by Eric Thomson
And once sundered, the empire would not be reunited in his lifetime. It might never be reunited at all if this civil war brought down the long night of barbarism some human historians had foreseen. And civil wars always became the epitome of savagery.
With a heart grown heavy at the notion something would end here, today, he came to the decision he’d been contemplating for months while waiting for the right time.
“Signals, order the rearguard to execute the planned turn and set course for Wormhole Two. We need to get there before the rebels come any closer. Bridge, captain here.”
A tiny holographic projection of Morane’s first officer, Iona Mikkel, appeared in midair by his command chair.
“Sir?”
“Turn the ship toward the wormhole and hit the accelerator. We’re out of here.”
Mikkel nodded. “I figured as much. Do you think Alcibiades and Hephaestion will make it?”
“Depends on what sort of acceleration the rebels can manage and with what weight of ordnance. A stern chase is a long one. But I don’t want to stick around and find myself within range.”
“Since you’re now the senior surviving captain in the 197th, no one will be able to fault you for withdrawing.”
“Am I?”
Mikkel’s laughter held a grim edge. “We first officers keep track of such things. And may I suggest that the remains of our magnificent battle group haul its ass back to Wyvern where we can lick our wounds under the orbital station’s guns?”
Morane slowly shook his head. He activated the invisible privacy screen that would keep his words from reaching the CIC crew’s ears and waited for Mikkel to do the same on the bridge. Once the applicable telltale turned green, he said, “We’d never make it. Too many systems between here and the capital have fallen into rebel hands.”
“Then we defect.”
“And merely prolong the agony or tear our crews’ loyalties apart? Besides, to which of the self-proclaimed sector rulers do we pledge ourselves? Loren isn’t the only admiral to renounce his oath. According to a report the flagship received a few days ago, almost every sector except Wyvern’s is in revolt. Each rebellious admiral, general or viceroy is trying to steal a march on his or her neighbors and proclaim themselves the one true ruler. If the Shrehari weren’t going through similar troubles while fending off their former Arkanna allies, we’d surely face an invasion by now as well, or at least the Rim Sector would. Sorry to spring this on you, but Greth wanted us captains to be the only ones who knew. The empire is gone just as surely as the 197th’s heavies.”
Mikkel’s hologram stared at him in silence for what seemed like an eternity. “Somehow, I knew this would come sooner rather than later. If we can’t make it to Wyvern and don’t want to join one of the rebellious fleets, what then?”
“We quit the whole shebang.”
— 3 —
The lonely walk to Governor General the Countess Jessamyn Klim’s inner sanctum through bleak corridors burned out of living granite always gave DeCarde an impression of entering the nine circles of hell, one after the other. Klim’s appointment as regent of Coraline followed a pattern familiar since Senator Stichus Ruggero became Emperor Stichus in flagrant violation of the constitution more than a century ago.
Of minor, if not quite penniless nobility, Klim was the sort who would sell her soul in return for preferment at court. Appointment as governor general in one of the five hundred star systems colonized by humans was enough for an oath of undying loyalty even to a sociopathic sovereign such as Stichus’ great-granddaughter Dendera.
Competence, a sense of responsibility or even basic morality were not required. Greed, lust, gluttony, wrath, and treachery, on the other hand, were virtues in her circles. And thus, humanity’s long, golden age of peace and prosperity was coming to a violent end. A thousand years of empire undone in less than a thousand days.
It irked DeCarde profoundly that she was caught in the treacherous rapids of disintegration with nothing more than death awaiting her and the 6th of the 21st at the end. Would matters be different if Fleet HQ sent her elsewhere, or even kept her battalion at home? Perhaps not. The Imperial Pathfinder Regiments were the Fleet’s quick reaction force, used to quell trouble anywhere at short notice. If not Coraline, then another, equally rebellious star system in the Shield Sector.
