by Jay Allan
Year 311 AC
Grachus pulled hard on the throttle, a sudden change in thrust angle brought on by intuition, or something else faster than conscious thought. This enemy was her old foe, it was Stockton. She was sure of it. His moves were similar, yet there was something different now. He was more…reckless? No, that wasn’t it, not exactly. He was certainly more driven. He’d come at her three times, blasting away on his turbos, firing relentlessly, like a man possessed. She knew this was a duel between them, that he, as she, saw the other as a threat to comrades and cause. But there was something more there now. Something new.
She watched as a series of laser blasts went by, less than ten meters away. Despite her focus and attention, Stockton had almost taken her down twice. She’d survived this last attack by a second’s reaction time. No, she thought to herself, far less than a second.
She told herself nothing had changed, but she knew something had. Stockton was flying like no pilot she’d ever seen before, almost entirely on intuition, on instinct, it seemed. His maneuvers were wild, unpredictable, even by her standards.
She switched off the safeties on her reactor, firing the power plant to dangerous overload levels. It was something she did once in a while if she had to get somewhere quickly, but she’d never done it in a dogfight. But Stockton had obviously pushed his own reactor into the redline, and that left her no choice.
The pressure slammed into her as she blasted to full thrust, over 12g now, making it a struggle even to breathe. She could pass out at this level, she knew that well enough, but if her enemy was enduring the pain and taking the risk, she was compelled to do the same. This was no opponent she could defeat at a disadvantage. Whatever Stockton had, she had to match.
She spun her fighter around and fired, her shots zipping by her enemy’s ship. It had been a sudden maneuver, well-executed. And it had almost succeeded. Her scanner showed the closest shots coming within meters of her target. A good effort…but not quite good enough.
Her stomach clenched, and she swung her arm around hard, a sudden move that almost surprised her as she did it. Then she saw the return shots, burning their way through the space her ship had just occupied. There weren’t many pilots who could come back from as close a call as she’d just sent her enemy’s way with nearly instant return fire, but clearly Stockton was one of the few who could.
Focus, she thought. Your instincts saved you there. Don’t underestimate this pilot…or whatever is driving him…
She knew what was driving him. Suddenly, it was obvious. She had killed someone important to him. She knew, because she recognized the symptoms. Her need for vengeance for Kat was no less powerful, but Stockton wasn’t the main target of that hatred. Tyler Barron was.
But you are the focus of his rage. He will come at you, with the same single-minded determination that drives you. He will do anything to destroy you…including die himself.
She felt a chill inside. All pilots fought to survive, though they risked their lives on every mission. But this was different. Stockton wasn’t just willing to take a risk…he didn’t care if he survived, not as long as he killed her. She understood, because the same thing consumed her. If she could kill Tyler Barron, avenge her dead friend, her own survival wouldn’t even be a consideration. She would die, gratefully, to destroy that most hated of enemies.
And Stockton will die to kill me…
Her enemy had grown far more dangerous. She’d known he could defeat her before, but now she began to truly fear him, what he’d become. What she’d made him. She wasn’t scared of death, not for its own sake, at least. But if Stockton defeated her, Kat would go unavenged.
She stared hard at her display, reaching down and turning the small dial farther, driving her reactor and engines beyond the highest overloads she’d ever risked. She couldn’t hold back. Not now.
This was a fight for her life, and it would take everything she had. She pulled back on the throttle, trying to ignore the ear-splitting whine from the power plant…and the ribs she could feel cracking in her chest as the g forces climbed…13…14…
* * *
“Commodore Barron…get that ship out of there now. You’ve done your part, held the line. I’ve got ten fresh squadrons heading your way to take over the holding action.” Tulus’s voice was loud over the comm, firm. But there was something there Barron hadn’t heard before. Was it respect?
“Commander, we can hold while you get your ships out of range.” Barron wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but he was neck deep in the battle and reluctant to pull back.
“Commodore…” Tulus paused. Barron suspected the Alliance officer had been about to say something along the lines of, “it’s an order,” but he stopped himself. “…be reasonable. Illustrious is already gone…and I can only imagine your fighter groups have suffered brutal losses. Pull them back and get out of there. You’ve done more than your share. And remember, you’ve got two more ships back at Sentinel-2. You’re Imperator Vennius’s conduit to the Confederation. We can’t lose you here.”
Barron was shocked at Tulus’s words. The Alliance officer had made little effort in the past to hide his disdain for either Barron or the Confederation’s aid. But Barron’s people had taken terrible losses and stayed in the fight, and from what he’d gathered of the Alliance mindset, there was little they respected more.
Barron glanced at the display, trying to keep track of the losses his squadrons had suffered. He’d already sent out his rescue boats…a dangerous thing to do in the middle of a battle. But he had nearly a dozen pilots who’d ditched, and he wasn’t about to leave them behind. His flight crews had finally gotten the last of the fighters launched…and that had equalized things in the dogfight. For a while. There were fresh waves of Red fighters coming on, at least a hundred, blasting at full, from wherever they were refueling. Dauntless had thirty-one ships still operational and in the fight, and that included the refugees from Illustrious that had found their way into her bays.
