by Jay Allan
“I look forward to seeing you in action, Warder. As you know, this ship is named for your mother’s old command.” Tulus had become somewhat accustomed to Confederation behavior patterns, and he felt an instant’s hesitation at bringing up such a topic. But Palatians didn’t approach death the way their allies did, and with the sadness and loss, there was honor and pride. “I felt it only right that you should begin your service here…and, I must confess, I look forward to serving closely with you.” That was a lie. The idea of getting Kat Rigellus’s son killed in his first battle was horrifying to him. Perhaps he’d been around the Confeds for too long, but he’d lost the ability to see the death of so promising a young warrior as glorious or steeped with pride.
It cut against all he’d been raised to believe, but he sincerely hoped he would be able to keep the officer alive…and he longed to see if the young Rigellus would grow in ability and wisdom to match his famous mother.
If any of us live that long…
Chapter Eleven
Orbital Platform Killian
Planet Craydon, Calvus System
Year 320 AC
“What the hell happened to you?” Tyler Barron looked up in surprise as Clint Winters strode into the room, his boots snapping loudly on the metal floor. Winters’s shirt was rumpled, the front of his collar a mass of torn fibers, much like Barron’s own.
“I resigned…just like you did. I don’t know what you’re planning, but you can count me in.” Winters’s voice was raw, edgy. He’d had at least an hour to get a grip on himself since the council meeting—it had taken at least that long to get a shuttle back to Platform Killian—but he hadn’t cooled down much in that time.
Barron wasn’t sure how he felt about what Winters told him. He’d been wondering if he’d been right to do what he’d done, and he knew, on some level, he’d only found the strength to resign knowing Winters was there to take his place. Without either of them to command the fleets, there was no way to know what would happen next. The Confederation had never been in worse trouble, and for all Barron’s disputes with the council, there was no way he could abandon his spacers, not now. But he couldn’t let a pack of appointed bureaucrats control military decisions either, not when the future of the Rim was on the line, and their primary focus was on protecting their own miserable hides.
He’d never imagined Winters would resign, too. Though perhaps I should have...
What have I started?
“I wasn’t planning anything, Clint.” Barron was torn. He’d worn the rebel’s hat before, in a fashion, but at least then there had been some reasonable doubt about the legitimacy of the government he opposed. He didn’t care much for the rump Senate, or for the self-styled Council of the Grand Alliance, but there wasn’t much doubt they were the genuine authorities, at least the closest thing that still existed. “I just lost my temper.”
Winters looked back at Barron, his expression a cross between amusement and panic. “I figured you were planning some kind of move. After all, if we let those glorified paper pushers run the show, we’re as good as dead anyway…or Hegemony slaves, at least.”
Barron found himself nodding, a subconscious reaction to Winters’s words. His comrade was right, and he knew it. He’d always taken his oaths seriously, deadly so, but now he wondered. Was his duty to mindlessly follow orders? Or to save the Confederation…assuming he even could?
He’d never wished his grandfather could give him council more than he did then. He was uncertain, hesitating, his usual firmness and decisiveness eluding him.
The Confederation spacers would follow him, he was fairly sure of that, especially with Winters at his side. But, what about the others? He didn’t doubt Vian Tulus would line up behind his standard, whatever flag he raised. His blood brother would no doubt congratulate him on ‘clearing out the parasites and time wasters,’ or something to that effect. What about the rest? Denisov and his Union spacers were already in a precarious situation, and while he believed the Union admiral would join him, he wasn’t sure if his new ally had enough control over his own fleet to endure the chaos an outright mutiny would cause.
The contingents from the Far Rim were even greater wildcards. He’d been stunned at Sara Eaton’s success in bringing so many ships back with her, even uniting sworn enemies in the relief fleet that had saved the day a year before. But would those Far Rim potentates and petty dictators side with a rebel general as easily as they would with the Confederation government?
He turned back toward Winters, about to say something, though he wasn’t sure exactly what…but the hatch to the room opened suddenly, and Gary Holsten walked in. The head of Confederation Intelligence, and frequent manipulator of affairs, had a wide smile on his face.
“You did it, Ty.” He walked right up to Barron and slapped his hand against the officer’s shoulder.
“I did what?” Barron was completely confused.
“Your bluff—yours and Clint’s. You scared the shit out of them. They panicked after both of you left. It was a wild scene, and a considerable shouting match, at least for a while. But then Vian Tulus stood up and declared the Palatian’s would withdraw from the Grand Alliance unless you were in command of the fleet. They caved almost instantly. They issued a proclamation calling you both back to your posts…and granting you full authority on matters of strategy. The Grand Alliance council doesn’t have authority over Confederation policy, of course, but the rump Senate is voting on the measure right now. It’s just a formality. The Senators are as scared of losing the fleet as you are. I’m not sure whether it’s fear of facing the Hegemony without you, or of you rebelling and rallying the fleet behind you, but, either way, it worked. That was ballsy, guys, even by my standards. How did you work up the confidence to put it to them like that?”
