by Eric Thomson
Now that he’d come to a decision, Morane felt strangely liberated, as if the imperial crown on his naval insignia and on the cruiser’s hull were gone. He no longer belonged to Empress Dendera’s Navy or to anyone else’s. The same held true for everyone aboard Vanquish, the supply ship Narwhal and both frigates, but they didn’t know it yet.
Mikkel’s hologram shimmered with a waving hand. “You were about to tell me what you planned, sir.”
Morane checked the privacy screen, then said, “Are you familiar with the Lyonesse system?”
The first officer shook her head. “I’d have to look it up.”
“So would ninety-nine percent of the Navy’s officers, Iona. It’s a wormhole cul-de-sac. One connection only, leading to Arietis via two sterile systems, each with only two mapped wormhole termini. Lyonesse is an Earth-norm planet, a minor colony that achieved level two self-sufficiency ten years ago. Better yet, a corrupt sod in the Imperial Procurement Service established a Fleet supply depot on its surface, near the main settlement.”
“A supply depot in a wormhole cul-de-sac? That’s hardly practical.”
“No, but apparently it was profitable, and another sign of the empire’s decline.”
“That’s where you’re taking us?”
“Lyonesse is the only system within our reach that might survive the chaos because it’s a minor dead-end in the wormhole network. It also has enough resources to support a technologically advanced society if the worst happens and interstellar communications, travel, and trade collapse for centuries.”
“What about those who don’t want to come along into what sounds like permanent exile, but instead would rather try to return home and be with their families? Not everyone is a confirmed career hound without close loved ones like you or me, Skipper.”
Morane grimaced. He was expecting the question to come up. It had plagued him ever since he planned their escape in case matters turned for the worst.
“Once we’re away from Cervantes, I’ll speak to whatever’s left of the 197th and offer everyone who doesn’t want to come with us a chance of landing on a suitable world somewhere between here and the Lyonesse wormhole. It’s up to them after that. If enough want to split away, perhaps we can exchange crews with one or both of the frigates and cut them loose.”
“Harsh, but I suppose it’s the only thing we can do.”
“I assume you’re with me, Iona?”
“Of course. And I daresay most of our crew will be too. They can see what’s happening just as clearly. There’s no better sign from the Almighty than watching people who once held allegiance to the same Crown destroy your battle group.” She paused, then asked, “How do you estimate our chances of running the gauntlet from here to Lyonesse? We’ll pass through dozens of wormhole junctions and the rebels will hold many of them.”
“Stealth. Pretending to be rebels in rebel-held systems and loyal in systems still under Crown control. And a circuitous route, through sterile systems, those without wormhole defense arrays and systems without a permanent naval presence. The only junction I’m apprehensive about is Arietis. At last news, it was home to a task force. Maybe even a full battle group.
“If the admiral in charge of the Coalsack Sector has mutinied, our run across that system could be interesting. What I’d really like is to pass unnoticed and avoid tempting anyone into following us. If no one realizes a handful of Navy ships took a minor wormhole out of Arietis, one leading to an equally minor colony, so much the better. But first, we get out of here, Iona. Then we’ll worry about the rest.”
“Hopefully, the rebels didn’t slip a few ships between our emergence point and the wormhole.”
“They may not even have known we were in the system until we jumped just now, what with their attention focused on the heavies.”
“Whistling through the graveyard, Skipper?” Mikkel gave him a mischievous smile.
“Working the odds, nothing more, Iona.”
“And Hephaestion?”
“If she survives, she can catch up with us after we make the wormhole transit to the next system. If not... I know that sounds cold-blooded, but whatever force killed six heavy cruisers and their escorts in such a short time will turn us into debris without so much as an afterthought.”
Mikkel raised both hands in surrender. “You’ll not hear a word of disagreement from me. My aspirations don’t including dying nobly for a lost cause.”
**
The public address system startled Morane from his silent contemplation of the wormhole network.
