by Jay Allan
Marieles walked forward as the warning lights went out, signaling that the broadcast had ended. She smiled and extended her hand toward the reporter. “That was excellent, Raina. With any luck, we’ll have some new footage for your show tomorrow.” Marieles knew for certain they would…though it would show activities ostensibly occurring later that evening, it was already filmed and waiting in her secure system.
“Thank you, Desiree. This story has taken on a life of its own. Government corruption is one thing, but the reach of this is beyond anything I’ve seen before.” The reporter seemed genuinely happy at Marieles’s words. Raina Maren was one of ITN’s top assets, their highest rated on-air personality. Marieles found it amusing that, amid all the paid operatives she’d been struggling to integrate into the network, one of the company’s pre-existing employees had bought into her manufactured storyline with such unrestrained momentum. She was still stunned that such an obviously intelligent woman could allow herself to be so easily deceived…and could demand so little evidence before allowing her beliefs to rigidly take hold. And a journalist with a wall full of awards, no less.
Of course, her ratings have never been higher. Maybe that’s why it was so easy to get her to wear a fake bandage on the air…
“If we get the evidence I’m expecting, tomorrow you’ll have your most impactful segment yet.” Marieles paused. “I wish I could tell you about it now, but I have to be sure we can back it up before we even risk discussing it.” That was all show, of course. The evidence to back it up had all been manufactured already, and it was in place. When the news hit…the Confederation population would go wild.
Assuming we’ve prepared them enough. Working up anger toward the government was one thing, a far easier effort than turning public opinion against a beloved figure.
Once she set this final series of operations into motion, she would go beyond the point of no return. Black Dawn would be active…and she would be fully committed.
* * *
“Well, it costs four times what a beer does on Dannith—and six or seven times what I paid the last time I was on leave on some frontier dump of a planet—but it is good, I’ll admit that.” Hank Bellingham raised the glass mug, still covered with a bit of the frosty sheen it had possessed in such abundance a few moments before, when the very well-dressed waiter had brought it to the table. The Marine guzzled down most of what remained, and set the mug down just a bit harder than he might have two or three beers earlier.
“Leave…when was the last time you were on leave? I’m surprised it’s not ten times what you paid that long ago.” Jon Peterson had a mug of his own sitting on the table in front of him. He’d also found it to be a high-quality brew, cold enough to hurt his teeth when he took a drink, but he was lagging behind his friend in draining it.
Peterson couldn’t argue that the prices of things on Megara, and especially in Troyus City, were somewhat of a shock to a Marine who spent most of his time in officers’ clubs or base commissaries. Troyus City was the capital of the Confederation, and it was overrun with politicians and with the particularly high-end breed of parasites that fed off of them. At least, that was how Peterson saw them all. He’d gladly have gone the rest of his life without a trip to the capital, or to any of the Core Worlds for that matter. He’d always planned to serve his time and muster out with a couple stars and a quiet spread somewhere toward the Outer Rim. Someplace where he could grow an apple orchard…and go years on end without laying eyes on corrupt politicians.
But something was going on, right there in Troyus City…and Jon Peterson was going to get to the bottom of it. He didn’t usually involve himself in political matters, but Gary Holsten was a friend…and Peterson didn’t think much of any man who’d abandon a friend in trouble.
“I’m a little worried about the Marines, Jon.” Bellingham was Peterson’s subordinate, but they were old friends, too…and their current activity was definitely an “off the books” kind of operation. That was enough to put them on a first name basis, at least when it was just the two of them. “We’ve been letting our pay accumulate for so long, a few expensive beers won’t kill us. But Troyus seems like a heavy lift on a private or non-com’s pay.” The Marines recruited from every Confederation planet, but it was no secret that most of the rank and file came from the poor fringe and agricultural worlds. Not one Marine in twenty had any kind of family money or anything to fall back on except his or her wages…and a Marine private just didn’t make all that much.
And they had brought Bellingham’s entire first company back to Megara for “shore leave.” That was over a hundred Marines, eating, drinking, and spending like only off-duty Marines could do.
“You’re right, Hank…of course.” Peterson paused for a few seconds. “I suppose we can come up with some kind of small bonus from the division’s discretionary fund. Especially since we don’t know how long we’re going to be here.”
Bellingham nodded, but then a few second later his expression turned to a frown. He looked around, and then he leaned forward toward Peterson. “So, what do we do now, Jon? We’ve been here a week, and we haven’t got a clue to where Holsten is being held…and no idea how to communicate with him, or even to find out what it really going on.” Another pause. “So, what’s next?”
Peterson returned his friend’s gaze, his own face morphing into a concerned expression. “I don’t know, Hank. I was hoping his arrest would be public, that some kind of open charges would be brought…or something like that.” The fact that Holsten was being held in total secrecy only increased the Marine’s certainty that something suspicious was going on…but it also left him short on options for how to proceed.
Finally, he looked over at Bellingham and said quietly, “I think we need to find Admiral Striker. As soon as possible.”
Van Striker wasn’t only the navy’s top officer, he was Holsten’s close ally…and another senior officer Jon Peterson counted as a friend. And he was the only person Peterson could get to right now with enough clout to find out just what was going on.
