by Jay Allan
Villieneuve paused, glancing unconsciously around the room, indulging the constant paranoia that was an occupational hazard for a man in his position. “I considered allowing things to follow their course, to stand aside and not interfere. But I decided the risk was simply too great. The current First is mostly concerned with his own luxury, and he is content to delegate the bulk of the actual work of running the Union to the other members of the Presidium and the senior ministers. That has provided a degree of, how shall I put it, security, for those of us in senior positions and a dissipation of executive power among a larger group. D’Alvert is far more energetic, more likely to upset the established order. It is just too great a risk.”
“I agree, Gaston. D’Alvert would certainly be less predictable, and that alone is sufficient reason to eliminate him.”
“I know this is a dangerous mission, Ricard, and difficult…but I have a reward for you upon its completion. There will be much work to do when the Confederation is conquered. Its people will have to adapt to a different way of life. They will have to learn to serve the good of the state. The job will be a vast one, and Sector Nine will need to expand massively to do it. I need a good man to take control of the overall operation. You have served me well, my friend, and you have the moral…pliability…to do what is necessary to see the job done.” Villieneuve stared across his desk. “Handle the D’Alvert matter, Ricard, and the position is yours.”
Lille stared back, the mask of neutrality that usually covered his face gone, replaced by undisguised shock. “I don’t know what to say, Gaston. Thank you.”
“You have earned it, my friend.”
And you are the one least likely to betray me once you have stolen vast treasures from the Confederation and established yourself in your own power base. At least I think you are…
* * *
“Nothing. The supply fleet is three days overdue, and we’ve heard nothing. Not a thing!” Hugo D’Alvert was mad. No, beyond mad…he was positively raging, as close as a man could come to the fiery heart of a supernova. He had the Confeds on the run. And now a late supply convoy was keeping him from finishing things.
“No, sir. No word, either from the supply fleet or from the escort.” Isaiah Beltran answered firmly, at least compared to the rest of the command staff who’d been quaking every time D’Alvert’s eyes moved in their directions. The Union admiral was a feared man, there was no question about that. But Beltran had been with him a long time, and even a monster needed a close confidante or two.
“I want a patrol dispatched to Arcturon now. I want to know exactly where that supply convoy is, and why it has not arrived on time.
“Yes, Admiral. At once.”
“If Admiral Lund has been negligent in his command of the force, he will pay dearly.” D’Alvert’s mind was clouded with anger, but there was clarity below it. The supply line had given him a strategic advantage, and had enabled him to take the Confederation by surprise. Invasions always bogged down as fleets moved past supporting range of their bases, and it took time to establish forward facilities on captured worlds. The Union’s true advantage in the war lay not in its numbers, not in the early victories that had pushed the Confederation forces back with such heavy losses. It was the unorthodox system of supply, the simple but brilliant solution D’Alvert himself had been instrumental in creating.
But every day his fleet was forced to sit idle drained away that hard-won advantage, the edge he’d gained through years of work and trillions of credits in expenditure slipping through his fingers. He’d read the history, and the intel reports. The productive capacity of the Confederation, especially of the worlds of its legendary Iron Belt, was truly awesome. The Confederation was easily diverted in peacetime, its inexplicably weak government bowing almost without exception to calls for funds to be diverted from military expenditures to other, often wasteful, purposes. D’Alvert couldn’t imagine paying mindless heed to the wishes of the masses, of allowing the mongrels in the street to vote for their leaders. Those who couldn’t rise to power existed to serve. It wasn’t his pronouncement…it was that of history. The weak had always been compelled to do the bidding of the strong, as they always would be.
He knew he had to win the war in one massive offensive. The Union had committed everything it had to the attack, leaving its home systems and other borders dangerously undefended. But three wars against the Confederation had taught a stark lesson. Once the beast was roused, the productive engine of its enemy would outproduce the larger Union. Vessels would stream from the shipyards, fighters at first, then escorts, and, eventually, even capital ships would be launched in unimaginable numbers. Fear would drive the people of the Confederation to unite, and weapons would pour forth in a torrent the Union couldn’t hope to match.
D’Alvert knew his history well. The last war had almost been a catastrophe. The Union First had died, and the nation had become divided, rival claimants fighting for power. The Confederation fleets had been strong, victorious, massed on the border. But its citizens’ fear had faded away, and they demanded a cessation to hostilities. In the end, that peace had only cost the Union two of the eight worlds it had conquered years before. An almost insignificant price for the time to rebuild, prepare. And a breathtakingly foolish act by the Confeds, allowing their enemy to escape to fight another day.
He couldn’t understand the leaders of the Confederation making such a foolish decision, the craven nature that allowed them to cease hostilities even before reclaiming the rest of their own lost systems. He appreciated the productive capacity and wealth of his adversary, but the Confederation and his people disgusted him. They were weak…and they would fall. Whatever it took.
