by Jay Allan
She sighed softly. Kat had known her share of glory—she was the most celebrated officer of her generation, and it was widely expected she would advance in due course to the highest ranks. Some of her comrades and allies even spoke in hushed tones of her eventual ascension to the Council, as if it was already a given. But she knew the cold mathematics she faced, that all of her peers did. Fewer than half of Palatian Patricians survived to the age of fifty. The constant combat took its toll, and thousands fell in battle. War cut deeply with its scythe, and those it carried away were often the best and most honorable of their generations.
She sat back in the plush chair, leaning her head to the side and looking forward to the cockpit, toward Commander-Maximus Vennius’s pilot.
“You may take off when ready, Lieutenant.”
* * *
“For those of you who have served with me before, veterans from Vindictus, welcome back. You are warriors and heroes all, and it fills me with satisfaction to have you all with me again as we serve mother Palatia. You are men and women of honor, of courage, and you do pride to your families, and to the Alliance you serve.” Kat felt a little discomfort as she addressed her old crew. She had been hailed a hero, but she was also the commander who had gotten half of them killed. Not a man or woman from Vindictus didn’t carry the memories of friends dying in those fateful moments around Heliopolis, dying because they had followed their commander’s orders.
There was something else too. She had been decorated, hailed as a hero for her actions. Her crew had also been feted, but she knew most of the credit had accrued to her. It was the way of things, that junior officers and common spacers bled to feed the advance of their commanders. But now, addressing the warriors she had commanded before, she felt a strange discomfort about it.
“For those who are new to my command, welcome. It is your honor, as it is mine, to serve upon the Alliance’s greatest instrument of war. This vessel is a triumph of Alliance engineering, and the great fist of our peoples’ power and might. I call upon each of you to rise to meet this honor, to serve your new ship with all the courage and ability you have brought to your previous postings, and more, to exceed even that lofty level, for we set off now into the unknown, alone, our mission one of the gravest importance. To you, I promise all a commander can give…focus, tenacity, dedication. And from you I demand nothing less. Let us serve together, and bring honor upon this ship, and upon the Alliance we serve.”
Kat felt a bit overwhelmed at the size and power of her new command. She had known about Invictus, at least in a general way. Most senior Alliance officers had been aware that a new flagship was under construction. But she’d almost gasped out loud as her shuttle approached the giant vessel. It was almost twice the size of her old ship, and its hulking form had filled the viewscreen. She’d arrived early, wanting a few days to familiarize herself with the new ship before the crew reported in, but now her complement was complete, one thousand one hundred twelve men and women…engineers, technicians, gunners, stewards, computer specialists, fighter pilots, mechanics. Everything the Alliance’s largest battleship needed to begin its maiden voyage.
Kat moved her hand, her finger sliding over the small controls, shutting down the com unit. It was time for Invictus to leave.
She turned toward Tylian Wentus. The tactical operations officer had assumed the same post on Invictus that he’d had on Vindictus, tactical operations officer and second-in-command. She was glad to have him back, relieved to see him fit for duty. She could still remember him on Vindictus in the closing moments of the terrible battle at Heliopolis, his face, his uniform, every millimeter of him it had seemed, covered in blood. His wounds, it turned out, had looked worse than they actually were, but she had still been a bit surprised when she’d gotten the word he was cleared for action and assigned to Invictus.
“Optiomagis Wentus, take us out. One percent power until we clear the space dock.”
“Yes, Commander.” Wentus moved his hands over his controls. “Thrust at one percent.”
Kat stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the main screen, watching as the massive orbital platform slowly receded into the distance. Invictus was underway. Another mission.
And if we succeed, another war…
Kat tried to push the doubts from her mind, but she couldn’t forget Vennius’s words, his concerns about the true strength of the Confederation. The Alliance prided itself on its martial success, but apart from the initial wars following the Rising, it had tended to face smaller adversaries. The Confederation was more than three times the size of the Alliance, and the Union more than six. This was a different game, one with far greater stakes.
Fear had no place in Alliance thinking, nor did intimidation. She had seen the price of weakness, of subjugation…she had seen it as a child, the dead coldness in her grandmother’s eyes when she thought no one was looking, the price her sufferings as a young woman still extracted from her years later, after she had taken her vengeance, established a great house. The pain Kat knew had gone to the old woman’s grave with her.
But how much is enough? How much war? How many dead?
She shook her head gently. Those questions weren’t for her to consider.
“Take us to the jump point, Optiomagis. All stations prepare for translight operations.”
It was time to do her duty.
Chapter Eight
Pronouncement from the Presidium
Despite the greatest and most profound efforts by our esteemed diplomats, the Confederation has continued to build up its military forces on our border. Though we seek only peace and mutual cooperation, we will do everything necessary to defend ourselves against this aggression.
The Presidium has today ordered our military forces to the highest alert status, ready to repel any invasion. We are saddened by the prospect of war, but we are unbowed, and we hail our brave military forces as they prepare to defend our beloved Fatherland.
