by Jay Allan
The master who owns you now.
Chapter Nineteen
CFS Dauntless
Variag System
Two Transits from Archellia
Year 317 AC
Tyler Barron sat in the admiral’s chair on Dauntless’s bridge, the very image of serene confidence, a consummate veteran projecting an aura of calmness and determination to the officers and spacers under his command. He had done so many times in his storied career, and it seemed almost second nature. But, something was different this time.
It was all bullshit.
Barron wanted to leave the bridge, to run off, take refuge in his office, his quarters…anywhere. His stomach roiled like a tropical storm, and he struggled to keep its contents in place. He knew what he had to do, that he didn’t have a choice.
But that wasn’t going to make killing Confederation spacers any easier.
“Range eight hundred thousand kilometers, Admiral.” As always, Atara sat just off to his side. As Dauntless’s captain, she’d perfected the art of operating somewhere between a ship’s commander and an admiral’s aide. After a decade of service alongside Barron, she had become indispensable to him, and her loyalty was absolute. He worried sometimes that her steadfastness to him had stymied her own career, that she should be leading a battlegroup by now. He’d tried to push her away—for her own good—more than once, but she’d always resisted. And he’d always backed off, as much because he didn’t really want her to go as anything else.
“Fighter status?”
“All fleet units report squadrons scrambled and ready to launch, sir.”
Barron had known that already. Not because he’d had any direct information, but because he knew the officers who had rallied to him. They were drawn from the elite of the veterans of the recent war, and he’d seen them all in action. They would have had their fighters ready, even if he hadn’t given the order earlier…and there was no chance at all any of them had failed to obey his previous command.
“Fleet order…all squadrons, begin launch operations.” Barron’s voice was grim—sending his fighters after men and woman who should be his comrades left no room for anything else—but it was resolute, too. He had to do this. The Hegemony was coming, and a divided Confederation had no hope of challenging the invader. He had to crush Whitten’s forces—and hopefully get as many of his ships as possible to yield—and then he had to go back to Megara. He had to sweep away whatever foulness and corruption had taken hold there…and he had to find Admiral Striker.
Striker was his friend, a mentor to him throughout the Union War…and a brilliant, veteran fleet commander. He was also, perhaps, the one person onto which Barron could dump his responsibilities, yield his hated position as the effective leader of those following him, and resume his previous status as one of Striker’s trusted subordinates.
First things first…you have to take out Whitten. Hopefully without destroying all those ships.
Reunited the Confederation would be of limited value if the fleet was blasted to wreckage fighting itself.
He could feel the vibrations from the catapults as Dauntless’s squadrons began launching. The sensation was far softer on the new battleship than it had been on its older namesake, but Barron could feel it, under his feet and in the arms of his chair.
He’d become more used to the new Dauntless than he’d thought possible at first, and he’d come to appreciate the capabilities the newer ship possessed that the older one hadn’t. He missed his first command, and he knew he’d remember the sometimes cantankerous old vessel the rest of his life. She was his first love, of sorts, but he was also beginning to truly embrace his new flagship.
“All squadrons launched, Admiral.”
He glanced over at Atara, utterly sure she had known he was aware of what she’d just reported before she had uttered a word. Barron had always focused on such details, thinking of his ship as an extension of himself. That hadn’t translated especially neatly to fleet command, but no matter how many vessels were under Barron, he would always have a special relationship with the one where he hung his flag. He was a ship’s captain at heart, and no amount of pinning medals or stars on him would change that, at least not deep inside.
“All ships report squadrons launched, sir.”
Barron nodded with a tiny smile. Dauntless was missing one thing for sure…her normal squadrons. Barron had left them all behind when he’d rushed back to the Confederation to give the warning, and he’d refilled her bays with whatever he’d been able to get since. The initial rookies and green reserve pilots had been augmented with some veterans as Barron had rallied more and more ships to his side, but the squadrons he’d just launched were a pale imitation of the crack wing the ship—and its famous predecessor—had carried before.
Whitten’s pilots will be raw, too…maybe more so than mine.
Barron knew his opponent would have recruited mostly from the capital system and its close environs, and that meant he’d be light on real veterans. Slots in the defensive squadrons deployed around the Core worlds were highly sought after, safe, comfortable postings that generally went to those with connections of some sort or another. There were sons and daughters of Senators and other high government officials throughout the ranks, he was sure, and few of the grizzled frontier world pilots who’d clawed their way into a cockpit. There was a certain prestige to an assignment in the fortresses around Megara or one of the other Core worlds, of course, but the battletested pilots from the front-line units tended to scoff at what they considered pampered lapdogs.
Most of those veteran pilots had been with the White Fleet, and that meant they were now with Clint Winters’s forces. He felt the absence of his veterans, but Barron would take the backwater squadrons that comprised most of his ships’ complements over the pampered, political units that likely filled Whitten’s bays. He wasn’t sure how much his own prejudices colored that comparison, his general disgust for politicians and their like…but he’d have an answer soon enough.
