The Grand Alliance

by Jay Allan

  Tulus climbed out of the ship right after the guard. Barron smiled as he watched, wondering how many heads of state would have stepped out of the ship without honor guards and all sorts of useless pomp and ceremony. Tulus was from a culture steeped in its own ways and formalities, but he’d swept many of the more foolish ones away in his years as Imperator and, with his own prepossessing manner, he set the example for others as well. Barron’s knowledge was purely anecdotal, of course, but he’d noticed considerably less overt ceremony around the senior Palatian officers since Tulus had ascended and taken the scepter. His memories of his time serving in the Palatian Civil War offered somewhat of a stark contrast, and he could see just how much difference Tulus had made in a few years.

  “My brother, it is good to see you again.” Tulus walked across the deck, directly toward Barron, gesturing for the guard, who’d been trying to stay ahead of him, to step aside. “This is my blood brother, Commander. I have no need of your protection in his presence.”

  The guard looked uncomfortable, but the word of the Imperator was law. He slowed his pace and allowed Tulus to walk the rest of the way toward Barron, hanging back, close enough to intervene in the event some unforeseen threat developed.

  “Your Supremacy, I am honored, as always, at your visit.” Technically, a Confederation officer was not obliged to use the Palatian honorific, but Barron often did when greeting Tulus. The Palatian was a close friend, a comrade, and a trusted ally. Perhaps more relevant, Barron, though a Confederation citizen by birth and a loyal career naval officer, held a strange dual status, since the blood brother ceremony with the Imperator. Tulus had granted him a wide array of privileges, including lordships and estates on Palatia, by all accounts, the first time such had been done for an outworlder.

  “And, I am honored to see you, Admiral, commander of the fleet…and my brother.” Tulus stepped forward and embraced Barron. “Though, I daresay you remember my name, so perhaps we can dispense with the ‘your Supremacy’s and the ‘Fleet Admirals.”

  “Very well, Vian.” Barron smiled and stepped back. “But brother or no, you didn’t come here for no reason…so what can I do for you?”

  “Ah…no nonsense, to the point. How refreshing after putting up with the Far Rim dignitaries down on the planet. I have proven through experimentation that pomposity has little correlation with the power one represents. I could hear my ancestors laughing at me as I treated with arrogant fools from tiny principalities of three systems. My people must embrace a new way forward, I realize this, and if we do not hold fast together, the Rim allied as one, then we will all fall. Still, the old ways, to think of such pretentious upstarts as prey, to subjugate them and see them dragged into the room in chains rather than listen to them prattle on endlessly…I still possess my understanding of what allowed my people to shatter their own chains and rise to power.”

  Barron held his smile and nodded. Such talk from a Confederation officer or politician would have been strongly criticized, but Barron was well-versed in Palatian culture, and in the rigid set of honor and military ideals forged by a people who had spent over a century in bitter bondage, enslaved by one of their neighboring worlds. An ignominious shame they had taken out on the systems around them for more than half a century.

  Besides, the image of arrogant politicians and diplomats being dragged around in chains held a certain appeal to Barron.

  “So, my friend…what brings you here?” Ideally, Barron would have taken Tulus to his office and waited for his ally to disclose the purpose of his visit, but he knew neither one of them had time to waste, not before the fleet was scheduled to depart.

  “Tulus turned and nodded to a pair of guards who had followed him out of the shuttle. They snapped back perfect salutes, and then one of them turned toward the open hatch and said something Barron couldn’t make out. A few seconds later, another officer emerged.

  The young man stood tall and proud, looking much like the hundreds of Palatian officers Barron had fought alongside…and against. But, as he came closer, Barron’s eyes fixed on his face, and he felt a strange familiarity. It was hazy, and he wasn’t sure what it was…but he felt almost as though he’d seen the officer before.

  “Fleet Admiral Tyler Barron, commander of the Fleet of the Grand Alliance…I present to you, my new aide, Sub-Commander Warder Rigellus.”

