by Jay Allan
At least he’d had a chance to get a full report sent to Megara…and he’d dispatched one to Archellia as well. He didn’t know what was going on, either with the Admiralty or with Tyler Barron out on the Far Rim…but, as far as he was concerned, they were all on the same side. They’d better all be on the same side…or they didn’t even have the miserable chance he’d hoped they did.
His stare moved slowly, from one system to the next, gradually leading deeper into the Confederation. Away from the border, the fortification levels dropped off significantly…but he needed distance as much as fixed fortifications, perhaps more. He had to wear down the enemy’s logistics if the Confederation forces were to have any chance at all of victory.
Miramar.
He reached out and touched the small circle, bringing up a detailed system display.
It was perfect. There were only two transit points, one leading in from the frontier, and the other to Bellus, and then beyond, into the Iron Belt. There were two other main lines of approach toward the crucial interior systems of the Confederation, but if the enemy took one of those routes, he could still move to intercept either axis from Bellus…or, he could flank their advance and get behind their main fleet.
If the enemy pursued his fleet as expected, Miramar was a perfect system. A single inhabited world, with a dozen other planets, mostly gas giants, and, in all, perhaps two hundred moons. There were two separate asteroid belts, as well as long, willowy clouds of particulate matter scattered all around the system. And the whole thing was surrounded by an extremely dense Kuiper belt.
The natural features probably wouldn’t make a massive difference, but they gave him something to work with…an option beyond simply forming his fleet into a line and waiting to be overwhelmed. He would take whatever edges he could find.
Yes, Miramar…that’s where we’ll make a stand.
He felt strongly about his decision, more so with each passing second, as he considered the tactics and the makeup of his fleet. Pulling back to Miramar would also allow him to call in more reinforcements, and it was closer to any forces the high command might have dispatched from the Core and the central reserves.
He didn’t like what he’d been hearing about events on Megara, but he couldn’t believe the Admiralty—or the Senate, for that matter, corrupt gasbags that they were—could ignore the threat any longer.
Not after the fall of Dannith.
He wasn’t so sure those reinforcements wouldn’t come with an order relieving him of command, though. He was the officer that had lost Dannith, allowed an invader to push deeper into the Confederation. He blamed himself, so why shouldn’t he expect the high command to do the same?
It didn’t matter. He would lead the defense, accept a demotion and serve whoever came to replace him…or he would go back to Megara in chains and face a board of inquiry. But he would leave whoever commanded the fleet in the best defensive position he could create.
That was Miramar.
He shook his head as he considered the broader implications, the cost of choosing Miramar to make his stand. Three other systems to abandon, to leave bare and undefended to an invading enemy. There would be countless millions of terrified people, looking up at the sky, watching the waves of landers coming toward them…
* * *
Stockton was uncomfortable. Whoever had designed the Confederation’s flight suits, they wicked away a normal amount of sweat very well…but they became clammy, sopping wet things when perspiration moved past standard levels toward what would commonly be called profuse.
He was scared, there was no denying that, not even to himself, and the droplets streaming from his forehead and down his back were a testament to that fact. Watching Repulse vanish into the transit point had made the cold fact really hit home. He was alone…save for hundreds of enemy vessels bearing down as he stared at their approach on the screen.
He was burning a bit more fuel than he had been at first, not in a vain effort to chase after Repulse, but simply to get his fighter out of the path of the oncoming enemy fleet. That wouldn’t accomplish much if they were determined to chase after his single tiny ship, but he was willing to bet they’d ignore him if he could just get out of their path before they came through. They wanted to chase the fleet or to hit Dannith…or both. A single, apparently crippled fighter wasn’t likely to register as a threat to them.
At least that was what he hoped, what he was betting his life on.
What remained of his life. Escaping the enemy fleet would buy him time, but how much? His fuel supply wasn’t very good…to put it into technical terms, it sucked. And he had no place to go. He’d never catch up with the fleet, and the Carthago transit point was too far. He didn’t have a prayer of coming in on a solid insertion angle and transiting after Repulse. Not without more fuel.
The outer planets.
It was the only choice. The Hegemony forces were heading in-system, probably to land invasion forces on Dannith. The Carthago point was clear across the system, on the other side of the primary. But the sixth and seventh planets, two massive gas giants, were much closer, their orbits bringing them into an almost perfect line outward from his current location.
He wasn’t sure what it would serve to go there. Neither one was habitable, and a quick check of the moons in his databanks confirmed none of them were either, at least not more than marginally. He might land on Tovanus, assuming he could get there and bring his fighter down through the moon’s thick atmosphere. The environment wouldn’t be immediately fatal, at least not if he could bring his ship into one of the deep craters, where heat from volcanic activity would keep him from freezing. He might live a day there, or even two or three…but if he brought his ship into the gravity well, he’d never have enough fuel to get back up.
