by Jay Allan
Forgive me, Charlotte…please forgive me.
He could feel the tears streaming down his cheeks, but everything else was gone. The shouts of his crew, even the cold hardness of the deck. There was just Charlotte…and then nothing at all.
Augustus Garret was dead.
Chapter 34
300,000 Kilometers from Planet Two
Draconia Terminii System
Earthdate: 2321 AD (36 Years After the Fall)
Darius sat in stunned shock. He’d heard the words, but even his cold devotion to realism failed him this time. Camille Harmon had held it together when she’d told him, but even her legendary cool had been strained. For his entire life, for twice the length of his life, Augustus Garret had been the most famous warrior in all of Occupied Space, save perhaps, only for him. But Garret was loved…and you are hated and feared…
As close as anyone else in the Grand Fleet, Garret had been his partner, his co-leader. Now, he was gone. Camille Harmon was in command, and Darius didn’t doubt her ability for an instant. But she didn’t have the mystique Garret had possessed, that he did, the strange thing that drove men and women to incredible feats of courage and endurance.
He didn’t have the data he wanted, no real visibility on the fleet and its situation. Garret’s last command had been to close, to attack the line of heavy guns bombarding his ships. Harmon would see that carried out, with her last breath, if need be. He was sure of that. And he would have to depend on her. He had to deal with things here.
“Status report on Eagle Thirteen?” The big ship had blasted out of orbit—following Petrov’s last order—but she’d been unable to escape the range of the enemy weapons. The first volley of shots had all missed, a credit to Captain Chin’s evasive maneuvers, but one shot from the second barrage had hit.
It had been a glancing blow, one that would have caused only minor damage, even if it had come from a battleship’s main laser cannon. But the emplaced batteries were stronger than anything a mobile ship could carry, the twins of the ones savaging the main fleet out near planet three. Eagle Thirteen had a whole section on its starboard side blown clean off, leaving open compartments and a ship bleeding atmosphere.
The battleship still had power, and her engines were operational. Captain Chin was blasting at full, coaxing every last g of acceleration his wounded ship could give. Darius couldn’t imagine the conditions onboard, the intensity of the g forces slamming into her crew. There would be injuries for sure, broken bones, even some fatalities. But it was the only chance any of her crew had to survive.
Darius’s gut was twisted in knots, the anguish at watching his people run for their lives almost too much to bear. He wasn’t the kind to stay back and wait, to watch as his comrades fought to survive, but he couldn’t send the rest of his ships in there. If he lost the fleet, the battle was over. Everything was over.
Eagle Thirteen was eighty thousand kilometers from the planet now, and Darius began to hope she might make it. The enemy weapons had a substantial recharge time, and maybe—just maybe—that would give Eagle Thirteen long enough to escape.
The enemy fired again…and missed. Chin was earning his pay, and then some. His ship lurched all around, a wildly random pattern intended to thwart the enemy targeting. Darius didn’t even know how the officer and his people were still at their posts, holding up somehow under the agonizing pressure and wild changes in thrust vector. He felt pride in his people, even as despair crept into his thoughts.
Eagle Thirteen was one hundred thousand kilometers from the planet now, and part of Darius wanted to hope the battleship was clear. But he didn’t believe it. The enemy guns were too big, the energy output of their volleys too massive. Then, the moment he knew was coming…another barrage, and a direct hit.
He leaned forward, his hands moving over his workstation, pulling up incoming damage reports. Eagle Thirteen was still there—his ships were strongly-built—but as soon as he saw the figures coming in, he knew it was over.
The ship’s engines were at twenty percent, one reactor was down, the other two operating at less than fifty percent. Widespread damage throughout the ship, internal fires, explosions. He could save the ship—maybe—if she didn’t take another hit. But she’d never escape the enemy’s firing range now.
He stared, feeling a kind of helplessness that was foreign to him, repugnant. His people were dead, he knew that, even as he stared at them, still sitting there. He raged against himself, an angry voice inside demanding that he do something, anything, to aid them. But there was nothing.
