by Jay Allan
But what he saw at that moment awakened something deep inside him, some last reservoir of strength, a fiery need to move, to strike.
His eyes were fixed on the unmoving form of Tyler Barron…and on four enemy soldiers clustered around the admiral, dragging him back toward the corridor leading away from to command deck.
There was clarity, a sudden realization of the true reason the enemy had boarded Striker. They were trying to capture Barron…and perhaps other key command personnel. The whole idea was audacious beyond words…and the Thrall soldiers were seconds from making off with the biggest prize of all. Even if Striker held, if Rogan and his Marines drove the invaders off and the fleet prevailed, if the enemy took Tyler Barron, the defeat would be profound. Barron was the fleet’s leader, the beating heart of Pact resistance in every way that mattered.
And he was Bryan Rogan’s hero as well as his commander.
Rogan raced across the room. His rifle was extended in front of him, but he didn’t dare fire, not with his targets so close to Barron. He gritted his teeth as he put all his strength into running, pushing ahead with all the strength that remained to him, even as he let his rifle drop, and he pulled out his knife.
The blade was a nasty affair, twenty-five centimeters long and razor sharp. Rogan had used it in battle before, and it had never failed him.
One of the Thralls saw him coming and turned to face him. The Highborn soldier wasn’t constrained by the same concerns about opening fire, and he aimed right at the approaching Rogan.
The Marine swung his shoulder down, twisting wildly to try to avoid the incoming fire. He almost succeeded, but a round took him in the shoulder. He felt his breath ripped from his lungs, and the pain hit him like a hammer. But somehow, he stayed on his feet, and he crashed into the trooper who’d shot him, driving the blade deep into the man’s armpit, under his breastplate.
The muscles on his arm flexed as he put all his strength into driving the knife into his victim. He felt the man’s strength slipping away, and he yanked the knife free as the soldier crumpled into a dead heap.
You hit the wrong shoulder, you bastard…
He felt an instant of weakness as the waves of pain from his stricken shoulder beat against what remained of his strength. Had he been alone, had he been deep in any other battle, his will might have broken, his indomitable spirit might have failed. But he was fighting to save Admiral Barron…and that great purpose stirred something inside him, some force he didn’t understand.
He swung around, the blood-soaked blade almost a blur as it sliced across the throat of the next soldier, sending a spray of blood flying in all directions.
Then, he felt something slam into his thigh, and he dropped to one knee. His eyes fixed on the third soldier, and on the pistol in his hand. The man fired again, and Rogan’s slowed reflexes proved too sluggish to escape. His efforts saved him from a kill shot to the chest, but the bullet hit his side, just below his armor. He could feel the blood pouring from his multiple wounds, but somehow, he was still conscious, still holding himself up on his knees.
His eyes locked on the soldier who’d shot him twice, and somehow, he lunged forward, pushing off with his knees, managing to surprise his enemy and drive the blade up under the man’s chin. The soldier fell onto his back, dropping the pistol as he did.
Rogan sucked in a deep and tortured breath. He could feel his strength draining away, and he struggled to keep himself upright. Through some titanic effort, he managed to get back to his feet, even the last soldier was aiming his own pistol. There was no escape, no way to avoid the shot.
But somehow, his knife was still in his hand. He threw himself forward, even as the first shot struck him, and then a second. The pain was gone, as was the fear. All that remained was pure, unyielding determination. Rogan was going to save Tyler Barron, keep the enemy from capturing the admiral and taking him away as a prisoner.
Another shot slammed into him, this one deflected by his armor, and even as his enemy fired yet again, he lashed out one last time with his knife. His body slammed into the soldier’s and even as he stabbed again and again, shoving the blade deep into his adversary, he felt the shots…two more, three…he lost count.
He staggered back, bleeding from a dozen places. His field of vision was almost black, and he dropped back to his knees. He could see—barely—that he’d taken the last of the four enemy soldiers down, and even as he fell forward, finally dropping his blade and holding himself up for a few final seconds on his hands and knees, he realized he’d saved Barron…at least for that moment.
