by Jay Allan
He remained silent, allowing his colleagues to disagree, or to offer alternative suggestions…but the room was silent.
“Very well,” Raketh said at last, “it is decided. The attack will commence at once. We will destroy the enemy space forces and their orbital defenses. When that is complete, we will evaluate their ground defenses, and implement sufficient orbital bombardment to degrade their military formations and render those on the planet…pliable…to our control.”
He allowed another pause, but there were no comments, only silent nods from the man and three women present.
“We are all agreed. Let the attack begin.”
* * *
Clint Winters reached down and grabbed the part of his harness that had slipped from his grasp, and he pulled it up, sliding it into place with a sharp click. His ships were formed up around Dannith, within support range of the planet’s defensive array. Normally he’d offer battle much farther out, to protect the planet from possible enemy bombardment. But it was clear his force was heavily outnumbered, and he needed every bit of force he could bring to bear. Even with the orbital forts in the mix, he was vastly outnumbered and outgunned. The fleet that had emerged into the system was one of the largest forces Winters had ever seen, and from Tyler Barron’s warning, he knew they were advanced.
“I want everyone ready, harnesses on, emergency life support in place.” Because we’re going to have one hell of a fight here. He managed to keep that last part from escaping his lips. It would serve no purpose, and he was sure his people already understood just how dire the situation had become.
“Very well, Admiral.” The tactical officer was scared. It didn’t take a lot of study to realize that. Hell, they’re all scared…I’m scared. But they’ll do their duty.
Winters had only arrived three days earlier, an amount of time that had allowed for limited study of the situation. He’d known a bit about Dannith, but when he began to think about tactics and how to defend the system, he realized how insignificant his knowledge store truly was. He’d been a front line officer his whole career, spending years patrolling the Union border before the last war. He’d fought all along the Union frontier, and he’d led one of the task forces in the final, fateful battle in the Bottleneck, when Dauntless had destroyed the enemy’s pulsar weapon, but Dannith was nowhere on the list of systems in which he expected to serve. It was a border world, but along a frontier long considered empty.
Now, someone had gone further, and discovered there was more out there than haunted, dead planets…a previously unknown threat, one that was now approaching Winters’s fleet.
He’d sized things up pretty quickly after arriving. The planetary administrator was a reprehensible coward, and Tyler Barron had left a small detachment of Marines to throw together some kind of meaningful planetary ground defense program. The handful of troopers had done that with remarkable success, whipping the undertrained and lackluster planetary levies into a remote semblance of a fighting force.
Dannith’s orbital defenses were considerable, if a bit out of date and behind on maintenance. Winters had even convinced himself to feel a bit optimistic about his prospects.
Until he got his first look at the enemy fleet.
He could feel what little remained of his hope fading away as his eyes moved across the display, watching as the enemy ships advanced steadily across the system.
Their largest battleships were the most massive vessels he’d ever seen, just as Barron had warned. And, thanks to Barron’s notes, he knew all about their enormous railguns, heavy weapons with ranges considerably in excess of Confederation primaries.
Winters looked down at the screen on his workstation. He had the order of battle displayed. He’d taken all three of the battleships that had been deployed at Grimaldi, but that was still only three. He knew his battle line was miniscule for the fight that was coming, another reason he’d kept his vessels tucked in tight near the planet, and linked his defense grids with Dannith’s network of forts. He didn’t really think he had much of a chance no matter what he did…but his mind was racing, trying to think of anything else he could do.
Barron’s report had mentioned one other factor. The enemy did not appear to utilize fighters, and while they had considerable point defense capability, it was designed predominantly for missile interception. Winters had taken Barron’s words to heart, and right before his fleet departed, he’d transferred two squadrons of Grimaldi’s fighters to each of his battleships. That meant their bays were crammed full, and that their flight crews would be stretched to the max during the battle. But it also meant he had ninety extra fighters, plus the two hundred ten already on the three battleships…and close to four hundred in Dannith’s fortresses.
Nine hundred fighters constituted a massive force. They were by far the strongest weapon he had against the enemy, even if the Dannith squadrons were low-tier reserve formations.
They will become veterans now…or they will die.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
ITN Headquarters
Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III
Year 316 AC
“This is not good, Desiree.” Ricard Lille sat across from Mariele’s desk, a reproving look on his face. The events of the last two days had been unproductive, she was the first to admit that…but she’d handled it all well, she thought, and, with a bit of luck, she might even turn it all to her advantage. Even with Barron’s and Holsten’s escapes, she’d truly managed to destabilize the Confederation, and the ripple effects of what she’d done would spread out across its systems. There would be an economic crisis, at the very least…and maybe even something resembling civil war. Whatever happened, the Confederation would be in no condition to threaten the Union, and that would buy them time. Time to rebuild, to prepare for the next fight.
She looked back across the table, trying to maintain a neutral expression. In truth, she was pissed off. She was sick of Lille’s attitude, his arrogance…and she was tired of being afraid of him. She might have even risked an attempt at getting rid of him, if he weren’t so damned tight with Gaston Villieneuve.