“Now hear this. Emergence in five minutes. I repeat, emergence in five minutes. That is all.”
Unable to sleep, he had spent the ten hours since Vanquish went FTL with busywork and fighting off self-doubt.
Tired legs carried him from his day cabin to the CIC before the jump klaxon sounded three times. Once more ensconced in his command chair, Morane braced himself for the inevitable nausea. When it passed, his eyes were drawn to the tactical projection, searching for Narwhal, Nicias, and Myrtale as well as any rebel ships blocking their way.
“Everyone made it and no enemy contacts,” Creswell announced.
“What about Hephaestion?”
A long pause while the combat systems officer checked her status board. “Nothing. Her subspace transponder is no longer there. I’m not picking up any enemy ship signatures near Hephaestion’s last known position. They either broke off the chase or went FTL to intercept us.”
Morane let out a long, almost mournful exhalation and briefly closed his eyes. Over three thousand spacers dead in the space of what? A few hours? All because the late and unlamented Rear Admiral Greth, Peer of the Realm and Knight of Wyvern, wanted to teach a lesson to what he thought was only a motley bunch of rebels. Instead, he found several battle groups and an inglorious end.
“Get our ships synced and ready for wormhole transit, then go to silent running and stand by. I want no one to hear us pop out on the other side.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The better part of an hour passed while Morane did his best to avoid fidgeting before the signals petty officer reported, “All ships confirm silent running and ready for wormhole transit.”
“We are synced,” a disembodied voice reported from the bridge, “and ready to cross the event horizon.”
“Start the countdown to final burn.”
“Starting the countdown to final burn,” Vanquish’s navigation officer replied. “Burn in sixty, that’s six zero seconds. Event horizon in thirty that’s three zero minutes.”
Precise to the second, Wormhole Cervantes Two swallowed the 197th Battle Group’s survivors half an hour later. For a few hours, they disappeared from the face of the galaxy as they crossed a dozen light years without knowing what waited at the other end.
In the eyes of Captain Jonas Morane, formerly one of her Imperial Majesty’s officers, it was the first step on a long and perilous journey to a sanctuary he’d only ever seen in his mind’s eye. A refuge he believed might become humanity’s best, if not only chance of avoiding a darkness that could last for thousands of years. Or perhaps even forever.
— 5 —
“Who are you? What do you want?” A querulous male voice erupted from the command post’s central communications unit. “Fucking imperial scum.”
“I am Lieutenant Colonel Brigid DeCarde, of the 6th Battalion, 21st Imperial Pathfinder Regiment and I want to discuss terms with the commanding officer of the forces besieging Talera Fortress.”
“He doesn’t speak with butchers and war criminals.”
DeCarde expected that sort of reaction, but for her troopers’ sake, she had to try. “You know we didn’t take part in the counterinsurgency operations on Coraline. The 14th Guards Regiment is solely responsible.”
“You fought alongside them when we rose to take back what was ours. That makes you complicit after the fact.”
“How about I discuss this with your commanding officer? I’m sure he’d lik
e to know how we can help you folks avoid any more unnecessary casualties.”
“General Tymak can’t be disturbed.”
DeCarde glanced at Salmin and mouthed, “General?” Her second in command merely shrugged. The 118th Marines listed a Tymak among its senior officers from what she recalled of the intelligence briefing the Guards Regiment gave them upon arrival. A major or lieutenant colonel.
That the rebels were giving themselves promotions and new titles meant they didn’t expect the empire to regain control of Coraline. Maybe they also now had a sovereign or a president, someone whose face replaced Dendera’s on official portraiture. It might even be an aesthetic improvement. DeCarde didn’t like the empress’ crazy eyes. She always felt as if they were following her across the room, looking for an excuse to order her arrest and execution.
“Not even if we offer him Countess Klim on a silver platter?”
“You’d betray Dendera’s personal representative?” The rebel’s tone took on a derisive edge. “What about the Imperial Pathfinders’ traditional loyalty?”
