by Jay Allan
“Yes, sir!” Barron cut the line. Then he turned toward Travis. “Bring us back into position, Commander. Most direct course.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barron stood up slowly. “I’ll be in my office, Commander.”
“Yes, Captain.” She paused. “Sir, Commander Stockton has sent another request to meet with you.”
Barron stood where he was for a moment. Then: “Time until we reach the transit point?”
“Three hours, twenty minutes, sir.”
“Okay, tell Commander Stockton to come to my office now.”
“Yes, sir.” She sighed. She knew what Stockton wanted to talk to Barron about, as did the captain, she suspected, and she didn’t imagine it would be a pleasant conversation.
One reason to be glad she wasn’t Dauntless’s captain at the moment.
* * *
“I need to talk to you, Gary.”
Holsten was walking down the corridor toward the docking bay. “I’m sorry, Andi, but I’m in a bit of a rush. I’m afraid I don’t have time right…”
“Make time.” Lafarge slipped around him and stood directly in his way. He’d have to push her out of the way to continue—or, more likely, order the gargantuan guard standing behind him to do it—but Lafarge was betting he wouldn’t do it.
And, if he did, well, she’d been through worse than getting knocked against the wall.
“Andi…”
“What’s going on, Gary?” She’d become very friendly with Holsten. He’d kept every promise he’d made to her, paid her people for the stealth generator just as he’d said she would. Even more generously than she’d hoped. He’d even congratulated her, and thanked her for contributing to the war effort. Now, she was going to see how far she could push the proto-friendship.
“I am leaving for Megara. I’m afraid I have business that won’t wait, so if you’ll excuse me…”
“I don’t need much of your time. Just answer my question, and I’ll step aside.”
“Andi, you know I admire your…aggressiveness, but I really am in a hurry, and I can’t tell you anything.” A pause. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
She felt her insides tighten. It was worse even than she’d thought. Gary Holsten was nothing if not a stone-cold bluffer, but even he couldn’t hide the tension he felt.
She stayed where she was. “I know Tyler’s involved in something dangerous, Gary. Probably downright crazy, knowing him.”
“He’s with the fleet, Andi. That’s really all I can tell you. I’m sorry.” He moved forward, turning his body and sliding past her.
She turned and looked at him. “He doesn’t expect to come back.” She fancied herself possessing no less of a poker face than Holsten, but hers failed her too, and her voice cracked. She held back the tears that tried to escape, but the pain she felt was clear to see.
Holsten paused, a troubled look on his face. “Wait for me at the ship.” He stared at his guard, and then a second later he gestured roughly toward the bay. The man hesitated for an instant, not looking happy about leaving Holsten unprotected, but then he obeyed the command.
Holsten waited until the trooper had passed through the hatch and the door had closed behind him. Then he turned toward Andi, a soft, sympathetic look in his eyes. “Andi…there’s no point in pretending you don’t know half the classified secrets on Grimaldi, so I’ll just assume you know nearly as much about the Union’s pulsar as I do.”
She nodded. She might have guessed she knew more at one point, but she couldn’t imagine the Confederation’s intelligence chief hadn’t passed her knowledge base by now.
“What you may not know is that they are close to developing a system to move it through transit points.”
Andi felt as though she’d taken a punch to the gut. She hadn’t known what Holsten had just told her, but the implications were immediately clear to her.
“I can see you didn’t know. But no doubt you understand the implications. We have to do something to stop them from invading Confederation space with that thing at the head of their fleet. Please understand, Andi, I can’t give you actual operational details. You’re going to have to take it on faith that Tyler and his people are doing what they have to do.”
She felt a coldness inside. She didn’t need Holsten to tell her. She knew exactly what Barron was doing.
The stealth generator.
The device she had found, the one that she’d sold to Holsten.
“No…”
Holsten looked at her, a confused expression on his face.
“He’s going to try to use the stealth generator to sneak past the whole Union fleet, right in the field of fire of that monstrous gun?”
Holsten didn’t respond, but his uncomfortable look was enough to confirm her suspicions. “He’s on Dauntless, isn’t he? That’s why so many of his old officers were back here.” She reached out and put her hand on Holsten’s arm. “He thinks it’s a one-way mission. That’s why he…” She replayed the last time she’d seen Barron in her head, his callousness, his clumsy attempt to drive her away. Suddenly, it all made sense.
“Andi…” Holsten paused and sighed. “Even if you’re right, and I’m not saying you are, Tyler was under considerable stress. Whatever he said to you, I’m sure he meant…”
“He was trying to make it easier on me, to get me off Grimaldi in case his mission fails.” The whole thing was starkly, unyieldingly clear to her now.
“Andi, I really think you should listen to what Tyler told you, at least about leaving Grimaldi. You can come to Megara with me if you like. You’ve never been there, have you?”
You think they’re going to fail too…
“Thank you, Gary, but no…some of my people are still here, and I want to make sure they all get off to wherever they’re going. A ship captain has to see things through to the end.”
Holsten stood, silent, looking at her doubtfully. She could see his tension. She didn’t really think he believed her, but it was very clear he had to get back to Megara.