  Barron heard the surname, and it echoed in his mind like the ring of a massive bell, unleashing old memories.

  “It is my pleasure, Sub-Commander.” His response was crisp, but his voice was soft, almost distracted. He stared at his new acquaintance’s eyes, and in them, he saw back, almost fifteen years.

  “The honor is mine, Admiral.” There was nothing but respect in the Palatian’s voice, and Barron wondered if that was genuine, or if the young officer was a master as disguising hatred. He hadn’t consciously accepted the realization, not yet, but deep in his mind, he knew who Warder was, even before Tulus told him.

  “Warder is the son of Katrine Rigellus, Tyler. He is recently graduated from the Academy, and he will be serving as my aide in the coming campaign.” A pause. “I wanted to introduce you before the fleet set out.”

  Barron was silent for a moment, his mind racing back through the years. He struggled for what to say to the young man standing before him. ‘I knew your mother…I killed her?’ That didn’t seem quite right.

  He knew he wasn’t being fair. The battle between Dauntless and Invictus had been a titanic struggle, but it had taken place in Confederation space, and Kat Rigellus had led her ship there.

  And, you didn’t killed her. She killed herself.

  It had been the dark side of Palatian honor in practice. Katrine Rigellus had been unable to accept defeat, to compel herself to surrender or return to Palatia in disgrace. Barron had thought of her then only as an enemy, if an honorable one he admired in some ways. But now he realized the true tragedy of her decision. If she’d surrendered, she and her survivors would have almost certainly been repatriated, and she would be there to see her son wear the uniform she had worn for so long. She would be standing even then, with Barron and Tulus and all the others, ready to fight to the end, to defend the Rim at all costs.

  “If there is ever anything I can do for you, Sub-Commander Rigellus, you need only ask. I am available to you…always.” It was all he could think to say. The Palatians, as a race, had mostly cast aside their hatred they had once had for him as the enemy, and they had come to embrace him as an ally, and as a warrior worthy of their respect. But he didn’t know if that extended to Kat’s son.

  He wondered how he would feel, being introduced to the man who’d defeated his mother, who was responsible to a great extent, for her death, even if he hadn’t done the actual deed.

  “You do me great honor, Admiral.” The Palatian bowed his head solemnly, looking completely sincere as he did.

  Barron understood why Tulus had wanted to see him, and why the Palatian Imperator had come to him. The middle of a battle was no time for such revelations, and if Warder Rigellus was to serve as the Imperator’s aide, he would be in the center of things when the fighting started.

  Barron could see Tulus’s eyes moving between the two of them, clearly trying to read their feelings, their reactions to each other.

  He didn’t say anything, but there was one thought in his mind, overruling all of his concerns.

  I will do all I can to help this young man, Vian. For you, of course, but even more, because I owe it to his mother.

  But he knew he’d have to keep an eye open as well, at least until he could be sure Warder Rigellus wasn’t harboring any vendettas. He was a Palatian after all, and from a family rich in military tradition.

  Barron resisted the urge to shake his head, even as he hoped fervently that Warder would accept him, and forgo any attempts at vengeance for his mother. Still, despite his best efforts, he couldn’t banish the images of the young man standing quietly, a vicious scowl on his face, lurking in a corridor, knife in
hand.

  Nothing in Warder’s demeanor fed his concerns, but deep in his own mind, doubts floated around, charged with his own inability to answer a single question.

  What would Barron himself do if the roles had been reversed, if the Palatian had killed his mother, or his grandfather?

