by Jay Allan
“We have discussed this already, Captain, and you know my answer. I will fight this battle where I started it…and I will not abandon this ship and crew.”
Taggart understood Simpson’s feelings, but she wasn’t about to give up. “Commodore, the fleet needs you…more than just Vandengraf. If you lose comm, how will you control the battle?” A pause. “Sir, there is no one to replace you if you’re lost. Constellation is still battleworthy. You need to transfer, Commodore, and you need to do it now…”
* * *
“Commodore…listen to her.”
Simpson struggled to suppress a flash of anger at being interrupted. He looked up, and he was stunned to see the officer standing next to him.
Larson Jaymes’s uniform was torn in half a dozen places, and he had a nasty cut just over his eye. He looked like he’d just come back from the depths of hell, but he stared at Simpson with cold, unyielding eyes. “The fleet needs you, Commodore. You have to transfer the flag.”
Simpson didn’t answer. Taggart was still on the comm line, nagging him to do the same, and now Jaymes stood next to him, pushing him the same way. But he remained defiant. He couldn’t leave. How could he abandon Vandengraf and the spacers aboard her who had served so well?
“It’s your duty, Commodore. This isn’t about what you want. Take it from an officer who lost his path, who shamed himself. We can win this fight, but not if we lose you. Anyone in the fleet is expendable…anyone but you. Go now, please. I will stay here. I will command Vandengraf. I’ll get her through, Commodore…but you have to go. Now.”
Simpson felt as though he’d been struck by a hammer. He’d only taken Jaymes as an aide because he hadn’t been able to find a way out of it. He’d doubted the officer from the start, looked down on him because of his past mistakes, the alcoholism that had almost cost him his career. But Jaymes had performed brilliantly, especially after Antonio Graves had been wounded and taken down to sickbay, leaving Simpson with a single aide. Now, he was standing there, begging to take a posting that looked close to suicidal.
I can’t…I can’t leave the ship, and Antonio is down in sickbay. And Jaymes…
“Commander…”
“You have to go, Commodore…you know it. Please.”
“Yes, Commodore. Listen to Commander Jaymes. Listen to me. I doubt any spacer on Vandengraf would tell you otherwise. Constellation is still in reasonable shape. We’ve got some damage, but we’re a lot likelier to keep you plugged into the comm network…and remember, you’ve got a whole fleet to command.” Taggart’s voice was controlled, but the desperation in it was notable.
Simpson sat, still silent, even as his resolution drained away. They were right, he knew, and if he’d been anyone but the commander in question, he’d have been with them, badgering another officer to do just what he had so staunchly resisted.
This isn’t time for heroics…or for conceptions of honor. Your duty is to hold the line here, and if you don’t, billions could fall…
He’d come to his decision, but it took another minute—and a pair of flickers in the lighting on the bridge—to make him actually accept it.
“Okay…okay.” He stood up, and he turned to face Jaymes, no more than half meter from where he stood. “She’s yours, Larson. I’ll transfer, but don’t you give up on her. She’s a good ship, if an old one.” A pause. “And don’t give up on yourself. No suicidal courage, no crazy notions of redemption. Pull her back…bring her through this. Or you’ll have to deal with me.” He reached out his hand, something he couldn’t have imagined just a few weeks earlier.
Jaymes grasped the offered hand, and the two shook. Then, Simpson moved toward the bank of lifts…and to his shuttle. He would take his flag to Constellation.
He would do whatever he had to do to keep the fleet in the fight. To push the enemy back.
Or to grab them and drag them all to hell…
* * *
Sandrine Ciara grasped the small shuttle’s controls, moving around the edges of the battle in progress and into the outer system. At least she was aware that her hand gripped the throttle, moved it about. She wasn’t directing those motions, however, at least her consciousness, what remained of it, seemed disconnected to much of the rest of her mind and her physical activities. She was aware of what she was doing, and she could see through her eyes, but she couldn’t move her hands, couldn’t turn her head. She had become a spectator to her own actions.