Klim’s conference room seemed to float at the center of the fortress as if it was a world apart, as did her private quarters. Her staff moved every precious hanging, piece of furniture and knick-knack into the last redoubt from her official residence when she evacuated Alexandretta ahead of the advancing insurgents. Transport better used to bring more ammunition and supplies instead pandered to Klim’s vanity. A cloying smell of perfume assailed DeCarde’s nostrils as she entered, something the governor general’s aides sprayed to cover the earthier aromas of Guards and Marines whose personal hygiene weren’t up to Klim’s delicate standards.
DeCarde’s Imperial Guards counterpart, Lieutenant Colonel Dagon Verkur already sat at a massive table carved from a single piece of dark, lustrous native wood. His regiment lost more than half its strength during the vicious fighting of the last few months, including its commanding officer, a minor baronet with the tactical sense of an amoeba. But he was adept at playing politics and enforced Klim’s decrees with utter brutality.
Verkur, the regiment’s senior surviving officer, wasn’t much better than his former CO even though his family couldn’t claim more than the odd knight in its lineage. He knew DeCarde considered him a butcher and gave her a silent sneer when she slid into a chair across from him.
“I hear your soldiers were practicing the four hundred meter sprint earlier today, Dagon. How will they get their exercise once the rebels finish pushing us all the way back into Klim Castle, I wonder?” Verkur, a round-faced, middle-aged man with a weak chin and a receding hairline, made an obscene gesture at her. DeCarde laughed, but without humor. “I love you too. Any idea what she wants now? Is she running out of gin and needs us to do a sortie so we can capture the nearest distillery?”
“One day your smart mouth will buy trouble your ass can’t afford, DeCarde. Even if you are one of Her Majesty’s super-warriors.”
“The way things are shaping up, I think we’ll be leading the final charge before that happens. Unless you intend to commit suicide, which probably isn’t a bad choice in your case.”
The door to Countess Klim’s private apartments, a plastic panel fitted into a smooth opening carved by an alien civilization long ago, swung back. A tall, thin, patrician woman swept through and sat at the head of the table. Both DeCarde and Verkur examined her carefully for signs of inebriation so they might know what to expect. She, in turn, studied them with deep-set, cold, dark eyes beneath perfectly coiffed silver hair.
“Which of you would like to tell me we’re successfully holding off the rebel scum while we prepare to retake the initiative and sally forth to our final victory?” Her querulous voice betrayed the unsteadiness of someone overwhelmed by events and self-medicating in the most time-honored fashion. “That explosion was our Guards Regiment dealing the enemy a deadly blow, wasn’t it?”
“The rebels breached the outer perimeter,” DeCarde said without preamble. “We withdrew to the inner line, but at this rate, the rebels will force us back within the next forty-eight hours because it seems they found a fresh stock of artillery ammunition. Since our own counter-battery capabilities are gone, the only thing we can do is hunker down and wait for them to run out. This morning’s attack, thankfully, caused my unit no casualties. How about you, Dagon?”
“Nine dead, twenty-three wounded,” he said in a flat tone. “I’m afraid Brigid is right. The rebels can apply pinpoint pressure on us at a ten to one ratio. Even the best troops in the empire will eventually give way.”
He did not, DeCarde noted, mention the possibility that his panicked soldiers might withdraw from the inner defensive line and into the fortress without even waiting for that pinpoi
nt pressure. Which was just as well because she’d ordered her own troops to pull back so they could avoid needless casualties.
A vexed air further pinched Klim’s narrow, bird-like features. “Surely the Navy will be back to relieve the pressure. Someone will have heard our distress call before the rebels destroyed our subspace transmitters.”
DeCarde shrugged. “The last starships to visit Coraline, other than smugglers, were the one that bombarded the rebels from orbit. Either someone is blocking the wormholes, or anything that can go FTL is busy dealing with worse messes than what we’re facing. Or the entire sector has gone over to the rebellion and is now under Admiral Loren’s control. Which means the next Navy vessels we’ll see will probably be keener to destroy this fortress than the people besieging it.”
