by Jay Allan
“Yes. The enemy has fortified Craydon, and they have made it the center of their defense. It is one of their most productive worlds, and well-located, too. They can send relief to six other systems in their so-called ‘Iron Belt,’ with less than a three-day transit time.” Chronos reached down and picked up a large tablet displaying a long-range star map. “ Attacking them there is charging right at their greatest strength. There are advantages to that, of course, and a complete victory there would almost certainly lead to a swift ending of the war.”
“But you do not want to invade Craydon again?”
“No, I no longer believe that is our best alternative. Such an assault would, as I noted, could certainly end the war…but the cost of the victory, against the enemy’s massed fleet, the planet’s partially-rebuilt fortifications, and, worst of all perhaps, thousands and thousands of the small attack craft, would be enormous. We would trade materiel and lives for time, for a chance to end the war in one stroke. But such thinking also led us to Megara. Perhaps we are wrong, perhaps they will not fight to the end at Craydon. What if they withdraw, move their fleet to another Iron Belt system? They would be weakened, certainly, but our chance for a quick victory lies not in taking Craydon itself, but in destroying their fleet. We assume they will stand and fight to the end. But they didn’t do that at Megara.”
“You believe they will retreat if we attack Craydon? Perhaps that is reason to do so immediately rather than waiting.”
Chronos hesitated for a few seconds before answering Akella. “Yes, that is something I considered. But, first, I may be wrong. If we invade with what we can send forth right now, and they stand and fight, we could lose. I would still give us the edge, but perhaps something on the order of sixty percent, perhaps sixty-five. That is not a gamble I am willing to take with the fleet, not this far from home, not with so much of our strength deployed to this war.”
Akella nodded her agreement.
“Also, the chance that they will retreat instead of fight increases with our strength. In eight months, we will be in a position to deploy considerably more hulls to an attack, which increases the chance that the enemy will run rather than fight. But even then, the capture of Craydon without the effective destruction of the enemy fleet is only an incremental gain, one more productive world removed from their control, but not a crippling defeat.”
Chronos paused, looking silently across the table toward Akella. “Perhaps there is a better way. What if we launched a series of campaigns against other worlds of the Confederation? Iron Belt manufacturing powerhouses located beyond supporting distance from Craydon, for example, or key resource worlds farther out. Transit point nexii, cutting their logistical and supply routes? It is a more complex plan, almost certain to take considerably longer. But if we can cut off their support, the stronghold they have built at Craydon will wither on the vine…and we will save hundreds of our ships, forces that can return and take up their positions guarding the capital and the central regions of the Hegemony, if a few years later than we might like.”
“There is certainly some wisdom in that kind of approach, but have you planned this meticulously, Chronos? How certain are you that you can maintain sufficient forces to defend Megara and the logistical routes, and also attack a significant number of enemy systems, enough to eventually compel and enemy surrender.”
Chronos took a deep breath. “I would not comment on what it would take to force the surrender of the forces at Craydon. I have underestimated this enemy, and I do not wish to do so again. Their military forces have considerable fighting spirit, and they are very tolerant of losses. But there are other considerations. Our analysis of the captured enemy databases suggests that the Craydon system, while unquestionably an industrial powerhouse, is self-sufficient neither in food nor raw materials. That suggests that, at some point, a tight enough blockade could place the defenders there in considerable difficultly. That is useful, however it is not my primary purpose. I am thinking more in terms of incremental reductions in their overall production and logistics. The more systems we occupy, the more of the Confederation itself we control. The more populations we absorb. We might even compel the enemy to split up their forces in a doomed attempt to protect dozens of worlds at once. Perhaps we can win this war without another titanic battle that would cost us huge numbers of ships.”
Akella sat for a moment, a thoughtful look on her face. “There is merit to what you suggest, Chronos. I must return to the capital as soon as the …matter…between us is complete. Do you believe you can complete your analysis and campaign plan in that time? I would review it with you and approve it before I depart.”
Chronos nodded, completely aware of what Akella was offering. A mere blanket authorization to make decisions at the front would leave the consequences solely on him. By reviewing and approving the final plan—assuming she did approve it—she would be adding her name to his, sharing the victory, or the defeat, with him.
“I will see it done, Akella, if I must work around the clock to do it.”
* * *
“It was a pretty good haul, Bryan…and we managed to get in and out almost without trouble.”
Bryan Rogan looked up at the officer who’d just climbed through the meter-high entrance to the hole in the ground that served as his main headquarters. Dan Prentice’s uniform, already more a pile of rags than a proper set of combat fatigues, was freshly torn in at least three places, and blood trickled slowly from a gash on the side of his neck. It was pretty clear to Rogan that his second-in-command was taking considerable liberty with the term, ‘without trouble.’
“That’s good news, Dan.” Rogan shook his head when the officer, even taller than his own 190 centimeters, tried to perform some facsimile of standing upright and at attention. He waved his arm and then he shoved an old crate across the floor, what passed for a chair in front line reality of the command post. “Sit, you fool. There’s no point in formalities. We’re not Marines anymore, not really. We were resistance fighters for a while, at least, but now, we’re what? A pack of fools, hiding in holes in the ground while the enemy tightens its hold on the planet?”
