by Jay Allan
Something was happening, something big. She knew about the pulsar—perhaps not everything, but enough to understand what a problem it was. But now it seemed like the fleet was getting ready to leave. She knew there had been preparations for an invasion of the Union on the Periphery, but she understood the logistics of space travel well enough to realize there was no way the extensive preparations for such a long and circuitous attack could be in place this soon.
So what? What are they doing?
And what crazy part is Tyler playing in this?
It wasn’t her problem. Neither she nor Barron had made each other any promises they couldn’t keep. There was affection on both sides, but nothing more. She should just choose where she wanted to live and get on with the fabulous life for which her adventures had provided the means.
“You have visitors, Captain Lafarge.” The AI’s voice was soft, and very human sounding, so much so, it made her jump every time, thinking someone else was in the room.
Damn. The party. She’d been brooding so long, she’d lost all track of time. Her crew, each of them wealthy now too, were splitting up, heading to their individual destinations throughout the Confederation. But first, they were throwing her a party. It was their way of showing appreciation for the success she’d led them too…and also a way to say goodbye. She was appreciative, and deeply gratified they felt that way, but she’d have rather fought her way through a pack of pissed off Sector Nine agents. She hated parties…and she hated emotional goodbyes. Left to herself, she would just fade away, wishing the best for all of them. But there had been no way to say no.
“Open,” she said to the AI. Then, a few seconds later, after she heard the door slip to the side, she added, “I’ll be right there. Almost ready.”
She ducked into the bedroom of the suite. She wasn’t close to ready. But then she wasn’t one to spend hours fussing with herself either. She tore off the pants and shirt she’d been wearing, reaching out and grabbing the dress—her only fancy bit of attire—from the closet. She turned and glanced quickly in the mirror as she slid it on. It dropped right into place. Her constant adventures had kept her in shape, at least, and she had to admit, she looked good.
She stared for a moment, running her hand through her hair quickly and then pausing, feeling a rush of irritation at the passing wish that Tyler could see her now.
“His loss,” she said, feeling almost immediately sorry for the resentment she felt. Barron was somewhere on Grimaldi—they’d seen each other quite frequently over the past several months—but he’d almost disappeared the past few weeks. Now she realized with ever greater certainty that something was going on. Something big.
Something dangerous.
“C’mon, Andi…it’s time to celebrate.” Vig Merrick’s voice, loud, excited, from the other room.
She sighed softly, even more worried about Barron, about all her navy friends, than she had been.
C’mon, Lafarge…it’s time to have a good time. Or, at least, pretend to. They deserve that much.
She forced the frown from her face, an endeavor requiring even more effort than she’d expected it to. Then she smiled, hoping it didn’t look as fake as it felt, and she walked out into the other room.
* * *
“It’s good to see you both.” Jake Stockton reached out and took Dirk Timmons’s hand. The two had once been rivals, but whatever bad feeling had existed between them at one time, it was long gone. Timmons stood looking as steady as Stockton had ever seen him, despite the fact that Dauntless’s once and future fighter wing commander knew his friend walked around these days on two prosthetic limbs, courtesy of one of the desperate battles during the Alliance Civil War. Timmons was—had been—one of the best pilots in the fleet, but he’d run into an enemy who’d been better than him, at least on that day. He’d made it back to Dauntless, barely, courtesy of Stockton’s frantic efforts. Still, despite his strong recovery, flight regs mandated his career in the cockpit was over.
“It’s good to see you, too, Raptor.” Timmons’ voice was friendly, almost cheerful, but Stockton knew it was a façade. Timmons was a creature like himself, and barring him from a fighter was like caging an animal accustomed to the open steppe. He’d hesitated before sending the communique recalling Timmons, but then he’d decided that, despite the danger of the mission, it would be worse for the once-great pilot to feel unneeded.
