The Last Stand

by Jay Allan

  “We will have to slow down our…involvements…Andros, extend our schedule. We must review our operatives, and those involved in the project. If the emperor’s police are on to us, if they even suspect, they have ways of obtaining information. We must fall back only to the most trustworthy of our associates.” Lord Gratien sat next to Andros. The two were nobles of the first rank, the heads of prime houses, and they’d been friends since childhood. Andros trusted Gratien as much as he did anyone, and he agreed with his friend. Some of those he’d considered reliable might very well not be any longer. It was one thing to become involved in something like Obsidian, and quite another to remain strong in the face of scrutiny by the emperor’s enforcers. The empire was weak, teetering, a shadow of its former self, and the emperor himself was an inbred fool…but that didn’t mean the secret police still didn’t know how to break people.

  “We agree…” A pause. “My only concern is…well, the plan was conceived as a way to accelerate the already existing decline, to destabilize the empire and create an opening to introduce the Highborn. It is a carefully-calibrated operation, one requiring enough disorder to send the people into the arms of the Highborn, but not enough to trigger an unstoppable collapse. If we reduce the frequency of operations too much, we might very well fail to reach the controlled chain reaction we need. We would have served only to accelerate the final collapse by a few years, without creating the inflection point that allows the Highborn to step in and lead the empire back from the abyss.”

  Another voice echoed in the room.

  “We must accelerate the pace of operations, Andros, not reduce it. The imperial police have a reputation, one that increases the fear they use as a tool, but in truth, they too have declined in effectiveness, even as all other branches of the empire’s government. They may continue to make progress in identifying the plan and its attendant operations, but that will take them time. Their efforts are choked by bureaucracy and regulation. The danger is increased if they are given more time, far more so than by the pace and number of activities undertaken.” Ellerax sat across the table, in a specially designed chair, one that comfortably supported his height and weight. His voice boomed off the walls, and he seemed in every way, somehow…greater…than his patrons. “My brethren and I grow impatient. We tire of waiting to claim our destiny, our rightful place. We exist to lead the humans, to save them from the folly that threatens a dark age, and even extinction. The timeline must be accelerated.”

  Andros looked across the table at his creation...or at least an achievement attained by the vast team working under his direction. The Highborn had been sixty years in the making, and they were his pride and joy.

  They were also becoming a concern. He was distressed by increasing signs of arrogance in the genetically-engineered specimens, and most recently in their tendency to refer to others, everyone but themselves, as humans. They, too, were humans, of a more advanced and genetically-developed form, perhaps, but humans, nevertheless. But it was becoming distressingly clear they considered themselves something else entirely.

  “Funding is another issue.” Andros tried to push aside his concerns about Ellerax and his brethren. The Highborn had been his life, Project Obsidian his obsession. It was inconceivable to give it up after so many years and so much sacrifice. “I have borrowed heavily to sustain the level of operations, and if we exclude our less trustworthy allies, we will also lose their money. If I draw any more deeply on family resources, I not only threaten my house with total collapse, I will almost certainly draw further suspicion. A certain amount of expense and borrowing can be explained away as mismanagement, gambling, even too many mistresses and the like. But past a certain point, such explanations will become inadequate. I have already parried several attempts to investigate my finances. Increasing the rate of expenditure can only instigate more of the same. If the police are successful in penetrating the web of shell companies I’ve set up, and they can identify any of a number of actual expenses, we will have more than agents to worry about. We’ll have imperial battleships in orbit, and troops marching on these estates.”

  “All the more reason to move quickly, Andros. All you state, all you fear, will almost certainly come to pass…unless we bring things to a climax before they do. I have conceived some…alterations…to your original plan, a more aggressive approach, one that will bring the empire to the required inflection point in a matter of just a few years, rather than decades.” Ellerax spoke calmly, but there was something else there, a sense of arrogance perhaps, in his tone. Andros had worked with the first of the Highborn closely for years, and he had begun to notice a difference in their conduct. Ellerax was expressing more opinions, and doing so more strongly. Now, Andros felt almost as though he was a child, listening to some kind of teacher grown impatient with a slow-to-learn pupil. He felt concern, wondered what was behind the change in his creation’s attitude. But he again dismissed the concerns. Ellerax was smarter than he was, more capable of analyzing the situation. That was by design, of course, and it would be foolish to help develop so capable a being and then not listen to his counsel.

  The troublesome part was that it was all beginning to sound more like orders than counsel.

  Project Obsidian had been initiated to create the empire’s new leaders. Andros had always known that, indeed, he’d reveled in the prospect of saving a civilization that teetered on the brink of disaster. But only recently had he begun to think in terms of his creations asserting themselves to him. The Highborn running the empire after his death had been his dream, his life’s goal. But now, he had begun to imagine them ruling him, and the though formed in his mind that Ellerax expected him, the lead mover in the very existence of the Highborn, to serve them.

