Black Dawn (Blood on the Stars Book 8)

by Jay Allan

  “Launching, Admiral.” He paused for another few seconds, but then he flipped a row of four controls…sending the launch instructions to four separate squadrons, the duty wing…and by almost any measure, overkill to intercept a single, unarmed cutter.

  The station was so immense, even the vibration of sixty fighters blasting down the catapults couldn’t be felt in the control center. A few seconds later, however, the small clusters of dots appeared on the main screen. Whitten watched, and then his eyes moved toward the single triangle he knew was Barron’s cutter, a smile forming on his lips as he focused on the tiny symbol. Barron had never done anything to him personally, but Whitten, too, had been the descendant of Confederation heroes…and he’d had to watch as all the rewards, all the positions and commands that should rightfully have been his, went to Barron. He could barely restrain his glee at the prospect of seeing the navy’s beloved darling in shackles, disgraced and under arrest.

  He turned and moved back toward his chair, sitting down and watching.

  Watching the decline and fall of Tyler Barron.

  * * *

  “Get this off of me!” Her voice was scratchy, low in tone, but she put more energy into it and shouted again. And then again. A confusing swirl of thoughts and impulses were moving through her mind, but impatience was at the top of the list.

  She looked around, uncertain of where she was. She was in some kind of body-sized canister. A medpod.

  What the hell am I doing in a medpod?

  “Get me the hell out of—”

  “I’m here…I’m here…” The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. She was conscious, but her head was fuzzy, and her thoughts clouded. “Atara…my God…Atara…”

  A man walked up next to the pod, a broad smile on his face. He was tall, with long brown hair. She knew him. But the name eluded her.

  “Atara…please, lay still. I have to check your readouts.” The man turned, yelling toward the space outside the alcove, calling for assistance.

  “Why am I here? What’s happening? Get me out of this thing, now. I mean—”

  “Please, Atara…just remain calm. You’ve been in a coma for almost four months. You’re on Dauntless, in a medpod. Now, if you’ll just lay back and stay calm, I can check you out.”

  Dauntless…

  Yes, her ship. She was on her ship. “Tyler…”

  The admiral isn’t here, Atara. He’s on his way down to the surface.” A pause. “We’re orbiting Megara.”

  Travis was silent for a few seconds, absorbing what she’d just been told. Yes, Dauntless. Megara? No, Dauntless is with the White Fleet. They were…

  Her memories started flooding back, comprehension forming almost faster than she could keep up with it. The epidemic. Her blood.

  “Stu…” She recognized the face above her now. Stu Weldon, Dauntless’s chief surgeon.

  “Yes…very good, Atara. And your vitals are good as well, almost shockingly so. I need to run a complete battery of tests on you, but I’m very optimistic. Your recovery has been nothing short of miraculous.” She could hear the gratitude in his voice, and she began to remember everything that had happened. He’d also blamed himself for what had happened to her. He had developed the serum that could save so many of the fleet’s people. The serum that had required her blood.

  “Not your fault, Stu…” She remembered giving the blood, so much blood…and then nothing. “Did it work? Did we save them?”

  “Yes, Atara…it worked. Everyone we treated recovered.”

  She managed a frail smile. “That’s good.” She sighed softly, suddenly realizing how tired and weak she was. “Why are we at Megara?”

  Weldon hesitated. “Admiral Barron brought us back to report on the Hegemony…to warn the fleet and the Confederation of the new danger.”

  The Hegemony…another flood of memories returned, and Travis lurched up again. “The Hegemony. Yes…how did we get away? Is the whole fleet here? Have we—”

  “Please, Atara…I’ll tell you everything, but first let me finish checking out your condition.” He paused as he looked at more of the readouts. “It’s amazing…you’re almost fully recovered.” He hesitated again and then added, “I have to tell you…for a while, I wasn’t sure you were going to make it.”

  “Well, I did.” She smiled again. “And this pod is damned uncomfortable, so can you please finish up and get me the hell out of here?”

  * * *

  “I repeat…you are ordered to alter course at once and return with us to Prime Base. If you resist, your vessel will be disabled and boarded.”

  Barron sat looking at the cutter’s main screen, almost in shock. He’d heard the order repeated, and the same words moved through his mind, defying his ability to comprehend them. He wasn’t in battle, wasn’t at some distant system. He was orbiting the Confederation’s capital…and someone was ordering him to surrender.

  He looked over at his pilot who, if anything, looked even more in shock. Then he grabbed the comm controls. “This is Admiral Tyler Barron. I have urgent business in Troyus City, and I do not have time to waste. This must be some kind of mistake. If this is about my not waiting for final clearance, I…”

  “You are to return to Prime Base with us, Admiral.” The officer paused, a hint of confusion and tension in his voice as he added, “There is no mistake, Admiral Barron. Come with us now.” Then, a few seconds later, “Please.”

  Barron looked at the pilot again, realizing almost immediately that the rookie was going to be no help at all. He couldn’t imagine what Jake Stockton would have been doing just then, the torrent of invective he would have launched at the wing commander…probably before threatening to somehow shoot down all sixty fighters with the unarmed cutter.