“And you, Olya, what can I say?” He turned toward the other officer present, and he reached out and embraced her. He had served alongside Federov his entire stint on Dauntless, and for most of that time, she had commanded the Reds that would have been the ship’s elite squadron…had it not been for his own Blues.
“I’m happy to see you, Jake.” She used his name and not his call sign, as Timmons had done. “I mean that. Things haven’t been the same without you.”
She hugged him back with an intensity that lent credibility to her words. He’d been a little concerned about how she would react to his coming back. Federov had been Dauntless’s strike force commander under Captain Travis, and he’d been concerned how she’d feel about his return—in effect, her demotion. But there was no sign of resentment. Commodore Barron hadn’t addressed the crew yet, but they all had varying degrees of information about the pending mission. Some knew more than others, of course, but all were aware that Barron was returning to command Dauntless, and he was reuniting as much of the old crew as possible. Even without details, they all knew the mission would be difficult and dangerous…and probably, damned near impossible. But they’d been there before, and not one of them would refuse to follow Barron wherever he led them.
Stockton stepped back after the hug and paused for a few seconds. He was happy to see his old comrades, but he was worried about the mission. He’d only had a brief meeting with the commodore, and for the first time ever, he’d gotten the impression Barron didn’t expect to come back from this mission. That wouldn’t affect Stockton’s own actions, but it cast a pall on his efforts to recruit old comrades. Fighter pilots led dangerous lives, and they had a small enough chance of surviving to retirement. He didn’t like the feeling of urging good men and women to join a suicidal expedition. Barron had mandated that all personnel recruited for the mission would be volunteers, but that was a distinction without meaning, at least for old Dauntless personnel. Stockton couldn’t think of one crew member who wouldn’t throw his hand up to join Barron if the mission had been to fly the ship into the heart of a sun. The fanatical loyalty of Dauntless’s crew went far beyond the already half-crazy members of the fighter wing, and Stockton was fairly sure even the spacers fourth class who cleaned out the reactors’ cooling tubes would rush to answer the call.
“Jake!” It was a woman’s voice, coming from the open hatch behind him.
“Stara…” He turned and smiled. She raced over and threw her arms around him.
“I’m so glad you’re back.”
He felt a twinge of guilt. Stara had transferred from Dauntless to accept a post as second in command of fighter ops for Grimaldi…and, with Gary Holsten’s help, he’d lied to her about his whereabouts. His scouting missions had been beyond top secret, and Holsten had insisted that no one but his own people be involved, or even know what was going on. He understood—though he found it rather disconcerting to see how worried about spies Holsten appeared to be right in the center of the Confederation’s largest base—and he went along with it. Lying to Stara had been the hardest part of the whole thing, and though he felt the urge to tell her, Holsten had been insistent that the entire operation remain a secret, at least until Dauntless and the fleet were back from the Bottleneck.
“I’m glad to be back. It’s been too long.” He and Stara had never discussed the specifics of their relationship, but there wasn’t any doubt in his mind they’d be together for as long as they lived. Which might not be much longer…
He hugged her back, letting his emotions escape for just a moment before clamping down his discipline again. I
t felt strange. Stockton had never been so controlled in his behavior. He’d long been the brilliant but unrestrained pilot, the bad boy of the fleet who was too good to cashier. But he’d changed…the instant he’d watched Kyle Jamison die. Jamison had been Dauntless strike force commander, the restraining force in his life…and his best friend. His youth had died in that moment, the uncontrolled cockiness replaced by an irresistible need to become what Jamison had always urged him to become, to take his friend’s place.
