by Jay Allan
Battarus glared back, his expression itself almost an act of defiance. But in the end, he remained silent, finally croaking out a weak acknowledgement. “Yes, Your Supremacy.” It was as close to a surrender as Calavius was likely to get from the ancient, grizzled warrior.
“Commander Grachus’s valor in combat has more than proven her loyalty, and expunged the treachery and cowardice of her grandfather. Henceforth, her name shall be cleared, and Commander Grachus, already a Citizen herself by prior acclamation, shall become hereditary in that status, and pass her Citizenship to her heirs, and their heirs, in perpetuity. I shall also grant her estates befitting one of her rank, from among the state-owned lands in the capital district.”
It was a major award, and Lille had never heard of such largesse being granted to a Palatian of Grachus’s standing and dubious family history. He’d studied the subject of Calavius’s largesse sufficiently to know, almost for certain, that her grandfather’s treachery had been all too real. He knew the other officers would grumble about her elevation, but he was also confident they would accept it, or at least pretend to. And the whole confrontation that had been brewing before was disarmed, the direct struggle between Calavius and his senior officers forgotten amid the stunning news that a disgraced Pleb had been placed in command of the fleet’s fighter wings.
Lille had hoped to divert the discussion, but even he was surprised at the extent of the Imperator’s actions. He’d come nearly to despair the prospects of his creature making intelligent choices, but now he saw a glimpse of the ability he’d recognized earlier in Calavius. Jovi Grachus was, by all accounts, an almost astonishingly gifted pilot, one whose skill had overcome the prejudices against her family history and gained her a large and loyal following, at least in the fighter wings. And there was no doubt that wherever she flew, not only her own squadron, but all the wings in the vicinity vastly overperformed. She was a weapon, one that could very well help end the destructive civil war before the Red Alliance forces were too degraded to invade the Confederation.
Which, after all, was the entire purpose of all of this.
* * *
Jovi Grachus sat on the edge of her crisply-made cot, staring at the small tablet in her hands. She’d read the orders three times—no, more like five—and they still said the same thing.
And she still couldn’t believe it.
Commander-Princeps. It was a rank she’d never imagined she could attain, and certainly not now, with her primary patron gone. She’d fully expected to spend the rest of her career as a squadron commander, and her only regret about that was it limited her chances to avenge her friend.
She put her hand up to her face, wiping away a tear. Kat had been gone for more than four years now, but the pain still felt fresh, every recollection of her old friend slicing into her like a blade. This promotion was another reminder of just how much she owed Kat…and it stoked her rage, her grim determination to make all those responsible for Kat’s death pay. She allowed herself a fleeting, almost sinister grin. Command of all the fleet’s fighters would certainly help in that goal.
She reached down to the cot, scooping up the small box that had come with the new orders. She popped it open and looked at the platinum insignia inside, the mark of her new rank. She took one look and snapped it shut again, setting it aside. She needed a few minutes to get used to the idea before she could even think about clipping the small bits of platinum to her collar.
The box had been laying on top of another tablet, one she had been looking at when the mail call arrived. Her eyes again caught the image it displayed, a small boy, about four years old, his golden hair long, in the fashion currently fashionable among Palatian Patricians.
Varus.
Her son.
Kat had arranged the match for her. Of course. How else would someone of my background pair with anyone but a gutter rat or criminal? The father of her son, Jarus of the Omegii, was vastly above Grachus in social status, an utterly unattainable mate by any normal standards. She’d genuinely liked Jarus, finding him to be pleasant and witty…and very easy on the eyes. He had been kind to her during their couplings, a good lover who didn’t let on to the slightest sign of disapproval at pairing with a mate so far beneath him. Grachus had known there was more at play than she could see, most likely the repayment of some grand old honor debt the Omegii owed the Rigellii. There was some hurt in that, twinges she felt from time to time wondering what had really gone through Jarus’s mind as he had worked off his family’s obligations in her bed, but such nonsense was beneath the dignity of a Palatian warrior, and she suppressed the thoughts ruthlessly when they appeared. She was grateful to Kat for the pairing, as she was for almost everything worthwhile in her life, and that was all that mattered. She wasn’t some weak-minded Pleb, riddled with senseless emotion and insecurities, sobbing in the night about a bunch of hair-pulling nonsense.
