by Jay Allan
Winters stared right at Barron, his eyes cold, intense. “We have to take Megara back, Tyler…and we have to do it sooner rather than later. In twenty-four months, it will be too late. It will be too strong, and the enemy too reinforced.”
Barron felt his stomach clench, and he struggled to hold back the feelings welling up inside him. The idea of going on the offensive was absurd, impossible, foolhardy. There was just no way they could pull it off.
But Winters was right. They had to do it, and they had to make it work.
Somehow.
* * *
Barron sat quietly at the end of the table, watching the assembled delegates prattling on pointlessly, each one who spoke seeming to somehow sound even more self-important than the one who’d come before. Barron detested gatherings like this one, but he was the acting commander-in-chief of the combined fleet—Admiral Nguyen still held the official assignment, pending further action—and that left him little choice but to sit where he was and endure.
The Grand Alliance. It was an impressive name, especially for a group of nations, most of which fielded a wild assortment of obsolete or battle-scarred ships. The Confederation fleet was a shadow of what it had been, no fewer than half its ships gone in the endless series of battles it had fought against the enemy. The Palatian forces had suffered almost as greatly, and for all the courage and honor of Vian Tulus’s warriors, their ships had never been a technological match for the Confederation’s vessels, much less the Hegemony’s.
The contingents from the rest of the Grand Alliance were worse. The Union forces under Admiral Denisov were essentially refugees, considered traitors back on Montmirail. They could expect no support, no supplies, no reinforcements. And, the wild assortment of vessels from the Far Rim were even more bizarre, many of them looking almost like museum displays to Barron’s sensibilities.
Those primitive hulks saved your ass during the battle last year…
Barron knew just how close the fleet had come to defeat in the fight to defend Craydon, and by what kind of razor-thin margin his people had managed to hold long enough for the Hegemony commander—for the first time in the war—to blink, to call off his attacking forces. There was no way to be sure what would have happened if the enemy had been prepared to fight it out to the end, but Barron had a pretty good idea. He still wondered why the Hegemony leadership had pulled back. For all his relief at finally gaining a victory, he was almost certain the enemy could have won the war right at Craydon, albeit at an almost unimaginable cost.
It was the first sign that the enemy could be deterred by losses, and Barron knew that was a vital bit of information, or that it would be at some point.
“It is essential that each national representative have veto power over any major decisions of this body, particularly on military matters.” Gisha Levara was the senior ambassador from the Sapphire Worlds, one of those nations from the Far Rim who’d sent their fleet of rustbuckets to answer the Confederation’s call for aid. Barron didn’t like thoughts like that about his allies. The Far Rim spacers had fought, and died, much the same as his own always had. But, the pomposity of the diplomatic missions from those tiny nations on the edge of human habitation almost defied his comprehension.
And Levara was the worst of the lot.
“The Enlightened One was quite clear on this matter, Chairman Dorsey.” Barron managed, somehow, to conceal the snort that tried to escape his lips at the mention of the absurd title of the Sapphire Worlds’ leader. He felt an instant of pride in his restraint, a pleasant, if fleeting, change from the general disgust in which he’d been wallowing.
“Your Excellency, we have discussed this a number of times…indeed, at great length. The Grand Alliance was formed to counter an enemy that endangers us all. As has been said many times before, the Confederation—and the Alliance—have lost by far the most spacers and ships, and it is Confederation worlds that have been occupied by the Hegemony. All members of the Grand Alliance are to be respected and their views are to be taken with grave seriousness. But it is simply not possible to fight this war if any member of this Council can interfere with military affairs alone and at any time.” Victoria Dorsey sat at the head of the table, owing her position to her status as one of the Confederation’s representatives, of course, but also to some skilled negotiating that had allowed her to slip past two more senior colleagues who’d stalemated each other with their mutual animosity. Barron usually wasn’t one to admire such political maneuverings, but he had to admit to himself, he was damned glad to have Dorsey in that seat rather than either of her two rivals. She seemed to have some sense, at least, even if she was a politician at heart.
He watched the proceedings continue, and he found himself resisting—barely—the urge to get up and leave the room. He’d heard warnings all his life about watching ‘the sausage being made,’ and apart from the fact that he disagreed vehemently with the way government typically functioned, there was little arguing it was unpleasant to see firsthand.
Barron had faced hardship and pain, lost friends and suffered in one terrible battle after another, but that wasn’t what threatened his strength the most, wore away at his ability to summon the endurance he needed to continue. He was disillusioned, and he’d begun to wonder just what he was fighting to preserve. He’d seen the Confederation’s government in action far too closely, and he’d even been the target of its machinations. There was corruption everywhere, and misuse of power was endemic. The Confederation was the only place on the Rim—and, it appeared now, anyplace mankind still existed—where any level of freedom existed, but now Barron was asking himself far too often, just how much truth there was to that easy and fortifying assumption.
