The Last Stand

by Jay Allan

  Cyn Avaria slammed her hand down on the table, a rare instance of the seasoned politician losing control of her frustration. There were two other Greens at the table, and they were both nodding a sign that Vaughn had his entire bloc behind him. Holsten looked out and he held back the smile trying to break out on his lips. He had them. His combination of persuasion and the quasi-blackmail supported by his secret files, provided more than enough support to carry a majority with the Greens, even if Cyn Avaria kept every one of her Reds in line.

  “Very well…thank you, Mr. Holsten. I believe we have enough information to send this matter to the Senate floor for vote.” Flandry exchanged a quick glance with the spymaster. Holsten felt a little queasy at how closely he’d become allied with Flandry, but as he listened to the Speaker’s thick drawl, he could see his new ally was staying faithfully on script. He didn’t trust Flandry, he doubted such a thing was possible, even if some unforeseen situation made it wise. But there was no reason an alliance couldn’t be uneasy and successful.

  He nodded his head. “Mr. Speaker, Senators…” He turned and stepped back through the door. He had an instinctive impulse to remain, to keep an eye on Flandry. But he needed the Speaker, and he had no choice but to accord his co-conspirator something at least close to trust. For now.

  He walked down the corridor outside, back toward the main quad of the Senate Compound, and he finally let the smile find its way out. He’d already seen that most of the fleet was sent to Barron, and this latest effort was predominantly about supplies…and the new Black Lightning fighters, which Cyn Avaria had wanted to deploy to the remaining squadrons and the second line garrison pilots defending the border.

  And he’d gotten it done without Andi, something he’d been far from sure he could manage. The thought of his friend wiped the smile from his face, though.

  He had no idea where Andi was, but the fact that she, her baby, and Pegasus all seemed to be gone from Megara had him on edge. Tyler Barron hadn’t charged him specifically with keeping an eye on his family, but Holsten felt responsible…and he had agents all over the Confederation looking for any signs of Andi…or Pegasus.

  It was a sense of duty to Barron, and also to Andi. She had worked for him before, and she had suffered for it, and Holsten felt he owed a debt he was still repaying.

  He liked her, too, considered her one of his closest friends. And one of the ones most likely to do something crazy.

  That twisted his guts in knots, and the realization that Andi Lafarge could probably lose his people slipping through the crowds at a spaceport only made it worse.

  Where are you…and what are you up to?

  Chapter Twenty

  CFS Dauntless

  Sigma Nordlin System

  Year 323 AC (After the Cataclysm)

  The Battle of Calpharon – A Condor Rises

  “What the hell is she doing?” Jake Stockton stared at the screen, his eyes focused on single tiny dot, one among a sea of thousands. It was one of the handful he could see moving in the opposite direction from the main strike force, back toward the fleet, the last of the returnees from Vexa Torrent still heading toward their landing platforms.

  Except one was blasting its engines in the wrong direction. It seemed to be turning around.

  Stara Sinclair had been working at the scanner, her attention focused on the newly-arrived enemy capital ships, and on the main attack, the most massive bomber assault ever mounted by Confederation forces. It was understandable she hadn’t noticed the change in thrust on one ship. She looked up as soon as Stockton spoke, and a few seconds later, she let out a gasp. “Who is that?”

  Stockton’s hands moved over the workstation’s keyboard, bringing up an ID badge. “Reg Griffin.” Condor.

  “What is she doing?”

  “She’s turning to link up with the strike force.” Stockton’s voice was soft, grim. He knew exactly what she was doing, if only because he very well might have done precisely the same thing in her shoes.

  “She can’t possibly have enough fuel left, not to fight and…make it back.”

  “She’s not worried about making it back, Stara. She has the best information on the approaching enemy formations of anyone out there…and she’s going to use it.”

  “That’s crazy, Jake. I’m going to order her back.” Stara reached for the comm controls, but Stockton put his hand on hers.

  “No, Stara…don’t.”

  “Are you crazy? What chance is there we’ll be able to retrieve her in the middle of this battle? What she is doing…it’s suicide.”

  “She’s right, Stara. We need every edge we can get…and she can almost definitely lead the squadrons toward the weakest targets. The enemy was right on her tail as she transited. She’s got the most current scanning data.”

  “But she’ll die, Jake…”

  “No, not necessarily.” Stockton didn’t like writing off his pilots, and certainly not one of his best like Reg Griffin. It felt somehow disloyal, but more than that, he knew people had done it to him more times than he could count.

  And he was still there.

  “She’s good, Stara. One of the best. She’ll try to keep her combat vectors reasonably aligned with the return course. With some luck, she’ll manage to keep enough fuel to at least get on a vector back to the fleet. And I’ll get a retrieval boat out there, if I have to fly the damned thing myself.”

  Stara was about to continue the argument, but Stockton put up his hand. “Please, Stara…don’t make this more difficult.” It was unfair, perhaps, to silence her like that. But there was another reason for leaving Reg alone, one Stara wouldn’t fully understand.

  What no one but one of his veteran pilots would truly comprehend.

