by Jay Allan
She’d heard of the lost imperial capital, of course, wondered as she’d plowed through the Badlands what wonders might remain at the empire’s core. Now, though, she didn’t really care. Saving all she held dear depended on finding how the empire had overcome the Highborn, and for that reason, she would search the ruins for as long as it took. But the wonder, the curiosity, even the greed at what priceless marvels might be buried under the sands of the planet before her…none of it was there, as it had been so many times before. She wanted to finish what she had come for, and get back as quickly as she could, to all that truly mattered to her.
“I imagine you’re right, Ellia. I’ve never been particularly comfortable dismissing the possibility of coincidence, but in this case, perhaps one system in a thousand would have a comparable layout.” Even as the words escaped her lips, she realized the odds were far greater than that. Not one system in ten thousand, even a hundred thousand would so closely match the parameters of their search. She knew, with growing certainty in her gut, and something close to that in her head, that the planet Pegasus was approaching was indeed the legendary world of Pintarus.
“Let’s up the thrust, Vig. We came all this way…if this is what we were looking for, let’s not waste any time.” A voice inside her head whispered softly…we might be out of time already. Tyler might…
She slammed her mind shut to those thoughts. They could serve nothing, and only hinder her. And the one thing she could do, for Tyler, for everyone she cared about, was to focus on the job in front of her. The empire had driven the Highborn out, there wasn’t any doubt remaining about that.
That meant there was a way, some weakness, some weapon or tactic to threaten or harm them. Whatever that was, Andi was going to find it, and she was going to bring it back. She would see the Highborn monsters destroyed, or at least driven away…and she would finally attain peace, and the life she longed for with aching need.
Or she would die in the cold depths of dead space, striving for that goal until she drew her last breath.
Chapter Twenty-Two
CFS Dauntless
Cobol Ventaris System
Year 327 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Barron looked up from his desk, distracted from his work by the familiar sound that told him someone was outside his door. It was an annoying tone something between a bell and a buzz. Some engineer on the construction team when Dauntless—still the new Dauntless to him—had been built, had chosen it as the default, and in ten years, he had never bothered to change it.
Ten years…has it really been that long? He’d spent more time on the second Dauntless than he had on the original, though first loves of that sort never completely died. His old ship had seen a heroic demise, saving the fleet, and possibly the Confederation, in the process. He consoled himself with the idea that there weren’t may ends for a warship better than that, especially since the crew had escaped the final end. Obsolescence and a trip to the scrapyard were the likely fates of warships that survived their wars, an end Barron considered ignominious, if inevitable.
He reached toward the controls, to see who was at the door, but before he did, the AI answered his question.
“Admiral Travis is requesting admittance.”
Barron was startled. Atara Travis had once been his most frequent visitor, and perhaps the single officer he’d trusted most, both in terms of her loyalty, and her no nonsense willingness to give her raw opinion on any question. Barron had studied the writings of the great heroes of the Confederation’s past, most notably the reams of notes his grandfather had left behind. He’d learned much, but nothing so intently as the danger of arrogance, the destructive potential of unrestrained ego. War heroes were showered with honors, and used shamelessly by politicians, and he understood how easily such things created pompous fools surrounded by sycophants. He’d promised himself long before, that he would always seek officers with the guts and directness to give him things straight, and Atara had been the queen of that group.
But since she’d been wounded—so badly hurt she’d hadn’t been expected to survive—some bit of the spark she’d had inside her had gone out. She’d been quiet, reserved, largely keeping to herself. Barron had respected her desire for privacy wherever possible, but he had ached at losing so much of one he’d considered almost a sister.
“Admiral…I’m sorry to disturb you…”
“Atara, it is always a pleasure to see you.” He looked down at the work in front of him. “And I could use a break from all this.” He gestured toward one of the chairs facing his desk. “Please, sit. You know this room as well as I do, I daresay.” Not only had Atara spent endless hours in Barron’s office, but her own was just across the small corridor, slightly smaller, but otherwise almost identical. She hadn’t spent much time there since her return to duty, but Barron had steadfastly refused to authorize its use for any other purpose.
“Tyler…I want to…apologize…”
“Apologize? What could you possibly have cause to apologize for?” He looked at her intently, and he could see she was troubled.
“For being the next damned thing to useless these past few years. For letting it all get to me…in ways I never thought it could. And for letting my own disappointment in myself worsen the problem and make myself my biggest obstacle.” She paused, and Barron could see a first. Atara Travis, so long a block of granite, so proud and strong he’d often leaned on her when he felt weak, fighting back tears. “For not being there for you. I let you down, Tyler…and I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
Barron felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. There was truth in Atara’s words, perhaps, but he’d never considered it in such terms. She had served long and dutifully, and she’d suffered immensely from her wounds. It was true she hadn’t been like her old self, but Barron had never thought of that as a failure on her part.
