my mind…wandered.” Barron hesitated, taking a deep breath. “I was just thinking…perhaps we could…”
Barron’s voice hesitated, and another chimed in. “You want to launch a major operation…or at least that’s what you’re thinking.” Clint Winters had been silent while Barron and Reg had been discussing targeted incursions into the Occupied Zone. But the prospect of a full scale assault past the outpost line had drawn him into the mix.
“I was thinking about it. I know all you’re going to say, Clint. But we’ve been sitting here, waiting for the enemy to come to us. How long before the Senate falters, before we’re faced with a struggle at home to maintain the support levels we need? What would we do if dire warnings and Gary Holsten’s threats and machinations prove to be inadequate six months from now, or a year? There are already multiple reports of unrest in the Iron Belt. Are you ready to lead a fleet home, and keep the Senate in line at gunpoint…or land Marines to fire on striking workers?” Barron hesitated for an instant. The thought that Clint Winters might be willing to do just those things passed through his mind. But not even the Sledgehammer would easily unleash such power against his own people. Determination was one thing, but brutality and treason were quite another.
Barron kept his eyes fixed on Winter’s. “Do you have any idea what the Highborn are up to, why they haven’t come yet? I don’t suspect you doubt their ability to take us on and win any time they want to. So, what’s the delay? Are they plotting a different course, a route around the edge of the Hegemony and the Badlands? Will they emerge one day in our rear, astride our lines of communication? Or will word come one day that a fleet as emerged at Dannith? Perhaps the destruction of the outposts was simply a way to keep us focused on what they know we perceive as the front lines. Or, maybe there is something else at work. Some superweapon in development, or some overwhelming force. Do you really think our situation will be better in a year? In two or three?”
Barron was silent for a moment, save for the sounds of his breath. “Can you think of one possibility, one potential reason behind the enemy’s inaction that works in our favor?”
“No, perhaps not.” Winters voice was grim. “But, it’s been almost six months, Admiral. Nearly half a year since the outposts were destroyed, and as you note, there is no sign of enemy activity. It’s almost as if they’re daring us to do something.” Clint Winters had always been known as a hard charging commander, an admiral who often threw caution to the wind and almost always chose attacking over waiting for the enemy to come to him. But this time, he looked uncertain, hesitant. “We could be doing just what they want us to do if we launch an offensive. Add luring us in to your list of motivations, pulling us away from Striker’s fortifications. Have you considered that?”
Barron nodded. “I have. And you very well may be correct. But what else can we do? A move to the front, a push into the Occupied Zone will also give us a chance to get some intel, some kind of real idea what the Highborn are up to. They attacked the outposts, which means they haven’t pulled back entirely and gone home. So, why haven’t they invaded yet? We’re getting stronger, but they almost certainly are, too. We need to know, both what they’re doing and how well our squadrons can do i
n a dogfight. That’s not even considering the question of how long we can leave more than a hundred billion people to the mercy of the enemy. I know they’re Hegemony citizens, but they’re human beings. How would we react if half the Confederation was occupied?”
Barron was becoming agitated, and he paused, trying to center himself before he continued.
We’ve got to be cautious, ready for any kind of trap. But I am beginning to think the advantages of doing something outweigh the dangers. Besides, I ask again…how long can we sit here and wait? Before morale starts to crack? Before our people get distracted, their senses dulled by inactivity? Before the Senate indeed puts the choice of withdrawal or treason to us? We have to do something eventually if the enemy does not…and this seems like the best choice.” It was clear from his tone, Barron was only half convinced of his own words.
Perhaps half was all that was within reach.
“You may be right, Tyler…I know that. I’ve got no answers, no arguments to put against your points. But I’ve got a feeling…” Winters didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
Barron turned his head abruptly. “Admiral Griffin, put together two plans, one for a moderate-sized task force to take a picked group of your squadrons past the outpost line…and a second one, for a full fleet incursion into the Occupied Zone.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Barron couldn’t tell if Griffin was anxious for the chance to take all of her wings forward for a major attack, or scared to death of it.
Or both.
“We will meet again in three days, and we will review both plans…and we will decide how to proceed.”
Winters looked like he was going to say something, but finally, he just nodded.
“Very well, Admiral…if you will excuse me, I will get started at once.” She looked at Barron, taking his nod as her leave to go.
Winters remained silent until Griffin was gone. Then he said, softly, “You’re thinking about taking the biggest risk of your career, Ty. A massive gamble…and the survival of the entire Rim could rest on whether you guess right, whether we catch the enemy napping…or we walk right into a trap.”
* * *
Van Striker was in the room, and Jake Stockton, and a dozen others, all men and women Tyler Barron respected, and all dead in battle over the bloody past two decades. They weren’t really in the room, of course, just apparitions, creations of Barron’s mind as he sat alone in the near-darkness of the office. He’d told himself he was leaving half a dozen times, that he was going to go back to his quarters, to see Andi and Cassie. But he knew what Andi was going to say, and also that he couldn’t refuse her. He would have to let her go—he’d already as much as consented, and he’d kept the burning desire to recant those words inside him. He had already come to the conclusion that he had to agree to her plan, but somehow it seemed as though if he could simply avoid her, the subject would never come up. It was abject foolishness of the worst kind, but it was a seductive thought nevertheless.