  Reg knew the situation, the challenge the fleet faced. And she knew she could help the strike force. If he ordered her to return, she would disobey. And that would only weigh on her mind, make it even less likely she could survive. If she was going to take the terrible risk anyway, he owed it to her to give him her his blessing, and to wish her well.

  I can do more than that…

  His hands moved down to the comm. He flipped a series of controls, opening a channel to the entire strike force. “Attention all pilots. Commander Reg Griffin, callsign Condor, is hereby promoted to Commodore Griffin, effective immediately, and placed in command of the entire strike force until I reach the combat zone.”

  He glanced down at the chronometer. His ship was supposed to be ready in twenty minutes, but he figured he might just shave a few off of that figure if he got down to the flight deck and haunted the crews.

  He leapt up, turning toward Stara as he did. “Stara, I’ve got to…”

  “I know, Jake…I know.” He could hear her fighting to hold back her emotion, but all she did was stand up and walk the meter and a half toward him. She reached out and hugged him, and kissed him once, even as the comm unit behind her began buzzing again.

  She stepped back and paused for a few seconds.

  “That’s probably Condor…just tell her I’m on my way…and she has my complete confidence.” Stockton turned halfway around and then hesitated. “Stara…” He paused. Outpourings of emotion were difficult for him.

  “I know, Jake…I’ve always known.” She managed a thin smile, one that hid the fear on her face for a few seconds. “I love you, too.” Then she turned and picked up the comm, even as Stockton slipped out the door.

  “Yes, Reg…it’s official. You’re in command until Jake gets there…”

  The door slid shut, and Stockton raced down the corridor. Reg Griffin’s promotion was official enough that no one in the strike force would question it, but Stockton wasn’t sure he actually had the authority to promote someone to flag rank. He’d have to check with Admiral Barron.

  When he had time, which he most certainly didn’t just then.

  He didn’t doubt Barron would approve what he’d done…but that would have to wait until he was back out.

  Out into space
, in his fighter. With his squadrons, facing the enemy.

  Where he belonged.

  * * *

  “I don’t understand…” Reg was still processing Admiral Barron’s words, and those Commodore Sinclair had just added. Sinclair was the fleet’s overall flight operations commander, the lord and master, in effect, of all the launch bays throughout the entire Confederation fleet. Next to Stockton, her word was paramount, and she’d basically repeated what the legendary admiral had just said.

  Reg understood the words, but it was still taking time to sink in. She’d hoped to provide some information, some guidance, to help the wing commanders maximize their attack runs. Suddenly, she was in command…of the entire strike force. Four thousand bombers, every one of then heading directly toward the transit point.

  Toward the Highborn fleet.

  She looked down at her hands, trying as hard as she could to stop the trembling. It wasn’t fear of death threatening to unravel her, though that was clearly there. It was the unexpected and crushing weight of responsibility. She was sure Jake Stockton would be coming to take over the command role as soon as he could get ship launched. But until then—and Stockton wouldn’t get there until after the wings started their runs—the mission was hers to lead. She felt as though an avalanche of granite had fallen on her, the weight bearing down from every direction.

  She tapped her comm unit, activating the forcewide channel. Her throat was suddenly dry, and her first efforts to speak were mostly unsuccessful. Finally, she managed to force enough spit into her mouth to get the words out.

  “All squadrons, this is…Commodore…Griffin. We’re going to hit these battleships as they enter the system, and we’re going to do it as quickly as possible. We want to strike before they’re able to get their systems fully back online and launch missile strikes.” She felt a little guilty about her words, mostly because she knew the only difference hitting the enemy faster would make was the bombers would be ravaged by missiles strikes after they launched their own torpedoes. She would lose hundreds of pilots no matter what, but if they moved quickly enough that would happen as they pulled back and not as they attacked.

  They will get a chance to knock out more enemy ships, though, cut down on the number and strength of the volleys…

  There was truth to that, of course, but it fell well short of alleviating her anticipatory remorse. “All squadrons, increase thrust to maximum. We’re going to hit those bastards just as quickly as possible. Wing commanders, I’ll give each of you navigational instructions. We’ve got some damaged enemy ships coming through, and we’re going to leave them alone. We want those first bombing runs targeted at the ones with functional missile arrays. Good hunting to all of you.” She flipped the comm control, switching to the command frequency.

  “Okay…wings fourteen and eighteen, you’ve got three battleships almost directly ahead. The two farthest back have significant damage.” She’d only intended to provide information, but now she realized it was on her to issue orders. “Fourteen, concentrate on the forward ship, the undamaged one. Eighteen, split into two groups and hit both damaged ships. There aren’t any other fresh vessels within your arc.”

  “Understood, Commodore.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  The responses were sharp, respectful, but she knew there had to be surprise out there at her sudden promotion…if not outright resentment. She’d had a distinguished career, made her mark, but she was far from the most senior of the wing commanders. Fifteen minutes before, she’d held the same rank as every other one of them out there, and now, she was in charge of the entire strike force.

