The Others

by Jay Allan

Barron wasn’t sure why Chronos had left the main formation and gone to the inhabited planet, but he had a guess, and he’d have bet a fair amount he was right. There was a decent-sized population on that planet, a couple hundred million or more, Barron suspected…and all together, they weren’t a fraction of the strategic asset planet seven was. Chronos had gone to reassure the people, to tell them the fleet was there to fight, and he’d done it to assuage the guilt and the feeling of failure he’d feel if there were heavy casualties on the planet.

  He wondered if it had worked for the Hegemony commander. Such things never had for him.

  “Admiral, I’ve got Admiral Travis on your line.”

  Barron activated the comm unit. Dauntless’s bridge felt naked without his aide, his comrade, the warrior who had stood at his side almost as long as he could remember. He’d sent her out on an inspection tour, to follow up on Jarrod Simms’s work. The lieutenant had reported that all but twelve of the fleet’s hulls had been updated, but as much as Barron liked the brilliant young engineer, he’d feel better after Atara confirmed those facts.

  “Atara?”

  “Yes, Admiral…I’m on Formidable. It looks like Simms lived up to his billing. I’ve run Formidable—and Vincennes and Valiant, too—through some pretty deep fire drills. Without actual enemy ships to target, it’s hard to be completely sure, but I’m convinced enough. If and when we get the authorization to engage, we’ll be ready. As ready as we can be.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “Admiral Barron, we’re picking up massive energy readings at the fourth transit point.” The officer’s voice pulled his mind back to Dauntless’s bridge.

  The entry point Chronos said the enemy would be using…

  “Scanners on full, and all capital ships, prepare to launch a spread of long-range probes. We may not be allowed to fire on whatever comes through there, but we can gather as much information as possible.” Barron’s head angled forward, and he spoke into the comm unit. “Looks like the party’s about to get started, Atara. Get back here right away. We may just be spectators, but I’ll still feel better with you on Dauntless’s bridge.

  “On my way, Admiral.”

  Barron cut the line. He sat where he was, twitching in his chair. His stomach was tied up in knots. He’d experienced the fear of battle many times, and he’d never imagined anything else could be as unsettling. But sitting there, his hands tied, watching as a new enemy advanced…it was worse than being in the fight.

  His mind was racing, tactical analysis, battle plans…but in the end, there was just one thought that was even remotely useful.

  Good luck, Chronos…

  * * *

  Ilius stood on Anthrocles’ bridge. He’d come from his Sanctum, the hard servant of duty that lived inside him overcoming the doubt and fear that had come close to paralyzing him. He could hide in his private space while the fleet was hurtling from one system to another, but the instant he’d heard the report of enemy ships pouring through the tube, he’d leapt to his feet. He knew his place, where he had to be. With any luck, none of the bridge crew would be able to see just how close he’d come to breaking.

  He’d attacked the fear the way he did every problem, applying his considerable intellect to analyzing the cause. He’d faced death before, and however powerful the Others might be, however mysterious their technology and motives, dying was dying. There was no cause to fear meeting his end from the Others’ mysterious blue beams any more than a Confederation bomber assault.

  Then, he’d realized. It wasn’t fear of death, at least no more than he’d felt before in other combat situations. He was struggling with being outclassed, outmatched, and outgunned by the enemy. Ilius had long sided with Chronos, and the rest of the fringe minority of the Hegemony’s Master class, warning about the dangers of arrogance. But only then did he truly understand how much he himself had fallen prey to that deadly hubris. He’d never been in a battle where the Hegemony wasn’t the superior force, and he found it difficult, if not impossible, to adapt his thinking, to accept that his people were the underdogs in this fight. It was fear, after a fashion, but it was more complex than just simple terror. The realization of what was haunting him had been the first step to purging himself of it, or at least gaining control over it. Still, he knew it would be a long struggle to adapt, to become the best warrior he could be in the changed dynamic.

  Unless the Others killed him in the next hours. There would be a twisted sort of mercy in that.

  “All fleet units report full combat readiness, Commander.”

  “Very well.” Ilius commanded the force unceremoniously dubbed, Fleet Beta. He and Chronos had divided the available vessels—all together, better than two-thirds of all the Hegemony’s forces—and each commanded one component. Chronos had the larger force, the equally casually named Fleet Alpha. The ships of Alpha, just over sixty percent of the Hegemony vessels in the system, were deployed forward. Chronos, facing the Others for the first time, would bear the brunt of the initial assault.

  Ilius, supposedly with more experience facing the enemy, was positioned behind, with orders to move forward on whatever vector he believed best. It was a straightforward battle plan, and one that made perfect sense…at least against any other enemy. But Ilius knew just how hard the enemy would hit Chronos’s ships. He wouldn’t really have time to wait for an opportunity, to play for time until he could manage a flanking maneuver. In the black pit of his mind, he knew he would be compelled to push forward in a desperate attempt to support Chrono’s beleaguered fleet, sooner rather than later, and that his ships would follow their comrades into the maelstrom.

  Ilius had never gone into a battle so certain of defeat.