All the skill, all the experience, all the stories of the terrible Darius Cain…and all you can do is sit here and watch your people die…
He knew it wouldn’t be long. Chin’s skilled evasive maneuvers would be greatly curtailed. The ship’s lost thrust would be its death knell. Darius counted down in his head, knowing the next shot would be Eagle Thirteen’s last. The seconds were agonizing, dragging out endlessly.
Then, it happened. Another shot, and not one, but two hits. The vast structure of the once-mighty vessel was torn apart, the bow almost disintegrating and a chunk of the stern flying off into space, a twisted, dead hunk of heavy metal, all that remained of Eagle Thirteen.
Darius sat, still, silent…for a few seconds. That was all he could give to grief, to introspection. The rest of his fleet was counting on him, the legions of soldiers prepped to land…all of humanity waiting to see if their combined might could defeat the Black Flag.
“Scramble fighters. All ships. They are to close and destroy those guns. At all costs.” He knew he couldn’t match Garret’s skills as a naval commander, but a fighter strike was the only option he had. Garret would have done the same, he was sure, but the admiral had been lured deep into range before the guns opened fire. It had been too late. Darius’s caution had saved his fleet. At least if his squadrons could clear the way…because if they couldn’t, he knew he had to go in anyway. No matter what. There was no retreat, not from this fight.
* * * * *
“I want every weapon in this fleet firing!” Camille Harmon was still in shock, the death of Admiral Garret still feeling somehow…unreal. She’d seen death in battle, lost many friends and comrades—including her son—but somehow, it had never seemed possible that Garret could die. His legend had been so overpowering, his victories so brilliant. But death, which had so long had seemed as awed as anyone else by his success, had finally come for him.
“Yes, Admiral.” Monmouth was at the front edge of the fleet, in the thick of the fire. Bunker Hill had fallen back, the great warship crippled by the shot that had killed Garret. Fate had so far spared the ship that had carried the great admiral from final destruction, as if even destiny had determined that his loss was enough.
Harmon had always been cool and calm in battle, but now she could feel the moistness on her neck, her shoulders, the sweat pooling on her forehead. She’d been in desperate battles before, but it had been a long time since she’d fought one as bad as this…if ever.
“Another one, Admiral.” The report came just as Harmon saw it on the display. The fifth enemy gun. They were awesomely powerful, long-ranged, and capable of gutting a battleship with a single shot. But they’re easy enough to destroy once you get into range…
“Five’s good, but we need all of them down. Now! I want all power crews pushing it to the limit. Get those guns recharged and keep that rate of fire up.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Harmon sighed softly to herself. She knew she’d won the fight against the guns, just about, at least. They were stationary targets, and her people would pick them off in another minute, two at most. She’d have to endure one more shot, perhaps, and that only from the few remaining emplacements. But that was far from the end of the fight. She was worried about the enemy fleet. Those ships had been picking away at her flanks, taking down one ship after another. Her people had been outnumbered to begin with…now, she didn’t know how she would prevail against so many e
nemy vessels.
Which was their plan all along. Gut us with those guns, and finish us off with their fleet.
“Eight down, Admiral.”
She needed her best now. She needed to stay focused, to think as Admiral Garret would have. The enemy guns were finished, and half her ships were still too far to engage them. But they had plenty of targets out there…
“All ships not within fifty thousand kilometers of the remaining guns are to redeploy…and engage the enemy fleet.” She closed her eyes for a few seconds, thinking about Garret. We won’t stop, Admiral…we’ll never give up. We’ll win one last victory for you, sir.
* * * * *
Tyler watched as the missiles detonated, bringing nuclear devastation to the planet, bringing its cities down. No, not cities, he thought. His scans had given some idea of what had lain on the planet’s surface. It was nothing but a vast stretch of factories and…work camps? There were no stores, no parks, no public pavilions, none of the things real cities would have. The entire planet had been built for work, and the…residences…were no more than vast dormitories. No…prisons.