“That’s a pretty grim assessment, Bryan.” Prentice’s words challenged Rogan’s point of view, but the grim weariness on his face suggested considerable agreement. “We’re still in the field, still in arms.”
“Are we?” Rogan laughed slightly, a gesture rooted far more firmly in bitterness than humor. “What did you bring back from this last raid? Rations, blankets, maybe a few doses of antibiotics or antivirals? Not exactly the kind of stuff we can use to fight off the Kriegeri when they find us.” Rogan’s Marines, what was left of his almost-obliterated defense force, had retreated to the Catacombs, the commonly-used name for the ruins of pre-Cataclysmic Megara, especially those areas that had been battered enough to be abandoned completely, and allowed to sink beneath centuries of dirt and sand. The almost endless tunnels and underground chambers had been picked clean of artifacts and old tech—almost entirely, at least—but the spaces themselves were ideal for hiding a few packs of surviving fighters. The ancient, high-tech materials provided excellent protection from scanners and other surveillance devices.
“Anything that keeps us alive keeps the fight going.” There was real defiance in Prentice’s tone, though he was having as much trouble as Rogan in hiding the growing sense of doom and utter defeat.
“You’re right, of course, Dan.” Rogan turned and looked at the opposite wall, no more than three meters from where he sat. A makeshift desk, or table—he wasn’t sure how to label it—sat against the eerily smooth white material on the wall. It was covered with items: tablets, a small generator…and a comm unit, placed in the corner, all by itself. “Did you find any batteries?”
Prentice hesitated, and then he shook his head.
Rogan looked back at the comm unit. It was the only link his people had, not to anything tangible, but to the hope of relief. The device was set on the Prime Channel, a military frequen
cy. If—when, he forced into his mind—the fleet returned to liberate Megara, he would hear it first on that comm unit. His people had alternated between periods of relative warmth and comfort, courtesy of the ancient materials that hid their fires and heaters from detection, and stretches of time when they didn’t have fuel, or even firewood. But, whatever happened, Rogan was determined to ensure that the comm unit was fully operational at all times. He wasn’t sure he really expected any communication to come…but he knew he had to at least believe it was possible. Even Marines needed something to keep them going, driving forward each day through the growing hopelessness.
“We’re down to two spare power cells for the comm.” He paused, looking as uncomfortable, he suspected, as he felt. “We’re going to have to hit some place we can get some extras…even if it’s just a few for the comm.” Rogan had allowed his people to run heating units and build fires, but he’d drawn the line at any sort of real energy generation. He trusted the old tech walls and ceilings, to a point. But that didn’t extend to running any kind of power plant or reactor, even if his people could have found one and gotten it working. It was just too much of a risk, and he refused to lose sight of the fact that his people were alive—the few who still were—by virtue of the fact that he’d managed to keep them hidden.
Prentice looked back, clearly trying to hide a frown. “Do you really think we’re going to hear anything on that comm?”
Rogan looked back at his number two. “I have to believe it, Dan.” Rogan was, by nature, a no-nonsense Marine, not one to indulge in pointless hopes or groundless optimism. But he was sure of one thing, without the slightest doubt.
He would never surrender.
* * *
“Commander Raketh, welcome to Megara. Your trip was satisfactory, I trust.” Chronos stood outside next to the just-landed shuttle, watching as the rest of Raketh’s party debarked. Under normal circumstances, he’d have never come to the landing pad to welcome a Master as lowly ranked as Ninety-Six, low, of course, only by comparison to his own Number Eight. In the Hegemony as a whole, Raketh was one of the highest elites, a first century Master accustomed to being in command wherever he went.
He’ll adapt on that account…
“Master Chronos, it is a great honor. I certainly did not expect you be among those in my reception party.”
But you did expect a reception party…
Chronos held back a frown. He believed completely in the Hegemony’s system of identifying the most genetically perfect humans and elevating them to positions of authority, but he’d long found it frustrating how many of his peers, even the most intelligent, highly rated ones, became distracted with pointless pomp and privilege. Chronos had never had any trouble asserting his own authority, but he despised ceremony and useless puffery. It was one thing he shared with Akella, though, of course, with her position as Number One, she was subjected to an even greater barrage of it all than he was.
“I wanted to speak with you as soon as possible, Raketh. Your work on Dannith is to be commended. By all accounts, the base there is operating quite efficiently.”
“Thank you, Number Eight. Your words are a great reward.”
Chronos didn’t like Raketh, though he had to acknowledge that the Master rated Ninety-Six was intelligent and competent as well as pompous and irritating. And he had nothing to gain by abrasive behavior, and everything from encouraging a comfortable rapport with his subordinate. Dannith would play a significant role in his planned series of offensives, and he wanted to make sure Raketh was fully briefed and understood exactly what would be expected of him.
“I trust Master Carmetia and her prisoner accompanied you, as I…requested.” Chronos was trying hard to sound accommodating, holding back harder-edged terms like ‘order’ or ‘command.’ The conflict was at a crucial stage, and he needed the best everyone had to give him, not a war effort hampered by rivalries and personal grudges.
