by Jay Allan
The hell with that. Anybody wants to blame him for a Highborn-Union fleet overwhelming his unarmed outpost, they can come through me first.
“In fact, forget that next command. You’re needed now. I’m new to commanding a fleet, and I need all the help I can get. Effective immediately, you’re my new aide. I want you on Vandengraf’s bridge. I’ll see you are assigned a workstation.” Simpson regretted the words the instant they slipped out of his mouth. He admired Jaymes’s conduct during the evacuation, but he was far from sure he trusted the officer enough to give him a key role in his own command. His mind flailed around for a way to take the words back, but he simply remained silent while Jaymes nodded his head.
“Thank you, Commodore. I would be honored to serve at your side.
Trapped! Next time, keep your big mouth shut…
“You’ll pick up the flow of things quickly. A combat command is a little different than…”
“Commodore Simpson…” Antonio Graves’s voice was on the comm, and Simpson knew immediately, something was wrong.
His hand slapped down hard on the unit’s small switch. “What is it, Commander?”
“Energy readings, sir…from the point. I can’t be sure yet, but my guess is something is following hot on our heels.”
Simpson heard the words, but it took a few seconds for them to truly take shape in his head. The enemy was invading the Confederation, that much he’d ascertained. They were trying to take advantage of the weak state of the border defenses, so he expected them to move quickly.
But not this quickly…
It took some time for a fleet as large as the enemy force to regroup and reset its formations, not to mention to get its logistics in order.
He stood up abruptly, gesturing for Jaymes to follow as he walked across his small office, toward the door leading to the bridge.
He’d resolved to get his fleet back to Grimaldi, and to set up a defense under the guns of the great station. Now, he wondered if he would even reach the fortress.
* * *
“If there is any way, Captain, a bit more thrust would be helpful.” Gary Holsten sat in the seat across from Captain Taggart, at the station reserved for the admiral commanding a fleet. There was no fleet, and certainly no admiral. Constellation had been built as a flagship, of course, as any vessel of its size and power would have been, but the superbattleship was less than two weeks out from its premature launch, and crammed in along with the nearly 3,400 members of the vast ship’s crew were close to four hundred engineers and technicians, volunteers from the shipyard staff who were still finishing work on the warship’s systems, even as it hurtled toward a likely combat situation.
Samantha Taggart looked back at him from the captain’s chair, her face a mask hiding her emotions. Holsten figured Taggart thought him crazy, or at least something close to it. He’d confided in her about his concerns for the situation on the border, and the reasons he was rushing her brand new superbattleship forward to a sector than hadn’t seen a battle in more than a decade. It was a coin toss whether she really believed him or not. There was always a certain amount of tension between the intelligence agencies and the military, and that fueled a certain amount of doubt.
“I will see what I can do…Mr. Holsten.” Her tone was hard to dissect, but he was pretty sure she was caught between resenting having a civilian on her bridge acting very much like a superior officer and understanding that the civilian in question had the best understanding of what was happening, and how to deal with it.
What is happening, at least. I’m not so sure I know what to do about it…
Holsten felt ridiculous sitting in a spot designed for a flag officer. He’d been the heir to a great fortune, a libertine of sorts who’d shown less than an ideal amount of restraint in his younger years, a gifted investor and manager of his family’s vast wealth, and a man whose scandal plagued past had morphed from real but exaggerated to almost entirely fake, and a cover for his role as head of Confederation Intelligence. Nowhere in that bizarre and extensive resume had there been a shred of military service, at least not in any formal sense. But Holsten had worked closely with the very best the Confederation had in uniform, and he’d come to understand tactics better than almost anyone could have imagined.
Not that it took a wizard in military theory to understand just how bad it would be if the Union forces, and what were almost certainly their Highborn allies, broke through what was left of the Confederation border defenses and sliced more deeply into its space.
Holsten didn’t pretend to know what the enemy would do if they got past Grimaldi and the patchwork defenses he’d managed to assemble in the past several months, but that mystery was mostly driven by the wide array of almost equally disastrous possibilities. They could lunge for the Iron Belt, seeking to take out the astonishing production engine that was powering the entire Pact. They could move on Megara and the Core, seeking to decapitate the Confederation in a single lightning campaign. Or they could simply turn coreward, toward Dannith and the Badlands frontier, and cut off the lines of communications to Tyler Barron’s fleet.
Holsten didn’t need to know what they’d do. All that mattered was holding the line. He had to stop them at Grimaldi…somehow. And for all his effort, for the powerful intellect he’d tried for so long to hide from almost everyone, even for the tactical lessons he’d learned alongside Tyler Barron and the Confederation’s other gifted officers, from Van Striker to Clint Winters, he had no idea how he was going to see that done.
He’d caught a break when he’d discovered that Colin Simpson had just been released from the fleet hospital on Megara. The officer was a veteran, and one who’d been in the thick of the fighting on the main Highborn front…so much so that he’d barely survived it, and had required two months of intensive hospitalization to return to duty.