The Federal Union is one, united, and we all stand together to face this grave threat. The need to support our forces as they prepare for war requires further austerity and sacrifices from all. Effective immediately, all weekly family rations will be reduced 7.5 percent. Residential electrical power to level three and level four sectors will be reduced from eighteen hours a day to fourteen.
We call upon all citizens to remain strong. We will never yield to Confederation aggression. No invader shall ever seize our worlds, conquer our sacred Union.
The Union forever.
Sector Nine Headquarters
Liberte City
Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV,
Union Year 211 (307 AC)
“Greetings, Ricard. It’s good to see you, my old friend. It’s been a long time.”
Ricard Lille had been standing at the entrance to the plush office, but now he walked inside, closing the door behind him.
“My way has been difficult. It’s quite a distance to the Alliance, a path winding through the Confederation and then a backwater of independent systems you wouldn’t believe. And the Confeds are so worried about war, they’ve got their pathetic security ramped up to something effective. They almost caught me twice.”
The man behind the desk rose, walking over to the side of the room, where a small bar sat against the wall. Gaston Villieneuve was clad in a civilian suit, clearly expensive and perfectly tailored. He turned toward his companion as he reached out and picked up a crystal decanter. “Wine? It’s from the last case of the 167 vintage. It’s really not to be missed, and we’ll not see its like again.”
Lille nodded, walking across the floor, his heels clicking loudly on the polished wood floor, at least until he reached the area rug under the desk and the two chairs in front of it.
“By the Gods, yes, Gaston. Please. I thought Confederation wines were bad, but the Alliance? I swear they believe that if it tastes like cow piss it makes you stronger to drink it.” His eyes dropped to the rug. “This is new, isn’t it? Very nice. Must have cost you
a fortune.”
“Yes, I quite like it too. But no, it wasn’t expensive at all…actually it was free.” Villieneuve turned and walked back toward the desk, stopping and holding a glass out to this companion. “We’ve been cracking down in anticipation of war, and we arrested several Ministers on suspicion of sharing information with Confederation agents. There was very little actual evidence, but with hostilities looming, we decided better safe than sorry. Even the innocent can serve as examples if handled correctly.” He glanced down at the rug. “I had to have a few bloodstains removed…I’m afraid the previous owner wasn’t too keen on ending up in Level Zero, and he’d gotten enough warning to barricade himself in with an assault rifle and a crate of ammunition. He managed to kill three agents before they took him down.”
“Still, the state is more secure…and you got a fine addition for your office. I call that a win-win.” Lille raised the goblet to his lips and took a drink. “Wonderful,” he said, holding the glass up and looking at the crimson liquid before taking another sip. “There’s nothing remotely like this in the Alliance, I can assure you of that.”
“Please, sit, relax.” Villieneuve waved for his guest to take one of the chairs, and he followed suit, plopping down behind his desk. “So, tell me. Was your mission a success? I read the reports, but I want to hear it from you. Did the Alliance take the bait? Will they attack?”
Lille sighed. “I think so, Gaston.” He hesitated. “At least I believe they’ll do something. It’s difficult to get a read on these Alliance officials, and I’m not sure we can trust what they promise.”
“All previous accounts suggest that honor is a significant factor in their culture. Lying is frowned upon, except in matters of extreme national security. Do you disagree with that assessment?”
“No…” Lille paused, shaking his head. “Not exactly. But I felt as if they believe destroying the Confederation would be a stepping stone for them to defeat us. They believe their destiny is to conquer…and I don’t think they fear anyone.”
Villieneuve laughed. “Ambition is to be applauded, I suppose, even when it borders on insanity.”
“Yes, but they don’t behave in an insane manner, Gaston. There is a relentlessness to them, a firmness. I don’t believe it’s bravado. I think they truly feel that they can defeat us, or at least that there is a path to that result.”
“What they believe in that regard is of no consequence, Ricard. If the Confederation falls, they will be next. And if they suffer losses while drawing Confederation strength away from our forces, their end will come that much sooner.”
“Much rests on how they proceed. They have promised action, but they have been frustratingly vague as to specifics. And while they’re warlike in the extreme, they aren’t reckless. If they attack the Confederation, they’ll do it methodically, and only if they believe they can win.”
Villieneuve leaned back in his chair, staring across the desk at his friend. “Let us hope that your long trip was not in vain. Though perhaps it’s of little consequence. We outnumber the Confederation two to one in hulls, and three to one in ground forces. Even bearing the burdens of the invader, our projections suggest we have the advantage, even without Alliance involvement, by a significant margin. If the Alliance commits in strength, the Confederation is doomed to a rapid defeat.”
“Perhaps.” Lille almost said more, but he stopped himself. He and Villieneuve had been friends for twenty years, and he trusted the Minister as much as he dared trust anyone, but those who had reached a position of power in the Union and held it for any amount of time knew better than to be careless with words. Betrayal was simply too effective a route to high position, and relying on friendship was a very dangerous game. In a society where accusation was often regarded as tantamount to guilt, turning in associates—even friends—had aided the path of more than one aspiring Minister.