  “Fighter command…I want all squadrons ready for immediate launch.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  Ilius had all of the fourteen battleships in the fleet that had been retrofitted to carry small attack craft. The Hegemony’s program of fighter deployment had been a response to the devastating effects of the Rim squadrons…and it had been heavily based on Colossus. The handful of battleships carried two squadrons each, a minute force compared to the massive wings the Rim dwellers had sent in on their desperate attacks. Worse, perhaps, the Hegemony forces had been designed to face Rim bombers, so they were outfitted as interceptors. The Hegemony ships lacked the modular designs that allowed the Rim craft to convert to bomber kits. The Hegemony engineers, working hastily in the time since the Others had appeared, had managed to come up with externally-mounted torpedoes—but they were far less accurate than their Rim equivalents, and they carried smaller payloads as well. The Kriegeri flyers piloting them had been trained to take their ships in close—very close—and a culture of self-sacrifice had grown up around the fledgling corps, at least in theory. None of the pilots had actually been compelled to make good on that mantra.

  Ilius would send them out when he judged the time to be right…and he wondered how many, if any, would return.

  He wondered with even greater urgency if the minuscule force would make a difference, if the small craft would prove as useful an asset to the Hegemony as they had been a threat out on the Rim. He’d seen relatively modest Confed bomber wings do devasting damage to Hegemony ships of the line.

  But those were bombers, not fighters carrying a jury-rigged torpedo. And the Rim has a long tradition of small craft operations.

  The Kriegeri learned quickly, but Ilius knew it was unreasonable to expect them to perform at the same level as their former enemies. And the fledgling Hegemony fighter corps had yet to produce a standout leader…and certainly no one remotely comparable to the Confederation’s Jake Stockton.

  “Commander, the enemy are…”

  “Yes, Kiloron, I see.” Ilius stared straight ahead, watching as the huge screen in the forward of the control center lit up, dozens of flashes moving across the empty space.

  The enemy had opened fire on Chronos’s line.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine


  Sector Nine Safe House

  Just Outside the Lethal Zone

  Liberte City

  Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV

  Union Year 225 (321 AC)

  “I don’t care how severe his injuries are, Doctor. This is the First Citizen. His life is the most important thing in the Union right now.” Gravis Steves narrowed his eyes, and his voice deepened. “Important enough that yours now depends on his.”

  The doctor stared back, a look of pure fear on his face. The day had been a difficult one all around, and Steves knew the doctor had been working since the night before, trying to aid the thousands of wounded staggering around in the streets.

  There was no explanation as to what happened, not yet at least, no public announcements—or secret communiques to which he was privy. All he was sure of was that it had been unauthorized. It wasn’t that Villieneuve wouldn’t order a nuclear detonation in the city if it served his purposes, but the First Citizen damned sure would have made arrangements to be out of the blast radius.

  As it was, the only reason Villieneuve was alive was that he’d decided to leave early and return to his villa. He’d had a headache or something…a minor malady that had saved his life.

  Maybe.

  That left what had happened firmly in the category of unsolved mysteries. Steves spent a lot of time analyzing threats to the Union, and to the First Citizen in particular, but he was at a loss for what had caused a fission explosion in the middle of Liberte City.

  Steves had been on alert for months now, ever since the failed coup attempt. He’d played a central role in the particularly effective bit of espionage and security work that had warned the First Citizen just in time, and Gaston Villieneuve had proven his gratitude, both in promotions and power…and in vast awards of currency as well.

  Steves’s loyalty to his superior was based somewhat on that, but truth be told, he was as much a product of the Union’s system as Villieneuve himself. His first though had been to let the First Citizen die, to open up a power vacuum and try to seize a higher position for himself. His true concern for Villieneuve only came after he’d determined that he wasn’t high enough yet, not to make a play for the First Citizen’s chair. And if anyone else took that sought-after seat, his future would depend almost solely on how the new dictator decided to treat the key aides of the former one.

  History did not offer many signs of hope in that regard.

  So, his future was best served, best secured, by Villieneuve’s continued control over the government. He’d done all he could to keep things from getting out of hand, sent out dispatches that the First Citizen had been injured, but not badly, that he would be back at his desk in a day or two. Lies like that could buy time, a little. But now, he had to see that Villieneuve actually survived. And one look at his battered form, the clearly broken bones and dislocated shoulder, the hideous burns down one side of his body, didn’t give him all that much cause for hope.

  And that doesn’t even factor in radiation…for yourself either. Steves had escaped major injury—he’d almost forgotten the dozen or so painful cuts and scrapes covering his body—but he knew that wasn’t his only concern. Both he and Villieneuve had gotten heavy hits of radiation. He didn’t have much doubt about that. He hadn’t felt any symptoms yet, somewhat to his surprise, but he was sure t was only a matter of time.

  It was probably nothing a good cleanse couldn’t clear out, but that required a major medical center, and he hadn’t come up with a way to get Villieneuve there in secret. He had half a dozen guards with him, all of whom he considered reliable, but he needed to round up more force, and he had to get Villieneuve to a hospital.

