by Jay Allan
“Your Supremacy,” Lille said, the first time he had used the form of address. “With your permission, I would go to the communications center. We must prepare a response to this outrage.”
“Yes, yes,” Calavius roared. “Go. Do that. At least someone here is doing something.”
Lille nodded his head respectfully…and then he slipped out into the hall and headed toward the lift. He paused a moment, finally saying, “Deck thirty-one.” He watched the lights move downward, past deck nine, the comm center…and all the way to thirty-one, where his private shuttle was docked. Lille still held some hope that Calavius would prevail, but he had serious doubts now. And if things went badly, if the Union faced war with the Alliance, Villieneuve had to know as soon as possible.
Though Lille dreaded delivering that message…
He moved swiftly toward his ship. There was a guard there—evidently Calavius wanted to ensure his commitment. One guard? You needed more than that.
He moved up silently, behind his prey, pulling the carbon fiber blade from his leg-sheath and slicing through the guard’s throat in one swift motion.
Then he moved around, hopping over the body.
It was time to hedge his bets. Time to get out of there.
* * *
“We’re getting communications from multiple Red ships. They’re offering their allegiance, Your Supremacy. They’re requesting permission to join our formation.”
Vennius let out a deep exhale. He’d been waiting to see if his words had exerted their desired effect. He’d been pretty sure he’d get to some of Calavius’s people, or at least hopeful he would. After all, he’d been their commander, led them for years. Lies were infectious, and people were too willing to believe things they were told without asking for proof. He had provided proof, or at least something like it. The Imperatrix’s final recording was clear and convincing, at least to those who didn’t just assume it was a fabrication.
He’d suspected that he could undo some of the damage Calavius’s lies had done, at least. And it seemed that was happening. But the question remained. Would it be enough?
“Give all ship commanders requesting to join us my compliments.” A pause. “And request that they take position off the right flank of the fleet.” Vennius didn’t like distrusting those who appeared to be rallying to him. He was sincere about his offer of pardon, but he wasn’t about to fall for any trickery…not now. Not when the disastrous civil war was about to be decided. One way or another. It was best to keep his new converts segregated, at least until he could be sure of the sincerity of their submission.
“We have other ships moving off to the far flank as well, Your Supremacy. They are broadcasting declarations of neutrality.”
“Send all such ships messages that they are safe from us. As long as they do not power up weapons systems, we will not attack them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Vennius took a deep breath. He was a veteran of many battles, but now his stomach was twisted into knots. He could feel the sweat pouring down his neck, his back. The next moments would determine if he would survive, but it would also decide something far more important than that to him. The confusion in the fleets, the shifting of loyalties…what was happening now would set the destiny for the Alliance’s future. Either the nation he’d served his entire life would endure, or Calavius and his Union puppeteers would take control…and all he’d fought a lifetime to preserve would be lost.
“Fleet order, all ships. No one is to fire on any vessel that does not initiate hostilities. These are our comrades out there. They have been lied to, misled…and we now welcome them back, as loyal Palatians. Only those who continue to fight, who stand by the usurper knowing what he is, are our enemies.” His voice hardened, and he could feel his fists clenching as he sat there. “For them, there is no mercy. Any ship that fires on us is to be destroyed.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Victorum, Alliance Capital
Palatia, Astara II
Year 311 AC
“Keep firing, Walt…cover me while I reload.”
“I’ve got it, Corporal.”
Bryan Rogan was watching as his Marine—Tompkins—spoke to the man standing next to him, firing an assault rifle while he reloaded his autocannon. The heavy weapon was the lynchpin of the defense right there, the last stand before the mobs of Palatian warriors broke through and stormed the control center of the communications tower.
The man covering the gunner wasn’t a Marine, nor was he a Palatian stormtrooper. Anya Fritz had sent her people to back up the Marines while she stayed and singlehandedly kept the communications tower functioning. He’d been skeptical of the real impact thirty or so techs and engineers could have on the fight, but he shook his head as he watched the man in front of him—Billings, he thought his name was—gun down every trooper who tried to advance the instant the autocannon’s fire ceased.
He was impressed by Fritz too. He didn’t know how she’d managed to keep the communications nexus operating by herself, but somehow she had. Vennius had made his speech, sent his video files and other evidence out to every receiver in the system. Rogan had no idea what effect it would have, if Commodore Barron’s plan would work, but that wasn’t his concern. Somehow, despite the odds, his people had completed their mission. They’d held, long enough at least, and that filled him with a somber pride.
The realization that they had succeeded was bittersweet, of course. Even if they had won the war by holding, none of them would survive to see the fruits of victory. They were surrounded, outnumbered fifty to one. They were dead, all of them, except for the formalities.
He’d gotten signals from several of the other strongpoints which had fallen, but then the enemy jamming came closer, and once again he was cut off. The main comm tower that broadcasted Vennius’s words was impossible to jam, but his Marines’ portable units were hopelessly blanketed with static. He didn’t know if any of his other units were still fighting, or if the sixty or so Marines and stormtroopers he had left with him were all that remained of the invasion force.