She loved her son, more even than she’d imagined possible, though the thought of him carried pain with it as well. For one thing, she’d never forget that, save for her pregnancy, she’d have been with Kat on Invictus. She realized she couldn’t have changed the outcome of the battle—at least most of the time she realized that—but in many ways, it felt wrong to have survived when Kat had died. She had the same impulse to live as anyone did, but in ways it also felt wrong, even disloyal, for her to be alive.
Survivor’s guilt was only one source of pain. There were others. There had been no arguing with either Jarus’s rugged good looks or his immaculate DNA sequencing, but she’d underestimated the pain of giving up her child so soon after his birth. Palatian law was clear that the offspring of any Citizen pairing were to be raised as members of the higher-ranked family. The courts were clogged with disputes between parents, each arguing that their own lineage was the greater, but in Grachus’s case there was no argument to be made. Jarus was a Patrician, among the Alliance’s elite, and she was the granddaughter of a disgraced traitor. For all she wished she could have her son with her, she’d never have done anything to cost him his birthright as a member of the Alliance’s highest rank.
Her face tightened, a wave of anger sweeping through her. The birthright he should have had. The Omegii were longtime allies of both the Rigellii and the Vennii, and the entire family, Jarus included, had declared for Vennius, abandoning their estates and defecting with their ships and fleets to rally to the traitor. The thought of friends of the Rigellii siding with Vennius enraged her. Vennius’s hands were as good as stained with Kat’s blood, and the noble Rigellii were reduced now almost to extinction by his foolishness—or worse, his treachery. Kat’s son and daughter, both underage, years even from the Ordeal, were all that remained of one of the Alliance’s great families. At least Vennius hadn’t been able to take them with him when he escaped. Kat’s children were safe on Palatia. Imperator Calavius had even had them escorted from the Rigellus estates to his own fortress in Victorum for their protection.
And my son is bound to a family now turned traitors.
It had been nearly a year since she’d seen Varus. Though Jarus had always remained cordial with her during her visits, the rest of the Omegii had made little effort to hide their disdain. She’d done her best to ignore it, but as the years began to pass, she’d resigned herself to the fact that her son’s future was best served by limited contact.
Until Jarus and the rest of the Omegii took him to follow a traitor.
Her son would be lost, his lineage tainted from both sides now. If he even survived the destruction of Vennius’s rebellion. Unless she could use this promotion, gain sufficient renown to reclaim Varus, and to beseech Imperator Calavius for a pardon for her young son, who’d had no say in the choices of the Omegii.
Now she had even more reason to fight. To avenge the past…and to save what remained of the future. She tore the Optiomagis rank markers from her collar and opened the box again. She picked out one of the new insignia, and she moved it into place. Then she put the second one on.
> She stood up, looking in the mirror, her eyes fixed on the small pieces of platinum that had, until moments before, seemed so unattainable.
I will do what must be done. I will lead our pilots to victory. And I will achieve all I must, for the Alliance, for Kat…and for my beloved Varus.
Chapter Seven
Free Trader Pegasus
Ibulan System
Deep in the Badlands
Year 311 AC
“Something’s not right. There are fuel traces all around the orbital track of that moon. Someone was there, and not long ago.” Andi Lafarge was sitting on Pegasus’s bridge, her eyes darting back and forth at the screens and scanners crowded all around.
“Those are faint readings, Andi. Maybe it’s something natural. Or even a small miscalibration of the scanners.” Vig Merrick turned around and looked at her across Pegasus’s cramped bridge.
