by Jay Allan
“Tighten those formations. Drop intervals to ten kilometers.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Turenne was watching his fighter squadrons conduct a training exercise. Union ships of the line had enough trouble facing their Confed counterparts, but the fighter battles had been an outright disgrace. The Union had gone into the war with almost double the enemy’s squadrons, but the loss ratio had been better than five to one against. The trained pilots who’d been in place at the start of the war were mostly gone, replaced by a fourth or fifth wave of raw recruits. Temeraire’s squadrons had been no better when he’d first arrived but they were among the best in the fleet now, if still not a match for the veteran Confed wings.
Turenne thought about the way most Union captains managed their ships, and he felt disgust. They were far too ready to accept mediocre results, and they weren’t willing to do the work or to set the example it took to coax excellence from their people. Still, for all his own dedication, he couldn’t blame his comrades entirely. There were shortages of everything in the fleet…weapons, fuel, spare parts. Few captains had the luxury of conducting the kind of exercises he did. Temeraire wouldn’t either, if Turenne hadn’t been able to draw on family contacts to get extra shipments of fuel and ordnance.
His fighters looked good…but he knew they could be better. They’d be facing the Confeds again soon, and Turenne couldn’t deny the fearsome reputation of the enemy’s fighter corps was well-deserved. Confed squadrons had saved their fleets from defeat in more than one engagement in the war, and they’d usually done it despite being outnumbered. He knew Temeraire’s four squadrons weren’t even close to enough to redress the imbalance, but he was determined that any Confed fighters that came his way would get a nasty surprise. Or, at least a heads up fight.
“Status on weapons system diagnostics?” Turenne had ordered the systems check mostly to keep his engineers busy. When Temeraire went into battle, they’d be on damage control duty, where a few minutes, even seconds, could be the difference between victory and death. He wanted them used to hard work and urgency. Driving them hard as they completed routine tests seemed like a reasonable way to keep them up to form.
“Engineering reports four minutes to completion, sir.”
“They have three.” Turenne held back a smile. Four minutes wouldn’t be a bad time, but ‘not bad’ wasn’t what he was after. He believed people could always do better when pressed, and he was determined never to let the pressure off. The men and women he commanded were going into battle, and they all had a better chance of coming back if they were as sharp as he could make them.
“Yes, Captain. Three minutes.” A few seconds later. “Engineering confirms, sir. Three minutes to test completion.”
“Very well.” Turenne sat quietly, enjoying a self-satisfied moment. He knew his crew resented the way he drove them, the harshness of duty on Temeraire compared to that on most of the other ships of the fleet. But he didn’t care whether they liked it or not. He was going to bring them into this next fight ready for whatever happened.
There was excitement in the fleet about the pulsar, a feeling that the ancient superweapon was going to win the war, almost by itself. Turenne knew the stats, the vast range of the deadly weapon, the incredible advantage it represented, but he was still concerned. The Confeds were good…and underestimating an enemy was about the dumbest thing an officer could do. The pulsar was a big advantage, huge perhaps. But the Confeds weren’t about to roll over and die because the Union fleet advanced with its great gun in the lead. Sometimes he wondered if he was the only one in the fleet who realized that.
“I want all point defense stations ready, lasers set at one-half percent power. The squadrons are to launch a mock attack on their way back, and I want to see just how well our defensive array can perform.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Turenne didn’t know what was going to happen, but he was sure of one thing. Temeraire would be ready.
Chapter Twelve
Fleet Base Grimaldi
Orbiting Krakus II
Krakus System
Year 313 AC
“Those bags over there, Spacer.” Barron gestured toward the two duffels that contained everything he was bringing to Dauntless. He’d always been a bit spartan in his lifestyle, but he was traveling especially light this time. He wouldn’t need much…whatever happened.
“Yes, sir.” The steward reached down and grabbed the two bags, and then he slipped out into the corridor.
Barron had mostly taken Travis’s advice to heart and tried to banish the shadow he felt looming over him. But he’d still left behind some correspondence, letters to his cousins, and to the executors who would manage the Barron holdings if he didn’t come back.
Who already manage it all.
Barron had been in space most of the last twenty years, and in that time, he’d been back to the Barron family offices precisely three times. His cousins were far too typical of scions of wealthy families in the Confederation, and he’d long ago decided nothing good could come from giving any of them any real access to the businesses and investments that formed the basis of the family’s wealth. They got their annual allowances, far more than any of them were worth as far as he was concerned, and the professionals took care of the rest. Most of the respect accorded to past members of the Barron clan went to his grandfather, the war hero, but Tyler saved a certain amount of respect for his great-great grandfather, a man he’d never met, but one who’d built most of the family fortune, and who deserved better than to have his spoiled and lazy descendants squander it all.
He stared at the screen on the desk. He’d left a letter for Andi, too. Two letters, actually, and he was still deciding which one to leave and which to delete. The first had been an outpouring of heartfelt emotion, a true love letter in which he told her how he really felt, what she really meant to him. Or, at least what he thought she meant. He’d written that after his mini-binge with Travis, and he’d been just about as drunk as he ever got when he did it. He wasn’t sure if the alcohol had been a truth serum or if it had driven him to exaggerate wildly, but when he’d awakened the next morning, he looked at what he’d written with a mix of sincerity and horror. Then he wrote the second letter, one full of polite and respectful apologies for being so hard on her the last time they’d spoken, and ending with a comradely wish that her life be a long and happy one.