It won’t matter in twenty minutes…it will all be over by then…
He heard the autocannon open up again, and his head snapped around, his eyes looking out over the scene. It was only then he noticed the blood red circle on Billings’ shirt. The engineer wasn’t only fighting alongside his Marines, he was doing it wounded, with so little notice of his injury that Rogan hadn’t even realized. He scolded himself for thinking so little of the fighting abilities of Fritz’s people. Walt Billings could fight at his side any day.
If there are any more days…
He took a few steps forward. The enemy was about to launch their final push. He could see it in their dispositions, the direction their fire was coming from, but mostly, he could feel it.
He pulled his rifle from his shoulder. The barrel was still warm. He’d been in the fight, at half a dozen vulnerable spots on his shrinking line, but this was where the final assault would come. And this is where he would meet it.
“Let’s stay focused, Mar…everyone.” He was used to leading only Marines, but in addition to his engineers turned makeshift soldiers, he still had perhaps twenty troopers in the line. He’d had trouble accepting the Palatians at first, but they had fought with all the ferocity of his Marines…and they faced the burden of killing their own people as they did it. He’d looked at them as enemies when they’d first landed, but now his attitude was a hopeless, contradictory jumble.
He knelt down, behind a chunk of half-shattered concrete, and pushed his rifle out in front of him. But then he heard it. Sounds, voices. Screaming…normal tones at first and then anger. Then the shooting started. Not among his people and their tattered line, but behind the enemy front, and out in the street.
The troopers facing his people were still there, but their fire on his position was diminishing gradually…and then it virtually stopped, replaced by the sounds of intense fighting outside.
Rogan exhaled
hard. He couldn’t believe it. It took him time to truly understand what was happening. The troopers outside, the warriors who had been about to wipe out the last of his command…they were fighting each other.
My God…it’s working. Commodore Barron’s plan is actually working…
He couldn’t believe it. He’d already respected Barron, but now he was beginning to believe all the legends, the foolish talk that he was the second coming of his grandfather, that he was destined to lead the Confederation to greatness. Rogan had never been one for such nonsense…but he’d never served a leader like Tyler Barron either.
Keep control of yourself…you’re not out of this yet. The fighting was taking the pressure off his people, but there was still some sporadic incoming fire. And he had no idea what was going on outside, if the newly pro-Vennius forces, enraged that they had been manipulated and lied to, would sweep away the Red loyalists…or if a few converts would be shortly overwhelmed and destroyed.
The battle wasn’t over, not by a longshot. But he had something new, something he’d lacked since the moment his force had launched.
Hope.
* * *
Grachus sat in her fighter, staring at the screen, at the confused mass of fighters, some continuing on their previous courses, others moving on their preexisting vectors, their thrusters powered down. Confusion was everywhere, and nowhere stronger than in her own cockpit.
Silent tears streamed down her cheeks as she slowly let herself realize the terrible error she had made. Kat’s death had crushed her, and in her grief, she’d sought some way to deal with the pain. She’d found that in vengeance, in an obsession to make those who’d killed her friend pay. That need had turned her against Vennius, convinced her that the then-Commander-Maximus had betrayed Kat. She’d found a twisted comfort in that, and her focus on revenge pulled her from the pain that was too hard to bear. But Vennius’s words now rang true…and those of the Imperatrix had left little room for doubt. Now, the agony of losing Kat was compounded with the realization of what she’d done.
Jarus had been right, and his family’s steadfast allegiance did them proud. But for her there was nothing save grief and shame. I have been so wrong, my actions so twisted. I allowed myself to become the tool of a traitor, of one who would destroy all we are…
She didn’t know how she could endure. She glanced down at her panels, her mind focused on the reactor controls. One overload, and all her pain would be over. She felt the sensation of movement, her hand drifting a few centimeters toward the board. But she stopped. Foolishness and pain did not justify cowardice. She was responsible for hundreds of pilots, many following her blindly, looking to her for leadership. Her own death would be a mercy, but how many of them, too, would fall if she left them behind, in a disorganized mass?
She had been a fool, and a traitor. She detested herself, but even in her state of mind, abandoning her command was unthinkable. She reached down, flipped on the comm.
“All Red fleet fighters, this is Commander Grachus. You have listened to the broadcast from Imperator Vennius, and the evidence he has supplied. You must all decide for yourselves what to make of it, what to believe. For me, there is naught now but regret, and shame for the choices I have made. Before all of you, I swear my allegiance to Imperator Vennius, and I denounce Calavius, the usurper, the liar. I believed propaganda, deliberate lies…to my everlasting shame. But what remains of the warrior inside me, what I retain of the shreds of my honor, leave me no choice. I urge all of you to follow me, to rally to Imperator Vennius.”
She shut down the comm, and she pitched forward, retching, almost vomiting right there in the cockpit. It was stress, tension, shame…the full realization of all that had happened. She didn’t know what would come next. Would her people follow her? Would they repudiate her, and remain loyal to the Red cause?