Tyler knew he was a tyrant. He ruled Columbia with an iron fist. But he felt he’d been driven to that, by the repeated folly of the elected governments that had preceded him, the corrupt politicians that had again and again left the planet vulnerable to conquest. He’d seen too many of his soldiers die fighting, and when his wife was added to that list, something inside him had snapped. But as he looked out at the nightmare the enemy had created, at the way the millions of people who’d worked there lived, slaves who existed solely to toil for their masters, he felt a hot, searing rage.
This is what they would have done to Columbia, to all Occupied Space…
His people lived under his rule, certainly, but they were prosperous, they had families, lives, careers. What he’d just seen—what he’d just destroyed—was the most horrifying nightmare he could imagine. He’d felt a moment of guilt for slaughtering people who had suffered so horrendously, but he’d see them dead before he’d leave them in the state in which he’d found them. They are better off…
His lighter ships had destroyed the enemy guns. Once they’d gotten close enough, it had been relatively easy. He’d sent his small ships not out of any great naval tactics, but simply because they’d had fewer of the nukes he’d needed to hit the planet. Still, it seemed he had blundered, more or less, onto the right strategy. The losses had been heavy—more so because of those miserable cowards who fled—but the job had been done. And now, he’d blasted the surface, destroyed those great factories, at least most of them. He didn’t have the firepower the battleships of the main fleet did, and the holocaust he unleashed was less complete than that Garret’s ships had brought to planet three. But it would serve.
“General, we received a transmission from Admiral Harmon.”
“Put it on the main comm.”
“General Tyler…there’s no easy way to say this. Admiral Garret is dead.”
The words hung in the air of the bridge.
“We’re heavily engaged with the enemy fleet…we need every ship we can get, General. I need you to return at once.”
Tyler took a deep breath. “Let’s reform and head back, Commander.”
“Yes, sir.” A few seconds later: “General, we’ve got some of the squadrons that fell back…they want to rejoin.”
Rage welled up from the deepest parts of Tyler’s mind. The words came to his mouth, struggling to escape, a torrent of curses and orders to reject the cowards, to send his own ships after them, to make them pay for what they had done. But Admiral Harmon needed his ships. She needed those ships.
He swallowed hard, feeling as though the bile in the back of his throat would come up. But Jarrod Tyler had been an officer, a creature of duty, far longer than he’d been a dictator. And he knew what was at stake. If he hadn’t, before, he did after seeing the horrors of the Black Flag’s culture.
“Tell them to form up, Commander…and prepare for full thrust. The fleet needs us.”
* * * * *
The fighters zipped into orbit, each squadron gyrating wildly, giving the enemy defenses a run for their money. The big guns that so threatened the fleet had proven ineffectual at targeting the small, agile craft, and only six had been destroyed on the way in.
The Eagle’s fighter pilots were like the rest of their personnel, drawn from the best in Occupied Space and trained to perfection. The squadrons broke up, heading along a dozen vectors, bringing their weapons of to bear on the installations that had destroyed Eagle Ten and Eagle Thirteen.
Eagles avenged their own…always. It was one of Darius’s founding principles for the mercenary army. And so it was here. The fighters came right at the huge batteries, firing. Their small lasers weren’t strong enough to take out one of the platforms in a single shot, but whole squadrons came in, taking advantage of their targets’ lack of mobility to land one hit after another.
The huge weapons were destroyed one by one, picked apart until nothing remained. Then the fighters reformed and ran scouting missions across the planet. They came at the remaining defenses, and they took losses to the point defense installations and some of the rocket batteries. But they kept coming, slicing in, blasting anything that even looked like it could threaten one of the Eagles’ remaining battleships. Then, only then, they turned and flew back toward the fleet.