“I’m so glad to see you all, but I’m afraid we’ve got work to do.” He looked at his three companions. “We’re going to be packing Dauntless full of fighters, and I mean full.” Barron’s ship had carried extra squadrons since the early days of the war, when she’d taken on survivors from some of the ships destroyed in the massive battle in the Arcturon system. But Stockton had something else in mind now, and he planned to take it even further. “So, that means we need more fighters. They have to volunteer, and I don’t want a mass of disorganized individuals. I want whole squadrons, so that means every member has to be onboard. And we need the best we can get. It’s going to take all we’ve got to pull this one off.” He felt uncomfortable at gathering together the cream of the fleet’s fighter corps and leading them all to their deaths, but he’d seen that thing in the Bottleneck, and, more importantly, he’d seen the work the enemy was completing. He’d come away with no doubt, none whatsoever, that they were on the verge of being able to move their superweapon. It was a major problem as a defensive obstacle…as an offensive resource it was a disaster.
“We’re not going to have any trouble getting whole squadrons to follow Commodore Barron.” Timmons’s voice was edgy. Stockton could only imagine how much it would eat at his friend to watch the wings launch on such a desperate mission, and to stay behind to watch on the monitors and spit out advice to the pilots in space.
“No, I don’t imagine we will. I’ve gone through fleet reports, and I’ve made a list of possible additions.” The squadrons were deployed all around the fleet, and Stockton could only imagine the private invective of battleship captains relieved of their best wings by his efforts. But they could scream and shout all they wanted, Stockton had the absolute authority to transfer any squadron in the fleet, a power granted by no less authority than Fleet Admiral Striker himself.
“Jake…I’ve got another squadron to add to that list.” Stara’s tone was uncomfortable, and then she paused. “I talked to Jovi Grachus, and…”
“No.” Stockton’s voice was cold, hard.
“Jake…”
“I said no, Stara. I will not have that woman and her pilots in my command.” He could feel his body tense, and his fists clenched. Commander Jovi Grachus was an ally now, the senior commander of the Alliance squadrons attached to the Confederation fleet, but she would always be an enemy to Stockton. Grachus had killed more of his pilots than he cared to remember, including Kyle Jamison. He’d spared her life in the final battle, reluctantly obeying Commodore Barron’s order, but truth be told, he regretted not firing that last shot.
“Jake, I think you should at least listen to Stara. Commander Grachus is one of the best pilots out there—I know that—and she could bring the best Alliance aces with her.”
“You of all people should be with me on this, Dirk. She gave you those artificial legs. She banished you from the cockpit.” Grachus had defeated Timmons as well, though he’d survived at least, unlike Jamison.
“That was war, Jake. We all have our pain and loss, but Grachus is an honorable warrior. She…”
“She will never serve under my command. I had her in my sights…but I obeyed Commodore Barron. She’s alive, but that is all she can expect from me.” Stockton felt the anger and bitterness. On some level, he knew it was the pain of loss for his friend. If Kyle Jamison had been standing there, Stockton knew his friend would have told him to get past it. But Jamison wasn’t there—that was the whole point—and Stockton couldn’t change how he felt. “There are plenty of good pilots in Confederation service. We don’t need some Red Alliance leftover to bolster us.”
Stara looked like she was going to argue—and that wouldn’t have surprised Stockton—but she held her tongue. They were all quiet for a moment, and then, mercifully, they started discussing specific squadrons to go after.
Chapter Nine
Imperator’s Palace
Victorum, Alliance Capital City
Palatia, Astara II
Year 62 (311 AC)
Tarkus Vennius sat in his chair at the large round table. His seat was bigger and plusher than the others, a token prerequisite to set him apart as the greater of those present. The whole thing seemed ridiculous to him, but he’d been compelled to endure some of the trappings of the office he despised.
He’d swept away every trace he could of Calavius, starting with that abominable throne the damned fool had built for himself. Vennius was Imperator, largely because he’d found no way to avoid it, but he’d be damned if he was going to playact like he was some kind of king. The Alliance didn’t have monarchs. The Palatian people were warriors, first and foremost, and the office of Imperator was a rank, not a royal title.
