by Jay Allan
Barron couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He tried to respond, but no words came.
“Your orders are to remain here, to command the entire flotilla and to operate as you see fit to support any Alliance faction opposing the Union or Union control.”
“Very well,” he said softly. It didn’t seem adequate, but it was all he had. “Again, Sara, my thanks…for everything.”
“You’re welcome, sir. It will be a pleasure to serve with you again.” A few seconds later: “Commodore, there’s one other thing. If you would like to transfer your flag to Repulse…she’s quite an upgrade from anything else in the fleet, except of course her two sisters here. She’d make a fine flagship.”
Barron looked around at Dauntless’s shattered bridge, the acid sting of smoke in his eyes, the piles of burned out circuitry still lying on the deck. She’d been old when he’d stepped aboard to take command, and he’d taken her to hell and back more than once. Repulse was the obvious choice for flagship.
For anyone else.
“Thank you, Sara, but I think I’ll decline. I’m honored to have Repulse and her sister ships here, but I don’t think Dauntless and I are through with each other. Not yet.”
* * *
“I want to thank you again. For saving my life. And now for saving Jake as well. He’s a handful sometimes, a real pain in the ass…but he’s like a younger brother to me, and he did save Dauntless. I’ve never been happier when someone disobeyed my orders.”
Andi Lafarge looked back at Barron. She was overcome with relief that he had survived, but she only intended to let him see a little slice of that. He was a vulnerability for her, and if she had to have a weakness, she was damned sure going to stay in control of it herself.
“I don’t take orders from you, Captain…Commodore…whatever. I trust you’ll remember that the next time you have a request for me to do something.” She smiled. She wanted to jump into his arms, but she didn’t. He would ask her to stay…or she’d turn around right now and blast off in Pegasus.
“Well then, I’m glad you ignored my request.” He returned her smile. “You need to go back, Andi, before the next attack comes…”
She felt disappointment building up. She’d never show him, but…
“…but if I haven’t used up my allotment of requests, I have one more. Stay a little while? Just for a few days?”
“Well, since I did blow off your last request, I guess I could give you this one.” She knew Barron would try to send her back before the next fight. She didn’t know what she would do then. She was sure of only two things.
One, she was beyond relieved to see him alive, well…and likely energetic enough for her to make good use of her extended time here.
And two, that whatever she did, however much Barron whispered in her ear in the dark, or put on his commodore’s star and belted out commands…she would decide whether she would stay or go. Andromeda Lafarge didn’t take orders. From anyone.
Epilogue
“Thank you for landing my fighters, Commander. My damage control teams should have our bays operational in two days.” Barron walked next to Vennius, across Sentinel-2’s cavernous launch bay two.
“Of course, Commodore. We are allies now, are we not?” Barron could hear a faint discomfort in his host’s voice.
“Now that Captain Eaton has arrived with reinforcements, perhaps you should send out more of your light craft. Your enemies have been repulsed three times…that may open the door for you to persuade others to your side. Perhaps we should even consider operations outside this system…once our ships are repaired.”
“I agree with your logic, Commodore. I will send out the light ships…to the border stations and other bases farthest from Calavius’s reach. I know several of the commanders there. It is likely we will be able to secure the allegiance of at least some of them.” He paused for a few seconds. “Still, there is little doubt that Calavius controls more forces than we, even if we are successful in rallying more. This war—and that’s what it is, a civil war—will be a terrible conflict, one where we have no room for error. Calavius can recover from defeats like those he suffered here, yet one disaster would be enough to destroy our cause. We must always remember, our enemy controls most of the communications, the media. We will fight many traitors in this conflict…but we will also battle legions of warriors guilty of no more grievous a crime than believing what they were told. We must have the victory, at all costs. But killing such warriors will bring me no joy, no sense of honor.”
Barron just nodded. He’d become somewhat of a student on the Alliance in the three years since he’d battled Invictus, but Vennius continued to surprise him. The Commander had a long service record, and by all accounts, he had been a ferocious warrior when he was younger. Barron didn’t doubt his courage or skill now, but he sensed far more wisdom in the old man than he’d expected…and sadness as well.
“Commander…”
“Yes, Commodore Barron?”
“I want to ask you something…beyond our tactical and strategic discussions.”
“What would you know, Commodore?”
“You knew Commander Rigellus, didn’t you?”
Vennius paused, a strange look coming over his face. He looked as though he wasn’t sure how to answer, what he wanted to say.
“I did, Commodore.” His voice was harder-edged than it had been. “She was the daughter of my oldest friend, and after he was killed, I looked after her…almost as one of my own children.”
Barron could hear the pain in Vennius’s words, and now he understood just what it was costing the commander to work so closely with him.
“I offer my condolences, sir. I didn’t know Commander Rigellus, and I was able to speak with her only once, for a brief time…at the end of our struggle. She struck me as an extraordinary woman, and a warrior of great courage and honor. I regret that I was compelled to meet her as an enemy.”
