The Grand Alliance

by Jay Allan

  “Minister, as I said, I understand all you are telling me, I truly do. But I simply have neither the authority or the means to interfere materially in Union internal affairs.” He was silent for a moment, and his eyes darted back and forth, almost certainly a subconscious reaction to the danger of what they were discussing. “I can promise you I will say nothing of what has been said here, and I trust that you will conduct yourself as I am sure you always have, like a realist and a patriot.”

  Ciara watched as Kerevsky stood up, slowly, very slowly. Was he giving her some kind of signal? Were his words a message, an unspoken expression of support for bold action, if not a promise of actual help?

  Or am I just seeing what I want to see?

  Her hand moved back under her, toward the gun. Letting Kerevsky go would a wild gamble, though disposing of his body and explaining his absence was far from without its own danger.

  “I am quite tired, Minister. If you will excuse me, I will return to my quarters and rest.”

  The ambassador didn’t look tired at all. His eyes were wide open and bright, and they were locked on her own. Another message?

  Her fingers moved along the hard edge of the pistol’s grip. She was almost certain Kerevsky was unarmed. He hadn’t been allowed to bring any weapons from his ship, and she was an expert at spotting such things. She’d turned off the recording devices in the room, but not the weapons detector, and that, too, and the AI that operated it, confirmed that Kerevsky had nothing.

  She was an expert shot with the pistol. She could drop the Confed in an instant. He’d be dead before he knew what was happening.

  But she didn’t move. She just sat, her hand frozen, just touching the weapon but doing no more. Finally, she said, “I understand, Ambassador. Please, have a restful sleep.” Slowly, reluctantly, her hand moved away from the pistol. It wasn’t trust…Ciara didn’t trust anyone. But she was going to bet on Kerevsky. There was more to the Confed than simply a diplomat in love with his own voice. Something deeper, something harder.

  He almost reminded her of herself, or one of Sector Nine’s top operatives.

  Of course! He’s Confederation Intelligence. That makes perfect sense.

  It also meant that, whatever he’d told her, at some point, he probably would do more than simply negotiate. If he was a spy, Gary Holsten had sent him, and though the head of Confederation Intelligence had always been her enemy, she’d never thought him a fool. He wouldn’t have sent an operative, not unless there was more at play than a diplomatic mission.

  She was still uncertain, and the deadly seriousness of making a move against Villieneuve terrified her to her core. But she was closer…closer to working up the courage to try it.

  To be a true patriot to her people.

  She watched as Kerevsky left, and one more thought crept into her mind.

  Whatever you do…make sure of one thing. Don’t survive a failed attempt.

  She’d seen the worst Gaston Villieneuve could do, and being gunned down by guards was a blissful escape by comparison.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Bridge

  CFS Hermes

  Olyus System

  Year 320 AC

  Dammit! Whoever is commanding those ships knows what the hell he is doing…

  Andi Lafarge was hunched forward on Hermes’s bridge, her body damp with sweat, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. She’d managed to pull her ship far enough from Megara, and her people had repaired the damage from the orbital station’s hit. But then the ships that had chased her across the system came swarming in…far too damned close for her tastes.

  That hit from the orbital station…there have been some kind of leak, or an energy release. Something those ships picked up and used to track us.

  It couldn’t have been much. Hermes’s own scanners hadn’t picked up anything. But we’re stuck on passive scans…and those bastards have been pounding away on active units at full strength.

  Whatever the enemy ships had detected, it was enough for them to direct a barrage all around her ship’s position…and to hit the fleeing vessel three times.

  She was mad at herself, angry that she’d missed the danger. It wasn’t logical, perhaps—there was no way she could have known the enemy had detected some kind of trace energy leak as Hermes’s broke orbit—but that made no difference. She’d managed to get away from the attackers, to change course enough to pull her out of the main search zone of the pursuing enemy ships. Then, she’d cut the power outputs, and made like a hole in space. That had worked, for almost two days…forty-one endless, painful, agonizing hours, broken down into minutes and seconds, and every one of them spent waiting to see if the enemy picked up on something, some chunk of steel that had broken free from the damaged hull, or even a tiny cloud of particles. Anything that might put the pursuers back on her trail.

  She’d done all she could. Her people would either survive now or not, and if they didn’t, as far as she was concerned, it was her fault.

  The only advantage was, if they died, she’d die too. There was a mercy of sorts in that, but it was shadowed by the grief she knew it would bring Tyler. She knew the stress he lived under, the weight of what he carried every day. She wondered if she should have allowed her pride to rule her, to demand that she execute the mission. She’d only done what she thought was right, but she realized she’d added more burdens onto Barron’s hunched shoulders.

  She felt anger, too, resentment. Not at anyone in particular, but at the universe itself. At the dark turn of fortune that put some capable, relentless Hegemony officer on her tail. She suspected her pursuer—very likely to become her killer—was someone she could respect in different circumstances, someone very much like her in many ways. But right now, whoever was in the lead enemy ship was her deadly enemy. She had to find a way to evade him—or destroy him. That was all she could think about.