“You’re a cheerful little person, aren’t you, Colonel DeCarde.” Klim glared down her nose at the Pathfinder who was anything but small.
“Reality doesn’t care whether it makes you happy, Countess. Reality merely demands we acknowledge it. And the reality is that we’re fucked, with a capital F.”
“And defeatist to boot, which the Crown has decreed is a capital crime.”
DeCarde felt anger and exasperation clamoring for release. “Thanks to your cack-handed application of our psychotic empress’ short-sighted, idiotic policies, the rebels hoisted the black flag. Otherwise, I’d recommend asking for terms. Heck, I’d go out there myself and at least negotiate my battalion’s surrender. But I can’t. The rebels want to see every one of us hang even though we Imperial Pathfinders did not take part in the atrocities your 14th Guards Regiment perpetrated. That’s what serving the empress has come to — collective guilt, followed by collective punishment.”
Klim and Verkur stared at her in shock for daring to criticize the sovereign. Finally, the latter said, “That’s treasonous talk, DeCarde. And it’s enough to see you garroted.”
“Good luck trying.” She gave them a contemptuous glare. “But you’ve given me an idea. Perhaps I should simply order my Pathfinders to kill every single guardsman, then offer our beloved governor general to the rebels in exchange for letting us leave unharmed.”
An appalled look twisted Klim’s pinched face. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“In a nanosecond.” She nodded at Verkur. “And he knows we can do it too.”
“I do not.”
DeCarde pointed her finger at the Guards officer and mimed firing a gun.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night. Now, if this meeting was merely so you could vent your spleen, Countess, I’ll be on my way. I have plans to make, and Dagon has casualties to visit. Then we need to figure out ways of prolonging this clusterfuck, so the rebels find a new hobby and bugger off. Preferably before we run out of ammunition and rations.” She climbed to her feet. “Especially rations. Enjoy your afternoon gin, Countess.”
**
“That probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say, Colonel.” Piotr Salmin shook his head in mock dismay after DeCarde related her meeting with Klim and Verkur.
“No, but considering the situation, it might be our only way out.”
“And then what? We’re stuck on Coraline. The rebels will be able to massacre us at their leisure. Do you think they’ll ever accept our defection? After the last few weeks of fighting?”
DeCarde made a face. “I suppose not. It would have been better if we defected the moment we set foot on Coraline instead of tainting our colors with Klim’s stench.”
“Hindsight is always perfect. We didn’t know how bad things were until our window of opportunity slammed shut, thanks once more to the Fleet’s blind, dumb and deaf intelligence service.”
“In fairness, Piotr, the sector is a hopelessly chaotic disaster beyond even the best intelligence officer’s abilities. Perhaps even the entire damned empire.”
“May the devil take that bitch Dendera and her entire clan.”
DeCarde raised her tea mug. “I’ll drink to that. Somehow uttering treasonous words seems to cheer me up.”
“Should we break the crown off our badges? You know, take it a step further and declare our own rebellion against the empire?”
“And make the battle for Coraline a three-sided mess? Are you sniffing antimatter fuel, Piotr?”
“Just trying to find an exciting end for the 6th of the 21st. Something for the ages. A story they’ll be telling until the last Marine passes away.”
A profound sigh escaped DeCarde. “I never figured I’d be re-enacting the Farhaven disaster when I took my commission.”
“It’s time someone adds a new holy day to the Marine Corps’ calendar celebrating our most heart-rending defeats.”
“Pass.”
“Not your call, boss. Make the bugler sound the charge.”
“We don’t have a bugler, Piotr.”
DeCarde’s second in command snorted. “Give me two minutes, and I’ll solve that little problem.”
“Drafting one of Dagon Verkur’s toy soldiers doesn’t count. There’s too much blood on their instruments.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Lance Corporal Yorig in D Squadron apparently plays a mean bugle.”
She nodded while a small smile danced on her lips. “I’d heard something to that effect. He plays in a brass combo, right?”
