Cauldron of Fire (Blood on the Stars Book 5)

by Jay Allan

  “Gary…”

  “No. If you won’t listen to me, think of your duty. Not to the Senate or to the chain of command, but to your fleet, to the Confederation as a whole. If we invade, even if it’s doomed, we need someone in command who can make good decisions, who won’t mindlessly throw our forces away on hopeless attacks.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, but I can’t let you take all the…”

  “Risk? I’m not taking the risk you’ll be taking. My work is less pure than yours, Van. I do many things I’m not proud of. Do you know how many files I have on key Senators? How many dirty deals I’ve got documents on, how many illicit lovers and illegitimate children I know about? Not to mention how many of those reprobates are in debt to one of the Holsten companies…whether they know it or not. I’ve bought up every note owed by any Senator, and half the cabinet ministers too. Let’s see how pliable they are when loans get called and lawsuits are filed to collect.” He stared at Striker, a cold look in his eyes. “In battle, you are the warrior. You are ready to fight. In this type of combat, you’re naked and unarmed, a sheep led to slaughter. This is my battlefield, Van. You are going to be sent into the Union, no matter what we do, and probably before any ships sent to Barron return. You will face danger, you will have to use your wits to avoid disaster. That is your fight. This is my battle. Let me fight it.”

  Striker sat quietly, wrestling with his thoughts. Everything Holsten had said made perfect sense. He knew it was all true. But it still felt too much like abandoning an ally. A friend. Finally, he just nodded and rasped out a soft, “Okay.”

  “Good.” Holsten sighed. “I’d love to give enough to Barron to ensure a Gray victory, but we just don’t have the strength for that. If we don’t send any of the new construction at all up here, and you’re ordered to attack anyway, your people won’t stand a chance.”

  “We’ll send him a strong task force. There are two more of the new Repulse-class battleships launching at Vandellar, along with two older ships, just fully repaired and out of spacedock. I can spare those, and still assemble enough here at least to avoid disaster if we’re ordered to launch an offensive.” A pause. “And let’s hope Tyler Barron pulls another victory from the jaws of defeat. An invasion would have a lot better chance of success with his ships, and an expeditionary force from Vennius, attached to it.”

  “Very well. It is decided. We will send four more battleships to the Rim, and I will do everything possible to delay the orders for you to attack. And when those orders come—and they will come—you will move as slowly as you can, do everything possible to reduce losses.”

  Striker nodded, and then he said what he knew they were both thinking. “And we will pray that Tyler Barron manages to succeed out there. Somehow.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Imperator’s Palace

  Victorum, Alliance Capital City

  Palatia, Astara II

  Year 62 (311 AC)

  “I have summoned you all here for one reason: to make history. Today, we begin the final offensive. Today, we lay the cornerstone of a new Alliance, rededicated to the ideals of our founders, to the spirit that led the descendants of slaves to strike out and destroy their former oppressors. Too much has been lost over the decades, and now we shall reclaim it all in one glorious battle. At long last, we will launch another assault against the traitors’ stronghold at Sentinel-2.”

  Lille sat and listened to Calavius speak. He hadn’t considered the Imperator to be a gifted orator, but he had to admit, the fool had done a credible job. He wondered if Calavius spoke his own words or if he’d had someone write them for him.

  The assault Calavius was about to order was the end result of all Lille’s planning, the fruition of his plan to bring the Alliance into the war against the Confederation. Gaston Villieneuve, Lille’s superior and the closest thing he had to a friend, had approved the operation, though Lille knew the head of Sector Nine had harbored serious doubts. No doubt, Villieneuve had other stratagems in the works, ways to stave off inevitable defeat at the hands of the Confederation’s greater production. But success here, a new enemy slicing through the enemy’s weakest frontier, would almost ensure victory.

  “You are Palatian warriors, and I know that you will fight at Sentinel-2 with your customary zeal…no, with more, with unmatched ferocity. For this final battle shall win us the war. The future.”

