Black Dawn (Blood on the Stars Book 8)

by Jay Allan

  Globus feared the calls for delay for a number of reasons, not the least of which because it seemed a logical strategy. He had no evidence of Hegemony forces actually moving on the Confederation…for that matter, he barely had enough to prove the enemy existed at all. If Confederation worlds were ablaze, their systems falling to invasion, he didn’t doubt his people would respond. But it would be difficult to argue against those who called for caution when the threat seemed ephemeral, or at least distant.

  “Commander, I have…the Imperator on the line for you.” The officer at the comm station was a veteran, one who had served with Globus for many years, but he was clearly unnerved. It was highly irregular for the Imperator to communicate with an approaching ship, and utterly unheard of for him to be on the initial transmission, speaking to a mere comm officer.

  Globus was surprised as well…and then less so, as he thought about it. Vian Tulus had once been as steeped in old tradition as any Palatian officer, but his service alongside Tarkus Vennius, and Tyler Barron and the Confeds, had changed him significantly. He’d reluctantly taken the Imperator’s scepter after Vennius’s death, and when he’d done it, he’d vowed to rule by combining the best of the Palatian and Confederation cultures. The informality on display suggested he had stayed true to his promise.

  “Your Supremacy…it is an honor to be addressed first by you.” Globus wasn’t sure exactly what else to say.

  “Welcome home, Commander Globus. I am pleased to see you return…and yet somewhat surprised. You were not expected for quite some time.”

  “That is true, Your Supremacy. I return with news…vital news that I must deliver to you directly, as soon as possible.”

  “I suspected just that when the outer scanners confirmed Fortiter had transited. So, let us not waste any time. What have you returned to report?”

  Globus hesitated. He wanted to tell Tulus, to share the burden of what he knew. But he didn’t want to speak over an open comm line, not even an encrypted one. He wasn’t sure there was a need for secrecy, and he didn’t suspect news of a new enemy would cause any widespread panic, certainly not among Palatia’s warrior-citizens. But he felt discretion was wise anyway.

  “Your Supremacy, with all due respect, I would prefer to wait until I am in your presence to discuss the news I bring.”

  There was a short pause before Tulus answered…and when he did, it was clear from his tone he was concerned. “Of course, Commander. Fortiter is cleared for immediate approach, and a detachment of my guard will be waiting to bring you to me as soon as you land.”

  “Thank you, Your Supremacy.”

  Globus sat for an instant after hearing the click of the line closing. He’d thought of almost nothing for weeks except for reaching home and warning the Imperator.

  Now, he realized, he still had no idea what he was going to say.

  * * *

  Globus walked down the aisle, his freshly-polished boots cracking loudly on the gleaming marble floor as he approached the Imperator. The main reception room was vast, an impressive piece of architecture Globus’s Palatian pride would put up against anything he’d seen on his travels. But there was something missing, in terms of the magnitude of his recollections of past moments in the room.

  Imperator Tulus had clearly done what he could to reduce the pointless pomp and frill of the Alliance court. Globus could tell that by the vastly smaller number of people present in the room…and the miniscule size of the guard detachment on duty. Aside from the two troopers leading him forward, there was a pair flanking Tulus’s seat, and another two at the main entrance. Globus could remember when there would be fifty or more guards on duty when the Imperator was present…and that was before the civil war.

  He suspected the general reduction in ceremony was partially behind the force reductions, but he also imagined Tulus was responding as much to that internecine conflict, sending out a message of trust to the officers and warriors accepted back after the civil war. Many of the defeated Reds had been executed, but only those who had refused to yield and swear allegiance to the new regime, then headed by Tarkus Vennius. The others had been welcomed back and absolved of their misdeeds, and, while that had caused some bitterness among warriors who’d fought on the Gray side, Globus himself had come to recognize the wisdom of Vennius’s mercy. Most of the Reds had served innocently, in pursuit of what they had perceived at the time as the right and legal choice.