“I hated you, Commodore, for a long time. Some part of me will always nurse anger toward you. But I have met you now, and you have come to my aid. You and your warriors have shed blood alongside mine. I owe you a debt.” He looked right at Barron. “Your battle with Invictus was not of your making, and honor does not allow me to fault you for defending your worlds. It is a comfort to me, such that it is, that Katrine faced a worthy opponent, that her last battle was against an honorable warrior. It is, perhaps, not much for one mourning as a father…but to my people, it is something.”
The two men stood for a few moments, each silent, thoughtful. Finally, Barron said, “I would ask one more thing of you, Commander.”
“Yes, Commodore Barron?”
“Is it possible for us to go somewhere, to sit quietly and talk? If you’re willing, I would have you tell me more about Commander Rigellus, for I feel certain that if fate hadn’t conspired to make us meet as enemies, I would have called her a friend.”
Vennius turned and looked back at Barron, silent for a moment. Then he said, “Yes, Commodore, I would like that. Let us go and share a meal…and I will tell you of the woman you faced in battle at Santis.”
* * *
Stockton walked down the corridor, Andi Lafarge at his side. “I don’t know how I can thank you, Andi…but I’ll try once more.” He stopped and turned toward her. “I won’t forget what you did. I’ll probably die out there one day…but please, not gasping for air in an escape pod. What kind of an end would that be to the story of Raptor Stockton?”
Lafarge looked back at the pilot and laughed. “Well, we certainly couldn’t let that happen, could we?”
Stockton shook his head. It felt a little strange to be back, almost like he’d been gone for months instead of hours…and, in a way, he realized he had been. He’d beaten the fear that had threatened to destroy him, but he knew he wasn’t the same as he’d been, not entirely. That Raptor had been young, a cocky kid under the veteran’s skill and veneer. The warrior, the ace pilot was back…but he wasn’t young anymore. There were som
e things that could not be regained once lost, and that was one of them. He hoped he would add wisdom to his traits, that the change would be a good one…but he still missed what was gone.
“Jake!” Stara Sinclair turned the corner and raced down the hall. She ran up and threw her arms around him. He returned the hug warmly.
“Stara…I’m so sorry. I was…”
“None of that matters,” she said softly. “You came back to me…and that’s all I care about.”
Lafarge smiled. “Well, I suspect the two of you don’t need me hanging around…”
“Thanks again, Andi.” Stockton reached out his hand.
“My pleasure, Jake.” She took his hand and they shook. “I gave you a ride, but now that you’re here, how you use your time is up to you.” She looked at Sinclair and nodded. Then she started off down the corridor.
“Don’t forget,” Stockton said as she left. “Wardroom three, twenty hundred hours. You bring your best bottles, and I’ll bring mine.”
“Oh, don’t you worry, Lieutenant. I’ll be there. I’m dying to see if you fighter pilots can hold your liquor…or if all those stories are just so much bullshit.”
* * *
Barron sat at his desk, a small tablet laying off to the side. He’d read Striker’s communique—three times—and he couldn’t argue with anything it said. But it troubled him nevertheless.
We cannot fight both the Union and the Alliance. It is essential that Commander Vennius’s faction is successful. He had no issue with that, no argument to make. It was self-evident. Still, seeing it written out explicitly made him even more aware of the massive weight on his shoulders.
The middle of the communique was unimportant, congratulations on his promotion and assurances that Striker believed in him fully. It was all appropriate, and he appreciated it, but to a certain extent he viewed it as boilerplate.
Then, the final words, the ones that struck at Barron’s honor, and his respect for fellow fighters. If Commander Vennius does not prevail, you must do everything possible to ensure maximum possible losses in the fighting. If we cannot have an ally, if we must face a hostile Alliance, that Alliance must be as weak as possible. Whatever the cost.
Whatever the cost…Barron had seen the cost of war, the thousands who had died already, several hundred of them under his direct command. He understood what Striker meant, and why the admiral had said what he had. He even agreed with the necessity. But he’d never before led his people with the idea of maximizing casualties, even among his enemies. That was the work of a butcher, not a warrior. It was cold, calculating, gruesome…but he knew he would do it.
He’d always considered himself a warrior, one who tried, at least, to maintain a reasonable code of honor. But he was a patriot too, and he was well aware of the threat the Confederation faced.
If the Confederation needed him to be a butcher, he knew that was what he would be. However much he despised himself for it.
* * *
“Tarkus…you have become the hope of our people, the sentinel who guards our honor.” The voice was soft, barely audible. The Imperatrix was weak, fading. Vennius had struggled with all his skill and ability to save her, to get her out of the palace and bring her here. But now he knew…the Imperatrix was dying.
“Your words do me too much kindness, Your Supremacy.” He was kneeling next to the bed, his face hard, as if carved from stone, even as the pain wracked him inside.
“I am glad you are here, Tarkus, as I prepare to leave this life. I have called you friend for many years. I still remember that young warrior, all enthusiasm and fire. You have done well, my old comrade, yet, like me, you had the misfortune to survive too long…to live to see your nation imperiled by traitors from within. It is a darkness I would rather have been spared.”