But I should have known that’s how she would see it…
“Atara…there is nobody in this fleet I trust more than you. That was true before, and it’s true now. You needed time, and I tried to give that to you. We came so close to losing you.”
“You didn’t lose me. I know it might have seemed that way, but I’m still here. I’m back.” Barron could tell from the shakiness of her voice she wasn’t entirely back. But he could feel her fighting, pushing against the doubts and fears, trying to find the route to the officer she had been. That had been missing since she’d been wounded, and he was thrilled to see it again.
And he wasn’t about to do anything to stand in her way. Because she deserved to be herself again…and because he needed her back.
“You still have the last word around here on rosters and assignments, Atara. Give yourself as much of a load as you want…but don’t push yourself too hard. Give yourself time.”
“I’ve had time. Too much time. I need to push myself…hard.” She looked at him, and in her eyes, through the uncertainty and the glistening moisture, he saw something. A hint of that old spark.
“If you want to drive yourself into the ground, it’s your call. You’re the one person in this fleet I never feel I have to check up on. Keep the fleet running. I trust you implicitly.” He still had some doubts, but he knew what Atara needed from him. His confidence. The same unlimited, unquestioned trust she’d always gotten from him. And if he had to suppress a few lingering doubts to give her that, or at least a partial illusion of it, then so be it.
“Thank you, Tyler.” He could hear the strength returning to her voice. It was tentative, but it was real. He’d told himself Atara would find her way back, but as he stood there seeing it happen, he realized how close he’d come to giving up hope.
“So, is that all you wanted? To ask for more work?” He smiled at her, something very close to a laugh.
She returned the grin, but only for a few seconds. Then her serious grimace returned, and she took a deep breath. “No, there was one more thing I wanted to discuss with you. I understand why we’re advancing, why you didn’t
have a choice. The Senate, the Hegemony Council…all the other reasons. But I thought we should discuss some tactics, some ideas and contingency plans.”
She looked right across the table, her eyes dry now, her gaze as powerful as it had ever been. “We are walking right into a trap, after all, Tyler. It’s probably worth figuring out how the hell we’re going to get out of it when it closes on us.”
* * *
“The humans are doing exactly as we had hoped, Tesserax. Soon, we will be able to spring our trap…and perhaps conclude this conflict before it continues any longer or costs more resources. Ellerax will be pleased. The report I have seen suggests that the additional resources of the Rim and its environs will be most welcome on the primary front.”
“I agree completely, Phazarax, save perhaps for assigning the label of hope to our expectations. It is not terribly difficult to analyze the inferior human brain, nor to predict their thoughts and actions. Their political leaders, in particular, exert an influence that is quite easy to pattern, even to extend into outright prediction. Their military leaders are cautious, that is clear from the slow pace of their advance and the intensity of their system scanning operations. However, they had no choice but to commence their advance, as we determined would be the case, and we need little more from them to ensure their destruction. Their caution and their alertness will avail them little.”
“Indeed. I did not intend to understate the sophistication nor the accuracy of our predictive routines. The humans are predictable, at least usually. I have found them to be capable, however—on occasion at least—of doing most unexpected things. I have worked closely with them as I have labored to establish the Church hierarchy through the occupied systems. There have been instances, acts of rebellion, efforts that were, in many cases, seemingly illogical, and almost always suicidal. I would also submit that these events have taken place on Hegemony worlds. As you know, our review parameters suggest a greater degree of unpredictability in specimens from the wilder cultures prevalent on the Rim proper.”
Tesserax scowled, but the frown dissipated quickly. “I will take your concerns into consideration, Phazarax. Clearly, there is little to be gained from overconfidence.” Tesserax turned and looked over at the large horizontal display in the center of the room. There was a star map depicted, thirty systems all around the last reported position of the human fleet. “Nevertheless, I remain optimistic.” He lunged out with his hand, pointing to a system. “Here is where we will strike first, Phazarax, with enough force to halt the human advance, and to send them fleeing back toward the border. We will pursue, but allow them to stay ahead of us, even as additional forces attack from lateral transit connections. The constant fighting will reduce their strength, fatigue their crews, erode morale. We will maintain constant pressure, but we will allow them to reach here…” He moved his hand, his finger pointing to another symbol on the map. “Imperial System GK4-3979, the one the humans call Beta Telvara. The first system they entered when they crossed into the areas we control. They will be worn by the time they get there, battered. Their ships will be damaged, their fighter squadrons depleted.” Tesserax’s voice took on a sinister tone, almost feral. “And it is where our blocking forces will deploy…and we will trap the humans between them and the pursuing fleets.”
Phazarax nodded. “It is a brilliant plan, Tesserax, and I have no doubt it will result in total victory over the human forces.”
The Highborn commander stared back, a dram malevolence in his gaze. “It will be more than victory, Phazarax…it will be annihilation.”
