Starhold

by J. Alan Field

  The knock at the door jolted her out of her trance. It was her assistant, Grace Ward, announcing that Admiral Sanchez was here to see her. Good, anything to escape this gloom. On second thought, maybe it wasn’t good because unscheduled meetings rarely carried pleasant news.

  For a short while, Leonardo Sanchez brightened her mood. They went through the social niceties, inquiring after each other’s health and such. After a few minutes however, Darracott could see that there was a problem.

  “Leo, you’d make the worst poker player in the Six Worlds. Worry is written all over your face and in bold print. Out with it.”

  Sanchez closed his eyes for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Where to start?” he finally asked. “First off, Captain Banks came to me yesterday. He’ll stay on at State Security until he’s relieved, but then he’s asking to be reassigned from his duties here in Esterkeep.” Sanchez paused, and then added, “You realize that Auric’s not exactly your biggest fan.”

  “Asking to be reassigned? Why put in that kind of request? A new First Consul will most probably appoint someone else Chief of Staff anyway.”

  “Banks has excellent connections at Central Command,” said Sanchez, nervously tapping the arm of his chair with his right hand. “He hears things, things I don’t. Apparently, Channa Maxon’s been on the net, working the flag officers from her hospital bed since last night. She’s lining up support for the Consulship.”

  Darracott rolled her eyes. “She was just stabbed three days ago!”

  “Choi had bad aim—she missed all the vitals.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that Channa’s doing well. Damn, she must really want the Consulship badly if she’s lobbying from her hospital bed.”

  Sanchez shook his head and leaned forward. “She’s not lobbying for herself.”

  Darracott froze, trying to read that bold print she claimed was on her friend’s face. “For who then?”

  “You.”

  “Me? Why me? Won’t the admirals choose one of their own?”

  “Rumor has it that some rich and powerful civilians are calling for John McDaniel to return.” McDaniel was the elected President who was deposed during the People’s Rebellion. Banished from the Union by Victor Polanco, he had been living quietly in exile on Gerrha for the past twenty months. “A second coup attempt within two years has some of the rich civvies reconsidering their support for the military. Maxon’s thinking that if a civilian leads the Directorate, it would ease their minds, and the pressure to bring back McDaniel.”

  The Prime Minister put a crooked smile on her face. “So they want a civilian puppet.”

  “Not necessarily,” he countered. “Anyone who knows you understands you wouldn’t settle for being a puppet. I think they want a strong civilian leader who will keep the military in a dominant position.”

  There was silence from Darracott. She had toyed in the back of her mind with the idea that she might have an opportunity to remain as the Union’s leader but never thought there was a serious chance of pulling it off. Leo would know what was going on. There’s something else though… He’s very nervous.

  “I’ll have to think about this, but I’d be lying to you if I said I wasn’t interested. Thanks for the heads up. But, something else is bothering you. Come on, Leo, what is it?”

  Sanchez leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands. “Since you are most likely going to remain as First Consul, I just wanted to let you know that I’ve decided to resign my commission. I’m going to retire.”

  She was stunned. “Retire? Why? What’s happened?”

  “Rennie, the last few days have happened. Victor’s assassination, Amanda Nash… just everything. I’ll stay on for the next month, get my successor squared away, but after that, I’m going home to Quijano and retire to my ranch.”

  “You have a ranch? Sorry Leo, but somehow I can’t picture you as a cowboy.”

  The remark provoked laughter from him. There’s still something else, something’s he’s not saying.

  “One of my nephews operates it for me. As for myself, I’ll sit under a tree near the house, sip sangria, and read a good book. That’s my idea of ranching.”

  “And I can’t talk you out of this? I thought maybe you’d be in the running for First Consul yourself.”

  He shook his head vigorously. “I have absolutely no interest in politics. No, my mind is made up.”

