by Jay Allan
“I’ve had enough, General.” A lie, Rogan knew. “And, we can get more once we leave here.” Another lie, or at least something close to it. It seemed reasonable enough to find some water relatively nearby. The problem was the fact that, as soon as they stepped out of the crumbling building sheltering them, they’d most likely run into Kriegeri. It was a certainty the Hegemony soldiers were out looking for his survivors. Hundreds of them. No, thousands.
Of course, the other problem was, Rogan was far from sure he could even get up, much less walk. And, one look at Taylor told him the Marine wasn’t going to be carrying him much farther.
We’re finished. It’s just a matter of waiting for the Kriegeri to find us…
He’d almost spoken the words, but something had stopped him, kept him quiet. Taylor…he deserves better than hopelessness.
But does he deserve lies?
Rogan sucked in a deep breath, and he turned his head again, at least as much as he could manage. He didn’t have much left, but he had enough to be sure of one thing. He wasn’t going to drink any more of Taylor’s water. It was a waste to pour such a precious resource into his dying body.
He stopped, his body tensing.
He heard something!
Steps…the sounds of boots on the rough gravel.
He tapped Taylor on the shoulder, but the Marine had heard it all himself. He had his rifle in his hands, even as Rogan pulled his own pistol from its holster. If the Kriegeri had found them, it was over.
Almost over.
The enemy would finish the two of them, there was no doubt about that. But Rogan and his comrade weren’t going down without a fight.
No way…
He held the pistol up, pointing toward the meter-high hole in the wall that served as a door. He was silent, holding his breath as much as he could, waiting.
Waiting for one last chance to strike at the enemy before death came for him.
His eyes caught a shadow, just outside the entrance to the room, and a muffled sound. Voices?
He’d been ready for death since he’d pressed the detonator switch, but now he felt something. Was it fear, a wish that he could somehow survive? That was a normal human reaction, one not even Marines were immune from.
He wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. The only chance at survival was to surrender, to beg the enemy for his life.
And that wasn’t going to happen, not there, in that rubble-strewn floor on Megara, nor anywhere else in the vast reaches of space. Some things were worse than death.
His hand tightened on the pistol as he heard something moving forward, coming through the break in the wall…
* * *
“All power to primary batteries. We will maintain fire at maximum possible speed, Commander.” Vian Tulus was the Imperator of the Palatian Alliance, the supreme leader of his people…but at the current moment, he had a more important role. The commander of a warship engaged in a desperate battle, one that could only be fought to the bitter end.
The Palatian spirit that still lived inside him waxed greatly, romantic notions of glorious combat and the pursuit of total victory feeding the fire that drove him forward. He would follow Tyler Barron and his people, to the depths of hell if need be, but he would never stop. Not until the enemy was crushed…or he and his people were dead.
Still, despite an upbringing immersed in the ideals of Palatian warrior culture, Tulus had become somewhat of a modern figure among his people, and he’d learned much from his Confederation allies. He’d dared to think of a future for his nation based on something besides endless war and conquest.
That part of him had now receded, fallen back to the deepest darks of his mind. This war had not been a choice, it was not the result of Palatian aggression. The enemy had come to the Rim, invaded the space of his allies. This deadly struggle, a dark nightmare of endless conflict and death, was utterly just. It was all his Palatian brethren had been born to face, and now they stood, the warrior might of his world, gathered together, standing beside their allies.
It he was destined to die, he could hardly think of a more fitting place.
But first, before the prospect of death, there was duty. There was a battle to win.
“We’ve got bomber squadrons coming in, too…make sure they’re linked. There is to be no reduction in evasive maneuvers during landing operations.”
“Yes, your Supremacy.”
Tulus leaned forward, shifting in his seat, the energy of battle making it almost impossible for him to remain still. He regretted that he’d had to send Cilian Globus back to Palatian. He knew his friend would always feel shame for missing the titanic struggle. But there had been more to his motivations than his stated purpose of increasing production of ships and arms. Globus carried secret orders with him, a communique that bade the Council to name him Imperator, should Tulus fall in battle. He would never know what he carried, not unless Tulus died in the fight, but it was the reason he had sent his friend away.
If the fleet lost the battle, Tulus knew the war was over. But he knew also, the mantra of his people. Never again.
The Palatians had lived as slaves, once, and as a race, they had vowed they would die before they did so again. Men and women, adults and children, young and old…they would fight the enemy to the death, in space, on the streets of their worlds, in the ruins of their homes. They would battle with lasers, bombs…sticks, if need be. If his people were to die, he would have them do so standing as warriors, and he would not leave them without a leader, one with the courage to make the final stand, hopeless, perhaps, but at least something worthy of a song.
Tulus turned, even as the bridge lights dimmed with another shot from the primaries. “Come, Warder…take your seat next to me.” He gestured toward the young Rigellus. The officer had been seated at a workstation along the periphery of the bridge, but now he stood up and made his way toward Tulus, grabbing hold of a rail as Invictus shook hard again.