The approaching Reds were too far for detailed scans, but if there were bombers there, and they arrived just as Dauntless’s fighters were exhausting their fuel…
It had only taken five bombers to finish off Illustrious. Dauntless wasn’t as badly damaged as the larger vessel had been, and its squadrons, even depleted and exhausted, were far superior. But if forty or fifty bombers came its way…
“Very well, Commander. It will take me some time to recover my squadrons, but then we will pull back.” He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t argue that it made more tactical sense to match the enemy fighters with fighters.
“Hurry, Commodore. We don’t want those incoming waves to get there before you withdraw.”
“Understood, Commander. Barron out.” He still didn’t like it, but he knew Tulus was right…and also that the Alliance commander was in charge of the expedition, if not the allied Confederation forces directly.
“Commander Travis…issue recall orders. I want the recovery boats to pick up every pilot confirmed still alive, and then—and only then—the fighters are to break off.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s get Dauntless underway. The squadrons can catch us easily enough.” And if we don’t put some distance behind us, those incoming waves are going to hit us no matter what we do.
“Yes, Commodore. Plotting optimal withdrawal course now.”
“Proceed as soon as you are ready, Commander.” Barron turned and looked over at the main display. His eye caught one tiny speck of blue light, a single ship, far on the fringe of the overall formation, and heading deeper into the heart of the approaching mass of enemy fighters. He punched at the small keyboard on his workstation, pulling up the fighter’s ID. But he knew even before the screen displayed a small, “Blue Leader.”
Stockton…of course. Barron had watched in horror as Kyle Jamison’s ship had been destroyed. He was still hoping—against hope, perhaps—that his strike force commander had managed to eject, that he was floating around out the
re with a damaged transponder. He knew that was mostly a way to get through the fight without confronting the realization he dreaded. But now, he cursed himself for not immediately realizing that Jake Stockton would go after the enemy that had—likely—killed his friend.
“Atara, get me Commander Stockton. Now.”
He couldn’t afford to lose Jamison and Stockton, not in the same battle.
* * *
“That’s an order, Commander. Break off and return to Dauntless now.”
Stockton listened to Barron on the comm, gritting his teeth against the relentless g forces slamming into him as he continued the duel with his enemy.
“I can’t, sir,” he said, his voice low, raspy as he forced the words from his tortured lungs. “Have to take down this pilot…”
“Commander…there will be another place, another time. Break off now.”
Stockton shook his head, a pointless gesture on audio-only comm, and one he barely managed with the intense force shoving him down into his seat. He respected Commodore Barron, perhaps more than anyone he had ever known. He didn’t take disregarding orders from Barron lightly, but he had to avenge Jamison. He had to.
“Commander Stockton,” Barron roared on the comm, “listen to me. If you want to avenge Kyle Jamison, you will return to Dauntless now. Look at your screen. You’ve got dozens of enemy fighters approaching, and they’ll be on you before the Gray squadrons get there. Stay, and you’ll just end up dead…and the pilot who killed Kyle will be laughing as fifty enemy ships swarm all over you.”
Stockton could hear Barron’s words, and he understood the wisdom behind them…but the rage that had taken him gripped hard. He knew he would likely die if he stayed where he was, but that wasn’t reason enough to leave. Not if he could take the pilot who’d killed his friend with him. He craved revenge with an intensity he couldn’t resist, and he was ready to die to get it. But Barron’s words were haunting, and the reality in front of him was stark. If he didn’t win the duel in the next few minutes, he wouldn’t win at all. He would be surrounded and hunted down, and his enemy would escape.
Kyle Jamison would go unavenged.
No, I can win this now…
The thought was desperate, a way to justify staying, dying a noble death here and now. But that was the easy way out. He owed Kyle more than to throw his life away. He owed his friend the life of the Alliance flyer who’d killed him.
Even if that meant vengeance had to wait…
He fired a series of shots at his adversary, again coming close, but failing to hit. Even as he took the shots, he knew they were his last chance at immediate satisfaction. The waves of incoming fighters were on his short-range display now, over sixty heading directly toward his location.
His ship and the Alliance fighter were moving at sharp angles to each other now. It was a chance to break free of the combat, to head back to Dauntless.
To run…
He gripped the throttle, hesitating, but knowing what he had to do…and hating himself for it. His hand moved slowly, and then, with a last struggled gasp for breath, he slammed the controls to the side, blasting at full thrust and altering his vector away from his enemy.
Away from vengeance…
He fought back against the pain from the bruises, the agony of his dislocated shoulder—another effect of the massive g forces he had endured in the fight. He held his face stony, impassive, even as tears struggled to escape…tears for his lost friend, for his failure, for the coward he labeled himself.
I will avenge you, my friend…whatever it takes, however long…I swear it. I will destroy your killer.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sector Nine Headquarters
Liberte City
Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV
Year 62 (311 AC)
“Minister Lille, thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Lille looked up at Calavius. The Imperator he’d created sat at a relaxed angle, almost reclining in the throne he’d ordered built for himself.