“I’ll admit, I would prefer not to have Admiral Barron and Mr. Holsten free…but their escapes were actually useful in one sense. The whole affair has created a sense of crisis and urgency in the Senate that may, in fact, accelerate and expand the level of disruption we are ultimately able to inflict.”
“That’s true, Desiree…unless Tyler Barron rallies the fleet and comes back here with ten divisions of Marines to hunt down every member of your carefully planned cabal. And that doesn’t take into account what resources Gary Holsten will be able to reach…on Megara, and elsewhere.” A short pause. “I have tangled with both of them before, Desiree, and I can tell you without a doubt, they are not to be underestimated.”
Because they both got the best of you…
She managed to keep the thought to herself, though she was barely holding back her anger. Tyler Barron had utterly wrecked Lille’s earlier plan to seize control of the Alliance through a puppet ruler, and now she bristled at his assumption that she couldn’t handle what he’d been unable to.
“I understand they are both very dangerous, Ricard…but this situation is different.” She hesitated, reminding herself she needed Lille on her side. “I not only have all the resources I have put into place over so many months…I have you. In the Alliance, you were virtually alone, without significant financial resources. It was a desperate time for the Union, and you were given an almost impossible goal. We have advantages now that you did not have then.”
She detested what she saw as obsequiousness, but, as always, she did what she thought would get her where she wanted to be.
“I appreciate your efforts to appear respectful, Desiree, but I am immune to such efforts. You have done well here, I don’t argue that. And you’re right, you do have advantages here I did not have on Palatia. That does not change the fact that you are underestimating the threat Tyler Barron and Gary Holsten re
present.” He sat quietly for a few seconds before continuing. “Nevertheless, there is little point in continuing to discuss the matter. You have dispatched Admiral Whitten and all the force he could muster to pursue—and hopefully destroy—Dauntless. I will admit, it might have been preferable to have Tyler Barron as a prisoner…but I believe the risk in attempting to recapture the escapees is simply too great. Your…advice…to Whitten was clear, was it not? To attack Dauntless and its companion ships as quickly as possible…and to destroy them at all costs?”
“Yes, Ricard. I was very clear. Still…”
Lille looked at her for a few seconds. “Still?”
Marieles was angry with herself for saying too much. She was worried about Whitten facing Barron, but it wasn’t something she particularly wanted to share with Lille. “I was just going to say that Barron is a very capable commander, and I reminded Torrance not to underestimate him.” She wasn’t sure Lille bought that, but his face remained impassive.
“So, we have one other matter to discuss. Admiral Striker. He’s in a secure location, but, of course, there is always risk in holding a hostage. My people checked him for a tracker, and they are almost certain he has no means of signaling for help—a conclusion supported by the fact that he has received no assistance. Still, my feeling is, it’s safer to eliminate him now. We can dispose of the remains, and everyone will simply believe he has gone into hiding or changed identities to escape from his crimes. I believe that will be useful to your operation.”
Marieles was silent. Her first inclination had been to agree, but, something held her back. She didn’t know what purpose Striker could serve, but she’d lost Holsten and Barron, and she liked the idea of hanging on to the one prisoner of note that remained.
“I think you should wait, Ricard. I understand the effort involved in keeping Striker hidden and under guard, but it seems to me, we should try to gain whatever information we can from him.” She knew the imperatives of the Union’s spying operations were different in peacetime. During the war, Striker would have been a prisoner almost beyond value, one with an almost indescribable knowledge of Confederation military and logistic information. Now, there was less he could reveal that Sector Nine couldn’t derive from other sources.
Lille glanced back at her, his expression doubtful at first. He looked like he was going to disregard her suggestion…and she didn’t doubt that anything she said to Lille was just that, no more than a request. She didn’t let the position Villieneuve had given her on the Megara op go to her head, not where Ricard Lille was concerned. The assassin took orders from one person, and only one. And Gaston Villieneuve was lightyears away, back on Montmirail.
But Lille didn’t refuse. He sat quietly for a few more seconds, and then he said, “Perhaps you’re right. There is no pressing need for tactical information, but Striker is—or was—the navy’s senior admiral. I’m afraid my inclinations run to cleaning up loose ends, but in this case, some aggressive interrogation is in order before we eliminate the admiral.”
Marieles caught Lille’s expression in the glow of the ceiling light fixture…and she had to suppress a shiver. She wasn’t hesitant to employ harsh tactics in pursuit of her goals, but she had an idea of what Lille meant by “aggressive interrogation,” and she felt a little squeamishness in her stomach.
The assassin was the coldest fish she’d ever met, and the thought of what he would do to a hostage shook even her stone cold resolve.
* * *
Van Striker was lying on his back, looking up at the dark gray concrete of the ceiling. The bench, the closest thing he had to a bed or a chair, was cold and damp, and best guess, made from the same material as the rest of his surroundings. He was in some kind of cellar, he’d guessed…and from the lack of any apparent rescue attempt, he had also surmised it was a well-hidden one. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that his people were frantically looking for him, even as he lay there helplessly. He was the supreme commander of the Confederation navy, and he knew the loyalty many officers felt toward him. He imagined Troyus City had been turned upside down to find him.