What was he fighting for? Freedom? For whom? Certainly not the working classes on the Iron Belt worlds, virtual serfs effectively under the control of the great industrial families. The people? Barron had seen the workings of the Senate entirely too clearly the last few years. He’d watched law and ‘justice’ bartered and sold, seen politicians strive for personal power and little else. Was the ‘cause,’ his people fought for, the great reason they struggled and died, largely a lie?
He’d fought off the doubts, told himself the Confederation, for all its faults, was far better than the Union or the petty kingdoms on the Far Rim…not to mention the Hegemony and its rigid structure of genetic rankings. He wasn’t sure he wasn’t just lying to himself, but he’d managed to hold the line, maintain enough belief to drive him forward, to do what he had to do, and to endure the cost. But staring at the Supreme Council of the Grand Alliance, as they’d augustly named themselves in one of their first official actions, he found himself sorely tested. That didn’t even take into account the Provisional Senate, so designated to differentiate it from its counterpart on Megara which had already officially surrendered the Confederation to the Hegemony,
His eyes moved around the table, settling on Dorsey. The Senator had been absent from Megara when news first broke of the coming Hegemony assault, dealing with a family matter of some sort on her homeworld. That placed her a step above the other Senators—just over half that body’s numbers—who’d managed to stream away from the capital as the enemy approached. He saw through their myriad hastily concocted excuses, and detested them for their cowardice. But he’d checked and confirmed that Dorsey’s reason for being back on her homeworld was legitimate.
Though, how do those who fled rank next to the ones still on Megara…the ones who surrendered, and were even then, by all accounts, collaborating with the enemy?
Dorsey was his distant cousin, too, or so he’d confirmed after hearing where she’d shamelessly used the connection to him in her campaign for the chairmanship. He’d been doubtful, and angry too, but then he discovered they did, indeed, share a great grandfather. It was a tenuous and immaterial link, save for the prestige that surrounded the Barron name, which, of course, Dorsey didn’t share. His initial anger had faded quickly though, and he had decided he needed someone he could b
elieve in, someone he could work with. And, politician or not, Victoria Dorsey seemed like the best he could hope for.
There was something else, too. Sympathy? Empathy? He looked around the table, and for a moment he was grateful his place was in the battle line, facing death and battle…and not trying to deal with the laughable assortment of backwater lords and diplomats.
He’d never imagined the hell of war seeming like salvation, but at that moment, that’s exactly how he thought of it.
Chapter Five
CFS Tarsus
Osalon System
Year 320 AC
“Captain, my squadrons are severely understrength, no more than sixty percent…and that’s assuming I can get a dozen lightly wounded pilots out of sickbay and back in the cockpits in time.” Stanton Hayes spoke in a strained voice, his fatigue instantly apparent in his tone, his eyes, and even his hunched posture.
“Commander, I realize your people are tired, and that they have suffered heavy losses, but you understand the military situation as well as I do.” Sonya Eaton paused. She was tired, too, though she did her best to hide it, especially from the commander of her squadrons. She knew what he’d been through, on the strike missions…and on dealing with the aftermath. “The two convoys we’ve hit were both larger than intelligence reports indicated. The last one by nearly fifty percent. The enemy is getting far more supplies through than the high command projected, in spite of our raiding efforts. That means they’re building up their strength more quickly than we’ve imagined, that they’re fortifying Megara faster than expected.”
“I understand, Captain, but…” Hayes hesitated. Eaton imagined his rationality and his loyalty to his people were waging a war in his head. She knew her strike force commander was no fool, that he understood as well as she did the state of the war, and the developments that were likely to come next. But she was also fully aware of the kinds of losses his understrength squadrons would suffer in yet another raid.
It didn’t matter, though. The drones she’d sent through the Belton transit point had left no doubt. Yet another convoy had transited into that system, and was even then making its way across, toward the next jump. They would be in Osalon in a matter of hours, and if Eaton’s fleet didn’t launch an attack, another link in the Hegemony supply fleet would make it all the way to Megara unmolested. There simply wasn’t time to get any additional forces there.
“Captain…if the fleet could deploy a few battleships to the raiding operations, or even heavy cruisers.” The pilot looked around with a sour expression and waved his hand toward the walls and the ceiling of the dull gray space that passed for Tarsus’s conference room. “Something that could close with those enemy escorts and give them a fight. They’re almost entirely retrofitted with anti-fighter batteries, Captain. Anything with some real punch would make a huge difference, and cut our loss rates by a good chunk.”
Eaton didn’t answer right away. She didn’t think it would help to remind Hayes that, in the great calculus of the Confederation’s war effort, his people were more expendable than battleships, even than heavy cruisers.
Hell, that’s why we’ve got almost nothing but half-trained rookies out here.
As unprepared as the green pilots were for shipping raids, it paled in comparison to the slaughter that would result if they were thrown into action against Hegemony battle fleets. Jake Stockton had known just what he was doing when he funneled so many new pilots to anti-logistics operations. And, she was pretty sure he was painfully aware of how many of them were unlikely to return from their first assignments, despite his efforts to spare them from even more dangerous adversaries.