  And he had to keep things quiet. If word got out about the First Citizen’s true condition, the knives would be drawn in hours, and high-level functionaries all over Montmirail would begin making their moves to seize power. Fear of Villieneuve was a potent deterrent, but it only worked if people believed the man was alert and in charge.

  And if the power struggle began in earnest, every prime mover would send assassins to finish Villieneuve off.

  That would be the end for Steves, too. Loyalty in the Union was a strange beast, usually self-serving and not very idealistic. But it worked much the same as it did anywhere, and regardless of his reasons, Gravis Steves would protect the First Citizen.

  With all his strength…whatever it took.

  He pressed his hand against his jacket, feeling the holstered sidearm under his shoulder. The coat was torn in half a dozen places, but it was still hiding the pistol Steves had grabbed the weapon on his way out, almost on instinct, but that reflexive move hadn’t extended to grabbing any reloads. The weapon held twenty shots, and if and when he’d gone through those—and sooner or later, he knew, looking at the chaos all around, he would use them—he’d be reduced to fending off enemies with a rock or a club.

  That’s a problem for later. I’ve got twenty shots before I get to that.

  He turned and looked back, watching the doctor—in effect his hostage—working feverishly to save Gaston Villieneuve.

  And probably to save Gravis Steves, as well.

  * * *

  “What the hell happened?” Kerevsky heard the words—he’d heard almost nothing but questions of that sort since the explosion had shattered every window in the embassy, and fried a fair amount of its electronic systems as well. He had the defensive contingent—all of thirty-four Marines—positioned all around, keeping watch on the mobs growing throughout the city with alarming speed. It was mostly a gesture, something to keep the embassy staff as calm as possible. There were hundreds of thousands in the streets, perhaps millions. If they got fired up to storm the compound, a handful of Marines weren’t going to stop them…even if Kerevsky authorized them to gun down Union citizens.

  He’d wondered what had happened himself, for a few minutes, at least. If the explosion had occurred anywhere else, he might still be trying to figure it out. But he knew Sandrine Ciara well enough not to underestimate her. She’d played him, at least with regard to her intent to try to shoot Gaston Villieneuve. She’d done what he’d asked, after a fashion. He didn’t know for sure if Villieneuve was alive or dead, but there was a damned good chance the Union dictator had died in the blast. Ciara had just changed the plan they’d discussed, tried something that offered rather more chance of success, albeit at a considerable cost in collateral damage.

  Was she really willing to kill so many people just to…

  His mind stopped cold. No, it wasn’t just a high percentage way to strike at Villieneuve. She wanted more than her enemy’s death. She wanted the chaos, the mad fury in the streets.

  She was making another play for power…and this time she was moving into a void, one of her own creation, and not up against an entrenched dictator who was waiting for her.

  If she survived the explosion…

  He’d done the math half a dozen times. He’d been estimating—guessing—how long it took her to reach her objective.

  The reactor under the Hall of the People…that has to be it…

  Then the time to sabotage the system, and to escape. He’d analyzed it every way he could, and the best he could come up with was a very narrow escape…if everything had gone perfectly.

  If something—anything—had delayed her, she was mostly likely dead out there on the street, one of thousands of corpses still lying ungathered.

  He’d felt the urge to go looking for her…but he quickly realized that was impossible. He’d never get close, and if he tried to move out in any force, he’d almost certainly trigger a violent attack from the mob. As much as he was concerned for her—despite the fact that she’d lied to him—the last thing he could do was tie the Confederation to an assassination attempt, and worse, to a calamity that had claimed thousands of lives.

  He turned abruptly. He had to find out what had happened…and if Ciara was still alive. But first, he had duties as the Confederation ambassador. “Kyle…” He called for his aide.
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  “Sir?” The diplomatic assistant—and, in his lesser known role, Confederation agent—poked his head around the corner.

  “We have to put together a statement of sympathy…and offer the Union government any assistance we are able to provide.” And try to find out if there is a Union government right now.

  “Yes, Ambassador. I will draft something immediately and bring it to you for approval.”

  “Very well.” A pause. “Make it sound heartfelt.” He wasn’t sure it would matter, but from the looks of the crowd, anything that might defuse anger against the Confederation was worth a try.

  * * *

  The air was thick with dust, and every breath triggered a fresh coughing fit. Ciara stumbled forward, gritting her teeth against the pain. Her arm was broken, she was sure of that, but she hadn’t managed to pinpoint the pain in her back. She’d almost panicked, in those first, terrifying moments when she’d awakened. She’d been afraid she’d broken her spine but, somehow, she’d managed to get up and move around, slowly and painfully, but without significant impairment.

  In the end, her timing had been close to spot on. She’d gotten as far as she could, and when she guessed the countdown was under one minute, she frantically searched for some kind of shelter. She was far enough away, she bet, that whatever building she was in wouldn’t come down on her, so she chose the sturdiest structure close to her and dove inside. Her guess had proven partially correct. The building as whole still stood, but a large section of wall had caved in, coming perilously close to burying her under the rubble. She’d crawled out and made her way into the street, and something that felt like two hours of walking had gotten her out of the fringes of the blast zone, though not away from the chaos, which seemed to have spread throughout the city.