He shifted his body to the side, wincing as the soreness that had become his normal state of being morphed into significant pain for a few seconds. He hadn’t been tortured, not in the sense of being abused while under questioning, but the search for scanning devices hidden in his body had been the most painful thing he’d ever experienced. The lack of any kind of anesthetic was a message from his captors, he suspected, one designed to encourage good behavior…and to give a glimpse at what punishments were possible if he made trouble.
The wounds from the pseudo-medical process had healed considerably, and the pain was far less than it had been…but that didn’t mean it didn’t still hurt…or that the poor conditions in the cell hadn’t added half a dozen infections to his discomfort.
Striker had remained defiant, even as he lay in the cell, writhing in agony from the deep incisions his captors had made in a dozen places. He’d expected his people to find him days ago—not that he had a clear sense of how many days had passed. Even without a homing unit, he’d expected the Marines to come bashing through the door at any moment…and he’d steeled himself to resist anything his adversaries did to him until that time.
Only no one had come. He’d endured the pain and embraced the slow recovery that lessened that agony a bit each day. But, for all the pain and discomfort, the passage of time had worn him down the most. It wasn’t just being held prisoner…it was the fact that he knew something was happening on Megara, something bad. Being held back, unable to intervene, was the purest form of torture for him. Worse, his kidnapping was very likely involved with whatever plots were underway, a suspicion he’d elevated to virtual certainty when no sign of rescue appeared.
That meant Ricard Lille was involved, a fact that escalated whatever was happening from some kind of local politicking to a full-fledged Union plot, and quite possibly a dire risk to the whole Confederation.
He’d expected to be interrogated, an expectation of impending brutality that had him huddled over on his slab, struggling to control the shivering, both from fear and from the damp cold of his cell. But so far he’d been left to himself, visited only by guards who brought his meager rations and emptied the waste bucket his captors had thoughtfully provided. And, once, by a medical technician who’d administered a powerful antibiotic when one of his infections seemed to threaten becoming serious. Apparently, Lille was fine with inflicting all manner of pain and misery, but not with Striker dying on him. Not yet.
He’d found some spark of encouragement in that, an urge to stand firm, to resist…and even to try to escape. But it had quickly faded, and in the grim darkness that remained, he lost some of the respect he’d always had for himself. The brutality his captors had inflicted on him had done more than cut at his flesh and draw out his screams of pain. It had broken a part of what he’d been, what he’d believed of himself. And in that realization, he saw the true pain they had inflicted on him, the ache deep inside he knew would never be gone.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
CFS Dauntless
Approaching Delphi Transit Point
Santorus System
Year 316 AC
Dauntless jerked hard, and Barron lurched to the side in his chair, slamming into his harness hard enough that he lost his breath. Dauntless had been on the run for hours, partly because the forces in pursuit outnumbered and outgunned Barron’s ship, and partly because he was desperately trying to avoid firing on another Confederation vessel.
The rescue missions had not been accomplished without the spilling of Confederation blood, nor had Dauntless’s escape from Megara orbit, but Barron was determined to do whatever he could to see it stopped at that. He would do what he had to do, of course. Nothing was as important as making sure the Confederation was ready for a Hegemony attack…though he had no idea how he was going to manage that. It seemed almost unattainable, and right now, he’d count just making it through the t
ransit point before the pursuing ships caught him as a success.
Atara was next to him, at the captain’s station, even though he’d been more or less commanding Dauntless from the admiral’s chair since he’d returned. The two had tried to show themselves together as often as possible, setting an example of unity and camaraderie to a crew he knew had to be at the very least confused by the situation.
The crew’s obedience in the face of orders that seemed blatantly illegal, even as they watched other Confederation ships pursuing Dauntless, was a testament to their deep loyalty and trust for both their captain and their admiral. Many of those aboard had served with Barron and Travis since before the war…and they all knew about the Hegemony, too. They understood what was coming, and they knew whatever was happening on Megara, it could only hurt the Confederation’s chances of defending itself.
“Captain…see if engineering can coax any more thrust from the engines.” Barron wasn’t hopeful as he issued the order. Dauntless was one of the newest and strongest ships in the fleet, but the race back to the Confederation and to Megara—and then the hurried escape from the capital—had been hard on the ship’s systems. Her engines were in good condition, but not in perfect condition…leaving the pack of cruisers, and the brand new battleship following her with an edge in thrust capacity.
The cruisers had the clear speed edge, but their weapons were shorter-ranged. Barron knew they would catch Dauntless eventually, but he was pretty sure he could get through the point up ahead before they did. If he couldn’t, if he had no choice, he could blast them to scrap before they got close enough to attack. The battleship was his concern. The big ship was back a little farther, but Titania mounted quad primaries, just as Dauntless did, and the deadly particle accelerators had a long enough range that they just might get off a shot or two before Barron’s vessel could escape, especially since the pursuer seemed to be managing thrust almost one percent higher than Dauntless’s.