by Jay Allan
It might be the last time.
* * *
“Did you get a chance to see your family, Bart?” Sonya Eaton was standing in the elevator car next to her aide. The task group was about to depart, and both of their places were on the bridge.
“I just have a nephew on Craydon, Captain. He’s a freshly-commissioned ensign assigned to Platform Killian. The rest of my family is out on Warwinden…thankfully.”
Sonya nodded, glad for her exec that most of his loved ones were out of harm’s way, at least for the time being. Of course, no one was safe in this war, not really. If the fleet lost at Megara, or if the enemy took Craydon, it was as good as over. It might take the Hegemony a few years to mop up, but no one was going to stop them then. “Your nephew, he’s not a…pilot, is he?” Eaton didn’t know the life expectancy of raw Lightning jocks, but she had an exact count of how many had died under her command.
“No, thankfully. He’s an engineer.”
Sonya nodded again. An engineer assigned to the largest base orbiting Craydon. That was about the safest posting a new officer could have in the current situation, at least until the enemy came back to Craydon. Engineering seemed like less of a combat-oriented position than many others, regardless of posting, but that was often a misconception, one clear to anyone who’d seen technicians burned to death trying to get engines and reactors restarted or poisoned by intense radioactivity. There were no safe spots on a combat vessel. None.
“There are rumors that the fleet is planning something big.” Tarleton looked around as he spoke, though they were still alone in the elevator. “I guess we’re out of it…whatever it is?”
Sonya wanted to tell Tarleton. The ongoing preparations around Craydon were obvious to anyone who was conscious, but the fleet’s target was still a secret, and the general assumption was, there was intel suggesting the enemy was coming back to Craydon. She appreciated that Barron had included her in his confidence, and she wasn’t going to betray that trust. As much as she didn’t like keeping secrets from Tarleton, she just shook her head. “Something, I guess, Bart…maybe they have some intel on enemy movements or plans. Or, maybe Admiral Barron just has a bad feeling.” She wasn’t sure how convincing she’d been, but the doors slid open and rescued her from further discussion. Tarsus’s bridge lacked the sprawling enormity of a battleship’s control center but, with flight operations crammed there instead of in a separate area, there were a good dozen officers there. Too many for Tarleton to continue the conversation, even in careful whispers.
“Welcome back, all of you.” Eaton stood next to her chair and addressed the bridge crew. She planned to speak to the entire fleet once her ships were underway, but there wasn’t time just then. “I know all of your leaves were cut short, and you were rushed back here with almost no notice. Admiral Barron needs us back out there on the enemy supply lines, as quickly as possible, and we’re going to do our part. We’re going to be upping the intensity of our operations on this run, doing some things differently than we have before. All I can say is, if we do our part, and trust that our comrades in the main fleet will do theirs, one of these days we can all go home and see our loved ones again.”
She wasn’t sure how convincing she’d managed to be. It took one hell of a leap of faith to see through not only to the Confederation keeping the fight going, but to actual victory and peace. In truth, she didn’t believe it, not really. She’d spent less than an hour with her sister before she had to get back to Tarsus, and she’d fought the feeling that she’d never see Sara again the whole time. She’d barely gotten away, back out into the corridor, before the tears came.
Sonya was a warrior, through and through. She would never give up…but there was a limit to anyone’s endurance, a maximum amount of pain and fatigue and hopelessness one person could endure. She didn’t know where her limit was, but she didn’t doubt she’d find it.
If she lived long enough.
“Let’s go…Commander Tarleton, all ships are to break docking and prepare to engage engines.”
Chapter Fifteen
Hall of the People
Liberte City
Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV
Union Year 224 (320 AC)
“These reports are entirely unsatisfactory, Minister Ciara. Utterly useless!” Gaston Villieneuve was raging, as he’d done so often in the near year and a half since Andrei Denisov had defected with almost two thirds of the fleet. Villieneuve was angry with himself, certainly. He’d appointed Denisov because the officer had displayed extraordinary skill in battle, something his political creatures had rarely been able to match. He’d hesitated, all too aware of how dangerous a fleet admiral with aspirations to seize power could be. But Denisov seemed ‘by the book’ all the way, a creature of the fleet, and sworn to duty. He appeared to be an unlikely perpetrator of a coup attempt, and certainly, he had never shown any signs of disloyalty to the Union.
Until he made off with his fleet.
In fairness, Denisov didn’t seem to be seeking gain from what he’d done, and he’d only fled after the Hegemony had launched a surprise attack that came very close to obliterating his command. In the few moments when he managed to think objectively about the situation, Villieneuve knew Denisov had taken the only route he could have. Had the renegade admiral made his way around the Union’s periphery and back to Montmirail by the indirect course, he would have forgiven the admiral, at least once his initial anger faded. He might even have decorated the gifted officer for pulling the fleet out of a trap that seemed almost certain to see it utterly destroyed.