“Commander…all ships are to engage thrust at 3g. Forward, direct course toward the…” He paused, not wanting to say, “enemy.” “…other fleet.” He’d considered all sorts of tactics and battle plans, but in the end, he’d decided to just go straight in…hard, cold, unyielding. He didn’t have any respect for Whitten’s tactical ability, and now he was going to see just what kind of guts the sorry excuse for an admiral could find in himself. It was time to see if Torrance Whitten had the stomach to play a game of chicken.
“We’re going right down their throats.”
* * *
“The…rebel…fleet is accelerating at 3g, Admiral. They are coming directly at us.”
Torrance Whitten sat bolt upright in his chair. He suspected his people would think it was his pride, his arrogance or the fact that he thought of himself as virtual royalty in the navy…but the truth was, it was pure tension. Fear. Whitten had complained about Tyler Barron’s lightning-fast rise through the ranks, the rewards that had been heaped on his rival. He’d longed wallowed in bitterness, blaming anyone he could for the fact that he’d been largely denied front line commands, especially since Van Striker had taken the top posting. But, now, as he looked at his own chance for glory, to show once and for all that he, not Striker, not Barron, should lead the Confederation navy, he found himself choked with fear.
“Admiral?” The tactical officer’s voice was tentative. Whitten realized he’d been sitting for several minutes since the initial report, and he hadn’t said a word.
Should he stay in place? Advance to meet Barron’s forces?
He fought back the answer his own mind gave him. He wanted to turn and run. As much as he’d disparaged Barron’s success, he now realized just how much he was afraid of the veteran officer…how much, it seemed, he truly believed in the abilities of the man facing him.
“Get me a comm line to Dauntless.” The words came out of his mouth before he’d even thought about them. It wasn’t mercy driving him to con
tact Barron, nor the desire to minimize Confederation losses. He was afraid, and he was clinging to the frayed and hazy hope that Barron would yield.
“You are connected, Admiral.”
Whitten sucked in a deep breath. His first effort to speak failed, his throat dry, uncertainty taking hold of him. He tried again, willing himself to speak.
“Tyler Barron,” he began, putting all his strength and arrogance into his tone. He did not call his opponent “admiral.” Barron’s commission had been revoked when he’d fled justice on Megara. “I urge you to surrender at once, and I beseech you to think of the crews of these vessels before you begin a battle you cannot win. You are outnumbered, and you will be defeated. But thousands of people will die before that happens. I do not know what lured you to commit the crimes you have, nor what wickedness compelled you to escape the law and rally your former comrades to treason and rebellion, but I reach out to you now, to whatever remains of your loyalty, the oaths you swore so many years ago. Yield now. Surrender, and you have my word I will do all I can to secure leniency for you…and to see that those who have joined your rebellion are treated fairly as well. Spare the bloodletting that otherwise must occur here. Think of your people, and not of yourself. I beg you.”
Whitten leaned back and sighed softly to himself. He’d managed to say what he’d wanted to well enough. Perhaps he could convince Barron. Maybe the deadly battle looming could be averted.
A few seconds passed. Barron’s fleet was closing, but it took two or three seconds for a message to travel each way. Then Barron’s response came through the comm.
“Torrance…this is Tyler. Listen to me. I don’t know what is happening on Megara, but you have to believe what I have been saying. The Hegemony is coming, and it will take everything we have to face their forces. We cannot be divided right now. We cannot squander lives and ships fighting each other when the greatest threat in our history approaches. I urge you to join me, to step forward and stand at my side to save our people—all of our people—from enslavement and destruction. Do as I ask, join me…and you have my word when the Hegemony threat is vanquished, I will surrender myself to legitimate authorities, and I will face any charges laid against me, however fabricated they may be.”
Whitten froze in his chair, rage and fear facing off against each other inside him. He could feel the eyes of his bridge crew on him. He knew how reasonable Barron had sounded, how the strength in his voice would affect those who heard him.
He’d crewed the flagship with family loyalists, but what about the other ships, the captains and crews out there in his fleet? They would all be listening. He’d made a terrible mistake engaging Barron on the open comm. He had to respond, somehow…but he didn’t know what to do, and he listened as Barron continued his appeal, one he knew was directed at the captains and crews in his fleet, and not really at him.
* * *
“…if you stand down, if you do not engage…my ships will not fire on you. Most of you know me, many of you have served with me. You have my word on this, as a Confederation naval officer, and as a Barron. Do not engage, and you will not be attacked.” Barron tone was firm, his voice loud and steady as he spoke into the comm. He had gone farther than he’d intended, much farther.
His words were focused, and he directed them toward the fleet approaching his own, offering any of Whitten’s ships a chance to stand down. Any way he could remove Confederation ships from harm’s way was worth the effort and risk, and every vessel that did not fight would be ready and able to face the Hegemony threat, no matter who won the current struggle.