“Yes, Number Eight. They remain on my flagship, though I can send for them any time you wish.”
“Then do so.” The words were a little sharper than he’d intended, but he was annoyed. Why the hell do you think I ordered them to come if I didn’t want to see them?
“At once, Number Eight.” Raketh turned and snapped off a command to one of his attendants. Chronos held back a frown at the number of personal aides who had followed Raketh out of the shuttle. It was an amusing comparison not only to his own, almost solitary way of moving about, but also of Akella’s. The Hegemony’s supreme ruler had exited her shuttle only with a pair of guards…and she’d sent them away as quickly as she could.
“Come, Raketh. Let us go to my office. We have much to discuss. I would hear all you can tell me of Dannith and any reports of nearby systems you may have to share.” He’d seen all the regular reports, of course, but now he was going to grill Dannith’s commander for all the details he could get. He wanted to know everything he could.
He needed to know if the rest of the Confederation was as undefended as it appeared to be.
Chapter Thirteen
Orbital Platform Killian
Planet Craydon, Calvus System
Year 320 AC
“Admiral Barron…Admiral Denisov is here, and he wishes to speak with you.”
Barron was staring at the figures on his screen so intently, he heard the aide’s words, but it was a good ten seconds before their meaning registered. Denisov? Here to see me?
“Show him in, Commander.” The words were almost automatic. He’d likely have made himself available to any of his senior officers—though he might have tried to dodge one or two of the pompous fools from the Far Rim—but Denisov was the last person he expected to show up unannounced.
Barron and the Union general had gotten over their mutual dislike and suspicions, to a point at least, but they were far from comfortable together, and Barron doubted they’d ever become real friends. There was too large a gulf between them, too much blood spilled in the war they’d fought against each other.
He stood up and began walking around the desk, just as the door slid open, and the aide escorted Denisov inside. The Union admiral was walking under his own power with a cane, but his face was haggard, and it was clear the exertion was draining. The assassination attempt on Denisov, the work of a Sector Nine killer, had come a hair’s breadth from success, and his doctors had only saved him by replacing his heart with an artificial one. That kind of procedure was well-advanced in the Confederation, but Union medicine lagged, as did most of its technology. Barron had intended to arrange for Denisov to have a replacement implant in one of Craydon’s hospitals, but the recovery time for a procedure like that was months…and he hadn’t dared to leave the Union contingent without its commander for so long.
After the war. It’s the least we can do to repay him for bringing his ships to our aid.
Barron wasn’t quite to the point where he liked Denisov, but there was definitely some respect developing. And that, he figured, was a start.
“Will there be anything else, Admiral?”
“That will be all, Commander.” Barron hesitated a few seconds, as the aide turned and left the room. Then he extended his hand. “I am glad to see you, Admiral Denisov.” In truth, he wouldn’t have gone right to glad. “How can I help you?”
Denisov grasped Barron’s hand reasonable firmly, likely the best he could manage, the cane wobbling a bit in the other hand as the two men held each other’s grip for at least five seconds. Then, the Union officer replied, “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Admiral. I apologize for not contacting your office and arranging something in advance, but I’ve…well, I’ve been thinking, and…”
“Go ahead, Admiral…” Barron gestured toward one of the chairs. “Please have a seat…and, by all means, tell me what you’re thinking. There is nothing you can’t discuss with me, certainly nothing of military significance.”
“Thank you, Admiral.” Denisov sat down, unable to hide all of the relief he felt. �
��Well, it is simply this. I have become concerned about the fleet—my fleet—and the morale status of my spacers.”
“We are all under great stress, Admiral. Morale is a problem for all of us…though I can see how, in some ways, it is more challenging for your personnel.”
“I maintain a high level of support among the spacers, Admiral, but obviously, there is resentment as well, and some are beginning to voice outright opposition. It’s more than the fact that we are—were—enemies, Admiral, and now we fight together. I believe they all understand the threat the Hegemony represents to all of us, and they have fought alongside your spacers without significant problems.” He paused. “But they are all branded traitors back home. They have friends, families…and, I’m not sure how much you know about Sector Nine and its practices, but their taking action against family members and loved ones is definitely a concern.”
“I know enough about Sector Nine, Admiral.” He knew more than he wanted to know, and he had his own list of resentments against the Union intelligence agency. “But what can be done about that? If your people go back—apart from the threat of Hegemony conquest—they will more than likely face arrest for treason, will they not? Even if they are not all executed, the senior officers almost certainly will be, and I can’t imagine the rest would get away with less than long prison sentences. I assume Union detention facilities are as bad as I’ve heard.”
“They’re worse. And, of course, the fleet can’t return. I wouldn’t consider withdrawing the forces from the Grand Alliance. The Hegemony is a deadly threat to all of us. I am merely suggesting that perhaps it is time for someone to return, to try and make the case for what we have done. To see if Gaston Villieneuve can be convinced of the true danger. Perhaps the Union can be brought into the war in total, as a unified nation, and not a renegade fleet without supply and crewed by increasingly demoralized refugees.”