“That’s not why the long face,” Jagan countered.
“No. The trouble is, all father’s teachings are part of me. I never rebelled the way Kass did. I never had the slightest desire to attend the Regulon Space Academy. To explore the galaxy, learn to fight. Oh, I envied her powers, despaired of ever having any of my own. And then . . .” A rueful smile tugged at her lips. “And then, lo and behold, I was cursed with the Gift of Destruction. And knew the Goddess must be punishing me for feeling sorry for myself because my older sister was so much more talented than I.”
“And then you got stuck with me.”
“Never stuck!” M’lani cried, holding out her hand. She offered a watery smile. “An odd couple, perhaps. But the right one.”
Jagan allowed her to pull him down onto the couch. “So,” he said, “for the next few days we put aside both past and future. We are Daman and Dama Mondragon, rebel warriors. That’s what’s needed, and that’s what we will be.”
“Agreed,” M’lani whispered, and kissed him.
Hercs will be there. If only because Drakos wishes to kill me. K’kadi’s words were directed only to Tal.
With Nael Khagun in the captain’s chair on Astarte’s bridge, Tal, as Commander-in-Chief, was occupying a seat at a starboard command console that included space for Kass, K’kadi, and Jor Sagan. A similar area to port had been created for Jagan, B’aela, and the Sorcerer Prime’s long-time assistants and marital partners, D’nim, and T’mar, granting them space on the bridge as observers until their unique skills were needed in battle. Tal had only to turn his head to study his brother-in-law’s expression as he responded to K’kadi’s statement. “Wishful thinking, or do you know they’re on the way?”
Both. K’kadi grinned. Inside wormhole? He waggled a hand. Not one hundred percent certain.
You’re speaking more easily, Tal said.
Alala and I talk serious things. Better, I think.
Good. When this is over, perhaps—
“Captain,” Nael Khagun interrupted, “we’ve reached the Scout Point.”
“Signal All Stop.”
“Aye, sir. Helmsman, All Stop.”
Although momentum continued to carry the rebel fleet forward, the sudden silence without the reassuring thrum of the engines was eerie. Reminding those who had crashed with Pegasus, Tycho, and Andromeda of moments best forgotten.
“Launch Archer.”
Astarte’s scout ship, Archer, whose pilots and gun crew had been standing by for more than hour, shot out of the launch bay doors at full speed, heading for the hazy curtain in the distance that was Pyka Gate, the Reg end of the wormhole.
On board Andromeda
“You’re going to do it,” Alric Strang stated flatly. “You’re really going to do it.”
“Yes.” Rand Kamal, alone in his ready room with his aide, did not look up from his contemplation of the tabletop.
“You are going to fire on Fleet.”
“Not the first time.”
Strang sucked in a breath. “You sided with the rebs at the last Battle of Psyclid? I thought you were a prisoner.”
“Captain of a hulking freighter, Gaia her name. I still think fondly of the old girl. I expected that’s all I’d have this time around.”
“Admiral . . . Rand . . . I know the Empire has a lot of rotten fruit, but . . .”
Rand Kamal looked up, studying his aide’s face. “I thought you sympathized with the Psys, even liked them—”
“Not the same as firing on our own!” Strang choked out.
“A little late to say so, Alric. If you didn’t have the stomach for this, you could have stayed on Blue Moon.”
“Never,” Colonel Strang breathed. “Just promise me you plan to push Rigel aside, take the throne as you were meant to.”
The admiral was silent for so long, his aide thought he wasn’t going to answer. Finally, his gaze fixed on some distant vision, Rand said, “The Empire has to go. And I will do everything in my power to make that happen. After that . . . after that I have a vague idea of how it should be, but with our lives in the balance, who can say what the world will look like two days from now?”
Alric Strang studied his admiral’s regal profile, forced himself to accept the inevitable. No matter what, he would follow Rand Kamal wherever he led.