  Vennius had been a far wiser ruler than anyone had expected from the grizzled warrior, but, tragically, he had not long survived his ascension, falling during the Krillian War less than two years later. It had been left to Tulus, a man who’d been shocked when Vennius’s final testament specified him as the chosen successor—and even more so when the great families largely supported his elevation—to complete the healing process his esteemed predecessor had begun.

  Globus stepped up to the end of the aisle, standing at rigid attention less than three meters from Tulus’s seat. Then he bowed, remaining silent by custom until the Imperator spoke.

  “Rise, Cilian Globus, honored commander…and come forward. Let us not waste time on idle ceremony. Walk with me to my chambers, old friend.” Tulus got up, startling the guards around him until he gestured for them to remain in place. “Cilian is a man who has saved my life in battle. I will meet with him alone, without the need for guards. I would not dishonor him by suggesting I need protection in his presence.” There was Palatian honor in his words, but past Imperators had rarely met alone and unguarded with anyone.

  The warriors didn’t look happy, but they obeyed the Imperator’s commands and stood where they were, maintaining their rigid and respectful poses.

  “Come, Cilian…” Tulus ignored the guards, and the quiet rustle of commentary among the gathered courtiers, and he reached out his hand to grasp Globus’s. “Let us have a long talk, such as we have not had in some time.”

  Globus wasn’t really surprised at Tulus’s informality…though perhaps he found it a touch unexpected not to be. He’d known what Tulus had intended to do, the changes to procedure and ceremony and other reforms he’d planned to implement. Still, it was still startling to see the reality of it all in place so quickly. Globus suspected Tulus had used the disruption still remaining from the civil war to his advantage, pushing changes through far more quickly than would normally have been possible.

  He followed Tulus to a room Globus had visited on many occasions, and one he remembered as being considerably more ornate than it was now. He recalled tapestries all along the now mostly clean gray walls, and several collections of captured standards and banners that had once lain on both sides of the entrance.

  “Have a seat, Cilian.” He had clearly noticed Globus’s eyes darting around the room. “Yes, I removed much of the decoration. The battle trophies are now in the new War Museum, where they belong, and much of the other trappings are in storage, awaiting use elsewhere. I have not rejected our peoples’ mementoes of victory, but I have continued Vennius’s work of restoring the Imperator’s office to what it was in the earliest days of the Alliance…a supreme military commander, not a monarch surrounded by gilded trappings.” He paused a moment and smiled. “Nevertheless, I can assure you, old friend, that the chairs are as comfortable as ever.” Tulus sat down himself, not behind the large wood desk, but on one of a pair of facing sofas sitting in front of a hearth with a roaring fire.

  “I’m afraid my simplification efforts fell a bit short on the hearth, however. I find the warmth of seasoned West Hills hardwood soothes the pains of my war wounds, and the soft crackling relaxes me when little else serves to do so. It is a bit of softness in one who considers himself a warrior, I confess, but I like to imagine it is a fairly harmless one.” He noticed that Globus was still standing. “Sit, my friend…please.”

  Globus sat on the facing sofa. He was glad to see a comrade of so many years, and he wished they could just sit and discuss old battles and catch up on family histories…but he had far grimmer bu
siness to discuss with the Imperator. And he still had no idea how to begin.

  “Your Supremacy…I bring dark news, word of a new enemy. A deadly and dangerous one.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  High Orbit

  Planet Megara, Olyus III

  Year 316 AC

  “All squadrons, you are to break off from the cutter and return to base…immediately.” Atara Travis was fighting off grogginess, struggling to stay sharp as fatigue closed on her from all sides. She’d awakened from her coma less than an hour before—and emerged right into the middle of a crisis. She’d practically had to threaten to space Stu Weldon to get the doctor to let her out of sickbay…and she acknowledged to herself that “let” was a strong word for what he’d done. He had restrained himself from tackling her to keep her there. That was a bit more accurate.

