Warwick asked what they were going to do next. It was the same question Julian had been considering ever since the holographic mirage had appeared, seemingly ready to obliterate his fleet. He tried to convince himself that if he turned back now no one would blame him. They might even treat him as a hero for converting two other sectors to the Round Table and almost all of the Cartha sector and ignore that the mission had ended short of its goal. He would be credited with not wanting to jeopardize the lives or safety of the soldiers under his command.
He also felt the urge to get back to Margaret. Not only that, but to return Talbot home as soon as possible. When he was younger, he had enjoyed the long campaigns among the stars. Now, he found himself thinking of Margaret and the home they had said they were going to build together back on Edsall Dark.
However, he knew his own nature, knew that as long as one challenge was left unmet, he would always feel the call to travel into space for another mission. If, however, he were able to complete this final part of the campaign, he could go home with the knowledge that he could live out his remaining years in peace. He could turn his son loose to do whatever he wanted and allow him to find his own way.
Julian had the forces necessary to sway even the most arrogant ruler that it was in their best interest to join the Round Table. If he didn’t convert the Carthagens during this mission it would just mean someone else would be given the task and would have to come all the way back out here. And he certainly had momentum behind him.
If the Carthagens had thought that a light show would scare him away, it was because they were desperate. Whether someone was human, Feedorian, or Carthagen, desperation was a sign of fear. It didn’t take years of leading men and women into battle to understand that.
All of the holographic images of the officers were staring at him. He had to close his eyes for a moment to remember the question that had been posed to him.
“We stay on course,” he said. “We continue until we find the Carthagens. We convert them to the Round Table and we go home.”
“In short, we finish the mission?” Exeter said with a grin, trying to lighten the mood.
“Exactly.”
“There is one final question that still needs an answer,” Brigadier Maceus said.
“Yes?”
The scar along her eye seemed to expand when her eyes focused. “We still don’t know how the Carthagens tricked us. Something had to create all of those images of our vessels, and yet we never detected any source. If they have the technology to—”
Alarms began to blare from within the command room. Each of his officers jerked their heads to the side in response to alarms on their ships as their systems detected the same threat.
Without formally ending the meeting, Julian dashed out of the meeting room and raced to the command deck.
“What is it?” he said, but even before anyone answered, he saw it for himself.
In front of his HC Ballistic Cruiser, hundreds of warships faced each other. Row upon row of Athens Destroyers faced a bell formation of Solar Carriers. Behind either side of the Athens Destroyers, a small group of miscellaneous ships was aligned. The Vonnegan and CasterLan ships unloaded their laser cannons on each other. Three Solar Carriers targeted an Athens Destroyer with cannons and proton torpedoes until it broke into a dozen pieces, each engulfed with blue explosions and fire that soon extinguished themselves. An entire row of Athens Destroyers targeted a pair of Solar Carriers. While the stern portions of the two CasterLan ships were unharmed, the bows sustained so much damage that neither ship’s containment systems nor interior bulkheads could possibly protect the crew from the vacuum of space. With the front half of both ships decimated, both Solar Carriers drifted lifelessly away from the conflict.
Although Julian hadn’t been there for the battle, he knew exactly what he was seeing. It was the battle at Dela Turkomann. The battle in which Mowbray Vonnegan had outsmarted Vere, leading to the CasterLan Kingdom’s greatest defeat.
The ships in front of him were holograms. All of them. Every craft. Every explosion. It was all nothing more than another fancy light show.
“What should we do?” a lieutenant asked Julian.
“What is there to do?” Reiser said, shaking his head at what he was seeing.
Somehow, the fabricated battle was so detailed that it even had finely detailed holographic Thunderbolts and Llyushin fighters zipping through the fight.
“Should we raise shields?” an officer asked.
Julian waved his hand. “Do it.”
As soon as he did, he was sure the other ships in his fleet would see the defensive posture and do the same. It was a waste, though. At least as far as Julian was concerned. There was no threat from images projected into space, no matter how detailed they were.
“What’s the source of this display?” he asked.
An officer to his side, seated at a group of consoles, frowned and said, “No source detected, sir.”
“Keep trying.”
“Yes, sir.”
Every modern kingdom possessed simple projection technology. It was the basis of the proton banners that provided a floating flag above each planet he converted. That was simple enough. The amount of technology it took to not only project a complicated battle, but to do it in three dimensions, without giving away the image source, was quite another thing.
For the first time during the entire campaign, a wave of doubt washed over Julian. Still, he couldn’t help but think this was the same inkling of hesitation that Al-Non the Vanquished must have had before heading into a trap and being slaughtered by the combined tribes of the Sun-Racing raiders. It must have been the same moment of disquiet that Ash the Dim-Witted must have experienced before seeing all of the signs of an ambush and yet still leading his forces into a collection of gravity mines laid by Canter mercenaries. What most people had forgotten was that Ash had been known by the moniker Ash the Shrewd until that fateful misjudgment. Al-Non had been known as Al-Non the Impervious before his undoing.
