by Jay Allan
“The empire lasted just over ten thousand years…and before it, all the space it later comprised was divided into a hundred or more groupings, some nations, other loose federations or independent planets. One of these—and the only references we can find refer to it simply as, “The Republic”—appears to have gained the upper hand and become the most powerful. Information on that era is spotty at best. Even in late imperial times, this was more than ten millennia in the past, but one thing seems clear. The entity we find referred to as ‘the Republic’ began on Pintarus…the world that later became the imperial capital.”
Sy paused, allowing the others a moment to absorb what she had just said. Andi had gathered the entire crew together. The history they had uncovered belong to all of them.
“Some of the data we were able to recover goes back even farther, though it is sketchy and less certain. Something on the order of five thousand years before the foundation of the empire, there was something called the Diaspora. The translation is a bit uncertain, but I think the meaning was clear enough contextually. It seems like humanity fled the region of space where it had first developed…and many of those refugees ended up in what became imperial space and the Rim, settling thousands of worlds, and populating the systems that later became the empire.”
“That is extraordinary, Sy. We had some snippets of data, various suggestions that humans existed—or had existed—somewhere beyond the borders of the empire. But I had no idea the species actually developed somewhere else. Are there any clues where?” Ellia was sitting at the table, opposite Sy and Andi. The rest of the ship’s complement were scattered around the lower deck, sitting on whatever chairs were available, or in some cases, the floor. The story was a mesmerizing one, even to those who’d never given human history a second thought before.
“None that pinpoint a region of space with any accuracy. Nor anything that explains why mankind, or at least a large part of it, suddenly abandoned their homes and traveled so far toward the galactic Rim. We couldn’t find much at all, save for a name. It might be nothing, or it might be humanity’s homeworld. I believe from the context, it was at least someplace of great importance at one time, though other references suggest it had been rather less so just before the Diaspora. It’s an odd name, quite dissimilar from the planetary designations we’re used to. Earth. It was called Earth.”
“Earth? Where is it? Was there any locational data at all?”
“No, Ellia, I’m afraid not. My impression is that the planet was almost as much a mystery in pre-imperial times as it is now. Remember, the empire’s founding was more than five millennia after the Diaspora. They seem to have known the name, at least, but little else. There may have been some minor additional knowledge back then, but it appears to have been lost. At least we don’t have it in this AI’s data banks.”
The various members of the crew shared some whispered comments. The news Sy was giving them was indeed stunning. People on the Rim had always looked at the old empire as some kind of origin. Imagining it as simply a midpoint in some kind of extended human history was extraordinary.
“Perhaps more disturbing, is the fact that we found no mention at all of what caused humanity to migrate so far from its origin point.” Andi turned and looked at Sy as she took over the explanation. “There were vague references to something called Imperium One, or perhaps the First Imperium—the translation is a bit rough—though it seems apparent this entity, whatever it might have been, was not the cause of the Diaspora. There were contradictory bits of data that seemed to suggest this First Imperium was an older civilization, long dead by the time humanity took to the stars…but also that it was involved in some kind of war against at least a part of the human race. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but that is what we found. Perhaps there is some missing piece of data, some corrupted file that would add clarity to all of this. But it seems apparent that human interaction with this First Imperium preceded the Diaspora by as much as a thousand years. We searched as deeply as we could, but there is a large block of corrupted data. We’re not sure what the imperials knew of the stimuli for such a mass migration, or indeed, if human populations remained behind or went elsewhere in the galaxy. All we can do with regard to any of this is guess. And I submit that would be a waste of time.”
Andi paused for a few seconds, taking a couple deep breaths. She’d found some escape in her research, as she suspected Sy had as well. It didn’t banish the pain, but anything was better than sitting alone in her cabin, cycling between mourning Vig and worrying about Tyler and Cassie. In less than a week, she and Sy had uncovered more information about human history on and near the Rim than had existed in the comprehensive Hegemony and Confederation knowledge bases.
She felt a bit strange worrying about ancient history when her own people were caught up in a desperate struggle for survival, but there was nothing she could do about any of that. Sy had collated all the information the AI possessed on the virus, and on its use against the Highborn. But Pegasus lacked the lab facilities necessary to attempt to recreate the microorganism, not to mention the skilled personnel. Andi and her people had done all they could. Now they were heading back to Striker at maximum speed, hopefully carrying the secret to defeating the Highborn…along with the data on the enemy’s lines of communications to the Union. Pegasus’s engines were already blasting past maximum levels, and there was little else Andi—or any of her people apart from Lex Righter—could do. Except pass the time…and keep the demons and ghosts at bay.
Chapter Thirty
Forward Base Striker
Vasa Denaris System
Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Bryan Rogan stood just inside the door, looking over at Anya Fritz and the dozen engineers clustered around her. They were running around, filthy, caked with coolant residue and dried sweat. But they weren’t done yet, and Rogan knew his Marines couldn’t hold much longer. “Admiral Fritz…” He shouted out, but he didn’t go any farther. There was nothing to say. Fritz was working as quickly as possible, that was the closest thing he’d ever seen to mathematical certainty.
