Ruins of Empire: Blood on the Stars III

by Jay Allan

  “I hope you have more insight into what’s happening than I do, Gary. I’m afraid the enemy’s actions make very little sense…unless there’s something we don’t know. And all the ‘somethings’ I can think of are quite bad for us.”

  “Is there a ‘Supply Two’ base out there somewhere? That is what you want to ask me, isn’t it?”

  Striker hesitated, looking for a few seconds as though he was going to deny Holsten’s statement, or at least expand on it. But then he simply said, “Yes.”

  “That’s a question I’d love to be able to answer for you, Van…” Holsten paused and then gestured toward the lift. “Why don’t we head back to your quarters? I’m sure the security on Grimaldi is top of the line, but I’d feel better if we were behind a closed door instead of out in the middle of a landing bay. I’d bet there are Union spies on this station, despite our best efforts to root them out.”

  Striker nodded. “Of course, you’re right.” He turned and stepped into one of the cars, waiting for Holsten to follow before he said, “Deck four.”

  The two men were silent as the car moved quickly upward. The door opened onto the fourth level corridor, and Striker stepped out, turning left and walking about thirty meters before stopping in front of a silvery metal door. “Open,” he said. The door slid open, and he gestured for Holsten to enter, then he followed after the intelligence chief.

  “Lights.” Striker walked across the large room. The fleet admiral’s quarters were massive by the standards that usually applied in space. Striker was the fleet’s senior commander, and Grimaldi was a fortress and an enormous base, not a ship. Still, the admiral had been a little stunned when he’d first set eyes on the suite of rooms. “Whoever designed Grimaldi was looking to kiss up to the admiral,” he said, sounding a little embarrassed about the opulence of his quarters.

  “Who wouldn’t want to kiss up to the fleet admiral?” Holsten smiled, briefly at least. The situation they were together to discuss was a grave and dangerous one, and Striker knew the stress Holsten was under, mostly because he was under it too. “You deserve every square centimeter, Van. Your victories saved the Confederation.”

  “Most likely I would have led the fleet to its final annihilation, had I not had unexpected help. We both know Captains Barron and Eaton were the real heroes.”

  “The Confederation is large enough to have three heroes…more even, if accomplishments warrant. I gambled on you, Van, if you will recall, and your success repaid me. Not only by saving the Confederation, but by doing so in such a decisive manner as to make it politically impossible for the Senate to come after me. Presented with the choice of ‘blaming’ me for the actions that led to victory or taking credit themselves, they chose to pat themselves on the back instead. They backdated more than one resolution that day.”

  Striker just nodded. “Anyway, we’re alone, Gary. So, have a seat…” He gestured toward a large sectional sofa. “…and tell me, do they have another mobile supply base?”

  “I wish I could tell you,” the spy said softly. “But the truth is, I don’t know. The economists, the number crunchers and analysts…they maintain it is absolutely impossible. They claim there’s no possible way the Union had sufficient resources to construct another base of that size and cost.” He stared at Striker, and there was doubt in his eyes. “But, of course, they’re the same geniuses who had no inkling the enemy had the resources to build the first one…so we must at least allow for the possibility that our esteemed and highly educated colleagues don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.”

  Striker nodded, a small grin slipping out. He shared Holsten’s disdain for highly credentialed “experts” with little real world experience to temper their conclusions. “So, you think they may have one?”

  “Honestly, I don’t see how either. They put the original one past us…a brilliant piece of intelligence work, I have to admit. One that made me look like a fool. But over the past six months, we’ve gone a long way toward rebuilding our assets in the Union. They took us by surprise just before the outbreak of the war, purging a vast number of our agents. Now, we’ve started to see a greater flow of intel.”

  “And you haven’t gotten wind of any new supply base?”

  “Quite the contrary,” Holsten said. “We have gotten multiple leads on one.”

  Striker’s face went white. “You have?”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Van. You have no idea how much data we go through, and how little of it actually proves to be useful.”