  She knew she shouldn’t be on Dauntless’s bridge, for her own good, and also because there was no way she was up to handling a crisis like the one unfolding. However much she pushed herself, she wasn’t in a condition to command the battleship. But Tyler was in trouble, and if anyone wanted her off the bridge, they’d better bring a platoon of armored Marines with them.

  “Commander…” She turned toward Cumberland and stared with a withering intensity. “…lock all primaries on Prime Base.” Her voice was cold, and her eyes shone with a frigid glow. She’d never commanded Cumberland directly before, though she knew the officer fairly well. And he knew her. She wasn’t sure he’d obey her in the current situation…but she figured there was a chance. “We’ve got to help the admiral,” she added, figuring it might push Cumberland over the edge.

  “Yes, Captain,” the officer said after a lengthy hesitation. He paused again, for long enough that Travis thought he was going to disobey her. But then he turned toward the comm unit and said, “Gunnery station…lock onto Prime Base.”

  Travis wasn’t sure the gunners would obey either. She was struggling to keep her thoughts clear, but there was no haziness about the fact that she was threatening to fire at a Confederation base. Not any base, but the main fortress that protected the capital. It was an almost unimaginable situation, a standoff made possible only because Dauntless had been allowed to approach in order to dock. Her ship floated in the capital’s orbit, the base in her sights at a range so short, the very idea that her people might miss was an absurdity. No enemy would ever get so close to Megara, not without a titanic battle

  Prime Base had been designed as a major part of the capital’s defense system. It was heavily armored and armed to the teeth, intended to take on an entire task force of battleships approaching Megara. But at Dauntless’s range, its hundreds of millions of tons of steel would crumble into useless debris at a single shot, melted and deformed chunks sliding down into the atmosphere. Prime’s crew of nearly twenty thousand would be killed, likely to a man, almost instantly…and flaming debris would descend all over the heavily populated planet, no doubt vastly increasing the death toll.

  Atara Travis would become the most notorious traitor in Confederation history. She wasn’t sure she could give the final order, not even for Tyler Barron. The one thing she did know was she could take the bluff to the very end…and see what those on the other end of the comm were made of.

  “Captain Travis, this is Admiral Whitten. I am expressly ordering you to stand down, to deactivate your weapons, and to allow the fighters currently deployed to complete their mission. This is the last time I will issue this order, Captain. It you wish to retain your rank and avoid a court martial, you will obey it to the letter.”

  Travis listened to the words, and though she could tell Whitten was trying to sound tough, she could sense the fear in his voice. She didn’t know much about the new commander of Megara’s defenses, but what she did know was far from impressive. She was taking a horrible chance, possible throwing her career down the drain, but her gut told her she could stare him down.

  “Admiral…”

  “Atara, you are to stand down at once. Deactivate the primaries and follow Admiral Whitten’s orders.”

  The words came through the speakers on Dauntless’s bridge, and she recognized the voice instantly.

  “Tyler…” She didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure firing on a friendly base was in her, but she was positive disobeying Barron wasn’t. Still, the thought of allowing him to be taken prisoner over what had to be false charges…

  “It’s okay, Atara. I’ll be fine.” A pause, and then his voice was more emotional. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear your voice, my old friend. I’m stunned, and I don’t understand…but I’m happy. Welcome back.”

  “Enough. Captain Travis, you have your orders.” It was Whitten again, a hint more courage in his voice now that Barron had voiced his willingness to yield.

  Travis sat where she was, stunned, uncertain what to do. She realized there were tears streaming down her face, and she ached to talk to Barron in person, to hear his voice again, see him. She knew what she had to do. It was a relief in some ways…and agonizing pain in others.