But time was time…and they were running out of it.
“Two minutes, General. We’ve got the reaction shut down, but we need to get the last of the antimatter flushed out of these lines.”
Two minutes. It didn’t seem like a long time. At least it didn’t to anyone who wasn’t standing in the corridor outside, holding off four or five times their numbers of advancing troops.
But failure wasn’t an option. If the enemy got into the reactor chamber while there was still antimatter in the system, they could destroy Striker, or at least blow out a huge chunk of the station. And that wasn’t going to happen. Not on Bryan Rogan’s watch.
He’d repositioned all the Marines he could reach. The rest of his Marines were too far away or cut off by enemy forces. He’d exhausted all of his resources…save one.
“Admiral…ping me when you’re done, and when you’ve got your engineers out of here.” He pulled the assault rifle from his back, and he checked the clip. Then he opened the hatch and slipped out from the relative quiet of the reactor room…and into hell.
The outer room was a war zone, his people hunched down behind anything that passed for cover as enemy forces pressed in from three lines of approach. He took a quick count of his people still in action, even as he hunched down behind a shattered workstation. He’d had twenty-four Marines in action in the immediate vicinity five minutes earlier.
His count now was eight.
There were a few he could see who were down but still alive, but there were also dead bodies all across the room, including at least fifty of the enemy. The Highborn forces had tried to rush the Marine position three times, and they’d been pushed back after each assault. But Rogan was far from sure his battered force could repel a fourth attack.
He brought his rifle up over the debris of the workstation, and he opened fire. He was set for single shots, and he was trying to aim a
t whatever hints of motion he caught down the corridor extending from the opposite side of the room. He wasn’t sure he hit anything, in fact he doubted he did, but steady fire would at least keep the enemy on edge, and perhaps delay the next move forward.
He only needed a few minutes.
He glanced at his chronometer. It seemed like a long time had passed since Fritz had told him two minutes, but the small readout told him less than one of those had elapsed.
He flipped his rifle to three-round bursts and continued firing. “Keep up the fire, all of you. In thirty seconds, we’re going to start pulling back. Two at a time, into the reactor room…and we take everybody who is down with us. Anyone who is alive gets out of here. Walking wounded, start making your way to the door now.”
He let himself hope the enemy would hold back for just another minute, that they would give him the time he needed. Then he saw the motion ahead increase…and shadowy shapes moving down the corridor. It took a couple seconds to be sure, but then he knew.
The fourth assault had begun.
“Here they come!” He switched to full auto, and he hosed the corridor in front of him with fire. Two more of his Marines were doing the same, and three were firing down each of the other two accessways. Rogan hadn’t confirmed the enemy was coming from all three directions, but the frantic fire of his Marines removed any doubt.
“Any wounded who can move, make your way back, now!” he repeated. Rogan’s plan to send his Marines back a few at a time was shot to hell. He didn’t dare pull any of his limited firepower from the line…and he very much doubted his Marines could hold a fourth time. He wanted them to escape—he wanted to walk away from the fight himself—but the one absolutely necessary thing was to buy Fritz and her people the few seconds more they needed.
Enemy troopers streamed up, running down the corridors, jumping over the clumps of dead bodies blocking their way. They were firing as they came, but Rogan’s Marines were well positioned. He didn’t lose anybody in the first twenty seconds or so…and then the Marine closest to him dropped hard. He didn’t look right away…his attention was fixed on the column of enemy soldiers bursting into the room. He dropped at least four of them, but they kept coming.
He’d despised the Highborns’ human soldiers as slaves, as mindless Thralls, and so they were. But it was hard not to respect the mindless courage they showed. They surged forward, the troops in the front serving as shields for those behind. Tactics like that wouldn’t work on a real battlefield out in the open, with airpower and artillery, but in the condensed spaces of Fortress Striker, they were effective enough. His people were inflicting five or ten casualties for each one they took, but the enemy was still coming on.
They can’t keep taking these losses…
He knew that was true, in a theoretical sense, but still, they kept coming.
They were in the room now, and the forward few Marines were fighting hand to hand. His people couldn’t last much longer. He was about to comm Fritz when his unit buzzed, and the engineer’s voice poured out of his earpiece. “We’re done, Bryan. My people are pulling back now. Get your Marines out of there.”
Rogan didn’t even respond. Instead, he shouted out to his survivors. “Pull back…grab the wounded, and let’s get the hell out of here.” He was far from sure it wasn’t too late, but there was no alternative except giving up.
And that damned sure wasn’t an option. Not for a Marine.
He emptied his rifle, targeting every enemy soldier close to him. Then he slung the weapon over his shoulder and grabbed the wounded Marine closest too him. He crouched low and grunted as he lurched toward the door, pulling his comrade along with him.
* * *
Olya Federov brought her fighter around, her fingers tightening on the firing stud as the Hegemony ship in front of her came into her sights. The cockpit echoed with the familiar whine as the powerful beams lanced out, three times, then four…and the enemy interceptor vanished from her display.