  “But if you’re getting leads about a mobile supply base…”

  “We’re almost getting too many leads.”

  “Too many? What does that mean?”

  “It means maybe they do have another base as big and capable as the one Captain Barron’s expedition destroyed, or even one of much smaller capability.” He paused, looking right at Striker. “Or maybe they have nothing at all…and they just want us to believe they do.”

  “What would they gain by that? Why launch such a costly offensive if they don’t have the ability to sustain it?”

  “As a diversion, perhaps?”

  “A diversion? For what purpose?”

  “That is the question, isn’t it? Perhaps they’re trying to take our attention away from the Badlands.”

  “They would launch an assault across the entire front just to distract us from the Badlands?”

  “What would you do to gain control over an ancient warship, one with technology far beyond anything we have now?”

  “So, you think the intel we found is accurate? That Captain Barron is actually going to find an artifact of such power? You did just mention how much useless information flows through your organization.”

  “I don’t know. It’s true that only a small percentage of the raw data we analyze leads to anything important. But the lead regarding the artifact seemed credible—enough that I still believe it was worth sending Dauntless. That means it’s definitely possible that this entire offensive is nothing but an elaborate diversion.

  “And it’s possible it’s a real attack, an attempt to break us before ships start rolling off the Iron Belt production lines. Perhaps they’ve managed to come up with some kind of logistical scheme to support their fleet. We must be prepared to hold them back, keep them out of the heart of the Confederation.”

  “Yes, you’re right. We must keep them from reaching the Iron Belt worlds. If they’re able to destroy our new ships half-built in their spacedocks…” Holsten’s voice trailed off. His meaning was clear.

  “On the other hand, if you were correct earlier, if the Union is going to such lengths to take our attention away from the Badlands, we can be sure they’ve got more than one battleship there. So, even if Captain Barron finds what we sent him to locate…”

  “He may be overwhelmed.” Holsten shook his head. “In that case, Dauntless would be destroyed, and the enemy would gain control over whatever is out there.”

  “So, what do we do? Do we send reinforcements to Captain Barron? I had planned to dispatch Triumphant and Aspirant, as we’d discussed…but…”

  “But?”

  “Aspirant was destroyed in the initial Union onslaught. And I held Triumphant back to support the line.”

  “So, what can you spare?”

  “Nothing, really. I’m not even sure I can hold the line with everything I have.”

  “So, if we assume the Union attack is a diversion to take our attention off the Badlands, and we dispatch a task force there…if the assault turns out to be real, we may weaken ourselves to the point where we can’t hold.”

  Striker nodded. “And if we don’t send aid to Dauntless, and the Union invasion is nothing more than a deception, we could be doing exactly what they want. We could end up sitting here and watching them seize a weapon of almost unimaginable power.”

  “If it even exists.”

  Striker had a pained look on his face. “We could go around in this circle forever. But we be
lieved it existed enough to send Captain Barron and his people to go find it. What of them? Do we abandon them, leave them to be overwhelmed by the enemy?”

  “It’s as upsetting to me as it is to you…but Captain Barron volunteered for the mission.”

  “Volunteered?” Striker shook his head. “We may have put on a little farce to that effect, but you know as well as I do there was no way for Barron to decline, not with both of us asking him to go. He took it as an order, no matter what you and I might have pretended. And we promised to send him reinforcements.”

  “There are, what? A thousand crew on Dauntless?”

  “Just under. Why?”

  “What are the losses along the front since the enemy launched this offensive?”

  Striker frowned. He knew where Holsten was going, and he didn’t like it. Cold-blooded logic had always been difficult for him, despite his reputation as a fighting admiral. “Considerable.”

  “My last report has them at over ten thousand, just in the first few days. I have no doubt you have more up to date figures than I do. And none of that includes the thousands—millions—of people living on the worlds we’re being forced to abandon.” He paused, and Striker could see the pain in his expression. “Or the billions on the worlds still behind us.