“Nothing but the best thirty-second-century classical jazz.”
“Not my sort of music. At least not right now.”
“Too old or not old enough?”
“Neither, although four hundred years old isn’t classical, Piotr. It’s damned ancient.”
Salmin snorted. “Depends on your definition of the word.”
“Right now, I feel ancient, but that’s probably because we’re fighting for a lost cause that wasn’t worth the life of a single Pathfinder in the first place.” When Salmin opened his mouth to speak, DeCarde raised her hand. “And don’t give me that ‘ours not to reason why’ crap. I didn’t buy it when I was a noncom, and I don’t buy it now.”
Salmin took a sip of his tea and grimaced. “It’s a real shame we’ll go down fighting with this swill in our guts rather than a proper brew.”
“Can’t be helped.”
Centurion Haller chose that moment to stick her head into DeCarde’s makeshift office. “Observation post Theta Four reports movement behind the rebel lines. It looks like they’re bringing reinforcements across the river.”
“Already?” Salmin sounded incredulous.
“I guess whoever’s commanding the 118th these days believes in keeping the initiative.” DeCarde drained her tea and stood. “The bastard wants to make sure we’re bottled in tight so he can starve us into surrendering. Warn the Guards please, Eve.”
“Wilco, sir.” The centurion tossed off a quick salute and retreated into the operations room.
— 4 —
Commander Iona Mikkel stared at her captain as if he’d just grown a second head. “Pardon?”
“If my reading of the situation is correct, we’re facing a civilization-level collapse the likes of which humanity has never seen before. And it will happen very quickly. No matter where we go or who we join, our future is bleak at best. Give it a few decades, and we might well see star system after star system lose its technological base, either to orbital bombardment by rivals, lack of maintenance as interstellar trade grinds to a halt or simple neglect. Once that happens, we’ll lose the ability to build and fuel FTL ships, and that means the end of our interstellar civilization.”
“Isn’t that just a bit overly pessimistic, sir?”
“Is it? Since Loren proclaimed the Shield Sector’s secession from the empire, we saw people wearing the same uniform as you and I kill countless thousands of their former comrades and destroy some of the most advanced starships ever built. Do you think they’ll hesitate to bombard planets resisting them, or destroy trade to starve holdouts? And then we’ll see scavengers come around, the human and non-human slavers, pirates, reivers and corsairs who lurk beyond the frontiers.
>
“They’ll be looking to feed off humanity’s remains and take what we didn’t destroy ourselves. Then, at a given point, if we’re not there yet already, destruction and death will amplify each other in a closed loop and grow until no one can stop the madness. As history has proved many times, this ends only when nothing remains. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are riding across the galaxy, Iona. And they won’t leave until they’re sated.”
“War, famine, pestilence and death.”
“Pretty much in that order. The colonies that aren’t self-sustaining will die off first. They’ll likely be the lucky ones. The more advanced star systems will die a lot harder because their fall comes from a greater height.”
Mikkel’s image seemed to shiver, although that could be an unsteady holographic projection. “What is your intent, sir?”
Before Morane could reply, Creswell raised her hand. “Alcibiades is taking damage from rebel missiles. She...” The combat systems officer swore. “She’s gone.”
“Is everyone on the new course?”
Lettis nodded. “Aye. They report ready for a jump to the wormhole’s entrance whenever we give the word.”
The jump, a sprint in hyperspace to reach their escape route was the most the injured frigates could manage. Fleeing the Cervantes system via old-fashioned FTL travel through interstellar space was beyond them.
“The word is given.”
A klaxon sounded and seconds later, the universe tumbled into a kaleidoscope of colors and sensations. Morane felt the usual transition nausea twist his guts for a few moments. Then everything settled, but Vanquish was no longer in contact with her consorts, nor could her sensors track the last remaining heavy’s forlorn attempt to escape.
Morane felt for the people aboard Hephaestion, watching the 197th Battle Group’s remains vanish, but his first responsibility was to the ships in his charge and their crews.