  He felt a wave of panic, uncertainty. He tried to convince himself he was letting fear run wild, that his newfound concerns were excessive, born more of stress and fatigue that reasoned analysis.

  He looked across the table at Ellerax. There was no time for doubts, nor for second-guessing. He was committed, and there was no turning back. Sooner or later, the imperial police would uncover what he had done. The plan would move forward, and it would succeed…or Andros would find himself staring at an executioner, his entire house utterly eradicated.

  Ellerax had been the symbol of his dream, and now the Highborn leader was something else, two things. His only hope.

  And his greatest fear.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  CFS Dauntless

  Sigma Nordlin System

  Year 323 AC (After the Cataclysm)

  The Battle of Calpharon – Stockton’s Assault

  “Jake…what are you doing? You’ve got less than a third of your squadrons launched. It’s suicide to go right at the center of the enemy line with so few ships.” It felt strange to call over a thousand fighters ‘so few ships,’ but Barron and his people had come a long way in twenty years of almost constant war. The forces he would have considered awesome and immense in the early days of the Union War would have barely rated as task forces in the current fight. And the hundred or hundred fifty fighters or bombers he might have launched from three or four of what had passed then for heavy battleships, what would have constituted a major strike force, would now be at best, a reconnaissance in force. Real attacks now were made by hundreds of warships, and thousands of fighters.

  It wasn’t just the limited amount of offensive strength Stockton’s strike would bring to bear on the enemy that troubled him. It was that the fewer ships in an attack, the heavier the enemy point defense would be on each of them.

  “Admiral…you know there’s no choice. No time. We’ve got to go in now, with whatever we’ve got. If I wait to get the whole strike force out, the fleet will be blasted to dust. The whole force will never even make it off the flight decks before their platforms are destroyed, with them still inside.” A pause. “You know I’m right, sir.”

  Barron wanted to argue. He wanted to order Stockton to pull his forces back and wait un
til all his wings were ready. He wanted to call down to flight control and badger Stara Sinclair to get the bombers out faster…somehow. But there was no point in haranguing officers he knew were already the best.

  And he knew Stockton was right.

  “Jake, the fire will be…” Barron didn’t finish. There was no point. He knew as well as Stockton what his strike force commander, and the disordered scattering of wings that had managed to launch, needed to do. A second or two passed—each moment that went by put more distance between Stockton and Dauntless.

  “We’ll manage it, Admiral. You know I’m right, sir. I’ve issued orders for the other waves to follow as soon as they’re able to launch, however many are able.” They both knew the battleships were taking heavy damage. More and more launch bays were going to be shut down, almost certainly before the entire strike force was relaunched.

  Barron did know Stockton was right. But he also knew the odds of a pilot sent into that maelstrom returning, any pilot, even one as skilled as Jake Stockton. He searched for words, fought for a way to give his approval, to send his friend straight into the mouth of hell.

  Stockton saved him from that nightmare.

  “Tyler, please. You know I have to do this. Give me your blessing and wish me luck. Wish us all luck…and before I go, let me say that the greatest honor of my life has been serving under you.”

  Barron felt as though he’d been punched hard in the gut. He sat, knowing what he had to do, but entirely unsure he could do it.

  Finally, he just said, “Good luck, Jake.” He wanted to say more, so much more. But the words wouldn’t come. Then, Dauntless shook again, another hit…and the bridge went dark.

  * * *

  The light was bright, harsh. She sat up, shouting, not sure where she was, or how she got there. She reached to her side, her hand flopping around, searching for her pistol. But it was gone.

  Her flight suit was gone, too. All her gear. She lay in a bed, naked beneath a flimsy white gown.

  “Commodore…please, calm down. You are safe. You’re on Constitution, in sickbay.”

  The words didn’t make sense, not at first. Then, understanding began to return.

  “How?’ She rasped out the word. Her throat was dry, but as she became more aware, she realized she wasn’t hurt, at least not seriously.

  “The retrieval boat, Commodore. They docked with your fighter, pulled you out of your cockpit.”

  She remembered. She’d been out of air. Out of time. The boat had contacted her, but it had been too late. “I…thought…I…was…dead.”

  “And,s so you were, Commodore, for all of a minute, perhaps ninety seconds. The boat’s medic revived you, and from what we’ve been able to determine, you have no serious injuries. You’ll need some rest, and some fluids, but you’ll be up and around in a couple days.”

  “Days?” She arched up and forward suddenly, tearing the sheet covering her to the side. “I don’t have days. We’re in a fight here.” Suddenly, she was very aware of where she was…and what was happening. “I’ve got to get to the bay. Call down there, and tell them to find me a new fighter. Now!” She threw her legs over the side of the bed and dropped down to the floor. She felt the disorientation hit her as her feet touched the ground, and she reached out, instinctively grabbing onto the edge of the bed.