“Well, is it a miscalibration? Maybe you should check the scanners before you write off a potential threat as a malfunction.” She was sorry for the tone, even as the words slipped out of her mouth. “I’m sorry, Vig. It’s not you. I’m just nervous.”
“No problem, Andi. I understand. Checking the scanner suite now.”
She knew Merrick was serious. He did understand. There were few people who knew her as well as her second-in-command, though, of course, no one really knew her. Not even him.
Her thoughts shifted, from her steadfast friend to someone else, the one person who had truly been a match for her in all things. Her parting with Tyler Barron had been an uncomfortable one. She’d fully intended to be the one who left, but she’d waited too long, and he’d raised the issue first. He’d said it delicately, shrouded in expressions of concerns for her safety—which she knew were sincere—but it still gnawed at her that she’d waited until he had sent her away.
She wasn’t the type to get distracted over such foolishness, but she’d found Barron difficult to forget. Perhaps forget was a strong word. She’d probably see him again, at least if he didn’t manage to get himself killed fighting in the Alliance. But she had no illusions about their futures. Tyler Barron would follow in his grandfather’s footsteps one day, leading the Confederation’s fleets…or he would die in this horrible war. Either way, there was no place for fantasies of hearth and home and happily ever afters. Barron was a fling, and a friend too. But she didn’t do “romance.”
Still, deep down she knew she’d driven this far into the Badlands as much for distraction as profit. Her habitual hunt for wealth was good cover, and she even fooled herself a little, at least sometimes. She hadn’t lost her drive to amass riches, and if she also pushed a certain Confederation officer out of her mind in the process, well, killing two birds with one stone wasn’t such a bad thing…
She took a deep breath, checking the scanners again. Her people had never been out this far, and she was having trouble shaking the eerie, haunted feeling of the place. Space travel so far from any ports or support was dangerous. Any malfunction a ship’s crew couldn’t handle was likely a death sentence, which was one reason most of the explorers and adventurers based out of Dannith and the other border ports tended to stay a bit closer in, within the range a damaged ship might at least hope to be found and rescued. Everybody had heard at least one story of a ship that had ventured out too far…and was never heard from again.
But Andromeda Lafarge had never been afraid to take calculated risks, and her ship had both double stores of replacement parts and Lex Righter. Her engineer had saved their asses more than once, and she’d come to have enormous faith in him, despite his occasional personal struggles. Righter had fought a long war with the bottle, one he seemed to be winning at long last. She was happy for him, and as much as she could have done without the added stress of his addictions, she knew full well that she’d never have had him on her small ship at all if she hadn’t found him face down in the gutter.
Still, for all her caution and careful preparation, she knew she was taking more risks than usual, not just for herself, but for her people as well. Getting away from Tyler Barron was her own affair, but the search for something significant—not just scraps of old tech, but an artifact that would make them all filthy, stinking rich—that was something for all of them. They’d come close before, and even the trinkets they’d discovered along the way had added up to enough to live on comfortably. But Lafarge hadn’t crawled out of the filthy slums of Hephaeseus to be comfortable. She intended to live like the Oligarchs of her homeworld, who resided in gold-plated luxury high above the misery of the masses. She would never allow herself to end up helpless again, whatever it took. No danger was too great in the pursuit of that goal.
She felt a wave of resentment as she thought of finding that big score. She’d already discovered the old tech that should have made her goal a reality. The planet-killer. Her people had gotten there first, but the maggot informant who’d sold her the information had also given it to Union spies. She’d fully intended to kill the bastard in payment, but in the end, she’d given him to Gary Holsten and Confederation Intelligence. She suspected her informant had encountered less gentle treatment than he might have liked at their hands…but it was a damned sight better than what he’d have endured if she’d kept him.
That’s all in the past. Leave it there.