She tapped her comm unit, even as her eyes were scanning for her next target. There were hundreds of Highborn fighters…and every one of them had been targeting a single one of their own vessels. Federov had marked Stockton’s ship on her scanner, but she needn’t have bothered. The suicidal attacks of the enemy practically drew an arrow pointing to Stockton.
She knew it was him, had to be him, but she was still having trouble understanding and accepting what had happened. If Stockton had indeed trained the enemy, led them against his own people, she didn’t begin to know how to accept that, how to move forward from it. Her rational mind understood, at least fundamentally, what the Collar seemed to do to people. But intellect and reasoned thought could be washed away by enough blood.
“Jake, is that really you?” Her voice cracked as she spoke the words into the comm. “Jake, if you’re in that ship, respond. Please…”
She was shaken, unsure, at least with regard to her old friend and commander. But she was pure, unfiltered rage to the enemy. She blasted yet another Hegemony fighter, and she savored the death she was meting out to her enemies. She’d fought what seemed like endless battles in the Hegemony War—and she was still having a little trouble seeing the Masters as allies—but she’d thought she was retired from combat duty after that terrible conflict. She’d always been cold as ice in the cockpit, but she’d begun to become a bit shakier, and she’d decided the time had come to hang it up.
But she’d answered the call when the fight against the Highborn became desperate, and now, her fury channeled almost directly into her flying. The uncertainty was gone. Her hands were steady, and her flying had never been better.
She was a block of ice…except when it came to Jake Stockton.
“Jake, please…answer.” She was as convinced as ever it was Stockton flying that ship. It was the only enemy craft targeting other Highborn fighters, and the pilot’s skill was…unbelievable. No one flew a fighter like that, no one but the legendary ‘Raptor’ Stockton.
“Raptor…please…”
The comm was silent for a few seconds. Then a familiar voice came through.
“Olya…you have to go. Pull your people out and get back and rearm. This fight is far from over.”
She was known throughout the fleet as a cold fish, a warrior almost without human weakness or emotion. But at the sound of Stockton’s voice, her eyes watered immediately, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
“We can push this group away. You break off…get back to one of the landing platforms while you still can.” She had a million things she wanted to say to him, a head full of jumbled thoughts and emotions to filter through. But she was a veteran, and her priority just then was getting Stockton out of danger and back to the fleet.
“No.” The word echoed in her cockpit like a hammer slamming into an anvil of solid iron. “I’m not coming back, Olya. I can’t…and you know that. I did what I could to help here…break off and let me fight. Let me die.”
“No, Jake…no. Break off. We’ll figure all of this out. Just come back. You’re one of us again…don’t throw your life away like this.”
“My life ended five years ago. I should have died then.” She felt a chill at the morose tone in his voice.
“I’m not leaving you here, Jake. We’re not leaving you.” She angled her fighter and came in on a cluster of enemy fighters heading toward Stockton. She opened up, destroying two, and sending the rest scattering on wild evasion courses.
“We’re not leaving, Jake, whatever you say. So, break off now, or we’ll fight here until the last enemy fighter is down…or the last one of ours is.”
The line was silent.
“Okay, Jake…wallow in self sacrificial misery if you want, but we’re not going anywhere. So, all you’re doing is putting more of our people at risk. Cut the shit and break off now. If we all survive and the fleet makes it through this and you still want to die, I’ll hold the airlock door for you. But right now, you’re coming back if I have to grapple that ship of yours
and drag you in!”
* * *
“Carrier Division seventeen is to launch all squadrons at once. Target is fighter 00001.” Tesserax sat in his elevated chair in the center of the flagship’s bridge, bouncing somewhere between fury and confusion. There was no doubt anymore that Jake Stockton had betrayed him. That didn’t seem possible. The Collar was unbeatable, its control over a human unbreakable. But Stockton had sent the evasion routines to the human wings, and they’d used the information to rout the initial attack. Casualties had been staggering, more than five thousand fighters destroyed. The fleet still had enough small craft to overwhelm the defending humans, but most of those wings needed to be refueled and refit…and launched with fresh evasion routines.
But first, Tesserax was going to see that Stockton didn’t escape. Ideally, he’d have liked to recapture the pilot, researched what had gone wrong with his Collar…and perhaps even implanted a new one and put him back into his position as fighter commander. But that wasn’t a realistic option, not anymore. Stockton was too good, his skills too daunting…and the Confeds were sending their own fighters in, presumably to aid in his escape. All Tesserax could do was see that Stockton was killed, before his old comrades could reclaim him.
He’d sent several hundred fighters after Stockton already, but the wily pilot had evaded all of their attacks and destroyed at least a dozen of them. Just when it looked like they finally had him penned in, a wing of Confederation fighters arrived and tore into the battered and disordered Highborn squadrons.
The Firstborn, one who had for so long stood near the top of the Highborn hierarchy, who considered himself one of the foremost lifeforms to exist in the galaxy, was concerned. He wasn’t sure the reserves he’d sent would make it on time, and even though the Highborn squadrons already engaged with Stockton outnumbered the newly arrived Confederation force, he began to imagine that Stockton might actually escape.