by Jay Allan
Whatever it took.
* * *
Raketh stood silently, staring down at the large display in the middle of the control center. His appearance was a surprise to most of those present, who looked on respectfully, and as unobtrusively as they could.
He glanced around for an instant, before deciding he didn’t really care. He rarely came out of his sanctum, so the unsettled effect on the control center staff was understandable. He was one of the top one hundred in the Hegemony, if barely so, and to his mind, that had always carried with it a certain need for aloofness to his behavior. That particular form of his status was unofficial, besides his rating of Ninety-Six, of course. The top one hundred meant nothing in particular, save for an informal honorific. The top ten rated citizens formed the High Council, but below that lofty group, little mattered save an overall rating. Ninety-Nine was higher than One Hundred One, but the difference was of no particular note.
Save to those like Raketh, whose egos pushed them to behave as they imagined their lower-ranked peers expected. He’d long endured the anticipation that one day, he would slip out of the top hundred, a designation relevant for no other reason than he had made it significant to himself.
But, now he needed to review the data on the main display. The contact from the Union representatives had been unexpected. Preliminary intelligence had suggested there were multiple polities on the Rim, but only now, with the information captured on Dannith, were the experts able to develop a truly useful view of the political and cosmographic structure of the Rim.
Raketh’s first impression was, the region was larger even than he’d expected, its population even more vast than the highest estimates that had come before. That both increased the urgency for the Hegemony to absorb the new source of industry and genetic material, and increased the scope of the overall operation. The grand fleet was strong enough, even with the revised projections, but it was the time factor that most concerned him. He knew Akella had been clear in her directives to Chronos, as the fleet’s supreme commander’s had been to him. The commitment of the entire grand fleet, a century’s relentless construction and preparation, left the Hegemony home systems poorly defended. Raketh didn’t know if he believed the worries, treated almost as prophecy, that the Others would one day return, but now that he was hundreds of lightyears away, with most of the fleet deployed on the Rim, he found himself uneasy about the prospect, more concerned than he could recall ever being before.
The pacification of the Rim had to move swiftly, and the powers had to be defeated militarily in space, even if the planetary landings and full integration took considerably longer. It was simply too dangerous to keep the vast majority of the fleet’s strength so far from the centers of Hegemony habitation.
The Reserve had been left behind the main advance of the fleet, back beyond even Pollux, deployed in the area the Rim dwellers called the ‘Badlands.’ The location had not been a random choice. The ships were close enough to support the invasion if they were needed, but also on a line back to the core Hegemony systems. Just in case.
But, now the choice was between time and caution. Raketh had studied the Union, though the data available to him came exclusively from Confederation sources. The two powers had just fought a war, and the Confederation had won. The Union, though actually the larger of the two entities, had been badly defeated, and it had fallen into a brief period of unrest, even revolution. He took the Confederation analysis with a healthy dose of skepticism, but it seemed almost certain that the basics, at least, were accurate.
That meant the Union had to be weak, that it could only be in the early stages of recovery from the recently concluded conflict. It seemed odd to him that the Confederation would allow their enemy to continue as an independent polity and to rebuild their armed forces, but he found many things about the Rim dwellers strange.
Still, if he was right, he could shave considerable time, years perhaps, from the timetable for pacification of the Rim…if he deployed the Reserve and hit the Union immediately. They had even been kind enough to tell him their fleet was massed—likely intended as a show of power to entice the Hegemony to ally with them against their recent adversary. He’d had the ambassador’s ships destroyed, which would have served as a warning to the waiting Union forces…save he’d been careful to ensure that no drones the vessels had launched survived escaped.
The Union fleet was waiting for word on a treaty, formed up in a single system. That was the only piece he lacked, the specific location…but he was confident he would have that information shortly. The ambassador was a captive, and likely finding his stay on Raketh’s flagship to be less comfortable than ideal diplomatic standards. Raketh had expected the fool to have talked already, but it appeared that the Union instilled a certain…fear…in its personnel, one the Confederation didn’t seem to match. The diplomat had turned out to be quite a bit stronger than expected, but Raketh had no doubt the man would break. Whatever had scared him so was back in Union space…and Raketh and his inquisitors were there, with him. It was far from a fair matchup.
Raketh wanted fleet strengths, details about the Union’s government and its status, all sorts of information…but most of all, he wanted the course to the system where the Union ships were waiting, where they lay all together in one system.
Where he could destroy them all in one swift strike.
He had a bit more time for the interrogation to play out. He couldn’t move forward yet, anyway. This wasn’t an operation he could approve by himself. It required Chronos’s authorization, and he’d dispatched a courier ship to make his case, and hopefully return with the orders he needed.
Then, he would cripple the second major Rim power in one great fight. His military reputation would be restored completely, and even reach new heights.
And he would never hear about the retreat from Dannith again.
* * *
“There are camps all around Port Royal City, Major. They are bringing people into them, civilians mostly, though they seem to have a few military prisoners as well.”
Holcott listened to the report, the third he’d had detailing almost exactly the same thing. The others had come from Devon and Clandith, two of the smaller cities near the capital. But, now the same thing had been observed at Port Royal.