* * *
“I want some answers, and I want them now, Commander.” Admiral Van Striker was frustrated. No, he was past frustrated now, and well on his way toward unfiltered anger. He was used to challenges dealing with the government, the endless jousts he was forced to fight with the Senate and the various layers of politicians that affected every aspect of the fleet’s operations. But something stranger than normal had been going on, for the past couple months at least, and he was damned well going to get to the bottom of it.
“Yes, sir…I have made that clear. The Senate has been meeting in closed session for several weeks now, and I can’t get past a small group of aides. They told me we would be contacted when the Senate has concluded its current proceedings.” Kate Britten was relatively new as Striker’s primary aide, the daughter of an old comrade who hadn’t made it through the Union war. Striker had put her in the post out of a sense of obligation to his lost friend, but he had to admit, despite her inability to get through the Senate’s labyrinthine stonewalling, she was the best aide he’d ever had.
“Well then…maybe it’s time for me to make myself clear.” Striker wasn’t the kind of officer prone to throw position and prestige around…unless he really needed to. But now he was going to see if the bureaucrats shoving his aide aside had the guts to pull that shit with the navy’s commanding officer.
He sat quietly for a moment, slipping deeper into thought. His natural tendency was to respect the civilian leadership, even when they had their heads buried deeply in an unpleasant place. But he couldn’t push aside the concern that something was going on…something bad. The fact that he hadn’t been able to reach Gary Holsten only increased his concern. He’d written off his friend’s disappearance to the operations he had underway on Dannith, but his concern had grown as the time passed by with no communication of any kind. Something was wrong, on Dannith, on Megara…and probably other places too. He had to do something about it.
“Commander…get my transport ready. We’re going to the Senate House. Now.”
“Yes, sir.” Striker could hear the satisfaction in Britten’s voice. Clearly, the aide hadn’t enjoyed being pushed aside.
She stood up, just as the room’s AI spoke. “Admiral Striker, there is a Marine officer here requesting to see you, a Colonel Peterson.”
Striker had been about to stand himself, to head right down to his transport, but now he plopped back into the chair. He knew Peterson fairly well, and he considered him a friend. Apart from his own personal impression of the man, he knew Jon Peterson had a reputation as one of the toughest officers the Marine Corps had ever produced.
He also knew that Peterson and Holsten had known each other for a very long time…and Peterson’s division had been out on Dannith for the past few months.
“Show the colonel in,” he said softly. He turned toward Britten. “Why don’t you go make sure the transport is ready. I’ll see what Colonel Peterson needs, and then I’ll go to the Senate House.” He generally trusted Britten to stay during his meetings, but he had a feeling that whatever Jon Peterson had to say, he’d want to hear it alone. “And, while I’m gone, you can continue to supervise the search for Gary Holsten.”
“Yes, sir.” Britten stood up and walked across the room, just as the door slid open and Jon Peterson walked in. Britten saluted, not exactly protocol between the two services, but a show of respect nevertheless. Then she slipped through the door and out into the exterior office.
Striker sat for a few seconds, waiting quietly until the door closed. Then he looked up at Peterson.
“Well, Jon, I know you well enough to guess you’re not here just to pay your respects. So, let’s cut through all the weeds, shall we? What’s going on?”
Chapter Three
Interplanetary Space
Unknown System 20
40,000,000 from Primary
Year 316 AC
“Captain…you’ve got to come back and land that ship. You can’t stay out there forever, flying sortie after sortie. You need rest, and your pilots damned sure do. Don’t make me issue an order. Be reasonable. You may be the best we’ve got, but you’re not indestructible.”
Stockton sat and listened to Sara Eaton’s words pour through the comm as he watched the monitors on his screen slowly tracking the progress as the conduits from the shuttle filled his fuel tanks. He’d already reloaded his bomb bay, and in another minute or two his tanks would be topped off and he’d be on the way back.
Back toward the relentlessly approaching enemy fleet, not to the rest Eaton was urging. For the eighth time.
No…the ninth…
He’d started sending his squadrons back to their mother ships, a third of them at a time…and now he was about to order the first group back for a second time. He had been letting his pilots rearm from the shuttles twice, in a few cases, three times, but after that, he’d ordered them all back to their base ships for a full refit. He agreed with everything Eaton had just said, at least with regard to the pilots under his command.
The shuttles were a brilliant innovation, and one that worked far better than he’d had any right to hope it would. But they weren’t a substitute for a battleship’s landing bay and the vast crew of engineers and technicians stationed there…and he wasn’t about to watch his people fly ships that hadn’t received even a cursory inspection after two or three missions, much less the repairs he knew many of them needed.
Except for him, of course.
He wasn’t sure if he had truly come to believe he was indestructible, that he was that good…or if he just didn’t care anymore. It was hard to believe any of his people were going to make it back from this mission anyway, himself included. Not only were they outnumbered, but they were flying off into unexplored space, and the only known way back was through the massive Hegemony forces pursuing them.
Stockton reached out and flipped a series of switches, disconnecting his ship from the refueling brackets. His tanks were only ninety percent full, but that was enough. It was time for him to go back to plant another massive plasma torpedo into the guts of one of those Hegemony battleships.