His eyes dropped to the floor. The rug’s origin reminded him how quickly one could go from a powerful position to a pile of goo on the floor of an interrogation cell on Level Zero.
Villieneuve just sat still for a moment. Lille knew his superior was as aware of the dangers of loose talk as he was, that he would be just as cautious. It always paid to be careful, even with people you trusted. Especially with those you trusted…they were often the ones who could hurt you the most.
“There’s no doubt. The fleet is strong, ready to face the Confederation.” Villieneuve’s tone was guarded. It was clear he was choosing his words with care. “But the slightest distraction to the Confeds will have an exaggerated effect on their ability to meet our forces. The diversion of even ten percent of their active strength would create large gaps in their defenses. Our forces would be spared much hard fighting, and our losses and costs would be correspondingly smaller.”
“Agreed.” Lille knew what they were truly discussing. Both of them were concerned about the Confederation’s defenses, about how quickly their forces could win the victory. They would have the numbers in the initial assault, but though neither would admit it, they both knew the Confeds could outlast them. If the war turned into a grinding stalemate, the advantage would shift to the Confederation. The enemy was morally weak, their democracy mired down in intolerable chaos…but their economic strength was undeniable. The Union had to win the war in the first two years. If they didn’t…
But there was nothing to be done. Lille knew that his friend agreed with him, that they both felt the Union should wait, continue its build up. The Confederation was a republic, weak, subject to the whims of its undisciplined people. Given time their vigilance would fail. It was a strong argument, but one they dared not make. The rest of the Presidium had been overwhelmingly in favor of attacking now, and neither man was prepared to take the risk of disagreeing with their comrades. The power struggle that had ended the Third Confederation War was still fresh in everyone’s minds. The Union had almost torn itself apart, and the amount of blood spilled—among its highest level politicians as much as its military forces—had been enormous. No one wanted to risk a return to that kind of infighting, and the prevailing attitude made it even more dangerous to oppose the majority view.
The two men sat, silent for a few moments. Lille suspected Villieneuve’s thoughts were similar to his own, but he knew his friend would be no less disciplined than he. Paranoia was an essential trait for a Union politician, at least one who wanted to survive for the long term. Finally, he simply said, “Although I would not want to make a specific prediction, I am optimistic the Alliance will take some action…and virtually anything they do is likely to be helpful.”
Villieneuve nodded. “Let us hope so.” A pause. “So tell me about Palatia, and about the Palatians. Are they as strange as rumors suggest?”
“Indeed they are, Gaston. I have never seen anything like it.”
“I have heard their culture is austere.”
“Austere? I wouldn’t be surprised if they beat themselves with leather straps each morning. Their Patricians do live in considerable luxury…in a way. But I’d swear they manage to not enjoy any of it. However, their focus on military endeavors makes them perfect for our needs. They’re small, with ambitions that exceed their capabilities. They can hit the Confederation hard if they choose to, but they’re not fools. They’ll move slowly at first, probe the border.”
“Anything they do is a help, Ricard.” Villieneuve looked down at his desk, at the piles of reports stacked neatly to the side. “Planning an invasion is so much work, even for those in a supporting role like us. But I wager it can wait until morning…and I’d further bet you haven’t had a decent meal in months. Dine with me tonight? I would look forward to hearing more about the Alliance and its strange ways.”
Lille smiled and nodded. “I would consider that a mercy, Gaston. The leavings from your pantry would make a feast in the Alliance.”
* * *
Tom Warren ducked into a small alley, and dropped down behind a garbage bin.
He was scared. He was scare
d shitless.
He knew they were after him, but he couldn’t run any more, not without resting for a few minutes. It was summer in Liberte City, and the alley reeked, so much he had to force back a retch. But it was a place to hide, at least for a little while.
He’d been an agent all his adult life, and he’d been in tough spots before. But all of that paled before running like a rat through the back streets of the Union’s capital city with a pack of Sector Nine agents on his tail. He’d thought he’d been afraid before, but now he knew what terror really felt like.
He’d been in Liberte City for three months, sent there to investigate rumors that the Union was working to secure an ally in the war everyone knew was coming. He’d come with a few contacts, and massive amounts of cash for bribes, expecting it to go far with the deprived Union masses. But he’d never seen a population so effectively terrorized by its government, one that they would choose squalor and despair over any prospect of reward. He’d been there weeks before he’d managed to get anyone to talk to him, and even then the information he’d paid dearly for had been sparse, non-conclusive.
He’d kept at it, but even as he did, he’d found his own courage failing. He knew the Union’s government was a totalitarian oligarchy, that the vast majority of its people had long been cowed into submission, but then he began hearing stories. Of Sector Nine. Of Level Zero, the maximum security section of their headquarters. Stories of small rooms with stone floors…and drains for the blood.
He’d powered through the fear, and he’d finally gotten the evidence he needed. The Union had reached out to the Alliance, sought to bring them into the war.