A rank he hated. If he longed for anything through the fatigue that ruled his life now, it was to return to his old place as Commander Maximus…or better still, to retire to his estates and pass the torch to the next generation. But that wasn’t a choice. The disease Calavius had spread had not been eradicated, and all around him, Vennius could see signs of decay, indications that the old Alliance, the Palatian warrior culture that had been his life, was slipping away. Duty demanded that he stand where he was, that he do all he could to stop the deterioration. And duty came before desire.
The men and women serving him were still warriors, most of them at least. But much of the old selflessness was gone, the dedication to duty above all else that was the heart of the “way” slipping into the past. He saw Calavius’s vanity repeated all around him, if in lesser degrees, and he chafed at how his people, especially those who’d fought at his side in the civil war, seemed to have lost something.
“Your Supremacy, I urge you to consider this commitment to the war between the Confederation and the Union. We have never aligned ourselves with outside powers, and now, to commit so much of the fleet to a distant front, and a conflict that cannot benefit us in any meaningful way, seems…” The officer paused. Vennius suspected he was looking for a more diplomatic word than foolhardy. “…a matter of some concern.”
Vennius inhaled, and then he quietly exhaled. It wasn’t the disagreement with his policy that troubled him, it was the mealy-mouthed way his subordinate, Clevus Daggus, a Commander-Altum of high rank, had expressed it. Respect was one thing, but a failure to discuss military matters openly sapped the strength that had led to sixty years of continuous victory.
“It should be a…matter of concern, as you put it, Commander-Altum.” Vennius spoke softly, suspecting his efforts to hide the crushing exhaustion inside him were less than totally successful. “The fleet was very badly damaged during Calavius’s rebellion…” He refused to call it a “civil war.” He felt that instilled some level of legitimacy in his old friend’s actions, and what remained of his own determination knew he could never allow that. Not if he was going to have any chance of preserving the Alliance he’d served for so long. “…and the level of commitment to support the Confederation leaves us…thinly stretched…at home.”
“Perhaps we should recall part of the fleet, Your Supremacy. At least until we are able to replace the losses from the recent conflict.”
“That will be years, Commander. I appreciate the need to defend Palatia and the Alliance, but there is no one on our borders who would dare to attack us.” Vennius winced slightly at the hubris in his own words. He imagined how he would have castigated one of his subordinates for that kind of overly confident statement. It was far from a complete truth to suggest that he, too, wasn’t concerned about the state of the Alliance’s home de
fenses, that he didn’t worry that the Krillians or the Unaligned Systems might choose now to seek their vengeance. But that changed nothing. He didn’t have a choice. He’d sent more than half the fleet to the front lines of the Confederation-Union war, and he’d do it again if he had to. Duty and honor were inseparable, at least as far as Tarkus Vennius was concerned, and his word was like granite.
“Perhaps we can accelerate production and pull back even a small part of the fleet, Your Supremacy.” That was Commander-Altum Cilian Globus. Globus was an old stalwart, a man who followed the way with all the fervor Vennius always had. Even Globus…
Vennius slammed his hand down on the table, immediately regretful that he’d allowed his frustration to take control, even for an instant. “Let me make this profoundly clear to all of you. The Confederation sent ships to our aid, even as they faced their own war, a conflict that called for every vessel they had. They sent one of their greatest commanders as well, and brand new ships, fresh from the production lines—combat units they desperately needed for their own fight. We will do no less. To fail them now would bring shame upon us all. It is true, we have not sought out allies in the past, yet we took their aid when it was offered and when we needed it, and there can be no doubt that we would have fallen without it.
“We will do no less than they did. Having taken an ally when we needed help, we will not forsake one when they require our aid. To do so would be a dishonor that would stain Palatia and the Alliance for all time.”
The room was silent for a moment. Finally, Globus dared to speak again. “I understand, your Supremacy, and I agree. I regret my earlier weakness. We must aid the Confederation. But we cannot ignore reality. The most recent reports from the Unaligned Systems, and from the Krillian Holdfast are not encouraging. By all accounts, Union agents are active there, encouraging these disparate powers to join forces, to take the opportunity to invade the Alliance.”