But the fool hadn’t come back. By all accounts, he’d headed straight into the Confederation, and made common cause with the Union’s most hated enemy. Villieneuve always expected treachery, and he trusted almost no one—no, exactly no one, at least since Ricard Lille had been killed—but Denisov’s action had taken him utterly by surprise. He’d suspected bribery at first, or some kind of payoff from the Confeds, but then he’d come to realize Denisov did what he’d believed he had to do. The Hegemony was a dire threat to the entire Rim, and the career naval officer, with his political naivety, had taken it on himself to arrange some kind of pact with the Confeds.
Villieneuve saw the logic behind it, to an extent, but the fool hadn’t even considered bargaining positions or concessions. As dangerous as the Hegemony was, the Confeds were the most threatened. Even if Villieneuve might have considered some kind of cooperation, he would have gotten more for it than the ‘thank yous’ that were almost certainly all Denisov had obtained.
Ciara was staring down at the small cluster of tablets on the desk in front of her. She was maintaining her composure, more or less, which was impressive enough, considering Villieneuve could have had her dragged out of the room and shot—or something much, much worse—on a whim. As ruthless as Villieneuve had been, he’d always maintained a calm, professional approach to things. He would use torture when he had to, murder when it served…but never out of sadism, only to attain his goals.
That had changed with Lille’s death. The Sector Nine assassin—and Ciara’s mentor—had been Villieneuve’s only real friend, and though the two had come close to a break once, they had been an inseparable team for decades. Villieneuve had never expressed the slightest show of grief at his friend’s loss, at least not that he’d allowed anyone else to see, but the flow of blood surrounding his rants had turned into a torrent.
“First Citizen, I appreciate the need for the most detailed intelligence, but the location of the primary standoff between the Confederation—excuse me, Grand Alliance—forces and the Hegemony fleet is along a narrow band running between the Olyus and Calvus systems. The Confeds are dug in on Craydon, and the Hegemony at Megara. As far as we can tell, there have been no significant military operations conducted in over a year. It is a stalemate, sir. One in a location almost impossible for our spy ships to reach.”
Villieneuve turned and glared at the newly-appointed Minister. He’d chosen her because
she was one of Lille’s proteges. It was a desperate—perhaps futile—attempt, he knew, to replace his lost comrade, but there was something about Ciara, something the others—three that had preceded her in rapid succession, and were all disposed of in unpleasant ways—lacked.
Guts.
Ciara had shown proper respected in speaking with him, but she hadn’t cowered like a pathetic fool. That was not the way to handle him. Lille had always known that.
Perhaps Ciara does as well, or learn it in time.
“So, what do you propose, Minister? We can’t simply stay here and wait to see what happens…to hope that Admiral Denisov deigns to bring the fleet back when he is done with it. Or, that he doesn’t, depending on his intentions.” Villieneuve naturally suspected that if Denisov returned, the admiral would make a play for power. It was impossible for him to imagine any other course of action. But he allowed for the possibility that the admiral was as wide eyed and naïve as he appeared to be, that he just might bring the fleet back and throw himself on Villieneuve’s mercy.
That would be a grisly day if it ever happened. Denisov may have made an understandable decision, but to Villieneuve, it was treason, and the admiral—and every officer of high enough station to have opposed him who failed to do so—would pay the price when he finally got his hands on them.
Which he would…one day. Things always came around.
“I’m not sure this is something you’ve considered, First Citizen, but perhaps we could contact the Confederation government—or this Grand Alliance they seemed to have formed. We need information, but why continue to send spy vessels to their doom trying to sneak around Confed and Hegemony fleet units? Why not send a ship openly, and declare our desire to join the fight?”
Villieneuve sat back in his chair, the tension draining away from his arms and his fists unclenching. “A deception…disguised out in the open.” He paused for perhaps another half minute. Then: “Brilliant!” He shook his head. “Nothing but useless, grasping fools all around…and not one suggested such a course. You are right, Minister. You are the first person I’ve had here who came up with something that would have made Ricard proud.”
“Thank you, First Citizen.” Sandrine Ciara sat bolt upright, showing respect for Villieneuve in every passive way, even as she’d dared to challenge him on how to proceed. Villieneuve’s mind flashed back to encounters with Lille, strategy sessions the two had shared. Lille had manipulated him a few times, he knew that, but for the most part, he’d been an accomplice with the courage to stand up to him. Villieneuve had almost despaired of finding someone to take his lost friend’s place…but now, he had some hope.
“Go now, Minister Ciara. Take your idea and craft it…and return here at noon tomorrow with a full operational plan. Our proposals must be well thought out. It is essential the Confeds believe we are sincere in our desire to join them.”
“Yes, First Citizen.”
“And, remember…we cannot materially interfere with the Confederation’s operations against the Hegemony. Andrei Denisov must pay for his treason, of course, but we have to be careful with that. Perhaps we can make contact one of his chief subordinates, someone we can count on to break away and return home with the fleet…at the right moment, of course. If we are fortunate, the Confeds and their Palatian and Far Rim allies will rid us of the Hegemony…and be left battered and prostrate from their efforts, open for us to reassert our place as the dominant power on the Rim. A complete conquest seems unlikely, given our own still-recovering state, but if we can get the fleet back, we just may be able to demand concessions, and gain some crucial border systems.”