On board Astarte
Four hours later, Archer was back, its pilot reporting in person. “Captain, Reg channels are exploding. They’ve sighted the Herc fleet, are scrambling everything they’ve got. Disbelief was high, but when the Hercs passed the mid beacon, there was no denying it. They’re about fifteen hours out.” The young pilot had to work hard to keep his stiff military façade when he wanted to grin from ear to ear. “The Hercs have done it, Captain. They’re coming straight in, just as planned.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Tal saluted the scout ship captain. “Stand by to escort us all the way to Kraslenka’s front door.”
The young man’s eyes gleamed at that bit of optimism, and then, “Sir, yes, sir!” He returned the salute and practically floated off the bridge.
Only Kass and K’kadi felt the surge of relief that nearly buckled Tal’s knees when he learned the Hercs had kept their side of the agreement. Everything depended on the Hercs being there. All the years of anguish, planning and preparation gone to naught if the Hercs hadn’t fulfilled their part of the bargain.
His face rigidly blank, Tal ordered, “Resume course.”
Engines thrummed to life. The rebel fleet picked up speed. From her seat beside Tal, Kass thought back to her long years in the Regulon Interplanetary Archives, to the actual paper log in which she had found the coordinates of Pyka Gate. Coordinates she had memorized, promising herself that one day she would be free. One day she would find a way to use what she’d learned against the Empire.
And now, at last . . .
Dear Goddess, protect us all.
Chapter 28
As the rebel fleet popped through Pyka Gate, the ships spread out in a line paralleling the asteroid field directly in front of them. The irregularly shaped chunks of rock ranged from the size of the palace of Veranelle to the circumference of Crystal City, forming what appeared to be an impenetrable barrier. But over the years since Pegasus first made its way through the uncharted wormhole, the chunks of space debris had been carefully mapped. At Tal’s command, each ship would make a meticulously plotted run through gaps between the asteroids, assembling into attack formation well before the Regs could spot them and form any semblance of a counterattack.
Tal had few doubts about his ships making it through, but what would they find on the other side? Was the Reg fleet still far away, battling the Hercs, as planned? Or had someone talked? Did the Regs know about Pyka Gate? Had someone been smart enough to figure out the one-two punch of the rebel attack? Rogan Kamal was certainly capable of it. Had Archer missed seeing a trap? After all, the asteroid field worked both ways—a curtain that could hide Regs as well as rebels.
When they reached the far side, would they find an array of Reg warships lined up and waiting?
Logic said no. Odds were, except for a ship or two guarding the capital city, the Regs had sent everything they had against the Hercs. That’s what Tal was counting on. That’s the way it had to be.
Tal stood up. This was a command he could not give sitting down. “All ships, all ships. Stay alert. Be prepared for resistance on the far side. May all our gods be with us.” An infinitesimal pause, and then: “Execute Asteroid Penetration now.”
Confirmations echoed back, from Andromeda, Tycho, Scorpio, Centauri, and Lynx. From four frigates. From Pegasus, Gaia, and the other armed merchant ships, including the three from Deimos, strategically placed at intervals between the former Reg warships.
Is good. No Reg ships.
Sorry, K’kadi, but I’ll believe that when I see it, Tal replied. Too much hinged on surprise. Everything hinged on surprise. Without it, Tal doubted they could win. He was nearly certain no one on
Reg Prime knew their exact plans, but his father knew about both Pyka Gate and the Hercs, and who better than an Admiral of the Fleet to figure his son’s plan of attack? And there were ways to force anyone, absolutely anyone, to talk.
Rogan Kamal might be surprised by the Herc attack, but he was smart. He would have instantly alerted fleet to scan the skies for a coordinated rebel attack. So the moment they cleared the asteroid field, the secret was out. An all-out battle was inevitable. One they could win, as long as the Reg fleet wasn’t lined up and waiting to destroy them as they popped out of the sheltering disguise of tons of space debris.
Tal remained standing, legs braced, face stern, while the Psyclid observers on the bridge sat frozen to their seats, scarcely breathing, silently offering prayers, occasionally wincing as a few great hunks of rock seemed close enough to skim the hull. A soft scraping sound . . .
“Sorry, Cap’n,” Helmsman Turvik muttered.
Back to silence, the eyes not staring at Astarte’s forward viewscreen glued to the same menacing view on their comp screens.