He didn’t know what was going on, but he was sure of one thing. It wasn’t good news.
Holcott was no stranger to atrocities, and not even to concentration camps. He’d seen some terrible things on worlds that had been occupied by the Union during the recent war, internment camps, mass graves, the human remains of brutal Sector Nine pacification operations. But, for all their aggression and arrogance, the Hegemony forces had not so far shown inclinations to brutality, nor the desire or intent to massacre large segments of the population.
He wondered for a moment, what had changed, what could have pushed the invaders to increase the harshness of their operations. He didn’t have to think long. He knew. He had caused this, along with his Marines. The resistance efforts had gone far better than even he’d dared to hope, and now he was seeing the enemy response.
He’d been committed to the guerilla campaign, to keeping some level of resistance alive, but now he wondered if his people could achieve anything lasting, or if their efforts would just bring suffering down on the civilians of Dannith.
How far would the Hegemony go if his Marines continued to press them, sustained the pressure on their supplies, the infrastructure, even on their isolated combat units? Would those camps fill up, would they morph from detention facilities to execution centers? Would the Hegemony withdraw their forces if the resistance inflicted losses that were too great? That seemed like victory in one sense, but what would the Hegemony do if they were compelled to pull back to their ships?
Dannith didn’t have any orbital defenses remaining, nor any on the ground either. It would be almost ridiculously easy for the Hegemony ships to launch a nuclear bombardment, one designed to break the back of the
resistance and any perceived support it was receiving from the population, and damned the harm to the planet and the casualties inflicted on the civilians.
Or, they could simply launch a full-scale attack, designed to exterminate all life on Dannith.
There was no room for romantic images now, no place to imagine heroic Marines waving flags after the enemy had been driven away. A planet of massive craters, of huge clouds of radiative dust floating over blasted and dead cities…that was just as likely.
Holcott considered if he should stand his people down, even surrender to the Hegemony forces. But, he only thought about it for a few seconds. He just wasn’t built that way, and giving up wasn’t in him. He would keep up the pressure, see just how far the enemy could be pushed.
And, if he miscalculated, if the enemy ended up pulling back and glassing the planet, perhaps the ashes of Dannith would serve as a rallying cry for the rest of the Confederation forces. Holcott was a Confederation Marine, and he knew it was the war that counted, and not any individual battle.
Even if he was dead center in this particular fight.
Chapter Forty-One
CFS Dauntless
Orbiting Planet Megara
Olyus System
Year 317 AC
Barron was in his office, standing next to his desk, talking into the comm. “The fleet is ready, Admiral. You’d better get up here…we’ve got to get moving. My guess is, Clint Winters is going to need our help, sooner rather than later.”
“I’m not coming, Tyler, not now.”
Barron heard Striker’s words, but he couldn’t quite believe it.
“Admiral…”
“No, Tyler, listen to me. You did all this. You assembled the fleet…and, as much as anyone, your presence made the peaceful end to the mess down here possible, and averted what could have been an absolute disaster. That is your fleet right now. Those spacers swore to follow you, even when they knew they were risking treason charges to do it. You deserve to command. More importantly, they deserve to have you command. I am free now, thanks to Gary, but I am far from ready for action. I could take command of the fleet, but that would be nothing more than vanity, arrogance. You have faced the Hegemony already, you and Clint Winters…not me. You are ready for this. It is what you were born for…go, and I will stay here, and see to the defenses of Megara. And, I will rally the rest of the fleet, recall every unit we’ve got back to the Core.”
Barron heard the words, but he couldn’t completely believe them. He’d taken command of the fleet when he’d had no choice, when he’d had to face off against Whitten…but, he’d never imagined leading it against the Hegemony, not once Van Striker had been found.
“Admiral…”
“You’re ready, Tyler. You are. I can see it. Everybody can see it, except perhaps you. I’m not fit to take command. I can barely stand. My vision is blurry. How can I lead the fleet on a mission so desperate? I could shuttle up there, take command, sit down in the middle of a flagship and shout out orders, but I would be putting my own ego above the interests of the fleet, of the entire Confederation. Go, and take all our wishes with you, and our prayers. Gary and I will see to Megara’s defenses, to the recall of every hull the navy’s got, ready for action or not. If you and Clint Winters can’t stop the enemy before they get here…we’ll be ready when you fall back here. As ready as we can be.”
Barron was silent. He didn’t know what to say, and the thought of being in total command terrified him. But on a level that had nothing to do with war or the enemy, he was glad, too. The command of the fleet, the desperate fight…it would leave him with no time, not even for thoughts.
Not even for grief.
“Admiral…yes, sir. Thank you for your confidence.” He felt he should say more, but that was all that came to him.
“You’ve earned it. Now, go. You need to get there as soon as possible. We both know, time is not our ally, as we may have hoped it would be.” A pause. “And, remember, Tyler…your grandfather is with you now, in every way that matters. He once set off with a fleet on a mission no less desperate. Find your inspiration in him, in the blood that flows through your veins. And, know the pride he would feel in you now.”