  He definitely had someone write this for him…

  No mention of the two battles he lost at Sentinel-2. Or that the enemy in this case are also Palatian warriors, likely to fight like cornered animals.

  Lille was optimistic, at least as much as he ever allowed himself to be. But he was still cautious. Calavius had many advantages; numerical superiority, certainly, and the ability to choose the time and method of the attack. But Vennius would be defending, and his men and women would know they were fighting for their lives. They would resist to the death.

  Lille had cautiously suggested that Calavius offer an amnesty to the crews of any of Vennius’s ships that stood down in the battle. He knew it was wishful thinking, that few Palatians would choose a path they viewed as so dishonorable, but every ship he could save was that much more strength to attack the Confeds. A bloodbath in Sentinel-2, a Pyrrhic victory that destroyed the new Imperator’s fleet, would cut the legs out from Lille’s plan.

  “Step forward, Commander-Altum Battarus.” Calavius had been droning on the entire time Lille had drifted off into his own thoughts. But the mention of Battarus jerked the Union operative back to focus. The officer was difficult to handle, easily provoked, and a man he knew Calavius disliked. But Battarus was also powerful and influential. If Calavius picks a fight here…

  “I hereby relieve you of your rank of commander-altum.” Calavius’s words echoed slightly in the large, and now silent, chamber.

  Lille tensed up. If Battarus rebels, declares for Vennius…

  “This battle will set the course of history for centuries to come, and the tactical command of our forces cannot be trusted to simply a fleet commander, one among equals. Though I shall accompany the grand fleet as Imperator, you, Kellus Battarus, shall exercise the tactical command. The rank of Commander-Magnus has been stained by treason, and has remained vacant until this moment. I trust you will wash it clean with your own honor and the victory I have no doubt awaits us. Rise Commander-Magnus Battarus. Come forward now, swear your allegiance once again, and accept this rank as the highest of our commanders, and the leader of our military.”

  Lille watched, surprised again at Calavius’s ability to occasionally pull tactical brilliance out of his bag that seemed mostly filled with foolishness and egotism. Calavius didn’t like Battarus, that Lille knew for sure, nor did he really trust the man. For that matter, Lille didn’t either. But there was more at stake here, and the new Commander Magnus brought many advantages with him. He was a capable commander, one with a strong history of victory, and he was universally respected in the military, something Calavius couldn’t claim for himself. Lille had even considered Battarus as the prime mover in his plan, but he’d been uncertain the officer would prove to be corrupt enough to go for it.

  “I thank you, Your Supremacy. I am honored…and somewhat stunned.” He stepped forward, toward Calavius’s massive chair. “I accept, with all my heart, and I swear to uphold the principles of the Alliance, and to defend it with the last of my strength.” He knelt down in the proper form, holding still as Calavius reached out and put his hand on the officer’s head.

  Lille watched, suspecting Battarus hadn’t given Calavius exactly what he’d wanted. The officer’s words were correct, the proper form for an Alliance warrior accepting a promotion to the highest levels, but Lille was pretty sure Calavius had been hoping for a more personal oath of loyalty.

  He’s boxed himself in now. He can’t come out and demand it, nor can he go back on his decision.

  “Rise, Commander-Magnus.” Calavius stood himself, and he extended his arms out t
oward the gathered warriors. “I give you all Commander-Magnus Battarus.”

  The assembled warriors cheered—a bit too loudly, Lille suspected. His eyes were on Calavius, on the subtleties in the Imperator’s expression. They were details most warriors would miss, but a trained Sector Nine operative did not. Calavius resented every cheer. He had done what he felt he had to do…but Lille could see he didn’t like it.

  He didn’t like it one bit.

  * * *

  Jovi Grachus sat on her cot, looking through a small box. It contained trinkets from her youth, mostly. There was a small tablet, full of photos taken on the Rigellus estate, dozens of images of her with Kat Rigellus, from the time they were babies to the day Grachus had left for flight school.