“Understood, First Citizen.”
* * *
Gaston Villieneuve was insane.
Ciara sat at her desk, alone. She’d cleared the room of her chattering aides and assistants with something of a feigned temper tantrum. News of her apparent favor with the First Citizen had spread rapidly and made her somewhat of a figure to be feared, more even, than she had been before. No one rose as high in Sector Nine—the Peoples’ Protectorate, she reminded herself—as she had without shedding some blood, and all those gathered around her, serving her efforts, seeking to ride her coattails, knew that well.
She had always kept her wits, though, and she’d only resorted to outright brutality when it was necessary. As she’d always heard was Gaston Villieneuve’s way.
Or, at least, had been.
The man she’d come to know the past few months was out of control, at least, and, at the worst, batshit crazy. Villieneuve had been through a lot the last few years—the loss of the war, the deaths of the rest of the Presidium, probably on his own orders, the rebellion and the establishment of a new government. Villieneuve had handled himself in a masterly way during that difficult period. His presentation of himself as a man of the people, and his astonishing success in pulling it off, hardened her view of him as a political mastermind. And confirmed her belief in the stupidity of the masses.
She’d watched as he’d shamelessly behaved as the leader of the revolution, buying credibility with the sacrifice of many of his old colleagues, and then how he’d slammed down the hammer, and mercilessly took total control, eliminating anyone who posed a conceivable threat. Villieneuve had somehow come through the near-collapse of the Union and emerged even stronger and more powerful than he’d been before.
That was an achievement.
But now she wondered if there had been a cost to what he’d done, if the stress and exhaustion of all he’d been through had cost him some part of his rationality.
Or, perhaps it had been the loss of his only friend that had pushed him over the edge.
She glanced down at her desk, at the stack of tablets and the large pile of data chips. She’d been reading the scouting reports since she’d left Villieneuve’s office, and while the data was patchy, it told her one thing without question.
There was a chance the Confederation and its allies could lose the war.
No, not a chance…perhaps a probability.
They’d been driven back constantly since the invasion, and finally at Craydon, they’d managed to stand, to win their first victory, if the pyrrhic nightmare described in the reports could be called such.
Ciara had spent her entire career working against the Confederation. Before that, in the slums of Vertiare, waiting each night for her factory worker father to come home so tired all he could do was eat a meager dinner and tuck her and her brother into bed, she’d listened to endless propaganda on the vid about the enemy, the Confederation.
She had no love for the Union’s longtime enemy, and more, she had her own heavy resentment for the loss of her little brother, a distinguished spacer who’d fallen in the last war, a victim of the Confederation’s butcher, Tyler Barron and his pack of murderous spacers. But she understood a greater threat when she saw one.
Villieneuve was right. If the Confeds managed to barely defeat the Hegemony, the Union would be in a position of relative power, for a short time, at least. But that seemed like a poor bet and, perhaps worse, a victorious Confederation would recover quickly, and exact vengeance for whatever blackmailed concessions Villieneuve managed to extract in the shorter term.
Ciara wished the Union could defeat the Confederation and dominate the entire Rim, but that was unrealistic, certainly for the next ten or twenty years. If the Hegemony could be defeated, and if the Union could complete its recovery and rebuild its military, just maybe one day it could challenge the Confeds again. But for now, she agreed with Denisov. The Union had to work with the other Rim nations. The Hegemony had to be driven back…and open cooperation would buy the good will of the trusting Confeds. The naïve fools just might drop their guard in the future, once the war was over. The time for thinking of advantage, of vengeance would come…but it was not now.
She had handled Villieneuve well, as well as could be expected. She was gaining, not trust perhaps, but some level of familiarity. She had to get him to see what she saw—wha
t everyone who’d seen the report, who knew what was actually happening, saw.
It would be dangerous. She couldn’t count on him to listen to reason, however solid the evidence. Even suggesting anything but her stated plan of deception could be dangerous. One tiny slip could undo all she’d done…or worse.
She would be careful. She would undertake her proposed course of action, and she would wait for the right moment to try to persuade Villieneuve.
Or, she would kill him. Before he discovered her true intentions and killed her.
She was a manipulator, as he was, willing to use almost any measures to attain her goals. But she was something else, something Villieneuve might have been or not, before he’d lost the better part of his sanity.
She was a patriot.
And, she wouldn’t let the Union fall if she could help it. Not to the deadly enemy from coreward in the galaxy, not to the Confeds, the longtime enemy, and not to a First Citizen who could no longer face reality.
Chapter Sixteen
Orbital Platform Killian
Planet Craydon, Calvus System
Year 320 AC
“We need all the firepower we can get. We’ve got what, two dozen of the new primary units available? I understand they’re Confederation technology, and highly classified…but there isn’t going to be any Confederation if we don’t win this war.” Tyler Barron understood all the reasons for holding the leading-edge weaponry from the Confederation’s allies. But he knew what he would face in Megara. He was far from sure his people even had a chance, but he was damned certain they needed everything they could get. To hell with the future balance of power on the Rim. All he cared about now was victory.