  Why would four squadrons come after us anyway? Over a failure to gain clearance? None of it makes any sense. Unless…

  For a few terrifying, unimaginable seconds, he wondered if the Hegemony forces had somehow gotten there before him…but that was impossible.

  “Who is this?” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to get to the bottom of things, or just playing for time until he could figure out what was happening.

  “I’m Commander Calvin Dougherty, Admiral. I’m afraid I’m acting on the direct orders of Fleetcom Olyus, Admiral Whitten. I must insist that you comply at once. My orders are very clear.”

  Whitten?

  Barron knew the officer, of course, and his family. But Whitten isn’t Fleetcom Olyus…Irwin Reichman is…

  He sat for a few seconds, staring at the comm unit without words. He’d been worried enough about the people he’d left behind, the looming threat of a deadly new enemy…and then he’d discovered that Gary Holsten had been arrested and taken back to Megara.

  Now there were four squadrons of fighters threatening open fire on his cutter. None of it made any sense. If he’d been anywhere else, in foreign space, on a battlefront, he’d have found a way to resist…but he was home, orbiting the Confederation’s capital. Resistance would be treason. Defending himself, even if it were possible, would mean killing comrades.

  Wouldn’t it?

  “Admiral, I’m sorry, but you must comply. Now.”

  Barron sat, watching as the squadrons took position all around the cutter…and for the first time he could recall, he had utterly no idea what to do.

  * * *

  “You’re weak, and some actual food would probably do wonders for you, but your condition is nothing short of amazing, Atara. I’ll want to monitor you for a couple days, of course, and you’ll need to revise your normal exercise routines, work your way back up to where you were—you’re down about nine kilos of muscle mass—but, otherwise, I don’t see any…”

  The sickbay lights picked up a reddish cast, as Dauntless’s battle stations lamps snapped on.

  Travis lurched up, reaching out and grabbing onto the rails alongside the bed to catch herself, as a wave of dizziness almost overtook her.

  “You can’t m
ove like that, Atara…not so quickly. Not yet. Don’t make me sorry I took you out of the pod.” He turned, looking back toward the main area of sickbay. There was considerable confusion, and multiple voices calling out. “Stay here…I’ll go find out what’s happening.” Weldon had just started back to the main bay when one of the techs walked by. “Carlson, what’s the alert?”

  “It’s the admiral’s cutter, Doctor.” The woman was clearly unnerved. “A wing of fighters has taken up position around it. They’re demanding he surrender himself.”

  “What? That’s not possible.”

  Travis sat up again, a bit more deliberately than the previous time.

  “I need you to stay in bed, Atara.”

  “The admiral’s in some kind of trouble, Stu…it’s going to take more than you to keep me in this bed.” She shifted, letting her legs slip off the edge, and paused for a few seconds, taking a breath to steady herself.

  “Atara, please…”

  “I’m fine, Doc…you said so yourself…and this looks like some kind of emergency.” The truth was, Travis couldn’t think of any reason garrison forces from Megara would come after Barron. It didn’t make any sense at all. Even on the frontier, she could imagine various all sorts of issues…but on the capital?

  She pushed herself off the edge of the bed…and her legs almost buckled as her feet hit the floor. She grabbed onto the rails and managed to keep herself up.

  “Atara…”

  “We’re not going to discuss this anymore, Doc. I am still Dauntless’s commanding officer, or have I been relieved?”

  “No, you weren’t relieved, but…”

  “Well, we’re in some kind of trouble, that much is clear enough. So, are you going to help me? Or are you going to stand there acting like nursemaiding your patients is the only thing that matters in the galaxy?” She slowly let go of the railings, finding her balance—tentatively—and taking a small step.

  Weldon stood where he was, looking conflicted. But Travis gave him one more hard stare, and he gave in. “Fine, Atara…I’ll help you to the bridge…but you have to promise me after this crisis is over, you’ll come back here. You need fluids, prophylactic antibiotics and antivirals…and you need more rest. A lot more.”

  “I’ve been resting for four months, Doc.” But she had to admit, she did feel shaky. She looked back at him. “Fine, I promise. Once whatever is happening is resolved, I’ll come back and let you poke and probe me all you want.” She paused. “Now, will you help me, or do I have to crawl up to the bridge myself?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Battleship Danais

  Barbaricum System 2703 (Unknown System 20)

  Year of Renewal 260 (316 AC)

  The chamber was large, its ceiling very high, especially by the standards of space vessels. It was dimly lit by a series of small lamps. The walls were covered with large, curved screens, showing the dispositions of the fleet and of the enemy forces. The enemy ships, which had been fleeing for so long, had slowed and were now apparently offering battle.

  There were five people in the room, each seated atop his or her own large pedestal chair, rising several meters above the spotless gray deck. They were clad in fine clothes of a silky material, in shades of gold and white…the uniforms of their service’s high command.

