by Jay Allan
Just then, an officer came into the room, stopping about three meters from the woman and dropping to one knee. Blanth was relieved. He was ready to continue arguing with Carmetia, but her words had taken him somewhat aback. He’d thought of patriotism in broad, general terms before. Country was an amorphous concept to him in some ways. He fought for the Confederation, whatever that meant, and not for the pack of thieves who governed virtually every world within it. He struggled to preserve the Confederation despite the injustices that were rife and afflicted so many billions of its people. The Union had made that easy…no amount of corruption and dishonest politics could make the Confederation the equivalent of the totalitarian nightmare ruled by Montmirail. But, the Hegemony was different. On one level, the system seemed alien, and it utterly repulsed him. But, he couldn’t help but seeing a certain logic in it…and that upset him perhaps the most.
“Pardon, Master Carmetia…my apologies for interrupting, but we have received a communique from the positions south of the capital city.” The new arrival spoke with reverent respect, and his avoided looking directly at Carmetia. “Unknown forces are attacking one of our supply convoys. We have dispatched reserve units to the scene…but I am afraid they may be too late to prevent…”
Blanth watched, noting the hesitation—fear?—in the Kriegeri’s voice, even as the officer finished his report.
Then, Carmetia interrupted. “Very well, Hectoron. You have done as needed to be done. I will expect a full report of the action as soon as it is available. Dismissed.”
The soldier remained on his knee for a moment, and then he rose, walking briskly out of the room.
Carmetia was silent for a moment. Then, she turned toward Blanth. “Do you see, Colonel? It has already begun…and, I fear if you do not assist me in stopping this insanity now, I will ultimately be forced to increase the sanctions on your people. Help me, Colonel. Help me save the lives of the citizens of this planet, and of your Marines as well. Tell me where your centers of resistance are located, your strongholds. I will offer your forces a chance to surrender with no fear of reprisal…that is not something I will be able to repeat later, after more damage has been done and I have been compelled to commit greater resources to the pacification of this world.”
Blanth looked back, understanding what she wanted, even seeing what he read as a measure of sincerity in her words and promises. But, he had only one response to give her, and try as he might, he couldn’t think of a non-profane way to express it.
So, he just sat there and remained silent.
* * *
“My name is Develia…and I understand your title is…Administrator?” The Master standing in the room was dressed in a crisp white uniform, and despite her smile and pleasant demeanor, she didn’t think much of the man she was greeting. She looked at the planetary Administrator, who, her intelligence reports suggested, was—had been—the planet’s chief executive. The man was flanked by two fully armored Kriegeri, both of them alert, looking as though they were ready to kill the prisoner at the slightest provocation.
She understood the soldiers’ efforts to protect her, but from the looks of the sorry figure they’d escorted into her new…office…she couldn’t imagine he was any real threat to her. He was clearly an Inferior, and while he was certainly above Defekt level, it was immediately obvious that he’d been allowed to develop a sense of self worth and importance far beyond anything justified by his abilities. The planet—Dannith, its people called it—was her first real field experience in assessing the Rim dwellers’ systems of government and their ways of life, but she already found the whole thing quite mystifying.
Who would allow a sorry specimen like this to rule over them?
“Yes…Develia. My name is Walter Cantor. I am the Chief Administrator of the planet Dannith, and…”
“Correction, Walter…you were the Chief Administrator. I am now the military governor of this world, and just so we are clear, you should understand that my authority is absolute.” She could sense the tension in her guards, the anger at the prisoner’s presumption to address her by her name—despite her quasi-invitation to do so—and without even the prefix ‘Master.’ It was inappropriate, of course, and she would have disciplined one of her own people for such a transgression…but Carmetia had been clearly briefed in her directives about procedures. The fleet would proceed to the very center of the Confederation, and crush the enemy’s will to resist with a lightning strike, and, while that was taking place, the occupying forces on the worlds along the line of advance would offer an easy way for the Rim dwellers to embrace Hegemonic rule. Force was to be employed only against those actively resisting, and others were to be handled as gently as possible, subject, of course, to their absorption into the Hegemony’s system.
So, she ignored, even humored, the fat, obnoxious Rim dweller’s presumption. He could be of help to her, and her initial impression suggested that he would be easy to control…and compel.
“Yes, of course, I understand. I just want to ensure the…easiest possible transition.” He didn’t use her name again, and she wondered if he’d sensed the reaction from the soldiers. That would at least suggest some basic animal common sense in the fool. “What can I do for you?”