  “I admire Captain Barron as much as you, Van…he is a credit to his famous family and a true hero in his own right. But we have to make a decision based on far more than one man, or even the crew of one ship. If this is not a diversion, it could mean total defeat. Millions dead, billions more enslaved.” His eyes were focused on Striker’s. “The fate of Dauntless and her crew are irrelevant in our analysis. We can only consider the military situation, and the likelihood that there really is an artifact of immense power out there. But even if there is, if the line collapses, if the enemy fleets advance into the Iron Belt and the Core…they will capture or destroy the ships under construction…and the Confederation will fall. Regardless of whether there was an ancient ship out there and we sent ships to seize it, it would be too late.”

  Striker sat silently for a moment. Finally, a look of acquiescence came over his face. “So, the question remains, does the enemy really have a supply base, or is this all an elaborate deception? And what do we do about it?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. Or, more to the point, if it is real, can you stop them if you send a task force to the Badlands?”

  Striker felt cold. “Gary, I’m not sure I can stop them anyway, even if I don’t detach any ships. If they can sustain this offensive…we’re in trouble.”

  Holsten frowned, and he took a deep breath. “Do we bet the Confederation that they’re bluffing?”

  Striker shook his head, not in answer to the question, but simply the manifestation of his uncertainty. He hated the idea of abandoning Dauntless. And the thought of the enemy gaining ancient technology was terrifying…but if the Union offensive was real…

  The comm buzzed. “Yes,” Striker snapped, leaning toward the small unit.

  “Admiral, we have received a report from Tantor.”

  He could hear from the officer’s tone. The news was bad.

  “Yes?”

  “Commodore Isaacson is dead, sir.” A pause. “His task force is all but destroyed.”

  Striker felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach. Isaacson dead? With most of his force?

  “The transmission advises the enemy is on the move, Admiral. They are coming this way.”

  To Grimaldi. Of course. If they can take or destroy the fleet base, we’ll have to fall back from a dozen systems.

  Striker turned and looked at Holsten.

  “I think we have our answer,” the intelligence chief said grimly. “We have to assume the enemy advance is real, and that they have the means to sustain it. We just can’t take the chance. At least until we can stabilize the line. If there is going to be a battle here, it’s one we can’t lose. No matter what.” He stared at the admiral. Striker had a horrified look on his face, but he began nodding his head in reluctant agreement.

  “Captain Barron will have to manage on his own…somehow. At least until the fight here is done.” Holsten looked as despondent as Striker, but there wasn’t a hint of doubt in his voice.

  “I agree,” Striker said, sounding like death. “We must hold here. God help us…” He paused for a few seconds. “And God help Captain Barron.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  CFS Dauntless

  Z-107 System (Melatha)

  Approaching Z-111 Transwarp link

  “It’s called Chrysallis. Informally, at least. It’s officially designated as Z-111.” Barron sat behind the metal desk in his office, trying to ignore the headache he’d had for a week now. The destruction of Vaillant, the victory over the Union’s greatest vessel, should have been a cause for celebration. But the cost had been too high…and too personal this time. Discussing minutia like the names of Badlands systems was an effort to keep his mind off things he’d rather not think about…and it had been a stunningly unsuccessful effort.

  “Why two names?” Atara Travis sat across from him, trying to act normal, though he could see that she, too, was distracted by thoughts of recent events.

  “Badlands systems are governed by international law, at least they’re supposed to be. But the ambassadors and other gasbags move at a glacial pace. They managed to implement a numbering system for stars out there, and they’re supposed to ratify names as they’re submitted. But I suspect the whole thing’s actual purpose is to justify a massive number of diplomats and their staffs semi-permanently assigned to the International Tribunal for Administration of Restricted Space. ITARS.” He paused. “Amusing, isn’t it, that the names governments give to their webs of appendages all seem to form pronounceable acronyms?”