  The two men and three women were all Masters, the genetically superior beings that ruled over the Hegemony with unquestioned dominance. The ship and the fleet surrounding it were mostly crewed with Inferiors, predominantly the Red Kriegeri. They had been cultivated from the various worlds of the Hegemony, chosen for their genetic suitability for their role. The Inferiors chosen for fleet duty were among the most intelligent beings to be found in the Hegemony, outside of the caste of Masters itself. Among their ranks were even bloodlines once of Master class, which had fallen below minimum standards through careless breeding.

  The Hegemony’s system was rigid, and no doubt, to beings observing it from without, brutal…but it was unerringly fair in its own way. It was a pure genetic meritocracy. Leaders unquestioningly gave way when a superior genetic specimen turned up to take their post. Even the Highest, the supreme ruler of the entire Hegemony—and thus, by their doctrine, of all human habitation—held her position solely on the strength of her genetic rating. When a new Master came of age who had bested her in that regard, she would stand aside without rancor or resistance, as he whom she had displaced had done.

  The society was one virtually without dispute or political rancor. The dedication to genetic excellence was held above all things, and no deviation from that standard was tolerated. Even Inferiors could see their children rise to Master status with careful programs of mate selection.

  The Hegemony had risen up near to the center of mankind’s previous, vast range of habitation, amid the ashes of the Cataclysm’s worst horrors. In its early years, it had not yet achieved such comprehensive adherence to a single mode of thought. War had swept the systems it now occupied, all manner of groups struggling to seize the mantle of the dead empire. In the end it was genetics, the superiority of those who were to become the Masters, that had secured the peace…and eradicated all those who could not adapt. The founders of the Hegemony had built the new empire on a single creed, forged in the still-fresh memories of the Cataclysm. Never again.

  The Rim-dwellers who had invaded the Hegemony were clearly inferior creatures…creatures of violence, dominated by the warlike drives that had destroyed the old empire. What little the Masters had been able to ascertain of their organizational structures suggested little or no adherence to genetic mandates for positions of power and authority. They were chaotic, wild, and for all their technology and power, they could not be allowed to spread their undisciplined ways and ideas across the galaxy. Their destruction—or at the very least, their absorption into the Hegemony as obedient Inferiors—was essential.

  A beacon of light illuminated the man sitting on the far left, and he spoke. “The enemy fleet has slowed, and now seems to be offering battle. This is illogical. They have utilized their small attack craft with considerable skill to delay and damage our forces, but I do not believe they can defeat our fleet. They are either attempting some sort of trick, or there is some factor at play we have not yet discerned.”

  The light moved to the right, stopping on the woman one place from the end of the group. “I do not believe that they have chosen to fight at random…nor that they have any secret tactics. They have already utilized their one advantage, the small vessels. I see no logic in their having hidden another advantage so long, while allowing their small craft to be gradually eradicated. I believe that there is some reason they do not wish to continue with us following. It appears there are a minimum of two other warp tubes in the system, so they are not preparing to fight because they are trapped. Our mission was simply to follow, in case our assumption that they were trying to lead us away from their home system was incorrect. Perhaps it was, and we are now close to the enemy’s home. They may be willing to face utter destruction here, rather than lead us to the others of their kind. We have seen some tendency toward selfless sacrifice in their conduct so far.”

  The beacon moved to the rightmost place, the occupant of which simply nodded, signaling her assent with the general consensus. Then the light focused on the central figure. This man was clad similarly to the others, though somewhat more elaborately. “I find your logic and deductions to be sound, and in agreement with my own. I am inclined to believe the scenario put forth by One Hundred-Sixty-Two, that we are, in fact, relatively close to the enemy’s home systems.”

  The man paused a moment, silent, still. Then, he continued. “The second likelihood is that they wish to test us…for they have surely determined that we could have caught them earlier if we had wished.”

  The central figure paused again for a few seconds, the light remaining focused on him. Then he said, “Either options calls for us to attack, for there is no other way to force the enemy to reveal whether his inten
tion is to fight to the death, or whether he is simply testing our resolve. If the enemy stands, we will have to determine if our interests are best served by eradicating the force we face…or pulling back and allowing some portion of it to survive.”

  The figure turned to the left, then to the right, looking at his companions. When he was done, he turned his head forward, staring straight ahead. “Let the orders be given. The fleet is to attack at once with full power. The battle line is to ignore the damage caused by the small craft and close on the enemy battleships without hesitation. It is only by destroying a large number of their major ships that we can determine whether they will stand and fight against all odds.”

  “So let it be,” the others said, in nearly perfect unison.

  * * *

  “They’re coming in, Commodore. You can see it in their formation. We should have launched already. You have to give us the order.” Stockton’s voice was loud in Eaton’s headset. She could tell he was edgy, anxious…even more than usual. Eaton almost argued with him. But she didn’t, and for one simple reason. Her strike force commander was right. The fighters were her biggest edge—likely her only one—and every minute she held them back only worsened the fleet’s already dire position. Yet she found it difficult to issue the command. Once she gave that order, the fleet was committed. She would never be able to recover the squadrons in time and retreat…and she knew she could never leave them all behind and run.

  Not that she could run anyway. She was fighting because she had no choice, because continuing on could only lead the enemy closer to the Confederation. Stellar geography had played the final joke on her, and stripped her of every choice save for suicidal combat.