She looked at him and hid the disgust she felt. Her mission was to bring the occupied population under control, to ease them into life as subjects of the Hegemony…but those who yielded so quickly, who let fear or opportunism shake them so immediately from their former allegiances, they earned only her contempt. She would use people like the Administrator, of course, and perhaps expend them in the process of bringing the population in line, but whatever happened, she would see that such weak, disloyal types were remembered when the genetic testing began. There was no way in the Hegemonic system to raise any subject’s test results…not even Akella, Number One herself, could increase the result of even one individual taking the great test. The Hegemony was built on the premise that only the very best should rule, that the strongest bloodlines must always prevail.
But, Carmetia had extraordinary powers as military governor, and she had some powers beyond those that existed on normal worlds of the Hegemony. She could impose deductions on the test results of any of the people of Dannith, for example, or simply take a candidate out of the running entirely, even cast him down with the Defekts. It was an amusing thought to imagine the creature standing before her, so corrupt and soft, and so used to the luxury his dishonesty had gained for him, trying to survive among the mutated, and often savage, inhabitants of one of the Defekt planets.
She stared at the whiny shadow of a man, thinking that was very likely just what she would do…once his usefulness was at an end. The citizens of the planet had been given the freedom to elect their own leaders, a strange enough concept from her perspective, and, Cantor is what they chose. She felt disgust, and pride in the Hegemony’s ways, and she scoffed at the notion that the average human being was fit to choose those to rule.
No pathetic, power-hungry piece of dirt like the Administrator could climb to high positions in the Hegemony government. That didn’t mean all Masters were as dedicated or as honest as others, nor could she say the Hegemony was free from corruption, but she couldn’t recall a…creature…like Cantor ever in any comparable position back home. Dishonest and incompetent rule was a blight under any circumstances, but corruption without ability seemed an absurdity, and she wondered why any people would accept it, and voluntarily choose someone like that to lead them.
She understood better why the fleet was there, and what was at stake. The invasion and ultimate conquest of the Rim would strengthen the Hegemony, bring in more industry and new genetic lines. The Hegemony was the future or humanity, the hope to avoid any repeats of nightmares like the Great Death. That was reason enough, without consideration for the Rim dwellers themselves, but the absorption would also save these people from themselves, from the poor choices they had made when given power they couldn’t understand or control.
She gestured again toward the table and waited as Cantor stepped forward slowly and sat in the closest chair. “Walter and I will be just fine, Decaron. You may wait outside.” Develia wasn’t the sort to take unnecessary chances, but in the unlikely event Cantor tried to overpower her…well, if she couldn’t handle a miserable specimen like him, then her death would be a form of needed natural selection.
“Yes, Master Develia.” The soldier was clearly unhappy with the order, but it was equally evident that the thought of disobeying the Master, or even arguing against her command, was utterly unthinkable to him. He bowed his head, and then waved to the other Kriegeri. The two soldiers swiftly walked out into the hallway, leaving Develia alone with the former Administrator.
“Now, Walter, where shall we begin? There is so much to discuss.” She paused. She knew exactly what she wanted, but she’d picked up on a certain amount of pointless chatter and the like as being a major part of the customs of the Rim dwellers. She couldn’t understand why they had patience for so much nonsense, such a volume of pointless and ineffectual prattle, but she figured, the more comfortable they were, the easier they would be to manipulate.
And, manipulation was a far preferable tactic to violent sanctions…or even genocide.
“We both know,” she continued, her voice still soft and pleasant, “it is in everyone’s interests to minimize the suffering of those on this world, Walter. Perhaps you can share with me any knowledge you have on the positions and intent of the armed military personnel who appear to have withdrawn to the planet’s most inaccessible regions.” She stared intently at Cantor, amused at the near panic she saw him trying to restrain. It was clear he didn’t want to help her track down the soldiers still resisting the occupation…but just as obvious he didn’t have the stomach to truly resist.
“Oh yes,” she added, “one other thing. My people are assembling a database of Dannith citizens who are most likely to create…difficulties…with the new order. Your aid in this effort would be most helpful. Perhaps you can offer us some names…those of the population most likely to be…problematic.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
CFS Constitution
Miramar System
Five Transits from Dannith
Year 317 AC
“Another enemy battleship destroyed, Admiral. That makes nineteen.”
Winters could hear his aide’s words, even through the thick veneer of his own focused analysis…not that he needed a reminder on the number of enemy capital ships his fleet had taken out. Seven, he added silently to the equation, his own internal thought, and the number of his own battleships that had been destroyed. Though, technically, Stafford and Glorious weren’t entirely gone, just dead in space while any survivors still aboard scrambled to escape in whatever small craft and lifepods were still functional.
He would have worried about where he was going to land the squadrons from those wrecked battleships, but the strike force’s soaring casualties had kept that task manageable in scale. The squadrons would have to be redirected, the formations from the lost ships sent to others with available space…but Commander Sinclair over on Repulse would handle most of that…and a quick glance at the holes in the OB told him she wouldn’t have much trouble.