“Captain, contact Admiral Galt. He is to command the patrol…and he is to relieve Admiral Lund and assume command of the supply flotilla. He is to do whatever is necessary to get those ships here as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
D’Alvert knew Lund would have a long list of excuses, but he wasn’t inclined to listen to justifications for failure. If the supply ships had arrived on time, his forces would already be moving against the Confeds. He might have caught them demoralized, low on ordnance, disorganized. Instead, they had more time to reorder their forces, to bring up their own resupply. He still had numbers, but whatever had knocked Lund off schedule had cost him some of his advantage. And he’d see the damned fool stretched out on an electric grid in the sub-levels of Sector Nine headquarters if his incompetence cost him even part of the gain his years of planning had created.
Nothing was going to stop him now, and he would let no weakness, no hesitation, interfere with whatever was necessary to drive his forces to the ultimate victory. Then, the hated Confederation would be gone, its rich worlds existing to serve the Union. And he would have an open route, straight to the First’s chair.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Briefing Room
CFS Dauntless
Arcturon System
308 AC
“I want to thank you for shuttling over here, Captain Eaton.” Barron sat at the head of the table, his designated position as both Dauntless’s captain and as the senior Confederation officer present. Nevertheless, despite his unquestioned authority to command the forces present in the system, he was making every effort to underplay his command role, to offer his colleague the maximum amount of respect possible. He knew his authority here had nothing to do with the Barron name, but a lifetime of sensitivity to the preferential treatment he had so often received left him a bit uncomfortable issuing orders to Eaton. He would, of course, when he had to, but he much preferred to discuss tactics with her and gain her genuine support. Besides, he had no idea what to do next.
“Of course, sir.” Sara Eaton sat just to Barron’s side. The table was large enough to accommodate at least twelve, but Eaton and Barron were the only two present. Unlike Dauntless’s commander, Eaton seemed to have no problem with the command arrangement, or at least, if she did, she was hiding i
t well. She had stepped gracefully into the role of the respectful subordinate.
“Resupply and refueling will be completed within the hour. I have ordered the remaining enemy vessels destroyed as soon as the last wave of shuttles is clear. Our respective staffs will have some extra work converting Union ordnance and replacement parts to our own uses, but there is no question we have improved our situation considerably. And all of our vessels are fully refueled.” He glanced over, catching Eaton’s faint nod of acknowledgement. “I believe we must now discuss our next steps.”
“I agree, sir. There is no doubt we are on the enemy’s supply line…and the convoy we intercepted will surely be missed. Destroying the volume of supplies we did was unquestionably helpful to the war effort, but it seems to me that we cannot stay here, at least not out in the open.”
“We have both come to the same conclusion, Captain.” He paused, sighing softly. “Or, shall we dispense with the formalities? I’m Tyler.”
Eaton looked slightly uncomfortable, but after a few seconds it seemed to pass. “Thank you, Tyler. I’m Sara.”
“So, Sara, what do we do next? It seems to me we have several considerations. What best safeguards our ships and crews? What allows us to provide maximum support to the war effort, as our duty demands? Clearly, these factors may not necessarily point to the same course of action.”
“I believe we must do everything possible to support the fleet, sir…Tyler. Regardless of the risk. The losses suffered in the early battles have been severe, and we have been forced to abandon many systems. I can’t believe the status of the war is anything short of critical.”
“Our assessments agree. Our two ships are only a small portion of the navy, but the Confederation needs every resource it has left, including us. My first instinct was to rejoin the fleet. But there is little doubt that the enemy’s main force lies between us and Admiral Winston.” He hesitated. “I do not shy away from the prospect of battle…but there seems to be little advantage in throwing Dauntless and Intrepid away trying to get past thirty or more enemy battleships. I simply don’t see how we can possibly sneak around the Union fleet. A small ship or two might have a chance, but two capital ships?”
“I believe you’re correct. Even if we were able to stay away from the enemy battleline, it seems impossible to avoid detection. They would have left scanner buoys and probes at the transwarp points. And once they know we’re there, they would respond with a force large enough to overwhelm us.”
“Which brings us back to the original question. What do we…”
The door slid open, and Atara Travis came rushing into the room.
“Atara?” Barron looked up, an anxious expression on his face. He knew his exec wouldn’t have interrupted him, not without good reason.
“Sir, Lieutenant Varrick and his people have decoded the enemy nav unit.” Travis was as cool as they came, but Barron could see she could barely control her excitement. “They recovered the deployments of the entire enemy invasion force, sir. Forward fleets, garrisons, escorts…everything. As of three days ago.”
Barron glanced over at Eaton before snapping his eyes back toward Travis. “My compliments to the lieutenant and his team, Commander. That is…impressive news.”
“It certainly is.” Eaton nodded as she spoke. “Though if we can’t get it to Admiral Winston, it may be wasted.”
“We may have to try to get through now, whatever the risk.” Barron’s initial excitement was fading. The discovery was of immense tactical significance, but if he couldn’t get it back to the fleet it was valueless.
“That’s not all, Captain.” Travis extended her arm. Her hand was grasped around a small tablet. “There is information about the enemy’s logistical arrangements…a possible answer to how they could be moving so quickly and staying in supply.”