Barron glanced over at Winters, and then back to Holsten. He felt a brief urge to play the role, to accept the congratulations on a bold and daring tactic…but he’d never lied to Holsten before, and he wasn’t going to start. “I got pissed off, Gary.” He paused and shook his head. “I’d like to claim some grand strategy, but I just lost my temper…and I figured Clint here could take my place. I had no idea he was going to follow my lead. And, while I can’t say I’m surprised at what Vian Tulus did, it wasn’t something we’d discussed.”
Holsten looked surprised, something very rare for the magnate and longtime spy. “I’ll be damned. I thought for sure it was a set up.” He laughed, a short, sudden burst of grim amusement. “We struggle endlessly to do what we can, but sometimes, despite our best efforts, things come down to dumb luck. If we manage to win this war, they’ll say the turning point was now. They’ll credit our strategy, the courage of our spacers, the mettle of our leaders.” He looked over at Winters and then back to Barron. “But there won’t be one history book that says, ‘things turned around when Tyler Barron lost his temper and stomped out of the room!’”
* * *
“Are you sure about this, Tyler?” Atara Travis was standing in the corridor outside the large conference room. Clint Winters was waiting inside, with Andrei Denisov, Vian Tulus, and all the commanders of the Far Rim contingents. It was a council of war, called because Tyler Barron had decided the time had come to plan the liberation of Megara.
Now, his closest comrade was putting him to one final test, a last chance to decide if the massive—and deadly dangerous—invasion was truly something on which he wanted to wager the future of the Rim.
“It will be costly, Atara, I know that. And dangerous. We could lose, perhaps we’re even more likely to lose than to win. But what chance do we have if we stay here? The analysis was bad enough before, but Sonya Eaton’s report only made it that much worse. Our defense last year held Craydon and the Iron Belt, and Clint’s raid on the enemy supply fleet bought us a year’s respite, maybe even another one if we stay put. What will happen after that? Will we win this war sitting here, hiding behind fortifications waiting for the enemy to attack? What if they don’t come righ
t at us? What if they ignore Craydon, and start invading the rest of the Confederation? How many worlds besides Craydon have defenses that can hold off even a moderate Hegemony attack? One, two? None?”
Travis was nodding in agreement. Barron wasn’t surprised she’d asked him if he was sure—she’d been his aide and sounding board in one way or another for almost fifteen years—but he considered it a sure bet she agreed with the strategy one hundred percent. Barron wasn’t one to yield the initiative if he could avoid it, but Travis was even more averse to anything that even seemed like backing down. She was the image of the polished and capable officer now, but he never forgot where she’d come from. She’d fought her way up from the streets and forced her way into the Academy, a relentless drive sustaining her, and a chip on her shoulder the size of a concrete block, and one that never let her yield.
“You are right, of course, Ty. I just want you to be sure. I will follow you into anything, you know that.”
“We can’t win sitting here, and we can’t let them build up their strength and hit us, or worse perhaps, launch a campaign to isolate us, to occupy more and more of our worlds. I don’t even know how we’d begin to defend against something like that. All our old defensive lines, the fortresses intended to ward off Union invasions, they’re all backwaters in this war. The enemy is already into the soft underbelly of the Confederation, and we don’t have the strength to defend in more than one or two places.” He paused. “Those are my tactical justifications, and I stand by them…but there’s more to it than that.”
Barron paused, but he didn’t alter his gaze. His eyes bored into hers, and he felt the certainty of his decision strengthening him. “We’ve been retreating this entire war, and now we’re sitting here, hiding behind fortresses. I’m tired of running, Atara. I’m tired of hiding, of yielding the initiative to the enemy. They’ve fought this war when and where they’ve wanted to, and we’ve done nothing but allow them to do just that.” Another pause, and when he continued, his voice was deep, his tone dark, almost possessed. “We’re through running. We’re through hiding. We’re taking the initiative now. We may lose. Every one of us may die…but by God, we’re going to do it on our own terms, and we’re going to fight a battle that at least offers us the chance of meaningful victory.”
Barron had been uneasy, uncertain, but now he was filled with resolve. He could almost feel his grandfather in the room with him, and he was sure the old man would have been with him completely. He was far from sure of success, and his dark view of the future remained, but he also felt as though a load had been lifted from him. He would do his best, his people would do theirs…and that was all anyone could offer. They would win or lose now, but there would be no more running, no more hiding.
He held his stare on Travis. “Let’s go, Atara. Let’s get this thing moving. It’s time to show the Hegemony just how we fight on the Rim.”
* * *
“How are we going to get word to Bryan Rogan?” Winters’s voice was tentative, and it was clear from his tone that he was far from sure the Marine general they’d left behind on Megara was still alive, or that any of his forces remained under arms over a year after the Hegemony invasion.
Andi Lafarge was standing outside the door. She’d been on her way in, but now, she paused and listened. She’d known about the war council, and she’d almost crashed the session from the start. She wasn’t bashful, not by any means, but she also realized none of her qualifications—smuggler, adventurer, hastily-commissioned captain, renowned killer of Ricard Lille, lover and companion to Tyler Barron—rated admittance to such a gathering. She’d probably have come anyway—she knew most of the major players herself—but she suspected the pompous fools from the Far Rim might take some offense. Barron was having enough trouble with those troublesome lordlings, and she hadn’t wanted to make it worse.