He knew the second version was a cop out of sorts, but he wondered if the more emotional note wasn’t, to some degree, an act of selfishness. She’d only get it if he didn’t come back, and then, what could it do but hurt her more? And yet, didn’t she deserve to know how truly important she’d been to him?
He sat quietly for a few minutes longer, and then he made his choice. He still wasn’t sure, but he was out of time. He held his finger over the send button for a few seconds, and then he brought it down. There, decision made.
He stood up and reached down to his chair, grabbing the uniform jacket he’d hung over the back, just as his AI said, “You have a visitor, Commodore Barron. Commander Jovi Grachus, Palatian Alliance.”
Barron was surprised. He hadn’t expected anyone. Atara Travis was already aboard Dauntless, and Fritzie was busy supervising the final installation of the stealth generator. But Jovi Grachus? He knew she was in command of the fighter squadrons assigned to the Alliance expeditionary force, but he hadn’t seen her in months.
“Open,” he said, turning toward the door.
Grachus walked through. He could see from her motion, she was a bit tentative, as if she’d been unsure about coming to see him.
“Commodore Barron.” She snapped to attention as she entered the room.
“Commander Grachus, welcome. What can I do for you? I’m afraid I’m a little short on time right now.” An instant later, he added: “And please, at ease.”
Grachus relaxed her posture, slightly. “Thank you for seeing me, sir. I have a request. I wasn’t sure if I should approach you wit
h this, but Commander Stockton wouldn’t…” She paused.
“What did you need from Commander Stockton?” Barron knew his strike force commander held a grudge against Grachus for the pilots she’d defeated when she’d served on the Red Alliance side in the civil war. Not just any pilots—her kills included Kyle Jamison as well. Barron mourned for Jamison as he did for all those he’d lost in battle, but he knew Stockton and Dauntless’s old fighter commander had been like brothers.
“Sir, I don’t know the full parameters of Dauntless’s mission, but…there are rumors. It seems clear you have some kind of plan to destroy the enemy pulsar, something other than simply launching the fleet toward it. I wanted to…volunteer, Commodore.”
“Volunteer?” Barron was surprised. Whatever he’d expected, this wasn’t it.
“Yes, sir. I know you’ve overloaded your fighter bays. I have assembled a picked squadron, the best aces from the Alliance fleet, and with your permission, we wish to join you aboard Dauntless.”
Barron’s first impulse was to politely decline. Dauntless’s crew was going to have enough to deal with without worrying about refitting Alliance fighters and managing two types of ammunition and spare parts. Besides, he didn’t think getting Tarkus Vennius’s top fighter commander killed was the best thing for the nascent Confederation-Alliance relationship. But there was something in her expression…
“Why, Commander? I don’t doubt the skill of your pilots or the utility they would bring to our efforts, but the Alliance fleet is part of the operation, so you will be there anyway.”
She looked uncomfortable for a moment. Then she said, “Again, with all due respect, I am convinced Dauntless will play a special part in the overall campaign. A vital one, if I am not mistaken.” She paused. “I have tried to make amends with your officers, Commodore, to express my deep regret at the damage I did through my foolish allegiance to Calavius. It would…mean something…to help your people on whatever mission lies before them. I am certain you face terrible danger, and perhaps if I can help, if my people can save some lives among your crew…I could begin to make that amends.”
“That isn’t necessary, Commander. You served the Red Alliance because you were deceived, as thousands of others were, and when you discovered the truth, you made it right. Nothing more is required of you.”
“I don’t mean to disagree with you, sir, but we both know my motivations were affected by another factor, one for which I must accept responsibility. My lust for revenge against your ship, against you, was unjust. Katrine Rigellus was my closest friend, but you and your people did only as you had to do.”
“As did you during the civil war.” Barron could see the deep regret Grachus felt, and he understood. His own intervention into the Alliance civil war, the aid he’d led to support Vennius had served as much the same to him, salving the guilt he felt for killing Commander Rigellus. He knew Stockton would have a fit, and he still worried about the disruption the Alliance ships would cause. But he also knew he couldn’t refuse. “Very well, Commander. But we’re leaving in less than two hours, so you don’t have much time to get your people over to Dauntless.”
“Thank you, sir!” She looked like she wanted to give him a hug, but she snapped back to attention instead. “My people are all on standby. We will be on Dauntless in an hour.” She gave him a crisp salute—a Confederation one, and not an Alliance one, he noticed—and then she spun around on her heels and marched back out into the hall.
Barron sighed softly. He wasn’t sure how he was going to tell Stockton. But first, he had to make some room in Dauntless’s packed bays.
He walked over to the comm unit and dialed up Dauntless’s command line. “Atara, Tyler here. I need you to reassign the Red Wasps to one of the other battleships. We’ve got some…guests…coming, and we’ve got to make room.