At least he handled the furniture himself. Lille knew his own machinations had done more to put Calavius into the seat than anything the Palatian had managed to do on his own.
Still, I couldn’t have done it without him, without his connections.
“Of course. I am here to assist you any way possible.”
He’s being too polite. He must need something from me again.
Though, perhaps when you want something, there is a more politic way of sending for me than sending twenty warriors with orders to “fetch me.”
“What can I do to aid your great enterprise?” He avoided using a title again. He’d referred to his co-conspirator as “Calavius” when they’d first begun plotting, but that was a bit informal for a head of state, so Lille simply avoided calling the Imperator anything.
“I am concerned, Minister Ricard.” A pause. “No, that is not quite correct. I wish to take every precaution. Though victory seems within reach, it is often at such a stage that fatal errors occur.”
Lille was surprised. Calavius seemed like just the type to fall victim to hubris, and he’d been watching carefully, ready to intervene to prevent any self-inflicted disasters at this stage. Had the Imperator gained wisdom? Had he had some carefully hidden?
No, more likely he’s just scared of Vennius. The Gray Imperator was a vastly better soldier than his former friend and current rival. Tarkus Vennius would have been Ricard’s first choice without question, if there had been any way at all to control him. But Vennius was that rare creature, a true man of honor, and Lille’s plans had required a degree of moral flexibility.
“Caution is always advisable. There is cause for optimism, but always best to keep it guarded. How can I be of assistance?”
“I would like you to aid my people in something.” A pause. “Your Union…your Sector Nine. You have great experience in matters of surveillance…in policing loyalty.”
Ah…Mellus’s defection has you unnerved, even though her fleet was nearly destroyed and she was killed. You fear more such turncoats…
“Yes, Sector Nine is highly accomplished at ensuring the…” He almost said “obedience,” but decided to soften it a bit. “…support of the people. Any great nation must have the backing of its citizens. To allow the few, the disaffected, to jeopardize the interests of the state, is to invite disaster.” He felt almost as though his words were coming from some old memories of a Sector Nine training vid. Perhaps they are. Maintaining loyalty had never been his specialty in his years of service. He usually got involved after the fact, when such efforts had failed and removal had become necessary. But he figured he could help Calavius. These Alliance warriors are almost childlike in some ways. In matters of state, at least.
Lille looked around. He and Calavius were almost alone, save for a dozen guards posted around the room. It was the first time in a long time Lille had seen the Imperator without his officers and advisors gathered around, chattering at him. And feeding his visions of great personal importance.
Of course. Those officers and advisors are the ones he wants to watch. That’s why they’re not here.
“I would like you to work with Gennatus here. He is an admirable warrior, and beyond suspicion, but I’m afraid such matters exceed his expertise. He will supply reliable people, but I am counting on you to develop a prototype organization along the lines of your Sector Nine.”
Lille was amazed at how completely power corrupted people. He, himself, had always felt different than those around him. He was driven by success, and by a genuine love for killing, but not at all for the pure accumulation of power, certainly not in excess of what he needed to assure his own position and comfort. He had all he needed now in terms of position and wealth, and he was continually amazed at the risks people took seeking ever more political power, regardless of the risks involved. Calavius already sounded like a Union minister, shedding his Alliance honor and warrior ethics like a serpent’s skin.
It will make hi
m far easier to control…
Calavius gestured toward one of the guards, a man in the livery of a high-ranking officer. “Gennatus, you are to fully cooperate with Minister Lille, and provide him any resources he requires.”
“Yes, Your Supremacy.” The officer turned and nodded deeply toward Lille. “Minister, I look forward to working with you.” Gennatus was trying to sound respectful, but Lille didn’t buy it. He didn’t care, either. He’d be glad to get out of the Alliance once and for all, when his work was done.
“Commander Gennatus,” he said, making about as much effort to sound excited about the impending collaboration as the Alliance officer had.
Lille managed not to shake his head as he looked at Gennatus’s absurd uniform. It was very un-Alliance-like, even foppish. But one of an Imperator’s prerogatives was designing uniforms for his own guard. All of whom he drew from his estates, from his pool of longtime family retainers. That’s smart, but it may be a mistake to rely on them too much. Old, trusted friends and subordinates were the first ones Lille would seek to suborn if he was making a move against someone, and he had no doubt any other competent enemy would do the same. People would be surprised how often they can be bought. Often quite cheaply.
He was amused that lesson was lost on Calavius, the old friend of Vennius that Lille had selected to overthrow the Alliance government.
Lille paused, then he looked back at Calavius. “You must understand, an organization like Sector Nine cannot be built overnight. Sector Nine has millions of operatives, and hundreds of millions of paid informants…not to mention a history of effectiveness that accomplishes much of its work without any direct action. It will take…time…for Alliance culture to adapt.”
“I realize nothing worthwhile is built in a day, Minister. However, I would like to see progress as quickly as possible. I feel it is essential to state security, to ensuring we have no…unfortunate…situations that are disruptive to the successful conclusion of this war and the establishment of a strong and lasting government.”