  Because she was Andromeda Lafarge, and no matter how grave the situation, she never gave up.

  “Lex, what’s the latest on the reactor?” She was leaning over the comm. She had Hermes’s engines shut down, and her reactor operating at minimal power, just enough for life support and to run the stealth unit. That was a bit of good luck, at least…the continued functionality of the unit. If that failed—when it failed if Lex couldn’t reverse the damage done to the reactor—they were finished. It wouldn’t even take long, not with the number of enemy escorts flying all around, looking to reacquire her ship.

  “No change. Those last two hits were close to critical. I can’t fix it, not with what we’ve got onboard. The best I’ve been able to manage is a patch job…and that won’t hold. The reactor is failing, Andi. I’ve done all I can do to keep it going, but I’m going to lose that battle…and soon.”

  Andi heard the words, and she knew better than to question them. Not when they came from Lex Righter. Her longtime friend had struggled with his personal issues, certainly—drugs and alcohol among them—but he’d been clean for years now, and even when he hadn’t been, he’d never been anything but an expert engineer…and one hundred percent straight with her. He’d saved her ass on Pegasus more than once, and if he told her Hermes’s reactor was going to fail, then she took it as undeniable fact.

  She had to do something. She thought about firing at the enemy, luring them closer and then launching a surprise attack…but she realized immediately that wasn’t an option. Besides being hopelessly outnumbered, Hermes had been built for speed, not combat power. The small, sleek cruiser’s weapons were few, and light. As Andi had put it more than once, in various levels of jest, they could boil a pot of water. Maybe.

  Besides, engaging in combat hardly seemed plausible with a failing reactor. Things were bad enough on minimal power, but firing the weapons was as likely to knock the thing out immediately as score a hit. And, when the reactor failed, her people were finished.

  She felt the urge to argue with Righter, insist that he find some way to fix the thing. But asking for the impossible was a
fool’s game. Hermes was going to lose power. Nothing was going to change that. She needed a plan, a way to survive, to save her people. And, she needed it soon.

  She was running out of time.

  * * *

  “Professor Carlson, I can’t thank you enough for coming with us. Your guidance, before, of course, and even more now, has been invaluable.” Bryan Rogan was standing against the strange—almost eerily intact—wall of the ancient transport tube, looking right at the archeologist. He’d given his Marines a ten-minute rest, and he’d taken the opportunity while they leaned against the walls and ate their meager rations, to express his gratitude yet again.

  “I am glad I was able to help, General.”

  Most of Megara’s population came from prosperous government classes. Rogan had always been hesitant about labeling such types as ‘soft,’ though the Senate’s craven surrender had done little to bolster his restraint. The Marines had stood firm, unsurprisingly, through defeat and hardship and death…and the other defense forces had acquitted themselves well, too. But there were few partisans or rebels out there. The population as a whole had proven to be quite passive and easily conquered.

  Which made the standouts—like Carlson—so extraordinary. The longtime head of Troyus City’s Museum of the Empire, had come walking into Rogan’s headquarters one day, early in the defensive effort, when battles were still raging across the planet’s surface. He’d brought information, an almost complete knowledge of all the old imperial ruins on Megara, the remnants of cities, transit tubes, various installations, many of them buried deep under the sand and dirt of modern Megara.

  And, almost all of them physically intact, capable of supporting and—thanks to the anti-scanner effects of the ancient metals and hyper-plastics from which they’d been constructed—hiding the Marines. More amazingly, Carlson had told Rogan he’d wiped the museum databases clean before he’d left, eliminating as much as he could of any roadmaps the enemy could use to search the old ruins.

  He looked at the professor for a few seconds, suddenly realizing the extent of the change in the academic who had come more than a year before to aid his people. Carlson had been brave, but soft. A quarter kilometer’s run had him gasping for breath. A full kilometer nearly put him in the infirmary. He’d been overweight, out of shape, unused to physical endurance.

  Now, he was lean, hard. Standing opposite Rogan in his borrowed Marine fatigues, he looked almost like any of Rogan’s people, save for the silver hair hanging down from under his helmet. The Marines had adopted him in appreciation for the aid he’d given them, and now, a little over a year later, he looked the part.

  Carlson had saved his Marines, Rogan was sure of that…at least the tattered remnant that had survived the fighting on the surface. And now, he was leading them back to Troyus City and, if Rogan had understood the directions correctly, they would come within a kilometer of the main surface to orbit transmission tower.

  His primary target. The one he had to destroy, somehow, if he was going to help Admiral Barron and the fleet. It had seemed an impossible task, but once again, Carlson’s help had produced a near-miracle.

  Rogan was worn, exhausted, his body sore from the wounds he’d suffered that had only partially healed, but news that the fleet was on the way had reinvigorated him. He realized that, even as he had continued his obstinate resistance, he’d never really believed the fleet would return. Defeatism was a dangerous and devious force, capable of working its way into even the most defiant minds, laying below the surface and festering, sapping away at one’s strength until nothing remained. The Marine was angry with himself for succumbing to it on any level. It wasn’t the Marine way.

