by Jay Allan
She took a deep breath, staring down at the tablet image as a single tear dropped from her face and hit the screen. Then, a moment later, she set it down and reached over to her control panel. “Ship control, this is Commander-Princeps Katrine Rigellus.”
“Commander-Princeps Katrine Rigellus, officer in command, AS Invictus. Recognized.”
“On my authority, initiate sequence Omega-0.”
“Sequence Omega-0 initiated. Ten second countdown begun.”
She closed her eyes. She had done all that was required of her, all that duty demanded. She would die now as she had lived.
Seven…
She thought back, to the births of her children, to her days as a child herself. Now she would find her end far from home and leave her children to grow up without her, just as her own father had done.
Five…
She tried hard to cling to her faith, to hold on, even as the seconds counted down, to all she had believed during her life.
Three.
“The way is the way…”
There was doubt there now as she repeated the mantra, questions she could no longer suppress. But she didn’t have to. Not anymore. For her, duty was over.
One…zero.
Deep within Invictus, a cache of hydrogen bombs detonated, and in a fraction of a second, the Alliance’s largest and proudest ship ceased to exist, vaporized in the fury of nuclear fusion. For a few seconds, the remnants of Katrine Rigellus and Invictus remained, a miniature sun, expanding briefly and then contracting, fading away and leaving nothing behind but the emptiness of space.
Chapter Forty
CFS Dauntless
En Route to the Krillus Transwarp Link
307 AC
The battle was over, a victory, if anything so costly could be thus characterized. Dauntless’s crew had suffered terribly, but none worse than its ravaged fighter wing. The losses they had suffered were devastating. The training manuals stated that any combat unit taking casualties at such a level was effectively destroyed. But the fighter pilots were cut from tough cloth, and they accepted that they flew each mission with death as a wingman. And as a group, they’d be damned if they were destroyed, or anything like it. Each and every one of them was ready to respond if the claxons rang again, even now, to move grimly down to the bays and launch once again into combat.
But there was no call to arms now, no battlestations lamps glowing red or alarms ripping through the air. The survivors were gathered, as was their tradition, to sit up long into the night, to drink, to be there for each other…and to send off those they had lost.
“To Ice.” Jake Stockton raised the silver mug above his head. His usually confident voice was tentative, shaken. He looked at the others, eleven men and seven women…all that remained of Dauntless’s fighter wing.
“To Ice,” Kyle Jamison said, raising his own mug. “And to the others we lost here. Courageous warriors all. Heroes of the Confederation.”
“Heroes of the Confederation!” The others repeated the toast in something that came close to unison.
The pilots in the room knew they were lucky to be alive. They had survived more than the battle itself, nightmare that it had been. Most of them had also been low on life support by the time the wounded Dauntless had managed to track them all down and tow them aboard. It had been a slow process, towing each fighter aboard the wounded mothership, and by the time Stockton had been brought in he was unconscious, moments from suffocation.
Stockton looked around the room. It wasn’t the pilots’ usual officer’s club. Indeed, they weren’t even behind Bulkhead Eight, the traditional partition of a Confederation fighter wing’s territory on a mother ship. Their quarters had been destroyed, everything behind Eight a total loss. Possessions, uniforms, personal items…all gone, incinerated or blown into space. But Stockton didn’t care, not even about the year’s salary worth of poker chips that had been vaporized…or were floating around the Krillus system somewhere. His thoughts were with dead pilots, and one in particular, a man who had been his rival, and who had saved his life.
“The last thing Ice would have wanted would be for you to brood over his death, Jake.” Jamison leaned in, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We’re pilots…we drink and send off our dead, and then we move on to the next battle.”
They all knew there would be a next battle. Whatever had happened at Santis—and there were all kinds of rumors flying around—there was little doubt that even if the prospect of full scale war with the Alliance had receded, the Union threat remained. War was still imminent, if not here, then on the distant border, where Dauntless had spent ten months patrolling. It would take some time before the ship’s extensive damage could be repaired, but there was little doubt they would find themselves in the middle of the fight again.
Stockton looked at his friend, his expression somber. “You’re right, of course, Kyle, but…”
“No buts, Raptor. The Confederation needs you, it needs all of us. And if Ice were here, he’d be the first one to tell you that. Mourn the dead…but look to the future, to the fight to come.”
Stockton sat still for a moment. Then he nodded gently and raised his mug. “The fight to come.”
* * *
“You’re going to make it, Sam…you just have to hang on.” Walt Billings sat in a powered chair at his friend’s side, leaning forward, his hand on Carson’s arm. Billings’ legs were gone at the knee. A regeneration procedure would return the injured engineer to duty, but that would have to wait. Dauntless’s sickbay was as battered as the rest of the vessel, and Billings would have to endure the confines of his chair until they reached Archellia, and the facilities needed to grow him a new pair of legs.
“You’re…good…liar…” Sam Carson’s voice was a barely audible rasp. The engineer had spent the last day doubled over, vomiting incessantly. Doctor Weldon had done everything he could, given Carson every drug available, both to treat his radiation sickness and to alleviate his symptoms.