So, she’d floated around the vicinity of the conference room, and she’d headed there as soon as she saw that the meeting had broken up. As far as she could tell, only Clint Winters and Gary Holsten remained with Barron, and she knew neither of them would have a problem with her presence. But now, she held back.
“If Bryan’s still in the field…” There was little doubt in Barron’s tone that his words meant, ‘if Bryan is still alive.’ “…he will have a comm monitoring the priority channel, looking for any word from us. We’re going to have to send some kind of ship to Megara, and without satellite receivers to relay the signal, that ship’s going to have to get into orbit to transmit, or damned close to it.”
“The stealth generators?” Holsten’s voice, sounding far from confident. “Do we know how much progress the enemy has made on penetrating the stealth fields?”
Andi hadn’t heard anything specific about the Hegemony developing countermeasures to detect ships protected by the fields, but it made sense. They’d suffered a terrible setback from Winters’s raid, and there wasn’t much doubt coming up with some way to overcome the stealth systems would have been a top priority.” Especially since they didn’t realize the fleet only had a few of them left, and no real ability to build more, at least in the short term.
“It’s only been a little over a year, and they’ve been devoting a lot of resources to fortifying Megara and the other worlds they’ve taken. No doubt they’re working on it, but we’ve got a good chance they haven’t come up with anything yet. Or, at least, nothing perfect. A single ship, taking a roundabout course, and being damned careful, should have a good chance of getting through.”
“Especially a ship like Hermes.” Andi almost lunged through the door as she spoke. Barron looked up, surprised.
“Andi…no, that’s not what I…”
“You need a ship to get word through to the Marines on Megara…” She left out any doubt that there still were any Marines on Megara. She had the same concerns as everyone present, but certainty of any kind was in short supply. “…and there isn’t a ship in the fleet faster than Hermes. Better still, she’s already got a stealth unit installed, and it’s been well-tested.”
Barron looked back, and for an instant, a look of unrestrained horror replaced his cool, non-committal expression. “Andi, we haven’t even decided for certain to send anyone. We don’t have any reliable information on the status of the Marines on Megara.”
Andi felt a touch of amusement at Barron’s scrambling, but it quickly gave way to something more complex. She loved Tyler Barron, and she knew the amount of stress bearing down on him. The idea of sending her on such a dangerous mission—she knew how difficult it would be for him, and part of her wanted to back down, to spare him that pain. But she was who she was, and she knew she couldn’t change that. She wasn’t an admiral, she couldn’t command fleets. She wasn’t a scientist developing new weapons, or even a spy like Gary Holsten, gathering what information was available, and striving to hold the whole thing together. This war was everyone’s war, and she knew well the chance that Tyler Barron would die before the conflict was over. She had to do her part. Perhaps, even, if she could succeed, she could increase the odds of victory. Maybe even give Barron a better chance to survive.
And she wouldn’t back down on that, no matter what.
“Yet, you are planning to send someone anyway. Who is more qualified than me? Your Academy education didn’t teach you how to evade detection and capture from naval ships, did it? I was dodging navy cruisers with my hold full of old tech before I ever met you, my dear Admiral.” She paused, her eyes darting quickly around the table. “You know I’m the best choice for this job…all of you do. There isn’t much I can do to help in a fleet action, but I damned well can get this done. Whatever message you want to get to Bryan Rogan, I’ll see it delivered…whatever it takes!”
Chapter Twelve
Hegemony Supreme Headquarters
Megara, Olyus III
Year of Renewal 265 (320 AC)
“I believe we will be in a position to launch a renewed assault on the Confederation stronghold at planet Craydon in a
pproximately eight months, perhaps six if we cut corners. The convoy and reinforcements you advised me of will certainly accelerate our timetable. But…” Chronos hesitated. He had always been comfortable with Akella, and certainly now, with their pairing efforts underway, they were closer than ever, but he was still uncertain whether she would agree with his new strategic thinking.
“But?” She looked back at him, her expression professional, businesslike. Hegemony culture separated sexual liaisons, either for recreation or for reproductive purposes, from strong influence on personal feelings. Chronos knew Akella was an old friend, and a member of the Council who shared his views on many things, but he had no illusions that they were attempts to conceive a child would automatically compel her to endorse his desired change of plans.
“I have an alternate strategy, one I now regret we did not pursue earlier.”
“Please…enlighten me.”
“My original thought was for a lightning strike, a fast and direct blow at their capital. That effort was successful, from a purely military point of view, though it was clearly disappointing in terms of its effects on ending the war. Even with the Confederation Senate compelled to surrender to our forces, there has been very little effect on the enemy position at Craydon or, for that matter, on most of their other worlds. They remain intractably opposed to absorption into the Hegemony.”
“That does seem to be the case.” Akella paused. “I, as well as you, expected more gain from taking their capital. Clearly, we underestimated the Rim dwellers. In many ways, occupying Megara has just created extended logistics and a host of other problems.”
“Yes, we are of like mind. But perhaps we can find an answer in mathematics.”
Akella looked back, a confused expression on her face. “Mathematics?”