“Major Stilton reports all enemy orbital defenses neutralized, General. His squadrons are sending targeting and scanner data now, sir.”
Darius stood up. “Bring us into orbit,” he said, turning toward the tactical officer. “And get me Commodore Allegre.”
“On your line, General.”
“Commodore, you’re in command of the fleet. I’m going down with the ground forces. Conduct the bombardment as planned. I’ll bring the troopships in right behind your missiles.”
Darius could see the tension in Ana’s shoulders as she listened to his words. He knew she would be concerned that he was going to the surface…but he suspected she wasn’t surprised. And, while he hated the idea of hurting her or causing her worry, this was something he had to do. Victory, if it was to be had, would be won down there. The Black Flag controlled half of Occupied Space…an entire series of wars lay ahead just to defeat that. If he couldn’t chop off the head now, he knew there was no chance at all.
“Yes, sir,” Allegre responded. “We will enter orbit in fourteen minutes…and bombardment will commence immediately after.”
“Very good, Commodore.” Darius cut the line. He turned, looking toward Ana for a moment. Her eye caught his, and he almost said something. But, in the end, he didn’t know what he could tell her. If he returned, if the Eagles and the Marines, and the thousands of other soldiers about to land could pull off the victory…then he would have something to say.
And, if not, he would be dead, and it wouldn’t matter.
He turned and walked across the bridge, forcing himself not to look back as he slipped into the elevator.
Chapter 35
Inner Sanctum of the Triumvirate
Planet Vali, Draconia Terminii II
Earthdate: 2321 AD (36 Years After the Fall)
“The main enemy fleet has suffered heavy losses, but the Eagles have lost only two ships. This is below even our most conservative estimates for this stage of the battle. The revised plan was to allow the surface of the planets to be destroyed. This was crucial to luring the enemy forces to the designated kill zones. We have long planned the move back into Occupied Space proper, once the enemy’s military has been destroyed. But now, it appears, the Black Eagles will be able to land on the surface, along with the Marines and supporting military formations. This represents a danger that exceeds originally specified parameters. I am concerned that our ground forces may be unable to defend us against this assault, even if our fleet is able to destroy the enemy’s warships in the battle now in progress.”
“I concur with your concerns, One. Wh
ile I do not believe the situation is critical at this juncture, neither am I satisfied with the data. The enemy has been hurt, but not as badly as we had hoped. We have sacrificed enormous productive capacity to entice them to the desired locations, yet they endure and continue to fight. Perhaps, it is time to consider implementation of the Final Plan.”
“I believe you overly estimate their chances, One, Three. Yes, the Black Eagles have exceeded operational projections, but we retain considerable ground forces positioned in reinforced bunkers. They will survive any surface bombardment, even as we shall in this Inner Sanctum, and then they will meet the Eagles and the Marines and their allies. We will have considerable numerical superiority, and a single objective. To defend this installation. The main enemy fleet will undoubtedly be destroyed by our own armada, and then our forces can move to attack the remaining ships of the Black Eagles. The enemy ground forces will then be outnumbered, trapped on the surface, and exposed to renewed bombardment from orbit. Even if they attain some initial successes, without support or resupply, they are doomed. Then, we shall have our final victory. The enemy will be defeated, admittedly at great cost, but defeated nevertheless. And we shall rule over all.” Two communicated to his cohorts in the normal manner, but he reserved a portion of his calculations to himself. All was going exactly according to plan. The enemy’s progress was as he had designed, and it was his modifications, to the targeting algorithms, to the orders dispatched to the fleet commanders, that had made it so. He had reduced the effectiveness of the defenses…just the right amount. For just this purpose.
The Final Plan…the transmission of the essence of the Triumvirate to the specially-prepared system designed to house them. A last escape from the devastation of the Draconia Terminii system. Two had conceived the plan months before, worked to perfect it, and his two partners had commended him for the thoroughness of his planning. But he had hidden a part of the great scheme from One and Three.