The Grand Alliance

by Jay Allan

  “Sir, Admiral Stockton has sent a flash communique. ‘First wave assault complete. Significant damage to enemy battle line. Estimate four battleships destroyed outright, and eighteen with significant damage. Bomber casualties heavy.” Atara’s report was professional, almost clinical, but Barron knew her perhaps better than anyone else, and he caught a hint of her own malice directed at the enemy.

  The last part of the report wasn’t a surprise, of course. Barron might have winced at the thought of hundreds of bombers shot down, but just then, all he could think of was Hegemony blood. After the nightmares into which Jake Stockton had led his fighters over the years, he had no doubt that when the pilot said, ‘heavy,’ he meant just that. Heavy. But his usual compassion for his people was stunted, pushed back to the depths of his mind by his own ravening grief…and his frozen need for revenge.

  “Advise Admiral Stockton he is to send his squadrons back by the shortest possible course.” He wanted those squadrons rearmed and relaunched as quickly as possible, and there was no time for roundabout routes back.

  Barron knew that meant he’d be sending his bombers right back through the Hegemony’s line of escorts. The fatigued pilots and depleted ships would suffer even worse than they had on their first pass…save for one thing.

  Barron was about to do something about those escorts.

  “The battleline is to prepare to open fire. Full power to all primary batteries.” Barron’s eyes were fixed on the enemy frigates and cruisers just about to come into range. Someone in the Hegemony command structure had apparently realized—finally—just how exposed their lighter ships were.

  But it was too late. Especially with the increased range of his forward battleships. He’d used the enhanced primaries on the forward line of battleships, but he was betting that the chaos in the enemy formation had kept the Hegemony command from noticing.

  And not one of the forward-deployed battleships had survived to bring back the word.

  The escorts were firing up their engines, blasting away from the Confederation battleships at full thrust. But they were beginning at a standing stop, and the ships of Barron’s battle line had been accelerating since they had transited. They’d have gotten off a good number of broadsides even without the new primaries, but Barron was about to give those cruisers and frigates a surprise they would never forget.

  Assuming any of them escaped from him to remember.

  “All ships report batteries ready to fire on your command, Admiral.” There was a familiar sound in Atara’s voice, one he hadn’t heard in some time. It wasn’t the determination, nor the overpowering stress of battle. It was the dark and deadly sound of the predator. Barron didn’t know what the final result would be when the two battle lines finally clashed, but he had a good idea what was going to happen to those escorts in just a few seconds.

  He imagined a whole pack of Argellian deathcats, converging on a watering hole surrounded by herd animals. The primaries, especially the enhanced ones, could target those light Hegemony ships from well outside of their own range. It was time for turnabout, for the enemy to experience what Confed and Alliance fleets had dealt with since the war began.

  And every kill would reduce the hell Stockton’s fighters would face on their way back.

  “Entering range now, Admiral.”

  A thin smile crept onto Barron’s lip. There was no joy in it, nor happiness, just a craving to feed the yawning pit inside him that craved the blood of the enemy. His eyes were locked on the display, waiting.

  He didn’t turn, didn’t look away…he hardly moved at all. He just issued an order, one he’d been impatient to utter, sitting in his chair, the moments passing with agonizing slowness. He ached for revenge, to lash out at the Hegemony in any way, at any cost. He’d gained satisfaction watching Stockton’s bombers hitting the enemy, but now, at last, it was his time.

  I am not a naval officer, no longer, at least not in my heart, where what remains of who I am resides.

  I am the Angel of Death…and it is time to do what I was born to do.

  “Captain Travis…all ships are to open fire.”

  * * *

  Movement.

  He was being dragged over the ground. He winced as his back struck a jagged stone or something else hard and sharp, and he looked up at the sky.

  Blackness.

  No, not complete darkness. There was a glow of lights in the distance. His memories were jumbled, incongruous. Where was he? What was he doing there?

  “It’s okay, sir…we’re almost to safety.”

  He wasn’t sure who was talking or what he meant, but he was pretty sure from the tone, the last thing they were was ‘almost to safety.”

  Bryan Rogan…I am Bryan Rogan.

  He tried to turn his head, to look up at whoever was dragging him along, but couldn’t. Then he felt the pain, and he remembered. His chest throbbed, his leg hurt like fire.

  He’d been wounded.

  He’d thought he was dead.

  “What…where…” The words barely came out of his parched mouth, but his companion, whoever was dragging him along the ground—painfully and with great difficulty from the sound of it—heard him.

  “General…it’s Taylor, sir. I know this hurts, sir, but I had to get you out of there.”

  Taylor? Rogan tried to focus. His memory was hazy. Yes, Taylor…Private Taylor, one of his Marines.

  “Taylor…what…happened?”

  “The explosion, General…you were too close. You took concrete fragments from the building, in your side near your chest, and your thigh. I tried to pack the wounds the best I could, but we didn’t have time. There were Kriegeri coming from every direction.” A short pause. “I carried you as far as I could, sir…but I just couldn’t manage it anymore. I’m sorry I had to drag you the rest of the way.”

