The Cost of Victory

by Jay Allan

  On the far side of the primary, two CAC cruisers hurtled into deep space, beyond detection range. Their engines destroyed, they were unable to decelerate; their communications knocked out, they couldn't call for help. Spacefarers had few fears more intense than ending up on one of these "ghost ships," a prison first then, when the life support finally fails, a tomb. No one knew just how many missing ships from man's wars in space were hurtling into unexplored darkness, their frozen crews transfixed at their posts.

  But now was not the time for introspection; Garret had other work to do. The fleet had been hard hit, but things could have been much worse. Most of the ships had taken serious damage, and putting together a scratch force that could depart in seven days was proving to be difficult. He stepped into the lift, shifting ships on and off his mental list as he barked at the AI to take him to the control center. The lift was operating at reduced speed, victim of his own power management orders, and he was impatient to get back to work.

  "Status report on the Cambrai?" Stepping off the lift, he snapped out the inquiry without preamble.

  "Captain Arlington advises she will be ready to depart in ten days." Lieutenant Simon had transferred over to the station along with the boss, and she cringed as she passed on Arlington's report. She'd been with Garret long enough to know what he was going to say.

  "Unacceptable. Advise Arlington that she has five days. On day six she will be ready to maneuver into formation for departure."

  "Yes sir." Simon really hoped Captain Arlington didn't argue. She'd seen the results of that before, too.

  "Other reports?" Garret dropped hard into the command chair. They were on the station, not on the ship, so he'd discarded the pressure suit for a set of well-worn duty fatigues.

  "The Cromwell will be ready in 24 hours. Captain Charles reports he'll have all main systems at 95% or greater operational proficiency by then." Byron Charles had been Garret's flag captain for five years; twice he'd turned down promotions to flag rank to stay and command the Cromwell for the admiral. "The Saratoga will be ready in one day as well, though Captain Krill advises that the landing bays will still be non-operational until she can get the ship to a space dock." The Saratoga was one of the big new Yorktown Class monsters, the only one with light enough damage to make Garret's tight departure schedule.

  It's not like we've got the fighters anyway, Garret thought bitterly. Only 20% of the fleet's fighter-bombers had made it back in the end, though their daring attack had played a huge role in the victory. He couldn't understand why the survivors didn't hate him, but they knew how desperate the situation was, and they were aware just how much their sacrifice had bought.

  He hated to abandon the more seriously damaged ships of his battered fleet to someone else's command, but he doubted the enemy would be back soon, and he had promised to return and complete Operation Sherman. Garret had forged a kinship with General Holm, and they both agreed that their people had been under occupation long enough. He too had seen the reports, the images...he'd even met some of the survivors. He simply could not allow those types of atrocities to continue a day longer if he could do something about it. The force he was taking to Columbia included every decently functional ship in the fleet - three capital ships plus cruisers and escorts. They were depleted and low on missiles and other supplies, but Garret had sent his instructions ahead; the supply ships would meet his force at Columbia. Normally he could refit at the base at 12 Ophiuchi, but that facility had been stripped bare to support his defense of Gliese.

  The trip to Columbia was fairly long, with five transits and several long cross-system legs in between. Just one of those systems had warp gates leading to enemy possessions, but he intended to be cautious; the task force was in no condition to fight, not until he could resupply.

  Lieutenant Simon sent the updated order of battle for the task force to his console. He'd be light on cruisers, which he didn't like. The enemy had stripped their battlegroups of their cruisers to assemble their first attack wave, but the loss of heavier supporting firepower proved decisive when the battlelines fought it out. He didn't like the idea of exposing himself to turnabout, but he only had two cruisers in good enough repair to make the trip. So two would have to be enough. Otherwise, the OB looked good, or at least as good as it was going to get, so he pressed his thumb against the reader on his command chair, approving the document. He sent it back to Simon so she could get started relaying orders to the ships of the force.

  Garret's mind had wandered back to the med center, to the wounded and the dying - though most of the ones that had gotten there still alive would make it no matter how badly they were wounded. They might have a long recovery, but once they got help their chances were good. How many died at their posts, unable to get medical attention in time he didn't know. Simon's voice finally brought him out of his trance.

  "Sir?" She paused. Simon was a very proper officer, and she disliked addressing the admiral other than to respond to him or provide him with information. But she knew he'd been up for days. "I am starting to worry about you. It has been several days since you slept."

  Garret smiled. Technically, she was being insubordinate, but he knew she was genuinely concerned. Ah, my dear Jen, he thought, if only you knew how very long it has been since I truly slept. "There will be time for sleeping later, Jen." He hoped his voice was sympathetic and appreciative; she was a good kid. He poked at the small screen adjacent to his command chair. "For now, I'd like the updated repair schedules for the station. I want the defense grid up and running before we leave and take half the fleet's remaining firepower with us."

  There will be time, Jen, he thought...time enough for sleep when our work is done.

  The fleet decelerated hard as it approached the warp gate to 12 Ophiuchi. They'd had a long trip across the Gliese system - the Ophiuchi gate was well on the far side of the Gliese primary - so they'd accelerated halfway at 8g to build velocity, then decelerated most of the rest of the way. They were going through the gate slowly; they had a hard course change right after the jump, so any velocity would have worked against them once they were in the 12 Ophiuchi system.