“I am honored, your Supremacy.” The young man looked strong and defiant. He was scared, Tulus was almost certain of that, but there was no visible trace of it.
“Your mother’s memory gives us all pride, Warder. Let us fight this battle together, in her honor. Let us ride forth now to victory.”
Tulus was far from sure the Grand Alliance fleet could win the fight, but there was enough old Palatian left in him to make himself believe it.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
CFS Constitution
Olyus System
Year 320 AC
The Second Battle of Megara – “I will destroy the first ship that runs!”
Dammit…we’re so close, so damned close. And yet…
Clint Winters sat on Constitution’s bridge, trying to hide his waning hope from his spacers.
The attack had been the right call, he was still certain of that. Perpetually yielding the initiative, waiting for the stronger, more advanced enemy to come at them had been a recipe for certain defeat. The fleet had come close, very close to driving the Hegemony forces back. He was sure of that. He could feel it.
It’s those fortresses, those damned fortresses…
The orbital stations had exacted a terrible toll on the fleet.
The enemy battle line had fought viciously, too, but the bombers had battered those vessels, and taken dozens of them out of the line, at least at long range. By the time the two fleets had closed and opened up with their secondary broadsides, the fight had been almost dead even.
Except for the fire from the forts.
Hegemony railguns had become the fear of every Rim spacer, but the weapons housed in those partially-finished orbital platforms were something else again. Their projectiles were almost double the size of those fired by Hegemony battleships, and the damage they inflicted, even on the largest targets, was nothing short of catastrophic.
Winters had wondered as the fleet moved forward, if the enemy had managed to complete the orbital defenses around Megara. He’d thought the likelihood was somethi
ng like one chance in three, maybe even four. Until he’d seen the enemy battle line pulling back.
He’d known the instant he saw the Hegemony thrusters firing up across the line, and he’d had his hands on the comm immediately, ready to speak to Barron, to tell his friend the fleet had to pull back, to abort the attack.
But there had been no purpose to that. A retreat would have been difficult, and if the enemy pursued, it might have become a disaster. And the original rationale for the attack still remained. Standing on the defensive was a losing proposition.
But now so is advancing.
The forts were just too powerful. They would be the difference, the weight that brought the scale down on the Hegemony’s side. The enemy would be battered, their losses immense, but they would win the fight.
“Admiral, flight control has one makeshift squadron refit and ready to go. They request permission to launch.”
One squadron? He appreciated the motivation of his people, but what was one squadron going to do?
“Negative, Commander.” He wasn’t even sure Constitution’s battered bays could manage launch operations. “Let’s focus on keeping the broadside firing.” His ship’s primaries were long gone, but at the current range, it hardly mattered. The larger array of laser cannon dished out as much damage as the more powerful, longer ranged guns.
Then, his mind drifted back, and he wondered for a few seconds if he should let the pilots launch, if he should allow them to die in their cockpits, and not on the bays, engulfed in flames.
* * *
“I need to speak to Admiral Barron…right now!” Olya Federov banged her hand hard on the hull of her Lightning. She was frustrated as hell, angry at the confusion and chaos that was taking hold across the fleet. It was understandable, of course. The battleships were engaged in a desperate fight, and there was massive damage everywhere. But she had one hundred eighty-two bombers ready to go, situated on more than a dozen ships. They were set to take off, and she was prepared to lead them. But there were no launch orders.
The size of her force was easy to disregard, perhaps, at least in terms of the bloated sensibilities of a fleet that had become accustomed to strike forces numbered in the thousands, but Barron needed everything he could get, and Federov knew that well. Still, she was getting nothing but confusion and bullshit from the fleet’s flight crews, and claims that launch bays were out of operation.
Stara had Dauntless’s people in line, but even the fleet’s semi-formal flight operations director was having trouble getting the other crews to move.
“Olya…what is it? What can I do for you?” Barron’s voice sounded dead, almost as though the fleet’s commander, and the Confederation’s greatest hero, had already given up. Federov knew that wasn’t true, not exactly. At least, she knew the warrior inside him would never yield.
She wasn’t as sure about the man, whom she counted among her small number of friends. She’d heard about Hermes, and she knew how close Barron had been to Andi Lafarge. She could hear and feel that he had fallen into a deep black pit of despair, but Tyler Barron, the admiral, would be at his post, leading his spacers, until the enemy put him down. There was nothing she was more certain about than that.
And, as much as she cared about the man, she needed the warrior-admiral just then.
“I’ve got almost two hundred bombers ready to launch, Admiral, veteran pilots in all of them, but there is chaos on most of the ships. You have to give a fleet order for us to launch.”
“Olya…in this firefight? You must be crazy. It was enough of a miracle that so many of your people managed to land. You can’t…”
“Admiral, please. Raptor sent me back, told me to get as many ships ready as I could. We can help, sir. I know that’s not a lot of ships in a fight like this one…but I think we can hit those forts. They managed to get those heavy railguns operational, but my gut tells me they couldn’t have finished everything in the time they had. There’s a good bet they’re low on anti-fighter weaponry…and the damned escorts are all lined up with their main fleet. Let me go, Admiral…let my people launch. I’ll get them there, somehow. I’ll take those forts down, whatever it takes.”