  It was odd, looking at her life that way, remembrances of so much that was gone. Old staff members from the estate. Scallus, the cook, who’d seemed ancient to her then but had lasted another twenty years, even outliving Kat. Wargus, the gamekeeper, who’d taken a liking to her, and showed her remote sections of the estate few had seen. Even Kat had never known about those trips.

  By any reasonable measurement, her life was better now. She had achieved rank beyond the loftiest she’d ever dreamed, her family’s sins washed away by the stroke of the Imperator’s pen. She even had her own estate now, granted by imperial decree. It was small, nothing like the staggering vastness of the Rigellus lands, but it was hers, and that was something she’d never thought possible. She hadn’t seen it, and in her gut, she knew there was a good chance she never would, but it was something, at least, to leave to her child. Assuming he isn’t destroyed along with his father’s family…

  Still, she found herself longing for much that was gone. Her friend, of course, but also those long past days, the cool lakes and streams of the inland sections of the estate, and the rocky coastline farther east. Nights when she and Kat snuck out and went exploring, finding their way in the dark, guided only by moonlight. Her life then had been troubled, at least on paper, but in reality, there had been happiness, simple joy.

  Grachus had always been fearless. Now, she wondered if that courage came as much from having so little to lose, even to live for. It was a feeling that had only increased with Kat’s death. Now, she found she wanted to live, to see the lands she’d been granted, to stand before the Imperator and petition for her son to become hers again, removed legally from the disgrace of his father’s family and their support of the pretender.

  Part of her wanted to give up the obsessive hunt. After all, no vengeance would return her friend to her. But that wasn’t possible. She was who she was, and she owed her lost companion something greater than returning to her newly-gained estate. She had to have her vengeance, still the restless demon inside, before she could go on. Before she could live a real life.

  She flipped through the small pile of old items, each with its own memories attached, but even as she drifted back, the present called to her. She was determined to finish things…but she was scared too. This Confederation pilot, Stockton…he was her equal, a match for her in battle. She knew the next time they met—at Sentinel-2, no doubt—they would finish their business. Either she would defeat him, and lead her squadrons against Dauntless to complete her vengeance, or she would lose. She would die.

  Either way, it will soon be over.

  She found that thought a relief, despite the uncertainty at its core. She had been hunting for so long, and now she was exhausted. She wanted victory, revenge. But mostly, she needed the whole thing to end. She needed rest, quiet…even if that quiet was the icy silence of death.

  * * *

  “I am displeased, Minister Lille.”

  “Displeased? I do not understand. Things appear to be moving well to fruition. Preparations for the final offensive continue on schedule. Soon, you will be the uncontested leader of the Alliance.” Lille was rarely caught by surprise, but Calavius’s words were unexpected.

  “It is not the military preparations that concern me, nor the expected results of the campaign—though I would caution you, Minister, about your choice of words. I am already the uncontested ruler of the Alliance. You will exercise care before you accord legitimacy to a traitor and a rebel.”

  “I will do so in the future. I meant no disrespect.” Lille didn’t like the resentment in Calavius’s tone. And he noticed the use of the word “ruler,” a designation no Alliance Imperator had ever claimed. “If I may ask, then, with what are you displeased?”

  “I am displeased with you, Minister.” Calavius glared at him.

  “May I ask why?” Lille suppressed his anger. You’d still be following Vennius around, groping in the darkness of his shadow but for me.

  “I asked you to complete a task for me, and to my knowledge it has not been done. I trusted you to create an internal security agency for me, one patterned after your own Sector Nine. Yet, here we are, and nothing has been done.”