Or worse, will they split, will the next moments see the start of a fight between those I just led, squadron against squadron, pilot against pilot?
She watched, reminding herself to breathe, as she waited to see what her people did. She tapped her own throttle forward, toward Vennius’s formation…and as her eyes stayed fixed on the screen, she saw other fighters, hundreds, doing the same.
Some clusters remained, and in a few places combat broke out between scattered groups, but ultimately, it was clear. Better than eighty percent of her people were with her.
She looked at the long-range scanner, her eyes stopping on Dauntless. Tyler Barron and his ship had been the target of his revenge. For as long as she could remember, it seemed, she had hated him, ached to avenge her friend. She had refused to believe that Barron and his ship had beaten Kat without treachery of some kind. But now she saw that Barron and his people had accomplished nothing less staggering than the invasion of Palatia. Realization flooded into her mind, of the skill of this officer, of the fighting abilities of his people, and for the first time, she imagined her friend had been simply defeated…not betrayed, not deceived. It was painful, but it also stripped away a burden that had weighed on her so long she couldn’t remember what it was like to be free of it.
She would spend the rest of her life atoning for what she had done, there was no question in her mind about that. But, at least, she felt relief. She could see past the present strife, past the regret and mistakes…to the future. A future she suddenly realized would have been Kat’s fervent hope for her friend.
Goodbye, my sister. You will live in my heart forever.
The tears increased, a torrent washing down her face, the pain pouring out. She felt the burden lifting away, the dark shadow replaced by warm remembrance. The ghost driving her was gone.
* * *
Stockton stared at his screen, watching the astonishing spectacle unfolding in the system. His squadrons were decelerating, holding back, by Commodore Barron’s fleetwide order. The epic battle was paused. But not over…
He saw a group of battleships clustering together, the vessels that remained loyal to Calavius. For all the defectors, and the neutral ships moving to the edges of the battle area, there was still a powerful force. They no longer had numerical superiority, nor any kind of advantage now, save perhaps one. They were the desperate ones now, those who faced a stark choice: victory or death.
Stockton reached down and flipped on the comm unit. The enemy fighters were in total disarray, most of them moving off, signaling that they were rallying to Vennius. But Raptor’s eyes were on the battleships, now stripped of their fighter cover. Almost two dozen warships were still in the Red battleline.
“All Gray fighters,” he said into the comm, his voice cold, hard. “There are still battleships serving our enemy here. Form on me, all of you…it is time to finish this.” Stockton had no authority over the Confederation forces beyond Dauntless’s squadrons, and certainly not over the Gray Alliance ships…but as he blasted his engines and headed toward the enemy ships, he could see fighters following him all across the line. He was Raptor, the Confederation’s greatest ace, and now he was seeing just how far his reputation had spread. In small groups, then whole squadrons, entire wings, the Gray strike forces followed him, all of them.
“Interceptors, take out those remaining enemy fighters. Bomber groups…we’ll get you a clear run at the targets. Take them down!”
Stockton felt the fury take him. He wasn’t a man now, nor an officer. Not even a pilot. He was an executioner, plain and simple. And it was time to end this.
* * *
“The battle line will advance now. Right behind the squadrons.” Barron had listened to Stockton’s amazing speech. He’d known Dauntless’s top ace was a leader, but even he was stunned at the audacity of what Raptor had done…and more so that every squadron in the fleet appeared to be obeying him as though his urgings had been the word of God.
Stockton had violated a whole pile of regulations, of course, vastly exceeding his authority. But Barron sat there with a smile on his face, watching the whole thing unfold. He was proud of his officer
, and he knew Kyle Jamison would have been too.
“All battleships advancing, sir.”
The situation had changed dramatically. There was still a substantial force loyal to Calavius, but the odds had shifted. Victory was in reach, if it still promised to exact a high cost.
“Commodore, I have Imperator Vennius.”
“Sir,” Barron said into his headset.
“It appears the situation had improved, Commodore.”
“Yes, sir…it has.”
“Your pilot is to be commended. The strike force has no significant opposition…the attack against the remains of Calavius’s battleline is likely to be devastating.”
“If Commander Stockton has his way, you can bet it will be. I’ve ordered my ships to move forward. It is time to end this.”
“I agree, Commodore. I, too, have ordered all fleet units to advance.” His voice became lower, somber. “We may have found an unlikely route to victory, my friend, but hard and costly work remains ahead of us.”
“Yes, sir. Victory is rarely cheap.”
“It is not, Commodore. I find I crave peace, in a way I have never understood before…but what must be done must be done. Those who remain before us have chosen treason of their own free will. There can be no mercy, no quarter.”
Barron could hear the regret in Vennius’s voice, but there was hardness there too. He wasn’t sure if he would have come to the same conclusion, but he knew in the Alliance, his ally had no choice. If he allowed traitors to live, he would be perceived as weak…and he would lose much of what they had all fought to gain.