Barron felt a surge of mixed emotions, but he clamped down on it hard. Van Striker had been a role model, a man he’d been proud to follow for the past eight years…and he took the charge the admiral had laid on him with deadly seriousness. He knew what he had to do.
“Thank you, Admiral.” He paused for a few seconds, glad he was alone. He didn’t even want Atara to see him now, not until he had a minute or two to gather his thoughts. “I will do the best I can, Admiral Striker. We will give them one hell of a fight.”
“I know you will, Tyler. We all know.”
There were a few seconds of silence, and then another voice came through the speaker. “Tyler, before you go, I’ve got someone else who wants to join you.”
Barron turned back toward the comm unit, confused. The voice was Gary Holsten’s…but then someone else spoke, too. It was familiar, but for an instant, he couldn’t place it.
“Admiral…it’s a bit of a violation of regs, but if you’re okay with it, I’d like to come aboard and go with you. From what I’ve heard of this fight, I think I could help.”
Barron stared at the desk for a few more seconds. Then: “Dirk?” The image of Dirk Timmons appeared in his mind. Timmons had been a pilot, one of the very best in the fleet.
The only fighter jock who’d ever really given Jake Stockton a run for his money.
“You’re at the Academy now, aren’t you?”
“Yes…it’s the only place a pilot with no legs is useful. At least that has been the case until now. But, I can still fly, Admiral…pretty damned well if I say so myself. I spoke to Admiral Striker, and he’s okay with looking the other way on regs if you are. It’s a stupid rule anyway…my prosthetics are top rate. There’s nothing I can’t do now that I could have done before.”
“You’re welcome on Dauntless, Dirk…most welcome. We can always use an extra pilot, especially one who flies like you do.”
“Well, Admiral…”
“What is it, Dirk?”
“Well…it’s not just me. Admiral Striker and I came up with an idea. There was a huge supply of new Lightnings in storage down here…and, well, if you don’t mind finding some extra space in those bays up there, I’ve got every upperclassman from the Academy’s flight program ready to go, all of them volunteers…and every one taught to fly under my supervision.”
“Every upperclassman?”
“Yes, sir…can you cram an extra three hundred Lightnings into the fleet’s bays? Because, from what I’ve read about the enemy, I’m betting you can use them.”
* * *
“We’re getting a message from the drone, Admiral.” Atara’s voice was crisp, but there was no disguising the tension level hanging over the fleet, and every officer and spacer in it. And, that included its commander, Tyler Barron, who was desperately trying to wrap his head around just what a massive force he now led…and into what kind of nightmare he led it.
He’d listened to Striker’s words of encouragement, and even searched his deepest memories for images of his grandfather, memories, words the long-dead officer had spoken to him decades before. But most of what came to him spoke of a grandfather’s love for his grandson, of fishing trips and not stratagems of war. The elder Barron had died before he’d had the chance to truly pass on his wisdom and his experience in battle.
Tyler was out of his depth, tens of thousands of spacers relying on him…and the very survival of the Confederation hanging in the balance. He wasn’t ready, no matter how many followed him, no matter what Van Striker said. No matter what last name he carried.
He wished that he’d argued more with Striker, convinced the admiral to take command…but he knew his friend and mentor wasn’t up to it. There was physical stress in battle, the pressure of g forces, the crushing fatigue that wore down
even the fittest of officers…and he suspected Van Striker belonged in the hospital after his long captivity, and certainly not on the bridge of a battleship.
Striker had been right. Tyler knew he had to do this…however unprepared he was.
The fleet had been about to transit out of Olyus, the system that contained the Confederation’s capital of Megara. A place that would almost certainly be the enemy’s next target if Barron and Winters couldn’t find a way to stop the Hegemony fleet’s relentless advance.
At least I won’t have to choose where to make a stand. That weight is on Clint Winters’s shoulders.
Winters’s messages had kept Barron updated, first on the existence of the enemy supply and support assets, a vast train of ships that would allow the Hegemony forces to quickly refit after each battle and press on almost immediately, without the normal delays that had always caused invasions to bog down into logistical morasses. It was a massive change in the dynamics of war, a huge advantage for offense over the normally dominant defense.
Winters had done a remarkable job of dealing with the impossible so far, at least in Barron’s estimation, though knowing the officer as well as he did, he suspected the admiral rated his inability to stop the enemy as a failure…despite the gross inadequacy of his forces and the fact that the rest of the fleet had been busy facing off against itself instead of moving forward to his aid.
Barron stared at the display, watching as the small communications drone blasted in-system from the transit point. The fleet was formed up, Timmons’ fighters crammed into every available slot on any launch bay that could take an extra bird. Every ship commander and crew were ready for what lay ahead, certain in the desperate need to be their very best, to find a way to prevail in the daunting fight they all knew was coming.
“Put it on speaker, Commander.” Barron had hesitated, thinking for an instant that he should listen to it first, alone, but he put the notion aside. Every officer in the fleet, every spacer waiting, facing the specter of death in the coming battle, had a right to hear whatever message that drone carried. They were all on their way into the maelstrom, into a fight every one of them knew could be his or her last.