And then . . .
The space between obstacles widened . . . the chunks of rock grew smaller . . . Disappeared. In front of them, nothing but the black of space, the brilliance of a myriad stars, with Regula Prime and its moon looming in the near distance.
And not one Reg ship of any kind.
“Well done, Mr. Khagun,” Tal managed. “Well done, Mr. Turvik.” He sat down abruptly.
Kass laid her hand over his. Well done, Captain Rigel.
Told you. K’kadi, clearly savoring his omnipotence.
“Mr. Khagun, you may proceed as planned,” Tal said. “Mr. Sagan, I need running updates on both Regs and Hercs.” Omni be praised, it looked like they were going to catch the Regs with their pants down.
Regula Prime had grown to a giant blue-green ball with amorphous white clouds drifting here and there when Tactical announced, “Reg ships breaking from the Hercs, Captain, coming this way.” A slight pause and then: “Sir, two battlecruisers . . . three hunterships . . . five frigates.”
“That’s it?”
“Looks like that’s all they could extract, sir. The others are heavily engaged with the Hercs.”
Tal blinked. It was working! All those long hours—days, months—of planning. Hopes that had once seemed insane. And it was happening best case, not worse.
As long as he didn’t think about his father.
Tal concentrated on the surge of euphoria, the relief, sweeping the bridge. He sucked it in, refueling his resolve. For the first time their own forces outnumbered the Reg ships sent against them. They were going to win.
Maybe.
Tal pressed a button on his comm unit. “All ships, all ships, prepare to engage. This is the first wave—there’ll likely be reserves over Titan. Let’s get through this lot so we can take on the next. Rigel out.”
After cutting the intership connection, Tal said, “Mr. Khagun, you have Astarte’s battle command. I’ll take our special forces.” With an expression that came close to mischievous, he surveyed his Psyclid “extraordinaries”: Kass, who could send anything from a weapon trajectory to a Tau-16 where it never intended to go. K’kadi who could fry a spaceship’s electrical circuits, rendering it dead in space. (K’kadi, who could do much worse than that, but would not unless forced to it—he was, after all, King Ryal’s son.)
Also at his command, Jagan, B’aela, D’nim, and T’mar who had been working together for well over a decade. A team capable of conjuring beasts, particularly dragons, so large they filled the sky, their house-high teeth set in a maw as tall as Titan’s highest building and threatening to swallow enemy ships whole.
Among his extraordinaries not engaging in the space battle: M’lani, T’kal, Alala, and a team of Psyclids adept at “freezing” Regs in place—a skill perfected during the Reg occupation. Their role in the invasion of Regular Prime must wait until the battle in space was won. Tal thought of them as his “ground troops.”
As the two space fleets charged toward each other, Kass kept her eyes on her comp screen, the years rolling back to the days when she’d thought a space battle must be glorious. Before she’d been imprisoned in the Regulon Interplanetary Archives. Before she’d sat slumped on the floor, alone and despairing, after the announcement that Orion and its captain, Talryn Rigel, had been lost in a battle with the Nyx. The end of her world . . . until a new hero caught her attention. S’sorrokan, the mystery man who seemed determined to start a rebellion against the Empire.
Nonsense, of course. Yet here they were, at long last.
“All ships, all ships, this is Rigel. Engage at will.”
Kraslenka, Titan
The current Admiral of the Regulon Fleet, white-faced, strode into the Emperor’s study. “Excellency.” He bowed.
“Don’t stand there cringing,” Darroch snapped. “Tell me!”
“Attempts have been made to erase the ships’ identifications, Excellency, but they are believed to be Tycho, Scorpio, Centauri, and Lynx. And . . .” The admiral’s voice faded.
“And . . . ?” the Emperor roared.
The admiral swallowed, tried again. “We believe one of the hunterships may be Orion, Excellency. With Talryn Rigel directing the attack.”
“Surely not a surprise after discovering the depths of the Rigels’ perfidy,” Darroch ground out.
“Yes, sir—I mean, no, sir.” The admiral squirmed. “There’s more, Excellency.”