The battle was still raging, but Bryan Rogan fell forward, his last strength finally gone. His mind was cloudy, his thoughts mostly a jumble…only concern about Barron truly clear, about whether his Marines could hold, or if he’d only saved his commander for a few fleeting moments.
He took a shallow breath, the best he could manage, and he felt despair closing in on him…and then he heard something. Gunfire…Marine gunfire. He was confused, his senses starting to fail, but he was sure, somehow, that the shooting was coming from behind the enemy position.
Had his Marines broken through? Were his desperate defenders in the control center about to be relieved?
Would Admiral Barron and the other survivors be saved?
He had no way to know, but somehow, he made himself believe it, and a faint smile formed on his lips.
Then darkness came.
* * *
“Admiral Winters…I am unable to reach Admiral Barron or Fortress Striker. The enemy fleet, they are…” Chronos’s voice was heavy with something. It took Winters an instant to place it, but then he knew. Astonishment.
“I see it, Commander…I see it.” It was true. The Highborn ships were pulling back. That was a hard thing to see in space combat. Ships with intrinsic velocities would still move toward their enemies for a time, even as they were firing their engines to decelerate, and then to build up a velocity in the opposite direction. But Winters had seen his share of space battles, and he didn’t have the slightest doubt.
The Highborn were retreating.
“Should we pursue, do you think?” Chronos had asked the question, one he’d almost been compelled to put forth. But his tone was all Clint Winters needed to know the Hegemony Master’s answer.
“No, Commander…I don’t think so. With your agreement, and Imperator Tulus’s, of course, I think we can say our people did enough here. For now, at least.” Clint Winters had long been known as ‘the Sledgehammer,’ an officer renowned for his direct and aggressive style. But the thought of prolonging the battle a second longer than necessary was unthinkable.
Vian Tulus is the only one who might be crazy enough to want to keep fighting. But a moment later, the Palatian leader came on the line and reaffirmed the hold in place orders. Winters suspected the battle just ending had been the hardest fought the Imperator and his warriors had ever experienced, and the haggard sound of Tulus’s voice, the relief evident in it at the prospective end of hostilities, confirmed it.
Winters didn’t want to think about the losses they had suffered, or what, exactly, was left of the fleet. He just wanted a respite, a time to regroup.
And a chance to see exactly what was happening on Fortress Striker.
“Gentlemen, if you’ll stay on the line with me for a moment.” Winters activated the main fleet channel. “All units, the enemy appears to be withdrawing. The fleet will remain in place. Any ships with forward velocity are to decelerate and come to a stop. If the enemy fleet continues to retreat, we will allow them to do so. Repeat, there will be no pursuit.” Winters was about to ask Chronos and Tulus to voice their agreement with his orders—Barron was the only officer every ship commander would definitely obey—but Tulus spoke before he had a chance even to request it, ordering the Palatian forces to stand down. An instant later, Chronos did the same for the Hegemony fleet.
The battle was over. The Pact fleet had held.
Now, there was only one thing W
inters had to do.
“Navigator…set a course directly toward Striker.”
He had to see what the hell was happening in the hellish inferno of the fortress.
He had to see if Tyler Barron was still alive.
* * *
“My God…it’s General Rogan.” Givens looked up at the Marines gathered around, as he gently pulled on the stricken man’s shoulder. He put all his strength into the effort, and he slid Rogan over onto his back.
His next words were choked with emotion. “He’s dead.”
Striker’s bridge looked like a scene from some ancient legend, and the ferocity of the just-concluded battle exceeded anything Givens had imagined in his worst nightmares. He’d felt some satisfaction, some excitement despite the casualties his force had suffered. They’d reached Striker’s control center just in time. The Highborn soldiers had broken into the vast room, and they were on the verge of overwhelming the defenders…when the one hundred four Marines remaining in Dauntless’s contingent slammed into them from the rear, tearing into them like Death with his scythe. For a few gut churning moments, the outcome of the fight had hung in the balance…but the positional advantage and pure fury of Dauntless’s Marines gained the advantage.