She remembered the pain. Unimaginable agony. All she’d expected when she fell into Villieneuve’s hands…even worse. But then it had stopped. She’d awakened in a hospital bed with a pounding headache, but otherwise free of the excruciating pain.
It had taken her some time to ascertain what had happened. She’d received some kind of surgery, an implant of some kind, one that controlled much of her mind, made her a slave. Whatever had been done to her, it was well beyond Union technology. She was sure of that. Gaston Villieneuve hadn’t done this to her. The Highborn had.
As the days passed, she saw many other humans, some of them Union, others the Thralls that manned the Highborn ships, behaving much as she felt she herself was. But they all had metal implements protruding from their necks. She hadn’t been able to control her arms, to reach around and feel for what might be on her own neck, but eventually, she’d been able to ascertain that she had no such device, only a rapidly healing incision.
She’d listened, put together every piece of information she’d been able to see or hear. The controlling devices were called Collars, and they were used by the Highborn to enslave humans. She had one as well, she realized. It was the only explanation for her condition. But hers was different from the others. Something new, experimental. It was smaller, entirely implanted beneath her skin.
It was dangerous as well. She’d managed to discover that listening to the Highborn speak. There had been some uncertainty, she’d gleaned, as to whether she would survive the implantation, and doubts as well as to whether she could endure the device indefinitely.
I’m still here. But what am I doing?
She knew, or at least she’d started to put some of it together. The Highborn were sending her to the Confederation, creating a distraction at the very least, and possibly much more. She had instructions—orders she knew she would follow—to try to get to Megara. She was an ousted head of state, one who had been in the process of seeking an alliance with the Confeds. They would be suspicious of her, almost certainly…but they were locked in a deadly fight to the finish with Gaston Villieneuve and his new allies. They just might embrace her, view her as a tool to be used against their longtime enemy. She would implore them to help her regain control of the Union, weave a web of lies carefully constructed to make it appear she had more support than she did, that she had a real chance of overthrowing Villieneuve.
But she would never return to the Union. Her captors had not been honest, even with the controlled part of her the Collar ruled. Sandrine Ciara had manipulated people all her adult life, and if she was less of a monster than Gaston Villieneuve, she had rarely hesitated from expending those whose greatest usefulness involved sacrifice. She wasn’t sure what the controlled part of her believed, or if it even mattered under the Collar’s deadening influence. But the part of her that remained her was sure. She was being sent to try and kill as many of the Confederation’s leaders as possible, to create disruption and disorder just when the Confeds were facing their greatest fight.
She had viewed the Confederation as an enemy for most of her life, and her moves toward rapprochement, while sincere, had been driven more by expediency than any real affinity for the Union’s neighbors and longtime adversaries. Now, however, she felt the urge to stop herself, to regain control. To warn the Confeds, soon to be her new captors—or hosts, that remained to be seen—not to trust her, not to allow her to carry out her mission.
But she was trapped, encased in an inescapable prison, penned in a remote corner of her brain, unable to move, to speak, to scream.
Unable to do anything but watch herself obey the Highborn and do all she could to aid in their ultimate conquest…of the Confederation, the Hegemony…and ultimately of the Union itself. Gaston Villieneuve was a fool, so focused on his pursuit of power, he’d allied himself to the Highborn, and in turn become their slave.
And through him, they had enslaved her as well.
She struggled, tried with all her will to break out, to regain control of her body, but to no avail. She continued to pilot the small ship, taking it on a wide course around the fighting. If the Confeds lost the battle, her orders were to return, to become the Highborns’ prisoner again. Whether they would kill her then or use her in some other way she didn’t know.
If the Confeds won the fight that was underway, if they survived, held on at Grimaldi as they had more than once against Union arms in prior wars, then she would proceed toward the remnants of the fleet, beseech them to offer her sanctuary, tell a tale of a desperate escape amid the chaos of battle…a story that would be verified by a technical analysis of her ship.
If they didn’t believe her, they would turn her away…or kill her.
If they accepted her story, she would become yet another Highborn weapon to be used against them, perhaps the final instrument of victory over the entire Pact, and all of the Rim.