  Rogan jerked his head up, and for the first time he got a good look at the man who, it seemed, had saved him…at least for the time being.

  The Marine was tall, his uniform torn in half a dozen places, and stained with blood. Some of the blood was deep red and fresh. “You’re wounded, Taylor.”

  “It’s nothing, sir…but, we’ve got to keep going. I think I can carry you for a bit more.”

  Rogan took a deep, and painful, breath, and he pulled himself up slowly. He stopped, sitting now instead of lying, and he marshaled all the strength he had left. “No, Taylor…help me up. I think I can walk.”

  “Sir, you’re wounded…”

  “So are you, Taylor. If you could carry me out of there and get me past the Kriegeri, I damned sure can walk.” That sounded good, but Rogan wasn’t entirely sure he could. He damned sure was going to try, though. “Now, come over here, and help me.”

  He turned toward the side, holding back a cry as pain lanced through his body. The wound near his chest was still bleeding…he could feel it all down his side. The thigh wound was in better shape. The strip of ragged cloth Taylor had tied around it was still in place, but it was tight, and it throbbed.

  Taylor looked hesitant, but he obeyed the order. He reached down and grabbed Rogan’s shoulder, pulling gently, helping the general rise slowly to his feet.

  Rogan stood, struggling to maintain his weakened balance, Taylor’s hand still on his shoulder, helping to stabilize him. He took a few breaths, and struggled to regain his equilibrium. With some success.

  A little, at least.

  “Okay, let’s go, Taylor.”

  The private stood, still holding on to Rogan’s arm. “Just a little farther, General. I think we’re in some kind of warehouse district on the outskirts of the city. It seems pretty deserted.”

  Rogan looked around, moving his head slowly. He got a bit dizzy, but he was getting a better hold on himself. His wounds hurt like hell, and he doubted he could do more than hobble slowly, but Taylor was right. There was no one in sight. He wasn’t sure if that was because it was late at night, or because the Hegemony occupation forces had closed down the business operati
ng there. He wondered how long things would stay quiet, but just then, he couldn’t think more than a few minutes ahead. With luck, they might find a refuge, at least until morning.

  “Let’s try that building up ahead.” He was concerned about Kriegeri patrols, certainly, but mostly, he just wanted to find someplace he could sit. And, Taylor didn’t look much better than he felt.

  “Okay, General.” The Marine gripped Rogan’s shoulder, and they moved slowly toward what looked like a single-story storage facility of some kind.

  “Taylor?”

  “Yes, General?”

  “The comm center. Did we…did we…”

  “It’s gone, sir. Completely gone. Nothing left there but a hole in the ground…and I’d guess the explosion took out at least fifty Kriegeri.”

  Rogan felt a burst of excitement, satisfaction that his people had completed their mission, that they had done their part for the fleet. He tried not to think about the Kriegeri the blast had taken out, or more specifically, the Marines he knew must have been killed along with their enemies. He’d pressed the button to detonate without regard for whether his people had cleared the blast area. He tried to tell himself they had all gotten away, but he knew they hadn’t. He had no idea how many Marines had made it out, who were even then sneaking around Troyus Coty and its environs, hiding from the Kriegeri, but in his heart, he knew most of his people were dead.

  The pain of that would sink in fully later—if there was a later—but at least those who had died had been killed doing their duty, and maybe saving thousands of lives among the spacers in the fleet.

  He looked up, a pointless glance at the sky, and he wondered what was happening just then, millions of kilometers from Megara, where the battle for the system was raging.

  * * *

  “Commander Chronos, we have restored minimal connection to the orbital scanner feeds. We have confirmed that Master Illius’s shuttle has docked with Hegemony’s Glory. We can assume he has taken operational command of the fleet.”

  Chronos scowled. The report that Illius’s shuttle had reached its destination was relevant—and welcome—but he was less than enthused about his people assuming anything. They had all assumed the Confeds and their allies could never launch an assault on Megara.

  “What is the status on the emergency comm relays?”

  “The teams are still working, Commander. No update yet on timing to restore communications.”

  “Well, Kiloron…then you go out there yourself and tell them I need an update. I need a specific time frame, and that had better be short.” Chronos paused. “No, forget that. Get my shuttle ready. I’m going to Orbital Fortress One.” He’d been hesitant to leave the main headquarters, but now he wondered how much of that had been based on tactical considerations and how much on his desire to remain close to Akella. There was no room for personal considerations, and besides, Megara was occupied by over three million Kriegeri. Despite the enemy’s recent raid, the Hegemony’s Number One was as safe and protected as she could be. The only thing that could threaten her would be the defeat of the fleet, and the only way he knew that he could prevent that from happening was to get to the fortress and restore some level of control. The broken link in his comm network was orbit to ground, and once he got to the station, he should be able to communicate with Illius and the other ships of the fleet.

  “Commander, what if the enemy…”

  “What if they what, Kiloron? We are warriors, are we not? I will not cower down here when the fleet is engaged.”

  “Yes, of course, Commander. I meant no offense.”

  “Then, go. See that my shuttle is ready. I will leave here in ten minutes.”

  “Yes, Commander!” The officer snapped to attention and spun around on his heels, moving off to execute Chrono’s command.