“Our oath is to the Crown as guarantor of the empire’s constitution, not to any governor general or viceroy. Or to the empress herself. My troops and I would rather not be massacred for the sins of the countess and her Guards Regiment.”
“They why don’t you simply walk out of the fortress under a white flag?” The mocking tone grew stronger.
“Because I can’t trust you to treat us as prisoners of war under the Aldebaran Convention. Not after what happened to the loyalists who stayed behind, thinking you’d treat them as non-combatants.”
“So you know about that, do you? It’s no more than what they deserve.”
“Look, both sides committed excesses. We can stop the killing and the dying now if General Tymak is open to negotiations.”
“And Klim? Or her damned Guards Regiment?”
“You’d be in your rights to investigate and prosecute them for war crimes.”
“Why bother with the legal niceties Klim and her minions ignored? They’ve already condemned themselves to death.”
“But not us Marines.” She paused. “Listen, I won’t offer to change sides because you won’t accept us. However, I can offer a cessation of hostilities. What I’m asking is for your permission to withdraw in good order, with our arms and equipment, to a sanctuary where we can wait for a starship that will take us home.”
The man laughed.
“A starship? Is that everything? Not one damn Navy vessel has passed through in months. The system’s subspace radio relay is gone, and for all we know, parts of the wormhole network might have collapsed. No. We can’t allow you to sit around with your guns and armor forever, and we sure as hell won’t send you out on any of our remaining FTL ships. The longer you hang around, the more you might get it in your heads to try something against the Coraline government.
“So you see, we can’t afford to let the empire’s super-soldiers roam free. Walk out of the fortress under a white flag, without weapons or armor. Otherwise, you can stay with Klim and the rest while we wait until starvation does the job for us. It’ll be entertaining to see who survives the coming outbreak of cannibalism. My bet is on you Pathfinders.”
DeCarde glanced at Salmin again. Did the unnamed rebel just give away their game plan? That once the imperial forces were truly and well stuck inside the ancient alien redoubt, they’d be allowed to wither on the vine?
“And if we come out under a flag of truce? We join the surviving loyalists in your concentration camps. Or are they actually extermination camps? We’ve not heard much about them in your provisional government’s news broadcasts.”
When the man didn’t immediately reply, DeCarde gave Salmin a knowing look. “So that’s the plan, is it? Murder anyone who still has an allegiance to the empire so you can cleanse Coraline? That way, if an expeditionary force shows up to retake the system, it’ll face a uniformly hostile planet and think twice. Are you smoking Coraline wacky weed? An imperial task force will retake this system in a matter of days. Do you understand what sort of the damage small, iron core asteroids will do if they’re dropped on your cities from orbit? Your provisional government won’t be begging for mercy because it’ll be wiped out in the first few hours.”
A loud, derisive snort. “What do you care? You’ll be dead by the time Wyvern bestirs itself and sends what’s left of the Imperial Armed Services to retake the sector. Which I doubt will ever happen. The final newscast we received before the subspace relay died made it clear that most of the outlying sector commanders imitated Admiral Loren and rebelled. Your empire is finished. Too bad you didn’t figure it out before tainting yourself with the Guards’ stench. We might have welcomed you back then. Now was there anything else?”
“Please inform General Tymak of my offer. His opinion might differ.”
The man chuckled. “General Tymak was expecting you to try something like this after we cut off any chance of escape. I just gave you his opinion and his answer. Feel free to surrender once you realize that a quick death is preferable to a slow agonizing one.”
“So you are running extermination camps?”
“That’s how one deals with imperial vermin. Enjoy what’s left of your life, DeCarde.”
Dead silence descended on the command post. Haller glanced up from the communications unit. “They’ve broken the connection. Do you want me to try and relink us?”
DeCarde shook her head. “I think he was pretty clear about rebel intentions.”
“What now?” Salmin asked. His expression betrayed no emotions, but DeCarde could read dismay in his eyes.
