by Jay Allan
Appearing in full uniform was a rare gesture, and one with a very definite purpose…to remind the collaborationist politician sanding before him that he commanded several million Kriegeri, fierce warriors all, and each one of them ready to follow his every command without question. Even if that order was to gut Garrison like a fish destined for his dinner plate.
Ready? Most of them would be thrilled if I gave that order.
Chronos knew his warriors, most raised from birth for military careers, detested the craven Senators and other Confederation politicians who had crawled before them, and even assisted in the battle against the military forces—their own soldiers—fighting to defend Megara. All to save themselves, and to preserve whatever scraps of their power and privilege they could.
“Are you certain, Master Chronos, that the proclamations were delivered past the lines of the traitors still in arms at Craydon and other worlds, and to the people, who love and respect the Senate?” Garrison’s voice was a strange combination of fear and defiance, as if his gutlessness was struggling with his need to blame someone else for his own failures.
Chronos was as repelled by Garrison and the rest of the politician’s gutless colleagues as his soldiers were, probably more so, but practicality was his first order of business, and he was willing to exploit them if they could be useful. He’d bought them cheaply, surprisingly so, with simple promises of continued physical safety and comfort, plus some farcical pretenses of continued influence and power.
“I am quite certain, Senator, though I needn’t even consider such distant destinations as other systems. Your declarations have done little to quiet the residual resistance here on Megara, and on Ulion and other worlds occupied by our forces. Where we do not employ force of arms and violent sanctions, the people rise up and oppose us. It would appear you and your colleagues have been wholly unable to deliver on your promises. I wonder now, if I should repudiate the guarantees I provided you.”
The politician looked terrified, and a bit angry as well. Chronos found it amusing to watch a man, unworthy in every meaningful respect, and gutless as well, still feel residual anger at being treated as…well, as what he was, a traitor collaborating with an invader. Garrison had enjoyed many years of political power and prestige, and the man was no doubt accustomed to being pandered to and humored, despite the fact that he appeared to have served no useful purpose at all, at least none that Chronos could detect.
“Master Chronos, I…I am…”
“There is no need for argument or protestation, Senator. My word is my word, unlike, apparently, yours.” Chronos still wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t change his mind, but for the moment, he had no intention of allowing a grotesque caricature like the Senator to mar his own character. “It is my fault anyway, for buying something that proved to be useless. I will have to exercise more caution next time.”
The politician shuffled his feet and looked as though he was about to speak, but Chronos waved his arm. “No, Senator, no more. Leave me. Now.” His voice hardened. The sight of the politician—both a traitor to his own people and an utter failure at it to boot—was making him sick. He flashed a glance toward one of the Kriegeri standing along the far wall. The soldier moved forward, but the Senator took the hint first, and turned and walked quickly toward the door.
Chronos sighed softly, making an effort to keep it to himself. A Master, especially one as highly ranked as he was, had to maintain a certain image for those around him. He was intelligent, capable, superior in every measurable way from almost every other human being in known space…but he was also aware of his limitations. He’d expected a far quicker victory when he’d accepted the top command for the invasion, and he’d been humbled somewhat by the resistance his forces had met. The easy arrogance of his lofty genetic rating had faded somewhat, and a cautious respect for his adversaries and a deep and careful analysis of the realities of the war had replaced unfettered confidence.
The Confederation military had impressed him, and in spite of his growing frustration at the current stalemate, on one level, at least, he admired his counterparts in the enemy command structure…and the rank and file, as well, the men and women who had fought so relentlessly against his own superior forces. They were, in every respect, a worthy enemy.
Which only affirmed the need to make them part of the Hegemony. The vast polity he served was dedicated to the protection and preservation of humanity, and, above all, the prevention of another disaster like the Great Death. A population as large and as capable as that the fleet had found on the Rim simply had to be absorbed, at almost any cost.
His admiration for the enemy fleet and soldiers did not apply, however, to what he’d seen of the civilian leadership of the Confederation, at least on Megara. His condemnation was short of universal, of course. There were some politicians who’d left the capital, not to flee the planet, but to join up with the soldiers fighting against his invading forces. Ten percent, perhaps, at least at the Senate level. The others were divided into two groups, both of which he casually despised. The ones who’d fled before the invasion, left their places in the Senate and run like scared children…they were bad enough, gutless cowards who had run for their lives. But the ones who remained and sold their souls to him were even worse.
The Confederation and, based on far spottier reports, all of the other Rim nations, suffered from the same disease that had destroyed the empire. They were ruled, for the most part, by dishonest leaders, men and women far from the best their populations could provide, and corruption and self-dealing among this ruling class had become a weight, an increasingly heavy one, dragging down the society’s vitality. It had been the same in the old empire, with aristocrats and bureaucrats indulging in ever more outrageous privileges and spending less and less time addressing the needs of the imperial population. Finally, they were destroyed by their own creations, and over three terrible decades, hundreds of billions died in an unrestrained orgy of violence and destruction.
He understood how the Hegemony appeared alien in its ways, at least to those on the Rim, and yet, he believed, as he always had, in the profound logic behind it. The best and the brightest, the most capable—by measurable standards and not through mastery of political maneuver or possession of pointless credentials—making decisions, ruling over, and protecting, the multitudes. Ensuring the survival of the race, something that had come close to ending three centuries before.