There was silence on the line. She knew it was only a few seconds, but as she waited, it felt like hours. Finally, Barron’s voice returned, and in it, she heard the slightest emotion, respect for her and her pilots. “Go, Lynx. Go lead your people. All ships are instructed to commence launch operations at your command.”
“Thank you, sir.” She could tell he didn’t think her people had much of a chance, that two hundred fighters were nowhere near enough to reach those forts and take them out. That was true enough, by conventional standards. But there was nothing conventional about the current fight. Federov was convinced she could do what had to be done.
“Stara…” She flipped the channel back to the main flight control line. “Admiral Barron gave us the go ahead. Let’s get these birds launched, and I do mean ten minutes ago!”
She reached above her head, pulling herself up the ladder two rungs at a time and hopping into the cockpit. She had a job to do, and by God, she was going to see it done.
* * *
Rogan’s finger tightened. He was finished, he knew that. The Kriegeri had hunted the two of them, caught them in their last refuge. He and Taylor were as good as dead. There was no time for anything, not remembrances, nor even final thoughts of any significance. But there was one thing he could do. Die fighting, and take out at least one of his killers.
He could feel the presence pushing through, into the room. It was time…time to fire. But something held him back.
He was never sure, then or later, what it was. The shape of the shadow, the sound of the boots on the gravel…something just wasn’t right.
Then the figure burst into the room, bringing an assault rifle to bear.
A Marine assault rifle.
The man crouched just inside was filthy, his uniform torn to shreds and stained with dried blood in half a dozen places. But through the mess and the mire, Rogan knew one thing immediately.
He was looking at a Confederation Marine. One of his.
“General…we’d almost given up hope on finding you!” The man moved forward, even as three more Marines came through in rapid succession. “Corporal Wickers, sir! Captain Klevon sent us. We’ve been looking for you for hours.”
“Captain Klevon?” Rogan was still half in shock, but his mind was chewing on what he was being told. Klevon had been with Prentice’s group.
“You were with Colonel Prentice?” Rogan nodded as the corporal managed a salute, a good effort considering he was still half crouched down, rifle in hand.
“Yes, sir.” Rogan knew, the instant he heard the man’s tone. “The colonel didn’t make it, General.”
Rogan felt as though he’d just taken a punch to the gut. It was no real surprise. After all, most of his Marines were probably dead. But Prentice had served at his side for the past year and a half, and helped him hold the remnants of his battered force together. He ached for the loss of his friend.
“Where is Captain Klevon?” There wasn’t much point in going on about Prentice. Not just then.
“He set up a temporary HQ in the transit tubes just outside the city. We’ve been trying to gather up as many survivors as we can find.”
“And how many is that, Corporal?”
“There were just over eighty there when I left, sir, including the search teams.”
Rogan was surprised. That was more than he’d expected. Not that eighty Marines were about to defeat three million Kriegeri, but it was still about eighty more than he’d expected to find.
He pulled himself up, painfully, to his feet, reaching out and grabbing the corporal’s offered arm. “Well, we’d better get going. Captain Klevon and his people won’t be able to stay so close to the city for long.”
“No, sir. My orders are to bring any survivors back immediately.”
“Then lead on, Corporal.”
>
“Yes, General.” A pause. “Perhaps I should go first, sir, and scout outside the building. There are Kriegeri everywhere.”
Rogan just nodded. He was too tired, too battered to argue.
* * *
“Grand Admiral Epheseus is on the comm, Admiral.” Atara’s tone told anyone listening exactly what she thought of the commander of the contingent from the Far Rim’s Sultanate.
Barron wasn’t in the mood for humoring pointless nonsense from his officers, and especially not from those from the small Far Rim nations. He appreciated the aid the conglomeration of allies had provided, and he knew the Confederation forces alone could not have turned the Hegemony back at Craydon, nor launched the current offensive. But he didn’t have time to waste on some fool with the absurd title of grand admiral, commanding a fleet of thirty odd rustbuckets, half of which would have been more at home in his grandfather’s day.
“Tell the admiral I have no time right now. He is to continue according to the battle plan.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Barron sat, staring ahead. For a few seconds, he’d almost forgotten about Epheseus, but then he realized Atara was still exchanging words with the officer. She was attempting to remain respectful and diplomatic—and he knew that was no easier for her than it was for him—but it was clear the Sultanate admiral was refusing to accept his ‘no’ for an answer.
“Commander Travis, put me on fleetwide comm…now!” He snapped out the orders, his words tinged with barely controlled rage. It wasn’t directed at Atara, of course, and he was sure she knew that. But he was going to make things clear to the pack of petty officers and lordlings out there in the fleet, most of whom greatly overstated their importance and their usefulness. They had seen Tyler Barron, the celebrated admiral, the appreciative ally, grateful for aid and assistance.