  Please, please…don’t make me kill another Rigellus…

  Chapter Nineteen

  Grand Hotel

  Troyus City

  Megara, Olyus III

  Year of Renewal 265 (320 AC)

  “That is extraordinary news, Akella. My joy is without bounds.” Chronos stood in the large room he used as a parlor. He’d had his choice, of course, from the mansions of the politicians who’d fled Megara before the conquest—or, for that matter, those of the ones who had remained if he’d wanted them. He had little compunction about evicting one of the Confederation’s former political leaders, who, he had come to realize, were far from the finest of their people, nor the most difficult to subjugate. But he’d decided it was smarter to centralize the residences of his top personnel and, as a result, his people had occupied the luxury hotels that dotted the central zone of the capital city. The Grand had been the plushest of them all, and he’d claimed the top floor for his own residence. It was large and opulent, but quite a bit smaller than one of his stature might have demanded…and even more so once the Hegemony’s Number One had essentially taken up residence with him.

  “I, too, am pleased, my old friend. It is right that we coupled, that we mix our genes. I look with great anticipation to see the intellect and abilities of the child we conceived.”

  Chronos had long wished to mate with Akella. For obvious reasons, of course. She was the highest rated genetic specimen known, and every Hegemony male wanted to mate with her. But Chronos had allowed more emotion than usual to drive his wishes. Not, the clinging desires for lasting monogamous relationships that seemed so prevalent in the Confederation, but nevertheless, somewhat of a wounding to his pride that a friend as close as she was had chosen another to pair with, and not him.

  He scolded himself for such thoughts. Petty jealousies and strife resulting from such things had been a factor in the empire’s fall. Hegemony Masters, especially those ranked as highly as Chronos, were supposed to be above such things, their intellects the drivers of their decisions, and not envy and lust.

  Still, the desire had nagged at him for years. He’d considered approaching her a number of times, but his deployment in the war zone had always held him back. He’d allowed undisciplined thoughts to torment him at times, but never to dictate his actions. Akella was Number One, and that meant she was the proper initiator of all mating pairings. Hegemony custom, and even law, was clear on that. The higher rated parent was the prime mover, both in initiating the mating, and in the raising of the resulting child.

  Which was just as well, since it was beginning to look like Chronos would be stuck out on the Rim for years.

  “All is well?” Akella was as healthy and physically fit as a woman could be, but it was a natural enough question.

  “Yes, as far as can be determined. It is still quite early, and I will remain here several more weeks before I depart.”

  “It saddens me that I will be unable to assist you during your pregnancy, nor, likely, even be back on the capital for the birth.” Chronos was sure he’d be stuck in the warzone longer than that, and he wondered how old his new son or daughter would be before he saw or held his progeny.

  “That cannot be helped, sadly. But you are here fighting for the Hegemony of the future, the one we will bequeath to our child. With fortune, the war will be won in a reasonable time, and you will return, along with the fleet.”

  “Yes…with fortune.” Chronos had believed that completely…once. But he’d begun to wonder just how long it would take to subjugate the entire Rim. Every plan from the outset had been based upon inflicting enough defeats on the enemy to break their morale. The strategy worked very well with the civil authorities on planets like Ulion, and even with the national Senate on Megara. But the surrenders of these groups had done little to reduce the ferocity of the Confederation fleet and its allies, or even the troops on the ground on the conquered planets. He admired his enemy for their steadfastness and courage, but he’d begun to wonder just what it would take to break them, and bring them into the Hegemony.

  But he pushed the doubts from his mind. It was a moment for celebration. There would be more than enough time for worry and for war.

  * * *

  Bryan Rogan moved through the swamp, his arms pushing aside the tall grasses that blocked his way. He was chest high in the murky water, and, save for the pistol holstered in a belt hanging around his neck, his weapons were zipped up in the waterproof sack slung over his shoulder.

  The mission was a foolish one, he knew, at least in some ways. His forces had been ravaged, in any real sense, destroyed. He’d stopped counting Marine losses at one million, and he had no real idea at all of the losses of the other troopers and security forces that had refused the Senate’s order to surrender and flocked to his tattered banner. It was more than he could bear, and the combined number, aside from being almost impossible to fully grasp, would serve no useful purpose. It was all best ignored. If, by some miracle, he survived the doomed resistance effort on Megara, he was sure the ghosts would still be there, in the darkness of his sleep waiting for him.

