by Jay Allan
“Captain! We’ve got…”
“I see them, Commander.” A cold feeling moved through her body. “Issue recall orders to the strike force. Now!” She glanced down at her side, realizing her hands were clenched tightly into fists.
“Yes, Captain.”
Eaton nodded, and then she looked at the main display, and at the range figures. She had a good idea of just how much thrust Hegemony battleships could generate, and her mind was halfway to calculating how long she had to get her fleet out of there, when the AI beat her to it and the numbers flashed onto her workstation screen.
Eighteen minutes, with some margin of safety. Twenty-four if she wanted to risk it.
And, ‘risking it’ meant putting every one of her ships in desperate danger.
Eaton had commanded one of the Confederation’s battleships in the major engagements of the war. She knew, from up close and personal experience, exactly what those deadly behemoths could do in battle…and she imagined just how quickly their massive weapons would blast the tin cans she called escort carriers to dust. Her eight converted freighters were almost unarmed, and even the light frigates were useless against Hegemony capital ships. Not one of her vessels would get into firing range, not before all sixteen of them were reduced to rapidly cooling clouds of plasma.
Part of her knew she should issue the withdrawal order immediately. But she just couldn’t leave her pilots behind to die. Not without giving them a chance to get back.
“Get me Commander Hayes.” She snapped out the order, but even as she did, she realized the futility. There were officers who needed close direction, but Stanton Hayes wasn’t one of them. She’d already given the order to the squadrons to return to base, and that was all her strike force commander needed. He’d have his people on the way back as quickly as possible.
But would it be fast enough? Perhaps she could push, squeeze a minute or two from the schedule.
“Commander Hayes on your line, Captain.”
“Stanton…you know why I’m calling.”
“We got the recall. We’re on the way back, Captain. We don’t have much counter velocity to overcome, which is a help, but I still don’t think we can make it back in time. You may have to leave us, Captain. Maybe you should bug out now. You can’t lose the carriers…and you’ve got to report this to fleet command.’”
“To hell with that!” Eaton roared out her response with a determined assurance that surprised even her. Somewhere, her rational mind knew she couldn’t allow her carriers to be caught and destroyed, not even if escape meant leaving every pilot behind to die, Hayes included. But, at that moment, the thought of abandoning her strike force was inconceivable. “Just get those birds back, Stanton. I don’t care if you burn every reactor to slag…get those ships here as quickly as you can!
“Yes, Captain.” She couldn’t tell from Stanton’s tone if he believed his people had any chance, but he sounded more hopeful than he had a few seconds before. And that was better than nothing.
She turned and looked back at the screen as a third and fourth enemy battleship took shape.
Come on, Stanton…I know you can do it…
But she didn’t know. She was only sure of one thing. Hayes was right. She had to get word back to Tyler Barron. The Hegemony wasn’t just bringing supplies to Megara.
They had heavy reinforcements moving forward, as well.
Chapter Six
Orbital Platform Killian
Planet Craydon, Calvus System
Year 320 AC
Tyler Barron lay on his back, his eyes wide open, focused on the ceiling above. The light in the room was dim, just the bathroom fixture he’d left on—or Andi had, he wasn’t sure—reflecting off the stark white walls of the room he’d assigned himself as quarters on Platform Killian.
He’d tried to avoid taking a cabin on the station, preferring to spend as much time as possible in his quarters Dauntless. The battleship wasn’t his Dauntless, of course. His beloved vessel had been gone for years now, lost in the fight against the Union, the war before the war, at least in terms of his focus on the present struggle. She’d died heroically, and her replacement had served well, doing the memory and name of her famous predecessor good service. Barron had come to accept the newer ship, to an extent, even develop some affection toward it, but he knew it would never be the same. For one thing, she was never really his. Atara Travis commanded the new Dauntless, a position she richly deserved and executed flawlessly. Barron was just an admiral flying his flag there.
“Still can’t sleep?” It was only half question, and, considering how wide awake Andi sounded, one with some irony to it as well.
Barron had let himself think she was asleep, but now he wondered how long she’d just been lying there next to him, eyes wide open, probably hoping he was getting some rest.
“No…and I can see I’m not the only one.” He felt the urge, for about the thousandth time, to suggest that Andi leave the Calvus system, go somewhere safe. But he held silent, for the same reasons he had for over a year.
First, he doubted she would ever go again and leave him. He knew her well enough to be damned close to certain of that, and while her devotion touched him deeply, he still wished she could be far from the horror of the war.
Second, there was no place safe. If the Confederation lost the war, the rest of the Rim would fall quickly and certainly…and any refuge, any planet out on the far fringe, as hidden as possible from the nightmare of war, would soon enough be conquered and occupied, as assuredly as Megara already was.
But it was the third reason that truly held him back. It was simple, and also complex, born of his conflicting feelings for her. He loved Andi Lafarge, and he wanted to protect her, he wanted that with all his being. But she was a veteran in her own right, of combat, of adventure, of struggles as dire as any he had endured. He gave her his affection because he loved her…but his respect came because she had earned it. He just couldn’t bring himself to try to guilt her into running away, as he had done once before. It wouldn’t be right…and he had some idea of what it would do to her if he somehow managed to succeed, to heap enough guilt and pressure on her to drive her away.