But he’d paid a price for his effort, forcing his ships to hold their fire until the vessels opposing them shot first. Barron’s entire fighting style had long revolved around getting the first and best shot, and with one well-meaning speech, he’d saddled his forces with a huge disadvantage. If he opened fire first now, he would reinforce the suspicions he was a liar and a traitor.
Unless enough of Whitten’s ships stand down…
He didn’t know what would happen…and the squadrons launched by the two sides were less than two minutes from commencing their attack runs. Any chances to avert a tragedy in Variag would be lost once the two waves of Lightnings opened fire on each other…and if he ordered his squadrons to hold back until Whitten’s birds opened fire, they would surrender the initiative. That was a grim enough prospect for his battle line; it would be disastrous for his interceptors.
“Tyler...” It was Atara, and the instant he heard her voice, he knew it was important.
He turned his head, just as she continued.
“We’re picking up energy readings from the Betar transit point, sir.”
Barron felt his heart sink. He’d been hoping for more forces to rally to him, but the Betar point led through the middle of the Confederation. Anything coming from that direction was far more likely to be responding to Whitten’s call than his own.
He turned his head back toward the display. He’d been pretty sure he could handle Whitten, at least before he’d yielded the first shot for all his ships in a desperate effort to save some of the spacers in the opposing fleets. But what the hell is coming through that point?
He turned back toward his comm unit, the words he’d just uttered replaying in his ears.
You just promised to hold fire…you have to call off those fighters, tell them to wait until they’re attacked. Go back on your word, and you might as well prove everything they’re saying about you…
If it isn’t already too late…
“Atara, get me a line to the fighter wings. Now.” But as he uttered the command, he looked at the display, and the energy readings from his squadrons.
It was too late…
Chapter Twenty
Approaching Refining Station Vesta-9
1,900,000,000 Kilometers from Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 317 AC
Stockton nudged his throttle forward, one more blast of thrust to continue his deceleration. The flight to the outer system had been a long one, his velocity slowed by his need to conserve fuel. It had been meticulous as well. If he’d drawn the attention of the Hegemony forces, he’d be dead. If he’d wasted even a small amount of the fuel he needed to reach his destination, he’d be dead.
If any one of a hundred things had gone wrong, he’d be dead.
But he’d made it—at least, he was close to the station. That didn’t necessarily mean he was going to survive or even that it was likely, but he was still alive at the moment, and he chose to view that as its own victory. That sort of mental trickery worked fairly well, as long as he could keep his eyes from landing on the indicators showing his dwindling fuel and life support status.
He’d been forced to divert the reserve power that would have kept his support functions operational for a few hours after his engines shut down from lack of fuel. It was a reckless thing to do, something the Academy didn’t teach…but it was also the only thing that had got him so far.
At least if I miss this, I won’t have long to wait.
There wasn’t any hope of rescue, so all a couple hours of gradually thinning air and dissipating heat could do was give him time to think. About Stara. About the war he was coming to believe would be a hopeless one. About death and destruction and defeat.
He was just as content to die that much sooner, if that was his fate.
But he hadn’t given up yet, not by a long shot. The odds had already been against his making it as far as he had. If it seemed even more unlikely he could manage the nearly impossible docking operation, or that the long-abandoned mining and refining station would still have usable fuel supplies aboard, Stockton had long laughed into the face of hopelessness. It had been almost all bravado at one time, but now the line between what he told himself he could do, and what he really believed, had blurred considerably.
He had enough in him for one more miracle, at least. He believed that, in his heart and his head.
I didn’t come this far to
run out of fuel and freeze to death in the depths of this system.
He tapped the throttle again. His ship was practically at a halt, floating about two hundred meters from the station. The mining facility was nearly a century old, he guessed, and it had been inactive for many years until the insatiable needs of the Union War caused a group of entrepreneurs to purchase the old facility and bring it back into production. At least that was what his database said.
Stockton didn’t know if the effort had paid off for them, but it was clear the end of hostilities had also terminated the obsolete structure’s usefulness. It had been closed again for more than two years now, and it appeared to be completely abandoned.
He watched his screen as his ship crept toward its target, and then he opened the blast shields on the cockpit and stared across the black expanse of space toward the dull gray metal construction, orbiting the closest moon of planet seven.
When the facility had been active, short haul orbital tankers would have brought the raw concentrated tritium and helium 3 from the dense clouds of the gas giant, and fed them into the refining lines to produce the precious fuel for nuclear fusion. There were no ships there now, no activity at all. That wasn’t a problem…it wasn’t as though Stockton had the time or skill to harvest his own tritium. All he hoped for was a small supply of refined fuel, enough to get his fighter out of the system.
He had no idea what he’d do after that, but he’d decided to take the whole thing one step at a time. And the first step was finding a way to dock with the station.
He pulsed his engines slightly, and a few seconds later, reversed the thrust. He was about fifty meters from the nearest section of the construct—forty-seven point six, the display read—and that was close quarters. His fuel was almost gone, and he had to make his first effort count. He just didn’t have enough power left for a second try.