Regardless of what Commodore Eaton was saying to him. She’d continued on for another minute—more of the same—clearly aware that Stockton was likely to ignore her…and not quite willing to issue a flat out, utterly clear order that he return.
He wondered if that was because, in the end, she deferred to his knowledge of fighter tactics…or because she was afraid he’d disregard even an outright command. That could thrust her into an open mutiny situation that would force some kind of action he was sure she preferred to avoid. He suspected it was mostly that staying her hand, though he wasn’t absolutely sure he would ignore a direct order…at least if she worded it carefully enough to leave him no outs.
He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t disobey either.
Stockton respected Eaton greatly, and he considered her one of the most skilled and admirable flag officers he’d ever known. But he was where he was for Tyler Barron, to lead the deadly Hegemony forces on as involved a wild goose chase as possible before they realized they were being led to nowhere. Stockton knew Barron needed time, not just to get back to the Confederation, but to rally all its forces—and those of the neighboring powers if possible. He hadn’t deluded himself on the prospects when he’d accepted his place remaining behind with the fleet, and he’d promised himself that he and his people would do whatever it took to give Barron what he needed.
Even disobey an order if need be.
He flipped the last of the switches on his control panel, and he felt the fighter shake hard as it detached from the shuttle. He angled the small ship slowly, using the positioning jets to slide far enough from the refueling ship to clear the way to engage full thrust. A few seconds later, he pulled back on the throttle, and he felt the impact of the engine blast slamming him back into his chair.
His eyes darted down to the panel, to the comm unit. He knew he had to answer Eaton. The fact that the admiral was almost six light minutes away had given him some extra time, but now he had to decide what to say. He was fully armed again, and he had no intention of turning back until he planted his plasma torpedo right into one of those Hegemony battleships. But, after that, perhaps he would return. He’d been out a long time, and he could use a break, even a short one, and perhaps even something to eat. He’d been going on supplements and stims since he launched, and, though part of him might have argued the point, he had to accept that he couldn’t keep going forever the way he was.
Besides, he could avoid an outright break with Eaton if he told her now that he was only doing one more run. She’d never force a showdown with him over that.
“Admiral…this is Captain Stockton. I’m refueled and rearmed, and heading toward the enemy line now.” He was grateful that she wouldn’t be able to get an answer to him in less than twelve minutes. He was pretty sure she would accept what he was about to suggest, but it almost didn’t matter. By the time she could answer—and he could argue—too much time would elapse to call off the attack anyway. He would be able to complete his run without overtly disobeying her…and then he would return to Repulse. If only for a brief rest and a decent refit for his fighter. “I will return to base after this attack run. Projected time until firing range, twenty-four minutes. Given current distance and return velocity, I should be back in…” He stared at the screen, realizing as he tried to run the calculations in his head just how tired he really was. “Two hours, eleven minutes.”
He thought that was right.
Close enough.
He tried to clear his head, to push aside the exhaustion closing in on him from all sides. His eyes darted back and forth, checking on his scattered squadrons. He had half a dozen birds with him now. The rest of his hundreds of fighters were all around, their formations hopelessly disordered, their pilots clustering together into whatever small, ad hoc combat groups they could form as they ran
their constant attack runs.
Stockton had seen some terrible battles in his day, watched hundreds of fighters obliterated in the fury of combat, but he’d never seen sustained offensive action like what his people were engaged in now. They had to realize how desperate a position they were in, how hopeless a fight it was…but it didn’t stop them. Stockton knew the Hegemony would be a terrifying enemy, that their technology and numbers outstripped anything the Confederation could match.
He also knew his pilots would leave a lasting impression. The enemy might invade the Confederation, lay waste to peaceful worlds, start a war that could only end in a holocaust…but they wouldn’t soon forget what fighter squadrons could do.
He would make damned sure of that.
He moved his hand slowly, bringing his vector around on a course toward a cluster of nearby enemy battleships. He picked one, for no other reason than his eyes landed on it first.
No, they wouldn’t forget what his pilots did here.
* * *
“Damn you, Jake…” Stara Sinclair sat at the main station in Repulse’s flight control center. She’d spent six years working on the old Dauntless’s fighter operations, first as an assistant, and later as the flight deck commander…and for the last several years, she’d had what she could only see now as the misfortunate to fall in love with the best—and worse, the craziest—pilot in the fleet. She didn’t doubt the intensity or the sincerity of her feelings for Stockton, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to hit him with a solid, well-aimed bat at times.
She’d sent a number of…requests…to Stockton, urging him to bring his ship back to Repulse to rearm and refit, finally enlisting the commodore to add her own voice to the mix. He’d ignored most of them, and outright refused the few to which he’d even bothered to reply. Sinclair had grown more and more frustrated, but there was nothing she could do besides sit there with her fists clenched under the desk. She had technically had the authority to issue orders to Dauntless’s strike force when the fleet had first left Confederation space, but her hurried transfer to Repulse, and the rough command structure that had been thrown into place upon Admiral Barron’s departure, had left her decidedly unsure of who was obliged to follow her orders.