How she would feel in that kind of reluctant exile, getting news of his death.
“I don’t need much sleep. Never have.” That was true, he knew, to an extent at least. Andi had always been able to operate on just a few hours sleep. But he was guessing she hadn’t had those three or four hours that usually sufficed for her in the last five or six days combined, much less on any given night.
“I tell myself that, too…but we both need some sleep.”
She didn’t answer, at least not beyond something that sounded like a playful snort, half executed and half stillborn. If Andi Lafarge was capable of voluntarily showing weakness to anyone, it would be Tyler Barron. But he knew it was still difficult for her, even with him, and he wasn’t about to push. His empathy was heartfelt, and based solidly in reality. He was exactly the same…and she had always respected his needs in that way. He could do no less for her.
“What is it, Ty? I know something is getting to you…I mean more than usual. The Council? The factory accidents and the demonstrations on the surface? Tension between the contingents?”
“Yes.” It was a simple response, and the only accurate one he could give. His mind was consumed with every issue she had just listed, and a number of others, too. His new job, still provisional as it was, carried a lot of extra responsibilities with it, obligations having more to do with fencing with politicians than developing battle tactics to fight the enemy.
To a warrior who’d been to hell and back more than once, that was the truest essence of a nightmare.
“You’ll handle it all just fine, Ty.” She managed to force a thin smile. “I mean, you’ll hate every minute of it, especially dealing with the Council, I suspect…but, you’ll get it all done. I have no doubt you will, and neither should you.”
Barron just nodded. Andi�
�s words were the best she could offer, the best anyone could have just then, but he knew there was some performance in what she said, even mild hypocrisy. He’d seen her agonize over things before, been on the other side of the very same exchange, assuring her she could do whatever she had to do. He knew she believed in him, and that she only wanted to support him any way she could…but he was also plagued by self-doubt, by real concern he wouldn’t be able to complete the task he’d inherited. That despite his best efforts and all the sacrifice of his people, the Confederation was still likely to lose the war.
He was going to respond, to thank her for her words, or something similar. But then he just leaned over and kissed her on the side of her face. He pulled her closer and held on tightly for a few seconds. He’d have stayed there longer, savoring the warmth of her next to him, but he had work to do.
He always had work to do.
This time, there was something else, too. Barron was tormented by all the things Andi had listed, as he’d been for months…but there was another shadow stalking him. A thought, a conclusion, one still forming, one he’d been resisting for weeks, with dwindling success.
It was born of his analysis, his tactical and strategic ability. The more he’d tried to discredit it, the more sense it made. He knew, somehow, in the deepest part of him, it was what had to be done. There was just one problem.
It terrified him.
Still, he knew he couldn’t argue against it anymore, not even with himself. And he suspected Clint Winters would be with him, that his number two had very likely come to the same conclusion already, and probably kept it to himself for reasons similar to Barron’s.
They weren’t going to win the war standing on the defensive, waiting for the enemy to make the next move. That was a losing strategy, and Barron was more certain of it with each passing day.
They had to seize the initiative.
They had to invade, bring the war to the enemy.
They had to take back Megara.
* * *
“Now, Samson, you surprise me. I thought we’d become friends as well as co-workers after spending so much time together.” Andi Lafarge looked right at Samson Davidoff, and while her tone had been entirely pleasant, the industrialist was clearly tense. She’d enjoyed tormenting the arrogant ass, ever since the day she’d first arrived on Craydon, sent there by Tyler Barron before the Battle of Megara. She knew Barron’s purpose had been to keep her safe, as safe, at least, as anyone could be with the Confederation teetering on the edge of ruin, but she’d taken the job he’d given her—to get Craydon’s factories working at full speed to produce war materials—seriously.
She’d been aggressive when she first arrived, figuring a little fear of physical violence might help overcome the entrenched privilege of one of Craydon’s wealthiest industrialists. She’d continued because it still seemed to motivate Davidoff and his colleagues more than anything else she’d tried.
And also, because she enjoyed it.
“Captain Lafarge, the situation on the planet is rapidly getting out of control. Civil unrest has become a major problem, especially among the factory workers. If you wish us to meet the quotas you have placed on us, we’re going to need the military’s help. Soon.”
Andi Lafarge didn’t like Davidoff. He was everything she detested, and her own younger years growing up in abject poverty on the streets of an Iron Belt world far worse than Craydon, had hardly predisposed her to kindly relations with industrial world oligarchs. Still, perhaps it was nothing more than familiarity, but she’d found that Davidoff had grown on her. She didn’t like him, and she doubted she ever would, but she’d learned to tolerate him.
Now, however, she felt a flush of anger. She knew what the magnate wanted. He wanted her to get Tyler Barron to send Marines into the streets of Craydon, and onto the factory floors. She knew the growing dissension was beginning to affect production, and that it wouldn’t be long before it started to seriously hamper the war effort, something that would put Barron and his spacers at even greater risk. But she knew something of the working conditions and pay levels in Davidoff’s factories, as well, and she suspected there was ample cause for the unrest, and perhaps some ways to address it short of putting the sweating laborers under the guns of Confederation Marines. Her father had been a factory worker, by all accounts, until he’d been tossed out in some dispute with a supervisor, and ultimately killed himself…leaving her mother, pregnant with her, to wander the streets and survive the best she could.