  She shook her head, putting it out of her mind. She had work to do. She looked back down at the small screen, and then she tapped the comm again. “Wing six, target the battleship at 320.114.209, thirty thousand kilometers from your position. Wing eleven…”

  She had one hell of a lot of work to do…

  * * *

  “The fleet will advance at 10g.” Tyler Barron sat where he had so many times, in the center of Dauntless’s massive bridge. He could ‘see’ the officers at their stations without even looking, some combination of memory and a ‘feel’ he couldn’t quite explain. He felt at home on the battleship’s command deck, disturbingly so. As much as he loved his ship, his years aboard her, and her predecessor, had been spent almost entirely at war. Friends, comrades, and subordinates had passed through, arriving fresh faced and excited, and as often as not, leaving in body bags. Or not leaving at all. Barron had never tried to count the number of his people who’d been incinerated at their posts or ejected into space…and he knew, if he was lucky, he’d go to his own grave before he ever did.

  “Fleet order…advance at 10g.” Atara had been repeating Barron’s commands since the days when the old Dauntless had been his only responsibility. His first officer—and a friend he considered closer than a sister—still served much the same role she always had, but now as his chief of staff and senior aide. The scope of responsibility had grown exponentially, though, and had expanded to the entire fleet, tens of thousands of spacers…and even the future of the Confederation itself. Barron had always been amazed at how well Atara handled stress. He knew she had to feel it. He certainly did, and sometimes he felt as though it would crush him like 100g of undampened acceleration.

  But she almost never showed it, certainly not in any way someone who knew her less well than Barron would notice.

  “All units acknowledge, Admiral.” A short pause. “Imperator Tulus’s command as well.” Barron knew Vian Tulus would do whatever he asked, and while the Alliance ruler wasn’t technically under his command, he might as well have been. “Commander Chronos advises his forces are also accelerating.” The Hegemony leader was more of a question mark, though perhaps less than he might have been. Barron and Chronos had discussed the battle plan in great detail, and they’d agreed completely on how to proceed. The Confederation commander-in-chief had found his Hegemony counterpart to be somewhat of a kindred spirit, something he found useful…and difficult as well. He wasn’t ready yet to fully accept so recent an enemy in such a role.

  “All ships, full evasive maneuvers.” Moving the fleet forward, hitting the enemy as close as possible to the transit point, had considerable advantages. His people just might manage to strike the Highborn before they had arrived in full strength. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t have to run a gauntlet through enemy fire. The main guns on the smaller Highborn ships outranged even the Hegemony railguns…and Barron was still only guessing at what the Hegemony battleships mounted.

  “All ships acknowledge, Admiral. Evasive maneuvers underway. Distance to the enemy forward line six hundred thousand kilometers.

  Barron didn’t imagine even the immense enemy battleships had anything that could shoot that far. But he wasn’t taking any chances. The evasive routines would slow the advance slightly, and maybe send a few spacesick crew members to the sickbays, but that was a small price to pay, especially since the enemy’s effective range remained largely a guess.

  “Admiral, the lead bomber wings are beginning their final approaches.”

  Barron angled his head, looking toward the side of the huge screen that displayed the bomber squadrons. Thousands of fighters…all under the command of Reg Griffin.

  Barron had listened as Stockton issued the orders promoting the veteran officer—orders that technically exceeded his authority. He’d almost intervened, not to reverse Stockton, but to make it official. But he’d decided it wasn’t necessary. Stockton was a god to his pilots, and he didn’t see any gain in undermining his air of total authority. He’d just punched a quick notation in his log, ordering the promotion himself. Reg Griffin was officially a commodore as she led the four thousand small craft against the enemy.

  Barron just hoped she would have more time to carry that rank, that she lived long enough to return and put the actual stars on her collars. He didn’t like to guess at his people’s chances, but he figured she’d be
lucky to have a coin toss on that.

  * * *

  Reg angled her ship hard, and she felt her stomach flop for a few seconds before it settled down. She was a veteran pilot, experienced in combat in three different wars. She was likely, in normal circumstances, to poke mild fun at a rookie who got sick in the cockpit. But her gut was reminding her that wild evasive routines could occasionally be too much, even for the cast iron pot she called a stomach.

  It wasn’t the nausea that troubled her, but she was well aware that the crazy moves were eating through her limited fuel supply that much faster. She didn’t have the reserves the rest of the strike force did to sustain that kind of continued thrust, but there didn’t seem to be any point in saving fuel only so her ship could be blasted out of existence with a little more in the tank.

  The defensive fire was heavy. That wasn’t unexpected, but it was stressful, nevertheless. She’d reminded the wings three times about their evasive maneuvers, the last time emphasizing the point with the kind of exotic profanity only a veteran spacer could spew with abandon. But she’d still lost over two hundred ships so far, and none of her people were inside launch range yet.

  And that’s with no missiles…

  Reg had seen the missiles in action, and she knew how deadly they were. Their thrust capacity was almost unimaginable, and their existence had turned fifty years of weapons doctrine on its head. Her entire career, and even back to her days in the academy, there had been one rule taken almost as established fact. Fighters could evade physical weapons such as missiles.

  Time to scrap that adage…

  She angled her thrust again, and she tapped the throttle. She almost looked at her fuel stats, but she decided there was no point. If she was lucky, she’d manage to get herself on a vector back to the fleet, with a chance to get somewhere the rescue ships could get her.