“Stanton, you know as well as I do what shape the fleet is in. They can’t spare cruisers, or even experienced pilots. If—when—the enemy hits Craydon again, Admiral Barron is going to need everything he has, and probably more. It’s hard, I know.” Her voice choked a little. The dead pilots haunting Hayes were her people, too. “But we have our orders…and our duty.”
Hayes didn’t answer. He just nodded.
“Now go, Stanton. I’m going to give the launch order in fifteen minutes, and you need to be there waiting for your pilots. We’ve got to hit this convoy as it comes through the transit point. With any luck, you’ll get a strike in before their escorts are fully in position. You can do some damage, and break off before they hurt you too badly.” She said it, but she wasn’t sure she believed it.
She wasn’t sure Hayes believed it either, but the officer stood up at something like attention, and snapped off a reasonable crisp salute.
“We’ll do our best for you, Captain.”
“I know you will, Commander.” Eaton stood up and nodded, and then she watched as Hayes walked out of the room and into the hallway beyond, wondering if he had any idea how deeply those two words had cut at her.
For you.
Yes, they are doing their duty, but they’re also going out there for you.
And, they’re dying for you, too.
* * *
Stanton Hayes pulled back on the throttle so hard, for an instant, he thought he’d broken it. His ship was swinging around in a tight arc, the slow overall velocity allowing far sharper vector changes than normal. His squadrons had been formed up in front of the point, almost at a dead stop, waiting for the Hegemony ships to transit through.
He’d sat in his cockpit for over an hour, nursing the tightness in his gut, hoping his squadrons wouldn’t find themselves facing an oncoming wall of escorts. Then, they came through. Freighters, one after another…and he gave the strike command.
His pilots, still green, but hardened somewhat by the missions they’d completed, hit the supply ships hard. Unfettered by the escorts Hayes knew would come through eventually, they’d savaged their targets, and in less than three minutes, four of the big ships were bleeding atmosphere and trailing great clouds of radiation behind their battered hulls.
“Second line, commence your run now!” Hayes stared out at the one-sided fight raging all around, and he managed something that had been in short supply for as long as he could remember. A smile.
He knew there were Hegemony spacers on those ships, that men and women were dying, many of them in agony, and on some level, he felt the slightest wave of sympathy. But he drove it away quickly, pushed it into the darkness, shoved hard by the faces of his own dead pilots. From what he’d heard of the Hegemony and its culture, he doubted many of those operating the enemy ships were there through any real choice of their own. But he just didn’t care. They were the enemy, and he would kill as many as he could. They weren’t defending their worlds, they were invading the Confederation, killing and enslaving its people. There was no room for empathy, not for the invaders. For them, he had only hatred…and he brought them only death.
He listened as the second group of squadron leaders confirmed, and he glanced down at his scanners watching the bombers move forward, creeping across the screen as their engines powered them up from almost zero velocity. He felt another touch of relief that his people had caught the enemy without their escorts. His ships would have been cut to ribbons if a line of cruisers and frigates had come through first. The tactic had been a gamble, if an educated one based on a review of previous Hegemony transits, but it was paying off.
He angled the throttle again, pushing his vector to align with that of his approaching squadrons. He’d advanced with the first line, but he hadn’t made his attack run. He still had six cluster bombs in his bays, and he’d be damned if any of his ships were going back with unexpended ordnance, his own included.
His eyes darted across the screen, pausing for an instant on each enemy contact. The temptation to go at one of the wounded vessels was strong, the lure of watching an enemy ship vaporized as his warheads detonated almost irresistible. But the damaged ships were virtual wrecks already, and the chance anything in their holds was still usable, even if the ships themselves were saved from total destruction, seemed nil. The mission wasn’t about the glory of
the kill, or even taking out enemy freighters. The primary goal, the only one that really mattered, was to cut down on the supplies reaching Megara, to do everything possible to cut off the Hegemony’s deepest advance into Confederation space.
That meant hitting a fresh target.
His eyes narrowed on just that, a blip emerging from the transit point. It was big.
Really big.
Hayes’s hands moved over his controls, and he fed the incoming data into the AI. The mass estimates began to steady, and close in on a final determination.
He froze as he saw the final number. Over six billion tons. He’d never seen a freighter that size. The ship was truly massive, a hulking monster that almost challenged him to pour bombs into its enormous hull. If he Hegemony had supply ships that size, why hadn’t he seen them before?
Then, the energy readings began to come in, and the AI identified the vessel’s class. Hayes suddenly felt cold.
No…please, no…
* * *
Sonya Eaton watched in horror as the image on her screen sharpened and came into focus. Her mind recoiled, and she struggled to accept the reality of what she was seeing. It’s a freighter, a very large one, it’s got to be…
The thought was soothing, but only for a few passing seconds. Then, the cold recognition set in. She was staring at a Hegemony battleship. One of the big one front line jobs. Even as she came to grips with what was rapidly becoming a foreboding new situation for her fleet, a second contact appeared, just as large and ominous as the first.