What frustrated Julian was that he was looking at nothing more than lasers and lights, albeit an extremely advanced presentation of them, and yet it was making him aware of how far he was from reinforcements and of how little his officers knew about their potential adversary.
As he watched the recreation of the battle of Dela Turkomann play out in front of him, he knew that the decision he made at that moment would forever cast his own epitaph in stone. For better or worse, everything else he had done in his life would be forgotten; only what he did at this moment would be remembered.
He might be Julian the Fearful if he decided to turn and go back to Edsall Dark. He could hope that people would remember him as Julian the Protective for wanting to return his crew safely, but it seemed unlikely. He could bring the Carthagens to the Round Table and be known as Julian the Uniter. Or, if something happened and he and the rest of his fleet incurred great losses at the end, he might become known as Julian the Misconceived. All of it was possible in that moment.
“Proceed ahead,” he told the ensign at the engine controls.
The young man turned. “Into the battle, sir?”
Julian strode across the command deck. “It’s a light show, not a real battle,” he said.
The HC Ballistic Cruiser, which had come to a full stop, proceeded forward once again. As it did, the other ships in his fleet began to follow.
A holographic Athens Destroyer was breaking into two pieces after taking a barrage of proton torpedoes. Three others were vaporized by an Excalibur Armada vessel that self-destructed. A Solar Carrier was crippled by Arc-Mi-Die’s forces. Another erupted into explosions after a pair of Athens Destroyers unloaded a series of cannon blasts on it. A Llyushin fighter was struck by a laser and careened off into space with blue energy bursting from its damaged engine.
The nose of Julian’s cruiser entered the fray.
An instant later the entire battle, both sides of it, flickered into pixels and began to lose its det
ail. After a minute, every imaginary flagship and explosion was gone. As before, nothing was visible but the seemingly endless asteroid field.
23
In his private chamber, Lancelot sat on the ground in full armor with his four legs out in front of him. On the ground beside him were his Meursault blades and vibro lances. The warrior looked down at his weapons, remembering how each one felt in his hands. He picked up one of the lances and began polishing it with a cloth.
“What are you doing?” Mortimous asked. There was no accusation in his tone, only curiosity.
Without looking up, Lancelot answered, “What does it look like I’m doing?”
Lancelot had recently taken to answering each question with a question of his own, turning Mortimous’ game against him.
After wiping down and inspecting each part of the lance’s handle, Lancelot held the weapon in the hand of one of his shorter arms and pointed the weapon across the room. After pressing a switch, a metal rod shot out in a straight line. The lance appeared nearly as fast as a streak of laser. It was three times longer than any sword. As soon as it was fully extended, the long spike burst into life, energy and light crackling across every part of it except the handle.
Lancelot leaned his head to the side so he could look down the length of the weapon. Satisfied, he retracted the lance’s shaft so it disappeared into the handle, then set the weapon aside.
“Do you think what you’re doing is wise?” the figure, still unseen, asked of the Carthagen.
Hidden underneath his helmet, a smile came across Lancelot’s lips. “Do you think what I’m doing is wise?” He did not expect an answer.
As he had done with the first weapon, Lancelot picked up the second lance by its handle, then set about wiping his cloth across every edge and rounded corner of the handle.
Mortimous stepped forth out of the shadows, covered in a black hooded robe. To Lancelot’s surprise, he offered an answer.
“All you can do is what you think is best. That is all anyone can do.”
Lancelot nodded as he held the second lance’s handle away from him and ignited the weapon. The spike burst forth in a straight line, energy coursing up and down its length. Looking at its path, inspecting the distance it extended from his hand, he nodded and switched it off again. Satisfied, he put the lance down.
Just when Lancelot thought he had finally found a way to stop the incessant flow of questions, Mortimous added, “Which leads one to ask, do you think this is the best thing you can be doing, Lancelot?”
The warrior briefly considered removing his helmet just so Mortimous could see the smile there.
“Do you think this is the best thing I can be doing?”
Satisfied with both lances, Lancelot began wiping down the handle of the first Meursault blade. The rest of the weapon was invisible until he shifted his grip in order to polish the guard’s underside.
Mortimous said, “No, I do not think this is the best thing you can be doing.”
Lancelot paused, surprised. It wasn’t often that Mortimous was blunt in providing his opinion.
“Is that right?” he said, going back to polishing the rest of the first sword, trying his best not to reveal his disappointment at the verdict. “What do you think I should be doing instead?”
Satisfied with the first Meursault’s handle, Lancelot held the sword in one of his longer, primary arms. With one hand he began making curving motions with his wrist. In front of him, stone-colored mist appeared in the room where the invisible blade cut through the air. After feeling the Meursault’s almost nonexistent weight, Lancelot set the weapon aside and began the same routine with the second sword.
Mortimous said, “I think you should be doing what makes you happy. It doesn’t look like being the Carthagen’s executioner offers a particular contentment.”