Emperor Darroch Rysor Karlmann von Baalen’s ice blue eyes froze the admiral in place. “More?” he purred. “Regula Prime is being attacked by a rebel fleet using our own warships, and you tell me there is more?”
“Sir . . . Incredible as it seems, one of the rebel ships seems to be Andromeda.”
Astarte’s Bridge
Using nothing more than superior forces, classic firepower, and the zeal of rebellion, the Herculon fleet destroyed or scattered their Reg opponents in a battle that lasted six hours. The rebel ships from Blue Moon, with the aid of their “extraordinary” forces, took only two. Their combined losses so far: Hercula, one ship destroyed, two disabled. Rebels, all ships functional. After a short pause for emergency repairs and treating the wounded, both fleets turned their attention to the reason they were here: the final battle that would open the way to Titan itself. To Kraslenka and the Emperor.
As Tal had done at the Battle of Hercula, he now took charge of both fleets. He could almost hear Nik Drakos grinding his teeth, but at this crucial stage there could be only one commander. And grateful as Tal was, it wasn’t going to be a Herc any more than it was going to be Rand Kamal.
“General Drakos, Admiral Golias?” Tal said into his comm unit.
“At your command.” Tal’s lips twitched as he recognized Golias’s voice. Drakos would probably have choked on the words.
“All ships, all ships. Thank you for what you’ve done so far,” Tal said. “Now let’s finish this. Execute Titan Attack Plan.”
Kraslenka
“Send for Kamal and that miserable traitor, Vander Rigel,” the Emperor ordered, his voice all the more menacing for being barely above a whisper. “I want them here now!”
“At once, Excellency.” The courtier backed out of the room, the chill following him all the way to the palace’s communications center.
Chapter 29
Kass stared at the icons on her comp screen—black for rebels, red for Regs. The red icons were growing larger, more menacing by the moment. And yet—Kass frowned—the Reg’s last line of defense was surprisingly thin. The surprise attack had succeeded beyond their most optimistic expectation. And now, directly behind that thin line—Kass took a deep breath—Kraslenka. And Darroch. She settled in her chair, eyes on her screen, the eagerness for battle once again welling up inside as she searched for more opportunities to give Tal those malfunctioning trajectories he so admired.
K’kadi, azure eyes gleaming, searched his comp screen for something large, a battlecruiser or hun
tership. Ah, there! An anticipatory grin twitching at his lips, he focused his powers and . . . Done! The Reg huntership, its electrical systems fried, went dead in space. K’kadi closed his eyes, sagging in his seat, pleased by his “kill,” but annoyed, as always, that his strength was finite. He’d taken out three ships at the battle near the asteroid field, but with this fourth one he could feel the strain pulling at him, dragging him down. Fizzet! One, maybe two more was likely all he could manage.
Astarte lurched, taking a direct hit. The shields held; K’kadi’s concentration did not. He steadied himself on the comp console, muttered a few choice words against the stupidity of forgetting he was mortal, and forced his focus back to his screen, where a Reg battlecruiser loomed large—obviously as determined to take out Astarte as they were to get past it.
K’kadi shut his eyes, attempting to fight his way back from the limbo where his brain still wandered on occasion. But somehow all he saw was Ryal’s disapproving face. A son capable of fighting the Empire was not what his father had in mind when he chose to mate with Anneli, but it was why Kass trained him, why Tal sent him to boot camp. Very likely why he’d been so fascinated with a Herc warrior. Perhaps, deep down, why he’d been willing to marry her . . .
No! He too was a warrior now. With an enemy warship firing down Astarte’s throat, there was no time to think, no time for regrets. K’kadi reached out, out, out . . . enveloped the battlecruiser, gathered it in, bow to stern—bridge, engineering, weapons, cabins, storage. Crew. He insinuated himself behind the walls, into the circuitry, into systems that were wireless. And shut them down. Every. Last. One.
Vaguely, K’kadi heard the cheers that echoed across the bridge. And Tal’s “Thank you, Mr. Amund. That was closer than I liked.” A thanks echoed by Commander Khagun.
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