  “About two more kilometers, General. The relay is just to the north of our target coordinates, and about half a kilometer south is Wesland. It’s a small town, no real tactical significance, save for two ground transit lines that intersect there. The intel we could get suggests we can probably score at least some basic supplies there. Food, almost certainly, and maybe some other things.” Dan Prentice was right next to Rogan. The second-in-command of the Megara defenses—almost certainly an outdated title since virtually the entire planet was occupied by Hegemony forces—had long argued to keep Rogan back at the command post. But he’d given that up a few months earlier. Rogan wasn’t sure if he’d just gotten tired of being rebuffed, or it he’d decided the force remaining in the field was so small, it was no longer of sufficient urgency to keep the commander someplace safer.

  Or, perhaps it was simply the realization that no place on Megara was safer.

  “Okay…we’re a long way from Troyus here, and I don’t expect there will be much of a garrison at the relay…or at the town, for that matter.” Rogan knew his sole advantage—if any factor affecting his beleaguered and defeated force could be so described—was the distance to the enemy’s home worlds. Every soldier they deployed, every armored vehicle, had to be transported over a distance almost unimaginable. The Hegemony had landed a sufficient force to crush his Marines in open battle, but they hadn’t been able to fully garrison every remote point of military significance. That, more than anything, had kept the remnants of his force in action, picking and choosing secondary and tertiary targets.

  He didn’t fool himself into thinking his people were severely crimping the enemy’s takeover of the planet or their overall war effort, but as long as his people retained the ability to hit the enemy, they were a force in being.

  He trudged forward, feeling some gratitude when the ground rose a bit, and his more of his body emerged from the brackish water. He was still walking through knee deep swamp, but that was a big improvement, one enhanced by the gradual firming of the ground beneath his feet.

  He turned and looked behind him. He had about three hundred of his people with him, more than ten percent of his remaining strength, and perhaps closer to twenty. He had no real idea how many Marines remained active—or even alive. He’d scattered his people over a large area, sending them mostly to various underground ruins of pre-Cataclysmic Megara. It was just about the only place they could hide. The Hegemony scanners were too effective for them to remain undetected anywhere else. He did get periodic reports from some of the outposts, but the best he could calculate was a range of two to three t
housand, in varying—but all poor—states of readiness. A sad remnant of the massive force that had taken the field against the invaders.

  “Dan, you take the demo teams up to the relay. I don’t expect there’s much there in the way of deployed guards, a squad at most.” That was a guess, of course, and he knew the enemy OB didn’t include ‘squads,’ but his gut told him there’d be maybe ten Kriegeri positioned around the relay, and to a Confederation officer, that was a squad.

  “Yes, General.” Rogan had become more casual in his mode of address recently, but that was a far easier thing to do from the top down. Prentice still addressed Rogan as ‘general,’ at least most of the time.

  “Take a full platoon with you, though. No sense taking chances.” Rogan didn’t think he’d need over two hundred-fifty Marines to take Wesland and raid its warehouses, but his forces had deteriorated to the most primitive of all supply and transit resources…the arms and backs of his people. He’d brought most of them not to fight, but to carry back whatever they were able to find and secure.

  “Yes, sir. Good luck, Bryan. We’ll meet you right back here in…two hours?”

  “Two hours it is, Dan. Hopefully, we’ll find something worth eating down there.” The Marine force wasn’t out of supplies, not exactly. But the crates of hard and stale biscuit weren’t the most appetizing thing to eat, and even those meager rations would only last another week, maybe two if they really stretched things. Rogan had no idea what shape the other outposts were in—he’d avoided unnecessary contact. Every time he sent someone in or out, he risked detection. He’d take that chance to gather food or conduct a raid, but not to gain himself data he couldn’t use anyway. He’d put good officers in charge of each group, and he trusted them to do all that could be done to keep their people alive.