His eyes froze as he looked at the data scrolling past. Livinus. The moon was a hellish, frozen nightmare, and what passed for its atmosphere was a frigid, toxic cocktail of corrosives that would burn out his lungs, if the cold didn’t kill him first. But there was—or had been—a fuel refinery station in orbit. It was a robotic facility, and it had been abandoned for almost twenty years.
But just maybe, there would be some fuel left in its aging storage facilities.
It was a long shot. He could imagine how he would react if one of his pilots had come to him with the suggestion. But it was his best hope.
His only hope.
He looked down at the screen, analyzing approach courses. He’d be lucky to get there at all. He needed the most direct route possible.
He pulled back on the thruster, blasting a hard burst of thrust.
I think I can make it.
At least after I get out of the way of the hundreds of battleships heading right for me…
Chapter Eighteen
Hall of the People
Liberte City
Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV,
Union Year 221 (317 AC)
“This is an important command, Admiral. I have enthusiastically supported you, and I have rewarded you for the exemplary service you have performed, both during the war against the Confederation, and in quelling the internal disturbances.”
“Yes, First Citizen, you have indeed been kind, and my gratitude knows no bounds.” Denisov sounded as though he was trying to sound sincere, but Villieneuve could tell the officer was still moping, as he’d been doing since he’d crushed the rebels on Barroux. Villieneuve understood, to an extent, but it seemed like enough time had elapsed for Denisov to make peace with the sometimes high cost of power and victory.
Villieneuve wasn’t a sadist, and, despite what some might think, he didn’t enjoy inflicting torment on others. But he didn’t hesitate to do just that if it was what the situation required, and he was an absolutist in that outlook. It blinded him, making him truly unable to comprehend what killing over a billion civilians had done to his gifted admiral, both as an officer trying to cling to some shards of personal honor, and as a man.
“I have an
other reward for you, Admiral…the position you have sought your entire life. You are, from this instant, the supreme commander of all Union forces, answerable only to me and to no one else.” Villieneuve smiled. He was an emotionless man, a cold fish by colloquial standards, but he sometimes enjoyed bestowing favors on those who had served him well.
Denisov looked over at the Union’s dictator and returned the smile. “First Citizen, your generosity and support are overwhelming.” There was genuine joy in his expression—such a command had indeed been his wish since his earliest days—but the darkness shrouding him still remained. Villieneuve found himself becoming impatient, but he held back any anger he might have felt. If he did manage to forge an alliance with the new power threatening the Confederation, he needed the admiral leading the fleets.
“There is no generosity involved, Andrei. You have earned it…and you will continue to do so. The fleet is almost assembled, and when it is, you will lead it forward to the Confederation border.”
Denisov looked panicked for a passing instant before he regained control. “First Citizen…we have made much progress rebuilding, but I do not believe we are…”
“Relax, Admiral. You will not be invading the Confederation.” Villieneuve smiled again. “At least, not alone.” He paused, and pushed a data chip across the table. “This is highly classified, but I want you to read it thoroughly. The Confeds’ mission to the Badlands apparently turned up an unexpected discovery…more survivors from the Cataclysm. Many survivors, in fact—perhaps billions, an entire new polity of unknown size and power…and it appears a war has erupted between the Confederation and this entity.
Denisov looked stunned. He remained silent, his eyes fixed on Villieneuve.
“Yes, you heard that correctly. Even now, this new faction is attacking the Confederation frontier. Ideally, we would have had several more years to prepare for a renewal of hostilities, but I do not believe we can pass up the opportunity to join forces with this new entity. We can finally crush the Confederation, see Van Striker, Tyler Barron, and their comrades in chains…or dead.”
“I don’t know what to say…”
“Say nothing, Andrei. It is often best. Go survey your fleet. Take stock of the forces you will command…and prepare to depart within the week. Time is of the essence. We must approach this potential ally before they are defeated, or before they determine they can win without assistance.” Villieneuve paused again. “You must be ready for combat if…when…we sign a treaty, but your initial mission is to form up the fleet and bolster it any way you can. I give you blanket authority to conscript any vessels you feel are useful. We must show our strength to the Confeds’ new adversary, make clear to them how useful—how essential—our Union forces are to the fight they have before them.”
“Yes, First Citizen. As you command.” Villieneuve could see Denisov was stunned, and a bit uncomfortable as well. It was a lot to absorb in one sitting…and the admiral had a weak spot, a level of soft emotion he could control, but which sometimes came back to torment him. It was concerning, but not enough for the Union’s leader to hold back his best commander.
Not when it looked like the opportunity for vengeance just might come years sooner than he’d dared to hope.
* * *
Andrei Denisov walked down the halls of the newly-constructed naval headquarters, his freshly-polished boots clicking loudly on the gleaming marble floors. The fact that Villieneuve had been able to allocate funds for something as non-critical as a new fleet HQ, and that the finished result was such an ostentatious display of luxury devoted to a privileged class, stated better than any words could have, just how much more secure the First Citizen—dictator—felt in his position.
