The Grand Alliance

by Jay Allan

  He expected a wave of outraged challenges for his brusque manner, but the room was utterly silent. Even Levara sat, stone still, only a blank expression on her face. Barron had no doubt half of those present, at least, were imagining ways to put him in his place, or they would be when the shock wore off. But the display of unrestrained rage from so celebrated a warrior had unleashed a force even more powerful than pomposity and pride.

  Fear.

  “Listen to me, all of you.” Barron had come close to apologizing, but he couldn’t force the words out of his mouth. “We must act, and we must act today. Every day that passes reduces whatever chance we have of winning this conflict. It will take time to prepare. We will expedite, of course, but it will be impossible to move in less than three months…and certainly, no sooner than two.

  “Move? I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Admiral. What, exactly, are you proposing we do?” Barron had expected Levara to interject herself into the discussion again, but the voice was Dorsey’s. He flashed a glance down the table, and his eyes connected with the Confederation Senator for an instant. He wasn’t sure, but he guessed she had spoken in an effort to beat Levara to it. Whether that was because she truly wanted to hear what he intended, or if she was simply trying to keep Barron and the Sapphire Worlds representative from any further conflict, he didn’t know.

  “Yes, Chairman Dorsey. Move. As soon as the fleet can be prepared, and proper plans and logistics put into place, we must move out.”

  “Out?” This time, Levara was too quick to stop. “You mean send the fleet away from Craydon?” Her tone suggested Barron had just proposed leaping off a kilometer tall building or something equally insane. “That’s absurd.”

  Barron felt the anger welling up inside him again, and he tried to block it. But he’d come to despise the ambassador, and the best he could manage was to temper his reply.

  Slightly.

  “Ambassador, it is not only not absurd. It is essential.”

  “Admiral…if we allow the fleet to leave this system, Craydon will be defenseless.” It was Dorsey again, and despite the moderate tone she’d managed to maintain in the Council’s proceedings, Barron could tell she was also shocked by what he had said.

  “Chairman, Craydon is far from defenseless. The system’s fortresses, minefields, and laser platforms are all substantially stronger than they were during the first attack.” Which, Barron knew, was a very relative assessment. There wasn’t a facility in the system that was more than half-finished.

  “Yes, Admiral, but even the bolstered fortifications are far too weak to repel an enemy assault without the fleet. If you withdraw the ships…”

  “Who said anything about withdrawing the ships?” Barron felt his resolve hardening, even as another glance around the table told him there was no way he’d get a majority to approve his plan. “I can assure you all there will be no enemy attack on Craydon, not once the plan is underway.”

  “Then, with all due respect, what exactly are you proposing, Admiral?”

  “I am proposing, Chairman and Council members, that the fleet set out from Craydon and proceed to Megara…and once there, that we launch an all-out attack to retake the capital.”

  The room was silent for perhaps fifteen seconds. Then, it erupted.

  “That is preposterous?”

  “Inconceivable.”

  “Are you insane, Admiral?”

  Barron stood for a minute, allowing the diplomats to shout out their reactions. He ignored it all. There was probably something he cared about less than some Far Rim politician’s thoughts on military tactics, but at that moment, he couldn’t think of it. Vian Tulus would be with him, he was certain of that. Even if the Imperator hadn’t been his blood brother, no Palatian would be against taking the war to the enemy.

  Denisov had remained silent, but the look on his face suggested he, too, agreed. Two votes wouldn’t be nearly enough, of course, and even if Dorsey went his way, he could see the proposal was going to be voted down, at least after it was shouted down.

  There was no point even waiting for the vote.

  “There is no choice. What I demand…” There was no more use for words like ‘propose.’ “…is the only alternative that offers even a hope of victory.”

  “Admiral, if you attack Megara and lose, there will be no hope at all of holding Craydon.”

  “No, there will not be.” Barron looked at the Council member, a Confederation Senator named, Carruthers, his memory told him with reasonable certainty. “But, if we do nothing, there is no hope at all. We cannot catch the enemy in technology, nor outproduce them, at least not in the time we’ll have. If we stay here, we might buy another year or two, but when the Hegemony comes, they will come to finish things. Our best chance is to seize the initiative now.”

  “Our best chance? And, what might that chance be, Admiral?”

  Barron paused, but just for an instant. “One in three, I’d say.” It was a lie. He figured it was more like one in five. But that was still better than nothing.

  “One in three? That is absurd.” The room broke out in a wild debate again, if debate was the right word for screaming and yelling among a group of people, almost all of whom agreed with each other.

  Barron waited for a moment, and then he tried to outshout the Council members. But they were beyond convincing. It was fear more than anything, at least that’s what Barron believed, and his disgust became more than he could control. He thought, for a few seconds, about calling for Marines, disbanding the council and taking control, making himself what he’d always feared. A military dictator.

  He told himself he wasn’t sure the Marines would obey such an order, but he realized the true danger was that he was all too aware that they would, and that almost every Confederation naval officer would follow him. That left no restraint, save his own principles, and they were strained to the very edge.