“And I, Your Supremacy…yet we cannot think in such ways. If the Alliance is imperiled, there is all the more need for us to fight.”
“Such will be the burden lain at your feet. Death shall spare me, and there is little I can leave to aid you save my best wishes.”
“Your Supremacy…”
“Please, Tarkus…I fear yours will be the last words I hear. Let them be those of a friend, not a subordinate. I set aside the scepter, for I no longer have the strength to wield it.”
“Yes…Flavia. I have been your friend…always.”
“I must ask one last thing of you, Tarkus, though I wish with all my heart I could spare you.”
Vennius looked down at the old woman. His eyes displayed his sadness for a friend’s passing, but his stomach was knotted, tight with the realization of what she was going to say, of the weight she was about to put on him.
“You must succeed me, Vennius. You must be Imperator.”
He screamed to himself inside, every bit of what made him the man he was crying out for escape. But he knew there was none. He could not deny her final request…nor could he abandon his duty. If there was any chance to defeat Calavius, he had to take the scepter…he had to make it a contest between two equals.
“Yes, Flavia…I will accept the scepter. I will succeed you.”
She looked up at him, a serenity he’d never seen in her before on her face now, almost like a mask…or perhaps a true face after a mask was removed. She smiled, weakly…then she closed her eyes, and she was gone.
Vennius rose to his feet, standing at attention, paying his own silent homage to the extraordinary woman who had just died. Then he took a deep breath. Once again, duty ruled his life, his actions.
He was Imperator of the Alliance. The way is the way…
* * *
Egilius had just gotten the word, and he’d announced it to the fleet. Tarkus Vennius was no longer Commander-Maximus…he was now Imperator of the Alliance. He couldn’t think of any Palatian he considered more worthy, and yet, the joy at the news was tempered by the specter of war. Egilius feared no conflict, but he’d never imagined leading his warriors against his own people. The Alliance’s culture had been shaped by Palatia’s earlier servitude, and it was very much an “us versus them” philosophy.
Until now.
He was uncomfortable with the Confederation’s involvement as well. He didn’t dislike the Confeds. They had fought well, as hard as his own people. But he felt a vague hint of shame at needing an outside ally. He’d be dead now, he knew, without the Confeds. Vennius would be dead as well, the cause utterly lost. He was glad to have the allies his forces needed, but there was a taint to it.
The way is the way…and yet, is it? If we are to survive, if we are to defeat the traitors, the way must change. Even if we win, we will never be the same again.
He looked around the bridge. Bellator had been badly damaged in the fighting. If the enemy hadn’t withdrawn…
But they had retreated, and the war he so dreaded would go on. Palatian would kill Palatian, and the bloodletting would continue. Until one side completely destroyed the other.
Then, what will be left?
There was noise all around. For as close as Bellator came to destruction, she was already under repair, the grit and fire of the last battle already giving way to preparations for the next.
He knew that battle would come, soon. And when it did, he would fight.
Long live the Imperator…
* * *
Lille stared through the clear panel along the outer wall of the station, to the blackness of space beyond. The fleet had returned to Palatia, and even now, the worst damaged ships were under repair in the vast orbital spacedocks. His cause was not lost—far from it, in fact. A quick, easy victory had eluded him, but there was little question that Calavius still had greater strength, even with the newly-arrived Confederation ships. The Imperator had raged wildly when the fleet had first retreated, but Lille had managed to calm him down, and to focus his thoughts on his continued strength in the contest.
The new Confederation ships were a concern, of course. Their existence had escaped his notice, the information gathering efforts in
the Confederation shipyards apparently falling down on the job and failing to report ships so close to completion. Those operatives weren’t his, of course…and that was reason for them to give thanks. His response to such failure would have been swift and decisive.
Still, he couldn’t imagine the Confeds had any more ships they could spare, not for half a year, at least. And they’ll have to send some of it to the front, to offset our own new ships.
He wasn’t overly worried about the final outcome. Even if the Alliance’s civil war left it weakened, its forces available to invade the Confederation reduced, it would have the desired effect. And in the meantime, even the civil war was drawing in Confederation ships.
What was bothering him was Tyler Barron…and Dauntless. His ship had transited before the Ram reached the Confederation battleship, but he’d been optimistic the suicide ship would rid him of his infuriating foe. It had been weeks before he’d gotten word…he had very limited assets in Sentinel-2, and what agents he did have found it difficult to get information out. When the report finally got to him, it had been far from satisfying. Tyler Barron and his ship had both survived. Even the grievous damage Dauntless had suffered was proving to be repairable.
Lille shook his head. He knew Villieneuve hadn’t had a choice but to assign Barron’s assassination to another agent. Lille had been in the Alliance, neck deep in the coup. But the botched job only reaffirmed his belief that if he wanted anything done right, he had to do it himself.
And that was exactly what he was going to do, orders from Villieneuve or not. Tyler Barron had to die…and Ricard Lille would see to it personally.
Blood on the Stars Will Continue With
Crucible of Fire
Fall 2017
The Crimson Worlds Series
(Available on Kindle Unlimited)