Winters was amazed his forces had managed to inflict so much damage—more than he’d imagined in his wildest hopes. It was a fact he knew he owed, above all else, to the unrestrained, suicidal bravery of Stockton’s fighter wings. The Lightnings had streaked across the battle zone, blasting their engines to almost unmanageable velocities and attacking with outright abandon.
Who would have thought Stockton’s greatest battle would be the one that followed his…death? Winters was as reluctant as any of his people to accept the final loss of the great strike force commander, but he was a realist, and he forced himself to acknowledge that Stockton was almost certainly gone, that even if he had survived the initial fighting around Dannith, he’d been abandoned there by the fleet, left behind without fuel and surrounded by the massive forces of the enemy.
Winters felt guilty for leaving Stockton, if indeed his fleet had left the pilot behind alive. He felt the pain for all the pilots he knew had been left to die, floating in their survival gear or sitting in their crippled ships. He couldn’t speak to whether Stockton had been one of those, or if the legendary ace had simply been killed in the battle…and, he knew it didn’t really matter. Not anymore.
He understood the anger the pilots were experiencing. He’d felt rage in battle before, himself—he felt it even then, as he sat in the center of Constitution’s massive bridge—and he knew just what fury and power the need for revenge could unleash. Still, he’d never seen anything like the wild vortex the fleet’s pilots had let loose across the system, turning their pain of loss into unrestrained, primal rage.
More than thirty of them had slammed their ships into enemy battleships. How many had been deliberate suicide attacks as opposed to those who’d simply come in too hard and close, and hadn’t been able to pull up in time was a mystery he knew he’d never solve. Whatever the intent, he mourned for the lost pilots…though he still relished the immense damage they inflicted at the enemy. Whatever the Hegemony had expected from the…genetic inferiors…of the Rim, Winters suspected it was not what they were getting at Miramar.
Winters stared at the display, at the lines of his remaining capital ships, and the clouds of smaller escorts formed up around them. And, at the numbers scrolling down along the side, the figures that told him just how many fighters his wings had lost.
He wanted to stay in the fight. He was angry, consumed with black rage at the Hegemony and its fleets that had invaded his homeland, killed his people. He bristled at what he knew of their almost alien society, and he strained to think of something…anything…he could do to prolong the fight, to somehow defeat the enemy force he knew that, despite the savage effort of his spacers, was overwhelming his own. Despite every tactic he could devise, and every display of remarkable heroism by his people, victory was even more out of reach than it had seemed when the enemy had first arrived.
He only had one option. Retreat. Stay with the plan. Pull the enemy deeper into Confederation space…make logistics his ally in a battle against a force he couldn’t defeat in a straight up fight.
He hesitated, sitting for just a few seconds, watching as makeshift task forces continued to attack sections of the enemy formation. His fleet was a scattered mess…and he knew that was his own fault. He’d stayed too long, allowed himself to be seduced by the damage his people had inflicted, to believe it affected the tactical situation more than it did.
He had to call the retreat now…and it was going to be chaos. He would take more losses before he could extricate his people, before his battleships and their clusters of escorts could disengage and leave the system, he was sure of that.
And, he was just as certain of one other thing. He’d have to order the fighter squadrons launched once more, even as their motherships were breaking off, a final assault to cover the fleet’s escape.
That would also mean a dicey rush effort to land the small craft, even as the fleet’s battleships were racing toward the transit point.
And, it probably meant leaving some of them behind. Again.
Like you did with Stockton.
* * *
“Tony, get in here…now!” Nora Santorini stood in the blazing light of the operating theater’s harsh, white lights. The pale gray of her scrubs was almost gone, replaced by bright red stains, the result of the blood rituals she�
�d been engaged in for…how many hours now?
She’d been working around the clock, since Repulse went into battle…no, even before. She’d been in sickbay for two weeks now, almost without a break, sleeping an hour here and there slumped over her desk, but otherwise staring at the medpods that held Anya Fritz and Walter Billings. The two engineers had been brought to her on the precipice of death, and that’s where they remained, despite her almost constant efforts to cleanse them of the radiation contamination that was killing them. She’d repaired a good amount of the massive cellular damage the radiation had caused. If she hadn’t, they’d both have been long dead. She’d intervened surgically, multiple times, administered every drug she knew of that could help, done all she could think of and made a few wild gambles with untested experimental treatments. She hadn’t stabilized them, not exactly, but they were both still alive, and, based on the predictions of two weeks earlier, that in itself was a victory of sorts.
Repulse shook again. The ship had been hit so many times now, she’d lost count. The battleship had been fighting for almost twelve hours, a running, in and out kind of engagement where Captain Eaton had brought the vessel in on a sharp angle, blasting to more than one percent of lightspeed to make blistering attack runs before quickly zipping back out of range and decelerating to come about once more.