  Garret had done his best to put together a fleet on an impossible timetable. No task force had ever set out for a campaign less than two weeks after fighting a major battle. His ships were battered - there was no way to repair all of the battle damage so quickly, not even to the most lightly hit ships. Only a few ships had missiles, and they only had a tithe of their normal supply. Garret had left most of the paltry supply of missiles, and all of the fighter-bombers, with the remaining fleet units. These vessels, mostly the ones too battered to leave with the departing task force, would have to defend the Gliese system in the unlikely event the enemy was able to mount a new offensive, and Garret wanted them as ready as they could be. Just in case.

  He felt the feeling of relief as the deceleration abruptly slowed to 1g. At 8g, the crew really couldn't do much except stay in their couches and try to breath. The ships' AIs did all the work. But now the crews sprang back into action and none quicker than Jennifer Simon. "Lead vessel insertion in 90 seconds, sir."

  "Very well." Garret voice was hoarse. He was tired, bone tired. After the jump was done and the course to the next gate was set, he'd grab a couple hours of sleep. Or at least lying on his bunk; sleep was a more problematic project. The warp gate from 12 Ophiuchi to HD82943 was not far from their entry point, so they wouldn't be maneuvering at more than 2g. That gave him a fighting chance to at least doze off for a while.

  The fleet deployment was standard for an unopposed warp gate transit. The first vessels through would be escorts, mostly fast attack ships, followed by the heavier escorts and then the capital ships. In an assault situation, a screen of escorts would go in first, followed immediately by cruisers to give the forming line some firepower. The battle groups would then come through in formation, minus those elements detached for the initial wave.

  Garret had lost count of how many transits he had made, t
hough his AI could have reminded him it was 373. They all felt the same, not painful exactly, but not pleasant either. Civilians and first-timers usually found the experience very unsettling, but to veteran spacers it was a minor annoyance.

  Though utilized for over 100 years, warp gates are an occurrence only partially explained by 23rd century physics. The gate itself forms around a naked singularity, a phenomenon the existence of which was only theorized until an unmanned British space probe passed through one of the Sol system's two transit points and initiated the age of interstellar exploration.

  Warp gates generate gravity waves, very slight under normal circumstances, but building as successive transits are made. One or two ships going through need only move into the transit horizon, which ranges from 30-300 kilometers in known gates, and they emerge into the connecting system, with their exact entry velocity and mirrored vectors.

  However a task force or large fleet moving through a gate generates increasing gravity waves, which not only cause considerable turbulence, but also require the application of thrust to counter the effect and maintain the formation. The calculations involved are enormously complex and left to the ships' AIs.

  Normally, a warp gate gives off no detectable energy. However, as multiple transits are made, the space around the transit horizon emits a faint blue glow. By the time Cromwell was entering the gate, the halo was visible to the naked eye - if you knew just where to look. Garret had the projection up on the main display; he considered it one of space's rarest and most beautiful images. Warp gates had opened the universe to man's exploration and colonization. Of course, he thought, we turned them into a new way to wage war.

  He felt the tingling, not quite an electric shock, but close. The nausea was a passing feeling for a grizzled spacehound like him, though rookies were frequently incapacitated the first few times they experienced it. Then the flash, which seemed to come from inside his head and, when his vision recovered, the fringe of the 12 Ophiuchi system was laid out before him, the distant primary no brighter than the full moon in Earth's night sky.

  It did take time to traverse the gate itself, and the time increased with the distance between systems. The nanoseconds involved were imperceptible to the human mind; indeed, it was some years before the computers on transiting ships were able to measure the miniscule time expended.

  Garret had never become jaded about the miracle of the warp gate. In an infinitesimal fraction of a second, his ship had traveled 13.9 light years. If he were to find Gliese 250 twinkling in the inky blackness he would be seeing light that left almost 14 years before. His own ships, state of the art human technology that they were, would have taken over a century to make the trip conventionally.

  Once the last of the ships flashed into existence and the fleet's course was set for the next gate, Garret rose and walked toward the lift. "Lieutenant Simon, notify me if anything requires my attention."

  "Yes sir."

  Garret smiled. She's glad I'm going to get some rest. He was still thinking about what a wonder the warp gates truly were as the doors closed and the car began to move. He was amused that with all he had seen, with all he had done, he could still be amazed by anything. He was grateful for that.

  Chapter 8

  Western Alliance Intelligence Directorate HQ

  Wash-Balt Metroplex, Earth

  Stark held his glass up to the light, admiring the caramel color of the fine single malt scotch. Luxuries like this were available to a privileged few, and he was glad to be one of those. The Cogs were animals to him, necessary labor to do the dirty, dangerous, and unpleasant jobs perhaps, but nothing more. Poorly paid and completely replaceable people could do some jobs cheaper than machines. He considered that an interesting anomaly in a technologically advanced society.