“Are you sure?” was all he managed to say.
“Yes, Gary. I’ll be okay. You go and do what you have to do.”
She stood and smiled as he stared back at her. Finally, he nodded, and said, “Goodbye, Andi. Take care of yourself.” And then he turned and followed his guard through the hatch.
Andi’s smile dropped the instant Holsten left, replaced by a thoughtful gaze. The fleet had to be heading to the Bottleneck, so there was no mystery to their course…and Pegasus was still down in the lower docks. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to part with her old ship, at least not yet. She was planning to fly herself wherever she decided to go…but now, she had another course in mind.
If you think you’re going to leave me behind and go get yourself killed, Tyler Barron, you’ve got a lot to learn.
You pigheaded ass…
* * *
“Jake, I understand…believe me I do. But this mission is more important that any personal feelings or vendettas.” Barron sat at his desk—Atara’s now, really—looking at his strike force commander. Stockton had been flustered when he’d come into the room. Barron guessed that was what became of red hot rage when it hit the dousing effect of a superior officer’s presence.
I understand, sir, but that doesn’t mean we need her. Or any Alliance fighters. They’re with the fleet. That’s enough. Bringing that squadron aboard complicates resupply, repairs, even launch operations. For what?”
“Apart from cooperating with allies who are standing by us despite the seemingly suicidal nature of the operation, we get some of the best pilots in space. Commander Grachus handpicked them all. Every one of them is an ace, and most of them are several times over.”
“We have good pilots too, sir.”
“Yes, Jake, we do. And we’ve lost good pilots too. Lieutenants Krill and Steele dead, Commander Timmons grounded.” Barron left out Kyle Jamison. He didn’t think mentioning Stockton’s friend would help matters.
“We lost some of those pilots to Commander Grachus, sir. She’s the reason Dirk Timmons is hobbling around on artificial legs instead of manning his bird.” Stockton didn’t mention Jamison either. He didn’t have to. The spirit of Dauntless’s lost fighter commander hung heavily in the very air.
“I killed her best friend, Jake.” Barron’s voice was somber. “We all did. She blamed us, sought revenge, and that drove her to serve the Red Alliance. What good did her rage do for anyone? Did anything come of it but harm? More hardship, more suffering. Yet, in the end, she let it go. She understood, finally, that when Invictus and Dauntless fought, it was war. I have felt sorrow for killing Katrine Rigellus and her crew every moment since that day six years ago. And yet, I would do the same thing again. Because we are warriors. No one would have understood that better than Kyle.”
Stockton fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. Barron suspected his pilot understood the truth of what he had just said, at least on some level. But he also understood Stockton’s rage. He, too, had found it difficult to accept Grachus as an ally. But she’d been an honorable warrior, and she’d been true to her word.
And she was an irreplaceable asset, especially for his depleted fighter wings.
“Jake, you’ve got one hundred-six fighters crammed onto this bird, and with Timmons relegated to flight control, without Grachus, Federov’s the only truly experienced squadron commander you’ve got. You’re wearing two hats already, commanding Blue Squadron and the whole force. Timmons has accepted her, most of the other officers have…I’m not saying you have to forgive her, Jake. But you’ve got to find a way to work with her. This mission is too important.”
“But, sir…”
“That’s an order, Commander.”
Jake Stockton was somewhat of a maverick, with a tendency to view orders as suggestions. But Barron’s tone left no room for doubt or argument, and even Stockton held his tongue. He sat for a moment, and then he said simply, “Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed, Commander.” Barron dropped some of the edge from his words, but not much. He understood how Stockton felt, and he sympathized with his officer. But this was the most important mission any of them had ever been on. There was no room for petty spite or vendettas. He needed all he could get from every man and woman onboard, including Jake Stockton and Jovi Grachus…and he intended to get just that, whatever it took.
Chapter Sixteen
Formara System
“The Bottleneck”
Union Year 217 (313 AC)
Villieneuve sat alone in the conference room, staring at the system maps projected on the table. The pulsar was almost ready to go, the vast system of engines and tugs that would pull the great weapon and its vast power supply from system to system nearly operational. He’d seen to supplies—a much harder thing to do with the Union suffering rampant hyperinflation and with perhaps a quarter of its worlds exhibiting something between open unrest and outright rebellion. He could fix a lot of that with booty and reparations from an even partially defeated Confederation, he was sure of that. But he didn’t have much time.
He wasn’t a military man, at least not by trade, but he’d dealt with far too many incompetent generals and admirals squandering the Union’s resources to trust anyone but himself to plan this final operation. He’d studied a fair amount of military science and theory—there wasn’t much else to do on the long voyages from Montmirail to the front—and he felt he grasped the concept fairly well. The biggest challenge for his offensive would be forcing the transit points, gaining control of the space on the other side, so he could bring the pulsar through and get it set up. There were a lot of practical difficulties in mounting a defense close to one of the points, but it was clear enough it was the only thing the Confeds could try against the Union’s superweapon. Anywhere the pulsar got through and into the fight, a battle would be over.