  “It won’t be the same around here without you. I’m going to miss you, my friend. So, who is your recommendation to be the new Chief of Space Operations? As the current Assistant CSO, I would think that Admiral Carson is the heir apparent. You know, the other day was the first time I’d ever met the man. He looks so young, more like a college student than an admiral.”

  “Just between us, I’m sure he takes those aging treatments—doesn’t want to grow old gracefully like me,” joked Sanchez. “But yes, he is young to be an admiral. Carson, Maxon, Choi, Sykes, they’re all young to be admirals, but when the time came, they were the lot that helped Victor Polanco take power. After the coup, he purged Central Command and promoted them into their current positions.

  “Rennie, this is a very important appointment. Even though I was Chief of Space Operations, everyone knew Victor Polanco was the leader of the space force. When you appoint the next CSO, they actually will be in command of the space force. You need to be careful with this appointment. It should be Jon Schooler, he’s the one you want for this job.”

  “So not Admiral Carson. What about Channa Maxon? What’s wrong with Maxon?” she prodded.

  Sanchez shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “Maxon was Victor’s idea.”

  “I was Victor’s idea, too.”

  “Yes—yes, I know.”

  The remark probably wasn’t meant to be biting, but there was a certain something in it that caused the room to chill.

  “Leo, may I ask you something? When Maxon asked who you supported for the Consulship, what did you tell her?”

  Sanchez shifted in his chair but never broke eye contact with her. “Frankly, I told her that I thought we should have a Union-wide election.” The gloves had come off. “I believe we should reinstate the Union Assembly and the Presidency.” He was speaking faster now, with the urgency of a man who had something to get off his chest. “And Rennie, I urge you, I beg of you to say the same thing when the Directorate offers you the Consulship. Turn them down and make them see the wisdom of reinstating the Presidential system.”

  This conversation was like an earthquake—the shocks and tremors just kept coming. Leo Sanchez was an intelligent man, and he clearly had his reasons for shifting his views. She tried not to take it personally, but still…

  “Leo, that system was broken so badly it wouldn’t work anymore.”

  “Granted, it was broken, but we shouldn’t have thrown it away. We just needed to fix it. Call it a reset, a reboot of Sarissan democracy.”

  He leaned forward again, hands together almost as if he was saying a prayer, and maybe he was. “Rennie, I’m alive today because Amanda Nash is dead. You’re here because Stormy Weathers isn’t. And there’s Victor, and all the others. All of those people died because someone tried to change the government by using bullets instead of ballots. Tell me, is the Directorate worth that price? If so, then how long until the next coup attempt? And the one after that? No,” he shook his head forcefully, “we’ve got to go back. We’ve got to reinstate the electoral system.”

  She sat for a moment, peering into his eyes. “Leo, you’ve been through a lot in the last seventy-two hours. We’ve all been through a lot,” Darracott said, carefully choosing her words, “but you should blame Choi and Seibert and the other conspirators for the violence, not the Directorate. The Directorate works. It’s efficient and things get done under the Directorate that wouldn’t under a democratic system.”

  “Things get done,” he said slowly, drawing out the three words for emphasis. “You mean things like the killings yesterday at the Central Holding Fac
ility. I heard all about it.”

  She felt her face burn but wasn’t sure why—was she angry or embarrassed? “I offered Seibert and the others a choice.”

  “Commit suicide or you and your family will be executed? That’s no choice,” Sanchez said crossly. “In a civilized society, there has to be due process.”

  “It was more of a choice than they offered Victor or your Lieutenant Nash. Where was their due process, Leo?” She knew she should stop at that, but anger compelled her to press on. “Besides, Admiral, don’t pretend like your hands are totally clean. After the People’s Rebellion, Victor removed the entire Union Assembly and a quarter of the officer corps, along with their families and a great many of their friends. Thousands of people were purged, and you had a part in it.”

  Sanchez bobbed his head excitedly. “Yes, yes, purged and exiled. Exiled, Rennie, not summarily executed.”

  “They might as well have been. Victor sent them off to horrible places like Threnn and Cardea, and other starholds where they became refugees. Their lives were ruined.”