Andi knew she’d probably do what Davidoff wanted if she ran out of alternatives, but it wouldn’t be easy for her—and she knew it would be torturous for Tyler to issue the orders. Before she went down that road, she was going to be damned sure Davidoff had exhausted every other option. And, that included throwing some money around, and investing in improving safety and working conditions. She’d use threats of violence in the factories to save the Confederation, and to give Barron the ships and materiel he needed in the war, but she’d be damned if she was going to do it to save Davidoff’s already obscene profit margins.
“I suggest you try some pay raises, Samson, and at least some pretense at trying to improve conditions. I realize it might crimp your profits a bit, and perhaps encourage some bad habits, at least from your perspective. But your nation is fighting for its life, and the spacers and Marines doing that fighting are dying out there, in part to keep your factories, your factories, and not the war booty of the Hegemony. If the lawns on the Davidoff estate have to go down to weekly mowings, to support the effort, I don’t think it will stop Craydon’s rotation, do you?”
“Captain Lafarge, you do not understand the intricacies of an operation like the Davidoff…”
“No, Samson, perhaps I don’t. But I know I will do everything I can think of before I will send Marines to further intimidate your workforce…and that includes offering your bloated carcass to them in exchange for staying at their jobs. I’m not entirely sure they’d rip you into bloody chunks, but I have noticed that you rarely visit the factory floors, and when you do, you always have a large contingent of guards.”
She looked right at the man, trying to stifle the amusement she felt as she watched a giant bead of sweat slip slowly down his forehead. “Do you think those guards will be able to protect you from me, Samson?”
Davidoff looked back at her, unable to hide the fear. Andi’s battle against Ricard Lille had been the most difficult struggle of her life, and she’d tried to forget it as much as possible. Which, unsurprisingly, wasn’t much.
But that particular nightmare had its upside, for one thing, intimidating the shit out of pompous fools like the one standing in front of her. She still remembered the expression on Davidoff’s face when he’d first found out just what she’d done.
He looked a lot like he does now…
“Very well, Captain.” Davidoff’s voice was a little shaky, but he was holding it together better than she’d expected. I guess I’ve toughened him up a little. “I will do what I can…but if my colleagues and I are to keep our factories operating at this pace much longer, it’s going to take all of that and the guns of your Marines to keep things going.”
Andi didn’t respond, partly because it wasn’t necessary…and partly because she realized Davidoff was right. The workers had been on twelve-hour shifts, even sixteen hours, for more than a year, and with the rise in workplace accidents, the situation had become ripe for all manner of organizers and rabble rousers on the factory floors. She’d even contributed, inadvertently, by refusing to allow Davidoff and the other magnates to bring in their own security to remove the troublemakers.
It’s going to be even worse if you do end up sending Marines in there and start arresting people. When the first Craydon worker dies under a Marine’s gunfire…
She’d deal with that when she had to, but there was no point in worrying about it now. If she stayed on Davidoff, made sure he followed through, just maybe she could postpone the escalation she knew w
ould eventually come.
“Go, Samson. See to all of this as soon as possible.” She paused for a few seconds, and then added, “I don’t want to have to come find you if you don’t, and…listen to me carefully…” She stared at him with eyes as cold as space. “…you don’t want that either. Do we understand each other?”
Chapter Seven
CFS Tarsus
Osalon System
Year 320 AC
“Captain!”
Bart Tarleton was a calm and controlled officer, not at all prone to outbursts, but he hadn’t been able to restrain his tension any longer. His tone wasn’t disrespectful, but there was no mistaking the urgency in his voice.
“I know, Commander, I know.” Eaton had nothing else to say. She’d already sent most of her fleet toward the transit point, but she’d kept Tarsus in position, waiting for the last of her deployed squadrons to return and land. It was foolish, perhaps, and certainly a violation of just about every regulation in the book, but she just couldn’t run and leave the pilots to their deaths.
At least not until the absolute last second. Which was rapidly approaching—or already past—depending on just how close you wanted to cut it.
She was relying on confidence, in herself and her crew, a belief that she’d somehow get her flagship through the point before the Hegemony battleships closed to firing range. She’d seen assumptions like that succeed in the battles she’d fought, struggles with Tyler Barron or her sister in command, but this was the first time she’d faced so desperate a situation with no one but herself issuing the orders. Her calculations were based in reality—theoretically at least, she did have time to make good her escape—but the whole thing relied on an ever-increasing sequence of things working just right. Her course had to be spot on, her crew at the top of their game, and perhaps most concerning, the cantankerous old freighter she called a carrier had to perform impeccably. In her career, she’d dealt with mechanical issues, reactor slowdowns, engine malfunctions from numerous causes and of varying severity. Any one of those, and a dozen other issues, even if quickly repaired, would condemn Tarsus and her crew to certain death.