“What is it, Commander?” Barron had wracked his brain again and again, but he hadn’t managed to come up with any way the enemy could have done what he knew for certain they had done. It simply took too long to build forward supply and production bases, even given suitable systems. And he’d reviewed the operations reports from Intrepid, scanning every grueling detail of the early defeats the fleet had suffered. It hadn’t been a pretty picture, but one thing was certain. Any production facility capable of producing so much as a milliliter of tritium had been destroyed before the fleet fell back. The Union was fueling its ships somehow, but it wasn’t from captured Confederation supplies or installations.
“The details are sketchy, sir, and what Lieutenant Varrick was able to decode is on this tablet.” She leaned forward and placed the unit on the table. “But it appears the Union has constructed some kind of mobile logistics facility. It is referred to as ‘Supply One.’ Based on what we could discover from the nav unit, it is the nexus of their entire logistical tail.”
Barron shook his head. “What kind of mobile installation could possibly supply enough fuel and ordnance to sustain a fleet the size of their invasion force? It doesn’t make any sense.” Eaton glanced back and forth between Travis and Barron. “Even if it was twice the size of a capital ship—or ten times—how could something mobile possibly carry enough materials to sustain the kind of forces the Union has thrown at us?”
The room was silent, his companions clearly as stumped as he was. Finally, Travis spoke. “Sir, I can’t explain, but the nav data seems very clear on this point…and it’s not like we have any other working hypotheses.”
Barron took a deep breath, staring back at his first officer for a few seconds before responding. “You cut to the heart of it, Commander, as always.” He paused again, a troubled look coming over his face. “Did the nav unit give us a location for this supposed supply base?”
“Yes, sir. According to the latest update, the base has just been moved forward, to the Varus system.”
“Varus? That’s just two transits from here.”
“Yes, sir,” Travis replied. Her tone was somber. Barron understood why. They all knew the third planet of the Varus system was a major provincial hub, a world with several hundred million Confederation citizens. It was one thing to think in terms of retreats and withdrawals, but quite another to be reminded about the people left behind.
“It seems we have a choice,” Barron said softly. Then he looked back up at Travis. “Please, Commander, have a seat. We must decide on a course of action, and I would have your input.” He looked over at Eaton, wary of any signs his fellow captain objected to inviting his first officer to their command meeting, but there were none.
“Yes, sir.” Travis pulled out a chair and sat down.
“So, the way I see it, we have two choices. Do we attempt to reach Admiral Winston with the intelligence we have on enemy deployments, despite the immense difficulties in getting two battleships past the Union fleet?” He paused for a few seconds. The first option he’d laid out was dangerous enough, perhaps even hopeless. But the other thought forming in his head was downright insane. “Or do we move forward—to Varus—and attack this enemy supply base?”
Barron looked back and forth at his two companions, not at all surprised at their silence, or at the stunned expressions on their faces. It was one thing to discuss the difficulties, even the near impossibility, of sneaking past the enemy forces, but trying to return to the fleet, especially with the intel they now possessed, made sense at least. The idea of two battleships and a handful of escorts moving deeper into enemy-held space—and attacking some kind of phantom supply base—seemed downright insane.
“Captain…our data on the supply facility is highly speculative.” It was Travis who spoke first, just as Barron had expected. His first officer was the one best positioned to try and tell him he was crazy. But he wasn’t crazy. The desperation of his plan spawned from that of the situation. The cold truth was there weren’t any good options, at least not any that offered a substantial chance of success. Or of survival.
“Is it, Commander? I’ll admit, I can’t fathom what kind of portable in
stallation could support a fleet the size of the Union invasion force, but we have no reason to doubt the information on the enemy nav unit. In other circumstances, I’d expect deliberate misinformation, some type of counter-intelligence designed to send us off in the wrong direction. But that would require data we were likely to intercept and I can’t imagine the Union high command anticipating what happened here. That we would attack and destroy a convoy behind the battle lines and escorted by multiple battleships?”
“What you say makes sense, Captain.” Eaton’s expression was hard, no sign of her true thoughts evident. “But what about the nav data on the enemy fleet? Doesn’t our duty require us to try and deliver it to fleet command? And this supply base…wouldn’t such an installation, if it exists, be well-defended? Could we hope to reach it and destroy it?”
“Could we hope to get back to the fleet with the nav data?” He paused, pushing back the impulse to edit their situation. He wasn’t about to discuss the near-hopelessness of their plight in front of the crew, but Eaton deserved complete honesty from him, and he’d long ago decided there was nothing he would hide from Travis. “Any choice we make is the gravest of longshots. For all we know, the fleet has been defeated again…or it has withdrawn halfway to the Core by now. Whatever path we choose, we must realize, the three of us at least, that we will likely fail.”
He let his words hang in the almost-silent room for a few seconds before he continued. “If we head back toward the fleet, and we are intercepted and destroyed, we will do nothing for the war effort. Our captured intelligence will be lost with us. If we instead move on the enemy base…even if we fail to destroy it, we may be able to cause damage or intercept additional supply ships. Our deaths will not have been for nothing.”