He wasn’t sure how to deal with the politicians, especially those who clearly lacked the strength and intellect their positions required. Chronos was, almost always at least, a man of his word, but he’d had more than one thought about repudiating the promises he’d given the collaborationist Senators, at least once he’d gotten everything he could from them. Was his word given to such creatures really binding?
He suspected he might find out soon enough. He’d imagined controlling the—at least somewhat legitimate—Confederation government would be extremely useful in pacifying the armed forces in the field and gaining control of more planets without bloodshed. It had not been.
He’d been more hopeful months before, but despite the efforts he’d taken to see that the Senate’s proclamations reached dozens of Confederation planets, there had been little in the way of wholesale capitulation. A few worlds had obeyed the Senate orders and surrendered. Three, to be exact. The others had either ignored the commands to yield, or they were under the control of the Confederation military, which, to a man, it seemed, were united in their determination to fight the Hegemony to the end.
The war situation was bad enough, though given enough supplies and reinforcements, he was still confident he would be able to resume the offensive and complete the conquest, first of the Confederation, and then of the rest of the Rim. His forces retained technical superiority in most areas, save for a few specific areas, like small attack craft and the stealth technology the enemy had apparently used to destroy the Logistics Fleet. Even those were deteriorating assets for the Confeds. H
is escort craft had continued to develop systems and tactics to counter the enemy bombing strikes, with a sharp increase in casualty rates for the small craft and a corresponding reduction in the damage they inflicted on his battleships. The fighters were still dangerous, still a great advantage for the enemy, but less than they had been at the war’s outset.
The research teams had been working on the stealth technology as well, with an initial focus on detection methods. They hadn’t completely cracked the code, so to speak, but the next time the Confeds tried to sneak ships into the Olyus system, there was a good chance they were in for a nasty surprise.
No, it wasn’t the tactical situation that had his insides twisted into knots. It was time that troubled him most, and the realization that he had the bulk of the Hegemony’s military power tied down in a war approaching its fifth anniversary, and without a clear end in sight. It would be a year more, at least, before he’d built up his bases and supplies in Megara to support a renewed push forward, and even his most optimistic analysis suggested it would be several years more before the Confeds were totally defeated.
He’d never been totally convinced the Others were the threat the annals made them out to be…or that they would return at all. He wondered sometimes, even if they still existed.
But now, with the forces that had been built up over generations to face that very threat committed almost fifty transits and five hundred lightyears away from the capital, tied down in an entirely different conflict, he found himself worrying ever more about the mysterious enemy…the only force that had ever clearly outmatched the Hegemony.
He’d even considered reaching out, sending delegates to negotiate with the Confederation forces. There was no question in his mind there were Master level individuals directing the fleets fighting against his own, and not the slightest doubt that the Hegemony and the Rim would both be at grave risk if the Others returned. The Rim cultures called the end of the empire the Cataclysm, and they patted themselves on their backs for coming back from that dark age. But it had also become clear to Chronos that their histories knew very little of what had caused that nightmare of human history that the Hegemony had labeled, ‘The Great Death.’ If the Rim dwellers had any real knowledge of what had almost destroyed mankind, perhaps they would think differently about the Hegemony, and the basis for its existence and culture, instead of taking undeserved credit for the survival they owed almost entirely to the remoteness of their location.
No, he realized. There can be no negotiation, not now. War had a way of overtaking rationality and logic…and creating hatred in their places. The Confeds, many of them at least, had a natural aversion to yielding to an outside power, but now that stubbornness was reinforced, strengthened into an unbreakable wall by the rage and hatred of an enemy. Chronos believed utterly that his forces had come to help the Rim, to save them from themselves. They were already on the same course the empire had taken, and he knew where that led. But the Confeds saw only an enemy, one that had killed their people, invaded their worlds. They saw over a million of their Marines dead on Megara, and almost countless others on the worlds so far engulfed in war. Chronos respected his enemy, but he knew there could be no half measures. He had to break them utterly. Only then could they be rebuilt, and take their rightful places among the peoples of the Hegemony.
He would see that done, whatever it took. Akella had assured him she was with him, and the supreme leader of the Hegemony had concurred with his assessment that the Hegemony needed the population, resources, and dynamism of the Rim. She had promised reinforcements and supplies…and one other thing.
It had been in development for almost as long as Chronos could remember, and for many years, it had seemed little more than an endless hole, sucking in resources. But Akella’s last report had suggested its completion was close at hand. She had not promised to deploy it to the war front, but he suspected she would if it was needed.
And, it was likely, indeed, to be the force that broke the stalemate, and accelerated the conquest of the Rim.
Project Zed.
Chapter Three
1,600,000 Kilometers from CFS Tarsus
Sigma Vegaron System
Year 320 AC
“Die, you bastard…die.” Stanton Hayes was pulling back hard on his throttle, struggling a bit to clear the hulking freighter right in front of him. He’d almost come in too close, and he suspected if he’d been a second later pulling back—maybe even half a second—he’d have slammed into the target vessel. That wouldn’t have been a pretty sight, not at almost 0.01c.