Barely fifty of that hundred and four were still on their feet, but the enemy was gone. Given’s people, and the remaining defenders had torn into the defeated invaders with a merciless brutality that almost shamed the veteran Marine.
Almost.
In the end, they didn’t leave a single Highborn soldier alive. Givens knew the enemy fighters were essentially slaves, that they were controlled by the Collars implanted in their spinal columns. But after the losses his people had suffered, and the brutal casualties Striker’s defenders had endured, he just didn’t give a shit.
“Captain…over here. It’s Admiral Barron.”
Givens set Bryan Rogan gently down, and he moved over to the Marine who’d called out. The man was standing over Barron, and for an instant, Givens thought the admiral was dead, too.
But then, Barron stirred.
“Medic!” Givens shouted as loudly as he could. “Medic! Over here…it’s the admiral.”
But even as the sole medic in the room started to race over, Barron coughed a few times, and he raised his hand. He was shaky, and his arm looked like it might drop at any second, but she said, “I’m fine…I’m fine.”
Givens looked down, and he was flooded with relief. His eyes moved all over Barron. The admiral was battered, and he was bleeding from a few small wounds, but he seemed more or less okay. That assumption was reinforced a few seconds later, when Barron sat up.
Akella came rushing over, and she knelt down next to Barron. “Hold still, Tyler…let me try to bandage these wounds.”
He turned and looked up at the Hegemony leader. “I’m glad you made it.”
She looked down at him and smiled. “I’m glad you made it, too.”
The admiral leaned forward and coughed again. Then he looked up and said, “Givens? What are you doing here?”
“Admiral Travis sent us, sir. She sent the Marine contingents from every ship in the fleet to reinforce Striker.”
“Admiral Travis, eh?” Barron nodded. Of course…
It didn’t really surprise him that Atara had very likely been the margin of victory in the battle for the station. “Where is General Rogan?” But before Givens could answer, Barron’s eyes found the Marine, lying less than two meters away. “Is he…?”
Givens drew in a raspy breath, his own emotions flooding into his mind. “He is dead, Admiral.” A pause, Givens wondering how much he should say. “It looks like the enemy tried to capture you, sir. From what I can tell, I’d say General Rogan attacked the soldiers trying to take you away.”
Barron had always been a rock to his people. Givens had never seen any kind of weakness in the admiral. But now, Barron’s eyes welled up with tears, and he turned over, gently pushing Akella aside as he crouched down on his hands and knees, looking at Bryan Rogan’s body.
“You were a Marine, and you were my friend,” he said softly, knowing there was nothing more Rogan would have wanted said of him. “You were the best of us.” Barron looked at the stricken Marine for a few seconds more, then he turned and looked up at Givens. “Help me up, Captain…we’ve got to see what’s going on. We’ve got to make sure the station is secure.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Troyus City
Planet Megara, Olyus III
Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)
“The last six months have been an unrelenting nightmare, Alex. I was glad I’d sent you back to the Confederation…I wouldn’t have wanted you caught up in all that happened. But I missed you…more than you could know.” Sandrine Ciara lay next to the Confederation officer. Alexander Kerevsky was one of Gary Holsten’s spies and a Confed diplomat as well as a military officer. He had been Ciara’s lover back on Montmirail as well, a relationship that had gone a considerable way past the simple use of sex as a tool of espionage.
“I had almost given up hope that you’d survived.” The Confederation officer lay on his side, looking at her affectionately. She wasn’t sure just how much he actually trusted her, but she was certain he had true feelings for her. That was his weakness…and a resource she could exploit.