Villieneuve had displayed remarkable political agility simply in surviving the months after the war’s ignominious end, not to mention holding on to and consolidating power. He’d played the role of revolutionary and citizen soldier with considerable skill, standing alongside the workers, shouting revolutionary slogans as loudly as the most dedicated revolutionaries. It appeared such efforts were no longer needed. The people had been placated, or put down, and controlled brutality and fear were once again the primary tools to keep the Union’s billions in their places.
Denisov had seen his own star rising as well, and few had benefited as much from Villieneuve’s power as he had. His performance in the closing stages of the war had won him the then-Sector Nine chief’s notice, and his actions since had secured his place among Villieneuve’s chosen lieutenants. He’d long dreamed about reaching lofty rank, even command of a fleet, but he’d never let himself imagine he might one day be the leader of the entire navy, that he would be responsible to no one save Villieneuve himself.
He’d worked his whole life to get where he was, given his youth to the cause, abandoned all thoughts of a personal life. Everything he’d had beyond duty, all he could have sought elsewhere, had been sacrificed to the pursuit of military glory. And he’d attained it, more than he’d ever dared to hope he would. But in the end, the price had been higher than he’d ever imagined. He was the victor of Barroux…or the butcher, depending on perspective. Denisov had long despised Sector Nine, and its current successor organization was no different nor any less worthy of contempt. He’d always been cautious enough to keep his feelings about such things a secret. Now, he’d killed more people than any Sector Nine agent that had ever lived, more, perhaps, than the agency had slaughtered in a decade. He was a mass murderer, and no matter how much he tried to tell himself he was a military officer following orders, that he hadn’t dragged people out of their homes to torture and execute them, he still carried the guilt.
You didn’t drag them out of their homes. You just incinerated them right inside the buildings…the people…the children.
Denisov tried, as he always did, to stay focused on his duty. He had work to do, and while he secretly regretted that the dissension and revolution in the Union hadn’t resulted in a freer, more democratic system for the billions who remained virtual slaves to their government, he was, at heart, a loyal officer. He was deeply committed to the navy—his navy now—and to the state. It had served him well enough, and, despite the widespread cronyism and other factors sapping strength from the navy and the Union’s other institutions, he had to admit he himself had advanced based mostly on his own ability. Perhaps there was hope in that…and, whatever the Union’s faults, the Confederation had long been the enemy, and it had humiliated his beloved navy in the last war. He suspected his thoughts were less dark than Villieneuve’s, but he wanted vengeance for the defeat no less than the dictator.
And, whatever his faults, Gaston Villieneuve was his patron, and he owed loyalty for that. You’ve taken all he has given you…you can’t wallow in moral superiority while your hands are out greedily pulling in whatever he lays at your feet…
Perhaps Villieneuve was right. Maybe this new force from the Badlands was the ally the Union needed to crush the Confederation once and for all. He was still tentative. He knew his fleet wasn’t close to ready for a renewal of war against the old enemy. But if we can forge an alliance with these people, just maybe…
There was no point in thinking about it. He had his orders, and it was clear Villieneuve was determined to reach out to the newcomers. Denisov had no doubt of the consequences of failing his master. Villieneuve was always ready to shower rewards on those who served him well , but he was not a man to fail, and he could be merciless to those who gave him less than their absolute best.
Denisov needed to make the fleet look as strong as possible, to announce to the enemy that the Union was a powerful ally, ready to come to their aid at once. A lot of that would be exaggeration, if not outright lies, but he knew what he had to do. Villieneuve would handle the rest, the diplomacy. Mercifully, he had not added the duties of an ambassador to Denisov’s plate.
The admiral walked through a large open area, filled with junior officers and assistants, all at work doing…something. A few we
re engaged in necessary work, but the navy had not been spared the chronic bloat and bureaucracy that plagued all institutions of the Union. He considered trying to clean house, to hone the force he now commanded into a sharp, lean instrument. But that wasn’t a route to success in the Union. The entrenched masses of officials and their sponsors and dependents would strike back against any efforts to rid the navy of their pointless presence. Best to leave them be, and to focus on what had to be done.
He needed ships, every warship he could find, in reserve, drydock, half-repaired but still mobile…and probably more than that. He intended to confiscate freighters, tankers…anything he could add to his formations, to give at least a superficial impression of size and power.
He laughed bitterly to himself as his office door slid shut behind him. He’d fancied himself a reformer in his youth, and he’d awaited the day when the Union’s downtrodden seized the chance to rise up, to clear away the injustice, the brutality. He’d even dared to imagine himself as part of it all, an officer in revolutionary fleets blazing a trail of liberty across Union space.
And now you’re part of everything you once thought to overthrow. You’re what you always hated and despised, and your hands are covered in the blood you used to pay for your rank and privilege. You’ve sold yourself, and you got a high price, so you have no right to sulk, to feel sorry for yourself as you wield your power and enjoy your wealth. Follow your orders…obey the monster to whom you’ve chained yourself.