“It is difficult, isn’t it? Making command decisions like this?” Van Striker, the namesake of the very station Barron occupied, spoke calmly, reassuringly. And, of course, all inside Barron’s tortured mind. Striker had been his mentor, as much as any officer had been, and perhaps the one person he ached to ask what to do. But Striker was gone, and Barron’s recreation of the officer was more a sign he was on the verge of succumbing to stress than any real insight into what the dead admiral would have said or recommended.
Barron had done all he could, analyzed the options in a hundred different ways. He could stay where he was, unaware of the enemy’s activities, of what was behind their seeming inactivity. Or he could strike.
Tactically, staying put was the clear winner. As long as the enemy came straight on. Striker was the strongest base ever constructed, and the three thousand fighters it carried would be a massive supplement to the fleet’s wings. The system was dotted with defensive installations besides the main fort, laser buoys, missile platforms, minefields. Barron still believed the Highborn could defeat his forces if they were determined enough, but they would pay a fearful price.
Strategically, the situation was far less clear. Waiting six more months or a year for the enemy to attack didn’t seem like that large a concern in a tactical sense. But the fleet and fortifications were crewed by men and women, and human beings had their breaking points. The longer they waited, staring every day at the scanners, waiting for each morning to be the one they’d been fearing, the more brittle they would become. It was a slow process. Fear grew, crept into every action, every thought. Sleep became first fitful, and then rare, and exhausted and terrified men and women stared into their screens, the dread they’d long fought off taking hold.
It wasn’t Barron’s decision to make, of course, not solely. But then it was, in a practical sense. Chronos couldn’t reject a proposal to attempt the liberation of occupied Hegemony space, whatever doubts he might harbor as a fleet commander. His own Council was no less detached from reality than the Confederation Senate—an indictment, perhaps, of the rationale behind the Hegemony’s genetic ranking system—and the pressure to push forward, to free half the Hegemony from enemy rule, would be irresistible.
And Vian Tulus was a Palatian warrior, which was all one needed to know to predict his response. He understood the need for caution, the necessity to build strength, to prepare. But inside him dwelt the spirit of a warrior, crying ever to him to advance. To a Palatian, knowing an enemy’s location was the greater part of battle preparation.
No, Barron couldn’t escape the decision in front of him, couldn’t shift the burden to his comrades. Whatever show of debate and discussion might surround an ultimate decision, he knew his would be the voice that mattered. And the thought crushed him like a black hole’s gravity.
There was a scale in his head, balanced with the pros and cons of moving forward, of launching an attack into Occupied Space and of remaining at Striker, waiting. It was almost even, a seemingly impossible decision. Save for one fact.
A massive move forward would create a distraction…and that would greatly increase Andi’s chances of slipping into Occupied Space undetected. He felt an immediate backlash, a sense of disgust at himself for allowing his personal fears and needs slip into his command analysis.
But if she gets through…she just might find something that helps defeat the enemy…
That was true, of course, and he believed it to a great extent.
It was also immensely self-serving.
He wrestled with the thoughts, images of Andi floating before his eyes, alongside his grandfather. He was a creature of duty, born to it, trapped by it…and he owed it to all those who followed him, who’d died under his orders, to make cold, impersonal decisions. But he was a man as well, with all the weaknesses endemic to his species. He loved Andi, and the thought of losing her was more than he could handle.
His head was down on his desk, his mind lost so deeply in thought, he didn’t even hear the door open, nor the footsteps across the polished metal floor. He felt something…something vague and reassuring, and he slowly came out of his near-trance.
“Andi?” She was standing next to his chair, her hand gently rubbing his neck.
“You never came back to our quarters…I figured you were stuck here. I expected to find you in heated debate with Clint or Chronos or somebody…but it looks like your argument had been with yourself.” Her voice was soft, comforting, as was her touch. “So, who’s winning?”
“I was just trying to decide something…what to do next.” He looked up at her. She was beautiful, her hair long and full, her eyes bright blue gems in the dim flickering light. “I know you have to go, Andi…I know I can’t stop you.”
His mind tightened, and he could feel himself fending off the assaults of self-loathing deep inside. “And I think I have an idea. A way to distract the enemy, to get you across into Occupied Space unnoticed.”
Chapter Eleven
UWS Incassable
Vesailles System
Union Year 231 (327 AC)
“There is definitely activity at the transit point, Admiral. Energy levels have risen again, and we’re starting to pick up objects emerging.”
Denisov stared at the main display as the tactical officer made his report. He wasn’t ready to launch the final assault on Villieneuve’s remaining positions, and he wouldn’t be for another six weeks, perhaps eight. He’d been impatient, anxious to push forward and end the war. Four years of fighting his own people, killing them, had damaged some part of him. He was committed, and no force he could imagine would deter him from finally killing Gaston Villieneuve, but he was exhausted as well.
“Celadona and Regina are to launch spreads of probes immediately. I want those feeds tied in directly to the flagship.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Denisov had no idea what his scanners were detecting. The point led directly into Villieneuve’s final pocket of resistance, but he couldn’t imagine his hated enemy was attacking. He’d chased Villieneuve’s loyalists across half the Union, compelled several forces supporting him to surrender, and he’d penned his enemy into a small cluster of systems, pressed up against the sparsely populated Periphery. There was no way Villieneuve had the power to launch an offensive, and no potential ally in the Periphery strong enough to make a difference.
“Celadona and Regina acknowledge, Admiral.”
The two cruisers were the farthest forward ships in Denisov’s fleet. At least the half of his force he had so far assembled in the system. The rest of his ships were scattered across the Union, most of them returning from repair and maintenance operations.