She had also had actual affection for Kerevsky, though even before the Collar, she had always tempered that with her committed drive for power. Now, he was simply a means to an end…a way to complete her mission, to serve the Highborn.
She understood that, and the part of her that was still Sandrine Ciara tried to rebel against it, but she was helpless to intervene, to stop the part of her mind that was in full control of her words, her motions. She longed to warn Kerevsky, to beseech him for his help, but she remained locked in a strange prison, a mere spectator to her body, her voice, all that had once been hers.
She’d struggled to regain control, to burst out of the mental cage…all during the trip to Megara, and as she floated helplessly, watching her alter-ego charm first Emmit Flandry, and then half the Confederation Senate. Gary Holsten was still suspicious…she was pretty sure of that. But she had everyone else eating out of her hand, and that left the head of Confederation Intelligence isolated…and ill positioned to stop her.
“It wasn’t easy. For a long time, I didn’t think I would get out of there. If it hadn’t been for the battle, and for the damage to the ship carrying me, I wouldn’t have. When the power went down, I was able to get out of my cell. I still can’t believe I made it to the bay and found a functioning shuttle.” She put her hand on his cheek. “But let’s not talk about that now. This is the first moment of real happiness I’ve had in…so long, I can’t remember.” She leaned in and kissed him.
The room was mostly dark, illuminated only by the first rays of dawn sun coming through a crack in the blinds…and the faintest flickering embers remaining in the fireplace. The candles had all burned out, and the room had the look of a spent seduction. “I wish we could stay here all day, Alex…but my audience with the Senate is this morning.”
“Tonight, perhaps. After you charm the Senate into supporting you.” Kerevsky smiled. “Yes, I know what you want from them. I do know you, after all…”
No, Alex…you don’t know what you’re dealing with now…
She knew on some level, she’d always have sacrificed the Confed, lover or not, affection or not…but only if it had been necessary. But her Collar-controlled self wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever it took to complete her mission. Ciara’s true self knew just what that was, and it horrified her. But she couldn’t do a thing. She couldn’t stop it, nor could she warn anyone. She could only hope she, her other self, somehow failed.
“Tonight for sure…back here at seven? And tomorrow, we sleep in…or at least, we stay in bed until lunchtime.” She smiled and she leaned in, kissing him again, more passionately this time. As she kissed him, her hand slipped under the pillow, grasping the sm
ooth implement she’d hidden there. She pushed her body into Kerevsky’s, and she continued kissing him…as her hand moved over his head.
Kerevsky moaned softly as they kissed, and then his voice let out a single, snipped yell…as the dinner knife in Ciara’s hand slid into the side of his neck, slicing through his carotid artery.
She pulled him closer to her, her lips pressed hard against his as he gasped, and as his blood flowed out of his body. He struggled for a few seconds, and then he went limp.
Ciara pulled back and looked at her handiwork. Her inner self was aghast, feeling a surprising amount of pain for her dead lover. She’d always considered herself cold and above such things, but now she realized just how much she had cared for the Confed spy. But the part of her in control was utterly without sadness or regret. She climbed out of the bed, looking down at her naked body, now half covered in Kerevsky’s blood. There was no sadness, no pain for the man she’d just killed…only the realization that she needed a shower before she got dressed for her appointment with the Senate.
* * *
Ciara slipped through the door, closing it before she placed Kerevsky’s access card back in her pocket. Her plan was solid, though not without risks. She was fairly certain her dead lover’s credentials would get her where she needed to go…though if they found his body too soon, all bets were off.
That was one reason she’d lured him to the Sector Nine safe house for their rendezvous. She’d been concerned he might be suspicious, but if he had been, she’d pushed it from his thoughts the second he’d walked into a room with a crackling fire and array of flickering candles…and Ciara herself standing there in the thinnest whisper of a silk garment. She’d used men before in her operations—and women too—but she’d still been somewhat concerned Kerevsky would see through her seductions. In the end, he’d proven susceptible to the same weaknesses all the others had.