  He might have done it, too, sacrificed all he believed in, save for one fact. He needed the entire fleet, all the contingents from all the member nations, if he was to have any chance of victory. If he’d just been dealing with his Confederation officers and spacers, he might have done something different that day, with unimaginable repercussions. That was a thought that would nag at him the rest of his days. But he knew he’d never get all the contingents to rise up with him in what they could only see as mutiny.

  There was only one more thing to do.

  He reached up to his collar and tightened his fingers around the four platinum stars there…and he tore them from the jacket. He looked down the table, and he tossed the insignia.

  “If you’re determined to lose this war, you can do it without me.” His voice was caustic. “I resign my commission.”

  He turned around, ignoring the shouts…and the pleas to stay and remain, to discuss the situation. The time for discussion was over. Tyler Barron would risk his life, and give it up if need be, to strike a blow for victory, but he’d be damned if he would fight and sweat and bleed to hold Craydon for an extra year or two, especially for a pack of pompous fools.

  To hell with them. To hell with them all…

  Chapter Ten

  AS Invictus

  Orbiting Craydon

  Calvus System

  Alliance Year 71 AC (320 AC)

  “We have to increase production levels, Cilian. Significantly.” Vian Tulus sat in his plush office off Invictus’s bridge, reviewing the latest reports from Palatia. The Alliance had never matched the Confederation, either in technology or industrial efficiency, but Tulus had made significant efforts to close that gap, even sending Confed production managers to review and improve procedures. That had been a moderate success, though many of the changes had been difficult for the Alliance upper classes to accept, especially those that allowed more independence and greater advancement for the millions of subjugated Pleb workers who manned Palatia’s factories. Such thoughts had come hard to Tulus as well, raised as he was in a culture dedicated to military might and still sc
arred by memories of a century of subjugation that were still slipping slowly from living memory.

  “The last two years have shown consecutive fourteen percent annual increases, your Supremacy. I acknowledge the current desperate need, but I’m not sure it is reasonable to expect much more so quickly.” Cilian Globus was the Alliance’s Commander Maximus, the highest military rank, save that of the Imperator himself.

  “There is truth to your analysis, my friend, save for one thing. Reason has little to do with the current situation. If the Hegemony prevails, if the Confederation falls, you know as well as I do, we will be next…and the rest of the Rim as well.” Tulus prided himself on his logic and realism, but it was still difficult for a Palatian warrior, no less one of his stature, to admit an inability to defeat an enemy.

  “Perhaps if you were to return to Palatia. Surely, the word of the Imperator will push even our factory workers to excel.”

  Tulus shook his head. “No, my friend. The fleet is here, in such strength and concentration as never before in our history. The battle is here. My place is to lead the warriors of Palatia.” He paused. “Besides, Cilian, we both know the plebs in the factories are not the same as our warrior classes, nor, to be frank, as interested in the words of the Imperator. They are the conquered, old friend, and it was hubris to allow ourselves to believe they have become accustomed to their servitude. I am a product of the Palatian warrior creed, as are you, but now I see that we made a terrible mistake in allowing pursuits such as engineering and manufacturing to be deemed dishonorable to our own people. The best of each generation has long gone on to military careers, leaving not just labor to the conquered, but also engineering and research. We are not ancient warriors carrying spears. Our technology and production are our strength as much as our courage. I fear we have developed a system with a fatal weakness. I can inspire our warriors with my words, no doubt, but there is likely little I can do to drive the workers in the factories.”

  Globus was silent for a short while, clearly considering what he’d heard. Tulus was sure of his conclusions, but he also knew much of it would be virtual heresy to most Palatians.

  “There is no doubt, your Supremacy, that the production of war materials is vitally important to fighting a modern conflict.” A pause. “And, I begin to see your point about the Plebs. Perhaps we should have offered them a way to rise from their positions through excellence in their work. That may indeed have been wiser…but we came from whence we did, and our past has forged our ways. We cannot go back and change the past…nor can we radically change our society. Not instantly. Not without inciting massive unrest among our warrior class.”

  Tulus stared at his friend. Globus had once been a Palatian firebrand, even as he himself had. Both of them had changed enormously, and despite the vestiges of old prejudices that still pulled at both of them, they had come to see, and agree, on which perceived strengths of Palatian culture were actually weaknesses. But they were two men, both of lofty rank with considerable freedom of action and thought…and it had taken them years. Following on that path would be harder for lower-ranked warriors. Globus was right. Any structural changes to Palatian culture would take years, probably decades to implement, whether it was modifying the opinions of the ruling class, or convincing the long-subjugated workers that promises of better futures were legitimate.

  Right now, you don’t have years. None of us on the Rim have years left, not unless we can win this war…

  He was sure he was correct, that the Palatians needed to change their ways…but, oddly, given that the time constraints removed that as a current possibility, he realized his best option was almost the exact opposite.

  If encouragement and rewards couldn’t push the workers to produce more quickly, perhaps fear would. But it had to be fear delivered from trusted hands, from someone Tulus could be sure wouldn’t get carried away, or worse, enjoy it.

  There was only one choice that met those criteria.