She had new information, rumors of a major imperial ruin somewhere in this deep sector. This time she wasn’t relying on a single, untrustworthy informant. She had multiple sources of info, and if they were vague on an exact location, they all agreed on one thing. There was something out here, something major. Maybe in this system, maybe the next. Maybe three or four from here. But somewhere close.
“How’s that systems check going, Vig?” He tone was softer than it had been earlier. “We need to figure out if those fuel trails are real. We’re a long way from home, and if there’s someone else out here, we need to know.”
She took another breath, suddenly feeling very alone and exposed. “We need to know now.”
* * *
Gaston Villieneuve stood along the edge of the bridge, looking out over the battleship’s command crew. Banniere was one of the new ships, fresh out of the yard and bigger and stronger than anything the prewar Union fleet had possessed. It was desperately needed along the main battleline, as were any fresh forces, to counter the output from the Confederation’s shipyards, but Villieneuve had found a better use for his new vessel. The front line offered only stalemate and eventual defeat, a slow and steady loss of ground to the Confederation’s superior production. But what he’d found here could lead to victory.
He’d been silent, standing quietly and not interfering in Banniere’s operation, but he could see the tension in Captain Mies, the way her shoulders were hunched forward. His presence clearly unnerved her, though he had been nothing but proper and even downright pleasant since he’d come aboard weeks before.
Good…when they’re no longer afraid of Sector Nine, then we are truly lost. Villieneuve believed profoundly in the use of fear as a motivator, and he placed its effectiveness even above the other pillar of encouragement, greed. Sector Nine had mastered the art of causing fear…and, when called for, manipulating greed as well.
There was mercy of a sort in the intelligence agency’s fearsome reputation, in that it discouraged disobedience and treachery. What terror could accomplish, blades and electrodes and noxious drugs would not have to. Villieneuve had presided over a fifty percent reduction in executions and torture cases, not because he was unwilling to employ extreme sanctions, but because he’d mastered the use of preemptive fear the way an artist did his medium.
“Status, Captain?”
“Unchanged, sir. The entire system has been explored. No apparent installations on any other worlds or moons, and no signs of any vessels other than our own, either Confederation or other.”
“Very well. Maintain full alert status. I don’t want anything to interfere with what we’re doing here.” Then, with a coldness that hadn’t
been there before, “Like last time.” Mies wasn’t responsible for the debacle the Union forces had suffered at the hands of Tyler Barron and Dauntless, of course, but Villieneuve wanted to be clear he had no intention of tolerating a repeat of that sorry episode.
“Yes, sir.” Mies’s edginess was clear, despite the officer’s clear efforts to hide it. Villieneuve couldn’t fault the captain. A crucial mission deep in the haunted Badlands with the head of Sector Nine breathing down her neck. Any sane man or woman would be on edge.
Good.
“Proceed with operations.”
“Yes, sir. All work teams are on or ahead of schedule.”
Villieneuve nodded, more to himself than Banniere’s captain. He looked around the bridge, his eyes focusing for a few seconds on the main display. He detested leaving his comfortable office in the capital, and even more venturing into an abandoned wasteland like the Badlands. But the reports had been irresistible, just maybe another chance to alter the deteriorating trajectory of the war. Lille’s operation in the Alliance offered the potential to outflank and overwhelm the Confeds, but he wasn’t about to count on it until it was done, especially with Barron out there, apparently leading the Confederation expeditionary force. Meanwhile, if he could secure the old tech he needed, Alliance support would be extraneous. They would be next on the list.
He’d hesitated coming out this far himself, but only for a short time. There had been too many lost opportunities, mistakes that had cost chances of victory. He’d trusted subordinates to secure the planet-killer, only to see the astonishing superweapon destroyed by Captain Barron. This time, Villieneuve would see to the completion of the mission himself.
Commodore Barron, he reminded himself. The intel reports had been confirmed. Barron had been promoted and placed in command of the Confederation forces aiding the Gray Alliance faction. That makes him Ricard’s problem…