  Barron was trying hard to keep his mind off sickbay. He’d been down there half a dozen times, and Doc Weldon had told him the same thing again and again. He simply didn’t know if Jake Stockton was going to make it or not.

  “He’ll pull through, Ty.” Travis ignored the quip about governments and went right to the heart of what they were both thinking. Not that she didn’t agree about the pointless nonsense produced by pompous bureaucrats…she suspected she was more critical even than Barron, and that was saying something.

  Barron just nodded. Travis was smart, capable, the best first officer in the fleet. But blind faith was far from her greatest strength, and her attempt to reassure him about Dauntless’s star pilot was almost comically unsuccessful.

  “We’ll see, Atara.” His thoughts drifted back to the final stages of the battle with Vaillant. Commander Fritz had gotten the primaries back online…and she’d managed to keep them functioning for two shots before her rushed repairs gave out. It had been a near-miracle that she’d managed to repair the main guns so quickly, and it had equalized the battle, even given Dauntless the edge for a few minutes. But then the fight became a slugfest between the two ships…and it went on long enough for the fighter squadrons to come about and make a second strafing run.

  Stockton had led his people in, again ignoring the enemy fighters—more of them in space now—driving to point blank range before firing. The veteran pilot had placed his shot precisely, right into a massive hull breach where Dauntless’s primaries had hit the Union ship…and the rest of the Blues and Eagles had followed him in. By the time they were done, the pride of the Union navy was crippled, the battle all but decided. But Stockton had taken a hit from one of the vessel’s defensive turrets.

  He’d managed to get back to Dauntless—Barron still couldn’t figure out how—but then he’d had to land his stricken ship. Barron had watched his ace pilot make more than one difficult landing…and squeeze through close call after close call. But this time Stockton’s skill and luck had failed to meet the challenge. He’d lost control of the fighter as he approached the bay, and his breaking thrusters failed. He came in like a bullet, and slammed into the far bulkhead. His disintegrating fighter had burst into f
lames.

  The struggling fire crews worked feverishly to put out the conflagration and get to the trapped pilot. Stockton was still alive, but almost every centimeter of his body was burned, so badly in some places that the flesh was simply gone, nothing but exposed bone and blackened remains of charred muscle.

  He’d been unconscious—thankfully—when they rushed him to sickbay. Jake Stockton would have died almost immediately if anyone else save Stu Weldon had been Dauntless’s chief surgeon. The skilled medical officer acted quickly, proving himself once again to be a member of the crew on par with Stockton himself, and Fritz and Travis. He performed emergency surgery, and then he put Stockton into a cryo-tube, placing the wounded man in near-stasis. His report had been blunt, straightforward. If they got the patient back to a base with regeneration capability, he had a chance. But he could only last so long in cryo-preservation. Weldon had left the definition of “so long” frustratingly vague.

  It had taken everything Barron had to resist the urge to turn around and head right back to Dannith. To save his friend. But duty was there, as always, overruling personal feelings. Images of ancient vessels slipped into his mind, massive engines of death out in front of the Union fleet, burning Confederation planets to cinders. He’d realized almost immediately. There was no turning back. Not this time. He wasn’t sure what he would find when his ship arrived at the designated system, but he knew he had to follow through. Stockton would just have to hang on…somehow. He felt grim, his logical mind telling him there was no way his friend could last long enough. But he’d learned never to count “Raptor” Stockton out, not completely.

  He looked up, realizing he and Travis had been sitting quietly for several minutes. He felt like he should say something, but no words came. A feeling of guilt came on him. He was particularly fond of Stockton, despite the wild pilot’s tendency to push orders to—and sometimes beyond—their limits, but he reminded himself that almost seventy of his people had died in the fight against Vaillant. He’d spent hours reorganizing the duty rosters, struggling to keep his stations fully manned despite the loss of so many veteran spacers. They deserved his thoughts too, though there was little he could do for the dead.