  “I cannot leave, old friend. The warriors would not take that well on the eve of battle. However, perhaps you can go in my stead, carry back my words. I know you wish to stay as well, but as much as your warrior’s heart craves to be in the coming fight, I believe you can better serve your people by returning home. When you return, you will issue proclamations, tie rations to increased productions goals, position soldiers in every production facility. Disciplined veterans who will not be easily provoked. If we are tied to the ways of our fathers and grandfathers, let us pursue them with a vigor even they could not have imagined.”

  Tulus couldn’t quite believe the words coming from his own mouth. He’d come to think of himself as an agent for change, as the Imperator who would lead his people from their grim warrior’s ways. Now, he was reversing everything he’d come to believe…but he knew he didn’t have any choice. The legions of plebs sweating in Palatian factories would see no improvement as slaves of the Hegemony. He would bring them the chance at a better future. But first, they had to win the war.

  And, he would do anything he had to do to gain that crucial victory.

  “Your Supremacy, I can’t…” Tulus could see the torment on Globus’s face. He understood how difficult it would be for his second in command to leave the fleet, to possibly miss the next battle, whenever it came. But he could see, also, that Globus understood, that he realized he needed to go. Because the Imperator ordered it, of course, but also because it was necessary, because no one lesser in rank and prestige could see it done.

  “Very well, your Supremacy. I will go. I will carry back your words. I understand the need to drive the workers, to push production to the highest possible levels. How much leeway do I have? What am I authorized to do?”

  Tulus stared at his friend, his eyes dead, cold, a signal he detested what they were about to do. But he spoke coolly and with utter certainty. “You may do whatever you think is necessary, Cilian. You have all my own authority.” He paused ominously. “Do whatever you have to do. There is no time now for restraint, or for mercy. There is only victory or defeat.”

  * * *

  “You look magnificent, my boy…no, no longer a boy, but a man. And the model of the Palatian warrior, from head to toe.” Tulus stood up from his desk as the young officer stepped inside his office. Warder Rigellus wore a spotless black uniform, meticulously pressed, as though a wrinkle wouldn’t dare interfere with its perfection. Warder was a sub-commander, newly graduated from the Academy, and without any combat experience. But he had one trait that set him apart from the thousands of other new warriors streaming to the battlezone.

  He was Katrine Rigellus’s son.

  Warder had been young, still a child, when his mother died commanding the first Invictus in its epic battle against Tyler Barron’s Dauntless. Tulus had been no more than a peer and casual acquaintance to the elder Rigelli, but he remembered Kat well nevertheless. Few who’d met her had walked away without a favorable impression, and in many ways, though he’d come to realize she had likely nursed her own doubts, as he did now, she had been the model Palatian. She’d even somehow escaped the blot that usually accompanied dying in defeat, and after a few mixed feelings circulated in the first years after her death, she’d transitioned into a tragic hero in the collective mind of her people.

  Tulus certainly respected her, and after fighting alongside the Confederation, and especially Tyler Barron, he’d come to understand just what she’d been up against. Palatian pride too often turned to Palatian arrogance, and her defeat in battle against Barron had likely done more to strengthen her people than any of her prior victories.

  “It is an honor, your Supremacy, to be granted an audience.” He nodded solemnly, and there was nothing but sincerity in his tone.

  Tulus returned the nod, and he walked across the room and extended his hand. Warder hesitated for an instant, and then reached out in surprise, grasping Tulus’s arm in the traditional Palatian handshake.

  “It is well called for, young Rigellus. Your scores at the Academy
were beyond outstanding. Your mother would have been proud beyond words to see you graduate first in your class.”

  Warder nodded again, holding his head bowed for several seconds. “Your Supremacy is far too kind. Simply being in your presence is an honor and a privilege.”

  Tulus wondered how much of Warder’s conduct was genuine humility, and how much careful self-control. It was certainly true that not every newly-graduated officer received an audience with the Imperator, but Walder was not just any rookie officer. His mother was a hero of the Alliance and, even at his young age, he was the patriarch of one of the oldest and proudest Palatian houses. Indeed, he and his sister, herself two years past the Ordeal and entering the Academy in the fall, were the only survivors of their noble family, the sole two still-living Rigelli. They were also the adopted wards of the last Imperator, the great Tarkus Vennius, who’d stepped in after their mother’s death to supervise their care and educations.

  An audience was the least Tulus could grant.

  There was more than just respect for a noble house at play, however. He may not have known the younger Rigelli very well, but he knew how close Tarkus Vennius, had been to Katrine, and to her children. Tulus felt he owed it to the man he’d replaced to continue to look out for them.

  He’d considered trying to get Warder posted somewhere away from the front lines, but fully ninety-five percent of the fleet was committed to the war effort, and Tulus had decided he couldn’t strip the boy of his honor in an effort to protect him. So, he’d done the next best thing, and seen that Warder was posted to the flagship. To Invictus, the namesake of his mother’s fateful last vessel.

  Invictus wasn’t a safe place to be—against the Hegemony, there was no such thing—but, at least he would be able to keep an eye on the young Rigelli, and perhaps protect him from the from the kind of unrestrained heroics that got so many officers killed in their first years of service.