Just in time for Holsten to scoop him up with a pair of commodore’s stars, and an impassioned plea about how he was the man for the job.
He’d overstepped his authority, in promoting Simpson, in releasing Constellation from the shipyard early and diverting the massive ship to Grimaldi instead of allowing it to join the fleet out at Striker…in a dozen other ways. Speaker Flandry would back him up, on most of it at least, he was pretty sure of that. He wouldn’t say he liked the veteran politician, and he doubted he was anywhere on Flandry’s list for a quiet dinner with friends, but they’d managed to create a sort of functional partnership, one that had worked surprisingly well.
Flandry knows if the Highborn and Union can break through here, there is nothing to stop them from burying him along with his colleagues in the rubble of the Senate Compound…
Holsten looked at the screen. The large blue oval that signified Fleet Base Grimaldi was behind the massive battlewagon and the three cruisers accompanying it. The transit point to Sigma Tarsus lay ahead. If the flash comm he’d received at Grimaldi was accurate, Colin Simpson and his ships should be on their way back.
And if the tight pain in his gut was equally on point, there was a good chance the invaders weren’t going to let those ships escape, not without making some kind of effort to catch them. Any chance of holding the line at Grimaldi depended on Simpson and his fleet…and that fact made Holsten’s choice for him.
Constellation and its three companions were all he had left to send forward. And this time, he was going along, too. That wasn’t likely to make much difference, but after a lifetime of pulling the strings, something pushed him to be there with the men and women he was sending into the fight.
He wondered if Tyler Barron would be proud of him…or just pissed that he’d snaked a superbattleship that had been bound for his fleet.
* * *
“We need more thrust. All ships, push to max, beyond even. I want every ship five percent past redline.” Simpson spun his head around, looking from one officer to another, and pausing for a few seconds to stare at the main display. He was angry at himself…furious that he’d allowed the enemy’s clos
e pursuit to take him by surprise. He’d imagined an invasion would be a cumbersome affair, with delays as the enemy consolidated each conquered system, reordered its fleet, and extended its supply lines. And no doubt, that’s what the majority of the enemy vessels were doing at that very moment. But eight Highborn ships had followed his fleet through the point without delay, and now they were opening fire, lashing out with death and destruction from beyond any range Simpson’s ships could match.
He’d almost given the order to turn and fight. His forces would have taken serious losses closing to their own firing ranges, but he faced only a part of the invasion fleet. There was a good chance his people could have overwhelmed and destroyed the Highborn force.
But at what cost?
His losses would have been catastrophic…and the enemy’s main invasion fleet would still be largely intact. No doubt, the enemy commander, whoever he was, would have welcomed such a reckless move…all the more, because the higher thrust of the Highborn might have allowed them to escape at the last moment, blasting his ships the entire way.
No, escape was the only choice, pulling back to Grimaldi and giving battle there. Assuming he could get his ships out before the enemy tore them apart. He put those odds right about fifty-fifty.
“All ships acknowledge, Commodore.” A pause, and then a more somber tone. “Crescent, Alsatia, and Torrent report their reactors are damaged, and they are unable to comply.”
Simpson understood, and he knew those three ships, at least, weren’t going to make it. No one would say that outright, of course, and the charade would be maintained, by him, by the stricken vessels’ captains, by their crews. Everyone would behave as though the three ships would somehow defy mathematics and manage to outrun their pursuers to the point…and temporary safety under Grimaldi’s guns.
But it was all nonsense. There were over nine hundred spacers on those ships, and Simpson knew every one of them was as good as dead. And it was his job to abandon them, to get as many of his ships as possible out of harm’s way and to preserve the fleet as a fighting force. The idea of stopping, of standing and offering battle to save his cripples exerted a pull on him like a black hole. But his ships had to find a way to face the enemy, to keep them from ravaging the heart of the Confederation…whatever the cost.
However many of your spacers you need to leave behind or send to their deaths to do it…
Vandengraf shook hard, and for a few terrible seconds, Simpson thought his flagship would be one of those to fall in the desperate flight toward Grimaldi. But a quick glance at his screens offered at least some relief. Most of the motion had been the vessel’s wild evasive maneuver. The enemy shot had hit, but it had only grazed the hull. Half a dozen sections had lost integrity, and some of his spacers had almost certainly died, but Vandengraf still had full power, and a few seconds later, a wave of acceleration force told him the techs down in engineering had successfully pushed the reactor past its safeties. It was still going to be close, and even more so for some of his older, slower ships, and the worst part was, there was nothing he could do but sit and wait…and see which of his ships escaped.
And which died.
Chapter Four
Highborn Flagship S’Argevon
Imperial System GH9-4307, Planet A1112 (Calpharon)
Year of the Firstborn 390 (328 AC)
“Your request is not an easy one to grant, Phazarax. A consolidated effort to do as you ask will require significant modifications to our tactical plans, changes that will increase the difficulty of operation and likely add substantially to our losses.” Tesserax stared across the small table at his counterpart. The two held different positions, but their missions were, in most parameters at least, parallel. Phazarax’s new request was a possible exception to that, at least depending on how Tesserax defined his approach to duty. “Are you sure of your analysis? Truly sure?”