Barron stood just inside the door, next to Dr. Weldon. He’d watched as Billings spoke to his friend, trying vainly to cheer up the dying man.
“Is there anything else you can do, Stu?”
Weldon sighed softly. “I’m sorry, Ty. He was too far gone by the time they got him out of that chamber. There was never anything I could do but try to make him comfortable.”
“How long?” Sam Carson had been one of the most popular members of the crew, with the ship’s captain no less than with his peers. And he had saved all their lives. If Carson hadn’t gotten the reactors back online, Barron knew none of his people would have survived.
“He’ll die today. A couple hours. Maybe three or four.”
Barron just nodded. Then he walked forward, nodding again to Billings before he knelt beside the stricken officer. “Hello, Sam.” He paused, then he realized Carson couldn’t see him from that angle. He leaned forward. “It’s Tyler Barron.”
“Captain…” Carson tried to move his head, and Barron could see from his lack of success just how weak the man was. “Sorry, sir…can’t…move…much…”
“Don’t apologize, Sam. You’re a hero. You saved us all. Commander Fritz told me what you did. I just wanted to say…thank you.” Barron paused. It wouldn’t do Carson any good if he lost it. But his words alone sounded so pointless, so inadequate.
“Did…my…duty…”
“Yes, Sam…you did your duty. And more.”
“Fritz?”
“She’ll be okay, Sam. She’s in surgery now or I’m sure she’d be here.”
“How…long?”
“How long?”
“Do…I…have…”
Barron felt a lump in his throat. He struggled to force out the words, to keep his voice even. He thought about lying, about insisting Carson still had a chance. But it seemed beneath the dignity of the courageous engineer, less than he deserved, however well meaning the attempt at deceit might be. “Dr. Weldon says a few hours, Sam.” A p
ause. “At most.”
Carson exhaled softly.
“Tablet?”
Barron shook his head. “I don’t know what you…”
“He wants this, sir.” Billings extended his arm toward the captain. He held a small tablet in his hand.
Barron took the device and looked down at it, moving his finger across to activate it. A small image appeared on the small screen, a woman, attractive but looking exhausted…and in her arms, a baby.
Barron felt his emotions surging up inside him—guilt, anger. Sadness.
He reached down, taking Carson’s arm, putting the tablet in his hand. The device fell, the dying man’s hands too weak to hold it. Barron picked it up, moving it in front of Carson’s eyes. He stood for a moment, and then he felt Billings reaching over, taking the tablet. “I can hold it for him, sir…I know you’re busy.”
Barron felt another pang. He was busy. Dauntless was a wreck, half its engineering staff in sickbay. For that matter, half its crew dead or wounded. And, while he believed what Commander Rigellus had told him, he had no proof that there weren’t other Alliance forces on the way even now. Still, the idea of not having time for a dying man, one who had saved all their lives…it made him feel small, cold.
“Really, Captain…he’s in and out. I don’t even think he’s still here, not really.”
“You’re a good man, Walt.” Barron looked down at the lieutenant. “Stay with him, will you? Until…the end.”
“I will, sir. You have my word.”
Barron just nodded. Then he took one last look at Carson, and he turned and walked toward the door.
Chapter Forty-One
From the Log of Captain Tyler Barron
War. It is feared, glorified. A last resort or a cold-blooded way to achieve governmental ends. An ancient quote, its origins long lost in pre-cataclysmic history, called it the ‘final argument of kings.’
I have experienced it now, in all its unsavory horror. I have watched those who served with me die, some quickly, vaporized in a fraction of a second. Others, slowly, lingering in fear and agony as their lives slipped away. I have even come to mourn for an enemy, one I also hate for the death she brought upon my people.
I always wondered why my grandfather spent so little time telling me about the great battles fought. I couldn’t understand why he always turned the topic to fishing or the family estate…or any topic far from the travails of the battlefield. Now, I think, I understand him far better. I can perceive, at least in a small way, the demons that must have haunted his sleep and preyed on his mind.
I am a good son of the navy, and I serve the Confederation and its duly-constituted government. Yet, I question now the justice of men and women casting a nation into war when they have not themselves experienced it, or paid its terrible price. I do not long for a military dictatorship—far from it. We are surrounded by brutal regimes where freedom is a forgotten ideal. Yet, it sickens me to think of politicians who have never heard a shot fired making a decision that will send thousands of good men and women to hideous deaths.
I know war with the Union beckons, that my crew’s respite will be but a short one before the trumpet again calls us. And we will answer, as those before us did, as my grandfather did. And in this war to come, as in those that preceded it, there will be a Barron on the front lines.
CFS Dauntless
In Space Dock
Archellia, Cassiopolis III
308 AC
Tyler Barron stood on the platform, watching solemnly as canister after canister rolled slowly from Dauntless’s main cargo hatch, to the accompaniment of the Confederation’s anthem. Each of those two meter tubes carried one of his crew, the physical manifestation of the cost of his great “victory.” He knew their sacrifices hadn’t been in vain, that defeating the enemy battleship had likely averted war with the Alliance, and spared the Confederation the nightmare of a two-front battle. But standing there watching the seemingly endless procession, listening to the poor quality recording blaring through the speakers, he couldn’t help but think his people deserved better.