  She looked across the bridge, her eyes meeting Cumberland’s. “Disarm all weapons, Commander. Reduce power output to normal levels.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Travis had figured the order would come as a relief to her people, one that absolved them of the choice between mutiny and treason. But Cumberland’s tone was somber, and every pair of eyes on the bridge was downcast. Dauntless’s crew were devoted to their admiral, and she realized they were all feeling the same thing she was.

  Travis just watched as Barron’s cutter headed toward the station, disappearing into one of the landing bays. She was silent for a moment, and then she looked down at her screen, confirming the inter-ship comm lines were all closed.

  She’d obeyed Barron’s orders, allowed Whitten to take the admiral prisoner…but she was damned if she would leave it at that. She didn’t know how long she’d have command of Dauntless…Whitten might relieve her immediately for what she’d almost done, or even because she was medically unfit for active duty. But she was on the bridge now, and the foppish admiral in charge of Prime Base would have his hands full with Barron.

  She didn’t intend to waste a moment.

  “Commander…I want the entire research section at work. Access all Megara information nets. I want to know what’s going on, why Admiral Barron was arrested.”

  “Yes, Captain.” She could hear the energy in Cumberland’s voice, and she knew immediately the aide was with her one hundred percent.

  “All of you,” she said, turning and looking around the bridge, waving her hand. “Any data you can find, however insignificant it may seem, get it to me immediately.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Half a dozen versions of the acknowledgement came back at her, every one of them infused with a new energy. Dauntless’s crew might not have been ready to open fire on their Confederation comrades, but one thing was unmistakably clear.

  They weren’t willing to give up on their admiral either.

  * * *

  “I don’t know what you expect to get from me, Lille, but it’s never going to happen. So you might as well just shoot me in the head now and start another war.” Van Striker sat on a hard chunk of concrete, all that was left of what looked like some kind of pillar or structural support long since replaced. His body ached in a dozen places, though the only torture he’d received so far had been the incredibly invasive—and painful—search for tracking devices. He’d tried to tell them he had none, but they hadn’t believed him, as, of course, he’d known they wouldn’t.

  His cuts and incisions had been bound up fairly well, with a degree of cleanliness that had surprised him. He’d expected rough treatment, and while he’d certainly gotten that, his captors appeared to want him alive, at least for a while longer. That meant they hoped to get something from him. For all the bluster of his words, he was deathly afraid that once they really started working on him, he would give them whatever they wanted. Striker considered himsel
f a tough nut, but he wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he couldn’t be cracked. He realized his captors had come startlingly close to breaking him with the search for scanning devices.

  If anyone could break him, it had to be Ricard Lille. The thought of what the Union assassin must have done to his victims over the years terrified Striker, a man who did not quickly feel fear.

  “I don’t want anything from you, Admiral. Not right now. I don’t expect to need anything from you at all, save having you out of the way while…other things…are transpiring. Though perhaps sometime in the future we may discuss things like naval dispositions and production manifests. I don’t anticipate renewed hostilities between our nations anytime soon, but preparedness is always worthwhile.”

  Striker almost responded, but then he held back his words. Lille’s voice was almost pleasant, and Striker found that grated on him more than the direst threat and foulest invective would have. But it was the agent’s reference to “other things” that truly twisted his gut.

  “Other things?” he said, regretting it almost immediately.

  “Yes, Admiral. There are some activities going on right now I believe you would find most intriguing, were I to share the details with you. But I think not. There’s nothing you could do to stop any of it, of course, but I see no gain in being careless with details. You’ll just have to be patient, Admiral. I assure you, it’s worth the wait.” Lille smiled. “I can promise you that I will tell you before…” Lille’s voice stopped there. He didn’t have to finish. Striker didn’t know what was going on, but he knew his captors would never release him. Could never. If word got out that Sector Nine agents had kidnapped the Confederation naval commander, the outcry would be deafening. The people of the Confederation, war weary as they were, would demand immediate action. Whatever scheme Sector Nine was up to—and it couldn’t be good—Striker couldn’t imagine that the Union could be ready for war again any time soon.