  The middle classes, gutless, joyless, clinging in fear to their meager existences, were beneath his contempt. The Cogs, at least, were uneducated and knew no better. But those in the middle, living in places like Manhattan's Protected Zone and the WashBalt Core, they had no excuse. They'd been given just a taste of a decent life by their political masters, and they were so ruled by fear of losing it they did what they were told without question.

  It had been Stark's biggest surprise as he rose in the intelligence community that maintaining internal security had proved to be a minor task. Of course there were troublemakers - that's what those rooms down in Sub-Sector C were for, but there were remarkably few.

  In space, of course, the opposite was true. The colonies, full of troublesome types, seethed with discontent, and they resisted every effort by Alliance Gov to tighten the leash. The scope and ferocity of the war had put those problems on hold - neither Alliance Gov nor the colonies themselves wanted the Caliphate or CAC to end up controlling the frontier. But he knew the problem was still there, waiting to re-emerge once the war was over.

  He felt he could control the colonists because he understood them; he comprehended them in a way most of his associates never could. Gavin Stark had the arrogance of a man born into power, but he had not been. Most of the other members of the Directorate had their spots in the Political Class through accidents of birth. Places in the Academy were their birthrights, and they were assured of high positions in their careers. But Stark's path had been a different one, far more difficult and less common.

  He'd been born into the lowest strata of the middle classes, and he was only a clerical worker when he began his career. But random fortune had placed him on the junior staff of a powerful politician. In his youthful optimism, he'd hoped the Senator would mentor him, but the one time he'd approached the great man all he'd gotten was a beating from the bodyguards...a lesson in learning his place in the social order.

  But espionage was in Stark's blood and, not content to meekly accept his place along among the sheep, he set about to find another way. That way turned out to be evidence of the Senator's graft, which was so vast in scope it exceeded even the considerable level of corruption that was a de facto perk of his position. The Senator had stolen from general funds, of course – they all did that. But he'd also stolen from other politicians, including a few even more powerful than he was. Stark didn't hesitate to blackmail the man, and the second time he spoke with the Senator, things turned out quite a bit differently. Stark was granted admission to the WashBalt Political Academy, the first of many "favors" he would enjoy from his new political sponsor.

  Eventually, the Senator exhausted his usefulness, and Stark was never one to leave a loose end he could tie up. His unwilling benefactor ended up in Sub-Sector C, never quite understanding how it had happened. And the Senator's replacement owed Stark a big favor for clearing his way to the newly vacant Seat.

  "Mind if I interrupt this daydream?" The old man stood in the doorway. Jack Dutton was Number Two at Alliance Intelligence. Indeed, he could have had Stark's job but, old and tired, he'd deferred to his protégé instead. Dutton was the consummate professional, with a lifetime spent as a spy, but he no longer had the drive and killer instinct he saw in his younger ally. He was content to remain Number Two and deflect the burdens of the top job to Stark.

  Stark looked up and smiled. The old man was his only real friend - or the closest thing to a friend a reptile like him could have. "Please. The diversion would be welcome. Quiet introspection is overrated." He motioned to the credenza along the wall. "Have some of the single malt. It's top notch."

  "Have you read the intel on Li An's plot to take out Admiral Garret?" Dutton walked slowly over to the side table and poured himself a drink. "She's got Liang Chang so scared shitless he may just pull it off out of sheer desperation."

  "Yes, her plan is interesting." He took another sip from his Scotch and put the glass down. "I'm a bit concerned about how much intel she seems to be getting from Alliance sources. I'm going to have to take a closer look at the Directorate."

  Dutton dropped tiredly into one of the soft leather guest chairs. "Yes, she does seem to have a fair number of sources...certainly mo
re than the ones we feed her intentionally." He rubbed his forehead. "I've been tangling with that miserable bitch since before you started your climb up Senator Harper's back." He took a drink then looked at the heavy cut crystal glass approvingly. "You're right. It is excellent."

  "I'll send you a case. Let's call it a birthday present. I never have been able to uncover when you were born...assuming you were born and not hatched or something. Sometimes I think you've just always been here." He looked up with a wicked grin. "I guess the records don't go back that far."

  Dutton laughed and took another drink. "So what do you want to do about Li An's ambush of Admiral Garret? Change his route? Or hit Liang with another force?"

  Stark paused. "I was thinking about doing nothing."

  Dutton wasn't surprised by much, but he wasn't expecting that response. "Liang's got a good chance to succeed if we don't intervene. Garret's ships are depleted; we stripped the base at 12 Ophiuchi to supply his fleet in Gliese. He won't be combat ready until he gets to Columbia and resupplies. And Liang will target everything on Cromwell. He's terrified of ending up in one of Li's little rooms if he fails."

  Stark just sat silently, leaning back in his chair. Dutton's eyes widened in realization. "You want to get rid of Garret?"

  "Just a thought." He gave Dutton a hard stare. "We both know we're going to have to do something about him sooner or later. This last victory has made him almost a legend. He owns the navy...none of them will refuse him anything. Can we really trust a guy with so much power?"

  Dutton looked concerned. "You know I agree with that generally, but the war isn't over yet. Li wants Garret dead precisely because she doesn't think they can win as long as we have him. Do we really want to give that up?"