  “Ha! Most of them were rich refugees, I might add. Besides, I don’t remember the new Prime Minister registering any objections at the time,” Sanchez snapped. “The army did most of the forced removals. All I did was to arrange for the transportation. Victor wanted it that way.”

  “So you were only following orders,” Darracott scoffed.

  The admiral tried to keep his composure. “Look, what you did to Seibert and the others, I understand why you did it. You wanted revenge and so did I, but a trial in a court of law would have accomplished the same thing.”

  “No, it would have accomplished something else entirely. A trial would have given those bastards a platform for their cause. It would have let them justify what they had done, and I wasn’t about to let that happen. What’s wrong with you, Leo? Are you upset because I didn’t consult with you first? Or is it because I didn’t bring you along with me to the prison?”

  “You didn’t bring me along because you knew I might talk you out of it.”

  “I didn’t bring you along because I knew you wouldn’t have the stomach for it!”

  Sanchez sat for a moment in silence.

  Darracott stammered, searching for something to say. “Leo, um, I didn’t…”

  Sanchez gathered himself and stood, almost at attention. “My written resignation is in your message box. I will attend to my duties for the next month and recuse myself from further Directorate meetings. Good day, First Consul.”

  As he turned to leave, Darracott got to her feet. Her friend walked to the door, the limp in his gait more pronounced than usual. “Leo, don’t go like this. I said things I really didn’t mean to say. I chose my words poorly. Leo…”

  The door closed behind him. Darracott stood for a moment and surveyed her desk. She picked up the datatab on which she’d been working before Sanchez arrived. Details of the state funeral jumped onto the screen. Looking at the door once again and then back down to the datatab, she screamed in anger and threw the device against the wall.

  26: Daze

  Union cruiser Tempest

  Somewhere near Earth’s moon

  “The Daze.” It was a term spacers used for the disorientation, headaches, nausea, and other maladies that hindered human space travelers after translating from hyperspace back into realspace. Almost everyone had some problem in the moments following transition: blurred vision, vertigo, or just a cold chill up his or her spine. The exception to the rule was Sephora Nyondo, chief pilot of the Tempest. She was an anomaly, so much so that doctors had studied her to learn the secret of her smooth translations. Nyondo always left hyperspace as good as she went in, which undeniably had just saved the lives of everyone on board.

  Chaz Pettigrew shook his head, and then shook it harder. He usually recovered quickly when sliding back into realspace, but this time was strange. His body felt odd, it felt heavy, as if something was pushing against it. There was some sort of noise too, a buzzing. The captain slowly realized it was the sound of a collision alert klaxon, and that his body was feeling the force of gees as it strained against the vessel’s sudden movements.

  Pettigrew looked around and saw the bridge crew still strapped into their seats, pulling against the ship just as he was. After a while, the press against his body lessened and Tempest slowly seemed to be leveling off. “Report!” he said in a hoarse voice.

  “We just missed hitting something as we made the translation,” Knox answered, clutching his console and fighting off some dizziness.

  “It was a ship, or a big part of one,” said Lieutenant Nyondo. “Our computers weren’t going to correct fast enough, so I went manual, sir.”

  At her station, Commander Adams nodded. “She’s right, Captain. Without manual helm, we’d have hit it.”

  Pettigrew exhaled slowly, tension bleeding out of him. “Good flying, Lieutenant. Can anyone tell me exactly what we almost hit?”

  Knox responded first. “It was the frigate Corius, or what’s left of her. She’s been shot to hell and she’s drifting.”

  “Ms. Adams, sitrep please.”

  “The ship is now secured, all stations report green and fixed at general quarters. Sensor drones away. Tactical on main viewer.”

  Cold icons were painting a picture of death and destruction. About 300,000 kilometers away, Task Force 19 was locked in a desperate engagement with what looked to be a single gigantic ship—and TF 19 was being hammered. The cruiser Ballista had been destroyed, as had the destroyer Trident. So had the frigates Scyther and Alvis, in addition to their sister Corius. The destroyers Bocsor and Erion were still operating, but showing heavy damage.