Chapter Sixteen
Forward Base Striker
Vasa Denaris System
Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)
“Your deployments are perfect, Bryan. I know this isn’t ideal duty for your Marines, but if they’re able to help Fritzie’s people restore damaged systems even a little faster, that could be the difference between our holding on here and…” Barron let his voice trail off. He knew all his people understood the consequences of the battle he was sure was about to begin, and certainly that Bryan Rogan and Anya Fritz did.
“Thank you, Admiral. My people are ready to serve, in any way they can be of assistance. I understand the importance of what is to come here, and they all do as well.” Rogan stood, upright, his spine perfectly straight…looking a bit older perhaps, but otherwise no different than he had as a young Marine captain, drilling Dauntless’s shipboard Marine contingent as though they might be called on at any moment to mount a planetary invasion.
“Fritzie, I want you to make good use of the Marines. I know they’re not engineers—and if I could find any more of those, I’d give them to you in an instant—but you’ve got a lot of them, on Striker and on every ship in the fleet. You know well enough what’s at stake here, what will happen if we can’t hold this base and this system.”
“I do, Admiral…very well. General Rogan’s people are most welcome, and I am sure they will be of tremendous assistance.” The engineer turned toward Rogan and nodded slightly. Then she continued, “The general has seen to the assignment of contingents throughout the fleet, and my people are integrating them into the damage control teams even now.”
Barron stood for a moment, looking at his two officers. They were different people, Rogan, the model of the cool and implacable Marine, and Fritz, the brilliant engineer, who attacked her duties with a level of crazed intensity Barron had never seen matched anywhere. Both were hard on their people, in their own ways, but as tough and unrelenting a Marine as Rogan was, he’d never seen anyone quite like the runaway train Anya Fritz became in desperate circumstances. Both had saved his life, and the lives of thousands of his spacers…Barron was sure of that. Multiple times. In a countdown, he suspected Fritz had the edge, though it was always hard to pinpoint just what miraculous engineering feats had staved off defeat and death.
“We’ve served together a long time. I can hardly remember going into a fight without the two of you with me.” Barron paused, pushing back against the maudlin depression trying to force its way into his words. He missed Andi and Cassie terribly, and despite his greatest efforts to claw out some optimism, the best he could do was give his fleet and his spacers a twenty percent chance of holding on. And even those ‘victory’ scenarios were so blood soaked and costly, he could hardly look on them as successes.
“I’ve always been able to count on you both, no matter the situation. I know you will both do your best, and from either one of you that is almost superhuman. I just wanted to say this to you both, now…before the battle begins. It’s too easy to let such things go, but we are men and women, and that has to mean something besides endless war and death. I’m proud to have served with both of you, and I consider the two of you among my closest friends.” Barron reached out, and he took Rogan’s hand, shaking it slowly and firmly. “Bryan, thank you. Thank you for being one pillar of strength that never weakened, never crumbled.”
The Marine stood, clearly trying desperately to hide his emotions—and for once, failing. His hand gripped Barron’s tightly, and he said, barely able to get the words out, “It’s been the privilege and honor of my life to serve with you, Admiral.”
Barron bowed his head slightly, and then he let his hand slip out of Rogan’s, and he turned toward Fritz. “Fritzie, what can I say that would come close to expressing the respect and affection I have for you? It’s almost impossible to quantify what you have done to keep the Confederation free and safe…even before you took over Project Quasar.” Barron hadn’t been there to see Fritz in action directing the construction of the Confederation’s first antimatter production facility, but the flow of tankers of fresh material from the facility was testament enough to add the project to Fritz’s list of stunning successes. There was little more important than supplying the antimatter to power the newest ships and weapons, but Tyler Barron was still grateful to have her back in time for the decisive battle.
Fritz stood where she was, the expression on her face like none Barron had seen before. He couldn’t call Anya Fritz unemotional—no one who’d witnessed one of her fiery rages could say that—but she’d never dealt well with the softer feelings, and Barron was stunned to see the glistening in her eyes. She didn’t let a tear escape, not quite, but she came the closest Barron had ever seen. Probably the closest she had come in her life.