There was an honor guard, of sorts, though it had been cobbled together from base security instead of the Marines who normally would have filled the role. Half of Archellia’s Marines were on the way to Santis, and the other half were on full alert, manning their defensive positions.
He thought of his own Marines, at least the few that remained. He’d read the reports of their final battle, of another victory that seemed bitter because of its cost. His ground forces had lost no less than seventy percent of their number, and the Marines originally posted to the planet had four survivors out of forty. But, miraculously, they had defeated the enemy, in a fight that had gone on to the death.
He had hated to leave his battered troops behind, but there had been no choice. He couldn’t leave the planet unguarded, and even thirty-seven exhausted Marines could put up a fight if necessary…as the original garrison had proven. The reinforcements bound for Santis would garrison the tritium facilities and retake the battered space station, and the ships carrying them to the Rim would return with Dauntless’s survivors. That esteemed group included four hardy souls from the original force, including Sergeant Clete Hargraves and the officer that worthy non-com had saved beyond all hope, Lieutenant Luke Plunkett. Barron had been sorry there hadn’t been time for him to meet those Marines, and he hoped he’d have the chance one day.
He was confident the Alliance threat had evaporated, that Commander Rigellus’s words had been truthful and accurate. But he couldn’t argue against taking precautions. Any Alliance invasion would depend on taking and holding Santis, and after what the outnumbered Marines had accomplished there, he had little doubt the five hundred now en route could hold the place indefinitely against any attack the Alliance mounted over such a distance.
His eyes panned around the cavernous room. Many of the crew were there, silently paying their respects to fallen comrades. But there were no crowds of families, no groups of mourning friends. None of his crew had been from Archellia, save one. And in all the great vastness of the bay, there was only one person not part of Dauntless’s crew and not on duty. No, two people.
Barron looked across the bay at Sam Carson’s widow. Lise Varov was a naval officer too, and she was clad in her dress blues, standing silent, motionless, an infant cradled in her arms. She stood almost at attention, clearly struggling to keep herself together. Barron knew he would only shatter her tenuous control if he went over and spoke with her, but he also knew he had no choice. He owed it to Sam.
He walked across the room, conscious of the sound his boots made on the metal floor. Varov saw him coming about halfway there, and she turned to face him.
“Lieutenant Varov…I just wanted to express my deepest regrets for your loss.” Barron could see the tears welling up in her eyes, her efforts to hold them back.
“Thank you, Captain, but please, call me Lise.” Her voice was soft, tentative. “You’re very kind.”
“Sam was an extraordinary officer, Lise. You should know he was truly a hero. He died saving his comrades—everyone on Dauntless. Our survival likely averted a war with the Alliance, which means he died to protect Archellia as well. To protect you, and his son.”
Varov gasped a breath, losing her struggle to hold back the tears. “He will never see his son, Captain. And my child will never know his father.”
Barron was fishing for words, knowing nothing he said would be adequate. “I can’t imagine your pain, Lise. And please call me Tyler…none of this captain foolishness.” He hesitated, again unsure what else to say. “I considered Sam my friend, Lise, as well as one of my crew. Whatever you need…if there is ever anything I can do for you, now or ten years from now, all you have to do is ask.”
She looked back at Barron, tears streaming down her cheeks now. “Thank you, Ca…Tyler. You are a good man. I can see why Sam felt he needed to go with you.”
Barron felt her words like daggers. He knew she
meant them as a compliment, but they only reminded him that he had led his people to Santis. They had followed him there, and nearly a quarter of them had come back in sleek, metallic coffins. Including Sam Carson.
Words failed him, and he stood silently for a moment, finally saying simply, “Remember, if there’s ever anything you need…”
Lise nodded and swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “Thank you, Tyler.”
Barron returned the nod…and he stood quietly for a moment. Then he turned and walked slowly toward the exit. He’d never been the kind of officer to crave battle, to seek glory. But he felt empty now, desolate.
Can this be what you felt, grandfather? Amid the parades, the celebrations, the endless honors, were you as hollowed out inside as I am now?
He wanted to flee, to resign his commission and retire to his family estates…anyplace where no more men and women would die because they followed his orders. But he knew he couldn’t, and now another person was there in his thoughts, one he hardly knew but also one he was realizing had a great impact on him.
There would be no resignation, no retreat to the family manor. Barron was a creature of duty, as fixed on his path as Katrine Rigellus had been. She’d been a noble warrior trapped in bad cause, an example of the cost such devotion extracted…and he knew in her words he had seen his own future.
Epilogue
Tyler Barron sat at the small desk in his quarters. It was quiet, peaceful—at least when the repair crews weren’t in some nearby compartment, repairing one bit of battle damage after another.
His workstation’s screen displayed repair reports, requisitions, supply manifests…all the things that made command of a battleship seem like drudgery. But his eyes had glazed over, drifted to the tablet in his hands. The small display held text, the final chapter of the history volume Dauntless’s captain had been carrying around for over a year now. He’d finally gotten through it, almost, and he was determined that nothing would stop him from finishing. Not this close to the end.