* * *
Stockton sat at a small desk, reviewing rosters and organizational charts. He could have been sitting in his quarters on Dauntless, or in his office—his old office, overlooking the battleship’s alpha flight deck. But this time he was somewhere else, somewhere foreign, even alien. But it was more than location eating away at what little remained of his soul. He was working for the enemy, diligently rearranging the wing formations, shifting units based on their performance, all to hone the Highborn’s assault forces, increase their effectiveness.
So they could kill more of his friends, his comrades.
Stockton had given up trying to break free of the Collar, at least in terms of hope and expectation. But he still pushed constantly against the device’s influence, still struggling to regain control with no expectation of success. It was just about all he had left. Resistance. Even utter futility was better than nothing. Better than abject surrender.
He’d wondered if the Collar had been designed to leave some part of him unchanged but imprisoned. Just enough of who he’d been to ensure endless torment? He wanted to believe that, if only because it fueled his hatred of his enemy, which was the only other thing that remained to him. But he didn’t think the Highborn had been deliberately cruel in the device’s design. He didn’t think they cared enough about humans, at least not as individuals. They needed humanity, to feed their egos, their sense of themselves as superior beings, as gods. But they considered each individual human specimen to be of little value.
Most at least. It was abundantly clear, from the efforts they made to capture him and the time Tesserax spent with him, they valued his abilities. At least until they’d learned how to replicate them.
The torture of watching himself reduced to slavery, a torment worse than any physical abuse he’d endured, was likely unintentional, perhaps even unknown to the Highborn, nothing more than an unanticipated side effect of the device.
It still fueled his rage, though. The thought that his enemies couldn’t be bothered to understand the full effects of their diabolical creation was almost as bad as his earlier suspicion that simple cruelty had been a play. He doubted the Highborn had even thought about it, or spared a moment to consider the effects the Collar had on those who wore it, on who they were. Who they had been.
Worse perhaps, as he raged, as fury seemed to fill him, his eyes were still scanning the reports, and his hands still moved across the keyboard, updating the wings, rearranging pilots based on their performance in the recent battles. The kernel that was still Jake Stockton cried out to the heavens in unimaginable pain…but his body and most of his mind, his memories and skills, labored silently in the service of the enemy he despised.
People had imagined hell for millennia, and a thousand versions existed of it in literature, in belief systems. But Jake Stockton couldn’t imagine any of those visualizations could equal the terrifying nightmare that had trapped him. Even his wishes for death seemed only to generate biting laughter from the universe.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Reconstructed Hall of the People
Liberte City
Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV
Union Year 231 (327 AC)
“Your ship is at the spaceport, ready to launch at any time, First Citizen.” The aide looked tense, fearful. Ciara wasn’t entirely clear if that was genuine concern for her from a loyal minion, or just a worry that she wouldn’t be among those she took with her when the end came at Montmirail.
She looked up from her desk. Her eyes were red and bleary, her normally impeccable clothing rumpled and undone. She was struggling to maintain her focus, but she felt punch drunk, distracted. She’d been on the verge of victory. Perhaps she had jumped to that conclusion, become too confident. But her understanding had been based on Admiral Denisov’s reports, and on multiple streams of intel data. Gaston Villieneuve had been beaten. She was sure of it. One last offensive, one final strike, and the Union’s old dictator would be gone, the road open for her to build a new society…and to consolidate her own power.
That last attack never happened. Instead, Villieneuve, supposedly down to his last resources, launched a devastating assault of his own, badly mauling Denisov’s fleet, and sending the rest of her admiral’s forces fleeing back to Montmirail. Ciara had been furious when she’d first heard, and she’d even suspected Denisov of treachery.
Until she saw the scanner footage. And replaye
d it in her nightmares ever since.
“Very well, Simone. See that full discretion is exercised. There is no point spreading panic when we are still not sure what will transpire.”
“Yes, First Citizen.” The aide bowed her head and then turned and left the room.
Ciara was on the fence. Part of her wanted to go immediately, to escape from Montmirail before it was too late. Denisov was preparing the fleet for action, for a defense of the capital, but even as she tried to imagine the forces loyal to her, utterly victorious until so recently, she saw those hideous images, the enemy ships.
Highborn. They are Highborn. They can’t be anything else.
Ciara didn’t know all that much about the mysterious enemy that had so challenged the resources of both the Confederation and the Hegemony. But she had enough intel to be scared shitless.
What hope she had fought to maintain began to slip away. She’d fought so long and hard, come so close. Kerevsky could likely obtain sanctuary for her in the Confederation, as long as she escaped from Montmirail and reached the border. And, of course, assuming the sometimes foolishly brave admiral, was smart enough to break off from a losing battle soon enough to escape himself. Her fear wanted her to go—and maybe her good sense, too—but the instant she stepped onto her ship, her struggle was over. Her hopes for lasting power, so irresistible a drug, would be dashed. She would be a refugees in the Confederation, most likely housed in moderate comfort…and watched by Confed Intelligence until the day she died.
If she stayed, if Denisov somehow prevailed and found some way to repel the enemy…fleeing early would cost her everything.