  It wasn’t his way.

  But getting to the comm center was only part of the problem. His people had targeted secondary installations for almost a year now, places they could steal supplies, and continue to be a thorn in the enemy’s side. But the main comm station would be defended.

  Heavily defended.

  He didn’t know how many of his people would die assaulting the installation, but he was pretty sure this would be their final operation. Whatever number survived, they would be scattered, hunted, low on equipment and ammunition.

  But if they succeeded, if they took down the transmission station, they would help the fleet. They would strike a blow to help drive the enemy from Megara.

  “Alright, Marines…I hope that little vacation reenergized you, because we’ve got six hours of marching before we get another.” Rogan knew he was pushing his people hard, especially after all they’d been through over the past year and a half. But they had a schedule to keep…and if they were going to knock out the enemy’s command and control communications before Barron and the fleet arrived, they had no time to waste.

  No time at all.

  * * *

  “Widen the search zone…expand the distance between ships by ten thousand kilometers.” Tiergan was frustrated. He’d truly believed he’d had the enemy, that they were at his mercy.

  But whoever is commanding that ship is formidable…

  At least he had more resources. Once the shock of the still—at least as far as he knew—encrypted communique wore off, fleet command had sent him another four squadrons of escorts and frigates. He had sixty-two ships now, all under his command, flying back and forth, banging away on their scanners, searching for any signs of the rogue enemy ship.

  Any signs at all.

  He was sure he’d scored two hits in the initial barrage, perhaps even three or four. But then the target just disappeared. He’d reacted immediately, sent his ships along every escape route he’d been able to foresee…but they had found nothing.

  It was as though the enemy had simply vanished.

  “All units acknowledge, Commander. Search grid increased in scope.”

  “Very well.” Tiergan sat bolt upright in his chair, looking out at Garara’s bridge crew. His people were capable, well-trained, and loyal to the Hegemony. But they lacked something. Tiergan felt a call, like that of a predator on the trail of his prey. His people were different. They followed orders without question, did their jobs with a commendable level of competency. But they lacked a killer instinct.

  Tiergan had rarely given much thought to the Hegemony’s rigid system. He was a Red Kriegeri, as were all his people on Garara. That designation, born of the series of examinations known as the Test, had destined him for a naval career. There had never been any choice, not for any of them. No consideration of other careers, of different options. In the Hegemony, one’s genetic rating and perceived capabilities resulting from that analysis, determined one’s place in society. If the testing showed you were best suited to work in a factory, that would be your life. If your inherent capabilities suggested a military career, you were branded Kriegeri and sent to training. No choice, not whether to join the army or navy, nor even what branch. A recruit’s genes made all the choices.

  Now, sitting, waiting almost helplessly for any readings, any clues he could use, his mind wandered into places he’d never before allowed it to go. How did the Confederation, with its chaotic society, produce such extraordinary warriors?

  The Hegemony was perfectly ordered, every one of its people deployed in accordance with their aptitude and capabilities. Was that system, that he’d always accepted as perfect, missing something? Did a Confederation officer, one who’d scrambled hard, fought and clawed up to a level beyond what a genetic rating might have allowed, possess some unique abilities, a toughness, a tenacity that the Kriegeri, almost always locked in a defined range of available ranks and responsibility levels, didn’t have?

  “Commander…Yorigoth is transmitting scanner results, a possible contact…”

  Tiergan snapped back to focus. “On my screen…now!”

  He didn’t have time for the thoughts that had invaded his mind, not just then. He had a job to do, and if Hegemony dogma had held him from commanding a force the size of the one circumstance had just placed in his hands
, that didn’t mean he couldn’t handle the sixty plus vessels under his control . He had more ships than he’d ever imagined commanding, and he was going to do whatever it took to succeed.

  To find that Confederation vessel, and its captain.

  “Set a course toward the scanner readings…take us there at full thrust.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  CFS Dauntless

  Approaching Olyus Transit Point

  Covath System

  The Second Battle of Megara – “Prelude to Hell”

  “Twenty minutes to vanguard transit, Admiral. Projected Dauntless entry into the point, thirty-six minutes.” Atara Travis spoke softly, calmly, though Barron could hear the effort it was taking for her to sound that way. No one in the fleet was calm. He was sure of that, as sure as he could be of anything. They were heading into what very likely would be the bloodiest battle any of them had yet fought. Defeat would almost certainly mean the loss of the war, so Barron had no intention of breaking off or issuing a retreat order, regardless of what happened. Once his ships jumped into the Olyus system, they were committed. This fight would be to the end.

  “Very well, Captain.” He glanced over at Atara’s station, gave her a glance, and a quick wink. It was little enough for an exchange between two old friends as close as they were, but it was all either of them had time for.

  He held his gaze for just a few seconds, waiting for the return gesture he knew she’d have for him. A small nod of her head…he knew it when he saw it. The interchange had been nothing anyone else would have noticed, but between the two of them it was a wish for good fortune, a sharing of strength…and if fate decreed it as such, a farewell between friends, between a brother and sister in arms, and in life.