“We’re certainly not about to start sizing up our comrades from the 14th Guards Regiment as long pig for when the rations run out.” She climbed to her feet. “While there’s life, there’s hope, right? Let’s do what I should have thought about weeks ago when it was becoming clear we were on the losing side of this family spat. Eve, please set the communicator to broadcast an automated message at the heavens on every Navy frequency, using the most recent encryption algorithm, and put it on a repeat cycle. If a ship passes through the system on its way from one wormhole to the other, it’ll hear us.”
“What should the message say, sir?”
“The 6th Battalion of the 21st Pathfinder Regiment is surrounded by hostile forces intent on annihilation and requires immediate extraction.”
A faint smile appeared on Salmin’s lips. “Doesn’t our unit title include the word ‘Imperial,’ Colonel?”
“If one of Admiral Loren’s ships receives our message instead of a loyal unit, perhaps their first reaction won’t be to bombard the fortress from orbit if they think we switched sides and broke the crown from our insignia. Right now, I’ll make nice with anyone not intent on shooting us out of general principles.”
“That’s what I thought. And if they decide to strike at us anyway?”
“Then we won’t die at the hands of the Coraline rebels or from consuming rancid Guards Regiment meat.”
Centurion Haller made a retching sound. “I’d rather blow my own head off than eat that species of long pig. Or any sort, really.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Salmin said. “If we run it through the nutritional processors, you won’t know the difference.”
“Not even in jest, Major.”
**
“Do you think they’ll make it?” Commander Mikkel nodded at the primary display in Captain Morane’s day cabin. It showed the frigate Nicias, her imperial insignia removed, leaving the 197th Battle Group. She was headed for the first of several wormhole transits on a journey to Aramis, the sector capital where her captain would join Admiral Loren’s rebel forces, though many aboard no doubt harbored different ideas.
“I don’t know, Iona.” Morane’s tone held an undercurrent of sadness. He looked up at his first officer, a forty-something, olive-skinned brunette whose features were as deeply etched by worry and fatigue as his own. “I hope so, but if they run across anything b
igger than a corvette whose crew is still loyal to the Crown...”
“In a sense, I can understand those who prefer joining the insurrection rather than go into exile with us. Your speech made it clear the chances of ever seeing our native worlds, our friends or our families again once we hole up in the Lyonesse system were damned slim. At least on Aramis, those disinclined to fight for Loren can desert and find their way home again before interstellar travel becomes too difficult, or if you’re right, collapses altogether.” Mikkel chuckled. “But I liked the way you explained how those of us bowing out of the empire altogether might become a human knowledge vault like one of those ancient seed vaults we read about in historical texts.”
“As long as forces from either side in this civil war don’t reach Lyonesse.”
“Or anyone else intent on creating chaos, and that sort isn’t exactly in short supply at the best of times.”
Morane shrugged. “There are no guarantees. However, I’d rather try something that doesn’t involve slaughtering other humans in job lots.”
“Me too, Skipper, and I daresay most of those who stuck with this battle group feel the same. I was surprised so few elected to leave, but perhaps I shouldn’t have been. You sure know how to make a persuasive speech.”
“With the galaxy going to hell, settling at the end of a wormhole cul-de-sac in an era when no one spends time and fuel traveling between the stars in hyperspace anymore looks pretty good. But I expect a number of our people will regret their decision once the herd instinct of remaining with trusted shipmates wears off and they miss the old homestead and kinfolk.”
Mikkel cocked an amused eyebrow at her captain. “Homestead? Kinfolk? Are you turning colonial on us already? What if they don’t talk like that on Lyonesse?”
Morane shrugged. “Then I start a new trend. And we should think about heading off.” He nodded at the telemetry beneath the frigate’s image. “Nicias is almost at the event horizon, so she doesn’t need an escort anymore. But we must still cross this system to Wormhole Four, and if the rebels are following us from Cervantes...”