At least it would have taken the freighter out…
Hayes had never had a particularly self-sacrificial attitude, as so many in the fighter corps seemed to possess, at least to some degree, but the desperation of the war had preyed on him as it had on all his comrades. Defeat was unthinkable…and yet, despite the previous year’s victory at Craydon, it seemed likely enough. Hayes wasn’t ready to throw his life away to take down a supply ship—especially not one he’d already hit with half a dozen cluster bombs—but he’d learned never to say never about anything. He’d lost too many friends, watched too many things he’d thought impossible happen. The Confederation’s capital had fallen, and it was still occupied by the enemy. As much as he knew that was a fact, on some level, he couldn’t quite accept it. Even more astonishing, the Senate had actually surrendered. That didn’t mean anything material, perhaps, not really. Save perhaps that all of them, from Admiral Barron on down, were renegades and rebels, at least to one perspective.
He brought his ship around and blasted his thrusters, setting up a return vector toward the fleet. That meant another run past the enemy escorts, and more of his people killed. The cost of war.
He stared at the screens, watching as his scanners updated. His people were raw, their flight skills rough. They’d paid the price for their inexperience in blood, but they’d taken their revenge on the supply ships. At least two dozen of the big vessels were critically damaged, and eight of those were dead in space. That was millions of tons of Hegemony supplies that wouldn’t make it to Megara. Not a battle won, perhaps, nor even the total destruction of the convoy, but still a small gain, one step closer toward the liberation of Megara…and to chasing the Hegemony out of the Rim.
He looked over his formations on the screen. ‘Formation’ was far from an accurate description of the chaotic cluster of dots, each one of them representing a single bomber. Squadron integrity was a thing of the past, and he doubted one in ten of his people was were the flight plan directed them to be. But they’d done their jobs. They’d cut up the convoy pretty well…even if they’d lost almost a fifth of their number in the process.
His eyes settled on one of the dots, and a quick flick of his fingers confirmed his initial thought. Doug Velet had made it, at least this far. He’d been worried about the rookie, more than worried. He’d expected the young pilot to die in the strike. He’d lost a lot of his people, but somehow the thought of one of the greenest making it back gave him something to grasp on to, a refuge from the pain.
There was just one problem. They weren’t back yet.
“Gray Wolf Nine, adjust your vector, zero seven two. Now.” Velet was heading back on a direct line toward the waiting fleet, but the Hegemony escorts were on the move, too, positioning themselves for one last chance to take down the fighters that had so badly damaged their supply ships. There was no reasonable course to avoid the onslaught, but the rookie was heading right into the middle of it.
Velet wasn’t the only one making that mistake.
“Attention all squadrons…adjust your courses to come around the starboard side of those enemy escorts. You may all think this fight is over, but no one’s back aboard yet…and those ships are still hunting us.” The brief euphoria he’d felt at the successful completion of the attack run was gone, replaced by the stress of combat. The flight plan had been designed to avoid the escorts on the way back, at least as much as possible, and Captain Eaton had m
oved the carriers accordingly. But the enemy had been quicker to adjust than expected. Hayes had read the accounts of the war’s early battles, he had even fought in a few that probably seemed ancient to his rookies. The Hegemony forces had adapted to facing fighters, improving with each passing battle…and now, it seemed, they’d become adept at guessing the squadron tactics they faced.
Hayes had hoped his people would slip back to the landing platforms with minimal casualties, but as he watched the enemy ships moving and did some quick calculations, he realized it was going to be a hard and bloody trip back. The butcher’s bill was still running.
“Full evasive maneuvers…all ships. We’re not back yet, and I want everyone focused.” There’s still time to die here…
He swung his throttle to the side, adjusting his own vector, trying to stay as far from the approaching escorts as possible. He wasn’t going to clear them entirely—whoever was commanding those ships was damned good—but he figured he could avoid the fire of all but the two on the starboard flank.
Maybe three…
“On me. All of you. Follow my maneuvers.” It wasn’t a textbook tactic, telling his people to copy his actions, but his gut told him it was the best way to get them past the enemy, and back to the landing bays.
His screen lit up, quick flashes indicating incoming enemy fire. It wasn’t close enough to be a problem. Yet. At least not for him.
His eyes darted to the side. Thirty or more of his people were heading directly into the primary enemy fire zone. Some of them, perhaps half, were following his orders—but too late—blasting their thrusters in a vain effort to try and follow his vector. The others were just moving blindly forward, into the maw of the enemy.
“On me…everybody. Full thrust, around the starboard end of the enemy line.” But he knew it was too late. Anybody following his orders now was as likely to streak along the front of the enemy line, right through the fire zone. He almost rescinded the command, but he stopped himself. Most of his people would still be better off trying to follow him. Perhaps a dozen and a half would not. He felt the urge to order those ships to push directly forward, and get through the enemy line as quickly as possible…but, he knew it was too late. He would only risk confusing the others. He mourned for those who were about to die, but he knew it was a numbers game. Snapping out orders, confusing his already raw and terrified pilots, would only make things worse.