He hoped for one huge battle, a fight to the death where his ancient superweapon could finish the war in a single stroke. But he doubted he’d get that. There had been rumors that Admiral Striker had been killed in the initial battle at the Bottleneck, but the latest intel reports confirmed what he feared. The Confederation’s fighting admiral had only been wounded, and he was already recovering.
Striker was no fool, far from it. He would withdraw his fleet anywhere they were unable to hold at the transit point. He would force the Union to fight battle after running battle, slow the advance, drag the whole thing out well beyond the amount of time Villieneuve had before the Union collapsed behind him. He had dreamed of total conquest once, of standing on Megara as the conqueror of the entire Confederation, but he knew he didn’t have the resources for that now, and he’d trimmed his goals. He would fill the Confeds with fear of the ancient superweapon, and he would drive forward to spread that fear…and compel them to accept his peace terms. The reparations he demanded would allow him to salvage the Union’s economy, while crippling the Confederation’s for years to come. It would give him time, to crush the various dissenters and rebel groups within the Union, and to rebuild the fleet. Total victory would have to wait a few years, but it would be all but certain.
He’d hoped the Confeds would save him the trouble, that they would come to the Bottleneck and throw their fleet into the teeth of his deadly pulsar. Striker was aggressive, and he had no doubt the admiral wanted to do that…but his rival was also smart enough to realize there was little hope in that plan.
A defensive battle would have been preferable for many reasons, most importantly because it removed the largest likely source of failure in his own plans, technical issues with the drives and maneuver systems of the pulsar. Any mistake, a key bit of carelessness, could leave the pulsar exposed to a Confed attack. That was the one thing he couldn’t allow, and in the end, it was the key factor in his decision to lead the attack personally.
He leaned back and put his hand to his face, rubbing his eyes. He was tired. He’d been doing the work of half a dozen, the inevitable result of his lack of trust in any of his subordinates. He took a deep breath, and then he returned his eyes to the screen, rereading the last communique from Megara. Not for the first time, he was grateful for the porous and poorly-protected nature of the Confederation’s civilian communications net. Their military channels were secure enough, but he suspected any Confed spies on Montmirail had a much more difficult time transmitting reports through the tightly surveilled networks in the Union. Once again, the freedom the Confeds foolishly allowed to their masses had become a huge disadvantage in war.
His agents had been busy in the Confederation’s capital. What had been his failsafe, a chance to survive, to avoid total defeat, had now morphed into a key part of his plan to bring partial victory within reach. The Confederation’s Senators were as corrupt as the Union’s politicians, and they had as many skeletons buried. His people had managed to influence a significant number of them. Not enough yet, but getting closer. A few victories—systems conquered, ships destroyed—would bring more to the table. The fear of the pulsar would push enough of them to join those he’d bought, to make the unpalatable acceptable. They would cripple their own vaunted economy to buy peace. Villieneuve’s forces wouldn’t have to push all the way to Megara, and risk having the Union fall to pieces behind them. They just needed a few victories.
The comm unit buzzed.
“Yes?” he snapped. He’d left instructions not to be disturbed.
“Minister Villieneuve, this is General Sebastien, in command of the control center. One of our scouting flotillas has returned. I believed you’d want to hear about it at once, sir.” The general’s voice was edgy. He was clearly nervous about disturbing Villieneuve.
Which means he was even more concerned about how I would react if I didn’t get this news…
“What is it, General?”
“It’s the Confeds, sir. Their fleet.” A short pause. “They’re on the move, Minister.”
“On the move? How many ships?”
“All of them, sir. It
appears to be a massive fleet deployment, and it’s en route to the border. The entire force appears to be heading here.”
“I want to see the commander of those scouts. Get him here at once.”
“Yes, sir.”
Villieneuve looked up from the table and wondered. Is it possible? Could Striker have blinked? Could he have decided he had no choice but to try to destroy the pulsar?
He sighed, and sat, deep in thought. He’d been worried about moving the weapon, about malfunctions or other problems, more so than he’d even acknowledged to himself. Was Striker going to give him the defensive battle he wanted?
He moved his hands across the table, resetting the map to the area around the pulsar. If he could confirm the news, he would cancel the advance. He would stand and defend the Bottleneck.
His eyes moved across the table, darting from one part of the system to the next, plotting, planning. Striker was no fool. If he saw that his assault had no chance, he’d pull out before he lost everything. Villieneuve’s original defensive strategy had been to hold the fleet back, close to the pulsar. But now, a different idea began to form. He would position half his battleships—no, two-thirds of them—behind the transit point, far from the pulsar but positioned to intercept retreating Confed ships. Striker’s fleet would be battered attacking the pulsar, and then, when he retreated, the waiting force would engage. The Confederation ships would have to fight every kilometer of the way back. Whatever portion of Striker’s fleet managed to escape, it would be small. The Confeds would be crippled. Villieneuve could dictate his peace terms without the risk of moving the pulsar farther than a system to two to demonstrate the capability.
He was exhausted, worn down. The last months had seen an unending series of crises, coming faster than he could resolve them. But now, he smiled, a sincere, wide grin for the first time in as long as he could easily recall. He would see Striker’s fleet crushed, here, and the Confederation’s Alliance allies with it.