  The enemy ship, whose icon was designated by the computer as Imperial Wrath, was currently directing most of its attention at the Sarissan flagship, the Vespera. The Union battleship was already severely damaged and its opponent was continuing to pour on heavy fire.

  “Gods, that ship is a monster,” muttered Knox.

  Adams was reviewing the information coming from the CIC. “The data we’re receiving includes the enemy ship’s name. The flag must have communicated with them at some point.”

  “Or intercepted communications,” speculated Pettigrew. “Where are the rest of the enemy ships? And for that matter, where are the Gerrhans? They were supposed to rendezvous with us.”

  “I have them, Captain,” replied Knox, checking his instruments. “The Gerrhan fleet is over a billion klicks away, all the way out near Iapetus, one of Saturn’s moons. So is the rest of the enemy fleet, and the two forces are engaged. It looks like the enemy still has thirteen active ships and the Gerrhans are down to seven.”

  “Any sign of our scouts?”

  “Negative.”

  Pettigrew leaned forward. “Helm, make for the enemy ship near Earth, best possible speed. Mr. Swoboda, have forward weapons ready to blast any debris in our path.” Pettigrew did some rough calculations on his datatab. “I make it to be about six minutes to the enemy. Mr. Swoboda, when we—”

  From the communications station, Ensign Davis interrupted his captain. “Sir, we have a TachCom coming in from the Vespera. It’s Admiral Getchell.”

  “Main viewscreen, Mr. Davis.”

  Levi Getchell’s image appeared at the front of the bridge. Physically, everything looked normal and calm onboard the Vespera’s flag bridge. Getchell’s staff busied themselves in the background and the admiral himself wore an almost placid expression. The compartment then shook as another enemy plasma beam ate into the hull of the battleship.

  “Captain, we’re sending all of our battle data to you. As you can see, we’re not going to last much longer. When this ship goes, you are to take command of the task force. You’ve been briefed on the parameters of this mission. Do the best you can to carry them out, if in your judgment that’s still possible. Any questions, Captain?”

  Pettigrew looked Getchell in the eye over some 300,000 kilometers of space. “No, sir. Admiral, we’re about five m
inutes from your position.”

  “We don’t have five minutes, Captain,” Getchell said with a resigned look. “Hey, what about the Pan-Union Cup? How did my Merrifield side do in the first round?”

  “I’m afraid they lost, two to one.”

  “I see. Well then, it’s been a lousy day all the way around.” The transmission cut out.

  “Captain, the Vespera,” said Taylin Adams in a barely audible voice. On the tactical display, the gold icon representing the battleship turned red and dimmed slightly to signify its destruction.

  There was silence on the bridge, a combination of respect for those who had just perished, and dread at what may lie ahead.

  “Helm, proceed to the coordinates I’m sending to your station. Ensign Davis, inform the task force that I am assuming command. Order all remaining ships to break off the attack on that enemy vessel and form up on Tempest at these coordinates, which will be designated as Rally Point Beta.”

  Parker Knox walked to his captain’s side. “Sir, we only have eight ships remaining.”

  “Seven,” said Adams from her console. “There goes Erion.” Another gold icon turned red on the tactical board.

  “Seven ships then,” said Knox, “and only two cruisers. I strongly urge that we—”

  “That we do what, Commander?” Pettigrew’s ebony skin did not betray a face that was flush with anger, but his expression and voice did. “I hope you’re going to suggest a positive plan of action, Mr. Knox, because we’re not withdrawing. We’re not falling back, we’re not retreating, and we’re not making for Rusalka to warn Central Command. Right now, I’m not exactly sure what we’re going to do, but unless someone has a positive plan for defeating the enemy, I’m not interested in hearing what they have to say. Am I coming through to everyone?”