Lancelot cringed, happy once again to almost never take off the helmet that obscured every facial expression. He had conversed with Mortimous enough to know his previous question had been the wrong one. He had managed to keep the cloaked apparition out of synch with questions of his own that were worthy of being considered. With Lancelot’s last question, however, it had given Mortimous the chance to cast an all-too-accurate judgment. If it was that easy to make someone doubt their actions, it was obvious that Mortimous’ sentiment carried merit.
Lancelot hadn’t always thought that his life would be spent killing anyone who attempted to visit his reclusive race. What child grows up wanting to slaughter unwelcome visitors? Surely there had been a time when Lancelot had different aspirations. He just couldn’t remember what they had been.
After completing the same series of gestures with his second Meursault, Lancelot watched the vapor trail that followed the invisible blade. When the air was clear again, he looked up at the figure still standing at the far corner of the room. With his front two legs and his two lower arms, he pushed himself up to all four feet. Then, leaning over, he picked up each of his four weapons and slid them into the sheaths attached to his armor.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Lancelot said, striding toward the cave door. There, he paused, turned back toward the shrouded figure, and with amusement in his voice, added, “I have some executions to carry out.”
Mortimous did not offer a reply.
24
“I have received an update on the Round Table fleet’s status,” Winchester told the representatives seated around the expansive table.
To Winchester’s side, Octo grinned with satisfaction. Hector closed his eyes and tried to prepare himself for the worst.
Cash nudged Hector and whispered, “Another day, another planet to force ourselves upon in the name of peace.”
Pistol approached and handed a small device to Hector that likely contained the same update Winchester was preparing to read. A few seats further down the table, Cimber gazed at the hundreds of representatives. He had a perpetual grimace at what he was witnessing—the birth of an empire.
Winchester cleared his throat. The top of his uniform was baggy, and he pulled the fabric away from his neck before continuing. When he glanced down at the device in his hands, his green eyes were blocked from view by his bushy eyebrows.
Looking up, he said, “General Reiser and the rest of the fleet have entered the Orleans asteroid field. They have encountered some kind of advanced holographic projection system but are proceeding further into Orleans to find the Carthagens.”
“What was the nature of the hologram?” Hector said. It could very well have been further down on the update Pistol had handed him, but he wanted everyone else in the room to hear as well.
Winchester scanned the room for the person who had asked the question as if he thought he would be the only person with something to say.
Hector repeated the question.
“Well,” Winchester said with a sigh, “there were two such holographic displays. The first was a full-scale mirror image of the ships General Reiser is in command of. The second was a reenactment of the battle at Dela Turkomann.”
The giant room became filled with a cacophony of aliens and humans offering surprise, confusion, and concern.
Beside Winchester, Octo held up a hand for silence and said, “Everyone, calm down. There were no attacks or displays of aggression. The holograms disappeared shortly after forming.”
Hector saw Cimber’s hands clench into fists and held his breath. His own gentle nature was the main reason other representatives were willing to hear him out. In contrast, Cimber’s combative tone often made him more enemies than friends, which was why Cash usually spoke up immediately after his friend had said something more confrontational than necessary.
“And what do you think they are trying to tell us?” Cimber’s tone left no doubt that he wanted to make a fight of it.
Octo’s eyes bounced left and right as he tried to make sense of the question and the implication behind it. “I have no idea.”
Cimber shook his head in disgust. Hector took a deep breath and t
hen exhaled.
Cash said, “The Round Table forces are approaching an alien race that we know almost nothing about. The only thing we really know is that they value their isolation. And yet no one stopped to consider what they might be trying to tell us by creating holograms of the CasterLan Kingdom’s greatest defeat?”
“What are they trying to tell us?” a Gurtharian lizard hissed.
A dozen other representatives repeated the question.
Cash looked at Hector and several other representatives he commonly dealt with. “Like the rest of you, I have no idea what the Carthagens are trying to say,” he said. “But it doesn’t sound like a friendly welcome.”
Some in the room laughed at his understatement. Octo gave a polite chuckle and clapped his hands as a way of politely dismissing the comment.
Winchester’s scratchy voice rose. “You don’t know, and yet you sound so concerned. Shall we recall the fleet because you don’t know what a hologram was supposed to mean?”
More in the room began to laugh, but now it was directed at Cimber and Cash. Cimber balled his fists as if he planned to get up from the table, cross to the other side of the room, and start thrashing Winchester.
A muscle in Hector’s jaw twitched. Both of his massive hands, one flesh and the other energy and metal, gripped the edge of the table.
“I think,” he said, nodding toward Cash, “that what my friend is saying makes sense; caution should be exercised. We know almost nothing about the Carthagens. The two communications they have provided have been visuals of war or military strength. They could have chosen any image, but they created images of what our ships have done in the past and what they look like now. I agree with Cash that this doesn’t bode well.”
Octo got to his feet for emphasis. “Should we have General Reiser turn the fleet around and let the Carthagen people remain under the rule of their leaders because of a hologram? We came together to defeat one of the greatest empires in the history of the galaxy, and now you wish to forget the purpose of this Round Table as soon as our forces encounter something peculiar?”
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