* * *
“I hope this works, Van.” Gary Holsten was sitting next to his friend, the two of them in an apparent competition for the grimmest expression. “Tyler Barron is the best we have, and there’s no question of what that ship and crew of his have managed to do…but the stakes have never been higher. We’ve reviewed Stockton’s scanning data from his last run, and there’s no question. They’re building a mobile system for the pulsar, and they’re damned close to done with it. If Barron isn’t able to destroy that thing…” He let his words trail off.
“I know, Gary. I’ve tried to come up with another way—any way—but there simply isn’t one. The pulsar will obliterate every ship in the fleet before we get into range. I hate the idea of sending Tyler and his people right past the Union fleet and into the maw of that monster, with nothing but some ancient artifact to keep them from being obliterated. But what choice do we have? If they manage to get that pulsar here, they’ll blast Grimaldi to scrap. We can try to hold them up at the transit points, but you know as well as I do, that’s a losing game.”
“So, you command the entire fleet, and I have all the resources of Confederation Intelligence at my fingertips, and all we can do is hope Tyler Barron and his crew can pull a miracle out of thin air.”
“Yes, more or less.” Striker was silent for a moment. “If Dauntless fails…” He hesitated again, knowing full well Holsten was as aware as he was that would mean the old battleship had been destroyed. “…I’m still going in with the whole fleet.”
“You don’t stand a chance, Van. We just discussed the simulations. You’d need a hundred more battleships than you have just to get within range and have a chance of taking that thing out…and that doesn’t even factor the Union fleet into it.”
“The equation is the same here. The pulsar outranges Grimaldi’s heaviest guns. Other than adding a few hundred fighters to the mix, the fortress does nothing for us. It’s the same in either spot, and all things being equal, I’d prefer to make my final stand on the enemy’s ground.”
Holsten nodded. “I understand, Van. I was going to go with you, not that I’d add anything to the mix, but I just…wanted to be there.” A pause. “But Sector Nine is up to something back on Megara. I don’t know what, but I have to get to the bottom of it. You’re leaving first thing in the morning anyway, so I ordered by ship prepped for departure within the hour.”
The two men sat quietly for a few minutes. Then, Holsten got up, followed immediately by Striker. They stood facing each other for a moment, and then they shook hands, wordlessly. Holsten knew the odds were good he was saying goodbye to his friend. If the fleet didn’t manage to destroy the pulsar, he was sure of one thing. Admiral Striker wouldn’t be back. None of the fleet would. The future would be decided in the Bottleneck.
Gary Holsten’s biggest regret was that he couldn’t be there.
* * *
“What the hell are you doing here?” Stockton’s voice was raw, his anger utterly apparent.
Jovi Grachus had been walking down the corridor, but now she stopped and turned to face her Confederation counterpart. “Commander Stockton…Commodore Barron approved the transfer of a handpicked Alliance squadron to aide you in the destruction of the pulsar.” Her tone was soft. She was clearly trying to avoid any sort of provocation.
But Stockton didn’t need to be provoked. The sight of her, especially wandering Dauntless’s hallways, was enough. Dauntless had been Jamison’s ship, especially right there in fighter country. By God, she still was his ship, and there was no place aboard her for the enemy who killed him.
“No. No way. I know you’ve managed to work your way into the good graces of Commander Timmons and Commander Sinclair, but I want you to understand right now…that does not extend to me, and it never will.” He turned and waved his hand through the air. “You see these corridors? Kyle Jamison used to walk through them all the time. You know Kyle…or at least the plasma cloud that you left of him.”
“That is why I am here, Commander, why I assembled the squadron. I cannot undo what happened, I cannot bring back Commander Jamison, but I can help his comrades. I know we can help. Perhaps we can
even save the lives of some of your pilots. From what I have heard of him, I believe he would have considered that a fitting testament.”
“I don’t need you telling me what Kyle Jamison would have thought.” Stockton’s rage surged to a new level. How dare this…enemy…tell him how Kyle would have felt about anything.
“I meant no offense, Commander…only that I wish to do what I can.”
“If you want to do something, go. Get off this ship, and take your pilots with you.”
“Commodore Barron approved our transfer. We are here under his orders.”
“Yeah, well we’ll see about that.” Stockton walked to a comm unit on the wall, about two meters from where he’d been standing. “Get me the Commodore,” he said brusquely. “This is Commander Stockton.”
“I’m sorry, Commander, but Commodore Barron is currently in conference with Captain Travis.”
“Tell him I need to see him right…as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Commander.”
He slammed his hand against the button next to the unit, shutting it off. He glared again at Grachus. “Don’t get too comfortable, Commander.” Then he turned and walked down the corridor, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the confined space.
Chapter Thirteen
The Krillian Hall
Planet Centara
Volgus System
Year of Krillus 71 (313 AC)
“You are very persuasive, Ambassador Marieles. Very persuasive indeed.”
She had been persuasive, she was certain about that. Sector Nine training went well beyond weaponry and spying. As far as she was concerned, tradecraft was whatever got the job done, and if bedding the little creep was all it took, then so be it. Though she wasn’t sure just what had done the trick. Krillus seemed to enjoy the empty praise she showered on him even more than her…other activities.