  The fleet commander turned toward another officer. “What is the status on ground security? We allowed a bunch of battered enemy Marines destroy our main comm facility. I’d like to ensure nothing similar happens again.” Chronos had switched the focus of his anger at the stunning enemy raid, back and forth between his subordinates and himself. He’d finally decided all parties were at fault.

  If the Hegemony failed in its mission to unite and protect all humanity, it would be arrogance at the root of that defeat. He believed completely in the Hegemonic system of genetic ranking and structure, but not in the effects it had on the ego and entitled attitudes of those near its top. A Master had potential and abilities beyond those of the Kriegeri he or she led, but that was far from a blanket assessment. Knowledge, courage, attitude, effort…they all played their roles in success, and too many of the elite Masters had become lazy, more concerned with their exalted place in Hegemony society than in their duty to the nation and its sacred purpose.

  “We have doubled all patrols, Commander. We have rounded up a number of enemy survivors from the raids, but there is no sign of any organized activity still ongoing.”

  “Triple the patrols, Kiloron.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “And send for Master Carmetia at once.”

  “Sir!”

  Carmetia and her Marine prisoner might yet prove useful. At least the Master had experience with Confederation Marines. He would leave her in command on the ground in his absence. If there were any other enemy operations, she was the likeliest of his people to counter them. And, if things remained quiet, she could direct the roundup of whatever Marines were still out there, hiding.

  Chronos had come to respect the Confederation’s soldiers, and he wasn’t going to underestimate them again, even when they appeared to be scattered and nearly eradicated.

  No…no underestimating adversaries. No more.

  Never again.

  “Kiloron…”

  He shouted after the officer who had turned and walked off to carry out his commands.

  “Commander?” The kiloron stopped and turned immediately.

  “Double the guard around Number One as well. I want that bunker protected at all costs...is that understood?”

  “Yes, Commander. Understood!”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  HWS Hegemony’s Glory

  Olyus System

  Year of Renewal 265 (320 AC)

  The Second Battle of Megara – “Victory first, spoils later”

  “Commander Illius, the forward line is taking heavy losses.”

  “I can see that, Kiloron.” Illius was sullen, angry, cursing himself and every last incompetent officer on Hegemony’s Glory and the rest of the fleet. We let this happen. We underestimated the enemy, convinced ourselves they had no choice but to sit and wait for us to resume the offensive. But they didn’t play along, didn’t buy into our belief in our superiority.

  Worse, in Illius’s inner rage, was the fact that neither he nor Chronos were normally prone to such arrogance.

  At least we thought we weren’t.

  But we were. We saw the enemy as beaten, our repulse from Craydon a setback, one we would reverse as soon as we could bring supplies forward. We wrote off the destruction of the supply fleet as a fluke, a desperate gamble that paid off for the enemy by stroke of luck.

  We have underestimated this enemy from the start.

  Illius knew he couldn’t change the past. He couldn’t undo mistakes, whether made by himself or those around him, and he wasn’t about to waste time wishing he could.

  But you can prevent any more from taking place. You can crush the overconfidence, the arrogance, and give this enemy the respect they have earned.

  “The escorts are to scatter, Kiloron. I want a randomized dispersal pattern. All units that escape the enemy battleships will regroup behind our main line.” That would strip him of almost half the fleet’s escorts, at least until they could regroup and advance again, but it was the only way he could see of saving any of them. The Confederation primaries were lancing out even as he watched the scanner, and those deadly beams were no joke. They were less powerful than the fleet’s railg
uns, certainly, but one hit would cripple most of the small escort ships…and they were under attack by the entire Rim battle line.

  At least if the smaller ships took off in all directions, the Rim fleet would have to scatter to effectively pursue. And they won’t do that. They know the battle will be decided by the two main lines…

  He’d considered advancing his own battleships in an effort to save the escorts, but that would serve no purpose. He’d never close in time to intervene, and he didn’t want to move his heavies too far forward. He was confident his ships were strong enough to prevail, but he was very deliberately guarding against arrogance. This enemy was dangerous, resourceful, and his gut told him he hadn’t seen all of their surprises yet. He was going to keep the battleships within support distance of the—admittedly incomplete—orbital fortresses, and nothing short of Chronos’s direct order was going to change that.

  “Scatter order transmitted, Commander.” A pause. “Updated loss figures on the display, sir.”

  Illius didn’t even look. There was no way to change any of it, beyond what he had just done. And it would be eighteen minutes before the escorts even received the command to scatter, much less execute it.

  And those loss figures are eighteen minutes old now, too.

  There was something else. The enemy ships…they had opened fire from well beyond their range.

  Their former range…

  He rechecked the scans, reconfirmed the readings himself. At least some of the Confederation battleships had opened fire from just under maximum railgun range.

  Was it some kind of deception, a scanner ruse? His mind raced to consider possibilities, even as his insides tightened.

  “Commander Illius, Number Eight is on the comm.”

  Illius turned toward the communications officer. “On my headset, Hectoron.” He scooped the set from its harness next to his chair and pulled it over his head, just as Chronos’s voice came through.