  “That is not true. Much has been done.” Lille paused, amazed for about the thousandth time how naïve the Alliance warriors could be about espionage and statecraft. “Sector Nine itself arose over a period of years, decades even, from the partisan groups that founded the Union. And it took even longer for it to develop into its current form. Such things require care, the creation of training and monitoring programs, the imposition of systems for surveillance and counter-surveillance.” He paused, unsure how much he wanted to say. “You would not want me to rush such things. The last thing you want is an organization like Sector Nine that you do not completely control.” Or that I do not control…

  “I understand your caution, Minister, but surely you are aware that time is quite sensitive. The prospect of imminent battle holds my officers together, but once the pretender is destroyed…” Calavius paused. “I seek to create a better Alliance, one with stronger leadership. There will no doubt be…resistance. We must be ready to deal with it.”

  Lille’s anger subsided, and now he found himself fighting to hold back a smile. What an eager totalitarian you’ve created…

  “I understand your concerns, and I agree with them. But if you rush this project, you will create a danger greater than that posed by any of your commanders. I will expedite things, but I strongly urge caution. We will get there, and when we do you will have a highly efficient organization answerable only to you.” And me.

  “What you say makes sense, but I am still concerned about rooting out any resistance after Vennius is destroyed.”

  Lille nodded. “Here is my suggestion. I will expedite things as much as I can and still provide reasonable assurances that the agency remains controllable. For your part, make a list, perhaps of the four or five highest ranking officers about whom you are concerned. Any serious trouble is likely to come from them, and a small group will be easier to keep under surveillance. Then, as we further develop the agency, we can add more names, expand the range of operations.”

  Calavius’s face had lost its angry expression. He looked down at Lille and said, “Yes, Minister. Let us proceed as you suggest.” He paused, and Lille could see there was something else. “However, I must insist that you have at least some of the agency in operation before the fleet departs.” Another pause. “There is one job that cannot wait.”

  Lille suddenly understood, and the source of Calavius’s earlier tension became clear.

  “I would like a team to keep Commander Battarus under constant surveillance, Minister.” There was another pause, an ominous one this time. “And I would like to ensure that he does not return from the glorious victory.” He stared right at Lille. “Do you think you can arrange that for me, Minister?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Fortress Sentinel-2

  Orbiting Planet Varena, Cilian System

  Year 62 (311 AC)

  “You didn’t have to come, you know. The orders were addressed to me, not you.” Stockton sat in the shuttle, waiting for the doors to open. “And since you’re here, you should put on your launch control hat right now…it�
��s taking these fools far too long to get this shuttle secured. I know they’re not combat pilots, but do you enforce any standards at all in the shuttle corps?” His words were coarse, not at all the way he liked to speak to Stara Sinclair. He knew that as they left his mouth. He was angry with himself for treating her badly, for making her suffer for things that had nothing to do with her. But that self-hatred would have to wait, to take its place behind the rage and anger and loathing he felt for himself. For failing to get there in time, failing to save Kyle Jamison.

  He knew part of his acting out was an attempt to drive Stara away, at least a subconscious one. He loved her, he was certain about that, but neither did he doubt that all he would bring her in the end was sorrow and pain. He’d lost pilots before, friends. But Kyle Jamison’s death had him focused on the true nature of what he did. Pilots died, and the grim career survival statistics in wartime highlighted just how dark a picture it was. They existed to die, to sacrifice themselves to save the massive battleships and their crews.

  His ego had always resisted the notion that he would be killed in combat one day, despite the odds, despite the fact that Dauntless had been in some of the toughest spots again and again. He’d recognized the possibility of course, but now he realized he’d never truly believed it. Jamison’s death had changed all that. This enemy pilot, the one who had taken his friend, had stolen his casual confidence. He might very well lose the matchup he knew was coming, but that wasn’t going to stop him from hunting down Jamison’s killer…no matter what anyone did or said to stop him. He would avenge his friend, or he would die in the attempt. There was no other option, none he could accept.

  “We lost our best shuttle pilots to combat training. The fleet is trying to replace losses anyway they can, so all we’ve got now are rookies.” Sinclair’s voice was tight, controlled. She was clearly suppressing her own fiery temper, holding back the anger she would normally have thrown at Stockton for speaking to her as he had.