  “Commodore…that is out of the question. You are in no condition to…”

  “What did you call me…Lieutenant?”

  The man looked confused. He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Commodore…”

  “That’s right…and I just gave you an order. Is there something about the chain of command that is confusing to you? Last I remembered, a commodore outranked a lieutenant. Am I incorrect?” She stepped away from the bed as the dizziness faded.

  “No, Commodore, but ….”

  “Well then, you comm the bay, tell them to have survival gear and a flight suit ready for me. Now!” She stepped toward the wall. “And get me something to wear down there…. Whatever is easiest to find. Just something that will keep my ass from hanging out all the way down there.” The man was still looking at her as though he didn’t know what to do. “That’s an order, Lieutenant!”

  “Ah…yes, Commodore…but maybe you should wait and talk to the doctor.”

  She walked across the room, toward a pile of fresh scrubs stacked on a shelf. “Do you think that’s going to change anything? Because unless that doctor’s got a star on his shoulder…no, two stars…it’s a waste of time. And we don’t have a minute to waste right now.” She reached over and grabbed the scrubs, pulling the gown off, and sending the flustered and embarrassed med tech scrambling out of the room.

  “Now, Lieutenant, I saw to my own clothes, but I need them ready down on the flight deck when I get there. So get your ass over to the comm, and get it done!”

  * * *

  Stockton angled his ship around again, redirecting the thrust angle. The incoming fire was heavy…damned heavy. That wasn’t a surprise, but it was still making him sweat a little. It would have been bad enough, even if he hadn’t known the deadly missiles would be coming soon.

  The enemy magazines could be empty, of course. Even Highborn ships were limited to the realities of space and tonnage. The missiles were large, and the enemy supply of them had to be finite. But reality painted a less optimistic picture.

  First, the Highborn ships hadn’t all been in battle for the same amount of time. There was some hope—a reasonable amount even—that the initial vessels through the point, the ones that had been hardest hit by his first assault, and by the subsequent exchanges between the battle lines, had exhausted their supplies of missiles, or seen their launchers put out of action. But there were fresher ships, new arrivals untouched by his earlier attack. He had no doubt at all that those vessels carried full loads of missiles.

  “Stay on those evasive maneuvers, all of you.” His voice was cold, harsh. He loved his pilots, and he respected them. But he knew he would lose many to carelessness, and he was going to keep that number to an absolute minimum, whatever it took.

  Even if that was treating them like shit as they followed him into hell.

  He ignored the acknowledgements, though the disordered nature of them concerned him. He didn’t have a well-ordered force behind him. He had partial wings thrown together, in some cases, even bits and pieces of squadrons. That was going to increase the losses as well…and he reminded himself to stay aware that he was leading more a mob than a disciplined strike force. There would be no detailed tactics, no carefully designed plans. The best he could do was lead them forward, toward the enemy…and do what he could to pull as many through the withering fire they encountered along the way.

  He felt a tightness inside as he saw the first missiles appear on his screen. Two ships had launched, almost simultaneously, and then a few seconds later, another one. The spreads looked menacing, but Stockton knew he was seeing only the smallest part of the apocalypse heading for his people. Those missiles would split when they got closer, and each of them would become twenty separate warheads, every one of them packed full of antimatter, powerful enough to take out any of his ships within half a kilometer or more.

  He wanted to veer off, to order his pilots to change course and try to go around the missiles. But that wasn’t an option. He had to hit the enemy center. His people had to do some damage to those enemy battleships before the Confederation line was gone, and the Hegemony and Palatian ships along with it.

  Besides, there was no escape, no true solace in an effort to fly around the volleys. The missiles were too fast, too maneuverable. Even if he gave the order to go around, blunting the effectiveness of the attack in the process, it would be futile. The missiles would react, and their massive acceleration would allow them to catch his people, no matter where he led them.

  There is only one way…straight ahead…

  His faced tightened, and he gritted his teeth, pushing forward, jerking his ship around on a wild ev
asion course…straight for the center of the enemy line.

  * * *

  “Admiral Stockton is leading another attack, Commander. It appears he is moving forward with a portion of the total strike force.”

  Chronos sat in his chair, silent. He’d fought the Confeds for six years, cursed them, despised them for their tenacity, for their infuriating refusal to accept that they were defeated, that their superiors had beaten them. And he had hated none worse than the Confed fighter pilots, and most among them, their legendary commander. Now those squadrons that had plagued him were working for him, and Jake Stockton, a thousand times damned to hell in his mind, was his ally. It was strange, something he found difficult to fully comprehend.

  Tere was no way else to put it. He was beginning to respect his former enemies, if not to outright like many of them. He’d become at least cordially friendly with Tyler Barron, but now he thought about Stockton, the Confederation’s fighter master. Perhaps no one had caused him more harm in the recent war, nor was there anyone who could lay claim to greater credit for holding off the Hegemony invasion.

  And now he is doing it to the Highborn…