Phazarax was still for a moment, thoughtful. Then he nodded. “As sure as it is possible to be in such matters, Tesserax. We have applied our most advanced mathematics to the probability analysis, and while it is difficult to be certain our estimates are in all cases accurate, the consistency of the results leaves little overall doubt. The humans have shown a greater ability to resist our conquest than even our most guarded projections predicted. This is likely due to many factors, but the capability of certain members of their leadership caste is beyond question. The Collar has, of course, partially blunted the effects of this resistance, but this is the first time we have ever used the device to control entire populations. We have no idea of what long-term effects widespread Collar control will have on societal development and productivity. It is a device, I would remind you, that was designed to control key specimens, not tens of billions. Yet, normal Church doctrine and other methods have been largely unsuccessful at pacifying occupied populations.”
The head of the Highborn Church in the Colony paused, and Tesserax considered his colleague’s words. As Viceroy of the Colony, Tesserax’s power was absolute, save only for any orders from Ellerax, sent from the capital. But the Church was an odd institution, charged with managing human populations, and it existed, in many ways, outside the normal chain of command. Phazarax was the only Highborn in the Colony who could make a case that he wasn’t subject to Tesserax’s orders…and the viceroy knew it was in his best interests to maintain a good relationship with his ecclesiastical comrade.
“We have long theorized that the empire declined and fell because its own success ultimately denied its people true challenges, the conflict and strife that tends to strengthen human populations. Now, we see that hypothesis verified by actual real samplings. The Rim dwellers, with lesser technology, appear to be even more capable than the Hegemony, a result, in all likelihood, of their positioning farther out along the galactic edge, where conflict has been endemic for several centuries. We must capture that essence, gain control over as many of the leaders and warriors as possible, for future study, at the very least. Once encollared, these heroes of the human populations may aid us in bringing the masses under control. Then, they could lead the vast legions of Thralls our conquest of the old empire will add to the forces on the main front. We are superior to the humans, of course, as gods to them…but both here and on the main front, the greatest portion of our actual military might consists of Thralls, of humans. If we are able to improve on their performance in battle, bring to them to the levels of morale and tenacity that appear to drive the free humans, we will have the chance to vastly increase our combat power.” Phazarax went silent again for a moment, but Tesserax knew he had something else to say.
“Speak freely, my friend. We serve the same cause.”
“I fear that encollaring the general populations have a disastrous long-term effect. If the empire withered over the millennia by a gradual decline in outside stressors, what would happen to an entire population stripped of anything but blind obedience? We need the humans, Tesserax, if we are to achieve victory on the main front. But we need them to retain their strength, not to see it drained away.”
Tesserax leaned back, and he put his hand to his forehead. “Our plan is to attack the human’s great fortress, and to destroy it along with their fleet. If we would do as you suggest…we would have to seek to capture it, if not intact, at least with a significant number of its occupants alive. We would also have to attempt to board and seize their various flagships. Such a change to the battle plan increases our difficulties immensely, and there is still no assurance of just how many of their senior officers we would be able to capture alive. We must be sure it is truly worth the effort and cost.”
Tesserax was doubtful, but Phazarax’s next words struck their mark.
“How much has been gained from Admiral Stockton’s capture, Tesserax? What tactical and strategic value would you place on that?”
The room was silent, the two Highborn alone, as they had been throughout their meeting. Finally, Tesserax made a decision. Phasarax’s last point had struck home. Jake Stoc
kton had proven to be a resource almost beyond valuation.
He didn’t like acknowledging that a mere human had accomplished anything of true importance, but his intellect was too precise to deny the immense effect the fighter wings, and Stockton’s contributions to training and leading them, had exerted on the fleet’s combat power. The interceptors had gutted the enemy’s primary method of attack, and while the human forces showed some signs of fixed weaponry of increased capability, neutering their bomber wings had provided a staggering tactical advantage.
What could Tyler Barron, or Admiral Winters, or so many other of the enemy leaders do for us once encollared?
“I have deep concerns, Phazarax, about the modifications to our tactical plan, but I see the advantages as well. We have relied to date on breaking the humans’ morale to end the conflict, but that has proven more difficult than expected. If we are able to capture a portion of their leadership caste, we can put their abilities to work for us rather than against us. And the morale effect on the humans of not only losing someone like Tyler Barron, but seeing him leading our forces against them, will be devastating. What you ask is costly…but perhaps it is indeed worth further consideration.” Tesserax hesitated, thinking the whole thing through one more time. “Yes, perhaps this does make sense. Take me through all of your analysis, if you would. If I am convinced your conclusions are correct, I will grant your request. We will change our tactical plan.”
Tesserax felt a tiny smile forming on his lips. “We will board the enemy fortress, and their flagships. We will capture the human leaders.”
His eyes narrowed, and his grin took on a sinister appearance.
“We will capture Tyler Barron…”