“Thank you, Admiral. It has been my fortune and my honor to serve with you. Whatever we face, I am profoundly grateful to be back here, at your side. We will do what we must do…” She turned and looked again at Rogan and then back at Barron. “…as we have always done. As we always will do.”
Barron was silent for a while. Then he said, “Well, we’ve all got a heavy workload, so I’ll let you both get back to it.” The two officers nodded to Barron and turned to leave.
“Fritzie…hang back a minute. I want to talk to you about those empty troop transports. I have an idea, and I’d like to see if you think it’s possible…”
* * *
Tyler Barron walked into the room, his head swimming with a million details. He’d spent the last week or more running from one end of Striker to the other and shuttling to at least a dozen ships in the fleet. He trusted his people, as much as he was capable of trusting anyone, but he wasn’t really sure anything was truly ready until he saw it with his own eyes.
That came at a cost, in sleep certainly, and in worn nerves. There was a benefit as well, and Barron found an escape in his busy schedule, a respite from the crushing worry and sadness that claimed him any time he found himself alone. Sleep had become difficult even when he had the time, and he’d found himself lying in bed for hours, trying to force his mind to relax, to take his thoughts from his family, just for long enough to fall asleep. He’d been largely unsuccessful, and he’d responded by simply eliminating sleep and downtime from his schedule. Mostly, at least. He’d grabbed a few hours here and there, and he’d found utter and profound exhaustion to be a fairly effective cure for insomnia.
He stepped inside, and he almost told the AI to turn on the lights. But they were already on.
His office wasn’t the dark, empty place he’d expected to find. Clint Winters was there, and Chronos, Atara, Akella, Fritzie, Bryan Rogan, and Vian
Tulus.
“I didn’t expect such a reception committee. I was just coming back here to get some work done…and I find a room full of senior officers and two heads of state waiting for me. I’d use the word ‘ambush’ if it wasn’t quite so edgy.”
“Tyler…you’ve been driving yourself too hard. Much too hard.” Atara Travis spoke first. Perfect, Barron realized. She’s the ideal combination of close to me, and someone I’m less likely to lash back at. And she’d called him by his first name in front of all the others. She rarely did that, and when she did, she always meant business.
“There’s a lot of work to do, Atara…and you’re one to talk. I could pull up Dauntless’s duty logs, but I’d wager you’ve clocked more than regulation time on the bridge.”
“I haven’t pulled the hours you have. And I’m not the overall commander. You are.”
The others nodded, more or less in unison.
“I’m not the top commander, just one of the senior fleet officers. There is no top commander.” Even as he spoke the words, he knew they sounded ridiculous. The treaties that had created the Pact didn’t specify an overall commander, nor did they outline a process for the selection of one. But everyone in the room, Akella and Tulus included, had accepted Barron as their leader, in deeds if not in actual words.
“You are our commander, my brother…in every way that could matter to a warrior.” Tulus’s voice was loud, a kind of enthusiasm in his words the others present lacked. Barron was sure the Imperator knew how desperate a situation they faced, but he was a Palatian. A battle like the one they all expected was the stuff of dreams in the warrior culture of Palatia. Tulus had developed beyond merely a simple honor and glory driven warrior, but he’d never fully escaped what he was and had always been.
“Thank you, Vian…” Barron felt strange addressing a head of state by his first name, but he and Tulus were blood brothers, bound to each other by sacred Palatian oath. A lack of familiarity from Barron would actually be insulting to the Imperator, just one aspect of many he found puzzling in Palatian culture. “…but even if I sit in that informal role, it doesn’t change the fact that there is a lot of work to do. We have to be ready, and we don’t know how much time we have.” Barron knew that was only part of the problem. In many ways, his fleet and his people were ready…but staying that way, waiting at high levels of readiness, was itself draining. It was as important for him to keep his people on the razor’s edge as it was to get them there in the first place. And that job would endure until the battle was underway.